Chapter Text
Ever since the L’Manburg War, Eret has always tried to do the right thing. It’s an odd sort of penance that drives them, a desperate urge to repay and repay and repay until the blood on their hands is scrubbed clean.
(Maybe they know they’ll never be free. Maybe that drives them to change things. Maybe they’re just running from the inevitable.)
It’s what led them to Snowchester that day. It’s what leads them here, to a small dug-out cave by the sea.
They crouch down, offering Michael a welcoming smile with a small chicken plushie in their hand. “Everything alright?”
Michael’s eyes go wide, and the small Piglin boy snatches the toy out of their hand with a huffing noise Eret assumes is happy. He looks up at them and grunts something, Eret reaching out and ruffling the short fuzzy fur on the top of his head. They don’t speak Piglin, but they can guess at it being a thank you. Luckily Michael seems to understand Universal enough to listen.
“I’ll be back soon, alright? I promise. Hopefully with your dads, how does that sound?”
Michael grins, hugging the plushie to his chest and wiggling his ears. Eret waves as they turn to leave, blocking up the wall behind them. Just before they place the last block, a fond grin cracks across their face as they watch the kid run over to the large boat and clamber to set the plushie in, next to the wolf one they’d originally given him, in the small pile of blankets and wool that make up the makeshift bedding.
They travel the roundabout way home just in case, their own boat circling the mountain then following along the coastline in the opposite direction before they finally feel comfortable enough to return to the main SMP area—which is a bit difficult, since they have to navigate down the long river connecting the ocean to the Community Lake and then still walk back to their castle.
That is, until they spot the Netherite-armored figure waiting for them outside the Community House.
“Sam?”
“Hey Eret. Mind walking with me for a minute?”
Eret frowns slightly as they climb out of the boat. “Sure, but what’s up? We don’t see you outside the prison much these days.”
The creeper shrugs, though he doesn’t quite meet Eret’s eyes. “I don’t really see the need to come out much. My job is inside.”
“...Right, of course.”
Sam is quiet as they head down the path. The urge to start talking bugs at Eret, just to fill the silence really, but they bite back the comments on the tip of their tongue. Something about Sam… Well, it just doesn’t feel quite right.
They shake their head. It’s just their eyes playing tricks on them, or something. Sam’s known them for ages now, anyways. Maybe they’re just paranoid.
“Have you heard from Ranboo at all recently?”
Eret raises an eyebrow, the question surprising them. “No, I’ve been waiting to hear from him, actually. How come?”
“Just curious. I heard from Hannah about the whole Michael incident the other day.” Sam doesn’t even turn, just keeps on walking down the path. They’ve passed the museum and the Holy Land, and it clicks in Eret’s head that they’re on the way to the prison. It sets them a little more on edge, to be honest, even though Sam seems pretty relaxed.
Nevertheless, they shrug it off. “Yeah, poor kid was pretty shaken up. I, uh, managed to get him out of there, but Sapnap and George weren’t exactly being helpful.”
A brief snort escapes Sam’s gas mask, slight amusement clear with the crinkling of his eyes. “When are they ever?”
Eret offers a tight smile in response to that, memories of the failed framing attempt and their dethronement flashing in their mind for a brief moment. They’re not pleasant ones. They continue to follow Sam without a word, past McPuffy’s and the Hotel, the looming obsidian behemoth of a prison beginning to block out the landscape.
It’s when they reach the portal to the prison entrance that Eret finally stops in their tracks. “Sam, I’m going to need an explanation here. What do you want?”
Sam stops too, turning around. His hand tightens almost imperceptibly around his trident, though it doesn’t escape Eret’s notice. Their own hand, hidden in the fold of their cape, flicks their inventory open and pulls several potions and a golden apple to the front. Better safe than sorry.
“Well?”
The creeper hybrid lets out a breath, seemingly trying to appear relaxed. Everything else about him says otherwise. “Look, Eret, some things are better discussed in private. Where no one can overhear us.”
“That’s not suspicious, at all,” they snark back, arms now crossed. “I don’t know what you want to talk about, but I reckon it can happen right here.”
“Eret.” Sam’s voice is tight, strained. “Go through the portal.”
They plant their boots in the ground, hand hovering over the hilt of Ted’s Wrath at their side. “You may have your claim over the prison, Warden, but I will remind you that this here—” Eret waves their free hand out to gesture at the open grassy area around them. “—is still my land and my jurisdiction.”
Sam tilts his head. “I mean, if you want to play that game, by technicality everything beyond Bad and Skeppy’s mansion is Badlands territory. Agreed on by you and Dream, let's remember. Which means, since you take your position so seriously, you are a foreign king trespassing on my land.”
