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Something feels- off. Wrong.
The tightness in the Blood God’s shoulders is a new thing, different from the usual unease that lingers in the space between his shoulder blades.
He wants to say that the tightness only brought itself to fruition when he found out that Sam -the warden of the prison and another God- had been lying to just about everyone about Tommy being dead. Techno would like to think he would know if Tommy had died. The kid has a tendency to be loud, his presence taking up space even when he’s miles upon miles away.
It has been a little quiet, recently. That’s likely just because Tommy is still in the prison, though.
Hadn’t Ranboo said it was only supposed to be a week?
That’s- not what the tightness is for. Sam detaining an innocent person -in this scenario- for longer than protocol dictated was nearly as bad as a government. Something like this couldn’t go unchecked, and Techno doesn’t take kindly to someone lying to Ranboo. The kid already has memory issues as it is.
He could just be misremembering, Techno supposes.
Regardless, something is off, and Techno is on edge because of it. Killing the mobs that linger outside the fence that had been put up while he was sleeping isn’t doing anything to satiate the unrest that sits like lead in his bones. It doesn’t appease the voices, either, and the headache he can feel coming isn’t helping anything. It’s an overall mix for disaster.
At least the meeting had gone well, and Tubbo isn’t leading another government out west. He does have nukes, though, God Killers, and that’s something Techno needs to keep an eye on. He’s seen these kinds of weapons before, and they’ve been in hands far more experienced than Tubbo’s. They’ve done far more damage in hands less experienced than his, too.
The sun is starting to rise just over the next hill, and Techno scrubs a tired hand down his face. He’s been out here all night, and still, the wrongness hasn’t dissipated. The further he gets from the cottage, the worse it gets. That’s probably a sign that he needs to head back.
He turns his face toward the wind, closing his eyes for a moment and simply breathing in the cold air. Even though he’s been outside for hours, and his face is already frigid, the breeze brings a refreshing quality as it catches the looser wisps of his hair. It carries with it the sound of the early morning birds and the stirring of rabbits- and something else. Music.
Techno opens his eyes, squinting into the distance. His ears would never deceive him. He recognizes the tune that the wind carries to him, faint in its distance. Chirp. He hasn’t heard it since there’d been a jukebox buried under his basement, whispering softly in an effort not to be heard. It does much the same now, and he ignores the part of him that hopes the person who plays it is still the same.
The Blood God is still angry with Tommy for the way he’d treated him. He doesn’t want him anywhere near the cottage anytime in the near future.
He follows the faint music anyway, feet moving almost unconsciously toward the noise. Better to tell whoever it is that they’re not welcome out here, and they’d best head home before he sends them there personally. The only people who should be anywhere near the property are those in the Syndicate and maybe Puffy. The jury is still out on her, regardless of how fond of her Chat seems to be.
Techno scales the small hill between himself and the music, squinting as he tries to parse who exactly is at the bottom. It’s instantaneous- the recognition that rolls through him. With that comes the growing tightness in his shoulders, but also a traitorous breath of relief.
Red sleeves, green bandana. Tommy.
Looks like Sam lied about Tommy being in prison, too. They’re gonna have to have a little chat about that.
He doesn’t know what Tommy is doing so close yet so far, fully aware the kid would much rather break-in than stand out here in the snow. He’s done it before, and Techno has complete confidence that he would do it again.
“Tommy,” he calls, shaking his head as he makes his way down the hill. The music gets louder, but Techno has yet to see the jukebox. He’s probably stood in front of it. “You come out here to return my axe?”
The mortal doesn’t answer, seemingly transfixed by the sunrise. Techno rolls his eyes and keeps striding forward, doing his best to ignore the way the voices start to shout. Whatever they’re saying is lost amidst the noise, but their tone isn’t as excited as he would have believed. Maybe they’re less fond of him now than they used to be.
“Theseus-” he calls again, but he stops. The breath is tugged forcefully from his lungs when he realizes that the sun isn’t just filtering through Tommy’s hair, it’s passing entirely through his head. He looks closer and-
No. Absolutely not.
“This isn’t funny, Tommy.” Still, Tommy doesn’t turn. There is no laughter that comes with a successful prank, no belligerent language that follows Tommy like a parasite. Just the wispy, haunting melody of Chirp, now impossibly loud in Techno’s ears. It’s coming from Tommy.
He notices how slow the song is, now, distorted and pitched in ways it shouldn’t be. Chat’s uneasiness skyrockets, as does his own. He replaces it quickly with anger, discontent boiling like lava in his veins.
