【超字?jǐn)?shù)了，，，分三期了，，，】

Chapter 7: the echoing hymn of my fellow passerine (they took to it)

Summary:

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With trembling hands, Techno raised his trident, and was ready.

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//

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Or, a single story of multiple happy endings. And some birds are here, too.

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Notes:

ALRIGHT HERE WE GO, one last time <3 Thank you so much for your patience and your support. It has been such a journey, and I couldn't have gotten here without you guys. So, for the final time, here are the content/trigger warnings for this chapter (especially IMPORTANT this chapter!!):

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- derealization, themes of derealization and manipulation, graphic depictions of violence, death, panic attacks

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

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The arrow whistled through the air, steady and sure—just like Techno taught him.

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Techno rolled into the snow at the last moment, shaking himself out of his frozen shock before the arrow could punch through his heart. It thudded into the ground somewhere behind him, but Wilbur was already nocking another, aiming before Techno could get to his feet.

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“Wilbur!” Techno called out, reaching for him, but there was nothing behind Wilbur’s brown eyes, no clarity or kindness.

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Wilbur shot again, and this time it found its mark in Techno’s shoulder. And it hurt. It hurt.

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Biting back a scream, Techno pulled the arrow free and flipped onto his feet, his shoulder a bloody mess. He stared across the way at his student, his king, his brother, who was climbing over the window, his expression remaining blank and painless even as the broken glass cut his palms open.

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Techno could hear the Green God laughing somewhere behind him, but he kept his eyes on Wilbur as he slung his bow over his shoulder and unsheathed his rapier instead—a mindless marionette. All the strings lead back to me, Dream had said. That was how he’d led the cityfolk outside to their deaths with everything else untouched. With a bitter taste in his mouth, Techno wondered how many of the Green Army, too, had been under the Green God’s influence, acting on his orders without any choice? His mind raced as he scoured his memories for any blank faces on the battlefield that day at the Blue Valley, any movements that were too unnatural, too controlled. How many innocents had been thrown in his path, and how many had he killed without even knowing it?

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And now Wilbur was stalking towards him, graceful in his hunt. Another casualty. Another brother whose blood will be on Technoblade’s hands. He’d killed his family once before, the Green God had said. And now he was fated to kill another.

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

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There was only one way for this to end.

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With trembling hands, Techno raised his trident, and was ready.

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Philza turned at the sound of the Green God’s laughter. He still had the bastard trapped under the tip of his sword, but they both knew who had truly won.

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Dream grinned triumphantly up at him, flashing bloody palms in some sort of placating gesture. As if anything can save him from Philza’s wrath now.

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“What the fuck did you do to him?” Philza demanded, digging the heel of his boot into the Green God’s ribs. “What have you done to my son?”

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“He’s sleepwalking,” the Green God said. “Or dreaming. Or acting. Choose whichever explanation hurts least for you. Or whichever will excuse him from the mistakes he is about to commit.”

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“You’ve done this before.” Philza pressed harder. He would crush him like a twig beneath his foot. He would kick him open like the godsdamned insect he was. “You’ve—You’ve controlled him before.”

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“A few times, here and there.” Dream shrugged nonchalantly. “But I avoid it as much as I can. It’s not very fun inside your son’s head, you know. There’s a lot of heaviness here.” He considered Philza with a small smile. “Most of it concerns you, though I suppose you already know that.”

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“I could kill you,” Philza drawled, a strange calm settling into him. All his anger and grief had fled to a universe far from where he was, leaving nothing in their wake. Philza was the void Between stars and the pitch black of the earth’s final night. He was the silence after curtain call and the stillness of a home abandoned. The day I lost my sons would be the day I destroyed the world, he’d promised Techno.

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And he would start with the god that had taken them from him.

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“I could push this sword straight through you and be done with you,” he continued, gripping its ancient pommel.

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“And with my final breath, I’ll take what’s left of your son’s heart and tear it to shreds,” the Green God replied calmly. “Would you risk that? Would you risk his sanity for your own? You’ve done it before. Do it again.” He leaned forward until the tip of Philza’s blade tore a hole through his tunic. One swift push and it would tear through skin and bone, too. “Go ahead. Let him be the sacrificial lamb for your own peace of mind. Kill me, and kill him.”

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Philza stared down the blade at the smiling god. The sword had served him for eons, and it had only failed him once, when it had left the war god enough life in him to carry out one last vengeance. It would not make the same mistake again.

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In the distance, he heard Techno call Wilbur’s name. But there was no reply.

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“You’re hesitating, Philza,” said the Green God.

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“No,” said Philza, raising his sword above his head. “I am not.”

