And on a still and silent night, a different night, over the sounds of hooves rhythmically striking the earth, a king turned to a god and asked, "What do you think death is like?"
"Why do you ask?"
"What if he's... What if it's kinder to him?"
//
Or, travels, travails, and truth
Notes:
Keep calm, this isn't the final chapter yet! While working on the finale, it got so long that I decided it would be better for both me and you guys, the readers, if I cut the Grand Finale™ into two: this chapter, and the final chapter coming in a few weeks. That being said, this chapter's content/trigger warnings are as follows:
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manipulation, depictions of violence/aftermaths of violence
(See the end of the chapter for .)
Chapter Text
There would be no grand speeches this time, Tubbo knew. Instead, they formed a grim line like souls waiting at the gates of the underworld—where they would find either judgment or absolution. The only sounds were tired murmurs and quiet thuds as the surviving soldiers of the Royal Army piled what remained of their camp into carts and wagons. Both the wounded and the dead were placed gently on beds of hay, with blankets covering the worse of their injuries, a futile courtesy for an army that had seen worse just the day before. They'd found a few survivors during their search last night, but as Tubbo had feared, there were mostly corpses to carry back. Sometimes not even a whole body. Sometimes, just an arm, a leg. A single strand of hibiscus-pink hair. A wrinkled hand still clutching a bloodstained broadsword. A few volunteers would stay at the valley to continue the bleak search, but for most of the Royal Army—Tubbo included—it was time to head home.
Home. He'd only left a few weeks before, but he could barely conjure it up in his mind. It seemed to him like everything before the war was a vague, unfamiliar relic preserved behind fogged glass. As much as Tubbo pressed against it, he could only see hazy glimpses of what laid behind: a fractured memory of a quiet town, a small house at the outskirts, his family... He'd left for the war in the middle of the night, with only a hastily-scribbled letter left on his sister's bedside table to explain where he was going, what he wanted to do. I will protect this kingdom. Protect you. He wondered if she could still recognize him, when he could no longer recognize himself. Wasn't that what family was for? Weren't they supposed to know him, even if—especially if—he felt like a stranger in his own body?
Tubbo tipped his head up to the sky, letting the faint rays of dawn warm his frozen limbs. There had been a terrible storm last night, but the only traces of it today were the dewdrops clinging to grass and the mud slick beneath Tubbo's boots. He shook himself out of his reverie.
There was more work to be done.
There was always more to be done.
Slowly, Tubbo weaved around the bustling panoply of people and carts, helping where he could—tying down boxes of supplies, feeding the horses and checking their bridles, re-righting someone's arm sling. Anything that kept him moving. Anything that distracted him from the gnawing feeling in his gut. He looked over his shoulder at the valley behind them, expecting to see a green-clad soldier crawling across the rubble towards him, reanimated by vengeance, but there was nothing but open air and a flock of birds circling lazily overhead. Carrion crows or vultures—it didn't matter which. They would be feasting well today.
Instinctively, Tubbo's eyes found themselves drifting down. And that's when he saw them.
A simple horse-drawn cart, indistinguishable from its neighbors aside from the two people stood over it like mourners at a grave: a king and a general, twins in their misery. Tubbo felt an odd pang in his chest as he realized who exactly was in that cart, who exactly they were saying goodbye to. As Tubbo watched, the king leaned over the cart, as if he was going to pull himself in with his dead. But then he pulled back, his shoulders trembling and his hands deep in his pockets. Tubbo wondered if they were shaking, too. For a moment, it seemed as if the general might reach towards the king, but instead he pulled something from his own pocket and reached into the cart. When he leaned away, his hands were empty and still.
The general nodded at the king, and then they were off, disappearing down the hill and heading north—the opposite direction of home. It might have been a trick of the light, but Tubbo would swear until his deathbed that he saw one of the birds wheel away from its flock, its obsidian wings gleaming as it trailed their two-person procession. But then he blinked, and king, general and bird were gone.
And though Tubbo knew the affairs of royalty were not his to investigate, he found himself walking towards the cart, pulled forward by a gravity he could not ignore. In between one breath and the next, Tubbo was staring down at the face of a dead prince.
Tubbo had seen as hundred corpses—they'd fallen against him during the battle, or he'd pulled them free from rock and dirt—but few had looked as peaceful as the prince in death. It was almost as if he was sleeping, his mortal wound hidden by his clothes and the red-and-blue coat tucked up to his chin. His head rested against soft hay a shade darker than his own golden hair. Tubbo could almost see himself shaking the prince awake. And the prince would blink drowsiness from his eyes, ask Tubbo who he was, and Tubbo would say, "A friend," and maybe in another life that wouldn't be a lie.
Tubbo's cheeks felt warm. He knew he must be crying. He knew he must be sad. But for whom? Who was he even mourning? His kingdom's prince, yes, but the harsher truth, a stranger. A stranger whose laughter still faintly echoed in Tubbo's head like a half-remembered song from a distant childhood. A stranger who'd gambled his life for his kingdom and lost it a heartbeat away from victory—if this bitter thing could even be called that. A stranger that felt like no stranger at all. But a stranger nonetheless, Tubbo reminded himself.
And through a blur of tears, Tubbo saw what the general had left behind, tucked gently behind the prince's ear, like a final offering: a single yellow rose.
It would be a long journey. It had taken the Green Army more than a month to make the same trip, but—as Techno had pointed out—they'd been slowed by their footsoldiers and their sheer numbers. Techno and Wilbur had neither. With the two horses Techno had smuggled from the camp, they could maybe halve the time if they rode like hell, but it still wouldn't be fast enough for Wilbur. Each minute was another where he hadn't saved his brother yet, and each second crashed against him like waves wearing a cliffside down into pebbles and chalk. He was glad he didn't bring a pocket watch with him. Its constant ticking would have driven him to madness.
As if you are not mad already, the voices cooed, but they were almost drowned out by the wind whistling past Wilbur's ears as he spurred his horse on faster, following the pink banner of Techno's hair flying behind him as he rode ahead. He'd tied his hair back in a simple knot; there would be no intricate braids for a long while, no flowers heavy with meaning. Wilbur had come to realize that death wasn't a single yawning chasm, but a collection of small puncture wounds slowly tearing through the mundane.
But he'd fix it. They would fix it.
Wilbur had known at once what the Green God had meant by his invitation. There was only one place he could be inviting them to. The place that started it all, the place the voices had whispered about in self-satisfied tones, where the Green Army had first struck: the town at the northern border. It was only fitting that Wilbur's first grand failure would be where he would rewrite the second. The Green God would bring his brother back, and all would be well. The specifics, Wilbur would figure out later. For now, he would ride.
The north was a brutal land. Wilbur had averted his eyes as they passed underneath the shattered points of the mountains that bordered the Blue Valley, but the smell of blood and sulfur had stayed with him until they broke into the tundra beyond. And then there was simply nothing, just open air and rolling fields of grass caught between the green of life and the fading reds of death. There were no towns, no cities, no travelers to meet them on the overgrown path that only Techno seemed to be able to follow.
They stopped only to rest their horses. Once, with the sun right above them, they'd stopped under the shade of a boulder, leaning against its craggy surface with their shoulders slightly touching. Techno had pulled his shirt over his head to wring the sweat out of it, and Wilbur had caught sight of the bruises and wounds that marred his old friend's wiry body.
"You're staring," Techno accused without turning around to face him.
