Chapter Text
All it takes is one second to change the entire course of Technoblade’s life.
It’s an evening like any other, dark and windy, people shivering and pulling their cloaks closer to themselves as the sun makes its slow march off to its resting place below the horizon. Among them is Technoblade. He blends in with the crowds of people bustling about the stalls to purchase their suppers, clad in a dark cloak cut through with stitches and loose threads. In his cloak, he appears to cut quite the imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered, and people step out of his way as he approaches the ramshackle marketplace.
His breaths leave him as pale puffs of fog, coiling off into the evening sky before the encroaching darkness swallows them. He moves methodically through the throngs of people, ignoring the presence of grayed, slushy remains of snow that have been trampled underfoot by countless passerby before him, and now chill him through his well-worn boots. More than anything else he wants to go home, so he can eat his dinner and curl up in his blankets until tomorrow comes. This is his life, his bread and butter—sunup, sundown, work in between, reading the odd book, tending to the wilting garden he keeps in the window box of his apartment. It’s a tolerable kind of boring, in the same way that the Antarctic Empire is a tolerable kind of cold, the chill becoming almost comforting as it seeps into one’s bones and becomes a familiar presence. Or, at the very least, that is what he tells himself.
As he approaches the stall selling bread, he notices someone in the crowd. Though most of their figure is obscured by a brown cloak and the hood pulled over their head, they’re plain to spot from how tall they appear, having at least a head’s worth of height above most of the people strolling about. What stands out to him is their gait: their steps are hurried, quick, as if they’re running from something, or perhaps trying to not be noticed…
Or maybe just in a rush to get someplace, Technoblade reminds himself. The odds of the stranger having ill intentions are slim, as the Antarctic Empire, for the most part, is a safe place, its citizens having formed something of a sense of widespread camaraderie in the face of their harsh environment. They dig one another’s carts out of the snow, purchase one another’s wares when they know they need the funds, help drunkards stumble back to their homes on the bitterly cold, black nights that frequent the empire’s territory regardless of the season.
Some of the empire’s legends have likened its people to a diamond in the rough: born from and hardened by brutal circumstances, shaped into a brilliant force to be reckoned with. Technoblade thinks of them more as a weed growing out of a well-traversed stone road: decidedly unglamorous, but stubborn and persistent in a drive to succeed. Regardless of the metaphor, it was part of why he chose to move here, and what helps him sleep a little more soundly at night.
He keeps his eyes on the tall stranger, though, just to be certain. They weave through the crowd at the same speed, dodging market-goers with a strange, almost inhuman sense of grace. Perhaps they’re a hybrid? The idea puts something in him at ease, and he finds his shoulder slouching slightly, the tension leaving them. Hybrids aren’t exactly common in any of the world’s kingdoms and empires, and while the Antarctic Empire is no exception, people here seem to be more open about it, unafraid to smile with their fangs, show off their pointed ears, let their tails swish behind them as they walk. He wonders if it’s due to the sense of community, or the recently throned emperor himself being a hybrid, or perhaps both, as he continues to watch the stranger.
They’re making a beeline for the butter roll stall, crossing the street with the same speed—but too fast, he realizes with a jolt, not looking both ways, walking right in front of the cart barreling through the street—
In that moment, Technoblade doesn’t think. He just does .
He leaps, arms outstretched.
They hit the stones as a mass of moving fabric, the stranger letting out a low grunt when they collide. Traffic comes to a screeching halt around them—literally, as the cart goes careening off to the side, the horses squealing and whinnying while their owner shouts commands at them to stop. The chatter of passerby dies to a murmur, frantic whispers filling the streets. Dozens of eyes rest upon him; their gazes are questioning, unyielding, prodding into his back like spears. His heart is in his throat.
Technoblade practically jumps off the stranger, rising to his feet and stepping back to give them the personal space he’d violated just moments earlier. Already an ache lingers in his knees and ribs that he knows will stick around for at least the next week. Not that that matters, he thinks; a handful of days of bodily pain is a small price to pay to spare someone else a gory death. As he looks them over his first thought is no blood, thank the gods , and opens his mouth to speak. But as he sees their face, any words that could have been forming die on his tongue.
