Chapter 1: Chapter the First: Nothing Goes Wrong
Chapter Text
Technoblade did not consider himself a man of many friends. Indeed, more than once his numerous titles and reputation deterred others and even the occasional brave soul who decided that a ‘friendship’ with The Blade would benefit them was barricaded out. He knew that any warmth or supposedly pointless kindness would end in unguarded attachments, then later, weakness- a lesson he had been taught through fire and blood and anguish many times.
He fancied that, for someone like him, the voices were adequate company enough: never completely dishonest, yet never completely truthful either. He didn’t remember why he was like this, why the urge to kill and the chant for blood rushed through his head like a deafening torrent, blocking out all else. Though he did remember the first time he had chosen to ignore the voices, or, more specifically, he remembered the agony of an overwhelming headache which pestered his head for many nights after he refused the voices blood, and the throbbing in his injured side. And the voices did not help him then. The voices hated being ignored.
Once upon a time, there were also allies: rebels, mercenaries, even kings and generals that paid handsomely for his loyalty, though with them he never stayed for long. Never making friends, never letting his guard down, never showing weakness. The voices encouraged it.
Of course, there was the matter of his family. His presumably dead, long-gone family- the lords of the Nether Wastes, but also the owners of possibly the largest bounty of gold throughout the lands. All he recalled of them was the weighted, crude cloak he was given when he was young- a gift for coming of age. But then the memory got fuzzy, and Technoblade hated that feeling, so he turned his mind away. It’s not like there was any point remembering them anyway- he was the youngest of six brothers: a runt, an outcast, a ruffian. Piglin prince of nothing. Plus, he had another family now, so it didn’t even matter.
And then there was Phil. His only friend. The Angel of Death , they called him, but he was just Phil.
The hollow snarling of an untamed beast forced him out of his thoughts and bid him stop. Although it sounded faraway, Technoblade instinctively placed his hand upon the worn leather handle of the enchanted netherite pickaxe, tracing the ancient runes engraved in the grip with his finger. The only weapon he had access to now. Rather ineffective against most mobs, but still better than nothing. After all, this was the arctic: the wild, inhospitable arctic, and it was beneficial to be prepared, lest one wanted to pay the frozen land with one’s life.
Brushing the animal’s howling aside, he trudged on, attempting to disregard the way the snow was melting, creeping into his winter boots and making his hooves itch. Or how the polar wind spiked into his silhouette despite his cloak, aggravating his swollen collarbone and the frozen, sloppy cuts Quackity had bestowed upon him not yet a day's past. Or how he could no longer feel the pain of his broken ankle but his limp still worsened. Or his headache. Or the mocking tone of the voices. Or how the guilt of failing to save his only friend from the government left a bottomless pit of hurt floating around in his stomach. Except he wouldn’t turn back; hell, he couldn’t turn back to help his friend, even if his better judgement insisted. He was too tired, too wounded, and he knew that he wouldn’t make the trek there, let alone fight off a whole server of people and save him.
Here he was now. The one who had single-handedly made armies flee, the almighty, the undying, trying to bite back the tears that threatened to fall down his face as he staggered desperately towards the cabin he had been forcefully escorted out of just this morning.
You surrendered to them, the voices supplied, You surrendered, coward, and you’ve got nothing to show for it.
It was true. In an all or nothing act of spinelessness, the Butcher Army held an axe to his stallion, his innocent Carl. It made the rage and call for blood flood into his brain, except he couldn’t do anything because he saw Quackity’s death grip on the reins, he saw Carl’s terrified white eyes. And he was about to move, about to fight, but he couldn’t because the axe was oh-so close to Carl’s neck and the crimson blood was trickling down his fur way too fast. And just like that- the prized weapons he had carried for decades stolen away; his armour stripped off his body; a potion of weakness forced down his throat and a gag shoved into his mouth. And his Carl…left at the mercy of Dream.
Defeated , the voices chanted, defeated.
Technoblade still felt the foul aftertaste of the potion of weakness in his mouth, but that wasn’t his biggest concern. It was far worse that his limbs were much more exhausted than he ever recalled then being and no longer cooperated properly, instead dragging heavily through the snow and turning the itch in his hooves to a sharp sting. Maybe he should have let them execute him, unhonourable death as it was; maybe that was the easier way out…?
No- he was Technoblade. When had he ever gone the easy way to spare himself suffering?
It was going to be fine, he assured himself. It would be fine- he’d get home, warm up, go to sleep and fix up in the morning, he decided as he half-stumbled, half-crawled up the slope of a hill. He had enough resources there to be back and running in a few days. Back to plotting to kill everyone in L'Manberg- this time, for good. Nothing would help them this time, he would make sure of it.
He had finally reached the outskirts of the spruce forest that shielded his life of retirement from the outside world. Between his ragged breath and uncomfortable pace caused by his limp, he huffed indignantly: his forest was not to blame for the Butcher Army’s approach, even if they did have to go the long way around through the most wild part of the frozen woodland. The blame was all on him.
After all, Technoblade decided that no one with even half a brain would ever decide to go through there- it was much too dangerous. Even him, the Human GPS himself, wouldn’t risk camping there on the roundabout way to L’Manberg, especially if he was Tubbo and had a furious Blood God on his hands. He didn’t know the landscape like the back of his hand there, but he had a few landmarks placed to help locate himself, and, which was more than what that cabinet disguised as a battalion knew, Technoblade was aware of the land’s dangers.
Like the female polar bear who was always aggressive when she ran into him, but would not hesitate to kill him now that she had little cubs- their hostile behaviour had interested Technoblade.
Or like the thorn bushes with little white berries, like pearls, that were actually laced with the strongest of all natural poisons- Phil had warned him to be careful of those.
Or like the relatively stable looking layers of frozen snow on the ground that would shatter under any pressure, plunging the unfortunate into a deep cave or ravine- he thought it to be the most perfect of all traps.
After all of this, and more that Technoblade acknowledged he probably didn’t know about the wild forest, why would an outsider- why would anyone in their right mind try to journey through it?
So he didn’t place traps around that part of his property.
His mistake...his foolish mistake.
Technoblade sighed shakily again. The sun, like a fiery phoenix, was dying out, and the world would sink into darkness before long, which always tempted the undead to crawl out of wherever they existed. Today, he was not looking for a fight. Today, the voices, as unsatisfied with the outcome of his execution as they were, would not make him fall down to his knees to their beautifully violent suggestions. Not in this broken state. If only the sun was as warm on Technoblade’s irritated, trembling skin as it looked, lounging in the sky.
He trudged on, dragging his legs through the sharp ice. It felt like the wind had sculpted the frozen water into tiny needles, and was cheering them on as they scratched at his torn, soggy boots. The faster he could make it home, the better.
Hurry up! Faster! the voices spurred, Technoweak!
Technoblade knew his condition was bad when he couldn’t find the energy to make those remarks bother him.
His plan had gone so wrong, so quickly.
As soon as that potion of weakness was down his throat, he knew that it would no longer be easy for him to escape from Fundy’s tight grip on his chains. He knew that the difficulty level went way up, so physically fighting back was dismissed. And with the gag in his mouth, verbally fighting back?- out of the question, too. What was left?
He was going to try making a run for it, and it would have worked out for him, Technoblade was sure of it, even if he was surrounded, drugged, outnumbered and unarmed. Wasn’t that what the Hypixel Servers were all about?
