（又超字?jǐn)?shù)限制了。。。up分兩期投了）

Chapter 6: my palms and fingers still reek of gasoline (from throwing fuel to the fire)

Summary:

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?”

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//

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Or, travels, travails, and truth

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Notes:

((hi niki if ur reading this just wanted to say youre one of my favorite ccs, and your streams always comfort me sm! love from kyle!!)

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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

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(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

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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.

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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?

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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.

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There was more work to be done.

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There was always more to be done.

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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.

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Instinctively, Tubbo’s eyes found themselves drifting down. And that’s when he saw them.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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But he’d fix it. They would fix it.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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“You’re staring,” Techno accused without turning around to face him.

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“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?”

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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.”

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“So whatever left those scars on you… they were awful, then?”

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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.”

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?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.”

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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.

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“It would take a considerable amount of force to kill a god,” Techno said slowly, his brows furrowing. “And your father, Phil—”

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“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?

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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.

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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.

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“I died years ago.”

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Wilbur shot Techno a confused glance, but Techno was still staring straight ahead, his eyes unseeing.

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“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.”

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“Or maybe he just got tired of tossing shit into the flames.”

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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.”?

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Wilbur threw the canteen at his head, but Techno caught it out of the air effortlessly without looking back.

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“Show-off,” Wilbur grumbled, but he was smiling for the first time in what felt like centuries.

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?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.

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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.

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And they rode on.

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They slept under the stars.

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Or, more accurately, Wilbur slept—fitfully, tossing and turning with nightmares. It would be na?ve 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.”

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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.

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Wilbur had begrudgingly slid down from his horse and laid himself on the cold ground of the tundra with a pile of blankets.

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“I’ll keep first watch,” Techno said, knowing he wouldn’t wake Wilbur until dawn.

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Wilbur nodded, knowing the same. And by the time Techno heard the telltale signs of a winged god’s descent, Wilbur was asleep.

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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.

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“Already thinking about leaving again?” Techno mused.

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Philza tore his gaze away from Wilbur’s sleeping form. “No,” was his simple reply.

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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.

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And then Philza said, “What was he like?”

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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.

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“What do you mean?” Techno prompted when Philza seemed content to just stare at his son until morning.

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Blinking slowly, Philza amended, “Tommy—what was Tommy like when he was growing up?”

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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.

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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.

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Eventually, Techno shrugged. “Tommy was Tommy.”

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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.

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“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.”

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Philza tipped his head up to the stars and Techno turned away before the first of the tears could fall.

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“Thank you, Techno.”

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And they rode on.

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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?”

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“Why do you ask?”

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“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?”

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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.

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“Wilbur,” said the god, “there’s nothing better than this.”

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And they rode on.

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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.

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They were getting close, and it was getting harder to breathe.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Most days, it felt as if he was mourning two dead sons instead of one.

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Techno was already a pink speck in the distance. He’d only just stopped to wait for Wilbur when it happened.

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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.

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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.

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Please, he begged, the chill digging its cruel talons into his skin, please, please, please, not him, too—

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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…

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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.

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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.

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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.

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“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!”

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“—Philza.” Techno’s voice, breaking through the panic. “You’re going to break him!”

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Eighteen, nineteen, twenty…

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“Stay with me, my boy. Stay with me.”

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… twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven—

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.?

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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.

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“We have to get him out of the cold.”

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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.

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An old conversation rose to the shallows of Philza’s memory, between two immortals at the dawn of a new age.

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My people needed a leader, not a hunter. And I didn’t bring you because—

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Because I don’t know when to be either.

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But this time, Philza did not know which of them the accusation was for.

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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?

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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.

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The Angel of Death rose to his feet.

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And they walked on.

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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.

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“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.”

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In response, Wilbur sneezed in his sleep.

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“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.”

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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.

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Techno raised an eyebrow at his clumsiness. “The long travel finally getting to you, Philza? Thought you’d be used to those by now.”

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“It’s not the travel,” Philza said quietly. “You know it’s not.”

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“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.

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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?”

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“What happened to what?”

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Philza hesitated, but eventually clarified, “The emerald I gave you.”

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“Last time I checked, it was sitting in the bottom of a lake somewhere.”

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Phil let out a humorless laugh. “I should have expected that.”

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Finally, Techno turned towards him. “So why didn’t you?”

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The question seemed to have taken Phil aback. He almost dropped the flint in the hand again, his eyes wide.

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“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?”

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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.”

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“My presumptions?”

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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.”

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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—

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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.

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Warmth slowly seeped into Techno.

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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.

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“… Techno?” came a groggy, muffled voice.

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Wilbur was awake.

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“Oh, gods.”

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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.

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“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.

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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.

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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.

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Perhaps a thank you? Perhaps acknowledgment? Perhaps another whispered “Father”?

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“Do you have any water on you?” Wilbur asked.

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Phil would take it. He would take anything.

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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.

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“So that was…” Wilbur shook his head ruefully. “That was definitely something.”

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“Yes,” Techno replied drily. “You nearly dying definitely was something.”

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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.”

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“Unless that god doesn’t want to.” Techno’s eyes slid to Phil. “I think it’s time we talk about that possibility.”

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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.

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And in between the pages, an answer.

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“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.”

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“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.”

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“What does that mean for us?” Wilbur asked.

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“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.”

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Here it was. The other shoe. The last trick up his sleeve.

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“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.”

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“Sacrifice?” Wilbur and Techno said at once, one sounding incredulous, the other simply curious.

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“Yes.” Despite the fire in front of him, all Phil could feel was a freezing cold. “I need your godhood, Technoblade.”

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There was a long pause.

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And then, Wilbur’s voice, sharp as a blade cutting through the silence, “But what will happen to you?”

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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.

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“Will I die?” There was no emotion behind the question, just an objective.

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Philza shook his head. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

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“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?”

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“Wilbur,” Techno said sharply, “calm yourself. Let the man finish.”

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“You won’t die,” Phil said above Wilbur’s protests. “But you will lose everything that makes you divine. Your strength, your invincibility—”

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“—my immortality?” Techno finished. “Will I lose that, as well?”

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“Yes,” Phil said quietly. “You will.”

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“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.”

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“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?”

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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.”

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“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?”

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“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.”

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Wilbur’s eyes shone in the gloom. “Techno, I—” he began, his words barely a whisper.

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“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.”

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And then Wilbur and Philza were alone.

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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.

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Technoblade never dies, the voices urged, promised, cursed.

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“I guess we’ll have to see,” Technoblade replied, and began to laugh.

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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.

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這不就鳥雀嗎，刀死你們

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