【生肉搬運】鳥雀Passerine 第五章

2022-04-03 21:58 作者:ALazyGlycine 0人讀過 | 我要投稿

Notes:

Hello! I hope this chapter was worth the wait! Thank you for reading, as always, and all your kind comments that keep pushing me forwards! If you wanna come yell at me, i'm here on twitter (https://twitter.com/thcscus) :D

i listened to the pigstep remix on a loop while writing this lmao ALSO SORRY FOR THE MISTAKES I MAY HAVE MISSED WHILE EDITING ill go through them after the chapter's up! just wanted to give you guys a little something before valentines :)

Chapter 5: pushing the spear into your side (again and again and again)

Summary:

Dead. He’s dead. He’s dead and gone forever. The voices were screaming, clawing against the walls that Techno had set around them and had tried to maintain for years. All for Wilbur. All for Tommy. Now one of them was dead, and the other was dying—there was no doubt about it. Wilbur would not survive this. And neither would Techno.

Or, conversations, counting sins, and coming to terms with the cost of being a brother

Notes:

this is just 7.6k words of characters working through grief and yelling at each other about it so this chapter's content/trigger warnings are as follows:

death, depictions of grief

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

Chapter Text

He first held Tommy in a sunlit room.

He had come earlier than expected was such a small thing, so much smaller than his brother had been. The midwives had told them there was a chance they could lose him within the hour, and his wife had cradled the newborn against her chest, sobbing against his pale skin.

“My baby,” she’d cried, “my little fighter. Be brave, Tommy, be strong.”

But Tommy was so still in his mother’s arms.

Philza had stood at her bedside, watching her coo and cry at a baby that did not stir. He had lived a million lives, and all its miseries combined could not compare to the pain of being a mourner at his son’s birth-bed. And as the minutes churned on, heedless of the growing abyss inside his chest, he found that he could not even cry. It was a sadness too big for tears, a grief too infinite to measure.

And when his wife had offered the baby to him, to give him his chance at saying goodbye despite her own despair, Philza did something that he would never forgive himself for. He hesitated.

He looked at the silent bundle in her arms, dead before he could even live, and felt the fracture in his heart grow. This was the fate of humanity, eventually. It did not matter if Tommy lived to the next year, the next decade or the next breath, he would still one day die. Bitter and numb and hateful of the world, Philza wondered if it were better that Tommy died now, before Phil could grow to love him more. People mourned the beauty of a wilting rose, but an unblooming bud would give a quieter heartache.

But Tommy wasn’t a flower. He was Tommy. He was Phil’s son, and he loved him now as much as he could love him later, though later might never come. But his arms were made of stone. They would not rise, as much as he willed them to. If he held Tommy now, he knew he would never let go. He would follow his baby to his grave.

And then there he was, sneaking past the guards and the midwives, passing under a grieving god’s notice. He climbed up into bed, smiling at his mother, apparently oblivious—or immune, as often starry-eyed children were—to the anguish that coated the very air of the room.

“Is this my brother?” Wilbur asked, leaning over the baby in his mother’s arms. “May I hold him, mother?”

A lump formed in Phil’s throat. He turned away before Wilbur could catch sight of his face, and when he turned back around, Wilbur had Tommy in the gentle crook of his arms. The sunlight slanted over them, and Phil wanted to remember them like that forever: his two beautiful sons, immortalized in gold. Wilbur’s earth-brown curls hid his expression as he bent over the baby, murmuring something Phil almost didn’t catch.

And the baby began to cry.

Wilbur pulled back, astonished, his face drawn in awe. “What is it?” he asked frantically. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Phil sobbed, falling to his knees before the three of them—his lovely, laughing wife, his kind, bewildered Wilbur, and his loud, shrieking Tommy. “You did everything right, my boy. You’re perfect.”

Now Wilbur held his brother—a baby no longer, but still so, so small—to his chest as they walked through the quiet, empty camp. Wilbur spoke the words he’d first spoken to his brother all those years before, over and over, like an enchantment or a prayer to bring him back to life once more.

“I will love you forever, I will love you forever, I will love you forever.”

But this time, Tommy did not wake up.

And Philza was still made of stone.

He walked the ruins alone. Night had fallen, but the moon and stars were hidden by heavy clouds, cloaking the earth in darkness. The sky itself was in mourning.

Tubbo moved through the gloom, the torch in his hand creating shadows that seemed to reach out towards him like helpless ghosts. He stepped mindlessly over the rubble, his feet meeting dirt and stone, and sometimes the flesh of a fallen comrade—or an enemy, but did that matter anymore?—that had not been as lucky as him. His ears were still ringing from the explosion, and his bones felt like a house of cards one whisper away from collapsing, but he was alive. He was alive, when all the others were not.