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Wilbur’s rapier glinted in the scarlet sunlight as it cut through the air Between them, aiming straight for Techno’s heart. Techno spun backwards, the rapier grazing his sleeve and missing skin entirely. But the assault continued, fierce and relentless, the calculated movements a product of a decade under Techno’s tutelage. There should be pride, Techno knew. He should have been proud to see how far Wilbur had grown, from a spoiled little prince with shaky legs and soft hands to a hardened fighter. But, even from the beginning, he had always taught Wilbur to defend. To protect. Because that was Wilbur’s nature, that was who he was.

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Not this. Even in Techno’s worst nightmares, never this.

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Techno parried another sharp blow, stumbling backwards over the snowy ground. There was only the sound of steel striking steel and his boots in retreat. Wilbur pushed against Techno’s trident, battling for the upper hand, and in that moment, they were close enough for Techno to meet Wilbur’s dim eyes. A flicker of recognition, or a spark of surprise—Techno would take anything.

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“Wilbur.” Please. “Wilbur, you have to shake him off. I know you can do it, alright? I taught you how to ignore the voices, and this isn’t any different. Ignore his directions and follow mine.”

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For a moment, Techno thought he might have seen something shift behind Wilbur’s expression, like lightning behind a dark curtain. But then it was gone, or maybe it had never been there at all. As quick as a goodbye, Wilbur jumped back and then struck out, kicking at Techno. Techno skidded backwards, almost falling over into the frozen ground. He righted himself just in time to block another savage blow that reverberated down into his bones. But even as he was recovering from the shock of it, Wilbur’s hand flashed as he reached into his quiver and produced an arrow, clutching it in his fist and bringing it down into Techno’s uninjured shoulder. Techno bit back a scream as it shredded through cloth and skin.

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He spun away from Wilbur, breathing heavily. He scarcely had time to pull the arrow out before Wilbur was on him again, raining blow after blow that Techno could only half-heartedly parry. Wilbur was backing him up against the church. Soon, there would be nowhere left to run.

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In a desperate attempt to put space Between them, Techno swung his trident in an arc. He knew Wilbur would duck harmlessly under it, hopefully giving Techno time to think of Better strategies than praying for a miracle, but Wilbur was fast. Too fast. He ducked, then sprung up in the same breath. He swung with a careless lethality, this time aiming for Techno’s face. It slashed the air a mere inch from his cheek before it drew back once more and then shot point-first towards his eye.

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Techno’s breath caught in his throat.

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Everything was moving too fast, and too slow. He could see the snow melting against Wilbur’s cheeks, glistening like tears. He could see the blade heading towards him. He could see himself standing in a pavilion of white marble, ivy and wisteria parting as a young boy with a stubborn jaw and more stubborn heart stepped in. He could see this very maneuver acted out by a wooden sword, guided by his own hand. When in doubt, Your Highness, he heard himself saying, go for the eyes.?

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All at once, Technoblade wasn’t facing his brother. It was just another opponent. Another threat he had to survive.

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And so by instinct, his trident rose, catching the rapier’s blade in its prongs and twisting it out of Wilbur’s grip. It flew into the air, spinning like a broken compass before it fell harmlessly into the snow a few paces away. Wilbur turned to look at it, his hands empty but already calculating what it would take to be armed once more. He tried reaching for his bow. Techno wouldn’t give him the chance.

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With the butt of his trident—a gift, once, but just a weapon now—Techno struck at Wilbur’s chest, sending him crashing to the ground. And then his trident was at Wilbur’s throat, tipping his chin up towards his reckoning.

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“Are you coming back to me yet?” Techno demanded, the words scratching his throat as he said them.

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And for the first time, Wilbur replied. “Techno,” he breathed. His eyes softened with understanding, and then panic as the world slowly righted itself. “Techno, gods, why am I on the ground?”

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Relief burned through Techno as he met Wilbur’s clear eyes. Relief, and shame. Shame that it had taken just a few moments of fear to return him to that bloody battlefield that he thought he had abandoned long ago. Shame that he had, even for a second, forgotten Wilbur’s face. Shame that after all his talk of change and redemption, there were still some days where violence was the only place he could run to. He was tired of it, and yet it was all he had. If a father’s arms never forgot the shape of a child, then Techno’s hands might always remember the shape of his curled fists. The thought terrified him almost as much as the look on Wilbur’s face did.

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“Did you hit me?” Wilbur asked quietly, looking up at Techno through wet lashes. “I don’t remember… Techno, why did you hit me?”

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It wasn’t you, Techno wanted to shout. And it wasn’t me.

