Foxyfalcon27 @foxyfalcon27 - Tumblr Blog

Forged from Iron

Pairing: Prinxiety (can be platonic)

Synopsis: After going off into the forest in search of mushrooms for his stew, Virgil has a close encounter with death.

Word Count: 6,130

Link to this work on Ao3

A/N: This is a Minecraft AU where Virgil is a Villager and Roman is an Iron Golem.

~~~

Helplessness, in Virgil’s opinion, was a choice. He believed that even the smallest, most unassuming creatures could become something fearsome, if only they had the desire to do so. That’s why people were scared of bugs, right? Bugs didn’t care if the people they chose to crawl on were much bigger than them. They simply chose where they wanted to be, and they made it happen. Virgil admired that.

He wanted to be like a bug. Bold, daring, and maybe just a little crazy.

Actually, he wanted his entire village to be like a festering swarm of annoying bugs, free to go wherever they wanted, any time, no matter what dangers awaited. But his village was infected with a horrible disease. A sickness that sank its claws deep into the hearts of the villagers, filling them with terror and eating away at their courage.

Helplessness.

A disgusting disease, not easily cured.

Virgil stared at his ceiling, bleary-eyed and irritated. Just like always, the zombies had kept him up all night. They spawned with the arrival of dusk, then, from there, couldn’t be bothered to shut the fuck up. Every. Single. Night. Like a recurring nightmare, they crept into the village, an infestation, and lumbered around seeking warm flesh to feast on, all the while grunting and moaning with a cacophony of death and rot.

Once the sun faded away, zombies became the apex predators that left the entire village cowering behind closed doors.

They were also the number one cause of Virgil’s insomnia. That was another reason Virgil admired bugs so much—he yearned to sleep like one. Snug. Preferably in a rug.

The radiant kiss of the sun’s light filled Virgil’s room. He basked in the glow, feeling a wicked sense of satisfaction—the sun’s purifying light was a natural defense against zombies, burning them to ash. Rolling out of bed, he didn’t bother to hide his shameless grin. Pressing his face against his window, he squinted outside, hoping to catch sight of any lingering zombies burning a slow, agonizing death. Unfortunately, Village-folk were already wandering about, strolling up and down cobble roads in innocent hopes of finding a good trade.

Scoffing, Virgil turned his back on the window.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Virgil found his father hunched over the dining table, rifling through an assortment of dented armor and broken weapons. He mumbled to himself, an old habit of his, completely enthralled by segregating the equipment seemingly by metal type and condition.

Passing by without a spare glance, Virgil beelined for the fridge. “Already went treasure hunting, huh?” he questioned over his shoulder.

An old, dull sword was attached to the fridge, serving as a handle. Dragging a finger along the blade, Virgil pondered it. As if their teeth and brute strength weren’t enough, the zombies sometimes came into the village wielding weapons. No one knew where they got them; Virgil suspected they didn’t know how to actually use them, even if they did look intimidating. Nevertheless, the iron golems, protectors of the village, didn’t have any issue slaying these zombies, nor did the sun have difficulties burning them.

The weapons simply got sporadically left behind.

Virgil’s father, the village blacksmith, loved to take advantage of this unconventional supply of precious metals. After the morning burnings, he would go out and scavenge for whatever ash-covered loot he could find. He had a talent for restoring weapons, but was even more talented at trading them to naive travelers for an outrageous price.

His father nodded, not bothering to look up.

