Chapter Text
It is immediately obvious when the Head Guard of the palace switches, seeing as he has apparently taken it upon himself to switch all of the guards schedules and placements. Without telling Techno beforehand.
“Why are you positioned here?” Techno questions a guard who is placed at the end of the hallway leading up to his room, looking at the woman with thick suspicion. He places his back towards the wall as the guard looks down at him. Vaguely, Techno recognizes the woman from her past rounds. The recognition only eases Techno’s distrust the smallest amount, as it only slightly lowers her chance of being out of place for nefarious reasons.
Techno wishes he had not been disallowed from carrying his sword with him around the palace.
“Head Guard Delan has positioned me here for this hour your Majesty,” The guard says, straightening her back.
Techno has to force his face to stay neutral at the words. Because this should not have happened. This should not be happening. The King is meant to be told where his own guards are so he can have a slight heads up if something's going wrong and he's about to be assassinated or something. Perfect.
At this hour the Head Guard should be getting ready for his own morning meeting where he’s to hear reports of the night and give out directions for the day. Well, Techno will just have to give him his own directions if the guard that his advisors saw fit to promote isn’t even well trained enough to know that the King is to be given a copy of the guards’ schedules.
Techno veers away from his path to the council room and heads to where the guards meet. He pushes into the room without knocking, finding the Head Guard leaning over a desk and flipping through papers.
“Head Guard Delan,” Techno says, attempting to draw the man’s attention.
“What?” The guard snaps. Techno raises an eyebrow, waiting in silence until the man glances behind him faintly before doing an exaggerated double take. The guard turns around, standing at attention and bowing. “Ah, I mean. Yes, Your Majesty?”
“I had not received an update to the guards schedules and yet they are out of place this morning. Why?” Techno asks flatly, not caring enough to bring up his decorum. The guard stands straight before answering.
“Their positions have been updated to better fill vulnerabilities without using so many men. It is more economical.”
“Economical…?” Techno asks.
“Yes. The plan was looked over by both the Treasury and Castle Defense Advisors. They agreed it was a better plan than the last.”
“Well, if you believe my safety is upheld by economy,” Techno says, voice removed and face flat. The importance of the finances of the country and crown had been baked into Techno’s head since he first learned what a coin was, but he didn’t have much confidence in the castle’s defenses before they started doing budget cuts.
“Ah, I misspoke. My apologies. Your safety is put first of course,” The guard says, sounding almost bored despite his thick cloak of politeness. Techno squints hard at the man, already missing Head Guard Pete. He had at least put up the front of listening to Techno.
“Yes, well… Please alert me of any changes in the guards’ stations going forward then,'' Techno finally commands, deciding to let it go. He’ll figure it out, but he needs to at least know where his own guards are positioned.
“With respect, I had given the information to your Head Advisor as she directed me to,” Head Guard Delan cuts in. Ah, so that’s what this is about.
“Fine. Well, I am directing you to tell me directly from now on,” Techno says, not quite holding back a lilting tone at the end. The guard opens his mouth as if to actually argue with him before Techno tilts his head to the side and levels the man with a plain look. He seems to reevaluate what he is going to say.
“Yes, your Majesty.”
That’s settled then. Techno turns on his heel and starts walking towards the meeting room for the morning. It is unlikely that even his Head Advisor can come up with an argument for Techno not to receive the information about his guards in addition to her. And if she does, well. It would seem awfully suspicious even coming from her.
Seems suspicious… Is it suspicious?
No, it can’t be. Seraphine has been working for the royal family since before he was born. If she had been involved in any of the plans to take down their crown it would have certainly succeeded well before now. Him being King at all rules out the chance of her being a traitor. The Head Advisor knows too much about Techno and the crown in general to have not taken him down already if she wanted to.
Unless she only recently started working against him…
No, no. That wouldn’t make sense. Nothing has changed recently to make her want to betray him. There’s still over a year until he’s King in more than just name. That’s too much time for her to start making moves to maintain her power. Right?
Unless her power play requires more long term planning. Techno had taken down assassins before, outlived his parents in the past synchronized attack. Could this be a plan to make him comfortable with the new guard rotations and then take him down after he’s lowered his own guard?