The hood of the stranger’s cloak has fallen askew, draped about their shoulders in a mass of deep brown fabric. What was underneath turns out to be a young man, perhaps not even in his twenties, with a mop of curly blond hair and a scruffy sort of look about him. He would be largely unremarkable if not for his eyes, which flit to Technoblade as he stands: pale, blue-gray, like a storm on the horizon.
He knows those eyes. He’s seen them, in the form of fragments of color scattered about the city, like tiny panes of a mosaic, tying everything together: the wax seals on any of the royal decrees posted around the taverns and message boards; the royal carriages rolling through the streets; the enormous flag of the empire, flying high and true above the palace. He’s seen them in the paintings, banners, and murals that litter the streets during the Festival of Piscis, always framed by a mop of blond curls and a gleaming golden crown. He could have lived under a rock his whole life, and as long as that rock was in the empire he still would’ve been able to recognize them.
This is no commoner. Not even close.
“Oh, shit,” Technoblade says.
“What?” the emperor of the Antarctic Empire says. “Do I have something on my face?”
“I—” Technoblade swallows a mouthful of warm spit. This is not how this evening was supposed to go. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he finally settles on, pulling himself into a bow even as the joints ache. He’s never been one for social niceties, but this is the fucking emperor, for the gods’ sake. He just hopes to the gods that the guy understands he was trying to prevent him from getting run over, not to assassinate him or hold him for ransom or whatever other devious plots emperors tend to find themselves in the crosshairs of.
“Oh, for crying out loud, man, don’t bow at me. You saved me from becoming a fuckin’ pavement pancake, I should be the one doin’ that.”
Technoblade snaps back up so quickly he swears he hears something pop in his lower back. Though he’s heard of the emperor’s blunt manner (described as either ‘refreshing honesty’ or ‘a complete lack of manners’ depending on the social circle), he’s never been on the receiving end, and thus admittedly has no idea how to respond. So instead he focuses on the more pressing matter, offering a hand to the emperor. “Are you hurt, your Imperial Majesty?”
The emperor takes it, hauling himself up from the ground before letting go to dust off his knees. He doesn’t seem to notice the way the commoners on the street stare and gawk at him. “A bit bruised, but it’s much better than bein’ brutally mutilated or dead—thanks for saving my ass from that, by the way, big man. ...Say, what’s your name, anyway?”
The idea of lying goes through his head for a moment, but he decides it’s better to tell the truth and deal with the consequences than get caught lying to the emperor’s face. “Technoblade Ambrose, your Imperial Majesty.”
“ Imperial Majesty— Prime, man, don’t call me that. Way too much of a mouthful.” He waves off Technoblade’s concerns with a hand; several rings glimmer on his fingers under the fading evening sunlight.
Before Technoblade can ask what he ought to call him, the emperor turns to the side alley that the cart had gone skidding down. The cart driver stands there gently stroking the manes of his horses, who have settled down but still whinny occasionally, stamping their hooves against the cobbled street. His face is white as a sheet as he stares at the emperor.
“Hey, are you okay?”
The cart driver looks as though he’s about to shit his britches. “I—um—yes, your Imperial Highness.”
“Are your horses hurt or anything? Is your cart damaged?”
“Well…” His eyes dart over to the the cart. A large crack runs through the wooden exterior, wood splintering and fragmenting to look like the teeth of some savage animal. “There’s no need to pay any mind to me , your Imperial Highness, I’m more concerned about, er, what could’ve happened to you . I—I’m terribly sorry—"
“Oh, hey, hey, no need to worry about that,” the emperor says. “It’s not like you were trying to run me over, man. I just didn’t look both ways, which, really, I ought to have done. Just got distracted by the stall selling butter rolls.”
The cart driver nods, but he still looks terrified.
