Prologue
The day was cold, and the rain offering none other than more of such sensation. It came down in torrential downpours every waking second in the spring. It pelted his face and shoulders with everything it could at a constant rate. His velvet robes would have to be hand-dried again, but he cared not. He merely cared of the small people walking through the weather, colder and wetter than he was, surely. From the top of the Tower of Kings, he gazed into the endless skyline that would soon return to its full potential, come summer. Taking note of every person that darted through the rain from structure to structure, holding up their arms and Bibles to protect themselves from the cold sting.
His eyes were narrowed, trying to focus his vision through the cast of weather, and he grasped the bust of the fence with his hand to keep from falling as he leaned in to see each new event. But, there was a group of happenings that drew his gaze every time. His senses were awakened each time by the sharp crash of a door being shut. He would search for the new source of the disruption, and find, each occasion, a young woman standing in front of the door, looking to be a dejected soul, almost ready to leave its shell of a body.
She was a short woman with red hair worn in a bun, and she was dressed in a lackluster outfitting that may have once been appealing, but such a commodity could never survive the rainy season. It was a brownish-black shade with a few green hues in some small areas. It was slightly torn at the knees and elbows, and along the stomach area. It looked as though she had just returned from an illegal dueling match. Her expression matched her clothes: sad, disgraced, dejected. He hated seeing others suffer, especially those of his realm.
Rather than move to the next house, she simply wandered toward the town square. Her head hung so low it was a mystery to him how she knew where she was going. The rain now began to fall in massive swells in addition to the already torrential gale. There always seemed to be a swell following her as she walked, and he could almost hear the cadence of rainfall on the cobblestone streets below him. She seemed to shift direction and head for the puppet stand, a place where children would come on a daily basis to watch the frail, wooden figures dance around the small stage. The children would snicker and laugh as the small man swung his sword at the creeper puppet, causing it to run away in fear.
She sat on the small set of bleachers in front of the stand, and started to weep. It was a full, slow sobbing with pauses every few moments to take in more air. It peaked his curiosity as to what was abusing this woman's grief. He aimed to find out as he removed his hand from the balcony fence. It was now cold and clammy from the constant contact with said cold, wet surface. He continued to watch her cries of sorrow for another moment before turning back into his chamber.
It was a room truly fit for a king. On the walls near the ceiling, the seal of Minecraftia woven upon a dark red flag waved in silence. On the floor, there were rows upon rows of chests and shelves containing his sets of armor, weapons, tools, and precious minerals lining the walls. There was even a box in the corner, containing the mossy remnants of the materials used to construct the great kingdom he stood over every day from the Tower of Kings. He kept that one locked up, sometimes donating a few blocks of its contents to the construction of new buildings. In this box, he also kept his acme of all his helms in this box, his crown, a symbol of peace an dominion in Minecraftia. He placed it upon his head, feeling the power of rule run through him, a feeling he had always longed for when he was a young boy.
He also drew from this box his favorite sword, made of diamonds from the deepest mines, and enchanted to never break. It had violently met the skin and bones of every monster, and protected him and his fathers for generations. It was a symbol of pride and bravery in the city, and throughout the lands. He held it straight in his hands for what felt like minutes before he finally swung it in a full circular motion, cutting the air and emitting a whoosh sound that filled the room. He then closed his eyes, held the sword straight once again, and placed his hand upon the blunt of its blade. He drew several breaths in concentration, and began to sense the cold diamond on his skin even more, before finally inhaling one last, massive breath before opening his eyes, turning around quickly, and violently hurling the sword in his new direction. As it cut the air, it made similar whoosh sounds as it had seconds ago, and it flew across the massive chamber, before it met its mark: a target made from a log of jungle wood, conveying a painting of a creeper in the centre. It met its mark, as it always had.
The man walked to the log, being on the other side of the room, and yanked the blade from the wood as if it were butter. He could hear the scratching noise it made as it exited the new indentation in the lumber, but he knew that it meant nothing. Again, he swung the sword in a near full circle motion, but stopped short when the blade met his eye level. He observed the sword painstakingly, finding not a splinter nor a scratch. He never did. There never was.
He slid the sword into the sheath he kept on his back at all times. The sword never quite fit the sheath, but it was crafted from the leather hide of the first cow he had slain. Everything in the town was related to him in a way, but them again, it ought to have. He began to walk toward the door, but it opened in front of him before he could reach it. A young man dressed in a slightly worn servant's suit emerged from the doorway, bowing his head at the first sight of the man before him.
"Your Majesty," the butler said. "We have scheduled your dinner tonight in full. The cook will be serving cooked chicken laced with golden apples, with mushroom soup as the side dish. The total attendance will be nine, sire, including yourself."
The man hardly did make eye contact as he spoke, but the King cared not.
"Excellent, Squire," the King said, in a deep, commanding voice. "You have followed my demands to the letter, but I sense an error. Something rather grave, indeed."
His squire was taken aback by this, and he was equally frightened of being punished. Still not making eye contact with his master, he said, "And what would that be, sire?" He then laughed in a nervous fear that he had disrespected the King. There was a long pause, consisting merely of the King staring intently out of his large window, still being pelted with rain.
"Nine," the man finally uttered, catching the servant off of his guard. "Nine people, you say? Such an odd number; such an uneven number! I would not be found dead being an acquaintance of nine men! No woman goes to the market to specifically buy nine apples. No, no, indeed not...
"But ten! Ten is a proper number, representing a milestone, if you will. For any man with a sword would fight alongside ten knights, and any woman would truly travel to market to specifically buy ten apples."
The servant was unsure of how to see this reasoning put forward by his King. What had it meant, and why did it matter, the number of those attending this banquet. It was held every Notchday at the same time and the same place. "Forgive me, sire. I do not understand..."