Techno hesitates as he reaches the doorway to the council room, certainly already filling with his advisors. Could they all be against him? His hand shakes minutely where it hovers over the door knob. Sinking his teeth into his tongue until it throbs, Techno grabs the knob roughly and yanks the door open.
He’s being ridiculous. And illogical. The Head Advisor looks up at him, seemingly prodding at him with her eyes. A frown starts pulling at her lips before she forces a cloyingly pleasant smile. That’s normal, Techno reminds himself as he sits next to her. She’s always unhappy to see him, finding flaws. It doesn’t mean she’s planning against him.
Unless she’s always been planning against him, this whole time.
No, he disproved that earlier! She would have had him killed already. Sent a guard to his sick bed or put poison into his specially made food or cowed his people into shoving his head into a guillotine and called it righteous.
Techno shoves his hands onto his lap under the table, clenching his fingers so they will stop shaking so much. The movement sends pain cracking up his broken arm, almost pulling a pained cringe to his face.
Advisor Seraphine stands beside him, making him flinch minutely, raising her hand to begin the meeting. Techno doesn’t bother even trying to pay attention or chip his opinion in, mind too busy chewing on itself. The taste of blood fills Techno’s mouth as his teeth worry at the soft tissues.
This is just a power play. Not for his head or his crown. For their own power. Guard Delan was promoted far too quickly after Seraphine got it out for Guard Pete. There must have been plans in place beforehand, trying to raise the guard up for some reason. Nepotism or favors, it doesn’t really matter. And the new Head Guard is switching things up for an inane reason certainly. Trying to raise up his own favorites or just showing off his new power, trying to seem big.
This is one of those little petty things that nobles and advisors and guards and other high standing people get on with. Techno doesn’t understand them, no matter how much he’s screamed at to deal with nobles. He can’t deal with it, it’s too finicky and pointless.
This is all pointless. He’s no more in danger today than he was the last. It’s fine. This is fine.
Techno forces a steady breath into his lungs and then back out, releasing the cloth of his pants from where it was being strangled. The meeting draws out normally, just another day. It’s just another day, he repeats.
Eventually a call for lunch rings out and the advisors begin collecting their things. Techno forces himself to stand, legs immediately seizing with pain. He forces himself to calmly straighten his clothes and crown, turning and staring blankly as his Head Advisor starts telling him something. His ears ring a bit, making it difficult to understand her.
She places a hand on his upper arm with a smile before turning away, leaving Techno standing there lamely. It takes far too much effort to force his limbs to start moving, feeling a bit like he’s trudging through mud. He leaves the room as quickly as he can, not even thinking about going to the dining room as he beelines towards his bedroom.
In order to enter the hallway with his room, Techno has to pass by a new guard positioned in a new place. What’s the purpose of changing their positions only a couple hours apart? What strategic advantage can they earn from being on the opposite side of the hall and a few feet closer to his door? Edging closer and closer and…
Techno practically runs into his room, closing the door and snapping the lock shut. His heart pounds roughly against his breastbone, veins simmering with fast moving blood. Eyes flicking around the room, Techno swears he can hear shifting noises from every corner. Quickly snatching a dagger out of his dresser’s top drawer, Techno marches around the room, crouching before the bed and peeking under the bed dust’s cover, looking behind every set of curtains and behind the couch.
When Techno drops onto his stomach to check under his desk, which would be a horrid place to hide, he admits to himself that the room is clear. So why does he still feel so on edge?
Gripping the dagger tightly in his hand, Techno drops onto the floor with his back pressed against the corner. The whole room is visible from where he sits. Techno closes his eyes and presses his forehead against his knees. His breaths are shaky as they are pulled in and out of his chest. His lungs sing as if they are hypoxic, like all the oxygen is leaking out of the cracks of his ribs. With a rough gasp, Techno presses his palm against his heart, pain throbbing under his hand.
“This is so stupid,” Techno mutters to himself. “Stop being stupid.”
He’s still alive and fine. Everything is fine.
Why doesn’t it feel fine? He feels like he’s cowering on the ground of his nursery room, false guards standing before him with swords outstretched. Ready to riddle him with stab wounds and chop his head off. Put it on a spike or something for everyone to see.
Slaughter him like they slaughtered his parents.
