Chapter Text
Schlatt is no hero and he never will be. That doesn’t mean he wants another child’s death on his hands. He heads out into the stormy nighttime with grim determination. Visibility is zero, so much rain that the air is fluid. His shiny Oxfords sink into the muck.
The storm is ratcheting up with thunder and lightning and Ranboo’s alone out there, the fucking idiot. Schlatt wouldn’t say he’s worried, but he knows the boy is thin and frail and weak and all that stupid shit.
The path is slick, the treads of his dress shoes are thin. Schlatt falls, sliding headfirst down a muddy embankment. He tries to catch himself and feels the brittle bone of his wrist snap. He loses his grip on his cane and the wind picks it up, carrying the mobility aid out of reach. The old man lies on his back, soaked and frigid and in pain, his body twitching as hypothermia takes hold.
His heart. Oh God, again, his heart. He feels the muscle squeeze out of rhythm. A single irregular pulse before the drumbeat stabilizes, but he knows what this means. He is weak, he is pitching toward the lonely dark end again.
He can’t just lie here. He needs to get up, but standing is impossible. Fueled by shuddering breaths and pure spite, he crawls on his elbows and his knees.
***
Tubbo is afraid of the man he’s become. All he’d wanted was to never have to live in fear again. But if fear is defeated, what’s he feeling now? Sick guilt and revulsion clambers into his stomach.
The way his friend Ranboo had cowered before him, expecting to be - ready to be - killed. The way Schlatt had looked to him, suddenly docile, a subordinate to be commanded. Tubbo sees himself reflected in the mirror of circumstance, but it’s not his own face staring back at him. I’m worse than everyone I didn’t want to be -- he understands that line now.
Tommy is fiery and rash - Tubbo has always admired his bravery, his conviction. To watch his best friend have to turn that defiance on him -- don’t you dare hurt him, I’ll, I’ll -- He would never hurt Ranboo. But whose fault is it that the enderman is out in this storm? His, and all of theirs. They’ve all failed him, that sweet, timid, black-and-white, memory boy.
Tubbo hopes to God that they can find Ranboo before it’s too late, but he’s a realist. The storm drums heavily on the fur collar of his jacket and the air crackles with deadly lightning. If they don’t find him soon, his friend will never come home.
***
Technoblade is an expert tracker with the nose of a truffle pig. As long as he has a scent trail, he never loses his quarry. When he sets a goal for himself, he never fails to achieve it.
But the rain has already melted away Ranboo’s footprints. The howling storm is dissolving all trace. His snout twitches, distracted by the powerful smells of ozone and rain and cold water and decaying leaves.
He must succeed. Technoblade never dies, and neither do those under his protection. Except for the times they do. He tries not to think about that. He wins his fights by being clever, strategic, and above all, prepared. But there’s no longer a track to follow. He’s panicking now, picking random directions. His odds, as he can calculate them, have never been so poor. At least he isn’t the only person searching.
***
Philza travels on foot. If his wings still worked he’d be flying now, whistling through the sky at a windy clip, the ground and the people spread out like patchwork, like little dolls below him. If his wings were still intact, he could find Ranboo and tuck him under the glossy feathers, his strong, sleek waterproofing exactly the thing needed to keep his enderboy safe. If Philza had protected his wings, then Wilbur’s death wouldn’t have been his fault.
But none of that was meant to be, so Phil slogs helplessly along the ground, the tips of his ruined flight feathers heavy with grit and mud. He won’t be too late this time, unless he is. He won’t make it worse this time, he swears on that. He knows he’s ruined everything. He has lost so much that he sits on a precipice now. One more strike and he will be numb, unable to feel any of this ache. If he loses another child, he will lose himself in the same instant.
***
It brings up painful memories for Tommy to be alone and cold. But he can’t allow himself to focus on this. Not when his friend needs him. Tommy has been in much worse situations than this one, many times before, and he’s still standing. He just has to do that again, remember how to be confident, how to be brave.
His blond hair, not cut in such a long time, sticks to his scalp. He gasps as he runs, each breath more water than air. No, no, he hates that. He chokes on a fat droplet, and suddenly he’s back in Logsteadshire, waking up underneath the surface of the sea.
Exile. He remembers a shared journal passed back and forth like a classroom note, an all-important chest of provisions buried beneath the roots of a fir tree. Most importantly he’s grateful for comfort and company, for one visitor without ulterior motives. Without Ranboo’s help, Tommy would be dead right now.
Please, God, let him find his dear friend. Let him return the favor.
***
Wilbur is alone and unsupervised for the first time since his resurrection. He could - he could… … he wants to. And it could be weeks or months before he gets another chance. If not now, then when? He’s standing on the lip of the crater he didn’t make. Even the worst destruction he’s perpetrated had dug only a dent where this chasm now stood. He’s impressed. It’s a long, long, long way down…
But hasn’t he done this before? Not everything is about Wilbur. He can work out the conclusions of his own story later. There’s a young, frightened boy who is counting on his help, and this time Wilbur will not run away.
Because he’s not the same man who chose death on the final day of the war. He’s just as sad, just as self-destructive, but he carries a second part to himself now. A tiny fragment of soul who burrowed down deep and never left, who sees happiness in the tragedy, who might want to live, who remembers what it feels like to melt in the rain.
***
Ranboo stands in the meadow and watches, cross-eyed, as yet another raindrop peels down his nose. It hardly hurts anymore. His claws hang limp, his long legs quiver. He isn’t sure what he expected.
He has never felt so stupid. Naive, underestimated, immature. He’s a baby. What’s the point of a world that can be so cruel?