When the dust had settled and the survivors had come crawling out of the wreckage, Tubbo had counted. They had been warned, of course. They had heard the king’s signal and ran as fast as they could, but not all of them were fast enough.

The Royal Army had left the capital city with twenty thousand soldiers.

In the end, only eight hundred remained.

Not all of them had been lost to the explosion. Most had already been dead by the time the mountains fell, slain by enemies and their cavalry. But the smell of sulfur still hung in the air like an accusation, following Tubbo as he made his rounds. He was meant to be looking for other survivors, but Tubbo had come to know a thing or two about lost causes. He could walk this valley for days, and all he’d find were the broken remains of two armies—a mass grave that would honor no one. In a century, people would walk this land again and see only green hills blooming with blue flowers.

The prince was dead. That was what they were saying. Killed in the final moments of the war—its last casualty. A month ago, Tubbo had watched the prince laugh on a balcony, his face lit from within. Now there was no light left anywhere.

Overhead, the clouds broke open, and the heavens began to weep.

It was raining outside. Techno could hear raindrops pounding against the roof of the tent and creeping through the cracks. But the boundless cold he felt was from something else entirely.

He’d collapsed on the ground the moment they’d entered the tent, shivering with his arms around his knees, unable to feel anything beyond the relentless chill. It felt as if his bloodstream had frozen over, with brutal icicles stabbing into him from the inside out. And when he’d tried to duck his head into the dark embrace of his arms, a single blue petal had fallen against his skin.

No. He’d ran his hands roughly through his hair, pulling pink strands out from the roots in his desperation to remove the last of the morning glories out of the tangles of his braid. Blood flowed from the places where his fingernails scraped against his scalp, but Techno found that he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. The whole world could burn around him, and all he would be thinking about were the flowers still caught in his hair, their saccharine scent like poison in his lungs.

He clutched the flowers in his hands, bloodstained and trembling, and threw them as far across the room as he could, where they landed at the feet of the king.

Wilbur sat at the cot his brother slept—used to sleep—in, clutching the broken boy to his chest. He was rocking back and forth, muttering words Techno could not comprehend as he pushed the hair back from Tommy’s pale, unmoving face.

Blood, the voices demanded, blood for the blood god.

His hands curled into fists, so tightly his nails broke the skin of his palm. Blood trickled down his hands, but it would not be enough. He wanted a massacre. He wanted violent vengeance. And there was nothing and no one on the other side of his anger. All their enemies were dead. There was nowhere to go, but inward.

Techno’s knife was still lodged in Tommy’s chest, in Tommy’s heart.

Your fault, the voices began. Blood follows you everywhere you go. Did you think you could outrun it?

He thought he had. By gods, for once in his damned life, he thought he’d finally found somewhere safe. Somewhere where no one knew his bloody past, or cared to. Somewhere with clear skies and a warm garden where he could pretend to be something he could never be. Mortal. And now it all came crashing down around him. His farce. His naivete. This was the cost of those halcyon days.

He should have left the first chance he got. He should never have met them at all.

“Wilbur.” The name scratched his throat. He could barely hear himself speak. He tried again, putting as much strength in his words as there was left in him. “Wilbur. Let him go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Philza raise his head from his silent seat in the corner. He had not said a word since his arrival, not even as they marched back to the tent with Tommy’s dead body between them. For once, Techno was glad for his silence. If he heard Philza’s voice right now, he might just put his trident through the man’s chest.

Techno struggled to his feet when it was clear Wilbur was not listening to him. His legs threatened to collapse under his own weight, and he caught himself on the edge of the planning table, where carved wooden soldiers still stood at attention for a war that was already over. It’s all over.

“We need to fix him up, Wilbur,” Techno said, his words coming out ragged.

He staggered towards Wilbur, hand outstretched. Wilbur’s head snapped up at the sudden motion, his eyes wide and furious.

“Get away from us,” he growled, pressing Tommy closer against himself. The movement made Tommy’s head loll to the side, allowing Techno to truly see his face in the candlelight for the first time.

Techno’s breath hitched in his throat. Tommy looked so… peaceful. As if he was simply sleeping. As if any moment now, his eyes would flutter open and he’d grin up at the both of them, easily diffusing the tension as only Tommy could.

Wake up, Techno begged, prayed, wished. Please wake up.

But he never would again.

“You can’t hold him forever,” Techno spat. “For gods’ sake, Wilbur, there’s still a dagger in his chest.”

Wilbur looked down at the still bundle in his arms, noticing the state of his brother for the first time. Absently, mechanically, he reached out to wipe a streak of dirt from Tommy’s cheek. His expression grew incensed as the stubborn soil clung ferociously to his brother’s skin, and Techno feared he might just wipe Tommy’s flesh down to the bone.

“Are you trying to peel him?” Techno demanded angrily.

