Chapter Text
George stared blearily at the table before him, half-heartedly listening to Sam's excited ramblings. He wished he could pay more attention to the man, Sam deserved it, but against the morning, George would always lose. Ironic, he thought sourly, staring at the bowl of gray oats and wheat beneath his nose. All those mornings he spent being dragged to the tops of hills and mountains, fighting and bickering with that incessant smiling mask and he was still unable to keep his eyes open at the table.
Making matters worse, the pair had gotten a new visitor - and he appeared keen to stay. Purpled sat opposite of him, chewing loudly as he devoured his portion of porridge. Tucked against Sam's herculean form, he looked even smaller than usual. George watched him shovel spoonfuls down his throat, feeling slightly sick at the sight. Purpled was either going to choke or throw up - hedging his bets, he settled on choke. He knew enough about teenage eating habits from Tommy-
A sudden ache hit him in the gut at the thought. Back in the taverns, when Wilbur was drunk enough to let the boy stay within their circle, and when Sapnap ordered hot meals to fill their stomachs with something besides whiskey, Tommy would sit stuffing himself. On the rare occasion that Techno joined their ranks, he would force the boy to drink water, slowing him down. Wilbur had no such maternal instincts - though he had the tendency to hide Tommy's silverware away. Not much would deter the blonde from his stomach, though. Was that just a teenage thing? Eating like they were starved half to death? George frowned. Or was it learned?
Sam told them something about the airflow in his room, something far too detailed and way too fast for him to follow and George fixed his eyes on the duo. Purpled spared him an intrigued comment, though, something he was all too grateful for.
The boy had oats speckled around his mouth, his tongue darting out across grinning lips. George sighed. He slid his bowl across the table, nudging it beside Purpled's rapidly depleting serving. Purpled glanced up sharply, scouring his face for something - George couldn't tell what exactly - his hands stalling. He still clutched a spoonful of lukewarm porridge, dripping in thick gray sludge right back into his bowl.
"Really?" Purpled asked in a tone almost pathetically hopeful and George nodded. The blue cloak wrapped around his shoulders was warm and he sunk back into his seat in dull contentment.
He ignored the way Purpled's eyes widened then creased with excitement at the fortune of more food. It was sad, he told himself, watching the boy wolf down the rest of his bowl. It was gross, even. George turned away from the cheeks stuffed full of oats, the small smile that fit so well on the boy's face. It wasn't cute. It was not.
A draft rushed in through an open window and his flesh rippled with chills. Cold winds and gloomy skies had overtaken Spring, plunging the Capital into an eternal Winter. He hadn't managed to get a night's worth of sleep with the conditions. Plus, there was that faint sound of air whistling through the castle that kept him up. He wondered, turning to Sam if that had been the "airflow" the man had spoken of.
Like Purpled, the creeper half-blood seemed rather exuberant, though George doubted it had anything to do with their meal.
Sharp teeth flashed at them. "This has got to be one of the oldest builds in the city! I mean just the architecture alone - I have to wonder who thought to construct it this way."
George rested his head in his hands, peering up at the man. "What's so special about this place?"
Purpled shifted in his seat, his movements faltering. George didn't miss the snag in his lips.
Sam coughed, looking almost equally as awkward. "You'd be surprised."
"Yeah?" George studied the two of them. Neither met his eyes. Something was going on - something more to the obsidian spires and coveted halls. Something that both Purpled and Sam had already figured out.
Sam's gaze landed on him, his irises burning in rings of ruby. "What? You're telling me you haven't noticed anything weird here? Stuff that's…" He took a glance at the guards. "-out of place?"
George stopped at that, memories of last night springing forth. The books in the library, tucked away in corners, lettered with inconspicuous titles and full of inconceivable stories. His fingers tingled with the memory of worn paper warm under his skin. The image of the deity flashed behind his eyes. XD.