Technoblade is impressed by how nonchalant the emperor seems about the prospect nearly being killed. He supposes that must have been an aspect of his royal training, to remain composed in the face of threats… though, even then, that doesn’t explain why he speaks and conducts himself more like a commoner than a noble.
The emperor strides closer, digging into one of his pants pockets. “Here, tell you what.” He fishes out a handful of gold coins and plops them into the cart driver’s hand. Technoblade’s not sure if the amount is intentional or just a product of ignorance on behalf of the emperor’s sense of wealth being distorted by his privileged status, but regardless, it’s an absurd sum, easily enough to pay for several months’ worth of lodgings in any decent apartment. “To repair your cart. And get your horses… horse therapy, or something, for the stress of this whole, er, thing.”
“Thank you so much, your Imperial Highness,” the man stutters out, sinking into a bow.
“Man, hearing people call me that is still so weird,” the emperor says. “Maybe I should tell Phil to get back in charge so everybody’ll just go back to calling me ‘Tommy’… or maybe I could change it, actually. I must say, ‘His Highly Esteemed Wife-Haver’ does have a nice ring to it.” He glances up to the sky. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna be late for dinner! We’ve got to go.” As he says this, his gaze turns to Technoblade.
“We?” Technoblade can’t help but echo it.
Tommy snorts. “Duh. I’d have at least a few broken bones if you hadn’t stepped in. Least I can do is get you some good food. Oh, and you can get any injuries checked out! I’m sure Wilbur’d be happy to help.”
Technoblade sucks in a breath.
This cannot be real. This must be some kind of illusion brought on by a power outside his perception and control. There would be no other reason why the emperor of the Antarctic Empire would be talking to him, let alone offering him dinner and healing to boot. He would pinch himself if not for all the people watching with wide eyes, no doubt scrutinizing his every move.
Shit.
Anyone else would consider themselves lucky. The emperor has a reputation for being a kind and fair ruler, even if a bit juvenile due to his lack of experience, and a dinner with him would no doubt be full of hearty conversation and the most exquisite of dishes. He would send them home with a handsome sum of money, as a token of his gratitude, perhaps even offering some kind of honorary accolade; their name would go down in the books. For the rest of their life they would be treated with a level of respect that would elevate them amongst their fellow commoners, for no one would want to be the person who crossed the soul who saved the life of the emperor.
But Technoblade is not anyone else. For years he has successfully dodged this kind of spotlight, this dangerous level of attention, by removing himself from the public eye—hell, by moving to one of the most geographically isolated cities in the world—only for one event to singlehandedly throw his plan off-kilter. Word will soon get out that he’s gained the attention of a monarch, and then he’ll have to move somewhere else, uprooting his quiet little life with the snowy hills and the aurora rippling across the night sky and the potatoes struggling to survive in his window box. His mouth sours at the thought. It is a boring life, but there is comfort in the boring, in the known.
At the same time, though, he can’t bring himself to regret it. Not with the way Tommy is grinning that big smile, bouncing back and forth on the heels and toes of his boots, blue-gray eyes sparkling with something… excitement, maybe, or perhaps mischief. Gods, he’s a kid. Technoblade imagines watching the cart pass by without doing anything, watching him turn cold in the trampled street slush as the life bleeds out of him, watching the color drain out of those eyes as the sky grows dark. He doubts he would be able to forgive himself.
He’ll say yes, he decides. There are few things he hates more than feeling boxed in, but this is the strategically superior move. People will come to hear his name through the rumor mill regardless of what he does; this way, he at least has the added protective coverage of a strengthened association with the emperor. It will not be enough to ward off the people that would hurt him, should they find him. But it would be enough to make them hesitate, and if he is to move, time is what he needs.
“Alright,” Technoblade says. “Lead the way.”
Tommy grins and claps his hands. “Right this way, Techno!”
He snorts at the nickname. Pulling his cloak closer to himself, Technoblade follows the young emperor down the street, ignoring the countless eyes he feels piercing holes through his cloak, as if they can see right through it.