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People have always seen Tommy as an omen. Like a circling bird of carrion in the middle of a farmer's field, whether it be good or bad, something is amiss wherever he goes. All the way to the tips of his toes or to the golden flecks that shimmer in his irises like a heat mirage. The wide berth that anyone in his path gives him would confuse an unaware passerby who would only see a ramshackle vagabond in dirty clothes. Someone who usually never gets a second glance in a large market, and only the suspicious eyes of merchants follow. Some in the street would turn to him and spit at his feet, calling him bad luck. But most didn’t know that their priests would half-drag him to their sanctified temples to have him prophesy the future, his eyes bleeding the gold of the gods.
Oracle .
Seer .
The priests and disciples whisper to him with referent breath as they smeared colored paints over his cheeks and on his palms. The color of their gods. Red, purple, blues, and greens. Yellow if they worship the sun. But never gold.
Never black.
The color for mourners and death. The feathers of crows and ravens. Of the starless nights with no moonlight to guide a weary traveler away from the dangers of the dark. It is also the color for the three lords of the underworld. Traditionally, if a priest were to paint their marks, there would be one on the left cheek for madness, one on the forehead for death, and the last on the right cheek for blood. But that is forbidden because you do not paint your skin with the color of the exiled ones lest you catch their attention. You only wear the marks for a funeral and only when observed by a head priest. To make sure you’re not praying for their downfall, most likely.
Which Tommy thinks is bullshit.
Most head priests are corrupt, and that will be their undoing if their gods catch wind. Possibly smote with a random lightning bolt or a wayward flood. The stupid idiots don’t think that Tommy can see their greedy eyes or twitchy fingers as they try to convince him to stay just one night in their temple. No thanks, Tommy learned his lesson seventy years ago that that’s the quickest way to get locked up in an overly damp room for months on end. He’ll just read them their future or whatever and take their freshly baked bread. Tommy doesn’t need to get kidnapped by some arrogant bastard who will probably cut out his tongue when he eventually hears something that he doesn’t want to hear. If possible, he would like to avoid that because he doesn’t think that would be a Big Man move. Not at all.
But at least some of the disciples are much more tolerable if they’re not wholly bound and blinded by their faith. He likes them much more when they help him wash off the paint instead of trying to find a river to dunk himself into when he usually leaves. He sometimes prefers if he knows that he’s close to Sam’s territory. The sprawling meadows are practically bursting with flowers, and the emerald forests with towering trees. Or The deepest caverns with a glowing Redstone, pulsing with power. Tommy can always find a place to lower his head at night, whether in a grassy thicket or Sam’s many small shrines spread about his domain.
Sam has been his patron god for the last two hundred years, keeping him relatively safe from mortals and gods. Gods can be rather possessive beings, especially godlings such as himself, who have taken to roaming because Tommy is mortal when you look at him from a god's perspective. More easily bendable and fluid in his purpose than a god already set in their ways. Spirits, he’s practically an infant in the eyes of almost all the gods except for Sam, who views him more like a wayward child, which is not any better; however, it is an improvement from being seen as a hapless baby. The last time a God ever visited him that wasn’t Sam was a hundred years ago, and it was Dream of all people who was constantly badgering him to switch out patrons, like that would ever happen. Tommy knows that he’s afforded a lot more, let’s say….. freedom than most other godlings who can wander but not far from their patrons’ temple in fear of being snatched up by a much more powerful God.
Or Gods, plural in any case.
Tommy knows that his freedom comes at a price. He’s a lot more vulnerable, and if he does get taken, there’s not a lot of influence that Sam can laud over another’s claim. Technically, if he’s not in Sam’s territory or if Sam‘s not directly watching over him at that very moment, he’s free game . This means Tommy has to be careful.
And that can sometimes be a problem.
—————————————
The sun beats down on Tommy’s back as he lays on his stomach on a grassy knoll, bright and colorful wildflowers bringing spots of color to the overly green atmosphere. He has a basket of berries lying to his side. Tommy’s eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep; he can’t sleep when it’s this hot and can feel beads of sweat go down his back. He’s already practically ripped off his cloak the second he started to hear the annoying hum of cicadas midway through the morning. Tommy groans as he finally gives up and rolls over on his back. He blinks slowly up at the lowering afternoon sun, clouds sparsely making up the blue sky. He sits up, wispy grass tickling the underside of his legs, and spots that babbling brook on the other side of the field. The sound of rushing water is soothing. Tommy goes to stand, wobbling as the blood flows back to his head, and vaguely stumbles over in that direction.