"Just thinking," replied Wilbur, his gaze catching on a particularly nasty scar running down the length of Techno's spine. "I always thought gods were... invincible. But you're just as breakable as humans, aren't you?"
Techno scoffed, pulling his shirt over his head once more. "Maybe not 'just as.' A killing blow for you would be a scratch for me."
"So whatever left those scars on you... they were awful, then?"
Techno was silent for a moment. "I've lived a very long life, Wilbur," he finally said, glancing at Wilbur with an indecipherable gleam in his eyes. "Awful things come with the territory."
Wilbur swallowed, unsure of where he wanted to take the conversation, but also unwilling to let go of the vulnerability that Techno so rarely shared. "But gods can be killed. Fa—Philza, he killed that war god."
Neither of them missed the tremor in Wilbur's voice as he named his brother's killer, or the hesitation with which he said his father's name, but they both silently elected to ignore it. Techno took a tentative sip out of his water canteen, squinting into the distance as he thought.
"It would take a considerable amount of force to kill a god," Techno said slowly, his brows furrowing. "And your father, Phil—"
"He's that strong, huh?" Wilbur tipped his head back and searched the skies until he found the distant speck of his father hovering overhead, his obsidian wings spread wide. They had not spoken more than a few cautious sentences to each other since the night of his father's return, and Wilbur knew it would be a long time yet before he could look at his face without feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. Wilbur had built stories around the man for years, justifications and explanations and vicious scenes where Wilbur screamed at him until his very lungs gave out. In a way, Wilbur was disappointed, because Philza had turned out to be in the right. He'd left to save his sons, and now his abandonment was outweighed by the fact that he could bring Tommy back. How could Wilbur begrudge him for that? Wouldn't he have done the same?
It was hard to hate someone when you saw sense in their actions. But damn it if Wilbur wasn't going to try his best to anyway.
This isn't forgiveness, he'd told his father. He never added a 'yet.' Even the mere possibility of absolution, Wilbur thought, was more than Philza deserved.
"I died years ago."
Wilbur shot Techno a confused glance, but Techno was still staring straight ahead, his eyes unseeing.
"That's what the war god said. I think... I think it was easier to kill him, then. I think he let us do it." Techno closed his eyes as a sudden gust of wind blew through the tundra, raising the hairs on the back of Wilbur's neck. "Vengeance is a powerful motivator. But it's like a fire you have to keep feeding, or else it burns out—or burns you." He offered the canteen to Wilbur, who took it and brought it quietly to his own lips. "I think the war god simply ran out of kindling."
"Or maybe he just got tired of tossing shit into the flames."
Techno let out a breathy laugh. "Guess we'll never know." He pushed himself off the rock and began heading towards their grazing horses. "If you keep stalling with dumb questions, we'll reach the border by the time you're dust and bones, and I really don't want to be bargaining for two dead people. One's already a hassle."
Wilbur threw the canteen at his head, but Techno caught it out of the air effortlessly without looking back.
"Show-off," Wilbur grumbled, but he was smiling for the first time in what felt like centuries.
This won't last, the voices reminded him as he followed Techno back to their mounts. This stage is set for a tragedy, prince. This hungry audience will accept nothing else.
Screw you and your stage, Wilbur thought, catching Techno's eye as the general hauled himself up onto his horse. Once upon a time, Wilbur would have cowered at the echoing threats inside his head. But now he stared right back at the monster, and he refused to be the first to flinch.
And they rode on.
They slept under the stars.
Or, more accurately, Wilbur slept—fitfully, tossing and turning with nightmares. It would be naïve to think he could find peace anywhere, even in the oblivion of sleep. If it had been his call, he would have ridden through the night without pause, but Techno had vehemently vetoed the idea. Wilbur had tried to argue, but Techno was quick to shut him down with, "You are useless to me sleep-deprived."
Over the years, Techno had come to learn that the only way to get a man like Wilbur to concede was to cut deep and cut fast. By the way Wilbur's jaw tightened, Techno knew he'd hit his mark. He would apologize, but if he were to be honest, he'd do almost anything to get Wilbur to rest. Despite the divinity in his veins, even Techno felt like he was fraying at the edges. He couldn't even begin to imagine what the past weeks had done to a mortal like Wilbur.
Wilbur had begrudgingly slid down from his horse and laid himself on the cold ground of the tundra with a pile of blankets.
"I'll keep first watch," Techno said, knowing he wouldn't wake Wilbur until dawn.
Wilbur nodded, knowing the same. And by the time Techno heard the telltale signs of a winged god's descent, Wilbur was asleep.
Techno spared Philza a glance as he settled himself against a pile of their supplies. His blonde hair was wind-tossed and his clothes ruffled, but for a man who'd spent the day closer to the sun than the highest-soaring birds could even fathom, there was relatively nothing out of place. Except his eyes. Techno had never seen a god more weary—but, then again, he hadn't looked at a mirror in a while.
"Already thinking about leaving again?" Techno mused.
Philza tore his gaze away from Wilbur's sleeping form. "No," was his simple reply.
Techno stared at the man before him, wishing he could believe him. Philza sighed as he sat down on the grass, crossing his legs under himself. For a while, there was only the howling of the winds to fill the silence and the distant squawk of a bird on the hunt.
And then Philza said, "What was he like?"
Techno looked up from where he'd been idly pulling at the grass beside him, but Philza was looking at Wilbur again, his expression unreadable in the dim moonlight. Wilbur's face was a pale thing, and under that pile of blankets, it was as if he wasn't even breathing. Techno looked quickly away.
"What do you mean?" Techno prompted when Philza seemed content to just stare at his son until morning.
Blinking slowly, Philza amended, "Tommy—what was Tommy like when he was growing up?"
Techno's nails dug into the dirt. Neither Techno nor Wilbur had spoken Tommy's name. Philza hadn't spoken at all—mostly because he was determined to keep as much distance as possible between him and Wilbur, but for whose benefit, Techno didn't know. But now the name sat between them, as heavy as a curse, as hopeful as a prayer.
Techno turned Philza's question over, treading the line between the truth and what he wanted to say. There was not much overlap. His sons' childhood was a luxury Philza had squandered away the moment he wrote that pathetic excuse of a goodbye letter, and it would take more than a few weepy conversations during a storm to crawl back into Wilbur and Techno's good graces.
Eventually, Techno shrugged. "Tommy was Tommy."
Philza nodded as if he understood enough. But how could he? He'd left when Tommy was six and returned just in time to watch Tommy die. Tommy had lived a life—however short—between those two points. Philza didn't know petty, petulant, passionate Tommy. Brave, bold, belligerent Tommy. He hadn't been there to watch Tommy grow up, hadn't been there to teach Tommy how. That was all Wilbur. And Techno.
"He was..." Techno pulled a fistful of grass from the earth and tossed it lazily into the air. The wind picked up and blew it all north. Techno thought his words over until the grass leaves disappeared into the night. "He was loved. That's the only thing you need to know."
Philza tipped his head up to the stars and Techno turned away before the first of the tears could fall.
"Thank you, Techno."
And they rode on.
And on a still and silent night, a different night, over the sounds of hooves rhythmically striking the earth, a king turned to a god and asked, "What do you think death is like?"
"Why do you ask?"
"What if he's... What if it's kinder to him?" For a moment, the king was a child again—clumsy and terrified. Every shadow was an enemy and every heartbeat his last. "What if it's better than this?"