Sinking his teeth into his wobbly lower lip, Techno tries to roughly blink away the moisture swelling in his eyes. The movement only frees the tears, sending them cascading down his cheeks and bleeding into his collar. With a rough wipe to his face Techno shoves his face into his knees, allowing the dagger to fall to the ground.
Why is he even crying? Techno didn’t even like his parents that much. Barely even knew them. Kings and Queens don’t raise children. Why lower themselves to mortal levels? They were honestly just okay in Techno’s book.
And yet he’s crying over them. Or himself. What’s worse, whining over his dead parents like a child or self-pity?
Gods, he’s pathetic.
The tears eventually ebb out, heart rate and breathing naturally dropping back to normal. He pushes himself up shakily, snatching the discarded knife off the ground to return to its resting place. Techno’s body screams angrily at the movement, every joint, bone, and muscle apparently angry at him literally just sitting on the ground for a while. Well, his body apparently sees him as an old man if no one else does.
Techno needs to get ready for his next meetings and appointments. He cried away his free hour and now he needs to go face the world. Peering into the mirror, his face reflects back red and splotchy.
He needs a nap.
—
The afternoon air feels warm and stagnant against Techno’s skin, even as most people seem unencumbered by the invisible weight. His crown sits heavy on his head, pinned in place so it cannot budge between his many swirls and curls of his hair. The band of metal that touches his skin burns just the slightest bit, sun warmed to discomfort. He dabs discreetly at his forehead and can’t help sighing repeatedly as the time between when he was urged into the courtyard and when the processions will actually begin stretches on.
A particularly loud bout of laughter half draws his attention to one of the small groups of nobles wearing colorful layers of clothing. It’s almost mesmerizing to see all the different pieces shift and sway in the slight breeze. A few of the women have skirts with intricate patterns on their aprons or chest pieces. His eyes trace them lazily, flicking away only when the person wearing them looks too close to his direction.
Technically Techno’s supposed to be mingling with them right now. But… he just doesn’t have it in him today. He slept awfully and his body just hurts. It’s not like he ever really has it in him, talking with any sorts of people, especially in crowds where there’s an audience, it’s something close to horrific. Techno’s quite certain the only times he’s ever felt anything close to at ease in front of people is when he was sparring in front of the guards. Well, he doesn’t even have that anymore, now does he?
Techno scoffs silently and drops his cheek onto his palm at that thought. It seems he’s already giving himself a pity party today, might as well go all the way.
Well dressed commoners stand much more quietly than the nobles, relegated to one section of the courtyard. They seem to shift about nervously, obviously unused to the situation. Techno feels a kinship with them there at least.
“Good afternoon! Let us begin the processions!” One of the attendants shouts close to Techno’s side, drawing the attention of the crowd and making him flinch at the loud noise.
Techno forces his spine straight, blinking his sore eyes and letting them settle vaguely on the approaching citizen’s face. They’re an older looking woman, face creased and soft from years of exposure to the sun. Her hair is tied back in a floral printed bandanna, and Techno thinks it looks quite beautiful, even with her hair being streaked with gray.
“Your majesty, I appreciate the time you’ve taken to hear me out,” The woman says, struggling into a bow. He quickly flicks his hand to have her stand again, eager to move everything along. As she stands, her lips smooth into a thin line, eyes somber. A drop of dread grows in Techno’s stomach. “I have come to raise a petition. My only son, he was determined to be missing in action at the Western border. However, his remains were never found. I only request that he not be forgotten after serving our great country with his life.”
Technoblade hates petitions. They’re useful, of course. Not for the reason that the nobles seem to find it: an excuse to get drunk and giggle at poor worded commoners. No, it’s useful to get a better grasp on how the country is really running, how the citizens that make up the bulk of the population are. What needs to be focused on more, things in severe need of attention.
No, Techno hates the petitions not for their lack of use or any practical reasons. He hates them because it makes him realize how little he can truly do. His citizens bow to him, praise him and beg for a scrap of his wealth or power to help them. And even the most worthwhile of petitions, it never comes down to Techno whether something is truly done.
