Apples of the Earth: A Technoblade x Reader (ON HIATUS)

Chapter 45: . . .

hehehehehehehehehehehehehe can't let you guys be too happy, can I?
get ready for some crazy lore drops and another month wait for the next chapter. mwahaha! >:D
(seriously tho, I hope there isn't too much of a gap between this chapter and the next)
ENJOY!

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"Sir, I understand that this is necessary, but my daughter is still there. If we go through with this, she will be caught in the cross-fire."

"Charles, Charles, Charles. You know first-hand how corrupt that family is. Think of your dear wife."

Charles was silent, face cast down to leave unshed tears hidden.

"I... I know that. I know what they did. But they're trying to corrupt her. My poor innocent girl is ignorantly happy amongst wolves cloaked in sheepskin. I can't... I can't lose the only family I have left to those beasts."

"Oh Charles." The man stood from his seat. Each footstep echoed around the grand desolate room. Each scrape of metal sole on worn stone created the illusions of death scraping its silver scythe across the floor, kicking up sparks and leaving glowing embers in its wake. The shadow cast upon Charles by his ally created the ash black cloak of the reaper. He looked for eyes, but saw none. "I have a proposition for you, my friend. I will grant you the opportunity you need to bring your daughter to our side. I will give you the chance to bring her back to the light and away from those who will hurt her. However, in return I ask for no more argument or hesitation regarding my instruction. Rest assured, no instruction I give you will bring harm to her in any way. None direct or indirect. Not a hair on her head will be moved out of place by your actions.

I promise you that."

Charles knew there were loopholes. Somewhere in his words, there were surely a few. There always was. But was paranoia or mistrust really worth the risk of losing this opportunity? He may never get the chance to even speak to his daughter again, let alone rescue her. The man before him raised a hand. Charles gave no more thought. His daughter was worth every risk, every sacrifice. He took the offered hand. Warm skin greeted him where he expected cold dead bone. "I'm happy that we've came to an agreement, Charles." They shook hands, and it was done.

"You are excused now."
"Thank you, sir."

Charles turned and left. He watched him go from where he stood on the final step. The redstone doors opened for Charles' exit and the entry of a boy. His hair was fluffy with a youthful bounce when he turned his head. But his eyes were dull, tired, clouded by a maturity he should not yet have to face. His footsteps were gentle and quiet, careful. He stopped a few steps from him. The boy did not speak. He did not make eye contact. He didn't even show the tremble in his hands, or take in a shaky breath. He stood there for the man who took care of him.

"How are you, my boy?"
"I'm fine, sir, thank you for asking. How was your day, sir?" The boy made eye contact when speaking, covered the fatigue in his voice with a mildly happy tone and returned his gaze to the floor when done.
"I'm very good, thank you for asking." He sounded pleased. That was ideal.
"So, have you got the information I asked you for?"
The boy stalled, and he noticed.
"I know you think they're your friends, but they aren't. They want to use you. They want to control you like they do their people. Now I'll ask one more time: do you have the information?"

. . .

"Thomas Innit of Minecraft's wings have continued to develop. His wingspan has grown from 6 feet and 3 inches to 6 feet and 4.5 inches over the past two months. Wilbur Soot of Minecraft has started experiencing discomfort in his left wrist and wears a compressive glove when playing guitar. He has also been talking about his fear of having more grey hairs. Technoblade Minecraft has fully recovered from his injuries inflicted during his duel and has returned to training with the knights every morning around 8am. He first returned on Monday this week. Fundy Soot Minecraft has been improving his pronunciation of some words and has been learning to write under his father's instruction. He has learnt the alphabet so far and is going to be taught how to spell his name. King Philza Minecraft has been taking weekly flights, but is taking them on Saturdays rather than Fridays now. Queen Kristen of Minecraft has recently purchased knitting needles, a large amount of blue, red, yellow and green wool. She has started knitting with the yellow wool but the rest has been stored away. Lady (L/n) has been tending to the health of her pet bird. She went to the bakery in town twice in the past week, on Monday and Thursday."

He hummed in contempt.
"You've gathered a lot this week. I'm impressed."
"Thank you sir." The boy valued and cherished the compliment more than he should've.
"As a reward, I'm going to give you this." He held out a hand with a closed fist, and the boy stepped forward. He cupped his palms and something fell into his hand. Looking down, his eyes widened. It was a pouch with drawstrings not fully pulled shut. The shine of silver and gold was visible.
"Sir, what should I do with this?"
"Buy whatever you like with it. I've been hard on you recently, so you can spend it however you wish."
"Sir I cannot accept this, you've already been so kind to me."
"My boy, it is yours now, no longer mine. Spend it however you wish."
The boy's argument died in his throat, and he nodded. "Thank you for your generosity, sir."
"You are excused, but leave this on the Prince's desk when you return. I'm counting on you, my son."
"Of course, sir."

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'To the prince of Minecraft,

You do not know who I am, but I have known who you are for a long time. I wonder if you would recognise me if we met again. You were very young when we were first acquainted, so I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't even recall my name. I remember yours, and your brothers'. Thomas didn't have his wings when I met you, but I look forward to seeing them in person some day. I can't help but wonder why you never got your wings. Maybe you were always destined to be in the shadow of your brothers. One will be king, one is an avian, and then there's you: the single father of a bastard child, the one who was disregarded as a successor to the throne, the failure. Maybe it was all intentional. Maybe fate just hates you that much.

You were supposed to be so much, Wilbur. You were meant to be king, to find a wife and have a child, be the father. But you're the mother, aren't you?'

The letter suddenly became harder to read, words blurring and swirling, but unmoving on the page. He wiped his eyes dry.

'And your son, little Fundy. Your little fox son doesn't fill the position of the perfect son and ideal heir, does he? His father who mothered him and a mother who left the picture very early on in his life, not to mention those fluffy orange ears. I wonder if it was because of you. Maybe Fundy blames you for his lack of a mother. Maybe he blames you for the genetics that make him so different. What story did you put together to cover up what happened; to cover up what you are? Surely your mother and father expect there's something off with your story. They know what you are, after all. I wander if they've seen the scar over your stomach too. Would they help cover it up if this information was leaked, I wonder.

Anyway, that isn't what I wish to talk about. Not yet, at least. I wish to talk to you about your future.
What does your kingdom offer you? From my perspective, it gives you nothing. You gave everything you could to help your kingdom, yet they do not give to you in return. A throne promised to you at birth as the eldest son has been gifted to someone else wrapped in shiny paper and tied with a pretty bow. A gift stolen from you. Your genetics betrayed you, instead blessing your brother with the freedom of flight and chaining you to the ground miles below him. And what did you get? Nothing. Your family gave you nothing, your kingdom has no need for you, and you need them. Or so you think. You don't truly need the kingdom, because I have a proposition for you. A proposition I hope you don't refuse.

I-'

The letter became bathed in red hot flame, the paper setting alight. The words became illegible as it turned black and crumbled to ash. Wilbur watched the parchment roast and burn in the fireplace, joining the charred timber. He rubbed his eyes, dry and red. He stayed next to the fire until the embers grew cold. By then, the tears on his face had dried and he had finally succumbed to sleep.