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But his trident was still a breath away from cutting into Wilbur’s skin.

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“I’m sorry,” Techno rasped, feeling as if he’d just ran the entire circumference of this gods-damned world. “Is it you? Is it you now?”

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Wilbur blinked drowsily as if coming out from a long sleep. “Of course it’s me, Techno. Who else could it be?”

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Techno felt the fight drain from him in an instant. He drew his trident back and offered his free hand to Wilbur, the silver scars running through his palms like the invisible the webs that kept him forever bound to this brotherhood. “Come on,” Techno said softly. “We have a god to kill.”

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Wilbur’s eyes hardened with resolve even as he smiled at Techno. “For Tommy.”

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“For Tommy,” Techno repeated as Wilbur took his hand, everything that came before already forgotten. It was an interlude, nothing more, and they were on the same side again. This was right. This was their fate, no matter what else was dictated.

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Wilbur was on his feet, swaying slightly. He eyed Techno oddly, snowflakes caught in the tangles of his dark hair. He could have been one of his mother’s paintings, standing like that in the middle of this frozen city, immortalized in a way Techno could never be. And then, with furrowed brows, he pulled Techno into a warm embrace. Techno stiffened in surprise, but soon sunk into the comforting circle of Wilbur’s arms, his wounded shoulders screaming with the effort of returning his gentle hold.

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“Techno,” Wilbur whispered into Techno’s sunset hair, breathing in the lingering scent of flowers long rotted.

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“Wil?” Techno whispered back.

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“Once penned,” Wilbur said shakily, “an ending cannot be restored,” and he plunged a dagger straight into Techno’s back.

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Not a dagger.

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The dagger.

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The dagger that had stopped a young prince’s heart. The dagger that had once lived in a blood god’s bandolier. The dagger that had been part of a collection gifted by an angel of death. It had passed Between them all, their fingers all leaving invisible marks in its carved handle. And now it was in Wilbur’s hand. He heard a soft, distant exhale of surprise as it carved through the man he once called brother—the dagger’s final scabbard.?

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The cycle was complete.

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The curtains were drawing closed.

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All Wilbur could do was scream at an empty stage.

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Techno’s life had not been the easiest thing in the world. He had been in more battles than he could count, and more wars than anyone deserved. His body bore the evidence of a tiresome existence; he could still feel Wilbur’s worried eyes tracing the cross-stitch pattern of scars on his back, though even more ran under the cover of his clothes. He’d been burned, beaten and shot, and had felt every type of blade under the sun pierce his godly skin. And all those hurts combined still could not compare to the pain that went through him as he felt Wilbur’s embrace slacken, and Techno fell to the ground, ruby blood staining the soft white snow beneath him. His blood. Blood that Wilbur had drawn.

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His breath quickened as the agony tore through him. Gods were not built to suffer this anguish. But, even as he laid there, feeling both cold and on fire at once, he could hear the Green God’s voice in his head—not the chorus of the voices, but a memory that felt more ancient than their eternal cycle.

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Mortal hearts can only take so much hurt.

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Techno groaned, shutting his eyes to a sudden piercing pain.

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Immortal hearts aren’t much different, especially if they’ve been foolishly given to the wrong people.

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Was this it, then? Was this heartbreak?

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A shadow eclipsed all sunlight. Techno forced himself to open his eyes, and found Wilbur standing over him with a knife in his hands—still dripping with Techno’s blood and still rusted with Tommy’s.

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Wilbur had kept it. The symbol of Techno’s greatest mistake, the thing that had killed one brother and had nearly shattered the other, Wilbur had kept it.

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And all at once, Techno knew. Wilbur had not forgiven him. And if Wilbur could not forgive him, who could? Who would? He could search the entire universe and the answer would still be the same. No one. A sob of pain, violent and sudden and unfamiliar, escaped Techno’s trembling mouth. No one at all.

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Wilbur tilted his head to the side as he considered Techno lying in the snow. He went to Techno’s side and kneeled there, as if he might provide comfort, though the light had once again fled from behind his eyes. But whether it was him or the Green God calling the tune now, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore beyond the pain.

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Techno felt his shoulders shake, and a beat later realized he must be laughing—a bitter, angry sound. The last wail of a bird struck from the sky.

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He still somehow had his trident in his hand, but he let it go now. He let everything go once he saw Wilbur raise his arm high, a guillotine about to drop on the wickedest criminal the world had ever seen.

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“It’s alright,” Techno whispered to the brother he knew was still somehow listening, somewhere. “I won’t hurt you again. It’s over.” His heart stuttered out its final pulses. “I’m never going to hurt anyone again.”