Opening the fridge, Virgil was disappointed to see that it offered only a handful of dried berries and half a loaf of bread. Grumbling, he took the bread and shoved it into his mouth. He slammed the fridge shut. “Did you find anything enchanted?” Breadcrumbs fell from his mouth onto the floor as he spoke.

“No.” His father looked up for the first time. His eyes, coal-lined and beady, were clouded with annoyance. “Wouldn’t matter if I did,” he growled, waving a misshapen chestplate in the air, “everything’s dented to the nether.” The table quivered as he slammed it down. “You’d think those golems would do a little damage control.”

Virgil wrinkled his nose. When he spoke, it was in defense of the golems. “I don’t know… armored zombies can’t burn. Beating them to death is really the only way to get rid of those ones.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that it’s gonna take me days to restore this.”

Virgil's response was something he knew would irritate his father, “Just work on it tonight. Pull an all-nighter if you have to.”

His father stiffened. Powerful muscles in his arms bunched together, then relaxed as he took a deep breath. “Not gonna happen, Virge,” he said, his voice forcefully light.

"Well, I just think it’s dumb that you’re probably gonna sit around all night tonight complaining about how you’d rather be at the shop. Maybe you should actually go for once.”

Forbidden words.

In silence, as his father tried to calm down enough to respond civilly, Virgil scanned the kitchen and dining room. Hung on the walls were various swords and axes, and a shovel too, all dutifully restored. Some of them glimmered with enchantments, others had intricate designs carved into the wooden handles. Those were the pieces that his father refused to trade away, no matter how sweet the deal.

If he just had a little more time in the shop, Virgil knew that his father could make so many more cherishable pieces. Could be happier.

The zombies made that impossible.

“It’s too dangerous to leave the house at night.”

Virgil had expected that. He fired off a quick response. “You’re a weaponsmith, just take a sword with you.” He gestured vaguely around the entire room.

Red-hot anger contorted his father’s face. “Damn it, Virgil!” He slammed his fist to the table, causing it to tremble in terror under his hand. “You need to stop with those damn delusions. We are villagers! We. Don’t. Fight!”

Shifting his weight between his feet, Virgil gave his father an assessing look. The weaponsmith was a powerful man. Muscular, due to long days at the forge, with charcoal perpetually lining his eyes. He could be an expert at wielding the weapons that he so dutifully crafted. But he had no desire to do so….

And why would he?

Villagers didn’t fight. They never have, and Virgil feared they never would.

Leaning back in his chair, his father's broad shoulders bowed under the weight of his sorrow. He didn’t look like a man surrounded by dangerous, pointy things. He resembled every bit of the coward he was.

If helplessness were a disease, then his father was chronically ill.

“We don’t,” Virgil agreed. “But it would be really nice if we could.”

Silence hung in the room for a moment. It was thick, almost suffocating. Virgil longed to rip an enchanted sword off the wall and cut through it.

“It’s your turn to cook,” was all his father had to say.

Virgil crossed the room. He tore his satchel off its hook by the door. “I know,” he snapped. “I’m making mushroom stew.”

“Well…,” his father began with a frown. He sheepishly toyed with a broken shovel, avoiding the glare Virgil shot at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

Virgil didn’t respond.

“You really shouldn’t go into the forest. It’s-”

“Dangerous, I know, “ Virgil ripped open the front door. “I haven’t gotten myself killed yet, I think I can manage,” he said over his shoulder.

The weaponsmith stared at Virgil’s satchel, his gaze glimmering with a deep sadness. “Take a golem with you,” was his only response.