But Quackity still had Carl, his diamond axe still lingering close to the horse’s neck, the perfectly straight gash in the stallion’s flesh still bleeding sluggishly. Hopeless idea; not worth considering. Next…
But was there a next?
While Technoblade stared daggers at anyone in the Butcher Army who dared to look in his direction, he fabricated his plan. All that was left was to wait for the ideal moment.
He stumbled and just saved himself from falling flat on his face. He was nearly on the plain before his house, snuggled in between two smaller hills, but dark spots were dancing across his vision and he felt like fainting from the pain.
If only he had waited a moment longer, his plan might have worked. If only the potion was a little weaker, if only Fundy was a little less confident, it would have worked.
Technoblade was pinned down in the mud before he made it a few feet from his closest captor, Fundy just smirking at his feeble attempt to get free. As he was silently cursing the clumsy nature of his drugged limps, Quackity grabbed a club, and beat it with all his might into Technoblade’s torso. The last thing he heard before Quackity battered him into senselessness was Tubbo, his voice wavering, screaming at him and demanding Quackity to stop. Or maybe that himself? He couldn’t be sure now.
Time seemed to speed up, although that might have been the result of his blackout. Apparently Fundy had the brilliant idea to waterboard him once they were not far from L’Manberg, to get him to wake up, to not be dragged through the mud into the city, to walk on his own. Preserve his dignity, you know?
But what did they actually care about his pride? When Phil’s eyes met his on that cursed town square, Technoblade saw in them a horror, a shock, that the Blood God looked- frankly- homeless; that he had lost such an undemanding, inconsequential fight that would now lead to his death. Not even Dream would be caught dead looking like that.
Events blended into one after that: Tubbo’s ‘Look how great I am for bringing this criminal to justice’ speech, Punz’s interruption, the totem popping, Dream’s almost worried body language as he handed Technoblade a god apple, Quackity’s death wish as he stepped into that skirmish, lastly fleeing through the sewers like some rat- defeated, guilt ridden.
Technoblade told himself that he wouldn’t care about what the Butcher Army did next, that he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Except he did.
Because he left Phil.
It was instinct that led Technoblade across the next few chunks. There it was; his home, so close…
But through his state of half-consciousness he did not smell the ashy scent of an extinguished fire, nor see the black smoke dancing up from where his home should have been.
Nor would he see the burnt remains of his cabin as darkness engulfed his vision as soon as he reached the top of the little valley. He collapsed into unconsciousness.
Tommy felt drowsy.
He had marched through leagues of dense forest, meadows and icy plains; anything, anything, to get away from Dream. He didn’t plan to end up there, at his brother’s and worst enemy’s home. Much less did he plan to then tunnel out a basement under said brother’s and worst enemy’s home and attempt to live there. And what he definitely didn’t plan for was to be startled awake on his third day there by the violent shouts and sounds of fighting above the surface of the frozen ground. He well remembered that in his childhood his brother had been unpredictable and aggressive, to say the least, so perhaps a fight to the death on the front lawn in the morning wasn’t as unexpected as one would have thought it would be. In any case, Tommy did not opt to crawl out of his burrow like some homeless raccoon (albeit he wasn’t far from such) and instead held his breath as he heard people screaming in pain. Soon the noise quieted, though that in itself was only partially a relief. All it meant was that his brother had defeated whoever dared to challenge him and would therefore be making his way back inside his- no, Tommy’s house, increasing the chances of his inevitable discovery.
But even through his confused and hazy thoughts, Tommy was sure that he did not hear the door open at any point. Around that he had no doubts. Although, he did start doubting when he heard the soft ‘plop’ that explosive material made as it hit the iced ground. He would’ve recognised that sound anywhere.
Dream.
Dream was here. Here for him, here for his wings-
He didn’t get to the end of that thought as the stacks of TNT were lighted and the house above his meagre tunnel burst into flames, then exploded with a sickening BANG!
Breathe, Tommy heard Dream mutter, as if he were just behind him, leaning over to whisper softly into his ear. He was too far down in the dirt to be blown up, he purposefully dug so far down, but he still couldn’t stop the way his burning lungs wheezed faster and faster- where was all the oxygen?
Breathe!
Tommy yelped in fear. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth as his lower lip trembled. The colour drained out of his face, replaced instead with pure terror; he yelled and writhed and yelled until his voice went hoarse. Only arctic silence answered him. No one came to check up on him, to toss him over to Dream for trespassing as a fugitive.
Steadily, he collected himself, wiping his tears and snot with the torn back of his filthy sleeve. He wrenched open his eyes and found himself in total darkness. As he crept toward his ladder, he found that a convenient trap door had fallen upon its beginning, blocking out the cold winter from seeping inside. He started climbing out carefully, as if he were made of glass, when it dawned on him that if- when- his brother was back, he would be a dead man living on borrowed time. He swore in anger, but still quickly forced himself back down, back into his warm corner where he had constructed a surprisingly warm nest made mainly of stolen old blankets and pillows, which stood next to an always fuelled and warm, stolen furnace.
With a final, half swallowed sob, Tommy inched towards the nest, wrapped himself with his aching wings and tried so very hard to fall asleep and finally just forget about everything.
Chapter 2: Chapter the Second: Human Again
Notes:
Well hello there I'm back! =D
I think exams are going alright (*knocks on wood*) so I treated myself with writing again.
The main idea from this chapter came from a writing prompt: make your strongest character involuntarily vulnerable. So my twisted little mind got excited and went 'okay, where can we take this?'
So! Won't spoil too much but I think I have accidently given Techno trauma around being hand fed? Maybe I'll explain it properly later on if I don't forget.
Chapter warnings: implied past abuse, swearing, vomiting, very briefly described panic attack
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tommy jolted awake-
Just a nightmare just a nightmare just a nightmare…
His fast, ragged breathing eventually slowed down as he came to sense with his surroundings. They were, thankfully, exactly how he remembered leaving them, with the only change being to the furnace- it had run out of fuel. That was fine, all fine; he’d just have to get up and chuck a bit of firewood into the embers. Firewood that was running dangerously low...
At least Tommy felt better than he had previously (you know, possibly because he was no longer in the middle of an anxiety attack)- how much time had passed?
He was still tired, but he was always tired these days. Tommy supposed he should be counting his lucky stars that he wasn’t so exhausted that the fatigue didn’t literally stiffen his bones. He began to truly appreciate every little thing during his exile, he found.
Tommy got up slowly, very careful not to stretch his aching wings, but was pleasantly surprised to find no headache plaguing him. Holding back a yawn, he inhaled deeply and listened to his stomach growling. One would be surprised how easy the pangs of hunger had gotten to ignore over time, yet Tommy ventured across the tiny room to his only chest, which was acting as perhaps the world’s smallest kitchen. When he pulled the lid open, it revealed a few pieces of smoked mackerel, an old deformed beetroot, the last two slices of a stale loaf of bread, a few emergency health supplies and his unenchanted, iron sword. He had seen better, but compared to what he had with Dream? This was good.
Tommy’s mouth watered automatically, but he kept his hand from grabbing the uncooked food: last thing he wanted was food poisoning.
He had all the time in the world to cook- he could eat later. However, he did not have all the time in the world to gather more firewood- if the sun set and the monsters caught him outside, he would be counting worms.
Grabbing the blunt, unkempt sword, he clambered out of his hole and pushed the trap door away to find that the sun was indeed beginning to set, and a bitter wind had picked up. It all seemed so natural and commonplace compared to what Tommy saw next...