And the god looked up at the blue-and-purple sky, stars chasing each other through the dark like a billion wayward children, with only the distant snow-capped mountains in the horizon as a reminder of his earth-bound fate. With the sweet air in his lungs and the steady trot of his steed, the god could almost see himself drifting between galaxies, wandering but, for once, not alone.
"Wilbur," said the god, "there's nothing better than this."
And they rode on.
The days turned into weeks, and Philza watched from the skies as the tundra changed from alpine to polar. Green to white. Grass to snow. Cold to colder.
They were getting close, and it was getting harder to breathe.
Wilbur and Techno had let their horses go the moment the ground turned slippery, and were now slowly making their way through the frozen wasteland, with Wilbur bundled in fur and fleece. It became clear immediately that Wilbur was going to slow them down. He staggered after Techno, who stopped every few miles to let the young king catch up before he moved again. Left to their own devices, Philza knew he and Techno could finish the journey faster—but if Phil knew that, then surely Wilbur did, too. And although this angry, grieving man was almost a stranger to him, Philza could almost picture Wilbur gritting his teeth as he forced himself to walk faster, walk further—driven by the same stubbornness and frustrated perfectionism that he employed into everything he'd ever done as a boy.
Philza followed them closely, flying lower and lower. If either of them asked, he would tell them it was because the air was getting thinner as they headed further north. But neither of them did, saving Phil the trouble of lying through his teeth.
He'd lost count of how many times he'd caught himself looking at Wilbur, taking in his confident gait and his mess of brown curls and the dark lines under his eyes. He wished Wilbur would look back at least once, even if his stare was cold and hateful, just so Philza knew Wilbur could still see him.
Most days, it felt as if he was mourning two dead sons instead of one.
Techno was already a pink speck in the distance. He'd only just stopped to wait for Wilbur when it happened.
There was a loud crack that reminded Philza of breaking bones, and he looked down just in time to watch in horror as Wilbur fell through snow and ice, disappearing into the freezing waters that waited below.
Phil didn't think. One moment, he was in the sky, and the next he was hurtling towards the earth, crashing through the break in the ice that Wilbur had been standing on just a second before. He felt the cold water envelop him, cold as death itself, but he was already searching the darkness for his son. His hands searched, desperate and clawing, following an instinct Philza thought he'd forfeited long ago.
Please, he begged, the chill digging its cruel talons into his skin, please, please, please, not him, too—
Phil's fingers closed around a wrist, then a forearm, and then he was swimming upwards towards the faint light above. But Wilbur was so heavy, weighed down by his bulky clothes, and the water was so cold, and Phil was reaching and reaching, and there was no air left in his lungs...
A hand closed around his own, pulling him up the rest of the way. He broke through the surface, gasping, and hoisted Wilbur up onto solid ice before climbing after him.
Phil dragged himself over to where Wilbur was lying, heedless of anything else. He kneeled over his son, who was so pale and so still, his eyes closed—just like his brother.
No. Phil grabbed the knife tucked into his boot and began cutting away at Wilbur's wet clothes. The blade slashed through fleece and tore at cloth, and Phil peeled it all away until Wilbur was left only in his drier tunic. No. Phil curled his fingers around his opposite hand and began pushing down on Wilbur's chest, following the beat of his own frantic heart. No.
"Come on," Phil whispered under his breath, trying to keep count of his desperate compressions but unable to focus on anything but Wilbur's face, his dark hair dusted with white snow. "Come on, Wilbur!"
"—Philza." Techno's voice, breaking through the panic. "You're going to break him!"
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty...
"Stay with me, my boy. Stay with me."
... twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven—
A violent gasp tore past Wilbur's lips as his eyes flew open, staring up at the gray sky above, and then he was scrambling onto his side, coughing up water. Trembling, choking on air, but alive.
Phil let out a rattling breath as he fell back, feeling like the world had fallen out from under him and then came crashing back, burying him in dirt and ice. I almost lost him. The thought came at him like a knife to the chest. He stared down at his trembling hands, at its many scars and callouses, at the small, faded line right at the base of his pinky finger where Wilbur, at two years old, had bit him. He didn't even remember why Wilbur had been so angry at him then—sometimes Phil thought toddlers were menaces driven mostly by their bite-sized fury—but he recalled the look Wilbur had given him when he drew his bloody hand back.
It wasn't fear, exactly, that he would get reprimanded. Even as young as he was, he knew—as all children should—that he was loved enough to be forgiven for anything.
It was regret. Regret that he'd hurt his father, or regret that he didn't bite harder, Philza never knew. It was the same look Wilbur was giving him now. A look that said, I'm sorry, and, at the same time, I would die just to spite you.
But the only thing Wilbur said out loud was a weak and tremulous, "Father?" before his eyes fluttered close, and he slumped back against the snow, his chest rising and falling softly. Asleep, not dead.
"We have to get him out of the cold."
Philza's eyes slid to Techno. He'd almost forgotten the other god was there, kneeling on the other side of Wilbur. If Phil had not known him for centuries, he would have missed the way Techno's eyes hardened as he wordlessly unclasped his cloak and wrapped it tightly around Wilbur. Techno lifted the sleeping man into his arms, Wilbur's head lolling against his shoulder as he began walking purposefully across the tundra once more, cautious this time of the fickleness of the icy ground. Philza stared after him, his pulse still racing, surprised by the gentleness with which Techno had taken his son from him.
An old conversation rose to the shallows of Philza's memory, between two immortals at the dawn of a new age.
My people needed a leader, not a hunter. And I didn't bring you because—
Because I don't know when to be either.
But this time, Philza did not know which of them the accusation was for.
He looked up into the distance. Somewhere out there, there was a town. In that town, there was a god. A god Philza had sacrificed his sons' love for. A god that had the answers for every question Philza had ever asked himself, even the question of whether it was all worth it. Was it worth Wilbur's anger? Was it worth a childhood Philza could not witness?
And then Phil remembered Tommy, in the precious moments they had before he bled out in his brother's arms. And for him, Phil decided, he would abandon a thousand kingdoms. And if his sons hated him for it, then at least they would be alive to do it. And at least they would have Technoblade.
The Angel of Death rose to his feet.
And they walked on.
They found a cave a short walk later, half-buried in snow but relatively warm inside. Techno set Wilbur down in one corner and piled all the spare furs from their packs on him, while Philza focused on making a fire.
"Well," Techno said, sitting down by Wilbur's feet and leaning against the cave wall, feeling light-headed, "he won't die of hypothermia, at least."
In response, Wilbur sneezed in his sleep.
"Death by common cold isn't off the table, though," Techno amended. "Not exactly going down in a blaze of glory, but I suppose no one really gets the death they want. Or deserve."
When his dry commentary was met only by silence, Techno turned to find Phil leaning over a pile of sticks and cloth. He had a flint in one hand a small knife in the other and was forcefully striking them together, but nothing caught. Phil muttered under his breath as he struck harder, and then the knife slid too far, nicking him. Philza dropped both blade and stone with a curse, cradling his wounded hand to his chest.
Techno raised an eyebrow at his clumsiness. "The long travel finally getting to you, Philza? Thought you'd be used to those by now."
"It's not the travel," Philza said quietly. "You know it's not."
"Maybe," Techno acknowledged, turning his head to stare out of the mouth of the cave. Night was beginning to fall outside, the snow on the ground glowing like molten lava in the light of the sunset. Techno found himself reaching for the blue sapphire that hung from his ear, absently turning it over between his fingers.