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Techno thought Wilbur’s hands must have trembled a bit, but it could have been his own vision failing, or a trick of the dying light.

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“It’s alright,” Techno repeated softly, believing it with everything he had left in him. “It is not your fault.”

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The voices—Dream’s voice—were strangely silent, and Techno felt its absence with bitter relief. Here, at last, was the eternal quiet.

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“Look me in the eyes. Let him look me in the eyes,” Techno demanded. “At least give me that.”

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The soft brown shade of Wilbur’s eyes, so bright in the fading sunlight, was the last thing the god of blood saw before the dagger dropped.

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Philza’s blade dug into and through the Green God’s shoulder. Emerald eyes widened with surprise as Philza kept going until the sword pierced through the rubble and then the earth beneath, pinning the god into the ground. It was not the unbreakable fetters the bastard deserved, but it would have to do as a restraint. Red blood—Even he bleeds red, Philza thought—bloomed through the dirty-white cloth of Dream’s tunic and ran down in rivulets into the stones below.

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Philza loosened his grip on the hilt of his sword, and then let go completely.

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“That should keep you still for a while,” said Philza, stepping back from his makeshift prisoner.

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The Green God eyed the blade with annoyance, trying to rise and then flinching with pain, before turning his glare on the man that had bound him, however temporarily, to the earth.

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“I could still ruin him from here,” Dream mused darkly. “It would only take one flick of my wrist.”

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“Wilbur isn’t that weak,” Philza replied coldly before turning his back on his enemy. “He isn’t weak at all.”

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His wings spread wide. He could see, in the distance, two figures in the snow. One lying, one kneeling. Philza would not be too late again.

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“Choosing to run away then, are we?” the Green God shouted after him.

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“I’m choosing my son,” Philza answered, and was gone.

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It took exactly four seconds for the Angel of Death to close the gap.

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One. The blood god murmured his last assurances to a king with vengeance poised over his heart.

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Two. As infinitesimal as the breath of the smallest creature ever born from stardust, the dagger began to shake in the ruined king’s hand. A frown began to tug at the corner of the Green God’s lips, an unfamiliar shape. For once, he realized, he might actually have to put in some effort.

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Three. Despite it all, despite everything, despite the Angel of Death’s distant shout, despite the cracks in the wall, the dagger still plunged.

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Four. But Philza was there.

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His hand closed around his son’s wrist, ending his weapon’s violent arc a hair’s breadth away Techno’s still chest. The father and his heir kneeled on opposite sides of the blood god, the dagger trembling Between them as they fought for dominance: Wilbur to push and wound, Philza to seize and protect.

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Wilbur raised his severe glare at the disruption. “You were not meant to be here,” he growled, the words not his own.

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“But I am,” Philza said quietly, tightening his hold on Wilbur. “Drop the dagger, Wil.”

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Wilbur’s eyebrows furrowed as he pushed harder against Philza. “You should hate him,” Wilbur drawled. “He brought Tommy to that battlefield. The man that killed Tommy meant to kill him. You should hate him,” he repeated more strongly, a hint of emotion final creeping into his voice. Was it anger? Was it grief? Was there a difference?

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Between them, Techno took a rattling breath, but did not speak.

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“Do you?” Philza asked gently. “Do you hate him, Wilbur?”

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“Yes,” Wilbur said. And then, quieter, “No.” He closed his eyes suddenly, as if in pain. “What I mean—no. He killed my brother. But I killed my brother, too. We all killed him, the three of us. All of us are at fault.” When he opened his eyes again, they shone with tears. “But if I kill you, too, then who will be left to forgive me?”

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“Yourself,” Philza replied, slowly inching the dagger up and away from Techno. And Wilbur let him. “You can forgive yourself, Wilbur, because I already forgive you. No matter what you do to me.”

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“You don’t mean that,” Wilbur said gravely. “You can’t mean that.”

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In response, Philza tenderly raised Wilbur’s hand towards his chest, until the dagger’s point rested over where his heart hid beating. “Let me prove it, then.”

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For a moment, Wilbur only looked at him, his hand trembling in Philza’s hold. And then he said, “He’s in my head.” His grip tightened around the hilt as warm tears spilled over his pale cheeks. “He’s everywhere.” He began pushing the blade forwards. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

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Philza smiled sadly as the dagger’s sharp point found skin and drew blood. “This isn’t your fault. It will never be your fault.” Blood bloomed and spilled over, like the roots of a plant breaking past its inadequate vase, but the pain of it was secondary. With his son pushing a dagger into his heart, Philza said, “I will love you forever.”

