Work Text:
“I wrote him, but I don’t know if they ever-”
The doors to church prime had swung open wide, and the room was silent as the three figures approached. In front, several feet ahead of the other two, stood Ranboo. People who had seen the ender child walk the streets were surprised how tall and still he stood. They had seen him flit and flicker around a space, hunched over, making himself smaller. But now he stood tall, confident despite the eyes on him. He held bundles of flowers, almost more than he could carry. When he reached the open casket, he hovered tall over Tommy, studying his face. Light make-up had been brushed on to cover the bruises on his face, but purple still blossomed faintly beneath. They had dressed him in the best they could find in his size, the old L’Manburg uniform. He looked so much younger again, filled with hope. If only his eyes had been open.
A few others in the crowd had frowned as Ranboo placed the bundle in Tommy’s arms. Only a small number had brought flowers to the funeral. Mostly people who hardly knew Tommy, who had assumed he would dislike them. Ranboo knew better. He sat beside Tubbo right at the front.
The attention had turned to the figures behind him, walking beside one another. Philza Minecraft held nothing, but was cloaked entirely in black. His mop of blond hair had been tied back, his broken wings still splayed out, instinctively in a protective motion around his companion. Philza had taken a seat in the third row, which left Technoblade to walk up to Tommy on his own.
Techno had been to most of the funerals and ceremonies on the server. He has always donned his regular outfit, and was sometimes fully armored. It was rare for him to present differently. His flowing red cloak was absent, replaced by a simple black cape that made him look much smaller, but still a commanding presence. White shirt and red belt abandoned for a simple, fully black suit. The strangest feature was the absence of his crown. He never took it off, so much that Phil joked he wore it to bed and in the shower. If he wasn’t wearing it he was wearing a war helmet, thick black netherite that fully enclosed his face.
When he reached the casket, only those in the first two rows could hear what he said. It was almost a whisper, and while he had always been soft spoken, it was rare for the average person to hear him without the commanding tone of the battlefield.
“You are a hero, Tommy.”
Techno could hear the hypocrisy of his own choked out words but didn’t care. The day he had set the withers upon him, he had been wrong about something. One didn’t need to die like a hero to be one. From a hidden pocket he withdrew his crown. In one of his first battles, he stormed a kingdom and ripped it from the head of the king. That man was sour, corrupt, a fool. Techno had hoped he could wear it in irony, in hypocrisy, a man who dressed like a king but believed in intense anarchy. He had never been pure like Tommy, genuine but never really heroic. He protected others who he liked, and for his own gain. Tommy may have been an annoying child, but he cared to a fault.
He was a textbook hero, and many of his favorite heroes later rose to be leaders.
Techno placed the crown on Tommy’s head.
“Goodbye, Theseus”