His only place of safety; his brother’s home- completely destroyed.
The stone brick walls had shattered into pieces, thrown in all directions, no longer cold grey but stained with ash. The wooden framework and roof had burnt away, leaving behind a disgusting smell; the white clay brick crumbled, mimicking the snow. And the glass- the beautiful stained panes had exploded into a million pieces, falling into the ice.
Really not fucking good.
Not my business, Tommy decided and focused his mind back on the task at hand: gathering firewood. He turned away, towards the forest.
Nonetheless, what was infinitely more not good, was that a shadow too human-like to be a mob had slowly crept up to his left. He took a wary step backwards and submissively hung his head down, acting on instinct. Despite being elongated by the dying sun in that weird way, the shadow was too short, hunched over.
Tommy froze completely, like a deer in headlights, and cautiously glanced up. He instantly regretted it.
Technoblade.
His brother- his bloody brother who was going to kill him. Tommy hurled himself out of the rubble and almost threw himself before Technoblade’s feet, ready to beg for mercy. Only then did his thoughts stop to realise that his brother was not wearing his armour, nor carrying his sword. Instead, he was stooped over, tears- tears?!- rolling down his face. Despite being not more than a few feet away from him, Tommy had the feeling that Technoblade was not seeing him at all, which was rapidly confirmed by how his glassy eyes closed and his body fell to the ground.
Really not fucking good.
The first thing Technoblade registered as he woke up was the pain. The never ending, intense pain.
The second thing Technoblade registered as he woke was the warmth all around him. The astounding, but sweet warmth that filtered into his shivering body.
That was about when his pride got the better of him and he started to struggle to get up out of the prickling covers, and found himself too weak to sit up on his own. A harsh, grim coughing fit overcame him, shaking him to his core. He could not stop coughing, not even when the hand came to comfort him, and gagged until his empty stomach nearly heaved up bile.
All of a sudden the light in the dim room was too bright, and the crackling of the burning furnace was too loud, and the pain in his shoulder was too overwhelming, so in his delirious state, he let the tears fall down his face.
Weak, the voices mocked, finding some sort of cruel pleasure in his agony, Weak!
“Hey, it’s alright- don’t cry, Techno.”
Suddenly, some metallic object fell, producing a loud, sharp clang as it collided with the stone floor. The noise practically stabbed Technoblade in his sensitive ears, and he let out an involuntary yelp.
“Shit- Techno, you’re fine, it’s alright.”
After a few seconds of frantic scrambling, Technoblade felt cool hands smoothly guiding him back into lying on his back. And as clouded as his thoughts were, one stood out: why had he not flinched? He was going to die.
As a rule, Technoblade hated contact. With it usually came some concealed intentions, some cunning, something that would result in weakness. In truth, he hated when anyone but Phil was gentle with him, since he knew Phil was the only person without hidden reasons, without plots of his demise, the only person just being his friend.
And yet, this contact, as much as it forbade going to die- it was nice. The hands were soft and cold against his burning body. It felt like when Phil stroked his back whenever he was sick, and before he could grasp what was happening and stop himself, Technoblade felt himself leaning into the touch.
Yep- definitely delirious.
And to give this unknown person credit, they did not falter and went along with it.
“There you go. See, it’s alright big man. Yeah, calm down now, you’re safe here, you can rest.”
To his dismay, the hands were quickly withdrawn after something in the room made a sizzling sound, but Technoblade caught the growl in his throat. Once he realised the hands weren’t returning, he whined quietly and opened his eyes.
Even though his vision was blurry, he could see somewhat well across the small room, if it could even be called that. There was a small, skinny form of a person, looking suspiciously familiar, hunched over and tending to a pot of what Technoblade presumed was stew.
And then it came to him- it was his little brother (his enemy?), who was meant to be in exile for reasons he never bothered to find out. It was Tommy.
So much for dying...
Before he realised he was staring, Tommy turned abruptly and faced him. Technoblade was the first to speak, or at least he tried to ask what Tommy of all people was doing here, but his voice came out as a coarse mumble. And then the cursed coughing started again, but this time it was far more mild, which Technoblade was very much grateful for. As soon as his head cleared again, he caught sight of the bottle of water in Tommy’s hands.
“I know you’re not gonna like this Techno, but I’m not gonna hand this to you, ‘cuz if you spill this on the blankets, they won’t dry and you’ll freeze.”
Technoblade glanced up dumbly at Tommy- why did that matter, he thought, if he had many spares in the storage room?
And then it hit him: Tommy wanted to hand feed him.
The panic at that thought must have shown in his eyes, for Tommy immediately took a step back and lowered his wings, making himself seem small and reassuring.
“It’s alright Techno, I’m not an idiot. I’ve nursed people before, you know, during the Pogtopia Revolution. I won’t just force it down your throat.”
Technoblade cast his mind back to those days, and recalled seeing Tommy caring for Wilbur and Niki in the small medical room in the side of that pitiful cavern after they had fallen sick, while he had farmed potatoes. It did little to calm him, but by the time he noticed what Tommy was doing, it was too late to stop.
Taking his silence as agreement, he moved behind Technoblade’s head and lifted it slightly off of the practically flat pillow, then placed a rag on his neck. Technoblade tensed instinctively, in preparation for the worst.
“Come on Techno, I promise I’ll be as gentle as I can. You need to drink something, please, you’ll be alright.”
Now asking for something was really unlike the feral, chaotic teenager Technoblade had grown up with. Being polite was usually his last port of call, yet Technoblade still did not relent, even though he knew the water would feel heavenly to his dry mouth. He just couldn’t bring himself to stoop so slow and drop his guard after his failure of a rescue and attempted execution...
“Techno...?”
Was this a warning? The last threat? The last piece of patience an executioner had before the torture started? But this lacked any heat behind it, far too kind to be the final message.
He found himself trying to relax when the voices started to laugh and snigger, but however hard he tried, he could not open his mouth. His monumental efforts had not gone unnoticed, though.
“Good job, Techno. The faster we start the faster we can get it over and done with, okay?”
And like that, the water was somehow flowing down his throat, soothing the throbbing skin. He was right, it felt heavenly and wonderful and good, but all of a sudden it was too much. And, to Technoblade’s delirious mind’s shock, as soon as he started to pull away from the bottle, Tommy had moved it away. He watched as the silent concern on Tommy’s face faded into relief as he relaxed.
And then the rag and half empty bottle of water were gone, replaced by a tender hand rubbing slow, small circles into his stomach. Technoblade hated that he was this vulnerable, and he hated the warm feeling in his insides because Tommy wasn’t Phil and he didn’t deserve this after failing to save his only friend, but still he found himself chuffing.
The piglin sound made Tommy hesitate, as if he couldn’t differentiate if it was positive or a warning to ‘back off’. However, with one glance at Technoblade’s peaceful expression, with his eyes half shut and ears tucked backward (like he always done around Phil- a show of trust, he supposed, actions done to demonstrate that even the best of the best was willing to be powerless), he resumed the action, earning another chuff.
Tommy felt his cheeks go red in embarrassment- he was always taught to keep his hybrid features in check, since there were always new stories circulating about some poor hybrid being hunted down for their characteristics. But he knew that Technoblade was never good at restraining himself, plus if a bounty hunter did go after him, it would be Technoblade slaying the hunter, not the other way round. Yet still Tommy felt sheepish, that this esteemed warrior, his brother but the Blood God himself was suffering enough that he would find comfort in his touch.
