Chapter Text
“This sucks,” Tommy complains. Technoblade pushes another branch out of the way, letting it snap back, and into Tommy’s– “Ow! That is not helping!”
“Keep sharp,” Techno says. It’s easy to hide his amusement when he’s not facing his littlest brother– a smile is easy to procure, lips upturned as he listens to Tommy curse and stomp along behind him. The path they’re taking is not easy. Techno is struggling too, if he’s being honest. However, he has a reputation to uphold, one that sits next to his knee-high hiking boots and shelf full of treasured books. Precious things, reputations. Like tiny burning shells in the palm of your hands, things to be traded and sought after. Techno’s seen more than a few tossed around Underground markets, glistening silver in mottled brown bottles.
“I don’t understand,” Tommy continues, and Techno tunes back into the background hum of his annoyance. “why we have to do this after dark.”
“Witching hour,” Techno says simply. It should explain things. Tommy isn’t stupid. The Greek chorus in his head agrees with him– witching hour is explainable simply by virtue of its name. Witches and hours. Magic and time. Broken down to it’s bare components, the witching hour is potent.
“And yet,” Tommy says with a grunt, “it’s nearly two-fucking-thirty and we’re not even close.”
“How do you know?” Techno asks, turning a bit to look behind him once more. Tommy skids to a halt in the muck, glaring at him. He’s got a whip of dirt across his cheek, a leaf in his hair, and a bandage across his nose from an incident earlier, during dinner. Phil had healed it in an instant, but Tommy had insisted on the bandage nonetheless. “We could be right nearby and you’d have no idea. Scrying pools are difficult to find for a reason.”
“Cock and balls,” Tommy says eloquently. “Tell me we’re nearly there, please.”
“We’re nearly there.”
“Thank the gods.”
“Don’t thank what you don’t believe in.”
“It’s not about believing , it’s about the principle of the matter.” Technoblade has turned around once more by this point, stomping onwards through the trees. Tommy is following, reminiscent of a small bird chattering and chirping in his ear. Phil’s always liked the crows that hang around the house. Technoblade wonders if one day he got so curious he decided to turn one human and keep him. That would surely explain where Tommy had come from, or perhaps both him and Wilbur. “Besides, I do believe in gods. I never specified who I was thanking.”
“Believing is a privilege, not a right,” Technoblade says after a second.
“You stole that from Phil,” Tommy acuses.
“And what if I did?”
“I’m telling on you.”
“For stealing a turn of phrase? Oh please, I’m sure parents have been telling their kids that for centuries.”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you? Huh? Old man?”
“I’m not nearly as old as Phil is.”
“Doesn’t matter. Once you’re over twenty, it stops mattering at all– omphf!” Tommy’s chatter is cut off and a warm pressure slams against Techno’s back. He’d stopped, and just as he’d suspected, Tommy had not been paying attention whatsoever. His little brother curses, stumbling backwards as Techno tilts his head over his shoulder and watches with the tiniest of smiles. With any luck, Tommy won’t be able to see it in the dark. He rights himself, glaring upwards and straightening his spine once more. “The fuck are you stopping for again?!”
“We’re here,” Techno says simply, and then turns back and pushes through the brush.
The scrying pool is beautiful. Above them, the moon hangs in the sky, a delicate ornament. The light ripples through the clearing Technoblade had led them both too, the grass kept short and tidy. He steps over the mushrooms that rings the outer rim of it, a slight chill echoing over his spine as he does. Tommy’s quick to follow, sticking close to his back.
“Keep an eye out,” Techno reminds him. Tommy’s quiet now, nodding, lips pressed together tightly. They’re not the only creatures who use scrying pools– anyone could stumble upon it and decide to take the power into their own hands. Or, worst comes to worst, hurt the two brothers while they’re harnessing it. Scrying is a tricky business. Technoblade is wary as he steps forward, eyeing the edge of the water as they approach. It’s void of any other life forms, and after a second he fumbles at his belt. He finds the stone he’s looking for; a sizable thing, with a hole worn through the middle and a thread of twine through it to keep it on him. He holds it up to his eye and scans the area.