Wilbur looked up at him with a look of unbridled wrath, but did not reply.

With a scoff, Techno took a stray piece of cloth hanging off the table and marched to the tent flaps. He drew them open and leaned out into the rain, catching the cold raindrops with the cloth until it was damp. Cold water slipped down his wrist, but it was a distant feeling, felt by another man, in another time.

When he turned back to them, Wilbur was still clinging to Tommy like a lifeline.

“Let him go,” Techno ordered.

Wilbur shook his head silently, his shoulders trembling. “I can’t.”

“Wilbur—”

“I said, I can’t.”

Techno stomped towards him until he was standing over Wilbur. “Of course you can. It’s easy. Just open your damn arms and put him on the bed.”

Wilbur glared. “It would be easy for you, wouldn’t it?”

Techno narrowed his eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cold. Everything was cold. Cold in his lungs, cold in his heart, cold in the very depths of his soul—if he still had one. Cold from the rain, cold from the Tommy’s skin, cold from Wilbur’s damning eyes.

Thunder cracked in the distance. It was going to be a long night.

It’s easy, he’d said. Just open your damn arms.

Wilbur didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or wail at Techno’s words. There was nothing easy about anything anymore. Every breath left like inhaling broken glass, every thought was a raging shriek. There was blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek just to keep himself from screaming. And by gods did he want to scream. He wanted to tear the whole world apart with his bare hands—burn and salt it, leave nothing behind, not even one whisper of what once was. It did not deserve even the memory of Tommy.

“You heard me,” Wilbur hissed at the man standing before him, both of them glowering but not truly seeing each other. “Everything comes easy to you, doesn’t it, blood god?”

Techno’s brows drew together in anger. “You don’t get to throw that back in my face. Not tonight. Not after everything I did for you.”

Wilbur’s arms trembled. He looked down at his brother’s sleeping face—sleeping? Sleeping? He isn’t sleeping. He’s dead. Dead. With a rattling breath, Wilbur traced the curve of Tommy’s cheek, stopping where it used to dimple when he smiled. And then Wilbur looked down, at where a knife still jutted out of his chest like a violent reminder. Fresh tears stung his eyes, and he tried desperately to blink them away before they could fall. And still a rebel tear found its way down his face, carving his dirty cheek in half.

Death. Such a small word for such a big thing.

Wilbur hadn’t even wanted Tommy on the battlefield in the first place. He had planned to leave Tommy at the castle, where he would be safe behind walls and his own personal army of guards. But Techno—godsdamned Techno—had talked him out of it.?

“Tommy is stronger than you’d like to admit,” Techno had said. “And smarter than anyone gives him credit for. And if you leave him behind, you will not only lose an irreplaceable asset, you will also lose your brother’s love. Don’t stand there and tell me that Tommy will allow you to fight this war without him. What will you do when he inevitably protests? Lock him in his bedroom? Shackle him to the wall? You tried to protect him once before, and look where that got you.”

And so Wilbur had taken his brother to the frontlines, ordered the tailors to make him a uniform that Wilbur would have killed to never see him wear, and then he’d sent his brother—his baby brother, his Tommy—off to the slaughter.

And now he was dead. Dead in the red-and-blue colors of the family that failed him one last time.

No, the voices hissed, not your family.

Wilbur met Techno’s eyes once more. “This is your fault.”

And Techno was right, in the end. It was damnably easy for Wilbur to stand, open his arms and place Tommy down on the cot. Before, his body had moved on its own, but this time, every action was deliberate. Deliberately, he shrugged of his torn and bloody coat and put it over Tommy, to keep him warm—if warmth was something dead bodies still felt. Deliberately, he tucked a loose strand of Tommy’s hair behind his ear. Deliberately, Wilbur let his brother go. Deliberately, he turned and faced Technoblade.

Anger, it seemed, was a stronger emotion than sorrow.

Technoblade’s eyes were gleaming in the flickering candlelight. He still held a wet cloth in his hand, but he clutched it so fiercely Wilbur would not be surprised if it was merely shreds by now.

“Be very careful,” Techno drawled, “of what you’re about to say to me, Wilbur.”

“You told me to bring him here.” Wilbur flung the accusation like an arrow from a bow, watching it strike its mark. “And you were their target. We’re all just collateral fucking damage for all the shit you’ve done. The past caught up to you, Technoblade. Why the hell did you have to bring us all down with you?”

Thunder crashed around them like vicious war drums, followed by a flash of lightning that bathed everything in a ghastly glow. Technoblade and Wilbur stared at each other across the flower-strewn gap that grew between them with every word. They were two ghosts in limbo. Twin stars drawn to each other’s collapsing gravities.

They were going to destroy each other tonight.

And Wilbur was going to enjoy every damn minute of it.