He glanced up again at his brother’s face- he appeared to be asleep. As he was about to move away to tend to the fish and beetroot stew he was attempting to cook, Technoblade’s hoarse whisper of ‘thanks’ made him pause.
“Not a problem, big man. Try not to talk now though, you’ll fuck up your throat even more.”
Before he could turn away, he heard Technoblade’s voice slurring, trying to say something again. Typical.
“Why the hell is communicating with a brick hall easier than speaking to you? I literally just told you to shut up, we don’t have the resources to heal you up multiple times. Although… I suppose it’s fair if you want to know why I’m here.”
Technoblade’s blank expression didn’t encourage Tommy to speak.
“I’ll be honest, Techno, my stay with Dream was very unpleasant at best, but I’m not talking about that anymore. I came here, accidentally though- don’t think I wanted to bother you: I wouldn’t ever, just for the record-"
“T’mmy...where y-?”
“Yeah, about that- we're in my basement, that’s under your house, or what’s left of your house... shit, Techno, I swear to you that I did not blow up your house, please I promise, I’ll be useful, I won’t get in your way- just please, please, don’t send me back to Dream-"
“T’mmy, -okay-"
Technoblade was cut short by a rough, painful cough, and as he was doing his utmost to steady himself, he felt the water he had just swallowed rising in his throat.
“Techno!... are you....?”
Tommy froze again, this time for a split second, internally debating if he should take a step towards Technoblade, or if he should back away. He ended up taking a small step backwards and watching in uncomfortable silence as his older brother threw up beside the nest of stolen blankets he had wrapped him in. Somehow, his vomit had just missed the edge of the woollen covers- at the very least, it would be faster to clean up. With a sympathetic wince, Tommy stepped forward again and gently propped Technoblade’s limp body up against the stone wall; it took more effort than he cared to admit. Then, he grabbed the rag and cleaned him up, like a mother nursing her child. By the time he had finished, Technoblade had fallen unconscious again.
The young teenager just sighed fretfully and laid him flat on his back, burrowing him in bed covers. There wasn’t much to clean up the rest of the mess with, but its foul odour hurried his decision along. He grabbed the already grubby cloth and attempted to quickly mop up the sick on the stone floor until the angry sizzling of the stew bid him stop, and made him tend to it instead.
And boy, did he curse at that mackerel and beetroot soup that sat boiling on his furnace. He had washed the worst of the dirt off the old ingredients, and had hurriedly diced them with his blunted iron sword. The slices ended up uneven and crude, but Tommy just didn’t care at the moment: he was never good at cooking, nor handling a sword. Wilbur had continuously suggested that he learn to use one properly, since he did have a tendency to rile up conflict in his wake, but that never really did happen. Hey- at least he could chop up deformed vegetables.
The soup sizzled, with little bubbles racing to the surface of the pot before bursting open. If Tommy had to be honest, it looked better than it smelt- that, by itself, was quite an achievement, as it had a distasteful, murky maroon colour.
After making sure that the blade of the sword was washed, Tommy used it to hurriedly mix the contents of the cooking stew, in hopes that something might miraculously improve (spoiler alert- it didn’t. It did look edible, though).
All of a sudden, Tommy stiffened as he discerned a feverish mumble behind him, but quickly relaxed when he explained to himself that it could only be Technoblade. He moved the stew off the heat and set it to cool down for a bit, before making his way to Technoblade’s side. His incomprehensive muttering grew weaker with each breath he took, which rang red bells in Tommy’s mind. A not so pleasant product of losing most of one’s blood and then nearly freezing to death. Had he ever seen Technoblade this...fragile? Those two words just didn’t fit together, at all.
But, more significantly, when last did Technoblade eat?
Tommy was aware that Technoblade did have a habit of forgetting to eat when Phil was not around to remind him, especially when he was sick or injured or had an important goal he was working on... or got sidetracked doing something...or was challenged: how many times had this happened before? If he had lived alone in that cabin- Tommy wanted to say that he inferred that he had- had he eaten at all?
He moved his wings thoughtfully as his eyes landed on the rag again, and an idea sparked in his head. Probably a not very good idea, but when were his ideas ever good?
He grabbed it off the floor, along with his sword turned cooking utensil, and climbed out of his little room in the earth, out into the exposed tundra. Night had long fallen, and as he pushed the trapdoor over the entrance to shield the inside of his cave from the arctic cold, he listened to the growls of the undead prowling the landscape. Somehow, the exploded wood of Technoblade’s home had still not been completely smothered by the strong glacial wind, and had charred into dim little embers- as luck would have it, it was enough to keep the monsters from approaching too close. Considering everything else that had happened, that was a true blessing from the gods.
Not daring to stray too far- perhaps out of fear for the mobs, or of hypothermia, or, how could he ever forget, in fear of Dream- Tommy knelt on the frozen ground, and covered the dirty cloth in snow. He tried to focus his mind on anything barring the cold, barring the vicious wind which was both burning hot and freezing cold against his skin. Barring the needle-like snow which cut into the scabbed skin on his knees. Barring how numb and mushy his fingers were becoming the longer he attempted to clean the rag… how could anyone in their right mind live in such a place? (He thought, living in that exact place).
Tommy exhaled gently, as if all the warmth from his body would dissipate if he let too much air out. He took the cloth, and some extra snow, and clambered back down the rickety ladder when the wind started to pick up. He dumped the snow into a small bowl shaped from splintering wood, and spread the rag across the top of the furnace.
The stew was done now, so he supposed he could eat it- at least no one would come and rob it off him if he didn’t eat it fast enough.
But what did he know: he still ended up practically inhaling the majority of it, while trying to ignore the sting it left behind on his tongue. He could have eaten it all, but he needed to save some for Technoblade (he picked out all the solid parts, though). But speaking of Technoblade…
As delicately as he could manage, Tommy picked up the now nearly dry cloth and slipped it into Technoblade’s mouth; he proceeded to drip the remaining soup very slowly, in small quantities, onto it so it could absorb through the rag. He knew he had to be very cautious though, if he restricted Technoblade’s airway, or poured even a bit too much, he might start gagging again. And, with him being completely out, that was not something Tomy wanted to deal with.
He tried to ignore the awkward thought of what he would do if Technoblade suddenly woke up.
By the time the portion of soup he had dedicated to his brother had dripped through the gag, Tommy’s eyes were glueing shut and constant yawning made him even more drained. He sighed heavily and got up, momentarily forgetting about his unpreened wings. As he accidently stretched them, Tommy let out a yelp of surprise at the waves of pins and needles radiating up and down their entirety. He was about to add more firewood to the embers, but he was afraid that it would completely run out- and while a handful of sticks that was his firewood pile wasn’t exactly going to keep them warm during the night, it was at least visually reassuring to Tommy.
He glanced back over to Technoblade, and was glad to find him sleeping. In fact, he was overjoyed at the fact that his brother’s breathing had finally become calm and controlled. He decided then that he should make a resting place for himself, so he creeped over to the nest (even if Technoblade was unconscious, he was still a light sleeper) and started to rearrange it so that he had a spot to sit down and sleep, too. Tommy left most of the blankets over Technoblade although he was beginning to shiver slightly, and tried not to think about what he would do to get more food tomorrow, since, you know, the frozen plains aren’t exactly a place that’s big on natural resources.