Intrigue tugged at his chest. He hadn't managed to finish the book during their nighttime visit, having to abandon it before the guards found them. But he knew which shelf he had slid it into, that strange leather-bound tome with its deceiving title: 'Introduction to Cattle Herding'. He caught the grin on his lips quickly, schooling it back to indifference.
The giddiness was natural. How else could he react? It was still an impossible thing to process, that magic could exist within the Capital - within the castle walls. He wondered what more existed in the revered site. Not just in the library, but in the other wings of the palace. Did they have books like this in the King's very own bedroom? With titles so droll they were left to form some aesthetic of academics? Or did the books only reveal themselves to friends? People of magic? That thought was quickly squashed. If that was the case, the book wouldn’t have revealed itself to him. He was, after all, human.
Nevertheless, George knew he had to get back to the library. Purpled had mentioned more books akin to the tome of archaic gods. He needed to get his hands on them. Whether it be to quell the insatiable hunger for any familiarity in the foreign place or to gain some kind of advantage in the King's arena, George knew he would be visiting the shelves once more. He wondered if he could go tonight - he knew the basic rotations of the guards, thanks to Purpled, and he knew he could find his way back to the room. The thought was enticing, and it showed in his face.
Amethyst seared into his eyes and he met Purpled's gaze. He realized without talking they shared the same thoughts.
"I guess you're right," He mumbled in response to Sam's question. Purpled glanced back down at his food, George's portion half-finished and cold by now.
Sam hummed. "I for one can't wait to see more of it."
His interest piqued at the words. There was obvious determination in Sam’s voice, some sort of lingering curiosity. His under-eyes were dark, betraying the creeper. What had Sam been up to last night? George glanced over him. Perhaps the same thing he and Purpled had done? There was a gritty sort of powder sprinkled across Sam's shirt sleeves, just barely visible against the ivory cotton.
He narrowed his eyes. That was redstone.
A large elbow nudged against Purpled's shoulder, impossibly gentle. Sam smiled softly, looking down at the boy. "Right, Purpled?"
Giving a half-hearted nod, the boy flicked his eyes away from their gazes and plunged his spoon into his mouth. George grimaced at his muffled mumble, tracking the oats that were spat out onto the table. They carried out the rest of breakfast in stilted small talk.
When the hour had ended and they were herded off like cattle to train, a hand pulled him to the back of the line.
Skeppy stood before him, his ruby pin gleaming on his chest. George stared at the red facet, the one that bore the symbol of the King and the rank of his Captain.
"You holding up alright?" Skeppy's eyes were warm with concern, keeping his gaze intently.
George hesitated, his thoughts from breakfast returning in a rush. If anyone knew about the castle, it would be Skeppy. No one else was close enough to hear his next words, whispered to the Captain.
"How much do you know about this castle?"
They followed the rear end of the line, keeping their eyes ahead at the backs of the other seven. Skeppy murmured, "What do you mean?"
"I mean Purpled showed me some books and stuff in the library-"
"The kid?"
"Yeah," He breathed as they went down the East Wing. A pair of mismatched eyes met his and George jolted. The enderman half-blood - the one he had met in the Arena's tunnel, was staring at him. He hadn't gotten the chance to learn his name - hell, he only knew Sam and Purpled's names and that was because Sam was kind and Purpled was the exact opposite - but he had made quite the impression on their competition.
There was a constant uneasiness about the remaining eight. None of them were ever truly comfortable around each other. How could they be ? George watched the red and green eyes carefully. They were meant to kill each other, after all.
The boy looked away, his gaze darting over the stone ground to the walls to the ceiling in the span of a second. He turned, crossing his arms at his chest, and George watched him with silent interest.
"Do I have to tell you how sad it is you're making friends with children?" Skeppy was looking ahead, but the grin on his lips was clear.
George whirled around, his glare red-hot. "Shut-"
"Also," Skeppy continued, the smirk only growing as he spoke, "You realize you're telling the Captain of the Guard that you've been sneaking out of your quarters right?"