He lets his hands brush the tall grass as he moves and basks in the cool breeze that comes off the field, making it gently sway like the rolling waves of the ocean. The air smells clean, free from the stink of manure and unwashed bodies of the village a little south of where he is. Tommy can feel the green paint that the high priest smeared on his forehead beginning to itch— it being long past the point of needing to wash it off and the cracked tear tracks of gold down his cheeks from when he read the future in exchange for the berries. Tommy thinks it’s pretty generous of him, considering he much rather take money over food. But they were Tommy’s favorite, and he was given a large enough amount that he’ll probably split it in half to offer up to Sam the next time he crosses one of Sam’s little shrines.
There are bees flitting flower to flower and a cute little bumble getting stuck in a daffodil. Tommy turns his gaze to the little bee and takes a suspicious look around— you can never be too careful. Anyone could be watching, and Tommy wouldn’t like his big man reputation to be tarnished over helping a bee out of a flower. Sufficiently satisfied, he reaches down and takes the stem and taps the little fluff ball out, the bumblebee covered in pollen.
“Hey, little man, are you working hard for your hive?” Tommy whispers to the little bug as it buzzes harmlessly in his palm, rolling right side up with flicks of its wings to clear them of pollen. It crawls around a bit, and Tommy strokes gently with one of his fingers down its fluffy body. He smiles as the bee lifts off and lazily buzzes through the air to its next flower. He’s still staring in the direction the bee went when a harsh caw breaks the peaceful silence of the meadow.
Tommy jolts violently, his neck twinging as it snaps to the circling crow above. It’s a small, sleek thing, but Tommy feels like it’s the loudest thing he’s ever heard. The crow lands at the top of a tall tree, obscured by the leaves, and is silent, staring at him as he nervously looks away.
For some reason, he feels uneasy in his meadow.
When the forest doesn’t go eerily quiet, like when a predator is on the prowl, is when Tommy finally continues his path towards the brook. He keeps his head on a swivel when he finally reaches the sandy bank. The water is blessedly cold as he plunges his hands into the creek halfway up his forearms. He viciously scrubs away the paint on his palms and grins mischievously when he dunks his entire head underwater. His face is beet red from rubbing when he finally lifts it from the water and whips his wet curls out of his face. The water feels so nice. He leans back, placing his feet in the rushing water, and if he looks closely enough, he can see little minnows in the shallows. Frogs hid in the algae. He’s entranced by the reeds dancing with the breeze when he spots white in his periphery.
A sweet cluster of Lily of the Valley. His favorite flower.
Tommy tilts his head to the side, his eyebrows raised in confusion. As far as he’s aware, this area shouldn’t have any lily of the valley, and he would know because he looked. Quite thoroughly too. The flower shouldn’t even be in bloom at this time of the year, but it’s only a single cluster almost hidden in the shade of the tree line. Now admittedly, Tommy’s not going to pass up this opportunity, not when his favorite thing is to find a way to wear the flowers every time he sees a patch. Whether in his hair or not, it is Tommy’s business.
Tommy makes his way through the field, wading through the waist-high grass, his feet following deer trails. When he reaches the white burst of lily of the valley, he’s practically swallowed in the shade of the tree line. He bends down to touch it, but as his fingers brush the soft bells, Tommy fails to notice the entire forest plunge into silence.
Nor does he notice the large shadow behind him.
Only when he hears a soft puff of breath does his body leap away from the looming figure, crushing one of the lilies underneath his heel. He stares in horror, and his gaze continues to go up and up and up until he finally locks eyes with a mountain of a man. But this was not a mortal man, no…. This was a god . A fully-fledged one, to be exact, if his suffocating presence was anything to go by. It reeks of power.
And if the aura didn’t tick Tommy off, the blood-colored eyes sure did. And also the tusks protruding from his mouth. Which the infamous Lord of the underworld, the Blood God, also has.
Fuck.
Tommy can feel his heart drop to his stomach and shrivel with the amount of dread coursing through him as he scrambles backward to stand and, hopefully, haul ass to the nearest shrine. But he’s paralyzed . Tommy would take any shrine at this point. He’d even take one of Dream’s because a mortal-made temple will not matter and will not stop this God. Only an opposing gods’ shrine will do or, better yet, his own patron’s. Not that he’s fucking close to any .