Notes:
Thinking I might show what's happening with Phil next chapter, get some more angst in here.
Like last time I'll try to update sometime between tomorrow and next year if the rest of my exams don't kill me (I'm not even properly halfway through) :(
Please leave kudos and comments if you feel up to it! They definitely helped me to get through this past week and a bit.
Again, thank you everyone for your support, however minimal it may seem to you, it means the world to me.
Have the day you deserve!
Chapter 3: Chapter the Third: Chained by Faith
Notes:
yooooooo im back
these exams got nothing on meeeee
hopefully they go alright =Danyway ive been absolutely great apart from the new laptop that i literally just got breaking after i tried to update it like please what is that atrocious behaviour so i doubled the meh feelings and now its time to pass it on to you in this chapter have fun reading (this would be the perfect place for finger guns but idk how to do that so boom have this instead)
chapter warnings: slight dehumanisation (in the way phil thinks about himself), descriptions of injuries, panic attacks
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Get up, old man! You have work to do!”
The chained figure which had been sleeping on the ground had only groaned in response. Considering its uncomfortable position- being restrained at an abnormal angle outside during the frigid night (were human arms even supposed to twist that way?)- it was...well, it was the normal response. Alas, it had only worked to aggravate the already hostile person perched above it.
In a completely unrestrained wave of fury, the man rammed his decorated armoured boot into the torso of the form lying in the dirt, and gave the slightest of grins at the terrified screech and rough gasps it produced in response, as it struggled to catch its breath.
“Has that woken you up, traitor? Or maybe I should go for the wings...?”
“No, no, no...I’m listening, Quackity....wha-what do you need?”
The winged figure winced again and panted softly. Automatically, it attempted to stand up, but the plan shortly fell apart as the horrible sensation of the tugging of heavy chains at its wings ripped through its battered body. After a few brief moments of wrestling with them, it gave up and landed on its knees with a huff. Of course, the shackles were just too short to fully stand up, forcing the winged shape to kneel in the dirt, humiliated.
“Almost sounds like you actually want to cooperate for once, hmm? Is the ever-brave Philza scared?” After being met with antagonistic silence, the armoured man merely chuckled, “The shoe’s really on the other foot now, isn’t it?”
Phil hung his head down and stayed silent.
“Answer me, traitor!”
“Yeah mate, sure...sure, it is…”
After his somewhat alarmed reply, the captured Angel of Death mustered the courage to challenge Quackity’s confidence back with a glare, and stared right into his bloodshot eyes. Yet, as the moment passed, all the strength drained out of him as he noticed that Quackity- Quackity of all people- was wearing Technoblade’s ancient armour pieces- so that’s why the kick had hurt so much...
The numbness that had deadened his emotions since yesterday was suddenly whipped away by overwhelming, burning guilt.
Technoblade.
Technoblade was executed. Phil did not aid him. He had hung on to life by a thread, fought for his life, while Phil only watched.
He did not help him.
Spying Phil’s evident distress at the characteristic armour plate, Quackity grinned again and gestured leisurely to the raised execution platform, which loomed ominously ahead of them. The rotting spruce wood was indented and splintered from the impact of the anvil that was meant to prove once and for all that the Blood God could be defeated.
“You know, I’ll admit to such a good citizen as yourself, the execution- well, the outcome was a little suboptimal for us. The little scuffle at the end wasn’t planned.”
With a sudden change of heart, Quackity spun around with some of Technoblade’s distinguishing speed, and produced a key. He took a cautious step sideways into the mud and held it carefully just out of reach of Philza’s chained, trembling hands, “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know of Technoblade’s possible whereabouts? You know, I would hate for you to have to sit through another execution.”
Philza glanced up numbly and locked his eyes on the key- the last hurdle before he could be free of this place. And, of course, it came with a catch: the requirement to betray your closest friend.
Was Technoblade even his friend anymore? Phil knew the best out of all that Technoblade held grudges for perhaps longer than necessary, and that where his trust was hopelessly difficult to earn, it was also hellishly easy to lose. After all, had he not heard Technoblade’s fraught shouts that begged the Butcher Army to spare his friend? But then had he not seen the betrayal and discomfort etched into Technoblade’s face as he turned back to face him one last time before he ran after Carl and his concealed saviour?
No; Technoblade was no longer his friend, but it wouldn’t degenerate his precarious position to show loyalty to him.
“I...I don’t. Me and Techn- Technoblade aren’t exactly on the best of terms...currently. Not after I fai- I failed...to...”
“Ahh...Looks like our little execution also didn’t benefit you, hmm?”
After a moment’s consideration, Quackity yanked Phil’s chains up and, despite Phil’s tormented cries, dragged him up into his house. Before Phil could stand up, the chains around his hands were unbuckled, but the clamps around his wings tightened- a clear, unwelcomed warning. Quackity rushed to get out of the house, and the shackled man grimaced as the door was slammed shut, then securely locked from the outside. As if that of all things mattered: the windows were still shattered and the house still turned upside down after the looting before the execution, and the bitter wind still slipped into the destroyed structure.
Here he was- a bird hybrid tethered to the ground by a chain. How ironic.
Yet Phil didn’t feel his usual misery and despair at being placed in such a situation; in fact, he didn’t feel much of anything. Anything but that horrible guilt which continuously pushed down on his shoulders and that wretched ache in his wings...his poor wings. And then more guilt, because how could he ever be worried over some discomfort in his feathers while Technoblade was out there, still fighting the execution wounds for his life? Maybe he was already dead? It’s not like he could even check for a death message if he found the energy to move- Tubbo stole his communicator.
The only thing that bought Phil comfort was the gentle pulsing of his Friendship Emerald on his chest.
Technoblade awoke as he discerned a placid squeeze on his leg, which transformed into a burning sting as the pressure approached the deep gash in his thigh.
“What the hell are you doing?” he managed to splutter out amongst his disorientation, startling Tommy away, but not before he ran into a pickaxe placed against the stone wall, which tumbled to the floor- again. This time, Technoblade exhibited no reaction to the piercing loud clang and merely glared at Tommy.
“Hey, in my defence, I thought you were asleep.”
“I was, before you woke me.”
An awkward silence ensued as Technoblade attempted, unsuccessfully, to sit up.
“Can I help you, Techno? At least with the stitching, you can do the rest if you want.”
Technoblade growled feebly at the offer. He had since abandoned hope of sitting up and positioned himself almost pleasantly among the rugged blankets. The burn which lounged across his chest had sucked up too much of his energy, and he wasn’t about to attempt to stand up and fight what experience had taught him was clearly a lost battle. Eventually, he considered Tommy’s proposal.
We trust him! the voices echoed, He helped us!
As the deafening silence stretched on, the voices finally concluded to do something considerate, and, dare Technoblade think it, supportive?
Damage control- serious, potentially fatal: twisted ankle; bruised ribs; fractured collarbone; multiple smaller superficial wounds, they observed indifferently.
He exhaled wearily, and let his gaze fall to the floor, extending his arms in what was the closest thing Technoblade could get to a welcoming gesture, before unhurriedly shutting his eyes as his head began to spin. After some moments of Tommy’s clear hesitation, he heard uncertain footsteps first move away from him, then inch apprehensively towards the nest of blankets. Soon, a cool, damp rag dropped onto the wound above his knee, and Technoblade automatically flinched.