~~~

Foraging was a talent of Virgil’s.

He had always been enamored by the forest on the outskirts of his village and what it might contain. As a child, he had pestered his father about it, begging to explore. His father, in an attempt to discourage his adventurous son, simply said that it was too dangerous. Too dangerous, containing many horrors. That backfired, resulting in too many follow-up questions.

Funnily enough, despite Virgil’s fervent nagging, his father never had a concrete answer for what those horrors actually were.

And so, with an overactive imagination, Virgil came up with those horrors all on his own. For weeks, he cowered beneath his blankets, dreading the woodland monsters that he was certain would invade the village—just like the zombies. He waited, and waited, but within his waiting, his life had lost its charm. Night had been Virgil’s freedom, a time when he could read, write, or draw without his father looming over his shoulder, scrutinizing him. Now, effectively imprisoned by his own cowardice, he was doomed to hide under his blankets forever.

Just like that, he had become a true villager: helpless.

Eventually, he grew bored of cowering.

So, one day, sobbing with each step, he ventured into the forest himself. Every sound, even the small, insignificant ones, threatened to send him running back home. But his determination was strong. He needed to know what the horrors were. How big the threat was, and, perhaps, how to eliminate it.

Long story short, in the depths of the ‘too dangerous’ forest, he discovered beautiful plants and delicious fungus. Virgil could still recall, quite clearly, when he had discovered his first mushroom (and how he had shoved it into his mouth without hesitation).

Since that day, despite the stomachache he had earned himself, he couldn’t stay away.

Of course, Virgil could now identify which plants would kill you, which were tasty, and which ones made you itchy. A soft smile tickled his lips. His satchel, which hung at his side, bumped his hip in rhythm with his steps, like an eager child desperate for attention. Inside the bag was his leather-bound foraging guide which brimmed with more than a decade’s worth of notes and sketches.

His talent for foraging was well earned.

Setting a brisk pace, he approached the forest. In his mind, he already mapped out the route he’d take, planning to visit only his most promising haunts. A quick trip—hopefully. Just shy of the treeline, Virgil stopped short, intent on speaking with his escort. The golem, tasked with accompanying him, bumped into him and sent him stumbling forward. It grunted, apologetic.

Quick to steady himself, Virgil scoffed. He turned around and had to tilt his head back pretty far to meet the golem’s scarlet eyes.

“Try not to slow me down,” he ordered.

The golem blinked. Tilted its head to the side. The creature could have been intimidating if it didn’t have such an earnest look to its eye. Taking a moment to scan it from head to toe, he noticed that it didn’t have many chips in its iron, unlike the others, leading Virgil to believe that this golem was an especially skilled fighter. Its long, metallic arms, which carried most of its weight, seemed to tug down its broad shoulders. A single blow from those arms could kill most zombies instantly. It was old, evident by the vines that snaked around its body. They formed a thick, green sash that stretched across its chest. Poppies were intertwined within the vines, adding a pleasant contrast.

Virgil snorted at the flowers. A vain golem. He had never heard of such a thing!

“Well, don’t you look pretty,” he mocked, crossing his arms and nodding at the golem’s chest, which was level with his gaze.

The creature’s eyes took on a delighted gleam. In a sudden movement, it leaned down to give Virgil a better look at the sash, seeming to have mistaken his sarcasm for a genuine compliment.

Flustered, Virgil stepped back, but couldn’t get his eyes to stray from the golem’s well-defined abdomen. The sash did little to conceal its… structure. Heat bloomed across his face, giving him some resemblance to the bright, red poppies.

“Yes, yes,” Virgil mumbled, “that’s lovely.” Clearing his throat, he patted the golem’s chest, hoping to appease it.

Feeling more than a little scandalous, he faced the forest.

Without further delay, he entered and left the lumbering hunk of metal to hurry and catch up.

He hadn’t gone more than a few yards into the forest before he heard the golem groaning with distress behind him. Virgil halted, closed his eyes, prayed to the gods for patience, then turned around and padded up to the golem. Somehow, it had gotten its leg tangled up in a bramble.

“How’d you manage to do that?” he scolded.

The bramble was adorned with razor-sharp thorns that curled wickedly like claws; any other mob or animal would have been cut to pieces, but the golem’s metallic skin was unharmed. That is, until it tried to free itself. In a great arc, the golem swung its powerful arms through the air, then brought them crashing down upon its leg. Virgil, who had been inspecting the bramble snaked around its ankles, barely managed to dodge the strike by throwing himself onto the ground nearby. He rolled in the dirt, curling automatically into the fetal position, and covered his ears.

Metal collided with metal, producing an agonizing screech.

Slipping through his fingers, the sound of the golem’s pained howl caused him to recoil.

“You useless, sentient anvil!”

Scrambling forward in a flash, he clutched the golem’s leg and assessed the damage. A fresh chip. He softly brushed his thumb over it.

