（又超字數(shù)限制了。。。up分兩期投了）

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?

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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?

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King or pariah. There was only one other man who knew what it meant to be both.

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“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?”

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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.”

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“And how did you know if I hesitated?”

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“Because I like to think I still know my own son.”

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“Well, maybe I’m more your son than you think,” Wilbur said, “because I didn’t hesitate at all.”

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The voices chuckled. Little killer king, you’ve finally grown into your role.

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For a moment, his father only stared at him. Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

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Wilbur blinked. “What?”

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“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.”

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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?

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“It wasn’t a button,” Wilbur said. "I blew a horn."

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Did you now? the voices murmured.

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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?”

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“And not a sound of my own?” Wilbur chuckled darkly. “Every godsdamned day of my life.”

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“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.”

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“Thank you,” Wilbur replied softly, and meant it.

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“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.”

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And how do I look at you, Wil? Father had once asked.

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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.

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“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.”

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“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.”

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In the dark, the god they called the Angel of Death said, “I know, Wilbur. As do I.”

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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.

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And if there were any ghosts that haunted their reminiscence, they kept their silence.

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“We’re almost there,” Techno called out. “It’s just over this hill.”

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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.

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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.

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Ugh, Techno thought. When did I get so sentimental?

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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.

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“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.

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“Techno?” Wilbur shouted, getting closer. “Techno, what are you doing?”

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“Gods,” Techno whispered. “Gods and stars and shit.”

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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.

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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.

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“Wilbur,” Techno said solemnly. “I need you to know this isn’t your fault.”

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Wilbur’s brows drew together. “I don’t—”

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“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?”

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Wilbur’s eyes hardened. “I’m not a child.”

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“That wasn’t my question.”

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Wilbur shrugged his hands of him and gritted out, “I understand,” before marching stoically up the rest of the way.

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“How bad is it?” Philza asked quietly as they watched Wilbur reach the crest.

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“fucking bad,” was all Techno said in response.

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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.

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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.?

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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.

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What the hell happened here? Techno thought, his hand tightening on his trident, almost snapping it in half.

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“All of this,” Wilbur said, staggering to Techno’s side. “All of this, just to get us here?”

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“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.”

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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.”

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“We’ve done worse ourselves,” Phil said quietly, making Wilbur freeze.

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“To fighters. To enemies.”

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“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.”

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“I know, I know,” Techno mumbled, turning away from Philza. “Don’t send a mortal for a god’s work.”

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“Hey,” Wilbur said weakly, “I’m right here.”

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“And we’re so glad to have you here with us,” Techno said wryly.

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“Could you say that again without looking constipated?”

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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.

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In the distance, church bells began to ring.

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Philza met Techno’s eyes. “He’s calling.”

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Techno nodded, gripping his trident tighter. “And we’re answering.”

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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.

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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.

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“It’s not too late to turn back around,” Techno said.

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“Yes,” Wilbur said, “it is,” and climbed the stairs to his apotheosis.

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What else could Techno do but follow?

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They walked into the church, and found him immediately.

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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.

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Philza and Techno exchanged a glance.

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Is this really him? the quirk of Techno’s eyebrow asked.

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I have no idea, Philza’s shrug replied.

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?“Green God,” Wilbur said loudly, stepping further into the church. “We have come to demand—”

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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.

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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.

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“Finally,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d never show.”

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Techno froze.

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No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t.

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Out of the corner of his eye, Techno could see Wilbur, his mouth agape. He had never seen him so terrified.

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“No,” Techno whispered, or maybe he screamed it. “You, too?”

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Wilbur slowly nodded, unwilling—or maybe unable—to rip his wide-eyed gaze from the Green God.

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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.

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A voice. The Green God’s voice.

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Surprise, the voices—the voice—whispered in Techno’s head, as the Green God said the same thing out loud: “Surprise.”

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“What’s going on?” Phil demanded, his expression half-worry, half-confusion. “Techno?”

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“He’s the voice, Phil,” Techno whispered, his mouth feeling dry. “All this time, it was him. But how…?”

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“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?”

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“Who,” Philza began with measured fury, “the fuck are you?”

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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.”

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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.

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“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.”

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Wilbur shook his head slowly, as if coming out of a daze. “All those people… all those people.” His voice trembled. “Why? How?”

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“Those are two very different questions,” Dream said cheerfully. “So why don’t we start from the very beginning?”

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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.

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Wilbur and Techno had been waiting for this conversation all their lives, and they hadn’t even known.

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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.

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Dream’s knowing smile seemed to be directed straight at him.

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“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.”

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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.

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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.”

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“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.

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“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.”

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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.

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When Wilbur spoke again, his voice was a fractured mess. “So, everything… everything has been you all along?”

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“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.”

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“And the voices—the voice—”

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“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.”

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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.

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The Green God was simply bored.

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“You’re a monster,” Philza gritted out, his fingernails digging into his palms until they drew blood. “You’re a godsdamned fucking monster.”

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“Oh, I haven’t even gotten to the worst part!” Dream laughed. “Technoblade.”

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Technoblade glared up at him, bloody murder in his eyes.

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“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.”

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Surprise broke through Techno’s fury, but it was Wilbur who spoke up. “His family?”

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“Oh, sure. Father, mother, siblings, the whole nine yards.”

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“Siblings?” Techno finally croaked.

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“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.”

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“What did you do to them?” Techno demanded, stepping forwards. His trident was suddenly in his hands. “What did you do to my family?”

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“Techno—” Phil warned, or maybe it was Wilbur.

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Dream smiled. “The correct question,” he said slowly, “is what you did to them.”

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Techno lunged.

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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.

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“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!”

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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.

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vengeance.

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Fractured light slanted over the two gods. The whole world was a broken, miserable thing.

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“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?”

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He tried searching for sympathy in Dream’s face, but all he received was the darkest sort of humor.

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“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.”

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“All of us,” Techno growled, “are just helpless insects in your godsdamned web, is that it?”

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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.”

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Techno was going to kill him. He was going to put his trident through that wicked little grin and be done with it all.

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But then he felt a pair of hands at his shoulders, pulling him back.

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“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.”

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“Right,” Dream hummed as Wilbur dragged Techno to his feet. “You still need me, Techno.”

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“Don’t you fucking call me that,” Techno spat.

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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.

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Because he did. Techno felt himself sag at the realization. Dream had everything, because he still had Tommy.

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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.

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“That’s the same sword you killed the war god with, yes?” he asked, calmly, as if they were discussing tea.

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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.

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“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.”

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“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.”

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“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.”

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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.

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It was there. The key to everything. Nameless, and out of reach.

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What the hell are you, Philza?

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“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.”

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Wilbur stiffened. “What does that mean?”

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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.”

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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?

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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.

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“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.”

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“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?”

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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.

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“I hadn’t finished reading that,” Dream complained. “And it was just getting interesting, too.”

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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.

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Philza and Techno were quick to follow.

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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.

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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.

第六章了，要結(jié)束了啊啊啊啊

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