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He was only twelve years old when he heard the voice for the first time. It was distantly familiar, the whisper of a relative or friend whom you haven’t seen in a few years.
Blood. We want blood. Blood, it hissed, one key on a piano being pressed repeatedly. We want blood.
Back then, he ignored it. Hearing voices, he knew, was never a good thing, and didn’t exactly signify mental stability. Plus, it wasn’t difficult to drown out; his little brother Tommy was far louder than any voice, and the only music he willingly listened to was Wilbur’s, though he’d never admit it.
But the voice persisted, growing a bit louder every day.
Within a year, what was once a single, violent note became a melody, an eerie sort of music that echoed through his mind, cresting and crashing like waves that tugged at him, tried to coax him out into the churning sea. It was so dark, and he knew if he ventured out there, if he let the voices lead him into that dark, roiling water, he wouldn’t ever make it back.
Blood, they sang, voices mingling, pitch rising. Give us blood. We need blood. Blood. Give us blood.
By the time he was fifteen, he couldn’t ignore the voices. The symphony began to drown out everything else, until he couldn’t even tell what was in his head and what was real. Even if it was just in his head, he still heard it clearly. To him, it was very real.
We need blood. Give us blood! they demanded. Bring us blood! Blood must be spilt! Blood! Give us blood. We need---
How many of them are there? he wondered, hardly hearing his own thoughts over the dangerous, desperate chorus. Most, like the first voice, merely whispered. Others roared, cried, shrieked.
And he screamed with them, clutching his head, ripping at his hair, doing anything to feel something real. He tore out fistfuls of pink-dyed locks while warm, callused hands that he couldn’t even feel pulled his wrists away. His fists were carefully pried open to reveal deep red crescents where his fingernails had cut into his palms.
Blood, the voices cried, savoring the sight. He squeezed his eyes shut and yelled, trying to jerk his hands out of the vice-like grip so he could cover his ears. The voices only grew louder. We want blood. Give us blood!
Techno. A muffled, steady voice broke through the din of clashing shouts, the never-ending battle slowing ever-so-slightly. Gentle, tentative hands touched his forehead, brushing back his hair.
Give us blood! the voices wailed, urging him to ignore the other voice.
Techno. The voice was low and familiar and real .
This is real.
BLOOD! the voices roared over each other, each desperate to be heard and acknowledged. GIVE US BLOOD.
Techno, open your eyes.
That was his name.
That’s my name. That is me. I’m Techno.
“Techno.”
And the voices stopped.
His eyes flew open and all he saw was a blur of green before he stumbled, retching and gagging. Strong arms caught him before his knees hit the floor as he vomited again, his breaths rapid, choked. He sobbed between pants, trembling fingers scrabbling at the hair sticking to his feverish skin.
“I’ve got you,” the person soothed him, peeling the sweaty strands away. “I’ve got you, son. You’re safe.”
Dad. Phil was holding him. He was safe.
When he finished dry-heaving, he collapsed against his father, face buried in his silky shirt. Phil stiffened for a moment in surprise, then relaxed, stroking his hair while Techno cried, leaning into the safe embrace of the one he knew he could trust. Phil’s wings curved around them.
“You’re safe, Techno,” Phil repeated. “I’ve got you.”
He held him for an hour, until Techno finally stopped trembling and his breathing steadied.
“Dad,” he croaked, lifting his head to meet deep blue eyes that were so different from the viscous tides that constantly washed over him, drenching him in scarlet so dark it was nearly black.
“Hey, son.” Phil kept a hand pressed against his back while Techno sat up, blinking. He stared at Phil, then the room. “I think you were having some sort of panic attack.” They were familiar with anxiety due to Will, who sometimes couldn’t leave the house without breaking down. Phil glanced down at Techno with concern. “But I’ve never seen you like this.”
“It wasn’t a panic attack,” Techno mumbled.
Phil looked at him gravely. “What was it, then?”
Techno had told him about the voices, the way they wormed into his brain and spoke to him, begged him for blood. Granted, he hadn't told Phil the full extent of the constant war raging inside his mind, or that some of the voices were his own.
He turned to his father, biting his lip until a metallic tang filled his mouth.
Blood, the voices murmured, rejoicing at the taste. Need more blood. Give us blood, blood god.