“I told you,” Technoblade growled. “I told you I would take care of them, didn’t I? I could have stopped this at the border, but you wanted to play the peaceful dignitary even when the bloody facts were staring you right in the face.”

Wilbur remembered that day clearly—the day the first of the spies’ reports had come in, confirming what the voices had been whispering tauntingly for weeks. Wilbur, as always, had called for Technoblade’s advice. And Technoblade had read the missives once, looked up, and simply said, “I could kill them all.”

Wilbur had flinched. “Techno, that’s not—”

“I could. You know I could.” Technoblade had leaned over his desk, meeting Wilbur’s incredulous stare with hazy eyes. “Just say the word.”

Wilbur had not. They’d argued, like they’d never argued before, like they were arguing now. And Technoblade had left, slamming the doors of Wilbur’s office with such force it rattled the books off his shelves.

And then not even a day later, the Green Army had massacred an entire city at the borders.

Had Technoblade been right then? Was Technoblade right now? Wilbur found it didn’t matter. He didn’t care. All he wanted was to rip and tear. His fury would not discriminate.

“Ah, Technoblade.” Wilbur shook his head ruefully. “Always choosing violence, at every turn.”

Technoblade inhaled slowly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t I?” Wilbur watched Technoblade’s features twist in surprise and grim anticipation, quickly hidden by a veneer of indifference. Did he know what was coming? Did he fear it as much as Wilbur was eager to twist the knife? “Tommy didn’t know about where you go off to on your little nighttime escapades. But I do,” Wilbur finally said, finding a grim sort of delight in the way Techno froze on the spot. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I wouldn’t ask questions or follow you?”

“You’re an idiot, Wilbur,” Techno said, his words nothing less than venomous.

Wilbur only smiled in the face of his fury. “Did you at least have fun murdering your way through the woodlands, Techno?”

He’d been seventeen when he found out. In truth, he didn’t even know how he’d arrived at that forest. It was exactly like the first time he’d ever seen Techno leave, all those years ago, when the raging voices had followed him into the darkness and he’d woken up somewhere with no recollection of who he’d gotten there. But all of his confusion had been quickly replaced with fear as he spotted Techno moving between the trees, stalking after something crawling across the forest floor. Or, not something. Someone.

Wilbur had pressed himself against the trunk of a tree, his hands clamped over his mouth, barely able to breathe as Techno’s prey begged for his life. And then he’d heard the distinct sound of a sword being freed from its scabbard. One scream, and then a wet thud. That was all, before Wilbur passed out once more. When he awoke, he was in his own bed at the castle, his heart thudding in his chest but completely unharmed. He’d taken a deep breath, glad to brush it all off as a nightmare, before he noticed the single green leaf clutched in his hand.

He’d never spoken of it—until now.

“Go on then,” Wilbur said as Technoblade simply stared at him, breathing heavily. “Tell me you’ve changed. Tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. Tell me you aren’t the same bloodthirsty god from the stories.”

“I expected you, of all people, to understand.” Technoblade’s voice sounded strained, like a taut rope one pull away from unravelling. “You know the voices—they don’t let go. They demand their fill, Wilbur, and sometimes it’s unstoppable. But I’ve been trying so godsdamned hard.” There it was. The crack—a hairline fracture slowly fissuring into something more. “If you really were following me, you’d know I haven’t killed anyone for years before today. I stopped. I fought the voices off, even if it took everything from me. You think you got me pegged, Wilbur? All you needed to define me by was you, and Tommy. But go ahead and find other definitions if that will make you happy. Let’s see if I still have anything left in me to care.”

That made Wilbur pause, if only for a second. “Then where have you been going…?”

“Looking for your father,” Technoblade spat, and the words fell between them like a dead weight.

Wilbur turned towards the man in question, but his father had not moved in ages, stuck sitting with his head in his hands, oblivious to the thunderstorm around him. Not one word, not one move. Of course, he thought bitterly, taking in his father’s slumped shoulders and the obsidian wings tucked close around him. Why would I expect anything different? Wilbur wanted to feel angry at him, wanted his vision to go red every time he caught a glimpse of his father’s golden hair in his periphery. But he only had his pity. Wilbur had not seen his father in years, but looking at him now, he didn’t see the cold, distant king of the past. He only saw a pathetic excuse of a man, someone who’d abandoned his sons, who only returned after all the hard decisions had been made. After Wilbur had been forced to make them. He didn’t want to spare a single thought more on the laughable sight of his father sitting leagues away from his Tommy’s body, not even bothering to meet the eyes of the only son he had left.

