Herobrine X Reader: Love's Wither Rose (Rewrite)

He didn't think much of it when the clouds first rolled in across the sky - they didn't even deem that bad, perhaps holding a heavy drizzle or two at most. In fact, he hardly even noticed when those same clouds became dark and agitated as night took over. It wasn't until he was out, traversing the open plains on his horse, that the heavens opened and sent torrents of icy rain down to the earth. And, of course, with the darkness came foul creatures, crawling out of their unknown refuges with teeth champing to satiate their bloodlust.

Ordinarily, he wouldn't have given much thought to the twisted gaits of the ever-rotting carrion, or the whistling arrows of skeletons with hardly enough sinew to keep them standing - but tonight? Tonight, the thick wall of rain made it almost impossible to avoid the vile creatures, even as he rode a horse that was capable of outrunning more or less anything that this dimension had to offer. No - tonight he was just barely able to steer his horse between the arrows, the hoards, the gnarled, grasping hands.

The monsters weren't the only problem, either: with so few trees nearby, the ground had become entirely saturated. It was a floodplain. Slick mud churned up by the horse's hooves splashed up around the man's legs as he urged his horse onwards. He tried in vain to wipe the rain from his eyes.

Then, with a deafening explosion of thunder, the whole sky burst into a blinding iridescence of white and blue, almost indistinguishable from daylight.

His horse screeched at the spectacle, planting its hooves and skidding through the mud in its haste to stop. It reared, eyes bulging and ears pinned flat back. The man lost his grip and tumbled backwards out of the saddle, landing shoulder-first onto the sodden ground. By the time he scrambled back to his feet, his horse had bolted and all but disappeared into the storm, leaving a jagged trail of beaten earth in its wake.

An arrow suddenly whizzed past his head, just close enough to leave a nasty gash across his cheek. The string of obscenities that left his mouth was interrupted by a second arrow as it embedded itself deep into the bone of his upper arm. He whirled around and watched as vague dark shapes shuffled towards him out of the gloom.

He had his sword, yes, but he didn't favour his chances against so many creatures. As for his magic...? The thin clouds of steam that rose in front of his face in time with his heavy breaths was more than enough to tell him that it was far too cold for him to exert any offensive spells. However, he would have wagered that he had enough energy to muster up some kind of transportation spell. Yes, that could work.

He threw his uninjured arm into the air and forced his mind to focus. Shelter. That was all he thought. Somewhere sheltered, somewhere other than here.

Fire leapt from his fingertips and quickly wound around him in a bright cyclone of red and orange. In an instant, the wet ground disappeared from under his feet, only to be replaced with something solid. The flames dispersed, and he found himself standing in a familiar stone tunnel with dim torches lining either wall.

Herobrine peeled back the hood of his dripping-wet cloak with a deep exhale, and began walking down the tunnel. It wasn't long before it opened up into a sizeable cavern, littered with the barest necessities for day-to-day living: a pile of tattered blankets made up his bed, a scorched corner served to house the fires he used for smelting, general warmth, and cooking (albeit, the latter was rather rare); a slim waterfall fell down another wall, feeding into an equally small stream that ran through the whole space. Despite his best efforts, he could never call this place home; it was just a shelter, a refuge, at best.

Clutching around the arrow, he knelt down at the bank of the little stream, taking several slow, deep breaths as he carefully snapped the shaft so that he could lift the fabric of his cloak free and give himself more space to work. There was also the question of his shirt sleeve, but, really, that was inconsequential.

Now came the not-so-fun part.

Herobrine hastened his breathing to something just shy of hyperventilation until he could feel a fog begin to settle behind his eyes. He didn't count himself in to it, he just wrenched the remainder of the arrow out of his arm. He bit back a long string of curses as he hissed at the burning sting. He watched as the blood trickled down to his elbow and dropped into the stream, where the water sizzled upon contact and turned a sickly shade of grey until the current washed it away. One half-cupped hand of water at a time, he intermittently swapping between splashing the gash on his cheek and the one on his arm, taking his time with his slow, methodical movements - though not for the sake of being thorough; whether he realised it or not (or cared to, for that matter) he was just trying to distract himself from thinking about what he should do next.

But, like any good itch, the thoughts soon settled into the forefront of his mind, while he tore strips of fabric from the hem of his cloak and clumsily tied them in a makeshift bandage around his arm. As he threaded the last knot, he thought more.

First, he needed to wait for the storm to clear. There was no point in throwing himself in the deep end when he didn't have to. Secondly, he would try and find his horse - he had brought items and noted in those saddlebags that he would need for his third main step.

As for his third step...? Well, he didn't have one. At least, nothing clear. Just a vague idea, a gut feeling, that would hopefully lead him to his end goal.

Still, Herobrine knew that he couldn't do anything worthwhile until the storm cleared, so he resolved to sit beside the firepit. Soon, he coaxed a few small flames from the firewood, which quickly grew to fill its allocated space.

He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there, staring into the burning embers and flicking away every speck of nostalgia that came to him - he guessed it must've been a while, since when he regained his awareness he found his clothes and hair to be completely dry. He felt a little stronger, too. A few more minutes passed as Herobrine remained unmoving, until he ultimately decided to go and check on the storm.

As he neared the entrance to his shelter, he knew logistically that the weather wouldn't have eased, not yet, but patience never was his virtue, was it?

The torches at the entrance made for the only source of light as they fought to keep from burning out; outside, Herobrine could hardly see a few metres in front of himself. The rain, true to nature's stubbornness, continued to lash and beat and crash against the waterlogged ground, and Herobrine counted himself lucky that his shelter's entrance sat under a rocky overhang at the top of a sloping hill. He didn't fancy the idea of his living space getting flooded by the storm.

Unsure of what else he could - or should - do, Herobrine leaned against the wall of the tunnel with his arms folded across his chest and, with an agitated sigh, began the long wait for daybreak.