“The Badlands became the Eggpire, if I remember correctly,” Eret shoots back, gaze flicking to the barely-there twitch of Sam’s trident. “We both know how that ended.”
“Go through the portal , Eret,” Sam grits out. Eret knows it was a low blow, bringing up the Eggpire, but it hurts them to bring it up just as much as it hurts Sam to remember. Like a double-edged sword. “Or I’ll have to make you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“If I have to.”
Eret scoffs a disbelieving laugh. “I beg your pardon? And– And what crimes have I committed, exactly?”
Sam’s sword appears in his other hand, and Eret’s mouth goes dry. Their strength is silver-tongued words, traps laid in shadow, striking from a distance. This isn’t a fight they can win. Unless…
“I’ll say it one more time, Eret.” Smoke hisses out of the vents in Sam’s mask, the hybrid taking a step forward. “Go. Through. The. Portal.”
It’s the least honorable option, but there’s no other choice. Eret turns and runs.
They barely have time to even think about the golden apples or potions they’d readied before a dull thunk and white hot bursts of pain sends them crashing to the ground. A staggered gasp escapes them, the hand pressed to their shoulder coming away sticky and warm and red. Eret’s body twitches, and tears spring up in their eyes that mix with the dirt on their face.
Weakness arrows.
One through their shoulder, straight through the small chink in their armor allowing for movement. Another lodged in their knee in the same way as the first. A third scraping across their cheek, streaking blood across their face.
Eret hadn’t even seen him have a bow.
They scrabble at the dirt and grass beneath them, feeble efforts at dragging their paralyzed body anywhere, anywhere but here with the Warden’s boots approaching and the poison coursing through their veins locking their muscles and slowing their heartbeat and dragging the air from their lungs—
A rough hand grips their hair, yanking their sunglasses off their face and tossing them to the ground. They feel their body be lifted up and slung over a shoulder, then—nothing. The last thing Eret sees before the Weakness takes over their eyes is their crown, upside down in the muddy and torn up grass, splattered with blood.
They jolt awake with a hacking cough, eyes burning and limbs heavy. Their mouth feels like cotton. Eret tries to catch their breath, air rattling in their chest as they press their weakly trembling hand flat against the hard, cold ground beneath them to try and ground themself.
Wait .
Their eyes fly open, all attempts at calming gone as their surroundings come into view.
Obsidian surrounds them.
The room is small and barren, save for a one-block space made of thick iron bars and a thin cot in the corner. Scattered around the room is crying obsidian– the stone’s veins pulsing and dripping glowing purple liquid steadily against the floor.
Plink.
Plink.
Plink.
A drop splashes against their hand. It's cold and slimy and this is not a nightmare. Eret’s breathing picks up. It scratches at their throat, and it feels like there’s a rock on their chest, and they can’t breathe they can’t breathe they can’t breathe —
“Eret.”
Their gaze snaps to the voice, coming from behind a solid iron door with only a thin slot visible at the bottom. No handle.
“S…Sam? Sam, what’s-?”
The iron door hisses open automatically to reveal the Warden standing there, sword hooked at his side and trident still in hand. They try to push themself back, chest heaving—anything to get away. But Eret only makes it a couple of inches before their vision goes spotty and they nearly black out, ears ringing loud enough to drown out any sound and arms collapsing beneath them.
It takes what feels like ages for their vision to clear, chest heaving with the effort to stay sitting upright. When it does, the Warden is kneeling on one knee in front of them with a bright pink potion in hand.
Normally, Eret wouldn’t trust a random potion being offered to them.
But this is anything but normal, and their hands are shaking so badly as they snatch it from the Warden that they nearly spill the entire thing all over them. The potion goes down about as smooth as molasses, and they let out a hiss through their teeth as the sharp pinpricks of the Healing potion stitch their skin back together.
When the potion’s effects are done, Eret is so bone-tired their arms can barely prop them up anymore. It’s getting harder to keep their eyes open.
The Warden hums disapprovingly, standing back up. “Maybe Weakness and Poison combined was too much for those arrows. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
The next time Eret wakes up, it’s like clawing their way through a fog that surrounds them. They groan, head pounding, but at least this time they’re able to sit up all the way.
They push themself up to sit leaning against the wall, panting slightly. The same walls greet them, the same iron bars, the same heavy door. This time, though, there’s a loud clanging sound outside the… cell , they realize with a jolt. They’re inside the prison.
Okay, they can deal with this. It’s fine. Everything’s fine!
The cell door hisses open, and then shut.
Again, the Warden walks through.
“Feeling better?”
Eret frowns, staring up at him. “What are… What are you trying to do here, Sam?”
The Warden doesn’t answer, just tosses them a cooked steak wrapped in wax paper. “Eat up.”