“Don’t do that again,” he snapped. The golem whined in response, but Virgil ignored its pitiful expression, choosing to turn his attention back to the bramble instead. One at a time, he untangled the snarling vines and freed the golem with only a touch of blood spilled.

A joyful groan echoed around the forest as the golem strode forward. Then it lumbered back around to Virgil’s side and looked down at him admiringly.

“Use your brain next time,” Virgil growled.

Immediately after that, the golem got trapped behind a fallen tree. Virgil hadn’t noticed at first—he had climbed over the trunk easily, and kept walking. Dollops of shadow on the ground had captured his entire attention. He roved them with his sharp eyes, then let out an audible sound of delight when he spotted a small purple-capped mushroom tucked beneath a fallen leaf. Those were rare. He instinctively pulled out his journal and flipped through the pages, trying to remember if purple meant poison, and then…

Noticed a distinct lack of noise.

The golem was gone.

He retraced his steps at least a quarter mile before he found it again. To his annoyance, it was punching the tree, trying to break open a path with brute strength. He quickly guided it a few feet to the right, around the obstacle, and they continued along.

After that, it couldn’t cross a river, so Virgil had to improvise an entirely new route to accommodate its incompetence.

Three hours into the hike, Virgil had very little to show for except a few shriveled browncaps (the purplecap was indeed poisonous) and a surplus of irritation. Tapping his foot, he glared down a hole in the ground. At the bottom of the pit, the golem hung its head in shame, covered in grime from the fall. Colorful language threatened to spill from his lips. In angered silence, he shoveled an exit with his hands.

Even as he was getting fed up with the golem, he couldn’t bring himself to hate it.

Actually, he respected it. He respected all of the golems. They were strong, independent, and mostly capable. Oftentimes, Virgil wondered why they even bothered to hang around the village instead of exploring the vast wilderness around them.

If he were a golem, he would have left the village behind years ago.

That being said, they did have one fault: their cumbersome size. While that was great for slaying monsters, it proved to be difficult for navigating a dense forest. With that in mind, Virgil forced a smile as he dug.

As the golem stomped up the slope Virgil had carved for it, it refused to meet his gaze. “Oh, stop looking so sorry,” Virgil said, trying to lighten his tone into something resembling reassurance. “Just watch where you’re going, okay?”

The golem nodded solemnly. It took a couple of small steps forward, eyes trained on the forest floor, and accidentally lodged itself between two trees that stood too close together. The golem gasped, finally looking up. It writhed between the wood, but was effectively trapped.

Virgil pressed a hand to his mouth, if only to keep himself from losing his temper. “I- I literally just said… oh, by the nether.” He sat down on a rock and turned his back on the creature. He rubbed his temples, then took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Plastering a smile on his face first, he swiveled on the rock.

“So… Do you have a name or?”

No response. Just a sad grunt.

That wasn’t surprising, per se. The Golems were historically tight-lipped. Occasionally, Virgil caught them murmuring things to each other, but they never seemed interested in communicating with the villagers. He wondered if it was a language barrier or if they simply were uninterested in speaking with creatures as weak and defenseless as the village folk.

“Ooookay then.”

He stared at the forest floor, enamored by the dappled sunlight that seemed to dance in time with a soft breeze. When he looked up, he realized that the sun had started to inch towards the horizon. He only had a few hours of sunlight left. He pondered that for a moment, glancing between the sun and the golem. He made a harsh decision:

To leave the golem behind.

Straightening to his full height, Virgil dusted off his pants. “Sorry, buddy,” he quipped. He flashed a lazy grin over his shoulder as he turned away. “Better luck next time.”

The Golem seemed to panic in the wake of Virgil’s retreating footsteps. It cried out after him, but Virgil squared his shoulders and kept walking away.

