Chapter Text
You smell the place you’re headed to before you see it. The overwhelming stench of sin and cheap booze wafts from the rotting mansion slowly being encroached on by the forest’s edge.
“So who is this guy?” You ask, Wirt looming in an equine manner behind you while Apollo wrinkles his snout in disgust.
“Apollo will wait here. Master doesn’t like alcohol. Dilutes blood. Yucky taste.” Apollo says disdainfully. You relay the message to Fundy, who laughs.
“Well, let’s just say this guy is a real connoisseur of vices. We go back a while, I used to work for him. And trust me, there’s nothing we can do to him that he hasn’t done already to himself, or worse. Man drunk himself half to death. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we storm in there and he’s already dead.” Fundy grumbles as you approach the sagging mansion.
You groan. “Wonderful.”
Fundy rings a bell loosely tacked to the doorframe with a rusty screw. The house creaks and shudders in return.
One minute passes with no response. Fundy sighs and pushes on the door, which swings open limply to reveal a dark interior. The floorboards are rotting in places, and you have to step around them. Fundy walks up the creaky, structurally unsound staircase with almost catlike reflexes as you scramble up after him. He’s already to a door at the end of the hall. It’s clear this was a nice place, at one point.
“Fundy.” A raspy, slurred voice barks out as you make your way down the half-collapsed hall. There’s something darker in Fundy’s eyes that you haven’t seen before. Malice? Hate? Bitterness? He steps into the room, and you follow him. It’s completely filled with bottles, the floor sagging under the weight of the glass. Some of these are unopened, in a pile next to the bed, where a sagging, disheveled man lay with a suit.
“Finally here to put me down, are we?” The man you assume to be Schlatt says. “Brought a friend?” The man takes a puff of the cigar slowly burning on the ashtray that rests on the crooked nightstand next to the bed. His teeth are bright yellow and his eyes are an unnerving combination of sunken and bloodshot. Fundy makes a rumbling sound in the back of his throat, perched on a stack of bottles, eyes narrowed and his tail bristling.
“Ha! Old dog can’t learn new tricks, can ya!” Schlatt says. “I knew you’d come back for me, one day. You wouldn’t kill your old pal Schlatty, would ya?” He briefly stops to cough loudly into his sleeve, some sort of suit, if you had to guess under the layers of dirt and grime. This place was an unusual combination of squalor and opulence, and the man inside was no different. You watched the interaction with crossed arms. Fundy didn’t really talk about- well, much of anything, to be honest. Nothing personal, anyways. He could lecture you for hours on the proper way to hang the laundry or the crop patterns he’d designed. He almost lost his head when you planted beetroot in the wheat section. But you’d always known him to be a pacifist. The man before you looked more wild than anything else.
Fundy looks down at him with more venom in him than you’ve ever seen. “I’m holding back my avarice for the sake of a friend. The only reason I didn’t kill you ten years ago was because I wanted you to rot.” He spits.
Schlatt doesn’t look threatened, or even surprised by this. He just shrugs. “I assume you’re telling me to go with you or die?” He says, jaundiced limbs clambering off the bed, sending a cascade of bottles clinking and crashing.
“Pretty much.” You say, holding your sword up. “Follow us.”
You’re half expecting the staircase to collapse under his wobbly, heavy-footed steps. He looks two steps from the grave, cigar dangling from his lips, lighting up the creases in his face. But somehow, he makes it down. The smell is horrible.
You put him on Wirt, because frankly you’re scared if he walks that far he’ll give out. It’s slow work to the shrine, because you have to keep chopping branches so they don’t hit him in the face, but you manage to make it back by sunset. Apollo looks displeased with your choice in sacrifice, but doesn’t complain, choosing to avoid the pungent odor by trailing behind the group.
Schlatt is incessantly chatty, you notice, in a way that annoys you, and for some reason makes you nostalgic. Your wrist itches again, and your nails bite into your flesh, seeking an invisible object.
“So um- what now?” Fundy asks when you enter the clearing, clearly still on edge. The shrine’s hum calms you, whispers sweet and serene, relaxing all your nerves.
“I mean? Isn’t it obvious? We slit his throat into the altar thingy.” You say, but you’re not entirely sure.
Schlatt frowns. “Altar? Wait- are you- seriously? A human sacrifice? I thought you were gonna- ransom me or something!” He says. “I was the President-”
“Was.” Fundy says, shoving Schlatt towards the shrine. “Walk.”
Fundy looks uncomfortable as he holds the dagger, ,forcing Schlatt to his knees in front of the shrine. The smell of liquor and despair is drowned out by the tang of iron, in your nostrils, coating your lungs.
“I’ll do it.” You say. Fundy looks unsure for a moment, but then hands you the dagger. Schlatt laughs.
“Coward. I knew you wouldn’t do it.” He says. Fundy doesn’t respond.