“That’s right,” Techno said roughly, catching Wilbur’s attention once more. The blood god stood with his fists clenched at his sides, trembling with fury. Wilbur had never seen his eyes so hateful, not even when he was carving his way through the battlefield. Wilbur reveled in it. “I went out, every night, for years, ignoring the voices, ignoring everything, to look for your father. To give him back to you. Because I saw you. Every meal you missed, every hour you spent studying politics instead of sleeping, every time you felt you were choking, I saw it. I was there for it, and it killed me, so I went off to look for someone to help you. I tried telling you I’ve changed. I only bite when my family’s in danger, but you still see me as some sort of rabid dog. And those people I did kill in the forests? They were criminals, Wilbur—”

“As if that changes anything.”

“Tell that to the army you just blew into smithereens!”

“You set those explosives!”

“And you gave the order. So where does that leave us?”

For a moment, they simply stood there, staring at each other, and catching their breaths. The storm still raged outside, but some bit of it was living inside Wilbur’s chest.

This was the endgame. Wilbur knew they were standing on a precipice—if one of them jumped now, they were lost to each other forever. And so Wilbur leapt.

“Maybe it was better Tommy died before he found out what you are,” he said slowly. Deliberately. “You must be happy. At least now, he’ll never get the chance to know just what sort of monster you truly are—”

Technoblade moved in a flash. Wilbur had anticipated it, but still couldn’t help a gasp of surprise as Techno barreled into him, sending both of them sprawling on the ground. Wilbur’s head cracked against the packed earth, but the sting was a welcome one. Technoblade kneeled over him, his fists curled around the collar of Wilbur’s shirt. Wilbur could feel Technoblade’s anger radiating from him like heat from a raging forest fire, but when he looked into his old tutor’s eyes, he could only see his own wretched smile reflected back at him.

Technoblade pulled one fist back, his entire body trembling.

“Go ahead,” Wilbur said. “Prove me right.”

There was a split second where Wilbur thought Technoblade would simply leave, like Wilbur had always known he would, eventually. And then his fist collided with Wilbur’s face.

There was a sickening crunch and a lancing pain, and Wilbur knew from the amount of warm blood that dripped down the side of his face that Technoblade had broken his nose.

Wilbur leaned back, looking up at Technoblade with wide eyes. Technoblade stared back at him with equal shock, the anger briefly ebbing from his face to reveal a genuine worry.

“I—” Technoblade began, but Wilbur cut him off with a derisive snort.

“That all you got, blood god?” he said, and promptly kicked Technoblade off him.

Technoblade went flying, and crashed against the cot right behind him. Wilbur’s breath caught as he watched the cot tremble, and then collapse.

“No!” Technoblade reached his arms out, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Tommy’s limp body fell to the floor with a hollow thud.

For a moment, all was quiet. There was only the distant rumble of thunder, so far away now, as Technoblade and Wilbur simply stared at Tommy’s body lying in the dirt before them, like abandoned refuse, like a toy—once-loved, now broken—discarded by a careless toddler’s fickle hands.

He hated himself for it, but his first instinct was to search the room for his father. He met his father’s eyes as the old king slowly rose from his seat, his mouth a thin line of disapproval. Always disapproval, the voices hissed. Even now. Especially now.

Wilbur wrenched his gaze away from his father’s, only to be met with Technoblade’s, his pale face a study in grief.

“What the hell did we just do?” Technoblade whispered, almost too quiet to be heard over the pounding rain.

But Wilbur was already rushing to his feet. Before Technoblade could say another word, Wilbur ran.

“Don’t.”

The warning was soft, but brooked no argument. Techno stopped at the edge of the tent where he’d been readying to chase after Wilbur, turning towards the sound of Philza’s voice.

Philza had gathered Tommy’s body into his arms, but he was looking right at Techno.

“He needs his space,” Phil continued, his blue eyes almost gray in the dim light.

How would you know? Techno wanted to say, but his gaze fell and caught on Tommy. What was left of his anger evaporated into mist as he took in the state of his br—his pupil. The blood and mud still on his skin and clothes, the dagger still protruding from his small, unbreathing chest. Phil held the boy with infinite gentleness, Tommy’s head nestled against the crook of his arm, Tommy’s cheek pressed against his chest—exactly like how one would hold a newborn babe. Techno wondered when the last time Phil had held Tommy like that—if Tommy even allowed him to over the age of three—and realized it did not really matter. A father’s arms never forgot the shape of a child.

Not that Techno knew anything about being a father. Or being a son.

Techno nodded begrudgingly at Philza. “And we need to clean Tommy.”

Phil looked down at the body in his arms, his expression cloudy. “I suppose we should.”

They moved quietly, carefully. Techno grabbed the cloth he’d dropped during his tussle with Wilbur and went to wet it in the rain again, lingering in the cold to let the raindrops wash away the blood on his knuckles. Wilbur’s blood. His stomach tightened as bloodstained water dripped from his hands, but in a few moments, his hands were clean once more. When he turned back to Tommy and Phil, he’d found that Phil had taken the knife from Tommy’s chest.