He could feel Philza's eyes on him, but he refused to turn around. After a beat, Techno could hear him picking up the flint and the knife again, striking them against each other so viciously that Techno almost missed his whispered question. "What happened to it?"
"What happened to what?"
Philza hesitated, but eventually clarified, "The emerald I gave you."
"Last time I checked, it was sitting in the bottom of a lake somewhere."
Phil let out a humorless laugh. "I should have expected that."
Finally, Techno turned towards him. "So why didn't you?"
The question seemed to have taken Phil aback. He almost dropped the flint in the hand again, his eyes wide.
"What did you think I would do, Phil?" Techno continued before Phil could even take a breath to answer. "Carry it around with me even after you left? Hang it from my ear like a constant reminder of a friendship twice betrayed?" Techno scoffed at the stricken look on the other god's face. "Don't act as if you're any more sentimental. Should I point out that the emerald I gave you is glaringly missing from around your royal throat?"
Phil looked down, as if also just realizing that the emerald necklace that was twin to Techno's earring was no longer there. Still looking at the spot where it used to rest, Philza said, "There you go again with your presumptions, Techno."
"My presumptions?"
When Philza met his gaze again, his blue eyes blazed like frozen ice lit from within. "You once accused me of holding nothing sacred. I thought after all these years you might have realized." He struck the flint, and fire finally blazed to life in the dark cave. "Wilbur, Tommy, you. That is what is sacred to me."
For a while, there was only the flickering of the flames between them, casting shadows against the cold walls and their colder expressions. It brought Techno back to a different time, a different land of ice and snow, but with the same company—
No. Not the same. Never the same, now. Neither of them had aged, but they had both changed irrevocably. Even Techno's hands had almost forgotten the shape of violence. The voices tried, but he remained gentle. Kind. True. A ship with a steady anchor. When he looked at Phil, all he saw was a man who once had that for himself, and was now trying desperately to deserve it again.
Warmth slowly seeped into Techno.
He opened his mouth to answer, to say something, be it a comment laden with passive aggression or an apology or a question, he would never know, because at that same moment, something stirred.
"... Techno?" came a groggy, muffled voice.
Wilbur was awake.
"Oh, gods."
Philza watched as Techno practically wilted. Up until that point, Phil had not realized how much tension Techno had truly been holding, but now he sagged with boneless relief against the wall behind him, running a shaky hand through his unbound hair, their conversation—among many things—forgotten.
"You really scared the shit out of me, Wilbur," Techno said as the man in question slowly pulled himself up from under the small mountain of blankets Techno had thrown on top of him.
Wilbur tried to smile, and then the cold air finally hit him at last, turning his grin into a grimace as he pulled a few of the furs tight around himself and sat up, his head sticking up from a bundle of pelts the same color as his chestnut hair—a creature of warmth determined to survive in a frozen wasteland. "Scared the shit out of myself too, if that helps," he quipped.
When he met Phil's eyes, it took all of Phil's willpower not to crawl to him and shake him by the shoulders, either to hug him or to demand if he was alright, if anything hurt, if anything was broken. Phil held himself impossibly still as Wilbur opened his mouth to speak.
Perhaps a thank you? Perhaps acknowledgment? Perhaps another whispered "Father"?
"Do you have any water on you?" Wilbur asked.
Phil would take it. He would take anything.
He reached for his pack and took out one of the canteens he'd filled with fresh water before the land froze over. He tossed it to Wilbur, who snuck a pale hand out of his cocoon of blankets and took a long, hearty swig. When he was done, he tossed the empty canteen back at Philza and retreated against the wall, his eyes shining as he stared into the flickering fire.
"So that was..." Wilbur shook his head ruefully. "That was definitely something."
"Yes," Techno replied drily. "You nearly dying definitely was something."
Wilbur shrugged. "Well, we're a day's walk away from the god that can bring me back to life anyway, so I don't think it hardly matters."
"Unless that god doesn't want to." Techno's eyes slid to Phil. "I think it's time we talk about that possibility."
Phil sighed. They'd been dancing around the topic for weeks, but now they were at the threshold, and Phil knew he would only be prolonging the inevitable. A hazy memory rose to the surface: stumbling through the ruins of an old civilization, running his fingers against ancient walls that remained surprisingly free of dust, finding himself inside a library where no living being had walked in eons. Books. A lot of books. Books in languages Philza had not heard spoken since he himself was a young god.
And in between the pages, an answer.
"There were stories, before," Techno began slowly, "of the Green God being afraid of you. But then you said he might even be more powerful than you and I combined."
"Stories." Philza shrugged. "Unreliable little things. But, then again, having power doesn't exempt you from having fears. Even the most fortified wall can fall with a single well-placed blow."
"What does that mean for us?" Wilbur asked.
"It means," Phil said, "that I think I have something the Green God fears, but until we know what that is, we have no choice but to strong-arm our way into getting what we want from him. And to do that, I need you, Techno."
Here it was. The other shoe. The last trick up his sleeve.
"I found a way," Philza said, "for someone to breach the realm of what is possible. An untold power, strength to rival a thousand godly armies. All we need are two gods—one to be its vessel, and the other to be its sacrifice."
"Sacrifice?" Wilbur and Techno said at once, one sounding incredulous, the other simply curious.
"Yes." Despite the fire in front of him, all Phil could feel was a freezing cold. "I need your godhood, Technoblade."
There was a long pause.
And then, Wilbur's voice, sharp as a blade cutting through the silence, "But what will happen to you?"
Philza opened his mouth to answer, then promptly closed it when he realized Wilbur was looking at Techno. The blood god, in turn, looked lost in contemplation. When he finally met Philza's eyes, his expression was as blank and merciless as a bed of fresh snow hiding spikes beneath.
"Will I die?" There was no emotion behind the question, just an objective.
Philza shook his head. "No. At least, I don't think so."
"You don't think so?" Wilbur repeated viciously. "Techno's life is on the line here. Do you think you can give us a better answer than that?"
"Wilbur," Techno said sharply, "calm yourself. Let the man finish."
"You won't die," Phil said above Wilbur's protests. "But you will lose everything that makes you divine. Your strength, your invincibility—"
"—my immortality?" Techno finished. "Will I lose that, as well?"
"Yes," Phil said quietly. "You will."
"Good," Technoblade said, stunning even Wilbur into silence. He seemed to consider his words for a few moments before giving a nod, the movement like a hammer slamming down on the final nail in a coffin. "That's good."
"How are you so nonchalant about this, Techno?" Wilbur demanded. "How can you sit there and tell me you're so willing to give up your immortal life?"
Techno scoffed. "Immortal life. That should be an oxymoron." He looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them in his lap. "There is not much living to be done when you're immortal, Wilbur. I think there comes a point when every person—immortal or otherwise—finally does everything they were meant to do. Everything that comes after is just... additions. The only difference is that mortals get to... go. You get to finish your story. Close your book." He took a deep, rattling breath. "I've always envied you for that."
"Are you done, then?" Wilbur asked, his expression caught between furious indignation and the fear of losing yet another brother. "Do you think you've done everything?"
"My life was fulfilled the day I met you and Tommy," Techno said. "Everything that came after was an epilogue I frankly didn't deserve. After we get him back, someday—not someday soon, I hope, but someday, I want to get to follow you to wherever finished stories go."
Wilbur's eyes shone in the gloom. "Techno, I—" he began, his words barely a whisper.