Loud cracks echoed behind him as the golem reared against its woodland prison. Breaking into a jog, Virgil tried to put as much distance between himself and the golem as possible. In his haste, he earned himself some scrapes and bruises, but eventually the golem’s desperate moans faded into silence.

~~~

Virgil stumbled into an unfamiliar clearing. It seemed that the constant detours with the golem had taken him to a part of the forest he had never explored. Turning in a tight circle, he eagerly drank in the new scenery. A mix of oak and birch trees crowded the edges and cast a soft shadow over the entire expanse of the clearing. Half a dozen rose bushes were dotted about, springing up in the middle of nothing, or curled tightly around various trunks. Wildflowers poked their heads out from tufts of grass, curious of the new visitor.

Charming.

Virgil was surprised he had never come across it before.

Although there didn’t seem to be anything dangerous about the small glade, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Alert, he scanned the treeline. Instantaneously, he spotted it: an aperture—tucked away behind a cluster of the rose bushes.

Stopping just short of the edge, he investigated it. Shallow, similar to the hole the golem had fallen into, but unique in that it possessed a second opening. An entrance to a cave. Disinterested, he almost turned away, but something caught his eye: Red-capped, Spotted Mushrooms, just within the cave’s mouth.

Virgil beamed.

Even from his perch on top of the hole, he could tell they were enormous!

But would they be worth the risk? Absent-mindedly, he toyed with the strap of his satchel, aware that the mushrooms inside were more withered than he’d prefer. In the cave, with the humidity… those mushrooms would be perfect. They’d be damp. Flavorful. Yes, it would be dangerous, incredibly so, but damn, spotted mushrooms were his favorite!

Before he could logic himself out of it, he lowered himself into the hole. Dirt cried out from beneath the heel of his boots as he touched down. He straightened, gathering his bearings. The lip was level with his forehead; not ideal if he needed a quick escape, but doable. With a shaky inhale, Virgil popped his neck and hyped himself up.

In and out. Quick.

Virgil entered the cave’s gloom. With every step he took, the temperature died, little by little, then suddenly all at once. An earthy scent tickled his nose. Water dripped somewhere deeper in the darkness; the splatter of each felled drop caused him to startle. His muscles tightened on their own, and butterflies flip-flopped in his stomach. He had enough sense to acknowledge that he was feeling fear. His father’s voice randomly popped into his head, barking at him to leave.

But Virgil was helpless to his fantasies of mushroom stew.

He came upon the nearest mushroom. It was huge. Droplets of moisture magnified the tempting spots on the cap. Saliva pooled in his mouth. First, scanning the crevices of the cave, he double-checked that no monsters were lurking, then, once he deemed it safe, he allowed the fungus to enrapture his attention.

His fingers curled around the stem. He tugged. Meeting only resistance for a moment, he growled as petulant mycelia tried to deny him. Then, with a grunt and a second, much more violent tug, it gave way. Dirt scattered like rain. He fell back, landing on his ass. Grinning like a maniac, he shook away any remaining earth that clung to the dangling mycelia. A rogue clump hit his face.

Virgil shouted.

Feeling very stupid, he rubbed his eyes.

When he looked up, a zombie appeared in front of him.

The scent of rancid sweetness. Obsidian eyes—piercing. A melancholic moan, laced with the agony of an eternal hunger. Gnarled teeth, blunt, but gleaming with the promise of a powerful bite force. Those things, individually, Virgil could comprehend easily, but for them to all be attached to a single, wretched creature—one that threatened him currently—caused his brain to pause, and his body to follow suit.

He needed to move.

To flee.

But the paralyzing horror of looking directly into the eyes of the dead, at the malice that swirled in the flat, lifelessness of its gaze, rendered him fixed steadily in place. The zombie reached for him with cracked, blackened nails that were capable of slashing across his flesh and spilling his blood.

Fingertips, devoid of all warmth, brushed across his face.

That touch, a whisper of death, was what finally broke Virgil from his trance.

