#darking

Darking

inspired by messages in the server

May your tines be valen or sm idk

"Where were you when the world ended" I asked my grandfather as we moved along the narrow, rutted roadway outside Amarillo. He'd told the story once or twice before, but I loved hearing it; the story of a stranded man risking everything to get back to the woman he loved.

"Ah; I was stationed on an island to the south of us. A place called Cuba. The..uh" Here, he paused, checking his compass, shaking his head, then continued. "The..islanders had asked us for an intervention."

"Us?"

"America. The government in Cuba and the government in America didn't like each other. We had forts on their island, though. Prisons for some very interesting souls." He paused again, stressing the word 'interesting' as if he wanted to say something else. But, as was his custom, he didn't swear. "We kept..bad people there. On that island. On Cuba."

"I can see why they didn't like us" I nodded, and he chuckled. "Theres more to it than that, but, yeah. There I was, when things went to hell. I was in Florida three days later, driving like a madman on an ancient British motorbike."

"British ?" I prodded.

On a list of bad decisions, this might be one of the worst King ever made...

King looked up from his book as the stick on his bed took a shuddering breath. He watched the barely visible face screw up in what was probably pain, before relaxing again.

--

He'd pulled the stick out of the crater he'd found them in almost a week ago, their red flesh spiderwebbed with a burning acid green. He'd actually thought the stick was dead.

King had intended to take the bracelets, which were clearly the source of those blades that had destroyed all they had cut. King would need something like that if he wanted to avenge his son.

But when he reached for the bracelets, the stick moved. Growled something King hadn't been able to make out at the time and then fell still again.

King watched the stick's wound heal only to open again and heal again. He should have taken the bracelets and left. Or maybe even killed the stick with them. It might have been a kindness.

But the soft voice of Gold still echoed in him from time to time. We have to help him, Dad.

King sighed and heeded the words, reaching down to lift the stick up. No reaction. It wasn't looking good. But he still obediently took the not quite a corpse yet to his car and buckled them in. He drove as carefully as he could back to the main road.

He arrived home after dark, which was very convenient, because he had no idea what to tell the neighbours about the stick that hung limp in his arms.

As soon as he stepped inside he had a dilemma to solve. Where to put them?

They could take my bed! King shook his head viciously at the thought. He hadn't been able to set foot in his son's room since the accident; he certainly wasn't putting a stranger in there!

"They will be using my bed," He said to the empty house with an air of finality that none would dare argue with.

He set them down upon it gently.

--

Since then, they had awoken a few times, never long enough for a conversation, usually only long enough to get a glass of water and a bite of food in them before they passed back out.

Even without the ability to converse, King had learned a few things about his house guest/patient. What he'd initially thought was grievous head injury was actually simply a natural feature of this stick. King had to wonder what their Creator had been thinking when they made them.

And something tickled his memory whenever he looked at them. Like he should know who they were, but every time he tried to grasp the knowledge, it slipped away.

Besides, he had to focus, there was so much more to learn about Minecraft.

--

King woke up to the loud sound of a thump, and even louder cursing. He scrambled to untangle himself from the sleeping bag and went to go take a look around the corner.

As he suspected, his "guest" was awake, and trying to drag themself across the floor.

"Where do you think you're going?" King asked, eyebrow arched and arms folded, tone scolding.

The stick on the floor craned his neck to look up at King, "Outta here."

"Oh yes, I see that's going so well for you," King remarked, crouching down.

"Yeah, well, it'd be going even better if you'd get outta my way," The red stick growled, trying to shove King aside, but the tall stick didn't budge.

As a matter of fact, King grabbed the other stick under their arms and set them back on the bed, despite their protests.

"Listen, you aren't in any state to be going anywhere, especially not 'outta here'. If I wanted to hurt you I would have left you in that crater. Or killed you myself," He's not going to mention he had considered both of those things at one point.

"Then, clearly you must not know who I am!" The red stick folded his arms.

"You're right. I don't. Should I?" King tilted his head curiously as the red sticks hollow head split into a sharp-toothed grin.

"I'm The Dark Lord. Y'know, the 'Net terrorist!"

Well, that did take King by surprise, but the more he thought about it, the more perfect this could be. A living force of destruction was just what he needed after all.

"Well, that's... surprising, certainly."

"Surprising?! That's it?!" The Dark Lord's face fell in disbelief.

"Yes. But not completely unwelcome," King nodded, expression thoughtful.

"What do you mean, exactly?" The Dark Lord narrowed his eye cautiously as King spread his arms wide.