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Wilbur’s expression crumpled. “Father,” he gasped, and dropped the dagger.

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Before it could fall into the snow, Techno was rising to his knees, his arms going around Wilbur. He pulled the mortal king into a tight embrace, and Philza for the first time saw the wound in his back. Techno had gotten worse injuries, Philza knew, but this was different. It must hurt like hell to even breathe with it, but Techno held on to Wilbur regardless, as if letting go was a fate worse than death. Wilbur, in turn, buried his face into Techno’s bloody shoulder, his own arms slack at his sides as he fell apart. He gave a strangled gasp, and then was crying in earnest, trembling with the force of his misery.

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Philza’s heart cracked just a little bit more at the sound.

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“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Wilbur whispered, his words muffled against Techno’s hair and interrupted every syllable by sobs that came from deep within him. “I’m sorry for everything.”

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“Hey.” Techno’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Consider it payback for me breaking your nose.”

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“I don’t want payback.” Wilbur sighed as he leaned into Techno’s embrace. He looked so small and breakable. A glass figurine of a boy. “I just want to go home. I want to bury my little brother.”

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Philza couldn’t see Techno’s face but knew it must look as shattered as Philza felt.

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“I want that, too,” Techno said. “We’ll do it together, alright?”

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“Okay,” Wilbur breathed. “You and me.”

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“Me and you,” Techno repeated.

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“Aw,” a distant voice cooed. “That’s sweet. But are you done now?”

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Techno and Wilbur broke apart, bloodstained and still ready to fight on as they turned towards the disrupting sound. Philza felt his pulse jump as he followed their cold glares towards the far building, where a green-eyed god stood on top of rubble, bleeding for his shoulder but otherwise unscathed. He held Philza’s sword in one hand and gave it a casual spin, splattering blood across the snow before him before stepping forwards, his gait unhurried.

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There was a shuffle as Techno and Philza placed themselves in front of Wilbur.

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The Green God rolled his eyes as he continued stalking forwards. “Come on, there’s no need for that. You’ve already flung me from his head. That little thread is severed completely.” He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Would have been fun if you’d killed each other, though. What a tragic ending you would have written.” He considered them with a thoughtful tilt of his head. “I could still use Techno, though—”

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“No, you can’t,” Techno snapped. “I’m done with you and your little voices. Have been for years.”

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“You fancy yourself immune to me, then?” Dream smirked. “There are more ways than one to control someone, you know.”

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The realization was slow, but steady, coming gradually to Philza like the tides crawling towards the shore. And then, all at once, it struck him.

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“Control me, then,” he said suddenly, rising to his feet and meeting the Green God’s stare. “Go on.”

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Dream narrowed his eyes at him, with something blazing to life behind that carefully lax expression. Layers and layers, and Philza was going to tear them all down. The truth was there. It was so close, he could feel the weight of it in his hands. There were stories before, of the Green God being afraid of you, Techno had said. Phil had known of those stories. And he’d spent decades since asking why. Why him? What did he have?

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He was going to find out very soon.

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“Phil, what are you doing?” Techno hissed from behind him.

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“Just asking a question,” Philza replied. “You’ve threatened to pull Techno’s strings. You’ve used Wilbur against us. You’ve been the voice in their heads for years, mocking us all from afar. But you’ve never been in mine. Why is that, Dream?” He said the name deliberately, lacing each letter with poisonous intention. “Why is that?”

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The arrogance slipped off the Green God’s face, replaced with a tempered viciousness. Philza had the distinct impression that he was facing a wild beast kept on a frayed leash. He was treading on dangerous territory. Every instinct screamed to be careful and to draw back.

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Instead, Philza approached without caution.

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“You are afraid of me,” he said. “You are afraid of what I am and what I have. And that pisses you off, doesn’t it? It angers you to know what I am, you can never be. What you take, I give. What you ruin, I restore.” With a deft maneuvering of his boot, Philza flicked the bloody dagger by his feet up towards him. Philza snatched it out of the air without missing a beat. “I am your antithesis.”

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The Green God began to laugh, but it was a delicate sound. “You are nothing,” he said scornfully. He stopped walking and pointed Philza’s own sword right at him. “Allow me to prove it.”

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“Techno.” Philza settled into a fighting stance. “Take Wilbur and run.”

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“You know, Philza,” Techno said, stumbling to Philza’s side with his trident back in his hands, “after all these years, I thought you’d finally get it through your thick skull that I don’t take any orders from you.”

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Before Philza could protest, Wilbur had walked up to his other side, an arrow already nocked into his bow, a fierce clarity in his dark eyes. He gave his father a grim nod.