“Is this yours?” Phil asked bitterly, running his hand over the knife’s carved handle.

“You should know,” Techno said. “You gave it to me.”

Phil looked up in surprise. Techno could only shrug, unsure of where they stood now with each other.

“It was a long time ago,” Techno said. “You gave me a whole set.”

“During the—”

“Yes,” Techno cut him off. “During that time.”

For the first time, Phil seemed to look his age: ancient and weathered by his endless years. Techno could see him remembering it all: their empire of blood and glory, broken only by silent months of warm companionship. It seemed their bodies recalled just as much as their minds did, because they slipped easily into their grim work, side-by-side, never needing to speak a single word. As Phil combed the dirt out of Tommy’s hair, Techno scrubbed at the stains on his arms and the stubborn one of his cheek. And when Techno’s breathing began to slow at the sight of the jagged wound on Tommy’s chest, Phil silently worked Tommy out of his torn shirt and into a fresh one that did not bear the scars of their battle.

Then they stepped back, surveying their work. Tommy was polished. Tommy was spotless.

Tommy was dead.

Of all the things that could have broken him, Techno didn’t understand why it had to be the sight of Tommy actually looking clean. He’d held it together when they were walking back to camp, he’d held it together when Wilbur pinned him with accusations that simply echoed what the voices had been saying for years. Monster, monster, monster. He’d killed a thousand men, seen allies eviscerated and witnessed the fall of kingdoms. He’d seen Philza kneel. He’d seen the world end a hundred times over and watched its people rebuild it over and over while he stood back, helpless, wanting to scream at them for being foolish but also yearning, with all his might, to be able to love something enough to also love what grew from its ruins.

And looking at Tommy’s peaceful face was what finally, finally, made Technoblade—emperor of ice, blood god, destroyer of worlds—cry.

He stood over Tommy’s body, and let the tears fall. He felt himself come undone with grief and guilt, misery and madness. And all at once he understood. He understood the anguish in the war god’s eyes. He understood the pain of the widows and orphans he’d left in his wake. He understood the agony of an entire world brought to its knees before a merciless god—and he felt it all.

A hand closed around his trembling shoulder.

“Techno.” Philza’s voice was a distant thing. “We need to talk.”

“Talk?” Techno whirled around, shrugging Philza’s hand off his shoulder. The other god simply backed away, giving Techno his space. Techno hated that almost as much as the blank look on Philza’s face. “What is there to talk about?”

“About—” Philza swallowed, leaning against the table as if he could not bear his own weight any longer. “About why I left.”

“Your son is dead.” The words tasted like ash on his tongue. “His corpse is right in front of you, and you want to talk about yourself?”

Philza flinched, but that was the extent of his reaction. “This is important. You have to understand—”

“What is there left for me to understand?”

“It’s not over.” Philza’s eyes bore through him. “The war isn’t over.”

Techno exhaled heavily. “Don’t screw with me right now. I’m done. I’m finished.”

“Would it help,” Philza said slowly, “if I told you the leader of the Green Army—its general, its ruler, whatever—is still out there?”

Techno blinked, hot tears still stinging his eyes. “What?”

Philza’s lips drew into a thin line—a habit Techno recognized from their empire days as something Philza did when he was trying not to scream. “I left for a thousand different reasons, Techno. When my—when she died, I just knew. Though the pain of losing her was more than I could bear, I knew something worse would come. And it did come—sooner than I expected, but it came.” He glanced at Tommy, his expression undecipherable. “Her death destroyed me. But I knew the day I lost my sons would be the day I destroyed the world.” His eyes slid to Techno. “You understand that, I think.”

“I do.” Technoblade did not want to agree with him on anything, but there was no other explanation for the voices slowly getting louder and louder inside his head. He was beginning to lose himself. He already had, if he’d hurt Wilbur like that. It had only been a few hours. There was no telling what he could do—what he would become—later. He stared at Philza, for once realizing that the Angel of Death might be called that for a reason.

“We gods are different. Our grief is infinite, but so is our power.” Philza looked down at his hands. “No being should have both. Grief, in a mortal, already does so much fucking damage. In us, it will be a thousand times worse. So I did the only thing I felt could save me—save everyone—from my grief.” Blue eyes found red. “Have you heard of the Green God, Technoblade?”

Techno found himself nodding. The Green God. An infamous force, but a mystery to all. Technoblade had found the name carved into trees older than civilization, and written into the mortals’ holy texts.

Philza smiled. “The Green God could bring him back.”

The rest of the world fell away.

And in its place, hope.

“That’s why…” A single tear—the last of its kind, the last Techno could give—fell down Techno’s cheek, warm and light. “That’s why you aren’t breaking down right now.”