"But," Techno cut him off briskly, suddenly rising to his feet, "that's only our last resort, isn't it? I don't have to sacrifice anything until push comes to shove, right?" He gave Philza a pointed look until Phil nodded hesitantly. "Right. Well. I'll go hunting for dinner. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone."
And then Wilbur and Philza were alone.
Techno ran. He ran until his lungs were free of smoke and cave and talks of mortality. He ran until he was more blur than man, more air than body. He ran until he fell to his knees in front of the cracked ice that almost claimed the last life Techno gave a shit about. He stared into its dark depths, the shifting waters like a grim invitation.
Technoblade never dies, the voices urged, promised, cursed.
"I guess we'll have to see," Technoblade replied, and began to laugh.
Wilbur fell back against the cave wall, staring at the space where Techno had been just moments before. He was familiar with this side of his old tutor, so easily startled in moments of vulnerability, like a newborn fawn just starting to learn about a world capable of hurting it. My life was fulfilled the day I met you and Tommy. He'd sounded so sure as he said it. Wilbur wished he could say anything with even the fraction of conviction Techno had. It must feel so light, knowing your story's ending—but Wilbur could spend a thousand years wondering, and he would still feel like he was running out of time.
A boy-king first, and then just a king, and now a brother far from home. Who would he be the day he died? Would he meet death clumsily, slipping into its arms at the age of eighty with his crown askew and his legacy secured? Or would it have to drag him, kicking and screaming, into the dark—frigid water filling his lungs, praying, Father, Father, save me, with no one to remember him but two gods and a kingdom without a king?
He did not even know how he would face them, if he returned. Would they understand what he did in the Blue Valley? Would they know it was all for them? Would they care?
King or pariah. There was only one other man who knew what it meant to be both.
"Would you have done it?" Wilbur asked, once again a little boy looking for approval in places he would never find it. "Would you have buried them all in rubble?"
His father stared at him from across the flames, his blue eyes—Tommy's eyes—sparkling in the dim light. "To save you? To save our kingdom?" He shook his head, a conclusion reached. "It is a sign of your goodness that you hesitated. I would not have spared a single thought to it."
"And how did you know if I hesitated?"
"Because I like to think I still know my own son."
"Well, maybe I'm more your son than you think," Wilbur said, "because I didn't hesitate at all."
The voices chuckled. Little killer king, you've finally grown into your role.
For a moment, his father only stared at him. Then he said, "I'm sorry."
Wilbur blinked. "What?"
"I'm sorry," his father repeated, his voice cracking like thin ice hiding tumultuous waters beneath. "I'm sorry you had to carry that. I'm sorry I was late. If I had been there with you, I would have pressed that button, just so you didn't have to."
Wilbur felt his chest tighten, like some curious giant was squeezing him between its palms, breaking him open and asking, What are you made of, little one?
"It wasn't a button," Wilbur said. "I blew a horn."
Did you now? the voices murmured.
Father looked just as surprised as Wilbur felt. "Right—I... I don't know why..." He shook his head, as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. "Wil, do you sometimes feel like you're an echo of something?"
"And not a sound of my own?" Wilbur chuckled darkly. "Every godsdamned day of my life."
"For what it's worth," his father said, "I am proud of you, Wilbur. Proud of who you were, and who you are now. That will never be in question."
"Thank you," Wilbur replied softly, and meant it.
"I spent your childhood so clouded by worry." The words rang true in the cave, in Wilbur's heart. "So afraid, always, that you would be taken from me. I had seen what the world was capable of, and when you began speaking of voices, calling to you—Sometimes I could not even look at you without being absolutely paralyzed by fear."
And how do I look at you, Wil? Father had once asked.
He'd dismissed the question before, insistent that it was disappoint that wrinkled his father's brow and tugged his lips into a frown. Now, Wilbur thought, he might be closer to the truth. His father had never been sad because of him. He had been sad for him. It was as if Wilbur had been looking through a fog to his childhood, and now it lifted, leaving only clarity.
"But that was my own fault," Father continued, his eyes shining. With tears, Wilbur noted with shock. It was a strange thing, watching a parent cry. Everything was backwards. And yet, everything was just right. "If I ever made you feel inadequate or unwanted or like you disappointed me—Wil, I want you to know you could never do that. I have lived this life for more time than you can comprehend. I have built empires and kingdoms. I have been a warrior, a ruler, a wanderer, an architect. But the greatest title I have ever had the honor of owning was Father." He smiled, even as tears glistened down his cheeks. "Or, as Tommy used to call me, Dad."
"I miss him." The words broke free, tripping over themselves in their release. Wilbur felt his own eyes growing misty, turning the world into a hazy blur of firelight. Miles and miles away from here, bundled in hay and their family colors, his brother's body was heading home. But the rest of him lingered. Even in the bleak panic of drowning and freezing, he had been there, telling Wilbur to swim. And when his voice retreated, in its wake had been an immeasurable sadness—but, even then, the sadness was good, as good as Tommy himself had been. It was proof that once, love used to grow in the hollow cavern of Wilbur's chest. "I miss him so much, Father."
In the dark, the god they called the Angel of Death said, "I know, Wilbur. As do I."
When the blood god returned with his cheeks aglow and a pack full of fresh fish hunted from a king-sized hole in the ice, he found a father and a son speaking fondly of times long gone, their laughter soft and their faces bright. For once, there were more things to be said than not, and moments of silence were few and far in between. They ate and drank and toasted to murmured names of the dead and buried. They told stories, as people used to tell stories of an immortal hunter and a harbinger of death. They spoke of gardens and forests, apple orchards and a woman whose son inherited her hair and eyes and heart. But above all, they spoke of a thunderstorm bottled in a boy, the sun at the center of everything.
And if there were any ghosts that haunted their reminiscence, they kept their silence.
"We're almost there," Techno called out. "It's just over this hill."
He looked back to find Wilbur slowly making his way up the slope. Philza hovered close behind, grimacing every time his son slipped or slid against the snow. Wilbur, in true Wilbur fashion, had decided he did not need any help, blaming his blunders entirely on his new fur-lined cloak and not on his inexperience with maneuvering a frozen incline. If he weren't so sure Wilbur would retaliate with an arrow to his shoulder, Techno would have laughed at his flailing attempts.
Techno leaned against his trident as he watched Wilbur swat away Philza's assistance. But, unlike before, there seemed to be no true heat behind the rejection—just Wilbur being Wilbur. Techno knew the fault lines between them could not be healed overnight, but he had to admit it was nice, having Wilbur not look at his father with murderous intent every time.
Ugh, Techno thought. When did I get so sentimental?
If the voices had any comment, they kept it to themselves. In fact, they had been quiet the whole day. It wasn't unusual for Techno to go days—even weeks or months, at some point—without the voices murmuring like nosy neighbors in the back of his mind. But this felt... different. Sinister, somehow. It felt like the smug silence of an opponent that knew it had the winning hand.
"Gods, Wilbur," Techno called out, digging the butt of his trident deeper into the snow, "this entire tundra will have melted before you... before..." The rest of Techno's words trailed off as he felt his trident hit something too hard to be just snow. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Techno looked down at where his trident had struck, slowly moving the snow aside with his weapon, slowly but surely unveiling what was hiding beneath his feet.
"Techno?" Wilbur shouted, getting closer. "Techno, what are you doing?"
"Gods," Techno whispered. "Gods and stars and shit."
