Chapter Text
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(WARNING SELF HARM GRAPHIC VIOLENCE (kinda) & SUICIDAL IDEATION) ty for reading this <3
Wemmbu 3rd person POV
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“I’ve got to get out of here..”
Wemmbu utters as he dashes away from the highly guarded castle, escaping prison thanks to Spoke and Parrot, trying to ignore the fact that he now owes them big time for getting him out.
He escapes hastily, and yet he doesn’t know if he will last long in freedom outside of prison, mentally or physically. He barely has enough gear to survive a 1v1 match against Lettuce, only having diamond armor and a few items he further snagged from Spoke’s enderchest as they escaped. No fireworks, no wind charges even, just his two maces, some measly golden carrots, and a broken elytra.
He decides to hide, knowing that if anyone found him there would be a high chance that he would be sent back. Egg is gone, now diseased as Lettuce had killed him right in front of Wemmbu. He watched as Egg’s head rolled off clean, silently and slowly, he saw the last look on his face before he died, heard his last words, and he heard the ever silent tremble in his tone, just before the sword was swung to his neck. And just like that all of Wemmbu’s reasons, his pride and his joy, every reason he had to be any sense of sane was gone. His only and best friend, Egg is dead, leaving Wemmbu in grief he cannot even begin to process.
Wemmbu stakes a hideout inside a huge, snowy mountain, hoping and maybe even praying to some sort of unknown deity that he won’t be found. He hasn’t showered in weeks, and his usually high ponytail has now been reduced to shaggy, messy long untamed purple locks. His eye bags, usually gone unnoticed have deepened to a point of irreversibility.
Many days he has no one who can keep a watch out incase someone finds him, or maybe he just didn’t want to lay down, and remember everything he’s lost. Sometimes, he even thinks of Flame, his own enemy, and misses him and the banter they once had.
He has not eaten much ever since he took seclusion into the mountain, as there weren’t many opportunities to get food in the first place, he would have to occasionally go outside quickly to kill an animal or two, but with how much effort that took he would generally only go outside quickly once every few days, slowly starving himself as he did not get enough nutrients, but that’s okay, it didn’t matter.
Why would it matter if he never wanted to see anyone again? Or at least, for a really long time.
The old Wemmbu, the one who loved challenging others to fights, loved macing everyone like he was made to, the Wemmbu that cracked a joke during a serious battle, that never took a thing seriously unless it was about Egg, was gone to grief of his loss, and too deep in to dig himself out of it.
At first he spoke a lot, complaining and ranting about things he previously was slapped for, mostly to himself. But as time went on, days turned into weeks, and when you’ve been alone for that long, you seem to lose all purpose of conversation, even with yourself, you run out of things to talk about, and so his words eventually turned to silence, leaving his throat slowly rusting to the point of raspiness.
His usual routine in the beginning was simple: practice macing, eat, sleep, and plan to what he would do if he were to one day finally get out of isolation. This routine quickly crumbled, as he had lost the will to do just about anything, his thoughts controlled him more than Lettuce’s torture methods ever could.
Everything that Lettuce did to him back in that grueling prison was still trapped inside his head, never to be said aloud, even to the silence of echos that enveloped the inside of the mountain. He still remembered every little miserable detail.
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(Flashback to when Wem first got imprisoned, and attempted to escape)
“Get up, demon. Look at me in my two eyes. Now. You will obey my orders unless you want me to hurt you again.”
Lettuce yanked his collar as Wemmbu barely awoke from his slumber. Lettuce yanked him closer, with a grip that could bruise him if he squeezed just a tad bit harder. As he spoke, he used his other hand to grip onto one of Wemmbu’s horns, slowly twisting it, causing Wemmbu to gasp in pain.
He attempted trying to hang on to some sort of sanity, but has his breathing sped up with his recurring headache from the twisting of his horn, he eventually found it pointless to try and calm down, feeling tears string down his face sorrowfully. Wemmbu knew he had fucked up, she shouldn’t have tried to escape in such an amateur way, and now he was paying the price in gold.