“Sorry…”
Technoblade kept his eyes firmly shut to hinder tears from falling down his face as he felt Tommy meticulously begin to stitch the throbbing wound shut. No matter how many times he had to patch himself up, the scorching pain of the needle and thread ripping through his skin always made him want to scream. Even now he was struggling to keep his laboured breathing in check so that his wretched bruised rib cage would stop hurting so much. Luckily, the wound had not gotten infected, and despite being deep, it had clotted and stopped bleeding. At most, it would impede his movement and slow his speed for a few days. The same luxury was not afforded to the shallow, but long gash stretching from his right shoulder and across his chest, which was still sluggishly oozing blood. Technoblade wasn’t even sure how he had failed to deflect that strike- it was one of the first things he’d learnt as a child: when fighting at a clear disadvantage, the best offensive would be a strong defence, and more significantly, always focus on protecting the head and chest. Still, he unjustifiably overlooked a lot of things that day; a lot too many. Like how Quackity was grinning too sinisterly, as if he actually won the fight outside his winter cabin. Or how, at first glance, Phil’s eyes begged for help, for any chance of a rescue, but after looking closer, it was a clear ‘save yourself’.
Retirement, or his twisted version of it, had clouded his judgement.
Regardless of his thoughts, Technoblade must have dosed off slightly, because he was soon awoken by Tommy’s benevolent pat on his shoulder. Before Technoblade could say anything, Tommy pointed to his now-bandaged thigh, clearly proud of aiding his brother.
“Yeah, thanks for that, Tommy. I could have done it myself, though.”
“The whole point, Techno, is that you don’t have-”
“Is Phil safe?”
The sudden change in tone and topic catapulted Tommy out of the conversation.
“What?”
“Where is Phil? Is he alright?”
The young teenager drew his hand through his greasy hair. His mind was muddled up, to say the least, over why the Technoblade was so clearly anxious about someone from their family, let alone Phil. He could take care of himself: he had survived in other worlds for decades despite the threat of permanent death, he could handle himself well in a fight, he had wings, hell- he had a life long pact with the Goddess of Death! Wasn’t that enough to prove the Angel of Death indestructible?
Whatever happened to Technoblade’s careless attitude towards his family anyway? What danger was Phil in that the Blood God bothered to spare energy to inquire over his well being? He certainly didn’t sound like he was joking about the only thing that had come close to taking Phil’s life; the baby zombie incident...
“What happened to Phil?! Techno, he’s fine, right? Right…?”
Tommy watched with silent anticipation as Technoblade gingerly lowered his head, letting his unwashed, tangled hair fall all around him. Like in the ancient classics, Technoblade never cut his hair, unless he was defeated (which was, unsurprisingly, almost never).
“I failed to...failed to save- I failed to save, Phil- alright?! From the cursed government, that’s what I did! And just look at me now! The undefeated licking his wounds like some pathetic dog with its tail between its legs! Why the hell are you here, anyway? Playing the role as my friend?! A spy for L’Manberg? Just another traitor?!”
With speed and efficiency that was hardly fair for an injured person to possess, Technoblade sprang up from the nest and located his weapon- Dream’s pickaxe- grabbing it with practised ease. It belonged to him now, he reckoned. The voices insisted he call it Toothpick.
He spun around clumsily, head throbbing, biting his tongue to hold back a pained cry at his upset ankle, and loomed over Tommy. He barely managed to register that he couldn't put any pressure on it before all he could hear was the deafening, unanimous chant for blood echoing in his head, and he would have not known Tommy had spoken if it wasn’t for his lips moving.
Although he hadn’t heard what Tommy was mumbling about, Technoblade had noticed his lowered shoulders, his averted gaze, his timid expression, even the slight tremble in his hands as he emptied out his pockets and backed away, begging for something that Technbolade couldn’t distinguish over the ruckus in his head.
Seemingly without a reason, the voices suddenly and sharply backtracked and pressured Technoblade to drop Toothpick and back himself off. It seemed to him that they had built up more concord with the teenager over the few hours he had been conscious than himself. As the warning got louder and more urgent, Technoblade’s headache grew, further distracting his disarranged thoughts with pain, so he had no trouble following the voices’ demands- anything, but ignoring the voices. The voices hated being ignored, and for that, there were always repercussions. He was in agony enough.
“Tommy?”
“I swear on my life I’m no spy, Techno, I swear. You can do anything to me, just please, not my wings, Dream already said he’ll cut them off, please.”
Technoblade faltered- how did he not notice Tommy’s wings?
He could see them now: small, soft, delicate and brown, taking cover behind his malnourished figure.
Technoblind, the voices sneered, immediately making fun of his unhinged state of mind that shadowed him since failing Phil.
Then he reeled again- Dream said what?!
“Dream wants to cut off your wings?”
He whispered it, as if it was stupid secret they were hiding from Wilbur back years ago, back in a forgotten time, thousands of worlds away.
Tommy's answer felt like another stab, pain mixed with a feeling he could not identify blossoming in his stomach.
“Please, I’ll be useful, I’ll help you, just don’t hand me over to him, I don-I don’t want to los- to lose my w-wings…”
Technoblade couldn’t stop the memory that materialised in his mind: it was a few months after he had earned his freedom. After he had escaped the Hypixel Servers, or more specifically, after he had butchered the soldiers who had trapped him and massacred the audience that jeered as he fought for his life and their entertainment. It was the day he had been payed by a lord to enter a prestigious tournament with his champion, and finally win fame and glory for the prowess of his kingdom. It was the day he met Phil, and fought alongside him for the first time. It was also the day he learnt about bird hybrids, and how physically and mentally detrimental it was for them to damage their wings.
He remembered how it took Phil nine months, three weeks and five days to finally trust him enough to let him near his wings, and another two years to feel safe with him standing behind the appendages, with yet another three years and seven months to let him touch them for the first time. Ages before the rise of the infamous Antarctic Empire.
Tommy was a liar; Tommy wasn’t his friend; Tommy ultimately was only after his disks, but in the end, in no universe did his brother deserve this.
“Tommy, just...how about you sit down over there-,” Technoblade gestured slowly to the nest, “Alright?”
“W-why?”
His broken, terrified voice urged some piglin part of Technoblade’s brain to act, and then all he was thinking was ‘pack, pack, protect, protect.’
“You’re shaking, Tommy, just do that for me. I can move, if you want.”
No, you can’t, the voices mocked, you’re barely standing leaning up against the wall. Technoweak!
“No, no, no, it’s fine.”
The voices immediately began complaining at Technoblade’s lack of torment.
Tommy hurriedly (and rather clumsily) rushed to the blankets, and settled himself inside obediently, glancing at Technoblade for any reaction. Technoblade only nodded at him, “Tommy, I want you to know that whatever happens between us, I’ll play honourably. Hybrid features are off limits, whatever happens, I promise that. I won’t even go near your back if you’re not comfortable with me.”
Tommy’s eyes betrayed a fear that revealed his doubt in winning even a honourable fight against The Blade, but Technoblade’s continued muttering insisting that he would be safe for the night eventually eased him to sleep.
Notes:
so what you think? =)
maybe i should make the voices a bit less mean but i think they fit into this story so well being mean they raise up the concerns i imagine the reader would be thinking if this was a movie but im not sure how else to say that this is my way instead
also a thing i really struggle with is showing the emotions consistently throughout the chapter and i tried to focus more on the distress clouding technos and tommys thinking towards the end i hope you like it
please leave kudos and comments if you feel up to it i really really really appreciate it
have the day you deserve!