“Nothing,” he says after a moment of tense silence. They’re alone. Tommy lets out a breath in one big, fell swoosh of air.
“Thank the gods,” he says, probably just to be contrary. He marches forward past Techno, a bumblebee in flight, hair golden honey-silk in the moonlight. His curls bounce. The backpack on his back does as well. “Let’s get moving.”
“Witching hour,” Techno reminds him, but he does follow. The edge of the water is deadly still. Not a ripple passes over the surface of it– the pond is about a dozen feet in length or so, pitch black and no stars reflected. Even the moon is absent from its surface, the light sucked into the depths and disappearing. Perfect for scrying. “We have a few minutes to get everything set up. Candles, then herbs, then chalk.”
“I know,” Tommy groans, backpack thumping onto the earthen bank with a thud. Techno’s hands find his own pockets, his own bag, and from it he pulls one of his most treasured tomes.
They get to work.
By the time Techno’s phone lights up and reads 2:59 am, everything is set in place. Candles around the pool, flowers at every cardinal point, the book open and waiting. Techno’s placed protection sigils around the clearing, lodestones crackling with power at his fingertips as he chants effortlessly. Tommy’s quick and tidy with his own sigils, scrawling them onto the stones they’d brought with them (nothing is to be taken from a scrying pool, not even the dirt) and Techno’s silently proud with the work they’ve done. He breaks his silence as they shuffle into place, shoulders bumping over the worn pages of the summoning book.
“You’ve done really well,” Techno says. Tommy’s gaze snaps from the book to him, lips twisting into a sneer before the words settle in. His face loses some of that sharp edge– he pauses, thinking, mouth half-open.
“Thanks,” he finally settles on. Techno smiles. This time, in the light of the moon, he knows Tommy can see it.
They both turn to the scrying pool, and as the clock tips over to 3 am, Technoblade begins to chant.
The pool is dark. The water is still, and there is no reflection of the sky. Techno can see himself perfectly in the edge of the water, and Tommy too. His determined eyes, his own furrowed brow, the way his mouth moves– and then he is above himself, and the water, and the moon, and Tommy’s hands are clutching his own and his soul is sinking and the water is so dark and the void– the void–
(the void calls out and his Greek chorus roars with delight, because they love this, they love the spectacle, they love her. they love the void and the void loves them in return, because they were Her gift to him eons ago, before he had this body and this mind, back when the world was starfire and soullight, back when Angels roamed the celestial bodies and heavenly work was melding stars into galaxies. they were Her gift and he was pleased to receive them and even now there is nothing but fondness coming from the deep dark as she reaches out and touches the tiny bright soul he has brought with him and oh, oh, hello there– )
Techno gasps, the air coming back to him all at once. He is still kneeling– Tommy’s hand is still clutched in his shirt, grip vice-like and almost terrified despite the fact their physical bodies are still kneeling in the dirt on the physical plane. Techno coughs. His brother shudders.
“You didn’t throw up,” Techno commends. “Better than Wilbur.”
“I’m always better than Wilbur,” Tommy says, cracking open an eye. The void expands beyond them, endless and ever-expanding, black holes and creation happening at every turn. Tommy shuts his eyes once more. “Holy fuck.”
Where is Wilbur? Someone asks, voice booming. Techno winces.
“It’s Tommy’s first time,” he scolds the empty space around him. It’s literally empty– the void is nothing and nothing is the void. “Be kinder.”
“Apologies,” someone says this time, and the void shrinks in on itself, impossibly, until there is a sea of flowing robes and endless galaxies. Then the robes shrink further, until all that’s left is a woman. “My question still stands. Where is Wilbur?”
“University,” Techno says, watching the void take the approximate shape of a human woman. She’s still a bit hard to comprehend at the edges, but this time when Tommy opens his eyes, they stay open. Wide, staring. “Hello, mother.”
“Techno,” the void says, Kristin to her sons, even the one who has yet to meet her. “Tommy!”