Chapter Text
There's a rough hand gripping his jaw and forcing him to look up.. Up right into the Blood God's eyes. The bone mask the man had worn must have been discarded over the course of the battle.
The pain from his wounds increase as a sinking feeling in his stomach makes its presence known. He was wounded during the fight, he'd gotten exhausted and fallen to his knees. And here he is now, at the mercy of the enemy.
He knows the wars over. He knows they lost.
But yet, he still feels the need to try and put up a fight. To pick up his sword, swing a punch, try to claw away, even just spit insults at the man. Honestly, anything would work at this point, But instead he sits there on his knees looking up at the other man. Everything about him looked like that of a warrior. Everything from the bloodied armor that clung to his body, to his pig-like features.
Their eyes are only locked for seconds before The Blade is looking away and barking orders at his men. The man must be more messed up than he thought, he's not able to understand the words being said. The warm presence on his jaw is lost to the cool arctic air as the hand is pulled away.
If he wasn't going to fight against the man himself maybe he will be able to fight against the men that come to hall him off. They bring him to his feet, holding him up. He can see the Blood Gods walking away at this point and relief is almost pushed through him. They try to say something to him, but again he can't understand it, it's probably just slurs and insults for picking a fight and losing.
As they start walking he tries to drive his feet into the ground with lightweight force. He feels weak, and he knows he shouldn't, he wasn't that badly injured as far as he knows.
There's more words spoken as he tries to keep his feet steady. An order is given, and then there's a fist being driven into his stomach. For a moment it's the only pain he can feel, that is, till it all comes rushing back. He throws his head back as a choked scream pushes its way up through his throat. The blond can feel his feet being dragged as he goes limp, except for his wings, which on instinct get pulled around his body in some form of protection. The pains over taking him, he's on the verge of passing out. He gets blinded by the sun before he can shut his eyes in time.
Wait.
The sun's at high noon.
Was that it? Had they only held a fight till noon?
Gods, they were damned since the beginning!
It was only five in the morning when they had lined up, ready for battle. They'd been torn apart in just seven hours.
At that revelation, he pathetically lets his head fall to the side. He opens his eyes just in time to see The Blade leaning down, reaching for a cream-white item on the ground. When the piglin stands he pulls something bone up with him. The ivory is easily recognized as the mask he wore when he arrived.
The bone is coated in crimson splatters. The substance trails down and lands on the red snow and dirt mix bellow. He shivers at the sight. Now he can't say he's surprised they didn't stand a chance. He feels his stomach turn at the terrifying sight. The Warlord is indeed haunting, he may never forget the sight if he lives past tonight. Who knows, maybe they're hauling him off to a pit where they'll be killing and burying him. He might even just bleed out first.
It doesn't matter. Not at the moment, not when his vision is blackening and his eyelids are getting heavy.
One last glance at the snow and he's passing out. They'll just have to carry him to where ever they're heading. Pain melts away as he slips into a dreamless rest that he might not wake from.
_______.
When he opens his eyes he's almost disappointed, in a sick way. The rough gray walls are there to meet his tired gaze, it's an unexpected slight due to his last-moment mindset when he last shut his eyes. Said eyes travel up the wall to the ceiling. It's not much of a change, the same stone material.
His blond lashes flutter shut again, a distant breeze blowing through. He doesn't want to move. Even if the hard surroundings bite into his skin, he's quite comfortable where he sits, or well, more like lays. The fallen warrior finds himself grateful that they'd laid him on his side rather than even bother with his wings.
He'd lay there forever if he was given the chance. Maybe this can be his metaphorical 'death' he was expecting. Nothing more than this.. this cell, judging from the stone and iron bars. Yeah, nothing more than this cell, forever.
But, just like that, there's footsteps. They're faint, but they're unmistakably there.
He could almost let out a groan. Why couldn't they just leave him be? He'd be content just laying there well they ransacked the city-- okay, put it that way and he's not as fond of that plan anymore. But there's still a chance they walk past him. Maybe even skip this hallway entirely, presuming there are other tunnels, if they're still in the city there are other tunnels.
The footsteps turn his direction, and he's repulsed. They keep coming his way, about halfway down the hallway, and he's filled with dread. The sound keeps getting closer till it stops somewhere behind him, and he could throw up, The person knocks on the iron bars, and he thinks he just might.
For a moment he thinks if he just lays there they might walk away and give up. When they knock again that hope dies horribly.
"A.." he winces at the sound of his voice, "Aye," he pushes on when a metallic taste enters his mouth.
The person clears their throat, "patronizing pri.." He's so tired he can't even finish his own thoughts.
"Congratulations, you're one of the few survivors of your troops," they say in a mock happiness, laced with venom, "Now, state your name,"
He opens his eyes and moves to turn around. As he pushes himself up on his arm the pain of the past battle sets in, sending shearing pain throughout his entire body. The man has no time to choke on the new substance in his throat, being determined to face his opponent..
"Few.. surviv--," a cough racks his frame in the middle of his sentence
The other person doesn't give him the time of day, hushing him as they speak again.
"Yes, yes, very sad. Now your name,"
Salty tears burn his eyes as he strives to crack his eyes open. The person's a blurry blob in his compromised vision. He can see splotches of the enemies colors, blue and white, "probably their uniform," he notes. Honestly, that's all he can make out about them.
"What's your name, 𝘈𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘯," the words are said with new-found resentment, the person having been annoyed by the wait.
"General Minecra-ft, Phil.." his voice cuts out before he has the chance to say his name.
He can't bring himself to finish his sentence, he's exhausted, it's pathetic.
_______.
They roll their eyes as they watch the man shiver on the ground. They can't lie, they feel little remorse. His little nation was the one that decided to pick a fight with their empire, they'd gone to war and won. He should have either abandoned the fight or died along with his comrades, And that's the hard truth.
"What's your name, 𝘈𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘯," they spit, like the words are poison in their mouth.
They want to be anywhere else than here, after the day they've had, could you blame them? Sure, they'd won the battle, but it was tiring. Once victory was theirs they had to stand there and talk about the surrender conditions, that was after they rounded up the citizens and survivors of course.
Finally, the man speaks, "General Minecr--ft, Phil.."
They can see his mouth move to say another symbol but not a sound comes out. A sigh escapes them, they don't want to be here any more than they have to. Besides! They have a family to get back to! So.. they just fill in the blanks, "Minecrft? Minecraft. Phil.? Philip." Philip? A common enough name, it's probably right. They jot it down on their list of three, three military survivors that is.
"Very well, General. Welcome to the one and only, Antarctic Empire,"
Their presentation falls on unhearing ears.