Chapter 4: Chapter the Fourth: Feathers in a Keyhole
Notes:
so its been a while and once again there is no excuse cause this has been done and written for some months now :/
ive started a new school which has been a lot of work but also really fun ive finally been reminded why i love academia so much
thank you so much from the bottom of my heart for everyone giving kudos every time i get a notification it makes me smile :)
anyway, onto the actual chapter:
warnings: descriptions of injury and that should be it
Chapter Text
Technoblade had stood strangely still propped up against the wall as he watched Tommy fall asleep. It was a while before his breathing slowed and evened out, and only then did Technoblade dare to look away from his battered body, and scan the bland room. Immediately across from him stood one of the only structures in the room- a small, almost broken chest. Maybe a foot to its right sat the furnace- gradually running out of fuel- and next to it, the warm nest of blankets Tommy was sleeping in.
Then, nothing else.
Well, apart from the large granite stone by the chest, if that could pass for a furnishing. I mean, who was he to judge, it looked like a pretty good table.
And it will pass as a pretty good chair, he thought to himself as he started to make the near impossible, three metre journey to reach it.
He must have looked comical there- trying not to collapse on the filthy floor of a tiny man made cave while limping towards some boulder. Real impressive...
After an embarrassingly long amount of time and pitifully many cries, Technoblade had finally reached the stone; panting, nearly crying, exhausted. He dropped down heavily on the rock forgetting about his bruised ribs, and nearly screamed as they burst out in pain. He cursed under his breath, but continued, determined on opening the chest, and checking it for supplies.
Any hope that had gathered during his woeful escapade was obliterated as he opened the chest. He swore again, and let out a breathe didn’t know he was holding, in an angry huff. Or, he tried to do that, but it came out closer to a sob- inside the chest were only four meagre supplies: some dirty bandages (used?), the remains of a diluted potion of healing in a cracked bottle, a rag and the bloodied needle and thread Tommy had been stitching him up with earlier.
It was absolutely miserable, yet still he trusted he would make do.
His past as a Hypixel Gladiator taught him his lessons well, histories he had gained his strength from, yet never wished to repeat. He clearly recalled his dim cell under the sandy arena, under the belly of the monster which was the colossal fighting building. Just a fancy name for a prison. And a place where even the crowd favourite, the Blood God, received no mercy- no proper food, no proper bed, no proper health supplies. Only what he managed to collect and steal during battle, then had to reuse. Only survival of the fittest.
What was Technoblade worried about, then? This was a different time, with his lessons repeating themselves yet. He would make do with such luxury as some dirty bandages and even the remains of a potion of healing.
He was about to get up and reach over to pick up the health supplies when a sharp burn raced through his leg as he attempted to put pressure on his ankle.
Won’t work, the voices rapidly noted.
Technoblade huffed, What a brilliant deduction. Have anything else less obvious that you would like to share with me?
Focus on the ankle.
Yeah, but with what? These bandages I clearly cannot reach are not enough to properly stiffen and keep it in place.
Lmao, too bad, nerd.
Technoblade only clenched his teeth in acknowledgement of the voices, and tried to ignore all their further insults and pestering.
He wasn’t defeated just yet…
Technoblade glanced around the room again, this time looking for anything that would help him to set his ankle in place. The immediate, noticeable choice were the remains of the firewood stacked up next to the now extinguished furnace. That was bad- the temperature would rapidly start dropping if the fire wasn’t started again, and Technoblade noted that thought. The firewood looked dry, it had to be if the furnace had been burning, but that meant it would be brittle and most likely wouldn’t hold his weight. What was left of the pile looked too long to fit in the furnace, which in turn meant it was much too long for him to use. A thought crossed his mind to chop it into smaller pieces, however that required movement, the one thing he wanted to limit right now. Plus, he didn’t have an axe.
Next, Technoblade’s inspection landed on the nest Tommy was sleeping in. His face was devoid of the panic that consumed him earlier, and he looked strangely peaceful with his unpreened wings tucked around him- Technoblade noted to get him to clean them when he woke up. In fact, why couldn’t he be woken up now, and help with nursing his wounds? This was immediately dismissed: Tommy needed rest from what Technoblade could tell, and the last thing he wanted right now was to have to talk to a clearly traumatised teenager. Instead, he focused on the blankets his little brother was wrapped in, specifically on his own blood red cloak. If he cut them up into strips, there would be enough to secure his ankle fully. Perhaps if he layered them twice, the makeshift bandage would be sufficiently stiff so that he would not need to fashion himself wooden crutches. But then what would keep Tommy warm? How would he venture into the arctic without a warm cloak?
The last object in the room with any significance to his quest was Toothpick. At first, Technoblade thought that it would serve as his crutch, but the more he considered it, the less the idea made sense. He would have to hold it metal side down; there was no way he could carry the weight of an enchanted netherite pickaxe in his current state. That meant the priceless netherite head would get scraped and scratched on the rocky, iced ground: that risked the destruction of the enchanting runes engraved into it, and thereby, the loss of the enchantment. But the wooden grip- that could be useful.
With the exception of Phil, no one knew that the weapons and armour Technoblade carried were either forged or restored by himself. He was not only a master swordsman, but also a master craftsman. Technoblade reached over and dragged the pickaxe to the stone he was sitting on. He proceeded to examine the handle of the pickaxe.
It was made out of rosewood, well cut and nicely finished. Technoblade guessed that Dream had used rosewood, not only because he could show his wealth by using an exclusive wood on a tool which could easily be broken, but also because it was relatively light compared to other woods and would decrease the load carried by him after a mining trip. Unfortunately, it was also softer and more flexible, increasing the chance of the netherite head snapping off the grip mid-swing. It would be perfect to use for a brace for his ankle, though: soft, finished, slightly flexible, if he could detach the two pieces. He wouldn’t abandon the metal part of course, he could fashion it with locust wood- harder to work with but more difficult to break. That, however, was a project for the future.
Usually, Technoblade would use a mixture of honey, magma cream and weakness potions to wedge the metal off the wood, but he only had some water in a bowl which looked like it just dethawed from the snow outside. It had to do.
Hopefully any glue Dream had used was made weak by the fighting and blood that settled between the metal and the wood.
He carefully poured it on the handle and pulled and twisted until the handle slipped off.
Success, Technoblade smiled as the voices mockingly started to applaud.
With newfound motivation, he focused on securing his ankle. Slowly, he poured the remaining water on his leg, grunting at the cool sensation over his burning skin. Although he preferred not to, he prodded at the swollen area and nearly cried out in happiness when he felt it wasn’t fractured, only strained. Cautiously, he ripped part of his shirt and tediously began swathing his ankle and the rosewood brace together, ignoring the sting as his skin was squeezed down and the ache as his hoof contorted slightly. After a few minutes, he was done and carefully knotted the end of the cloth together.
Now this situation, be it as it may, he could work with.
With a pained snarl, Technoblade rose and tenderly put his binded ankle on the stone floor. Even though he could feel the joint throbbing against the smooth wood, he could at least amble along to the chest, albeit limping with difficulty.
Chest wound, the voices warned, focusing Technoblade’s attention back on his injuries.