Biting his tongue, he faltered. Catching Skeppy's crowing grin he growled, "Not the point."
"Sure," Skeppy laughed, a sudden lightness to his step.
"The point ," George pushed on, "is there's magic in the Kingdom."
Skeppy turned quickly, his laughter cut short in his throat as a flame blown out. "In the castle ?"
He nodded and Skeppy paled, his eyes growing wide. So he didn't know . George opened his mouth to explain what he had seen in the library, what long-forgotten treasures he had discovered in the dusty cabinets, and the secret knowledge tucked away in books that lied.
A shout rang out, swallowed by the plush carpet on the ground, and George quickly recognized the voice as Quackity's. His tongue grew leaden. They had reached the Weapon Master's quarters in no time, it had seemed. Skeppy sucked on his teeth.
"We're talking about this later," The Captain told him quietly- an order and not a suggestion.
George scoffed as the man stepped away, heading to the front of the group. A teasing smirk playing at his lips. "What? Gotta go babysit the Weapons Master?"
"More like make sure he doesn't try to kill anyone again, but sure." Skeppy fixed a deadpan look on him. "You're welcome for that, by the way."
"Yeah, yeah," George huffed, watching Skeppy leave for some needed damage control.
The weight of their exchange hung over him. Skeppy hadn't known about the library's contents. It made sense, he guessed, that the guard would have no reason to spend time in such a place, but it didn't lessen the disappointment he felt. He would have to go back tonight then, he decided. He only hoped Skeppy would be the guard positioned at his door, or things might get difficult.
George's skin prickled with the weight of another's eyes on him, and he looked up, searching the group.
No one looked back.
…
"Prime's sake." George sat the edge of his bed, relishing in the freezing gales that swept into his room. His body was weary with exhaustion, having taken the brunt of Quackity's training in the hours spent with the man's demanding shouts.
It seemed the Weapon Master's method of teaching was yelling until they improved, something George felt wrong to find funny. What was it with the King's men and their absurd ways of teaching? His grin was wiped from his face by the twinges of sharp pain in his muscles, reminding him of his situation.
The wind rushed in. The room was eerily empty.
George's aching skin prickled. He missed the careful hands that would bandage him up, tugging at the bound cloth until he was dragged into one whole piece again. For one brief moment, the minty scent of herb poultices was sharp in his nose, pulling him back to the treehouse. George let his eyes slip shut, imagining the windows thrown wide open, allowing sweeping rays of the golden sun to stream in across the scratched wooden floor. However much he cleaned or arranged, it would always smell a little like dust and herbs. The twinkling clink of bottles chimed in his ears.
Maybe, he thought, grinning, if he focused hard enough he would hear the strumming of a handsome guitar paired with a silky voice, floating in from the branches above. Maybe he'd feel the softness of feathers, brushing against aching muscles and tightly wound dressings.
No salvation came.
George opened his eyes to the empty room.
Faintly, the clash of swords sounded out from outside.
The training had been rough today. Once again they had used human weapons - a development George was sure would continue for the duration of his stay. Quackity had paired them up, separating Sam and George from Purpled. Perhaps he had begun to catch on to their makeshift alliance. Quackity was sharp, after all. Somehow he had figured out George’s relation to Techno. That aside, the King's Weapons Master was a coveted position- one that didn’t come without its fair share of sacrifice.
As for Purpled - George didn't dare think of their alliance as anything more than that - a desperate attempt to find safety in their rapidly diminishing numbers. He wasn't that much of a fool to think Sam and Purpled were his friends.
Speaking of the goliath, it had become aware to George just how much he had underestimated Sam. Beneath that sweet exterior, a hardened warrior slept. The creeper half-blood already towered over the rest of the competition in height and size, which meant his fists could pack a punch. Paired with a trident, his weapon of choice for today's duel, he was formidable. George thought back to the prismarine trident, wielded so deftly in Sam's secure hands.