The Blood God reaches out, hand coming down to clasp Tommy’s shoulder and spin him to face him.
But his hand passes through.
(“Dream- uh- beat him. to death.”)
Tommy turns to him, then, empty white eyes staring through Techno. One is bruised nearly closed, and blood leaks from his mouth and nose. There are bruises on his neck, dark and purple and hand-shaped, and his eyebrow is slit, his lips split.
His shirt is bloody at the collar, a darker red than the sleeves. The rising sun’s rays filter through him as though he’s been turned to stained glass.
Techno wants to throw up.
(“Haha, pog.”)
There is no jukebox in the snow behind Tommy, because Techno can see through his legs, and there’s not even the indent of where one should have been in the snow. The warped imitation of Chirp lingers around Tommy like a mourning bell.
This is a ghost. This is Tommy’s ghost.
The Blood God regrets laughing, now. Ranboo had scars on his face from tears, and Techno had laughed. Phil had laughed. How is he going to tell Phil?
“Tommy?” he asks, voice trembling in a way it isn’t supposed to. White eyes empty of their blue irises continue to stare through him, phantom blood leaking past them in a way that emulates tears. Techno swallows around the weeping of the voices, once more trying to place a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Yet again, it passes through.
Months ago, Techno had nursed life back into Tommy as though he were a doctor and not the God of War. Of Blood. Months ago, Tommy had been full of life, even if that life had been lived in fear of the exact man who killed him.
Tommy had been beaten to death, and Techno slept through it.
The ghost before him says nothing, doesn’t even open his mouth. He just stares up, neck craned in a way that makes it look broken. Maybe it is broken. Techno searches for any sign that this is a lie, that this is some elaborate, sick prank that Tommy and Tubbo are playing on him in some sort of deranged retaliation for his policing of Snowchester, but he finds nothing. Not even a modicum of light lingers in the empty gaze of Techno’s only remaining mortal.
This had been the tightness, then. This had been why he suddenly felt too full, too heavy. The claim had been broken. The part of his soul that tied itself to Tommy had come back to him, softer than a whisper on the wind, and Techno hadn’t even known. Nearly an entire week of him feeling like this, and he hadn’t put the pieces together.
Tommy had died in prison, a place where he wasn’t even supposed to be, at the hands of a God who had no say in his death. And Techno had done nothing.
There’s grief, sure. Techno knows all about grief- he’s spent his unending lifetime avoiding it along with any other emotion he could’ve felt. And when he’d been forced to feel it, he always settled into anger. Rage was a lifelong friend, a firm hand on his shoulder and a true guide to his sword.
He feels like he’s speedrunning the stages, though. Denial had come and gone before he’d even realized it, and anger had been fleeting. Bargaining was somewhere in there, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t quite know where. Maybe it had been part of the denial. Maybe it hadn’t even happened yet.
The Blood God refuses to accept this, though, so where does that leave him?
Desolation. A cold, all-consuming emptiness that takes hold of him in icy, suffocating hands and doesn’t let go. The voices weep for what they have lost.
“Tommy…” he tries one last time, swallowing the utter poignancy that in turn attempts to swallow him whole. “Come on, Theseus. Anything but this.”
The ghost tilts his head to the side as the broken melody begins to repeat, and from thin air, he produces an axe. The axe. Techno finds that, if given the choice, he would want anything but this back. He would trade a thousand riches to have anything but this.
“You can keep it, it’s okay,” he says, unable to raise his voice even if he tried. Chat has retreated somewhere not even he can find them, and their absence means the mangled cadence of Chirp is all the more loud. It fills his ears, pooling into his lungs like poison.
Tommy continues to hold the axe out, and after it becomes obvious he won’t take no for an answer, Techno takes it. The Blood God laughs despite himself, ignoring the choked quality of his own voice. “It’s good to see you’re still stubborn, I guess.”
They stand there for far too long. Techno is afraid that if he moves, if he tries to reach for Tommy again, the illusion will shatter.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says, the words bitter on his tongue. Technoblade does not apologize. “I should’ve- you shouldn’t have been stuck in there. Someone should have gotten you out.”
Tommy offers him a flower after a moment, the white petals of the tulip limp. It’s dead, too.
The irony of it all.
Long after Tommy’s ghost fades from his view, leaving nothing but phantom drops of blood in the snow where he had been, Techno still stands. The axe is heavy on his belt, the flower somehow heavier in his hand.
Chirp plays somewhere in the distance, yet nowhere at all. It still doesn’t sound right.
The Blood God doubts it ever will again.