Because beneath the snow was a pale face, staring unseeing up at Techno, its expression of wide-eyed terror forever preserved by the cold. His heart hammering in his chest, Techno ran until he crested the hill that overlooked what once was a bustling city but was now something else entirely.
He could hear Wilbur scrambling up the hill behind him. He knew Wilbur would see it eventually. But still Techno turned back around, catching Wilbur by the shoulders before he could realize the full extent of the devastation.
"Wilbur," Techno said solemnly. "I need you to know this isn't your fault."
Wilbur's brows drew together. "I don't—"
"Listen to me," Techno demanded in a voice that he had not used on him since they were tutor and pupil. "We're here for one thing, and one thing only, and if anything can get in the way of that—your self-doubt, your fear, your loathing—I suggest you leave them at the door. Right here, right now. Do you understand?"
Wilbur's eyes hardened. "I'm not a child."
"That wasn't my question."
Wilbur shrugged his hands of him and gritted out, "I understand," before marching stoically up the rest of the way.
"How bad is it?" Philza asked quietly as they watched Wilbur reach the crest.
"Fucking bad," was all Techno said in response.
Techno could pinpoint the exact moment Wilbur saw it for himself. He went rigid, his hands curling into fists the only indication that he was not a statue of frozen flesh and bone. When Philza and Techno joined him at the summit, Techno heard his fellow god draw in a breath as he, too, took in the massacre below them. Burned bodies lying in scorched snow. Frostbitten corpses laid in careless piles or tossed against the city walls. Bodies too small to belong to adults. Blood scattered across the white landscape like some errant child had taken a red paintbrush to a blank canvas. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. The entire city presented like a gruesome welcome sign.
Without a word, Wilbur slid down the rest of the way, his boots skidding against ice and snow. Phil and Techno exchanged a brief glance before they followed after him, and the three of them made their way through the carnage, none of them speaking or even daring to breathe. Techno had seen his fair share of ruthlessness, but this cut to the bone like nothing else ever had. Perhaps it was the carefully blank look on Wilbur's face, or the way Phil tucked his wings close around himself—maybe remembering a different town, the first of the people he had sworn and failed to protect. Or perhaps it was because, somewhere along the way, their people had become Techno's people, as well. Not soldiers. Not warriors. Just people.
It was until they were past the city gates that Wilbur's knees finally buckled, and he fell against a lamppost, retching. Phil was there immediately, rubbing soothing circles on Wilbur's back and whispering words too low for Techno to hear. He was too busy taking in the city. Despite the massacre of its citizens just outside its walls, the city remained immaculate, its cobblestone streets and brick houses untouched. Through an open door, Techno could see a room forever frozen in mundanity: a table laid with now-spoiled food, the chairs pushed away from it as if the family it was meant for simply walked away from it, not knowing they would never return. In fact, there didn't seem to be any sort of disturbance within the city itself. No food carts overturned, no doors thrown off their hinges, no marks on the ground where people could have been dragged. What little snow stuck to the ground bore no signs of violent trespass, just evidence of that the entire city seemed to have willingly went to its slaughter.
What the hell happened here? Techno thought, his hand tightening on his trident, almost snapping it in half.
"All of this," Wilbur said, staggering to Techno's side. "All of this, just to get us here?"
"Not us," said Philza, coming up behind them, "just me. I was getting close to something. Something big. And the Green God called me back."
Techno let out a bitter bark of laughter. "Philza, don't tell me we're supposed to reason with someone who would do this just to invite you to his little playdate."
"We've done worse ourselves," Phil said quietly, making Wilbur freeze.
"To fighters. To enemies."
"You once fought for any cause that would give you an enemy," reminded Phil, his eyes pinning Techno in place. There was no accusation in them, just truth. "That you would blanch now is proof of how far you've come. But in about a few minutes, Techno, I think we'll need your old heart."
"I know, I know," Techno mumbled, turning away from Philza. "Don't send a mortal for a god's work."
"Hey," Wilbur said weakly, "I'm right here."
"And we're so glad to have you here with us," Techno said wryly.
"Could you say that again without looking constipated?"
Techno shook his head, unwilling to discuss it any further. Wilbur was not meant to be here. Techno had already lost a brother to this war and wasn't too keen on losing another. But he knew there was no force on earth, mortal or immortal, that could stop Wilbur from standing under this pale-red sky, running a finger over the pommel of the rapier sheathed at his side with every intent to shove it through the heart of the god that killed his baby brother.
In the distance, church bells began to ring.
Philza met Techno's eyes. "He's calling."
Techno nodded, gripping his trident tighter. "And we're answering."
They moved as a unit through the dead city, no sound except for the howling of the wind and the insistent toll of the bells. The closer they got to the heart of the city, the more Techno felt like each footstep was not his own. There was a greater gravity, pulling them forwards, giving them no choice but to descend.
And then as he came around a bend, he saw it: a belltower rising towards the sky, its bells still pealing away, and beneath its long shadow, a church of marble with its doors thrown open. An invitation.
"It's not too late to turn back around," Techno said.
"Yes," Wilbur said, "it is," and climbed the stairs to his apotheosis.
What else could Techno do but follow?
They walked into the church, and found him immediately.
He was sitting on a pulpit of marble, his legs dangling over its gilded edge. He was calmly reading a book, eyes leisurely moving across the leather-bound pages. His eyes were the most striking thing about him, an unnatural shade of green that reminded Techno of overripe grapes, sour instead of sweet and rotten to the core. The rest of him was... unremarkable. Save for the fact that he was wearing nothing more than a faded-white tunic and trousers in the freezing cold, he could have passed for a mortal: curly dark-blonde hair tucked behind his ears, hands wrapped in bandages up to the knuckles, and a face that could have been a face Techno passed on the street a million times over without remembering it. No obsidian wings or eyes the color of fresh-drawn blood. A man, not a god.
Philza and Techno exchanged a glance.
Is this really him? the quirk of Techno's eyebrow asked.
I have no idea, Philza's shrug replied.
"Green God," Wilbur said loudly, stepping further into the church. "We have come to demand—"
The man—the god?—raised a finger to silence him, not taking his eyes off his book. Wilbur glanced back at Techno, his face in open disbelief. For a moment, the three of them stood at the threshold, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot as the green-eyed being read on. Then, after a while, he took a deep breath, nodding to himself as he snapped the book closed and finally considered the three of them standing below him.
And then he smiled, and there was no question about what he was. There was nothing kind in him. This was a god, through and through.
"Finally," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd never show."
Techno froze.
No. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible. It wasn't.
Out of the corner of his eye, Techno could see Wilbur, his mouth agape. He had never seen him so terrified.
"No," Techno whispered, or maybe he screamed it. "You, too?"
Wilbur slowly nodded, unwilling—or maybe unable—to rip his wide-eyed gaze from the Green God.
Because that voice that came out of the Green God's mouth... It was the voice. Singular this time, and not a chorus, but still the same voice that had hounded Techno through the centuries, that had tied him irrevocably to a young prince and his forest fire brother. The voices, he and Wilbur had called them, but in truth it had only ever been one, echoing over and over like words shouted into a chasm.
A voice. The Green God's voice.
Surprise, the voices—the voice—whispered in Techno's head, as the Green God said the same thing out loud: "Surprise."
"What's going on?" Phil demanded, his expression half-worry, half-confusion. "Techno?"
"He's the voice, Phil," Techno whispered, his mouth feeling dry. "All this time, it was him. But how...?"