The Blood God has long pink hair pulled into a braid that dangles from his shoulder. Piercings litter his pointed ears: one earring dangling, a gleaming emerald at its end. The god’s own vibrant red cape swishes as he steps closer to Tommy, which sends him scrambling back. The position Tommy’s in has sharp rocks digging into his palms. His back hits the tree when the Blood God chuffs at him, and Tommy cannot tell whether or not that’s supposed to be comforting.
“You liked your gift.” The Blood God’s voice is monotone, but it’s undercut by deep rumbles, almost like a cat’s purr, as his red eyes drift from the blooming lily of the valley to the petrified Godling cowering in front of him.
“My gift? The fuck do you mean by my gift?” Tommy slowly hoists himself up the tree's rough bark, attempting to salvage a little bit of his bravado. He’s not sure it worked as the God casually steps over the flowers, and Tommy hurries to put the tree trunk between them. Not that it would do anything if the Blood God decides to close the space.
“The lilies. You liked your gift. You accepted it.” The God states like it was obvious, but apparently, it wasn’t evident to Tommy because he’s looking at the man like he’s grown a second head. It wasn’t until Tommy looked at the lilies again, tips of his fingers burning, that he realized his mistake.
Such a clever little trap he’s fallen for.
At a second glance, the lilies make it now obvious to him that they were not placed there naturally. There’s a glow to them that’s distinctly unnatural, fabricated, a trap, simply put.
Tommy’s ears ring as he finally pieces together the towering God’s intentions and looks into red eyes for a brief moment. The Blood God tilts his head with a smug smile when he realizes that Tommy’s put two and two together. The God reaches out a ringed hand towards him, a beam of sunlight catching on the glinting gold, and Tommy decides.
He bolts.
Wind rushes in his ears as he pushes his body into a sprint. He doesn’t even have to look behind him to know that the God behind him is giving chase. He leaps over roots and rocks, the forest around him a blur of green with echoing screeches of startled animals and his heavy breathing. The sounds of lumbering steps rattle his ribcage, and it’s the first time in a great while that Tommy wishes he would’ve stayed glued to Sam’s side like when he was a toddler, recently made into existence.
The sky opens up above him, the sun nearly blinding him as he darts from the tree line. His feet naturally find the deer trails as he desperately tries to look for anything that will help him, but Tommy knows there’s nothing. A cloud passing over the sun darkens the field, winds start whipping at the grass, and Tommy looks up—stumbling, crashing to his knees painfully, a hiss leaving his lips.
That is not a cloud.
Crows. Hundreds of crows form an amalgamated murder that blot out the sun. Casting out their calls like hooks digging into his flesh. They circle over Tommy like they found wounded prey. He can feel the overwhelming presence of the Blood God hovering behind him, not even out of breath like Tommy is. The God seems to be waiting for something. Perhaps for Tommy to look back at him. He doesn’t know.
That apparent someone that the Blood God was waiting for steps out of the opposing tree line in a stupid-looking trenchcoat and gold-framed glasses.
He is also annoyingly tall.
“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck-“ Tommy’s mild mental breakdown is cut off by a giant hand wrapping around his upper arm and yanking him upwards to a rumbling chest. Tommy screams, kicking and hitting wildly as he tries to get loose. All he gets for his trouble is a warning growl into his hair and a warm, dry hand squeezing the back of his nape. Tommy shutters and slowly stiffens, his nails biting into his palms harshly as he clenches them to his sides. He gets a huff in response, warm air puffing over his face.
Tommy doesn’t even notice the other God gets close till he starts speaking, and it’s a melodic voice that anyone with half a brain cell and the ability to sense divine energy would know which God this is. Madness and song. Lord of the underworld. Just as the Blood God is.
“I see you’ve caught him, Techno. He gave you a little chase, didn’t he?” The man’s voice is annoyingly mischievous, and what Tommy wouldn’t give to claw his eyes out like a rabid raccoon.
The Blood God hums. “He wouldn’t have gotten far,” a ringed hand brushes through his curls, fingers catching on knots, “besides the crows were watching.”
Tommy can hear the man physically pout even though he’s not looking at him— not that he could anyway with the way he’s pinned to “Techno’s” chest. “Aww, does Technoblade not trust me to catch a single wayward Godling?”
“No, not really.” Technoblade deadpans, shifting Tommy in his grasp, and for one moment, it feels like he has enough space to make a break for it again. That futile thought is shredded the next second when Techno fucking picks him up like a baby.
“Fucking put me down, you fucker!” Tommy screeches, struggling to bring his hands up to at least try and take a swing at this man’s insufferable face. All he gets for his trouble is a large hand tightly gripping his wrists to pin them to his chest. Tommy’s sure that he will bruise.