“Oh.” Philza gave him a sad smile. “Believe me, old friend, I am completely losing it. I just had more practice at hiding it than you. Knowing I can revive my son doesn’t do shit for the pain of seeing him die in the first place.”

“And your wife…?”

That sobered Philza quickly. “I don’t know. The texts I read—and there were millions—had conflicting stories about the Green God’s rules. What he can and can’t do. They all agree he’s powerful. Even more powerful than you and me combined, I reckon. But he can bring back Tommy, and right now that’s the only thing that matters.”

Techno was quiet for a moment, simply processing the weight of Philza’s revelation.

Then he said, “Couldn’t you have said all that before I broke Wilbur’s face?”

Philza grimaced. “I’m sorry. I was… well, losing it, as I said. You know me.”

Techno nodded. “I do know you. Always gone in the aftermath, aren’t you?”

“Techno—”

“You could have stayed to explain,” Techno said quietly. “Or you could have taken me with you.”

They both knew he wasn’t talking about just Tommy anymore.

Philza shook his head sadly. “What gave me the strength to leave the night my wife died, Techno, was the knowledge that you were staying behind. I’d seen what you were becoming to the boys, and what the boys were becoming to you. I knew I could leave, because they had you.”

“But who did I have, Phil?” Techno demanded.

Philza’s eyes widened. “Techno, that’s—”

“Me and you,” Techno went on, not hearing anything beyond the pounding of his own heart. “That’s what you said. So where were you when I was crashing through an entire library’s worth of books on history and politics and godsdamned etiquette just to fit in in a life I never asked for? Where were you when Tommy was waking up from nightmares almost every night, or when Wilbur was pulling his hair out over being king at sixteen? Where were you when the voices got so loud for the both of us that we had to take turns reminding each other to breathe?”

There was a sharp crack, startling both Techno and Philza. They looked down at that table Philza had been leaning on, only to find a chunk of it had broken clean off in Philza’s hand.

“Oh.” Philza stared uncomprehendingly at the cracked pieces in his hand. “That’s—” He looked helplessly at Techno. “What do I do now?”

Technoblade crossed his arms. “Apologize, for one thing.”

“For the table or for leaving?” At Technoblade’s unimpressed look, Philza winced. “Sorry. That was… my awful attempt at humor, I suppose.” He took a deep breath, dropping the broken pieces from his hand. “I know I have a lot to be sorry for,” he began.

Techno sighed. “There’s going to a ‘but’ now, isn’t there?”

“But,” Philza continued, meeting Techno’s disappointed stare head-on, something close to sadness flickering over his face, “we have the rest of our lives for my atonement. I will apologize to you every minute of every day, once this is all over. I will never stop trying to make it up to you, but it will have to wait once we’re safe. Once we’re all home.” He glanced pointedly at Tommy, then back at Techno. “Like I said, this war isn’t over. The Green God is still out there. This was simply his invitation.”

“An invitation?” Techno thought about the thousands of corpses—enemy and ally—buried underneath the rubble of exploded mountains. His trident and whip, still slick with blood. What had the war god said? I’m merely a pawn in this game. “Is this all a joke to him?”

Philza nodded tightly. “He’s more god than the both of us.”

“You calling me a mortal, Philza?”

“That depends.” Philza smiled gently. “Do you still think it’s an insult?”

Techno did not reply. Instead, he turned towards the front of tent, to the rain still raging outside.

“Someone needs to find Wilbur.”

Philza found him at the very edge of the hill, kneeling over a cluster of blue flowers, the rain pouring over his shoulders. He seemed numb to the cold—to everything entirely—but when Philza spread his wings over him, keeping the downpour away, his dark eyes flickered to his father, just for a second. Just for a heartbeat. But it was acknowledgement, which was more than Phil could ever hope to deserve.

Techno’s words echoed in his head, each syllable leaving bleeding wounds that Phil would never show. Techno had already suffered so much. Too much. Phil would rather die than add to that. Whatever apology he could come up with now would be meaningless—a small, pathetic scratch against an iceberg of his own making. Actions, after all, spoke louder than words, and Philza was nothing if not a man of action. King at sixteen, Techno had said, as if it was the worst thing to be.

Now, looking down at his son, Philza knew it to be true.

Wilbur was holding his own hand in his lap. In the dark, Phil could just barely make out a jagged, barely-healed scar on his palm. He wanted to ask a million things at once—are you okay who did that what happened will you ever forgive me forgive me forgive me forgive me—but he held his silence, even if it was the second-most painful thing he had ever done.

He waited.

And waited.

He would wait until the world ended, if that was what it took.

And then, eventually, Wilbur spoke. “It really was meant to be.”

“I’m sorry?” Phil asked gently.