From what he knew, it was typical of Southerners to wield the weapon in battle. Foolish's depiction in the library's tome had confirmed that much. Even without the image of the Summer God, George could've guessed from Sam's raw skill with the pronged weapon. Their match had come exceptionally close to a loss for him- the tides having been turned only in the last second when he had managed to catch a blindspot in the man's defense.
George took no great joy in his victory - if you could call it that. It had been too close to a draw. That didn't mean their spectators hadn't noticed.
Purpled had finished his duel rather quickly, having been paired with the enderman half-blood. His opponent didn't seem to know much about weaponry, his hands clumsy on the axe he had chosen, and against Purpled and his prowess with knives, it was a sure loss. That left the cloaked youth to observe Sam and George's duel, the enderman taking his leave swiftly.
George wasn't easily fooled by the taller boy. The competitors of the King were all arguably at a disadvantage, forced to use weapons unfamiliar to them, and the enderman wouldn't be here if he wasn't a formidable threat. He only hoped his demeanor wouldn't cost the boy his life.
Purpled hadn't been their only spectator. The Weapons Master himself had stopped his prowling, settling beside the two to observe. Quackity hadn't taken his eyes off of them. George caught the click of his tongue against his teeth when Sam had yielded, proving his theory that the Weapons Master was at least in some way biased against him. Though - some glimmer of respect had passed through his coal-black gaze when George had won. Something eerily similar to calculating.
With the matches done, there wasn't much left to do but relax for the afternoon. To his displeasure, the library remained restricted - though Skeppy had mentioned on their way out of training that he would request for the space to open to the competition. He would be heading into a meeting with the King for the afternoon, something that disgusted George to hear, but something that was undoubtedly necessary. It seemed that Technoblade had entrusted the job to the right person. Skeppy was playing the part perfectly.
"Don't leave your room," The Captain had warned him as they left the East Wing. "The guards will be on edge tonight with their patrols due to the meeting."
George's curiosity would remain bottled in the depths of his stomach for the time being. Pushing himself off of the bed, he scanned the room for the hundredth or so time.
It was a great relief to be out of the dungeons - that much he was certain of. With the bed, crafted from plush cotton and thread, he would fare much better in the winner's quarters. Aside from the bathroom and bed, the room held little to be excited about. There were a couple of leather-bound books lying around, but the titles deterred him from their finely printed pages. He had checked them for runes, but these were selectively chosen books - ones that held murals and portraits of the King and his family and stolen words of glory and gold. He had to restrain himself from tossing them in his bathwater. Or out the window, even.
Past the billowing curtains, the garden laid in all its pruned finery. No vibrant ruffles of flowers graced the scene - it was too cold for many of them to bloom here - but here and there George could spot the bell-shaped snowdrops and brush-like hyacinths painting the grounds with specks of white and indigo. Further past, nestled before a wall of shrubbery, a figure stood. They held a steel sword in their hands, which were surely bitten red from the cold.
Leaning past the ridge of the window, he squinted. That was the enderman. The tall boy swung the sword down, releasing a little puff of smoky air from his lips. A couple of castle guards watched him move, their own weapons held uncertainly in their hands. The boy was notably slower on his tall legs, moving as though he was wading through sugar paste and not snow. He swung the sword across his chest and the sleek swish of the blade cut through the dull afternoon. Though he was strangely unbalanced on his feet, whirling the weapon in deft hands, George thought he could kill any of the red-nosed guards.
A snowflake kissed his nose, melting almost instantly on his skin, and a tremor ran through him. George stepped back into the warmth of his room. The gardens, though enticing with their space and fresh air, weren't enough to draw him from hiding.
Sam had a different opinion, disappearing after training almost too quickly. George assumed the man was tired, but that theory proved false as soon as he saw the man go. Sam seemed full of energy as he went along his way, muttering runaway thoughts under his breath.