He wants real peace, real friendship. If peace is just a ceasefire, just violence delayed, then maybe there’s nothing in the world he wants. He asked for an end, not an arms race. Oh, this tenuous balance…
Is it his fault that he sees the world so black and white? Violence is evil. Murder is evil. Hurting other people is evil. Loyalty to a friend is just like loyalty to a country: it makes you do the wrong thing. Ranboo refuses to accept this violence. He’ll make a stand, even if he has to stand out here in the rain to do it.
He’s so afraid of water. It burns him worse than fire. He’s in pain, terrible pain, as the sleet bores through his skin and tears holes into the flesh underneath. But he can’t react, he feels too empty even to hiss. He’s often felt as though he were born on the wrong planet, and he’s tried to make the best of that. But in the end, he has to face the truth. He is not meant to live in this world.
Something grabs onto his left ankle.
***
It’s the familiar hand of the grizzled man, the same one that left the purple marks on his neck. He spins, anticipating fear, but the dictator that had stood so intimidating is a different kind of spectacle now. Schlatt lies in the mud on his belly, one wrist manacled to Ranboo’s leg, the other dangling at an unnatural angle. His eyes are crazed, his face sweaty, and his breaths come out half-choked.
“I’m here now, kid,” he says weakly, “I’ve got you. But for your own sake, I fuckin’ hope you know CPR.”
***
Tubbo catches up easily to the two figures, limping shadows in the rain, as they make their slow progress through his favorite flower-gathering meadow. Schlatt and Ranboo, both soaked, lean on one another for support. “Minutes Man?”
Ranboo only chirps.
Schlatt’s voice is uncommonly soft. “Told you I’d find him.”
Tubbo and his clothes are already too wet to provide any comfort. But he leans over Ranboo, shielding as much of the enderman as he can with his small body. The hail is cold, and his teeth click together. But this is Tubbo, who’s taken a firework before to protect a friend. Compared to that, what’s a little rain?
***
They find Tommy next, perhaps because wherever Tubbo is, his best friend is never far behind. Tommy’s voice shatters when he sees that Ranboo has gone limp, his legs dragging over the ground. “No -- is he -- is he…?”
“He’s okay, Tommy,” Tubbo smiles, “We found him. Come here. We can travel faster with your help.”
***
Wilbur arrives with his gaze downcast and his hands shaking. “How can I help? What do you need me to do?” He searches about for a sword to block, an enemy to face, a gun to stand in front of. What’s he going to do, suck all the raindrops out of the sky? “I’ll -- I’m going to carry him.” He feels like a brother again at last as he takes Ranboo into his arms.
***
Despite Technoblade’s competitive streak, if he’s disappointed that the others got there first, that hurt is drowned out immediately by his relief that Ranboo is safe and being tended to. He drapes the boy in the still-dry layer of fleece that he wears under his cloak. Ranboo, though his eyes are closed, murmurs happily. This feels like winning a battle.
***
“Wilbur?” breathes Phil.
“Phil, don’t fucking cry on him. He’s wet enough already.”
His son is alive, Ranboo is alive, his son is holding his boy. Though the brown eyes that meet his are filled with derision and shame and hate, there’ll be time later to sort that out. There will be more time. “Where can we take him?”
Wilbur points with his chin. “The community house is closest.”
Techno asks, “Didn’t that explode?”
“Ranboo rebuilt it.”
“Oh.”
Thank fuck this kid is safe. This sweet, sweet boy. And no thanks to Phil. Oh, thank god.
They lay him down gently in the squat wood-and-brick building, remove his soaked clothes, towel off the dangerous water that’s still sizzling on his skin. Phil stares at Wilbur, his heart heavy.
“Thank you for your message,” Wilbur says finally. It’s a peace offering. “Thank you for doing the right thing.”
Ranboo’s breathing stabilizes as Techno pours potions over him.
“He’ll live, yeah?” Schlatt nods, “Emergency is over?”
“Yes,” says Techno, “He will pull through.”
“In that case--” Schlatt chokes out around the stabbing pain in his chest. He raises his tingling arm. “Can somebody help me? I think I’m having a heart attack.”
***
There is one last explosion. Technoblade lights the fuse before he tosses the plastic explosive into his own vault and slams the door closed. A moment later, there’s a muffled boom and Tommy flinches, even with Tubbo there to hold his hand.
“You didn’t have to watch,” Techno grunts.
“We wanted to see,” Tubbo explains, “To be sure it was done.”
“Well, it’s over. You saw. Go home.”
***
Tubbo and Tommy dig one last hole. As if graves were meant to be sixty meters deep. Tubbo surrenders his bombs, and over the top pours gallons upon gallons of liquid concrete. The rockets. The wet cement. All gone now. They cover over the tomb with dirt, and Tubbo plants a single dandelion to mark the place.
(He’ll always know how to make another bomb. Technoblade is still the Blood God. This cannot hold.)
***
But peace is not safety, because peace is not permanent. True peace is a delicate, cooperative thing.
“I can never take back my past actions,” Schlatt tells Tubbo, and he looks at the indelible scars on his young friend’s face. His wrist is immobilized in a plaster cast. The silvery pacemaker, a delicate feat of engineering, ticks in his chest. “But never again. I promise you.”
Ranboo’s memory book is its own sequel. And yet he lets himself believe in the hope of breaking the cycle.
Technoblade has been open about his intentions from the start. Today, he said that the violence was over. He never goes back on his word.
Wilbur and Phil are both so, so, sorry. Tommy doesn’t want an apology, he wants things to change.
This was inevitable. This will never happen again.
Nothing ever ends.