He dodged just as the zombie’s jaw snapped shut where his face had been. The reverberations of teeth colliding against teeth echoed around the cave, almost drowning out the frustrated snarl that came next.

Virgil hurtled towards the cave’s mouth. The earth spat him out as if disgusted by a foul taste. The outside brightness blinded him, but he didn’t stop. His shoulder rammed into a towering wall of dirt and loose stones—he had forgotten that he was at the bottom of a pit. Bubbling flecks of spit flung from his mouth as he stabbed his fingers into the dirt and tried to haul himself up—pebbles gave way beneath his grip, as if offering him as a meal to the zombie that charged at him with outstretched arms.

It grabbed his ankle.

Shouting, Virgil reared back, pulling his leg close, then kicked.

Hard.

The zombie’s head snapped back with a crunch. Somewhere in the depths of its rotting body, a bone shattered. But that wasn’t enough. It was quick to recover.

Shit. Shit! SHIT!!

Virgil managed to pull himself over the edge, to safety. In a crawl, he put a small distance between himself and the hole, then rolled onto his back near the base of the rose bushes. Their floral scent tickled his nose, cleansing it of the stench of rot. Sharp stones dug into his spine, but he welcomed the painful sensation, taking it as proof that he still lived.

A vicious snarl, which was carried to him on a soft breeze, reminded him of his close encounter with death.

Slowly, almost regretting the movement, he craned his neck to check the hole. The zombie’s head popped into view. Obsidian eyes narrowed. At the sight of its food source, the zombie fervently clutched at loose clumps of earth in an attempt to pull itself up. Another snarl cut through the air.

Dirt scattered as Virgil scrambled to his feet. He pushed through the roses, cutting himself on the thorns, and dashed away.

In a blur of green and brown, the forest flashed by. Virgil seemed to trip over every upturned root he came across and somehow smacked his head into every single low-hanging branch in the forest, but he didn’t falter in his escape. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have been able to keep up a run for so long, but the snaps and snarls behind him sent adrenaline coursing through his veins, which gave him an extra boost of stamina.

He reached the edge of the forest. Thank the gods. With a final bout of energy, he broke the tree cover. Leaves burst around him as he charged into an open field not far from his village. Fading sunlight kissed his skin. He hollered with relief, doubling over instantly. His knees wobbled as he clutched them, panting to catch his breath. With each heave of his chest, drool spilled from his mouth like a waterfall.

Branches snapped within the woods, but Virgil wasn’t worried.

Rising to his full height, he wiped his mouth, arrogant. A growl announced the arrival of the zombie, and Virgil couldn’t help but smirk. Beady eyes gleamed in shadow. Determined and hungry. Virgil held its gaze, unflinching. He held his arms out and gestured for the zombie to ‘come and get him’.

The zombie hobbled out of the shadow forest. Into light.

But the zombie did not burst into flames.

It was wearing a helmet.

Oh fuck.

In Virgil’s previous moment of relief, when he thought sunlight would protect him, his adrenaline had ebbed away. Now he could feel everything. The agony. Exhaustion. A stitch sank its teeth into his side, as if showing him what to expect if he failed to outrun the advancing zombie, and his heart thrashed against his ribcage, trying to escape its prison of bone, like it wanted to abandon Virgil and make a getaway all on its own.

His body was betraying him.

He was going to die.

A growl, which was too close for comfort, resonated in his skull. Instinctively, he dropped to a crouch and willed his adrenaline to return. All he needed to do was get to the village. Get to the village; let the iron golems take care of the rest.

Virgil’s part was simple: just run.

Just fucking run.

He took a step. Another. His knees cried out with audible cracks, and the burning in his muscles screamed at him to stop, but he kept walking. A momentum grew with each of his steps. Faster. Just a few more and he advanced to a jog—frantic and unbalanced—but a jog, nonetheless.

Behind him, a nasty snarl grew into a frustrated roar.

Rushing blood howled.

Boots thundered.

Choked gasps cut through the air, human and undead, haggard and breathless.