He had no clue where Purpled had gone - something that was both comforting and concerning. That would be the guards' problem, and not his.
His own guards stood outside his door, talking in low voices. The last he had checked, with his ear pressed sound against the spruce door, they appeared to be playing a game of cards. They too were convinced he wouldn't be leaving his room, he guessed.
Once more, like clockwork, he returned to the mounds of pillows and cotton sheets, sitting absent-mindedly at the edge of the bed. He let himself wonder if the guards would let him out to the library. Perhaps if he asked nicely-
Outside, a guard bellowed, and George's mind stilled. The way they watched the enderman practice, with their hands white-knuckled around their sword hilts and those gruff grimaces tugging at their lips, he doubted they would allow it.
His eyes shifted back into focus, staring at the wall of stone across from the bed. He trailed over the carved face numbly, searching his thoughts for something to occupy his mind.
It was then that he saw it.
Right above the fireplace hearth, carved into the stone was an insignia. This one, however, bore no vines nor crown. This one was an eye.
George stumbled forward on shaky legs. He'd seen endermen eyes before - the pearly, gelatinous balls that seemed to shift eternally between shades of green and purple. He’d even touched them. Phil had kept a jar of them in his treehouse, though he never really used them, and curiosity had led him one day to feel the dense yet squishy orbs. Not an experience he was rather fond of, but the feel of the eye prickled in his palm. Besides that, before the King's reign, you couldn’t go through a day in the villages without a young and steadfast hero brandishing one of the eyes high above their head, beckoning all to come see their spoils. Despite all of this, he had never seen an eye drawn in the way the carving was.
The marking was worn into the wall, which was spotless. A diamond-shaped pupil hung in the center of the eye, stretching out vertically. The circular shape was etched with small lines of different sizes stretching in towards the pupil. It was undeniably, an eye of ender.
The last time George had seen one of those was in the tome of gods-
He pressed a hand to the carving. It couldn't have been larger than a cork, rounded and dull against the grey stone.
Under his fingertips, the smooth stone was cool. The stone pupil dipped underneath his touch, almost buckling into the wall, and George inhaled sharply. The iris had moved. An insatiable curiosity burned in his stomach, and he pressed harder, feeling the stone sink into the wall like a button. With a final, sharp click, the eye found its place a few centimeters into the stone.
Silence. Only broken by his quiet breaths. Then - a series of mechanical clicks, ticking away in his ears. While George may not be as advanced with redstone as Sam, even he could tell there were pistons hidden inside the wall. More surprising than that was the realization that the pistons still worked. The etched eye looked old, maybe older than the rest of the furnished room.
A slow grating sound rumbled from the fireplace, like the gnashing of stone teeth. George dropped to his knees, ducking down by the hearthstone. The back wall of the fireplace had been brought up, revealing a pitch-black tunnel. It was small, barely large enough to fit a chest through, and he could see no end to the darkness.
"You're kidding," He breathed, then jolted at the cracked whisper of his incredulous voice. Sharply, he turned to the door. The spruce stood tall, unbothered by the boy and his discovery, and George forced himself to breathe. The guards hadn't heard.
He scrambled up, a plan patched together hastily in his pounding head. He went to the bed first, stuffing ivory pillows under the suffocating blanket. Overtop those, he draped his blue cloak, tucking the fabric alongside the pillows. Standing over the lumpy form, he grimaced. It would have to do.
Makeshift dummy made, he turned back to the fireplace. No wind came from the tunnel, no light either, and he pursed his lips. He would find a way out. Even if it killed him.
George pressed a hand against the tunnel wall. Caked in layers of dust and webs, the tunnel was built from stone - not dissimilar to the cobblestone walls of his room. He looked back at the silent door once more. No guards kicked their way in. No shouts or threats drafted in. He was unknown.
Holding his breath tight in his rattling chest, George crawled through the hearth and into the darkness.