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“We started this together,” said Wilbur, “we end together, too.”

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“But your injuries—”

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“Eh.” Techno shrugged his bleeding shoulders. “Flesh wounds, at best.”

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“I almost killed you,” Wilbur said dryly.

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“That doesn’t sound right. Must have been a different, much weaker blood god.” It would have been a more believable deflection if pain had not flickered across his face as he said it. “Now, look sharp, Your Majesties. The enemy approaches.”

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“Enemy is such a strong word,” the Green God mused. “We are old friends, after all. Old, old friends.”

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“Oh,” said Wilbur, “shut the fuck up,” and let his arrow fly.

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It missed. Obviously. The Green God was a wickedly fast bastard, and Wilbur had barely been aiming—he had fired for the sake of firing, just to have his hands do damage to something that he hated instead of something that he loved. Dream danced easily out of harm’s way, only to find the Angel of Death flying towards him, slashing out with a bloody dagger. Dream parried with Father’s own sword and jumped back, and was met by Techno striking out with his trident. The Green God ducked and dodged under the Techno’s barrage, each movement fluid like a candle dancing in the gentle air.

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In the lull Between Techno’s attacks, Dream spun on his heel with his sword cleaving the space Between the three of them. Father leapt backwards, but Techno dropped to the ground instead, sweeping his leg out in an attempt to trip their opponent.? The Green God jumped over him, just as Wilbur let another arrow fly, this time with every intention of embedding it straight through the pale column of Dream’s neck.

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But Dream simply grabbed the arrow out of the air, snapping it in half with this thumb and tossing it over his shoulder before he even landed back down on the snow. Techno scrambled to his feet to meet Dream’s renewed offensive, but Wilbur could tell even from afar that his movements were sloppy and sluggish. Despite his posturing, the wounds Wilbur had inflicted on him had cut deep, and not a second went by without Wilbur remembering the way the blade had slipped so easily into Techno’s back. Whatever he’d said of a god’s invincibility, they still bled the same way mortals do.

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Even now, Wilbur could feel the voices—the Green God’s little spiders—lurking in the edges of his consciousness, just waiting for him to let his guard down again.

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They only seemed to strike when Wilbur least expected it: when he was falling asleep or when he was caught in the tides of his own emotions. It explained how he’d been to places he didn’t remember walking to, or witnessed things he shouldn’t have, or done things he never would do when he was fully himself. He could still see Tommy’s face in his mind’s eye, trembling in his cot as Wilbur stood over him with a shard of glass.

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Wilby, please, don’t hurt me, he’d said then, the same way Techno had whispered, It’s alright. It is not your fault. Too many times had Wilbur been used against the people he loved the most. Tommy. Techno. His kingdom. His father. All to serve the Green God’s ends. Puppets on a string, all of them were. But if Dream wanted him to dance, then Wilbur was going to give him one hell of a closing act.

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He was running low on arrows, and the gods were moving too fast for his mortal eyes to catch, so he threw both bow and quiver away. He rushed towards where his rapier sat in the snow, its intricate pommel glinting in invitation. The weapon slipped easily into his hand. It was an extension of his fury, and they joined the fray together.

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Techno had almost forgotten how well he and Philza fought together. They slipped into old, familiar rhythms—like the ebb and flow of the ancient ocean. The years fell away, and Techno was back in one of the myriad battlefields they’d decimated when they were younger and more foolish. Philza struck when Techno withdrew, and Techno stepped Between Philza and the enemy when he struck back, taking the brunt of the attack with the silver shaft of his trident. It rattled him down to his bones, but the jolt was a welcome rush, making Techno grin despite the screaming pain of his fresh wounds.

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Why was it that Techno felt most alive when he was fighting off death?

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?The Green God must have seen the gleam in his eyes, because he stepped away from Techno with a knowing smirk.

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Enjoying yourself, blood god? the voices taunted.

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Techno thought of Tommy and Wilbur and his lost, nameless siblings.

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“I will,” Techno replied, throwing his trident in a fierce arc across the frozen grounds.

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To avoid it, the Green God stepped to the side—straight into Philza’s path. Philza had his dagger brandished, ready to make the killing blow, ready to claim another life. And then Dream leapt upwards. The dagger passed harmlessly under his feet, which kept soaring higher and higher.

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“Aw, gods damn it all,” Technoblade groaned. “The bastard can fly?”

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He hovered in the sky suspended by no strings Techno could see. No raven wings like Philza, either. He simply floated in the air, almost casually, as if it was a simple stroll through the woods. He caught Techno’s eye, and smiled. Techno cursed himself for his naivety; the man could restructure the very fabric of the universe, of course he could fly.