“What made you think you had the capability to escape from the LAW? Pathetic, honestly pitiful really.”
Lettuce rolled his eyes as he finally let go of the desperate purple demon. Wemmbu fell straight to the floor, massaging his horn in pain as he tried to keep himself from trembling, with the only thing keeping him alert being his adrenaline from the pain.
“Wh-..look….Lettuce, uh…I know…I DID just kill 1000 of your lawmen, but you don’t need to lowkey torture me…”
Wemmbu groans both in pain and annoyance, as he coughs, reliving the sore throat he had gotten from nearly being choked to death.
And this is where Wemmbu made his biggest mistake, he shouldn’t have ever talked back, because maybe if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have had made his poison far worse than he could’ve imagined.
“Oh. So you think you can talk back to me? Oh, I will make sure you regret doing that. You shall not address me by my name...filthy dog.”
Lettuce states angrily, and yet Wemmbu can’t seem to take it seriously, until he is suddenly being taken away from his prison cell, and into a dark, cold solitary confinement chamber, with a strangely tall, dark deep-slate wall for a ceiling. As soon as the iron doors have shut him inside of the chamber, Lettuce pulls out a mace.
This mace he had taken when Wemmbu had dropped it intentionally, right after the battle with Flame, right after Flame betrayed him, and left him all alone for Lettuce to find him. He still isn’t sure why he dropped the mace, why did he leave something behind so valuable behind?
Wemmbu’s thoughts are swiftly executed as he sees Lettuce suddenly lunge at him from the ceiling, slamming down on him with a slam that made his entire body shake. Once, then twice, until he was at half a heart, as sections of his skin were scraped off, he screamed in vulnerable sharp pain. The bruises were getting hit again, and again, leaving Wemmbu a mess of abrasions and bloody lacerations. He was covered in bruises from repeated hits.
Of course Lettuce had held back just enough to keep him able to heal, but the permanent scars remained, it didn’t help that no one treated his wounds after he was tossed back into his usual cell. Lettuce repeated said punishment every time he would mess up, or bring any attitude to any guards. As for the daily torture, Wemmbu had become his main entertainment in terms of torture.
Shock collars that would cause Wemmbu to scream in agony, as the shock wouldn’t end until he lost his voice, cuts from Lettuce slowly digging his claws into his skin just to feel the way his body struggled to handle the precise stabbing. He was restricted food, care for his wounds, and even a bed, leaving him to sleep on the hard, cold, stone floor.
Many other methods not a person could even begin to describe had been done to him. He knew he wasn’t a good person per se of course, but he couldn’t grasp how Lettuce took no remorse in doing all of these things.
Eventually as time went on, and the torture remained consistent, Wemmbu’s loud and desperate screams, slowly sunk into emotionless, exhausted whines. With each hit, each whip, and each new scar, each hit, his quiet pleas even then turned into silence. He had grown accustomed to harm, and no longer hated it, as it had become a normal recurring step in his day.
All he did in the prison, after months of harm, was wait, silently and quietly, for the next beating. It was the only thing he knew in his mind, at least for the most part. Egg was gone anyway, and there was not a person who Wemmbu thought would even consider saving him.
There was no reason as to why she should escape this cycle. He deserved it anyway, for all of those things he’s done, he deserves to be hurt like this, and maybe now more often than not, he craved it. He craved the harm to give him some semblance of reality, to teach him what he deserves, that all he deserves is pain.
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(End of flashback)
And now that he’s alone, far away from Lettuce, in the silence of a cave with his circling thoughts, he can’t help but crave the pain he once was dealt daily. His wounds were healing, but they were still prominent, barely healed from a few golden carrots he had in remains for gear.