Then, above all other sounds, the laughter of the village children cut through. Virgil faltered. Collapsed. The children. He couldn’t bring the zombie to the village, to the children. Not when he had been the one who brought it so close.

Twisting to face the zombie, Virgil tore off his satchel and held it up like a shield. At the same moment, the creature lunged. Cracked teeth sank into thick leather. There was a pause—a confusion, perhaps—as the zombie tilted its head, deepened its bite. Once it realized that dried leather wasn’t as tasty as bloodied flesh, it whipped its head around, trying to shake loose its infectious jaw.

Virgil fumbled in the grass around him, desperate, like he might find his salvation in the soft green blades that flitted between his fingers—blades. Swords. Weapons. Virgil’s vision distorted as he suddenly thought of his father.

He was probably in the shop, working. Forging.

Worrying.

Worrying about this exact situation.

The zombie freed itself from the satchel and flung it to the side. Papers from Virgil’s journal billowed around them, torn and ruined. Obsidian eyes locked onto a helpless villager. It was a tale as old as time: an innocent person slain by a vicious monster. Nothing new. The villagers probably wouldn’t even notice—not until the blacksmith raised a fuss about it. Until his father would send all of the golems scavenging into the forest, looking for someone who no longer existed, only to bring back the tattered remains of Virgil’s journal.

The zombie hissed.

Virgil should have listened to his father. The forest was dangerous. No place for a villager. He should have stayed home—should have cowered under his blankets at night, and followed his father into the forge by day.

He really, really should have listened to his father.

He should never have entered the forest all those years ago. If he hadn’t, then he could be at home right now, learning the secrets of a blacksmith, with danger a concept that only existed at night, and burned away by morning.

But Virgil hadn’t “yearned” to be a prisoner to safety—and now, he would pay the consequences for that.

Hands still roving the grass, his knuckles brushed against something. A stick. Faster than he could think, faster than he could paralyze himself with indecision, he grabbed it. Sliced it through the air. Pointed it at the zombie.

“Stay away from me, asshole, or else I’ll give you a big fucking splinter.”

Undeterred, it charged forward. Virgil ducked under its outstretched hands, sore and clumsy, then whipped around and smacked it over the head. In a deadpan, he watched as the stick bounced harmlessly off its iron helmet.

Wow.

He had managed to hit it in the only fucking spot protected by armor. Well, shit, if his father thought villagers weren’t capable of fighting before, that would certainly change his mind.

In his second attack, Virgil aimed for its chest, towards the heart. Flesh tore easily. A strip of rotting skin dangled on the end of the stick—maggots wriggled. Swallowing the bile that crept up his throat, Virgil assessed the zombie. The small wound he had inflicted didn’t have much of an effect.

The zombie swiped at him.

Virgil batted its hand away with his weapon. Struck its shoulder, pushed it away. It stumbled back half a step, then quickly advanced by two.

Obsidian eyes narrowed.

Virgil inhaled.

In a panic, he jabbed its throat, its eye. But, couldn't kill it. Not with a mere twig. The zombie snapped at his hand, almost striking true. At the last second, Virgil twisted the stick to catch the bite instead. He watched, helpless, as its jaws clamped shut around the twig, breaking it into two.

The shattered ends clattered to the ground. As did Virgil’s flimsy chance of survival.

That was the end, then.

Whimpering, Virgil squeezed his eyes shut, then tilted his head back to expose his pale throat. If he could tempt the monster to go for his jugular, his death could be instant—or as close to instant as possible. He may have doomed himself to die an idiotic death, but he could at least do it on his terms.

He awaited the bite, but—

The zombie was flung away with a violent squelch. Virgil gasped, opening his eyes just in time to catch a flash of silver. Dirt exploded as the zombie’s body slammed into the ground, then crumpled into a writhing, broken heap. A gargled hiss rose from the pile—still alive. Morbidly fascinated, Virgil couldn’t tear his gaze away from the gruesome sight. In an instant, a zombie, an apex predator, had been reduced to… to basically nothing. He blinked, and at that moment, the iron golem stepped into view.

