Herobrine

Early Preparations

There were gentle rustles of grass outside, and Herobrine's left eyelid fluttered open as he gaze through the sunlight through the bars. He drew a breath, which escaped his lips later as a series of almost voiceless coughing, and shifted from where he knelt, moving his stiff hands.

After the sentence, he had been escorted out by 'Notch' himself out of the cell, of course by his dragging him along to a new cell by his hair. The new cell is closer to the surface and less dirty and warmer than the previous one, unfortunately nobody is going to risk it, so here he was, kneeling on the ground as his arms were suspended by chains that hung from both sides of the wall, along with shackles around his ankles and a collar around his neck. If it is not painful enough for his diminished pride to not being able to escape from such binds he used to deem 'weak' earlier, it also made him feel like a wounded, caged animal. Probably a lion shaved off his glorious mane or a beaten up wolf, or really, maybe just a mangy dog.

He tried to move despite the bindings, and hissed in pain as he hurt himself even more with every movement he did. The leather around his neck is burning his skin and when he tried to move his arm, pain just seem to seethe from the broken bone, so he chose to just stay as still as possible. The very least he could thank for now is being able to sleep for about three hours and two minutes in total, and he thought it's enough for someone with his extent of wounds.

From outside, he could hear some noises. And something smells nice. He couldn't help but wonder about food. Despite what seemed to be years, they never did once fed him. Not even rotten flesh, and he cursed it. He wished he could just die out of starvation and shame in here, yet seems like whatever 'Notch' do, he was still alive, and still very much hungry. His stomach growls in protest, and he hung his head in shame.

All he can deduct from whatever he could sense, they are starting up a ball outside. Or a party... or a celebration. What date is it again? Ah yes, maybe this is the day everyone was talking about for so long lately.

The day of his execution.

He blinked, his remaining eye half-opened as it stared blankly at the blood stains below his face. Well, now he really did it, did he? Dying and all that. The thought of being dead never really crossed his mind at this point, and all he knows is that he will die when Notch's computer broke down and he did not escape in time, or when Minecraft is finally nothing but a retro game nobody talked about anymore. But now the time has arrived he felt... strangely conflicted.

On a side, he was relieved that the whole suffering he has been through: the torture, the shame, the guilt that increased and increased in his mind as he lived his days through in the dirty, iron-smelled cell, is coming to an end.

Another side, he felt fear. He felt despair. He could not believe that his life just went by just like that, and after he thought about it, it's sadly monotone. His days as a ruler is nothing but repeating days, his everyday fun of chasing and scheming and torturing are all but naught. As he recalled everything he had done it felt so... gray and lifeless. It was sad. He claimed he had traveled to all servers yet he never remembered anything nice about them. It was all so monochrome, so lonely... So...

Useless.

He let out a soft sigh as he moved ever so carefully, trying to shift and move his kneeling legs as far as he could.

He closed his eyes and went lost in his mind once more. He remembered some fleeting, hazy memories. He used to have a house, once. He used to enjoy building small things in a large, flat plains and marvel at how good he was at building something. Once, he farmed wheat and realized he could make loaves of steaming brown bread off them and was overtaken with joys of creating and building and living.