A lot of his wounds were permanent, but he didn’t care anymore, it had been too long, he stopped caring about any semblance of pride for his appearance months ago, after that mace incident with Lettuce (or moreover multiple incidents as this had happened multiple times).
Wemmbu knew eventually he would want to feel this excruciating, yet strangely pleasurable pain once again, but he had not realized this craving would run so desperately through his veins, as he constantly thought about the pain, and the strange giddy feeling he felt reminiscing his punishments.
Wemmbu had never been one to harm himself, but after all of those months with Lettuce, in these moments, it felt like it had to be done, he knew the prison, Lettuce, and all of those torture methods had fucked him up beyond saving, but he could at least have pleasure before his inevitable demise, right?
Why should he have to stop himself from doing what he desires, if there is no one to tell him that what he is about to do is really that bad? He paces back and forth, carefully thinking through whether it was worth it or not. He thinks so hard, that he speaks aloud, surprising himself in the process.
“Am I really considering self-harm..why..—wait, I’m talking….uhh, forgot I could do th-cough-“
He then unsurprisingly falls into a coughing fit, presumably from his lack of self care. He snags his water source, and drinks as much as he can handle (which is a pitifully low amount), before clearing his throat.
“Okay..now…I..I-I’ve gotta think about this..I guess…is it..ugh…
He cringes at the way he stutters, he can barely form what he is thinking into words, instead speaking general nonsense. This makes him frustrated, and yet instead of screaming as he once did, he just slumps down, against the wall of his mini house build, and gives up on speaking once again.
Why had he even tried to speak? That was pathetic. Honestly, truly pathetic. He remembers the way Lettucek would always tell him that, every single day, and he’s now begun to reach a conclusion that maybe he was right.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing, hiding away in some random mountain, stuck in shivering temperatures, and barely surviving off of occasional bears he could kill, when he could, he could feel his body deteriorating as the days past, and strangely enough he wasn’t scared. Maybe it was better this way, to slowly die, to finally meet Egg once again. Plus he could speed up the process, if he started harming himself, without cleaning the cuts.
This one certain idea, was what drew him to the conclusion, as he pulled out his netherite sword, somberly staring at the shiny unused weapon, before removing a few bits of his armor, and rolling up the ragged old sleeves.
They once served a purpose in appearance, they were once clothes fit for a prince, and yet now they hang baggy, and from all of the countless fights from his journeys, the clothes seemed more like rags than anything else.
He pressed the netherite sword on his arm, at first too afraid to make any sort of cut, but as he eased into it, he slowly began to make the cuts. They started off as white, easily healable marks, but as he continued throughout consecutive days, and the sharpness of the sword had proven to be sufficient enough to cause true harm.
The first peak of blood shed through, and there was that feeling, oh that great feeling Wemmbu had missed so much. The strain, for the first time formed an easy weak smile on his lips.
“H—Holy…fuck…I almost forgot…this feeling..”
Wemmbu whined as he slashed deeper, faster, repeatedly. The ecstasy from each strike of pain was exacerbating, in the best way possible. He didn’t know when he had begun to crave this harm, this venomous poison that stroke him at his core, but it was his best chance at feeling something, anything again, and it worked.
Because of this, he slashed harder, more, and as he continued, he found that one arm just wasn’t enough, so he moved onto the other one as well. Both of his arms were covered wrist to shoulder in red bloody scars, and all he could feel was relief. Relief that he was real, and feeling the pain. Relief that he was getting punished as he thought deserved.
And so, exhausted from his one true pleasure, he spent the rest of his days hiding from the world, and feeding his addiction, slowly and surely dying all the more. This is until on one fateful day, a certain spyglass using-Avian manages to find the isolated askew prince, yet little does this winged boy realize what he’s getting into, until it’s too late.
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THIS IS MY FIRST OFFICIAL FANFIC, TYTYTYTY FOR READING OMLLL <3 dw chat I’m working on the next chapter tmr trust XP