It should. Petitions have always been the King’s duty. Or the Queen’s, at times. But always the royal family’s. The Antarctic Empire has maintained that tradition for generations and has been seen as all the more charitable for it. A sign of good rulers, ready to listen to their subjects.
Well, Techno listens. He listens every month in the stagnant courtyards swaying with fermented nobles and wobbly lipped commoners. Or in emptied dancing halls when the weather grows too sharp even for the most cold blooded of Antarcticans. He’s learned not to open his lips though.
When Techno was younger and first started doing petitions, he had an answer for every person that asked something of him. Money for poor widows, protection for perilous villages, food for hungry children. But just because he speaks, it doesn’t mean it comes into being. Because Techno doesn’t have direct control over his armies or treasury or even his royal orchards. Until he’s of age and comes fully into his power, it’s up to the Advisors what is actually done.
And, of course, even after Techno was scolded for promising so highly to his citizens, he tried to work around it. Not offer such high promises. He’d write every petition down to the word, look over them all night until his eyes practically burned as he flipped between archive documents and his slanted handwriting under the yellow candle light. And then when he found a way to make things right, for both his citizen and the kingdom, he’d beg.
A King should never beg. It is below them. Faced with the end of his life, Techno knows he would not beg, would not lower himself so much. It would insult his country, his people, himself. No, he wouldn’t.
And yet, when facing the blank faces of advisors, he’d talk his lips blue. Lay out his intricate plans that would take only a signature from them and never surface again. Send a desperate mother’s children to a live-in boarding school so they can be fed and get their education. Or offer a farmer who lost his children to the war some draft animals to lighten his load. Hell, Techno would have tried to talk his advisors into throwing some poor street children the scraps of their servants old clothes if they were complaining of cold if it had worked.
But of course, nothing he said worked. Sure, the occasional commoner that holds enough power as a trader or business owner might earn a bit of attention from one of the advisors. They, of course, could have a loan or some soldiers repositioned to their port. And maybe those are useful changes to be made, his more well off citizens are in need in the same ways as the poorer ones. But, they seem to be the only ones getting anything.
And so Technoblade sits on his elevated chair, a facsimile of a throne. He stares blankly down at his subjects as they beg and cry for just something, something, something. And then he says nothing. All they receive is a nod, half a sign of him having heard.
It will not be like this some day. Techno thinks he does still have a lot to learn as far as dealing with his citizens. He can’t offer them all food from his private fields or money out of his vaults. They’d run out shockingly soon and then the whole country would suffer. And he can’t devote so much time to thinking a loophole into existence for every problem in the world. He’d be dead from exhaustion in a week.
But still. One day Techno will look down at an old woman, a mother who lost her son to a military campaign that went nowhere and only came in and out of being to change a couple words on a piece of paper, and he’ll open his mouth and say something. That day is not today though.
Technoblade nods.
He looks away before her face crumples like a piece of ruined parchment beneath his fingers. And then she’s replaced by another person, a different story, a different face, a different ask. They get the same response.
Eventually their words grow so desperate and barbing Techno can’t help tuning them out. Shifting his audition until he listens to the squealing and squawks of the nobles around him. They don’t seem to hold a single care in the world right now. Not for the bow-backed commoners or harsh browed advisors or their somber faced burning king.
Techno rubs at his face between two petitions, head pounding under the heat of the sun and sharp glares. The group of petitioners seems to stretch on infinitely. Why make a courtyard big enough to fit so many people? He wishes they’d all just disappear now.
“The king looks pale.” A whisper seems to float with the breeze. His posture snaps pin-straight at the words. He checks that his expression is stony and flat, relaxing and tightening his muscles till they mold into the mask he knows well from the mirror. Techno does all but turn his head to search for the rest of the conversation.
“Perhaps he is feeling fragile…” His eyelashes flutter a bit at that. Fragile? What a pleasant bow to wrap around a statement that means he is weak and ill and feeble.
The words are said without too much judgement, if he truly digs into them. A statement more boring gossip during a mind numbing procession than an accusation. But how long will that tone remain?
A weak king, a sickly king, can not attend to their duties. Sure, they are not hated like a cruel king, a heartless king. But at least a cruel king can uphold their borders. Stop opposing militaries from marching through their fields and burning down their cities. At least a cruel king is not turned on by his closest confidants, beheaded and replaced with someone proper who can do what needs to be done. Weak kings are replaced by cruel kings.