They fumble it but still manage to catch it in their lap. Half of it they eat, the other half added to their inventory—wait. They shouldn’t have had any more inventory space. Eret freezes, immediately throwing up the holographic version for easier sight without caring whether the Warden can see it.
It doesn’t matter.
Their inventory is empty.
Their armor, potions, food…even the random blocks and mob debris they hadn’t bothered to burn yet. Even the Totem and timepiece gifted to them by Foolish, that they’d almost never let leave their person, were gone.
“How…?”
The Warden’s expression doesn’t change, though even if it did Eret’s pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to tell beyond the goggles and mask and armor. “Security measures. I overrode your comm to access your inventory. All your belongings are inside one of the guest lockers at the front of the prison.”
Eret raises an eyebrow, desperately shoving back the growing panic as they fight to keep their voice level. “ Am I a guest?”
“Depends,” the Warden answers, leaning on the hilt of his trident.
“On?”
He shrugs, hand resting on his sword. “On whether you cooperate or not.”
Eret pushes themself to their feet, swaying as the cell blurs around them. A heavy weight settles on their shoulder as the Warden reaches out to try and stabilize them. They hold back a flinch.
“Cooperate with what, exactly?”
The Warden steps back, pulling a book and quill from his inventory and holding it out. “The coordinates, to wherever you’re hiding Michael. I need them.”
Eret blinks once. Twice.
"Sorry?"
The Warden just stands there, the book and quill waiting in his outstretched hand. "You heard me."
Eret's brain has always moved faster than they can talk, and by Prime they're thankful for it now. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."
"You saved him, didn't you?" The Warden's head tilts, the goggles clicking into place as he shifts. "You said it yourself, earlier."
"I brought him home later on," Eret lies, locking eyes with the goggles. Please, believe me . "Ranboo and Tubbo were thrilled to see him safe, I assure you."
"Hmm."
“You have my word,” they promise, with growing dread in their stomach.
The Warden just stares. “Your word isn’t worth much, is it?”
Eret fights the urge to tense up, keeping their shoulders loose and hands unclenched. "I don't see why not. I haven’t done anything to show otherwise."
“Not recently, you mean.” The Warden is silent for a moment, then— "Well. I guess I'll just go pay them a visit then. Just in case."
"Wh— No, you don't— Why do you want anything to do with Michael, anyways?"
In an instant the Warden has a hold of their shirt, a few stitches ripping audibly as they're yanked closer to him. "I thought I could trust you, Eret. I saw the panic on your face." He scoffs, dropping Eret down to land harshly on the floor. "I thought you'd be better at faking given your history, but I guess we all can't live up to expectations."
They flinch, gritting their teeth. The Warden doesn't stop there, though. "You know where the kid is, and you're going to tell me. Or else you'll be...taking up a new kingdom, here, let's call it."
"If I do know where he is," Eret says carefully, "why should I tell you? What could you possibly want with him, he's just a kid!"
Something about that clearly affects the Warden, and he nearly takes a step back. "None of your concern , Prisoner." He seems like he wants to say more, but a thim chime makes his head snap back to the prison hall. "I have other business to attend to. I'll be back tomorrow." The Warden glances over his shoulder before leaving the cell. "Enjoy your stay."
The Warden doesn’t show up the next day. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
Eret’s pretty much back to normal strength now except for the odd lethargy that feels like it’s hanging off their very bones. A dull roar sounds, and they have to brace themself on the wall for a moment as the feeling intensifies to a near-numbing sensation. Elder Guardians are a bitch and a half to deal with even with armor, much less without. They have to admit, though, it’s a good strategy for a prison.
It’s still a pain in the ass.
The roaring subsides, and they attempt to shake off the lingering heaviness in their limbs. It doesn’t quite work.
With a sigh, Eret resumes their pacing. It’s a bad habit they’d picked up soon after they ascended the kingship, wearing a steady path in front of their throne just to try and shake Dream’s unnatural gaze off of them whenever the masked Admin would show up to ‘check’ on them. It only got worse after the Banquet. Restless energy had stuck with them, the feeling of eyes on their back and vines around their arms and organic matter squishing beneath their kneeled form and a golden body bleeding ichor—
They shake their head, making another turn. Enough of that. (Maybe they’ll end up pacing enough to light a portal through the obsidian, a small part of them laughs. It kind of sounds like Foolish.)
Time almost seems to stretch here. It’s not like their cartography expeditions, where they can set out on a random day and a month or two later find themself in completely uncharted territory when it feels like it’s only been a week or so. It’s almost like the opposite, in a way. Based on their internal clock (which has been shit since L’Manburg’s sleepless nights so maybe it’s not exactly the most trustworthy resource) it’s been about four days since they’d gotten locked up.
It’s almost nothing, they know. But it feels like forever.