He hobbled to the box and reached inside, grabbing the healing potion and stitching supplies, before sluggishly making his way back to the cold stone he had been sitting on. Having learnt his lesson, he carefully lowered himself onto it without disturbing his ribs too much, and debated on stitching his wound now, or waiting on it. It had sapped his energy, leaving him tired and trembling, but there was no way he was going to stitch his skin back together by himself. Hell- he felt himself blacking out with pain when Tommy was doing his leg, he wouldn't be able to do it. Chances were that he would do more damage to the wound if he tried to fix it, Technoblade concluded, and cursed his decision to always use the shortcut with potions instead of going the long way and learning how to sew properly.
Phil can sew.
That was his last straw. He cried, then. Cried, and cursed how well the voices knew him. At first, he tried to restrain himself, but then- sobbed, and whimpered, and snivelled until his eyes turned the colour of blood and it hurt to blink or to cry more. Until the snot ran down his face and he remembered crying as a child in the Nether. Until even the voices felt pity and gave him the mercy of silence.
But, despite popular opinion, Technoblade had never been good at containing his emotions.
“T-Techno..?”
Although soft, the noise stifled his wailing, giving space for his laboured breathing to occupy. So he had woken Tommy…
“I didn’t make you...you cry, did I? ...Techno?”
Technoblade couldn’t bring himself to face Tommy, let alone reply. He buried his head in his shaking hands; Tommy took his silence as consensus.
“I did, didn’t I? Shit, Techno...Techno, I’m so so so sorry, please, I’m sorry.”
“Just go back to sleep, Tommy.”
Tommy huddled in the blankets, with a somewhat scared somewhat confused expression. He had been cautiously eyeing his older brother as he panicked, but now sat quietly looking directly at him. He was sprawled atop of the stone he had used interchangeably as a chair and as a table, in a manner that made Tommy uncomfortable by just looking at it. He quickly spotted the makeshift, sloppy bandage around Technoblade’s ankle and the supplies slipping out of his trembling hands.
Tommy got up and crossed the room to Technoblade’s hunched figure. He cleared his throat softly to give Technoblade a slight warning before he leaned over and wrapped his spindly arms around his torso, attempting to give him a hug. Technoblade tensed noticeably, with his hands subconsciously moving to protect his rib cage, but he, unexpectedly for Tommy, made no attempts at pulling away.
They sat like that for a few moments, with Tommy cherishing every second- after all, this was the person, the brother, Tommy was conflicted about the most. That was, until Tommy wrapped his arms a bit too tightly, causing Technoblade to hiss and push himself away.
Trying not to spoil the moment, Tommy quickly retreated and scanned his brother’s chest. He had made sure to stick clear of the bleeding wound, he was sure he didn’t even come close to touching it, so why was Technoblade hurt?
He looked again at his ankle, and wondered if he had bumped it instead- from what he could see from under the material, it looked swollen, pink and painful. Suddenly, it dawned on Tommy- the same had happened to Wilbur as they were fleeing from L’Manberg after the failed elections. While Tommy was focused on treating the arrow wound in his shoulder, he had overlooked Wilbur’s bruised ribs, which had later caused damage to his muscles.
Exactly what was happening now.
Tommy approached Technoblade again, who, it seemed, was doing everything in his might to keep his eyes off Tommy. The younger quickly noticed the rips in the older’s shirt, and rushed to get a blanket he could drape over his shoulders to keep him warm after he rolled his shirt up.
“Hey, Techno, may I?”
He’ll help , the voices answered for him, Trust him .
Technoblade didn’t even consider what Tommy was asking for, just giving a short hum of consent.
Then, he felt the familiar weight of his cloak dropping onto his shoulders, and something sparked in his mind. What the hell was he doing? He was Technoblade, for god’s sake! He could- he would - keep his own.
“Wait…”, he mumbled, his voice pathetically low.
Tommy instantly paused.
A further silence ensued as Technoblade gathered his words and put down the medical supplies he had been clenching onto.
“Techno?”
“Why are you here? And be honest- from the looks of you, you don’t want more enemies.”
Tommy looked down at himself and reddened. It was true, his beat up clothes and malnourished figure probably gave away everything the Blood God needed to guess his way to the truth. And it was also true that, with Dream close on his tail and no home to return to or family to help, he did not need more enemies. Especially after Wilbur lost his marbles and Phil clearly revealed with whom his loyalty lay.
“It’s nothing bad, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
Technoblade’s pained yet forcefully neutral expression was not inspiring much motivation in Tommy to speak, “That seems exactly like what a homeless raccoon living under the remains of my base he apparently did not blow up would say.”
Tommy’s mortified face at being compared to a raccoon made Technoblade chuckle gently, until his ribs started aching again. He had an idea about what he would do now, living in some random hole in the ground- he couldn’t destroy his reputation in that way!
To give credit to the voices, they immediately suggested heading off to the remains of the Antarctic Empire . It was a shell of its former glorious self, but still existed under the benevolent rule of Technoblade and Philza’s close friend and eternal ally, Pete. Maybe not as rich, maybe not as powerful, but still well defended and very hard to attack; consequently, quite hard to reach. And although the voices seemed to believe in him (they probably just wanted to see Pete again), Technoblade had little faith in his ability to cross millions of blocks and hundreds of potentially hostile kingdoms while injured to this degree and without Phil.
His Phil.
He sighed again, but didn’t let the guilt consume him- he had a task to do.
While Tommy was pouting about why he couldn’t possibly be a raccoon, Technoblade mapped out the way to the closest village in his mind. The villagers there were cynical and didn’t particularly like him, with the iron golem always stalking him around as he purchased supplies, but this was the middle of the arctic and he was their only customer. Plus, he often paid handsomely for rare or hard to gather supplies, and some of the younger, more ambitious merchants tolerated him enough to give discounts and offer him a place to stay overnight when the weather got wild.
Technoblade was sure that with a little persuasion and a few emeralds thrown into the mix, the village would be more than happy to let him and Tommy stay a few nights: in a bed, in a proper room without crumbling cold stones for walls. And, if he was even that lucky, maybe they would direct him to the house he had inhabited while he built his now destroyed cabin.
However, if Tommy’s account of the destruction of his home above ground was somewhat accurate, everything down to his ender chest had been destroyed, so he couldn’t get any emeralds from there. Which wasn’t too bad- he had the majority of his wealth and weapons scattered and hidden around the server for precisely this reason- but it meant revealing to Tommy his largest and most impressive arsenal of weapons around: the Vault . It was the closest stash to his current position, and, incidentally, was also the best secured.
Technoblade cut off Tommy’s monologue by standing up and wobbling around for a few seconds before he caught his balance. Tommy had quickly moved to stand by his side as a support, and Technoblade was about to push him away when he realised he would have to get out of the cave via the rackety ladder.
“Can you help me up?” Technoblade glared at Tommy, gesturing slightly to the ladder. His face gave room for argument.
“Like what? Up? Outside?”
“Yes, nerd- what else would I be asking for?”
“Why?”
Technoblade inhaled sharply and nearly yelped when his ribs cried out in pain. He thought he hid the pain well enough- after all, Tommy didn’t know him like Phil did- yet Tommy still eyed him suspiciously and suddenly agreed to help him with no further questions.
“We’re going to get out of here, but to do that, I’m going to have to show you something… something of critical importance, perhaps even the pivotal point of this-” Technoblade glanced around them- “harsh and suboptimal situation. Believe me, I don’t want to include you but this might just be my hidden ace...”
He left his speech purposefully vague, and Tommy, with his curious nature, was happy to follow him.
2oo95yvx (Guest) on Chapter 3 Tue 12 Sep 2023 12:16PM UTC
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