Techno is not a weak king.
The sun streaks along the sky slowly. Women begin wrapping themselves in shawls and men pull their hats over their ears as the courtyard is filled with shadows. Techno’s joints go stiff as he keeps his shoulders high and pushed back, eyes set forward unwavering. Sweat continues to pool on his temples.
Eventually an attendant steps forward, faces the crowds of commoners and nobles alike, and sends them away. Techno allows his eyes to fall shut finally, finding them dry and aching against the backs of his eyelids. He should go to dinner with some of the nobles. His Advisor recommended that he should, as she always does. But they crow so loud, filled with wine and mead. Techno’s head begs him to slip to his room early, evening free of obligation just today.
With a sigh Techno pushes himself up from the chair, planning to suck it up and do some more socializing. Really, begin to socialize at all. Listening blankly as he’s spoken to by his subjects hardly counts as socialization. So why is he so Gods-damned tired and wanting to lock himself as far from people as possible?
Techno expects the first stumble as his muscles stretch after being still so long. What is not expected however is his brain tumbling at the motion as well. Techno begins to fall until a small hand grabs under his elbow and yanks him up.
The servant beside him quickly pulls their hand away, bowing their head immediately. Techno might not like touch, but he hardly cares in this situation. With a still spinning head, he presses his fingers on the servant's forearm, leaning his weight against her so he can at least stand straight. How horrifying. He peeks around and finds that no one seems to be obviously staring at him. Hopefully no one saw.
The shakiness does not fade even with the support, and Techno gives up and decides to turn in. It might look bad and earn an earful from his Advisor, but it’ll at least look less bad than passing out in the middle of the dinner hall. With a deep breath, Techno stands straight and drops the poor servant's arm, turning towards the door and beginning his exit. He can at least leave on his own.
The nobles still milling about call out to him with varying levels of restraint, which seems to reflect their levels of intoxication. Techno spares them half nods, not pausing to talk as he desperately tries to not run from the room. Just a few steps from the door, head singing with lightness, Techno thinks he’s free.
“Your majesty, I must request your time!” A voice yells across the courtyard. A small flinch bubbles onto his face, but he’s turned to the door so no one can see it anyway. He slowly turns around, eyeing the approaching nobleman with barely concealed annoyance. “If you can not spare me an ear at dinner, let me just have a minute now.”
It might be impudent from anyone of even an inch lower than the nobleman, and Techno is almost willing to call him out just to get away. But alas, Techno just nods.
“My daughter was unfortunately busy with travel today and could not be present. She is well versed in the educations of the world and continues to expand her knowledge, something a wise King like you must appreciate, yes?” Techno doesn’t bother responding to that beyond blinking. In fact, this particular line of discussion only creates the urge to elicit vomit from his mouth based on the nausea in his gut. A particularly strong wave of it makes Techno genuinely wonder if he is going to paint the noble’s shoes in sick. Well, maybe that would get his opinion across succinctly enough. “Regardless, I ask that you should perhaps open a line of writing with her. You are likely to find her an honest and pious woman, dedicated to her country.”
Techno’s imminent passing out seems not so unpleasant anymore. Gods the poor woman, Techno’s going to combust. All the nobles' eyes are solidly stuck to him now.
“Speak of it with my Head Advisor. She will get back to you.” Techno half regrets the order, almost expecting his advisor to promise a full on betrothal. But he just doesn’t have enough working brain cells to talk his way around this topic right now. Not when black spots are quickly bleeding into his vision and his fingertips are practically tingling with numbness. Techno nods once and turns before the nobleman can object and hurries from the yard.
Shaking, unsteady breaths leave Techno as he walks quickly through the halls. The second he’s alone in one he stumbles into a servant’s passage, leaning against the closed in walls as he struggles to his room. Techno half expects to look down and find his knees have dissolved to jelly, considering how they shift wildly.
A startled maid jumps as Techno pushes roughly out of a passageway near his room, looking at him with wide eyes before bowing at the waist. He can’t even manage to tell her to stand, focused solely on getting to his room before he crumbles.