A rumble overhead catches their attention, and dropping down onto the cot is a small leather bundle. Eret blinks in surprise, then rushes forward to undo the straps tying it together. Inside is two loaves of bread, a couple wrapped-up fried cod, and….a book, with a red quill attached.
Slowly they set down the bundle. The message is clear, of course. But they still have no idea what the Warden wants with Michael, and they had promised the Piglin they would return with his parents.
Frowning, they set the book aside and stash the food in their inventory alongside the rest of the half-eaten food they’ve been storing up. Doesn’t hurt to air on the side of precaution.
It’s several days later when something finally breaks the monotony.
The massive iron and redstone door Eret had noticed (while trying to make out as much as they could from the tiny, barred window) opens slowly with a harsh, pressurized hiss. They hear the Warden before they see him.
They don’t realize he’s nearly at their door until he’s in front of them, and they jolt back from the window in surprise as the cell door slides open.
The Warden looks pissed .
“The book.”
“What?”
A harsh smack , and Eret staggers backwards with the force of the hit. Something wet drips down their face, but it takes the salty taste of it dripping into the corner of their mouth for them to realize it’s blood. They raise a hand to their nose almost in shock.
The Warden shakes his hand, a few droplets of blood spattering to the ground. “You know what I mean, Eret. Don’t play dumb with me.”
“I told you my answer already,” they reply, though it comes out nasally and muddled.
The Warden scoffs, turning his back on them and slamming the keycard to the door against the card reader. The door slides open, then closes with a click. Eret watches him leave the cell area with their shirtsleeve soaking up the blood, confusion whirling their head just as much as their throbbing broken nose. What had all that been about?
They just barely catch a glimpse of another person waiting outside the main door.
The next time someone comes in, it’s surprisingly not the Warden.
A familiar face strolls up to their cell with hands tucked into pockets of charcoal slacks, suspenders and maroon tie against a neatly pressed white shirt. A jagged scar runs the length of his face with the blank eye socket sporting a red and gold poker chip.
They’re shocked, to say the least.
“Quackity?”
“Heyyy, Eret.” The man grins at him sharply, like they’re not on opposite sides of a cell but rather opposite ends of a card table.
“What are you… doing here?”
“Talkin’ to you, idiot,” Quackity quips back, shrugging. “What does it look like?”
Eret frowns, a few things beginning to click together that they really hope aren’t true. “I thought Sam wasn’t allowing any visitors inside the prison.”
The duck hybrid waves a hand, wings tucked against his back. “Eh, whatever. Sam does his thing and I do my thing, that’s all.”
A thin beep sounds, then Eret’s cell door slides open. Quackity steps in, tucking the keycard into the front pocket of his shirt nonchalantly. He casts a wide gaze around the tiny room, eyebrow raised in a mockingly impressed look. “Nice place you got here, huh?”
“Did Sam send you?”
“Guess you could say that, yeah. But anything involving the prison is my business too, Your Majesty, so don’t worry your pretty little head too much about it.”
Eret just stares at him. They haven’t seen Quackity in a while, really, much less talked to him recently beyond a simple greeting. So maybe it’s not such a new thing, but… Quackity’s changed.
(He almost reminds them of Dream.)
“I’ve already given Sam my answer to his question, Quackity.”
“Mmhmm, yeah, see– here’s the thing, right? Sam’s gotta deal with a big ol’ security threat, and you’re kinda holding him back here. I’d suggest maybe just giving him what he wants and gettin’ outta here, y’know? You understand me? Hell, you could even come stay in Las Nevadas for a bit!” Quackity laughs, some sort of joke in there Eret doesn’t quite get. “Since y’know, you don’t exactly have much to rule over anymore. I’ve got a fun little bar you might like. Called the Palace.” Ah. There it is.
“I’ve told Sam, I’ll tell you now,” Eret says slowly, trying to mentally piece together some sort of plan here. “I’m not going to say where Michael is, not after the poor kid nearly died and certainly not when Sam won’t say why he wants to know.”
Something dangerous flashes in Quackity’s eyes, gone so quickly Eret nearly thinks they imagined it. He slings an arm over their shoulder, or tries to, really—Eret still has a good few inches on him. “Like I said, security issues. Michael’s just…a backup plan I guess you could call it. Look, we’re not gonna hurt the kid, c’mon!”
“I’m not so inclined to believe that.”
Quackity’s eye twitches, something in his gaze sharpening like iron. “Is that so? Suit yourself then. I’m not gonna hurt the kid, but, well. I’ve got no qualms about hurting you.”
Eret yanks themself out of Quackity’s arm, glaring at him. “I have a hard time believing that, too.” The duck hybrid just shrugs.
"Oh believe me, I'm more than happy to. Times change, Eret. At the end of the day, Sam’s business is my business. I just don’t mind doing the dirty work.”