"Oh, that's a long story," the Green God said with a chuckle—the same low, haunting laughter that had taunted and mocked Techno for as long as he could remember. "But first, how are you? You must be weary after all that traveling, especially you, Wilbur. So sad to hear about your brother. Mortal hearts can only take so much hurt." He gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. "Then again, immortal hearts aren't much different, especially if they've been foolishly given to the wrong people. Take the war god, for example. The Angel of Death merely drove a sword through a heart already broken." A flicker of a darker emotion—nameless, fleeting—crossed the Green God's face, before his unnerving smile took center stage once more. "Speaking of the Angel, did you like my invitation, Philza? I spent such a long time drawing it up, but I figured you only deserved the best war, right?"
"Who," Philza began with measured fury, "the fuck are you?"
The Green God considered them with a tilt of his head, blonde curls falling over glassy green eyes. "They call me by many names. You know me as the Green God. Others brand me the god of chaos. The Progenitor. He Who Pulls. He Who Watches. All silly little names mortals gave to something beyond their understanding." He placed the book he was reading on the ledge beside him and raised his arms over his head in a languid stretch. "But my friends called me Dream."
The red sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows fractured over Wilbur's face, painting him in a kaleidoscope of colors as he stumbled over his words—charming King Wilbur, for once rendered speechless. The Green God—Dream—seemed to delight in his fumbling, his smile turning sharper as his gaze found Wilbur.
"Wilbur," Dream said. "I truly commend you for that show with the explosions. You took most of them out in one fell swoop, but I have to admit, if Techno had continued on as he was going, I would've been forced to step in. I suppose I shouldn't have underestimated the great and powerful blood god."
Wilbur shook his head slowly, as if coming out of a daze. "All those people... all those people." His voice trembled. "Why? How?"
"Those are two very different questions," Dream said cheerfully. "So why don't we start from the very beginning?"
Philza had no idea what was going on. All he knew was that every instinct in his body was telling him to fight, to reach for the sword strapped across his back and draw it against the smiling man at the other end of the aisle. But he also knew that beside him, Wilbur and Techno were standing, transfixed, and it was not his call to make. The two of them were twin students, waiting for answers from a far wiser teacher, and Philza could understand that desperation, that ceaseless drive to find answers by whatever means necessary. He'd found himself lost in that feeling for nearly a decade.
Wilbur and Techno had been waiting for this conversation all their lives, and they hadn't even known.
Phil was not going to take the chance away from them, no matter how much he wanted to drag them both far away from here. So he stood his ground, and listened.
Dream's knowing smile seemed to be directed straight at him.
"First things first," said the Green God, leaning back on his bandaged hands and considering the three of them carefully, "I think you must have noticed this already, even if none of you had the words to name it. This is not the first story told. This is not your first life, nor will it be the last."
Out of the corner of his eye, Phil saw Wilbur stiffen and Techno jerk forwards. He moved discreetly closer to them, a hand on the pommel of his sword even as his head swam with the Green God's words.
Dream's smile only widened. "You are royalty now, but before you were simple soldiers. Sometimes strangers on your own separate journeys. Sometimes rebels against a shared cause. Sometimes, happy. But more often, not." He gave a soft laugh. "There was one time you were enemies, tearing each other apart until there was nothing left but bones."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Techno demanded, his red eyes blazing, incensed by the very notion of standing on a side where Wilbur was not.
"I'm talking about different plays, Technoblade." Dream spread his arms wide, as if welcoming them all home. "Different stages, different actors, different scripts—but all the strings lead back to me."
Philza did not want to believe it. But even as he stood there with his heavy disbelief, his mind raced through all the times he'd felt like ten different people trying to live in one body. An echo, not a voice. He thought about all the dreams of finding Wilbur in a dark room, of Tommy standing on a bridge that went on until the very edge of the world, of Techno watching him from an island in the sky—all of them terrified, and too real to be just dreams. If that was true, then Philza's bones were older than he thought. He had always been dancing to someone else's song, over and over, and over and over again.
When Wilbur spoke again, his voice was a fractured mess. "So, everything... everything has been you all along?"
"No." Dream's expression was full of mocking pity. "Not everything. Just the big things. All the small, intimate details, all the character—that was you. To put it bluntly, Wilbur, I may have put those soldiers in your path, but it was still your choice to carve a bloody path through them. It was still you that sounded that horn. Still you that pressed that button." He shrugged. "If you're looking for absolution, you won't find it here."
"And the voices—the voice—"
"Oh, that?" Dream's grin was laced with venom. "Honestly, I just wanted to screw with you. Had to have some fun for myself while I waited in the wings."
Philza turned to Techno and Wilbur, but they were already looking at each other, their faces a reflection of the other's. In all the world, they were the only two who could truly understand each other in this. Philza was merely the witness. He'd seen Techno pull his hair out in anger, had seen Wilbur lose weeks of sleep, seen them both unravel at the seams over it. Philza himself had burned through libraries and crypts, looking for an answer, and now it was here, as simple as it was terrible.
The Green God was simply bored.
"You're a monster," Philza gritted out, his fingernails digging into his palms until they drew blood. "You're a godsdamned fucking monster."
"Oh, I haven't even gotten to the worst part!" Dream laughed. "Technoblade."
Technoblade glared up at him, bloody murder in his eyes.
"You're the real tragedy here, actually." At that, Dream dropped down from the pulpit, landing soundlessly on the marble below. Techno and Philza instinctively put themselves between him and Wilbur, but the god simply leaned against the first of the pews, examining them with all the nonchalance of a child finding a curious bug crushed beneath his heels. "I almost let you sit this one out, you know. Almost allowed you a quiet life in the woods with your family."
Surprise broke through Techno's fury, but it was Wilbur who spoke up. "His family?"
"Oh, sure. Father, mother, siblings, the whole nine yards."
"Siblings?" Techno finally croaked.
"Three sisters," Dream informed him gleefully. "Two brothers. Ah, but then, I changed my mind. Couldn't waste all that dormant godhood in you. All the gods are major players, but none of the others are as fun to play with as you."
"What did you do to them?" Techno demanded, stepping forwards. His trident was suddenly in his hands. "What did you do to my family?"
"Techno—" Phil warned, or maybe it was Wilbur.
Dream smiled. "The correct question," he said slowly, "is what you did to them."
Techno lunged.
They crashed against the marble pulpit with enough force to crack it. Techno had a fistful of the Green God's tunic in his hand and his trident in the other, breathing heavily as dust and chips of marble rained down on them both. He could hear Wilbur and Philza calling his name, but every other noise was drowned out by Dream's laughter, a sound that had become so familiar to Techno over the years. He had hated it all his life, and now there was a smug-looking face to attach to it.
"I told you!" Dream spat in his face. "I don't call every action, Technoblade! I present the choices, but you make them. I was the voice, but you were always the bloodstained hands!"
I don't even remember their faces, Techno thought, tightening his hold on the Green God's shirt until he could hear it begin to tear. I don't even know their names. And yet he was consumed by it—an anger that felt like all his nerves singing at once, demanding the same thing.
Vengeance.
Fractured light slanted over the two gods. The whole world was a broken, miserable thing.
"Why?" Techno hated the despair that bled into his voice, but there was nowhere for else to go. "Why me? Why did you change your mind?"
He tried searching for sympathy in Dream's face, but all he received was the darkest sort of humor.
