This is a Minecraft based story, and I suppose that it is technically fanfiction, although the game it comes from has no real narrative. If you are familiar with the game, you will probably get what is going on, and if not, I think you may still find it of interest. Enjoy.

His was the way of iron, a path followed since the creation of his kind. Many believe iron to be cold and unfeeling, devoid of love. But that was wrong. It was love that made him.

He watched as he was called forth from nothingness, forming in an instant. Bones of iron and sinews of steel coalesced from sheer possibility. He was built after the pattern of Them, though he was different. He was taller, that he might see danger from afar. His arms were long and strong, that he might crush the monsters in the night. This was good. This was right. That was his purpose, after all, to protect Them.

Protect. The thought echoed endlessly though his head like the peal of a bell. Where were They? He looked to discover his surroundings. At first he thought his eyes were not working, for he could see nothing. But no, it was only dark. He felt a leaden thrill. Darkness! Danger!

His ears could hear rushing water, but not the chittering of spiders or the clattering, xylophone step of the skeleton. His large nose – a feature he shared with Them – could not detect the putrid stench of the zombie kind, nor the sharp gunpowder scent of the creeper. In fact, he could not detect any enemies at all.

He was puzzled but pleased. Perhaps his people had built their village underground. He did not understand much of their ways, such as their humming speech or their fascination with doors, but he didn’t need to. He understood love, and that was enough.

Reminded of love, he looked at his poppy. The bright red flower was his sole possession, held in his clenched fist like a child with a dandelion. It was a gift to him, a reminder of what had made him and why he fought. It was from the poppy that he understood beauty.

A dim sensation came from his sturdy legs, the feel of rushing water. He had better get out soon. It was hard to move in and might make him rust. But as he moved, he found the current was too strong. He angled to one side, then the other, but he could not find any dry ground. All the water seemed to rush toward a central point. He had a terrible feeling about that point.

He struggled harder, but he was made for strength, not speed. Inexorably, he was pushed backward, inch by inch. What was happening here? Where were They? He focused with every bit of his iron will, trying to hear the song of Them. Over the rushing of the waters and the clanks of his fellow iron brethren, he could just make out the sound of hemming and hawing. Their humming was like music to him.

But something was wrong there too. They sounded frantic, panicked. He could hear the doors opening and closing, but the villagers did not seem pleased. They were… trapped! Imprisoned! Who had done this? Who could have done such a thing? So far as he knew, only the tall, gangly Endermen could move objects, but they never built things. Endermen never bothered Them.

He knew of no force in the Overworld evil enough to imprison an entire people. Nor did he know why they would do such a thing. They lived peacefully, quietly. He could not comprehend it, so he stared at his poppy, hoping this was all some nightmare that would soon pass.

And then he reached the pit, the vortex of all the water. And he fell, down and down into blackness and rushing water. After a dark eternity, he emerged, still clutching his bedraggled flower in his iron grip and staring dumbly into the distance.

There was light to see now, but it was not the pure light of the surface sun, but the fiery hellish glow of magma. The unrelenting stream took him into the heart of the flames, but did not soothe his burns. He clutched the flower to heart to shield it from destruction. He had given up hope of surviving, but perhaps if he could save this small token of love, someone else might see its beauty. Perhaps they would understand who he was and what he cherished. Perhaps they might even be so inspired by this small but lovely thing that they would free his people. It was a slim hope, but he clung to it with all the tenacity of mind and soul.

To his surprise, he emerged from the other end of the lava tunnel yet alive. He was only a heartbeat away from death, all his massive strength burned away, but he was still alive. Hope blossomed within him for a moment. He was trapped, in an unknown place, but he was still here, his poppy had survived, singed and sodden though it was, and could perhaps he could fulfill his purpose and make his death meaningful.

And then a short, noseless man came and punched him. His body fractured into shards of iron, and his flower fell limply to the floor, where it was funneled along with the remains of his body to a waiting chest.

The lingering remnants of his consciousness remained just long enough to see the noseless man open the chest, remove the iron, and hold the flower up for inspection.

“Stupid poppies,” it muttered. “All they do is clog up the machine.” It threw the flower into a pool of lava as it left, and an iron soul watched the last of his love burn away.

(In case it wasn’t clear: Iron Golem Farming )