While Tommy is seething in his rage, he doesn’t notice the other God get close until the bitch hums at him. “I expected him to be older? It’s at least been a thousand years, right?” The brown-haired man twirls one of Tommy’s golden curls around his finger, tucking it behind his ear. Tommy wants to bite his fucking hand off. He’d much rather bite both of their hands off so that they would stop fucking touching him.
“Hardly. It’s barely been two hundred years, Wilbur. But the passage of time is different above ground,” Technoblade says wryly. “but I can’t expect you to be able to tell with Phil sticking you in the nest half the time.”
Wilbur gives a rumbling growl in response, and Tommy can’t decipher the meaning behind it. All he can tell is that it sounded vaguely annoyed. Or threatening.
“He’s just a baby then. Aw, wee little infant!” Wilbur is turning his annoyance at the blood god into cooing condescension, and he doesn’t appreciate it.
“Fuck you! I’m the biggest of men, and I have so many wives. You have to let me go. Otherwise, they’ll miss me.” Tommy hisses like a pissed-off cat.
“Oh? Pardon me, little Godling. I didn't know I was speaking to such an accomplished man.” Wilbur finally appears in Tommy’s field of view from where he’s tucked into Technoblade’s chest. The tall god of madness has a red tint to his eyes that he hasn’t noticed before. Not that he ever would, since both the Blood God and the god of madness are supposed to be exiled to the underworld. Along with the god of death.
Supposedly .
“Enough, Wilbur, we’ve lingered too long. Any more time spent here, and we have the chance of gaining the attention of the Godling’s patron.” The last words are said with a snarl, Technoblade’s cape coming up to wrap around Tommy’s shoulders as the Blood God takes significant strides in the direction that Wilbur came from. Tommy feels a flare of fear in the pit of his stomach as he sways in the more prominent man’s grip. He distinctly knows that if he’s taken to where he thinks they’re taking him, he’ll never see Sam again. Will never sit by his side and listen to him talk about his machines and creations with redstone, the warming glow of a fire nearby.
He’ll be trapped.
So if a hare-brained scheme blooms in his head, you’ll have to forgive him. It’s not even remotely the best option, but it’s all he’s got. Slithering words of an almost dead language only spoken by gods are mouthed under Tommy’s breath— just quiet enough so no one else can hear. It's a mid-tier protection spell that should be enough to knock anyone within a couple of feet of him on their ass. The only problem is that it’s supposed to be used on mortals coming at you with swords, not fully grown gods, much less gods of the underworld. Tommy pours a little more power into the spell, enough to make his ears ring and the edges of his vision darken, hoping that it will be enough.
He holds on to the magic until he can feel the glow in his chest and releases it when it finally snaps like a fraying rope. The force of the spell goes as Tommy fears— poorly. It throws Wilbur into a nearby tree, his body giving a satisfying thunk. However, the main problem is that while Technoblade’s arms have loosened around him, they still encircle Tommy like an ominous bear trap. So what does he do?
Tommy takes the opportunity to slam his head into the Blood God’s nose with a resounding crack.
That is what ultimately frees him as Technoblade grunts and steps back from him, not as much as Tommy would like, but Tommy will take anything at this stage. He darts to the side just as he feels a breeze brush his wrist as those gilded arms try to rip him back. The grass tickles the soles of Tommy’s feet. His chest burns from the amount of energy he released, every exhale like glass shards digging into his ribs and ripping holes in his lungs. Bright pain bursts on his forehead and rattles his skull. Tommy hopes that Sam notices through their faint bond that they share as godling and patron— although it has grown weaker by the frequent distance between them.
Wind whips past Tommy as the grass turns reedy, and the open clearing is just ahead of him when he hears a roar behind him. Bone-chilling in its intensity as it vibrates the ground beneath him and makes him stumble. He’ll look back on this moment later in his grief and realize he made a crucial mistake.
Forgetting Wilbur was even there.
Like Tommy didn’t just throw him straight into a tree, Wilbur collides with Tommy and tackles him to the dirt, forcing a screech from him. The God of Madness pinning Tommy like a butterfly on a board, cooing at him like a wounded animal. Or a child.
“Shhh, you’re ok; no need to run. We’re not mad.” Wilbur hisses directly into Tommy’s ear, contradicting that statement heavily as his grip turns bruising in the effort to keep him still. Tommy’s thrashing doesn’t stop.
“Fuck you!”