"You can search for meaning all you want," he said. "Turn over every rock and read all the stars in the sky. But the truth is, Techno, you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"All of us," Techno growled, "are just helpless insects in your godsdamned web, is that it?"
He thought he might have seen something graver flicker over Dream's face, but it was gone before Techno could put a name to it. "Not all of you."
Techno was going to kill him. He was going to put his trident through that wicked little grin and be done with it all.
But then he felt a pair of hands at his shoulders, pulling him back.
"Techno." Wilbur's voice, leading him back to his own body like a lighthouse calling a ship to safer shores. "We still need him. He still has to give him back to us."
"Right," Dream hummed as Wilbur dragged Techno to his feet. "You still need me, Techno."
"Don't you fucking call me that," Techno spat.
They had him surrounded. He was on the floor, leaning against a broken pulpit. And yet the bastard still looked like he held all the cards.
Because he did. Techno felt himself sag at the realization. Dream had everything, because he still had Tommy.
Dream squinted up at each of them in turn, his eyes finally landing on Philza, who'd drawn his blade. Dream considered the sharp tip pointed straight at him.
"That's the same sword you killed the war god with, yes?" he asked, calmly, as if they were discussing tea.
Phil didn't deign to give him an answer. Techno alone recognized that look in Philza's eyes. Philza had never been haunted by voices, but he demanded blood all the same.
"Did he at least fight well?" Dream continued when it was clear none of them were replying. "He must've, if he managed to kill your son."
"You will listen to me," Philza said, his voice as cold and lifeless as tundra they'd ridden through. "I do not care about your stories. I do not care about you. But if you have all this power, if you can rewrite history, then you will give me my son back. Or else."
"Or else what?" Dream demanded. "We've been down this road before, Philza. You have had a million chances to kill me, to end this loop, but still here we stand. Still at an impasse."
But that wasn't quite true, Techno thought. He makes even the Green God afraid. Somehow, despite everything, Philza had the upper hand. But one glance at the man told Techno he was just as clueless as he had been in that snow-covered cave.
It was there. The key to everything. Nameless, and out of reach.
What the hell are you, Philza?
"And another thing," said Dream, slowly getting to his feet. He leaned against the ruined pulpit and considered them all with a strange expression. Giddy, almost. "I only write the histories, Philza, plentiful as they may be. But even I do not have the power to re-write them. Once performed, an action cannot be reversed. Once penned, an ending cannot be restored."
Wilbur stiffened. "What does that mean?"
But a monstrous sort of chill had already settled into Techno's soul, even before Dream threw his head back and laughed, and said, "It means I can't bring back the dead. Your brother's gone. For good."
How many times, Philza had often wondered, could a heart break before there were too few pieces to make it whole again? He had seen mortals survive the cruelest of fates. They would lose homes and livelihoods and friends and family, and still they would pick themselves up the next day and soldier on. But there was a breaking point. Philza had witnessed that, too. But when did it come? Was it the second loss, or the third, the sixth? Or did it only take one great tragedy to bring a man to his knees?
Even the most fortified wall can fall with a single well-placed blow. And even the strongest god can fall with a single well-placed heartbreak.
"No." Philza's sword nearly slipped from his grip before he tightened his shaking fingers around it once more. "You're lying. You must be."
"Why would I lie?" Dream asked, his golden hair just shades darker than Tommy's used to be. "You said it yourself. Resurrecting your son is the only reason you need me. Why would I give that up?"
There was a terrible sound, like the screech of a dying animal. It took Philza a moment to realize it was coming from his own throat. He moved without thinking, without breathing. He raised his sword high over his head and brought it crashing down on the god that had taken the remnants of hope from Philza's grasp and dashed it against a wall. His blade shattered the marble pulpit, cutting the book the Green God had left on top of it into shreds of leather and paper, but when the dust settled, he found Dream standing unharmed a few paces away, looking unimpressed.
"I hadn't finished reading that," Dream complained. "And it was just getting interesting, too."
And then there was Techno, taking him by the shirt and throwing him through the nearest window with all the force a blood god could muster. He crashed through the stained glass, disappearing into the snow beyond.
Philza and Techno were quick to follow.
They bounded over the shattered glass, not even feeling it cut through their skin, weapons out and ready for the slaughter. This, at least, was familiar. The Angel of Death and the blood god, raining bloody vengeance. This was their role. This was who they were.
Dream had been flung against the wall of a building beside the church, and he sat in the rubble like a king lounging on his throne, his grin as lazy as it was malicious.
"So," said Dream, "I take it you're angry with me."
Philza flew towards him, kicking up cold snow in the violent wake of his wings unfolding. He slammed his foot against the Green God's chest, reveling in the sickening crunch that came with his head cracking against the debris. His sword was at the god's throat in an instant, cutting a single red line across the pale skin.
I will enjoy taking you apart, Philza thought. If I shall spend eternity suffering, then so shall you.
"I never promised you anything," Dream said quietly, gazing up at Philza. "All that foolish hope—you're the one that went searching for it. You saw patterns in the sky and then blame the stars for your own wrong interpretation." Suddenly, his hands shot out, gripping the blade of Philza's sword so tightly that blood dripped down from his palms. With surprising strength, he pushed the blade down until it was resting against his heart instead. "Go ahead. Tear through me. But I'm not the one who left one son by his mother's deathbed and forced a crown on the other. I'm not that kind of monster."
"He was fifteen," Philza croaked. "He died for your war at fifteen."
"And you abandoned Wilbur at fifteen." The Green God sighed wearily. "They grow up so fast, don't they? Pity you were only there for the end." He brightened. "Speaking of Wilbur, I never answered his question, did I? Of how I did all this?"
He let go of Philza's sword to gesture at everything—the empty town, their shattered universe, their strange story.
"I don't care." Philza steadied his shaking hand and prepared to plunge it through the god's heart. After years of fighting, he had figured out exactly where to slice without killing. Death would be too kind a god than this monster deserved.
"Well, you should." Dream laughed. "Look behind you, Philza."
Philza would have cut off an arm before he took orders from him, but there was something in his words that made Phil's blood freeze over. Slowly, without moving his sword away from the Green God's chest, Phil turned.
He saw Techno making his way towards them, his unbound hair falling over his face like a burial shroud. His trident glistened in the dying sunlight as he spun it expectantly in his hand, ready to be Philza's fellow executioner. But then, behind him, standing at the window they'd crashed through, looking numbly out at the scene, was Wilbur.
As Philza watched, still as stone, Wilbur slowly drew his bow. A slender hand reached back into his quiver and produced a single arrow. He nocked it, and aimed.
Straight at Techno.
"Techno!" Philza screamed in warning.
Techno paused, tensing in confusion, and then he followed Phil's frightened eyes back towards the church.
Phil could see Wilbur's hands shaking. His mouth formed a single word in his wide-eyed fear. "Techno?"
"Aw, Wilbur." Dream's voice. The voice that had plagued Philza's sons for years, now plaguing him, too, as he found himself unable to move, or blink, or breathe, or think. "Why the long face?"
Wilbur began to smile.
"Wil?" Techno asked, uncomprehending. There was no world, no universe, no god-written stage, where Wilbur could do this to him. And yet here they were, standing across from each other. Strangers once more.
That was not his brother's smile.
Those were not his brother's eyes.
"Wil—" Techno said again. A plea. A prayer. A pardon.
Wilbur let the arrow fly.
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note:my arms hurt Q-Q ps:i write it word by word to respect the real person that writes it i dont copy and paste QvQ