“Yeah.” Wilbur sighed heavily. “You should be.”

“Wil—”

“Why didn’t you visit?” Wilbur asked suddenly. Overhead, lightning arched across the midnight sky, and Phil finally allowed himself to look—really look—at his son. His jaw was sharper, his shoulders broader, but underneath the blood and grime and the haunted eyes, it was still his boy. His Wilbur, terrified of the dark. “Or even write a letter? Anything?”

Philza’s heart shattered. “Because if I did, if I allowed myself that foot in the door, I knew I wouldn’t have had the courage to leave again.”

“And did you ever think of us?”

“Of course. Every second of every day.”

“I never thought of you,” Wilbur said. “Or, at least, I tried not to. It was hard. I saw you everywhere. In the paintings, in the garden, down every hallway. In Tommy’s eyes. In Techno’s words.” He closed his scarred hand, so tightly that the wound opened once more, spilling blood onto the grass. “But what’s strange is that I never saw you in me.”

Thunder echoed over the valley, but Philza barely heard it. “I think that’s a good thing, Wilbur.”

“No.” Wilbur gave a rueful shake of his head. “No, it’s not. I’m tired of pretending it is. I’m tired of everything. I wish I could be just like you and leave it all behind without looking back.”

That was enough. Philza went and kneeled before Wilbur, his hands finding Wilbur’s shoulders. Wilbur’s expression crumpled, and Philza knew it wasn’t just rain dripping down his cheeks.

“Leaving you and Tommy,” Philza said, “almost killed me, Wilbur. But I knew I had to, to spare you from exactly this.” He shook him slightly, desperately, just to get any sort of emotion behind those cold brown eyes. “We can bring him back, Wilbur. This isn’t the end.”

He told Wilbur of his plans, of the years he’d spent hunting down every lead and every whisper of the Green God who could rewrite history, rewind death itself.

“I know,” Philza said. “I know this doesn’t absolve me of the things I’ve done—leaving you, when your mother had just… I thought I was protecting you from my world, but I should’ve understood earlier. You are my world. You and Techno and Tommy. And after this, after the Green God gives us your brother back, we can go home together. And you can be Prince Wilbur again, if you want. Or we could go somewhere else, find a place nobody knows our names and just be.”

For a while, Wilbur was silent again.

Speak, Philza begged. Please talk to me.

At last, Wilbur said, “You know, children don’t really care about why their parents leave. They only care that they did. It’s a blessing, I suppose, that I never truly was a child, even when I was young.” He nodded once, almost to himself. “And how sure are you that the Green God will give us anything? After all he’s done?”

“Because I’ll make him,” the Angel of Death vowed.

Wilbur scoffed. “Right. Techno told me about you, you know. Well, I guess you told me about Techno first, with your bedtime stories. Every time I prayed to the gods, I’ve only ever been praying to you. I’m not much of a pious man now.” Wilbur gave him a ghost of a smile. “But I suppose faith is stronger when tested, right?”

Before Philza could say anything, Wilbur threw his arms around his father, pulling him into an embrace. Philza stilled, a frozen, unmoving statue in his son’s arms. And then he cracked. He leaned into Wilbur, his own arms going around Wilbur and pulling him close. He still remembered the last time Wilbur had allowed himself to be hugged like this by his father. He was older now, and heavier, but that would never matter. Phil had never forgotten his initial hesitation at holding Tommy; that shame would follow him forever. But after that, he’d promised to hold his sons for as long as they would let him. And he had sworn never to be the first one to let go.

Phil had spent nine years, ten months, three days and sixteen hours away from his eldest son. And now, in the rain and in the dark where nobody could see him cry, he was finally home.

Wilbur buried his face in his father’s shoulder, clinging on for dear life. “This isn’t forgiveness,” he whispered.

“I know,” Philza whispered back.

“And you have a hell of a lot more explaining to do.”

“I know.”

“And when we get Tommy back, you’ll have to bend over backwards to appease him. That boy holds grudges longer than I do.”

“I know, Wilbur, I know.”

Phil felt Wilbur nod against him. “Then that’s where we’ll start.”

When they returned, Technoblade was waiting at the mouth of their tent, the light behind him making him barely more than a shadow. In his left hand was a roll of bandages ready for Wilbur’s nose. Wilbur found himself grinning, a quip already on his tongue, but was silenced as Techno crossed into the rain and wrapped Wilbur in his arms. Wilbur sunk wordlessly into the god’s embrace, and both of them were finally warm.

Forgiveness came easily with brothers, after all.

The Angel of Death looked on quietly. He would not be welcome for this moment, not when there was too much between the three of them still, but he knew someday, he would be again. One day, the four of them would be together in a home full of sunlight. Looking forward to that distant time, Philza finally felt peace.

Inside the tent, a golden-haired prince slept on.