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Philza’s shoulders tensed as he gazed up at the Green God in his lackadaisical flight.

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“The sky is my domain, Dream,” Philza drawled. A shiver went down Techno’s spine; the Angel of Death’s words were as cold as the tundra around them. “You dare trespass?”

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The Green God crossed his arms behind his head and adopted a thoughtful expression. “Nothing in this realm is yours to keep, Philza. Not the sky, not the earth you stand on, and not your family.” He scoffed derisively. “I thought I already made that abundantly clear.”

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Philza’s wings spread, about to take flight.

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“Techno!”

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Techno turned towards the voice. He would always turn towards that voice.

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Wilbur was running up towards him, a sword gripped tightly his hand. He made a single motion with the other, and Techno understood at once. He crouched and cupped his hands over his knee. He gritted his teeth and braced for impact as Wilbur neared, his brows drawn together in focus.

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And then Wilbur was stepping into the cradle of Techno’s hands, a heavy, yet steady weight. In the space of a heartbeat, Techno straightened, pouring all of his remaining strength into his arms, and he threw.

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Before Philza could even lift a foot off the ground, Wilbur was soaring over him, as fast and as lethal as one of his own arrows. He raised his rapier high over his head, its sharp point cleaving through the air. Techno saw the Green God’s eyes widen in surprise, right before Wilbur collided with him and sent both of them crashing to the ground in a blur of blades and a tangle of flailing limbs.

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Techno rushed towards where they fell, wrenching his trident out of the ground as he passed it.

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By the time he skidded to a halt before the Green God, Wilbur already had him pinned to the ground with the tip of his rapier at Dream’s throat. Wilbur pried the hilt of Philza’s sword out of the god’s grip and offered it back to its owner without taking his dark eyes off of the enemy. Just like Techno taught him.

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“You dropped this,” Wilbur said, chest heaving but voice steady. A long scratch running down the length of his cheek was the only evidence of his fall.

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Philza took his sword back with a confused glance at Techno. “When did Wil become an acrobat?” he asked incredulously.

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Wilbur wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his free hand and replied, “My father’s avian god genetics passed over me, so I had to compensate. When you can’t fly, you learn how to jump as high as you can.”

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“Poetic,” Techno drawled, “but a lie. I taught him that maneuver to run from diplomats.”

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“I never used it until now, though,” Wilbur grumbled defensively. And then, quieter, “Snitch.”

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Techno gave him a quiet smile only a handful of people had ever witnessed. Like a miracle, Tommy had once said of it. Like a godsdamned fucking miracle, that smile!

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“How many times,” the Green God asked wryly, cutting the fragile levity into shreds, “must you pin me down before you realize it’s all futile?”

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Wilbur glared. “As many times as it takes.”

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“Go on, then.” Dream sighed, tilting his head back to bare his throat to them all. “Kill me. Or have a crisis of morals about killing me—your choice, really. We’ve been here before. You’ve come this close before, though not one step further.”

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“Why?” Philza asked. “What stopped us?”

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The god’s emerald eyes glinted like chunks of broken ice. Something stirred in Techno’s gut—a sudden reaction to an ancient, nameless fear. Techno’s hand settled on Wilbur’s shoulder. Something was wrong. Or something was going to be wrong, very soon, and he needed to get Wilbur out of here, like Philza had intended. He could see Philza in his periphery, holding tightly to his sword. He could tell he felt it, too.

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The war was over.

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The winner was decided. Had been decided, long ago.

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“Like I said.” The Green God smiled at Phil, and only at Phil. “It would only take one flick of my wrist.”

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He raised a hand—a single, pale hand dusted with melting snow and half-dried blood. And, in the end, that really was all it took.

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They froze as it finally settled over them. A change in the air. A new page turning. A hushed shuffle as a new audience settled into their seats for another show.

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Another loop. Another story. Another life.

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Wilbur turned to Techno with wide, wide eyes. The rapier fell from his grip as he opened his mouth in a silent shout.

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Philza, Techno thought. Philza, help—

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But Philza was made of stone.

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And the world ended in silence.

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And they lived happily ever after.

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“That’s it?”

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Wilbur glanced up from his instrument with furrowed brows. “What do you mean?” he asked as he lowered the violin from his chin and gazed at the woman sitting across from him, her heavy skirts spilling around her in a cerulean tide.

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She did not meet his confused stare. Her attention was fixed entirely on the easel in front of her, turned slightly away from him so all he could see were random splotches of color. Paint stained her hands and hair and skin: deep indigos and soft blues and the dark browns of the eyes that were his inheritance from her.