Entirely focused on the threat, the golem’s back was turned to Virgil. The vines on its body tangled across its huge, metallic body into a sash. And on its leg, just beneath its knee, lay a fresh chip in its metal.

It wasn’t just any golem.

It was Virgil’s golem—his escort.

Intimidated by the sight of the fantastical creature, the earth trembled with terror under the golem’s angered stomps. In moments, the golem’s shadow encased the broken zombie, as if imprisoning it in the very darkness that spawned its brethren. Long, powerful arms pitched high in the sky, paused for a moment at the climax of a great arc, then cut downwards.

The zombie writhed under the strike. Another slam.

Somehow, the zombie’s helmet became dislodged from its head. It clattered to the ground, and in seconds, the monster caught flame.

Virgil flinched away from the sudden combustion and shielded his face with his hands. He didn’t dare lower them until the pounding stopped and the earth settled.

Smoke hung thick in the air, swirling between Virgil and the golem. Ash settled on his lashes; with a blink, it wisped away, only to settle again moments later. In his chest, his heart panicked, rattling the bones of his ribcage like an outraged captive. He breathed intentionally. Little by little, his heart calmed, and the roaring in his ears died. He blinked again, vision blurring. Swallowing became painful, his heart panicked once more, and the blur steadily became a blindness. It was the ash. The ash was stinging his eyes.

He almost died.

Virgil’s gaze somehow drifted up to the deposit of char that marked where the zombie had burned. Before burning, it had been bludgeoned.

By the golem.

He tried to look at the golem—it was nearby, he could hear its heavy footfalls somewhere just out of sight—but his gaze… it was entirely absorbed with the sizzling remains of the zombie. Held hostage. Virgil wanted to look away, needed to. But he couldn’t. Because, if he did, then the creature, the monster, might rise from the ashes, reborn by the malice that soured its soul and rotted its flesh, to attack him once more.

Every blink felt like a death sentence—an unaffordable vulnerability.

But he wanted to thank the golem. He was safe. He was safe because of the golem. The very same golem that he had abandoned in the forest. Did he even have a right to look the creature in the eye? Had he even deserved to be saved? Virgil’s throat tightened. His lip quivered. His heart, racing, was burdened by a new emotion, something other than fear. Was it gratitude? Guilt? He couldn’t tell.

The only thing he was sure of was that the zombie hadn’t moved in the time that he was staring at it. He was safe. It was dead.

He really should thank the golem…. He tried again to tear his gaze away, but simply couldn’t.

A red blob appeared in the center of his vision, blocking out everything else. Virgil flinched, then, once no blow struck him, he focused on it. Details materialized, and the blob sharpened into something familiar. Something he had sketched before on the pages of his foraging guide. It wasn’t entirely red, like he had thought. There was a dot of brown in the middle, and a stem of green shot down, holding together four vibrant petals. After a moment, he deciphered what it was: a poppy.

“Oh.”

A metallic arm held up the flower. He followed the arm up, up, up, and finally looked at the golem. Its head was tilted. Concern twinkled in its earnest, scarlet eyes.

Virgil accepted the flower with a laugh that was more like a shaky exhale. “Thank you.”

He waited for a response, but, of course, golems were more the silent types. The fading sunlight stained the golem’s metal with an orange-pinkish hue. It was beautiful. Taking hold of the golem’s still outstretched arm, Virgil pulled himself into a stand. Ash swirled between the two of them, fluttering against their soft, shared breaths.

The silence of the golems had never bothered Virgil before, but in that moment, he needed to hear a response. Hear its voice.

“Brave golem who rescued me,” he murmured, pleading, “could you at least spare me your name?”

For a moment, he was certain he wouldn’t get an answer. But the golem opened its mouth and said a single word:

“Roman.”

~~~

A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read! I hope you enjoyed this fun little Minecraft AU!

Concrit is much appreciated!!