“Do you need something, Sir?” The maid asks weakly behind him. Techno sighs as he reaches his bedroom door, opening it without his usual caution and sends her a quick shake of the head before closing himself in.
The mattress shutters as Techno falls onto it, a feeling of profound sickness swelling inside of him. His fingers are clumsy as he picks at his shoe clasps and slides them off from where he’s laying down, tossing them away with much less care than usual. It takes far too much effort to shift under his blanket from where he lays on it. Even as he fumes with heat, a shiver slowly grasps at his bones, leaving him to bind himself in blankets.
It occurs to Techno, between one heavy blink and another, that he should probably fetch the doctor. Or have a servant fetch the doctor, considering even rolling over in bed leaves his muscles shaking like he’s expended enough energy to rival his most fearsome sword fighting lessons. Considering the surprising might of Guard Pete, that’s honestly saying a lot.
Techno’s certainly come down with an illness.
A steady fever works its way from Techno’s chest to his head, leaving him foggy and sluggish. His light submersion into sleep is only broken when chambermaids and servants flit in and out of the room occasionally.
Eventually a wet heaviness collects in his chest, spreading up from the basins through his throat until a cough starts scorching his throat. It seems that symptom is a step too far for his servants, as Techno is awoken from a brief reverie of sleep by the doctor shaking him awake. His attempt at sitting up goes less than ideal, the doctor having to wrap a tight hand around his upper arm to yank him bodily upwards as his vision starts to become gray-cast.
“Your Majesty, please allow me to perform an exam.” The doctor’s voice has an annoyed edge to it, and Techno shoves his palms down into the mattress, trying to prop himself up to let the physician do his work. The movement only stirs up the murkiness in Techno’s chest however, and after a moment of attempting to muffle his coughs, he has to bend over as hacks force themselves out of him.
“Sorry…” Techno croaks out after the coughing fit passes. The doctor just sighs and straightens him out again.
A thin glass thermometer is pulled from the doctor’s bag, and prodded towards Techno’s mouth, much like one would goad a young child into opening their mouth. Techno’s eyes immediately squint a bit in annoyance, but he complies with the direction, placing the instrument under his tongue. Maybe Techno will reprimand the physician when he doesn’t feel quite so close to fainting. It’s a nice thought, he dwells on as his eyes slip closed. The thermometer being plucked from his lips jolts Techno from his thoughts and he stares at the doctor hazily.
“It sounds like you’ve acquired a chest infection. I will fetch you something for the cough and fever. Try to drink some fluids.” Techno nods at the instructions, finding them easy enough. He allows himself to lay back down on his pillows, muscles singing as they relax again. A sigh breaks from his chest after the doctor leaves the room. Which makes his lungs begin to spasm. Lovely.
Coming down with a proper illness is not ideal. While his advisors can keep the kingdom running just fine with him out of commission for a few days—they’ve made quite sure of that—it’s not exactly a positive for Techno to not be there.
Who knows how this lapse of illness can be used against him, by his advisors or other nobles. The nobles are objectively more dangerous to have eyeing him for weak points, but the thought of his Head Advisor coming up with another thing to talk his ear off about just makes him deflate even further into his mattress.
The doctor returns with his medication at some point after Techno’s drifted off. He takes them quickly before trying to get some rest, hoping to sleep off some of the aches and malaise that have found a home in his body. Apparently, Techno is wishing in vain, as even with the cough medicine his lungs only convulse more and more as time passes, keeping him resolutely awake as time ticks past.
The skin stretching down his throat to his lungs practically burns with how badly it itches. It feels as though someone has shoved a handful of poison ivy deep into his chest and allowed the skin to bubble with hives from the itchy oils. Even as Techno sits up and leans forward to force the coughs out, the unpleasant tickling is so intense he feels a bit like he’s choking on something.
Pressing a handkerchief against his mouth, Techno hacks violently as his chest spasms involuntarily. His body feels overheated, skin practically glowing where exertion pushes blood to the surface. In between coughs he gasps dramatically, feeling light headed from the irregular lung movements.
Bending over at his middle, Techno forces out a sharp cough, only for it to come out strangled as something snaps wetly in his chest. Immediate pain swells to the area like blood to a fresh wound and his eyelids flutter quickly as black spots overtake his vision.