The King walked toward the door, not making eye contact with his squire, and held up his pointer finger upon exit.
"Go now," he said, as he opened the large door. "and inform the cook and the guards that tonight's attendance will be ten."
The day only seemed to be getting worse. The rain continued to fall as if it were a flaming dragon of beyond, and it was starting to cause the horses some pain through the sharp, keen sting of the freezing water. But they had not the right to complain, as they were privileged to pull the King's carriage, although his Highness could have picked a better day for a ride. Inside the cab, the King heard nothing but the squeaking of the wooden wheels and the hooves of the horses on the cobblestone road. He looked out into the world through the small pane of glass called a window, and he observed the many women and children in the windows who had come to their own windows to watch the King ride by.
The King could only wave as the carriage pulled forward, trying to make eye contact with every person with two pieces of glass between him and them. But this was difficult, the horses were restless, and wanting desperately to press on in order to finish this task. He soon passed the first district of houses and was nearing the city centre. It was marked with a fountain of water, built by the King himself. This was especially close to the mining district. This was the place where the bravest of men raised their iron pickaxes to the sky, and entered the most dangerous area in the town: the diamond mine. This was the place where they traveled into the depths of the earth in a risky gambit to bring rare minerals to the surface, but it was likely that they would return merely with coal, or not at all. Deep within the deeper caverns, the place where nighttime never ceases, the deadliest of monsters appear around every corner. This is why the miners would often weigh themselves down even more with bows, arrows, and swords.
As the carriage drove by the small hole in the side of a wall of stone, the King observed several men, covered in soot, emerging from the ground. They covered their eyes as they met the sunlight once again, as it is normally several days between services. One man in front was mesmerized by the object in his hand: the elusive diamond, which only appeared to the miners twice every service. He smiled as he held it, and he soon took notice of the King's carriage. He waved at his Majesty, diamond in hand and all. It was still raining, and it seemed to make the gem shine even brighter. The King recalled one particular day when the miners all came rushing out of the mine, throwing their hats into the air, and whooping loudly as they wheeled out three minecarts full of diamonds. That day, there were enough diamond swords to last every knight for a month, with enough gems leftover to make 100 diamond rings for Spouse's Day.
Beyond that was the city square, and the carriage pulled into a roundabout turn that orbited another fountain made of diamond blocks. The King commanded the driver to stop the carriage in front of the puppet theatre. Almost immediately, he felt the horses slowly stop trotting. When the carriage came to a full stop, he heard a small splash, likely from the driver dropping from his position on top of the carriage to open the door for the King to exit. But, before the driver could do this, the King stretched his hand to the handle, and pushed open the door before the driver could arrive. He then used the blunt of the handle to haul himself up, and step into the rain outside. The moment he put out his head for the world to see, he was instead pelted with drops of water. His hair was almost immediately saturated with the liquid, and he had not even turned is head to glance at the driver, who was at that point very surprised that his master had opened the door himself. He stepped down from his carriage, and looked out a few meters to see the young woman, who was still there, and was still engaged in a deep sob. It was audible now, and it resembled the cries of a miner's wife, recently informed of her husband's passing.
He started to walk toward the bleachers on which she sat, and he could hear the combined sound of cobblestone under his feet, as well as puddles. He felt his velvet robes dragging in the water and mud behind him, and it was likely to be beyond any cleaning by the time he had returned. It mattered not; he had plenty more. He arrived at the foot of the small seats, and she was still curled into a little ball in the sitting position. The King kneeled down to her eye level, in order to make himself known to her. She looked up slowly, and then stared him in the eye. Her eyes were an unusual dark green, a color he had not seen many times.
He cleared his throat before speaking. Upon doing so, he realized that his action was not within his range of hearing. He cleared it again, louder, in order to satisfy his need to be heard. Then, he spoke.
"My lady," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Why is it that one would chose to engage in a puppet theatre which is not showing in the middle of a freezing day during the largest rainfall of the season?"
She was a commoner, and was probably not accustomed to having someone of high authority engage her party in conversation. He understood, but he expected answers. He intended to help this poor, fine soul in any way he could, but he couldn't do it without learning of her woes.
"After all," he continued, pointing in the direction of the nearest house. "The inside is so warm and inviting. Why do you grieve, my lady? How may I assist you?"
She put her knuckles in her mouth for a few seconds, choking back more tears, trying not to stammer as she spoke. She may have succeeded on a level, but her voice still cracked.
"Please," she let out. "You must help me. Oh - oh, Notch!" She looked as though she would faint on the spot. "My son is gravely ill! I haven't the potion required to cure him! I took him to a Healer, but he said that there was not hope. He noted that healing would require a potion beyond his skill to brew. I have been traveling the town, asking all for aid, but I- h-have had no... N-no luck-"
She started to cry again, and as she did, the King swore under his breath. He was disgusted that the townsfolk could respond to this maiden in distress with the cold-heartedness and disrespect of slamming the door in her face, but it was not a pressing issue. It was likely not even an issue worth taking on. He decided to take matters further into his hands, and the words that escaped his lips would live in the town's lore for centuries.
"Where do you reside?" This was almost unheard of. The King, such a powerful figure in the town, and in Minecraftia, had asked to be directed to the home of a common woman. It was likely that any other man would have merely brushed this woman away from his mind, and he would certainly never consider going to the trouble of rousing his horses to pull his carriage in freezing rain. And, once he was to arrive, he would undoubtedly never go as far as to ask her of her address.
"Lapis Boulevard," was her response, which she gave rather stutteringly, for a combination of the rain's chill, her emotional breakdown, and her general shock at the kindness of this ruler toward the common people. "Why do you want to know?"
This was a response the King had been expecting, as per her initial facial expressions.
"I want to see your son."