“The voices, Phil,” he whispered hoarsely, throat constricting. He swallowed, forcing the words from his cracked, bloody lips. Blood. “They’re getting louder.”
He clutches the pommel of his sword in bandaged hands, the bloody blade angled downwards in front of him. He stands in a field of carnage, destruction, and battered, wounded people, forced to be soldiers. They all stare at him in terror, the masked man who has, to their knowledge, become a god.
Technoblade never dies.
It's both truth and lie. The boy he was is dead, any last piece of him shredded by the voices. And who he is now can't be killed easily, if at all.
The Blade, they whisper to each other, as if speaking his name loudly might summon him. The blood god.
Everyone fears him, reveres him, knows his name. But none of them know him .
He barely knows himself anymore.
It began as a symphony, a series of violent notes.
Blood. We need blood.
Now, it’s a cacophony, drowning out every feeling and doubt, bombarding him with the overwhelming urge to obliterate it all, annihilate the whole land, drench dirt and sand and stone in blood. Stain the rivers red with it, water the entire earth in their suffering.
And he followed that urge. That's why he's here, amid the smell of blood and gunpowder, smoke and dust billowing around him where the monstrous creature rises. The eye sockets in its three skulls are as empty as the ones in the mask of bone he's worn for so long, it's melded to his face.
Sometimes, pieces of memories flash by among the noise in his head, like the shimmering scales of a fish in a roaring river, glinting in the sun. He sees two boys, one taller than the other. He sees a simple wooden guitar, then that same guitar shattered, its broken body cradled in the arms of a dark-haired boy. He sees a green and white striped hat, a maroon beanie, a shirt with red sleeves. Cobalt-blue eyes, eyes so dark brown they appear black, bright eyes the color of the sky. Techno! someone shouts, but it's lost in all the noise.
He hears someone laugh, and the sound is so close, yet he can’t place where it is. He hears singing, low and melancholic and familiar .
But the voices rise above it all, wash it all away like footprints in the sand. The fleeting images and loving words are gone the moment the tide of scarlet rolls back in. The current pulls him out further, and this time, he's too far from the shore.
Blood, they chant, persistent as always. He can’t ignore them anymore, hasn't been able to for years now. When he tries, they grow deafening, pounding in his head as if to break it open. Blood for the blood god.
Everyone thinks he's in control. The blood god, the most powerful being in the land. Strong, sharper than his blade, and merciless.
Maybe he is in control. Maybe the voices have become him, or have always been. He doesn't remember when they weren't.
We want blood. Blood for the blood god. Blood for the blood god...
It's his own voice, echoing through the cavern of his mind. And he listens to it, slashing his sword in deadly arcs, blood splattering his bone-white mask like a disturbing imitation of paint. He smells it, tastes it, and it makes him giddy. He thrives on it, this unquenchable thirst for death and carnage.
Violence is the only universal language, he told his little brother, who he thought was like him. And you and I both speak that language.
No one is like him. They're all weak, desperate to be governed by an authority figure. They're lazy, foolish, and so mortal.
Once, he believed he could learn to silence the voices. Now, he knows that was a fool's hope. The more you hear them, the more you lean towards them, trust them. Obey them.
Now, they control him.
Blood for the blood god. He cuts through throngs of people, metal clanging against metal until he is the weapon. The Blade.
The voices wield him. He wields his sword. His body sings, drenched in blood that isn't his own. War is like a dance he knows by heart, and he glides through it with ease, bloodred cloak trailing behind him. People scream, fall to him and the weapons of others.
The blood god marches through it all, wading through the bodies and blood pooling on the ground, his head raised against the weight of the tusked mask on his face and the gold crown on his head. And the voices cry out, welcoming him.
The blood god.
He's not a mere soldier, or even a general. He's a lord. A god of blood, of chaos, of war.
He spreads the fear, ignites the land and its people with the same yearn for violence. It's already present; he just draws it out until they're charging at each other, friends turned against friends, families torn apart. His own family was torn apart.
Bright green grass shrivels and fades to yellow where blood soaks the ground.
And he makes eye contact with the masked man on the other side of the battlefield, just as content as he is.
Under the masks, they both smile as the people of this peace-loving land destroy each other.