“Keep still—”
“I hope Sam flays you alive, you bastard—”
“Enough, Wilbur.” Technoblade walks over, unbothered despite the blood dripping from his nose and the monstrous roar he no doubt let out. His red cape swishes around his legs as he crouches down fluidly near Tommy, Technoblade tilting his head in what looks like genuine disappointment. Tommy is petrified even when Wilbur slinks away, leaving him frozen on the ground in the face of the Blood God’s stare. Technoblade’s hand is unflinchingly gentle as he cups Tommy’s face with one hand, smoothing over his cheek.
“I had hoped you wouldn’t struggle this much. But it seems I was mistaken. However, it doesn't matter; you accepted the gift, and that is enough.” Technoblade intones coldly contrast greatly when he goes to pick Tommy up. The God’s arms are a steel trap for all the give he receives. Tommy’s ears ring as his breath comes out in short puffs, and the world around him spins. Mercilessly, Techno doesn’t stop to check on him and doesn’t give Tommy another chance to escape.
“…Tech… I could… calm him?” Wilbur‘s voice sounds like it’s muffled like he’s underwater. Tommy’s chest hurts. He wants Sam to come and save him. Please.
“No. Phil needs him awake to break the tether.” Technoblade rumbles, his voice echoing as the temperature decreases drastically, and it gets dark like they’re in a cave. Are they in a cave?
“He won’t be awake if he keeps breathing like that.” Wilbur points out, and Technoblade sighs, his rocking footfalls stopping. Tommy’s head is tilted to the side, so he looks directly into Wilbur’s eyes. The reddish-brown of his irises is hypnotizing as they begin to shimmer, and Wilbur whispers the language of the gods. Tommy can feel his body relax and his breath even out, but with that comes an awareness that he wishes he didn’t have. The haze that settled over his vision is gone, and now he can see the light of the cave lichen that he doesn’t have the frame of mind to appreciate. He probably would stop to marvel at the subtle light source any other time, full of curiosity not to.
Tommy is exhausted as he lays his head down on Technoblade’s chest and is not surprised when what he gets in return is a simple squeeze. The echoing of Wilbur and Techno‘s footsteps continues deeper and deeper into the cave, bouncing off the walls in an unpleasant reverb. Goosebumps raise on Tommy’s arms as it gets colder the deeper they go, and he fights not to shiver. He’s guessing he failed because Technoblade simply wraps the end of his cape around him without a word, not even a pause in his stride. Wilbur snorts, but Tommy would rather ignore him.
Bitch.
Soon the rocky cave floor changes to smooth grey stone and eventually marble, the thumping of Technoblade‘s boots more prominent as the small group peruses the hallways of the underworld. A rock sits heavily in the pit of Tommy’s stomach as he glances nervously at tall vases filled with spider lilies and hanging gossamer curtains of red silk. There is an open terrace with someone standing from what he can see before Techno pushes his head down. Tommy would’ve thought the air itself would be stagnant as death, but he was surprised to find that a slight breeze, although cold, makes the curtains flutter lazily. It reminds him of some mortal temples in the north, and his chest twinges strangely.
A chuff has Tommy looking up into red eyes, and he wobbles perilously as he is set down on his bare feet on the freezing floor, the Blood God’s hand on his shoulder to steady him. Wilbur saunters on ahead, and Tommy has to turn to look behind himself. What he finds is not a welcome sight.
“Dadza!! We brought him as requested!” Wilbur flourishes jubilantly as he steps up the dais, taking the time to lean on the throne of the deathless God before him. The one we all return to and the one that the mortals fear even to give a name. The god of death, Philza, is staring straight at Tommy, his gaze peerless and his eyes an icy blue. The Lord of the underworld’s wings is the color of a starless sky, pitch black, almost sucking the light out of the air around him. He wears green robes embroidered with gold thread and a ridiculous bucket hat. His ear is pierced the same way as Technoblade’s.
Tommy wants to scream, but he feels a hysterical laugh bubble beneath his breast, and he lets out a noise that sounds like a choking sob. He feels like a lamb brought to the slaughter— with a shiny white coat just waiting to be stained with his blood. Maybe Tommy was brought here to humiliate Sam for exiling Philza and his sons from their shiny mountain. For hurting his wife. Tommy’s terror is so complete that he doesn’t even realize that the god of death has stepped down his dais to walk toward him. He startles when surprisingly warm hands cup both cheeks with divine reverence like he is holding something precious like the world in his palm. Tommy‘s eyes are wide as he focuses on the man’s chin, Philza’s blonde hair acting as a curtain.
“Oh, my precious son. My sweet Tommy. How I’ve missed you."