Apollo’s voice reaches out to you. “ It is time. Complete the ritual. Offer his blood to the master. ”
For a brief moment, you wonder if this is the kind of person you are. Resurrecting an ancient blood god just to find out your role in all this by sacrificing an innocent. Then, you shrug and run the blade across Schlatt’s neck. He screams, and the voices scream, a battle cry resonating from the walls around you. Suddenly, the shrine looks much, much bigger on the inside. A crimson palace, a scarlet sea, the souls of dead warriors resting under your feet. Then, silence. Blood bubbles as Schlatt’s body slowly melts into one pool of bright red. The altar bubbles, and then boils. You can feel your bones vibrating. Then, a hand reaches up from the boiling blood, grasping onto the rock. Then, an arm, then, a figure, covered in blood, who immediately collapses. Apollo bounds into the shrine, glowing red eyes and wagging tail, licking the figure’s face until a bloody hand shoves the dog away.
“Down, Apollo.” The voice is familiar, but admittedly less intimidating without the echoing boom of the unending blood plains. And it seems- slurred? He’s probably disoriented.
“I made it.” He says in disbelief. “I actually-” Then, he turns to you.
“What kind of a sacrifice was that?!” He says. “The guy barely had any juice left in him, and I’m pretty sure that level of blood alcohol should be lethal . Let me tell you, I’ve lived a long time, and I have never seen someone so-” He shakes the blood off him, much to Fundy’s disgust, stretching.
“So this is mortality.” He says, looking down at his hands. “I’d forgotten how it feels. Kinda lame, honestly.”
“So um- what happened to the other guy?” You ask. “Like- obviously he’s dead, but-”
The blood god just waves his hand. “Not important. We need to stop Wilbur and get back your memories.” He says flatly.
“Who is Wilbur?” You ask. You itch your wrist absentmindedly, the mild discomfort becoming a sharp spike of pain as you flinch.
Technoblade frowns, grabbing your wrist to inspect it, but only succeeding in smearing it with blood.
“Maybe we should get you a bath? And some clothes?” Fundy suggests politely. Technoblade grunts and emerges from the shrine. He’s not as tall as he was in the place you saw earlier, but he still has to duck before he can leave. He leaves a trail of bloody footprints behind him.
“Weird guy.” Fundy mutters. “Weird, weird guy.”
“So uh- Fundy. Are you- like- ok? Cause I dunno, you seemed pretty- I know you don’t like to talk about your past or anything, but-” You stumble over your words. Fundy’s tail immediately bristles, even though you can see he’s trying to stay unbothered.
“Yeah. Uh, dark time for me, honestly, he was- my boss. Bad boss. Let’s leave it at that. I got out of politics, got back to living in the wild. People are too unpredictable for me. Nature- that I can always rely on.” Fundy said.
“Right.” You say.
When you emerge, blinking, into the sunlight, bloody footprints trudge in the direction of the nearby river.
“I guess I’ll go find a sheep.” Fundy says, pulling a pair of shears out of his bag. “Make sure he doesn’t- bleed on anything he’s not supposed to.” You roll your eyes.
“What, so I’m on babysitting duty? He can take care of himself, right? Blood god and all.” You say.
“This is the same guy who requested a live human sacrifice, so-” You sigh.
“Yeah, yeah. You have a good point.”
You follow the footprints to the river. Technoblade’s entire body is submerged except his head, which barely peeks out over the rushing water. He’s completely still. No mass murdering happening here, you think, and trudge back to the clearing, where you notice there’s a bloody handprint on Wirt. You roll your eyes, walking back to the river.
“You got blood on the horse.” You say. He doesn’t hear you. Or maybe he does hear you, and just didn’t respond.
“You got blood on the horse,” You say a little louder. Nothing.
“YOU GOT BLOOD ON THE HORSE!” You yell. He blinks, head turning toward you. He mouths a word, but you can’t hear it. You roll your eyes and rummage through your bag to pull out a scrap of fabric, which you use to wash the blood off the horse.
Wirt neighs appreciatively. You narrow your eyes at him.
Fundy comes back with the clothes, and you turn your back to protect Technoblade’s modesty. Not that you knew if gods had a sense of modesty. Maybe it was a case-by-case basis.
“Not what I’m used to.” He says flatly.
“It’s what we have.” Fundy snaps. Technoblade shrugs.
“It will do until we loot the next orphanage.” He says.
“We’re not looting any orphanages!” Fundy exclaims.
“Fine. Barracks, then.” Technoblade counters.
“No! No more weird evill bullshit! I’m putting my foot down! I have a limit to that sort of thing, and the limit is right here! I’m not crossing it! I may not be the most moral person, but I’m not a murderer.” He said. “Except for that one guy, and technically I was more of an accomplice than anything.”
“Gee, thanks.” You say flatly. “What’s our goal?”
Technoblade frowns. “We will have to seek out information to defeat Wilbur in the only place that might possibly contain it: his own library.”
“Ok, and where is that?” You ask. Technoblade shrugs. “I’m no cartographer.”
“Great. So we know where we’re going, but we don’t know where it is or how to find it, and the information we’re looking for might not even be there?” You ask.
“Pretty much.” Technoblade says.
“Gods be with us.” Fundy mutters.