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Mother considered her canvas in silence for a few seconds before making a gentle stroke with her brush. “You stopped playing all of a sudden,” she murmured absently. “I thought the song was finished.”

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“It’s not,” Wilbur said. “Just like your painting isn’t, either.”

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She shot him a rueful smile. “When did you get so cheeky?”

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“When you weren’t looking, I suppose.” He pointed his violin’s bow accusingly at her. “And I only stopped because you interrupted me.”

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“I did not interrupt you! I would never.” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear—leaving a golden streak of paint across her cheek in the process—before turning back to her painting. “You remember the rules for the Art Tower, don’t you, my boy?”

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Wilbur rolled his eyes affectionately at her. The ‘Art Tower’ had been his mother’s idea, and her first mistake had been allowing a ten-year-old Wilbur to name it. It was the east tower of the castle, and it was meant to be a place just for the two of them. A place where Wilbur could play as loud and as badly as he wanted, and where Mother could accidentally spill jars of paint without ruining some random priceless artifact. A place where stringed instruments hung on the walls instead of morning stars and swords, and worn easels stood in place of suits of armor. It was a tower. And it was full of art. Thus, following young Wilbur’s stream of consciousness—the Art Tower.

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Older Wilbur would have chosen something a bit more tasteful. He would name it after the massive arched windows that let in the soft morning light, or the daffodils that grew at the sills, or the white lace curtains dancing in the breeze like the veil of a bride made of air. But, it would be Art Tower, now and forever.

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Tommy would never let him live it down.

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“I’m not hearing any music,” Mother hummed.

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Wilbur sighed lovingly as he put the violin back under his chin. “The things I do for you, Mother.”

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Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she gave him a dazzling smile. “If you finish your song,” she said, “I’ll let you peek at the canvas.”

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“That’s bribery. You are bribing your son. Your own sweet boy!”

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She tossed her head back in a laugh, brown and gray ringlets falling over her shoulders. “Dance for me, my puppet!” she chortled. She waggled the fingers that weren’t holding the paintbrush in some vague approximation of puppetry. “Dance!”

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Wilbur shook his head and raised his eyes to the heavens. “Alright,” he said. “From the top, then.”

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He put bow to string and began to play again.

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A shadow fell over Techno as a giggle interrupted the sounds of the forest, chasing the birds back to their nests. Without opening his eyes, Techno said, “I know it’s you.”

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Another giggle, quieter this time, as if she were trying to swallow back her childish glee.

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“Papa wants you home,” she said cheerfully. “You’re in big trouble.”

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“Sure,” Techno drawled sarcastically, “and you aren’t a little brat.”

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“Hey. That’s rude! Papa said you weren’t allowed to be rude to me anymore!”

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Techno felt something against his ribs that might have been a kick or a gentle breeze. He smiled to himself as he finally cracked one eye open to look at his little sister. She was pouting, arms crossed and brows furrowed as if she could ever be terrifying to him. She intimidated him as much as the bumblebee drifting drowsily overhead, so close Techno could reach out and trap it Between his cupped hands. But instead he stayed where he was, arms folded under his head, the grass beneath him as soft as a bed of hay.

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“Papa really does want you home, though,” she reiterated, even as she dropped onto the ground beside him and laid her little head against his chest, her twin braids like pink snakes coiling across his torso. Techno leveled his breathing so she could stay lying there peacefully, as if she were a wild animal that could be spooked away with one wrong move. But though she did have some of the wilderness in her, there was no doubt in his mind that she was fearless. Six years old, and Techno already knew that she would someday rule the world—and he would be the proudest older brother on the face of the earth.

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“Techno?” she asked pensively after a moment of comfortable silence (there was seldom a different kind of silence Between the two of them; in a family of loud, loving parents and louder, more annoying siblings, he and his youngest sister had managed to carve out a space for themselves where they did not need to shout to be heard). She was gazing up at the foliage above them, her face dotted with the sunlight that punctured stubbornly through the leaves, unwilling to let their route to the earth be interrupted by anything less than a fellow star child. “Do you ever feel like,” she began haltingly, “l(fā)ike your spirit is too big for your own body?”

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“Nah,” Techno replied after a serious consideration. “My spirit likes where it is just fine.”

:))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))也就普普通通一個鳥雀啦，哈哈，哈哈哈，哈哈哈哈

本文的原作者是thcscus(blujamas)，還是非常感謝他為我們帶來了這么感(蝦)人(仁)肺(豬)腑(心)的小說，都去支持原作者?。?！

【所有內(nèi)容版權(quán)均歸原作者所有，up只是搬運】

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