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It was a stormy, stormy night, the likes of which the Antarctic Empire hadn’t seen in years. Thunder reverberated through the palace chambers and blue lightning flashed in the sky, its cold light permeating past the curtains. The sobs that came from Prince Wilbur’s chamber were so expertly stifled that, to hear his cries, one would need extraordinary hearing.
Wilbur sat up in bed, clutching his plush pillow to his chest, back pressed flush against the headboard. His teary, terror-filled eyes lit up in shock with each crack of thunder. With shaking hands he covered his ears.
The sound of thunder was painful. Wilbur didn’t understand how he could be hurt by noise, but each rumble sent vibrations through his skeleton and made him want to claw his skin off. It left his ears ringing. Ringing like a bell. Two bells, twelve bells. All ringing, ringing. He tried to stay afloat in the swimming waves but he can’t get a grasp on the water. It stung his nose. Stung his throat. Oh, Gods, he couldn’t breathe.
The icky feeling spread its poisonous tendrils throughout his trembling body. Suddenly Wilbur couldn’t stand the feeling of his blankets. In the Antarctic Empire, where the biting cold was a constant, it was imperative for survival to stay warm with thick, woollen blankets. The wool was scratchy, like sandpaper against Wilbur’s skin. Like a fly caught in a spider’s web, he wriggled desperately in the heavy blanket’s clutches, so focused on escaping it that he didn’t notice how he was teetering on the edge of the bed…
Wilbur fell onto the wood flooring with a crash. It shocked him, momentarily sending him into a confused daze where the lightning’s harsh prongs could not sting his eyes and growling thunder was lost on his ears. But then it came back. Full force. Wilbur pulled his pillow over his head and panted.
He wanted his dad. Who else could protect him from this overwhelming attack than Emperor Philza, ruler of the Antarctic Empire? Wilbur had grown up hearing stories about Phil slaying mighty beasts, bringing whole kingdoms to their knees, conquering faraway realms. He always won, he always survived and made it out to see another day. Wilbur knew the thought was childish, but he worried that this storm would kill him. His heart was racing a hundred miles a minute, rattling against his ribs painfully. He was going to die here, shivering on the floor of his bedroom, aged only nine.
Nine was far too old to be comforted during a storm. Wilbur knew that if his schoolmates ever found out about this embarrassing episode, he would be endlessly ridiculed. Maybe even ostracised. No, no— if anyone dared bully him, his father would toss them in the dungeon and throw away the key. No one was allowed to hurt his son.
Fat tears dribbled down Wilbur’s cheeks. But Phil wasn’t here, was he? He stuffed his hand into his mouth and flinched as another crack of lightning shrilly sounded. He couldn’t let anyone hear him, he couldn’t let anyone know that he was afraid. He was nine— he was practically a man— he had to learn to survive. Emperor Philza survived battle after battle, always coming out on top: it was now Prince Wilbur’s turn to fight.
But it was so scary! He wriggled his legs uselessly and bit down on his hand to prevent sobs from flying free. He wanted his father, he wanted his father. Wilbur was torn apart by the need to be strong and the need to be comforted.
The thunder was so deafening that he did not hear the sound of someone approaching. Strong boots pattered against the stone floors, the tinkling sound of a trident swishing through the air sounded like a minuscule bell.
“Prince Wilbur? I heard…”
With a gasp, Wilbur pulled the pillow away from his face. Heeled black boots, a thin pink tail… he immediately knew who was here.
“Technoblade!” He dove at the man, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs and clinging on for dear life. It evoked a startled sound from him, but he quickly crouched down and began to comfort Wilbur. His strong hand rubbed smooth circles into his back. It was the one sensation Wilbur had felt tonight that didn’t make him want to cry. In fact, it soothed him. While his sobbing turned into hiccuping, he stayed clinging to Techno.
If his father couldn’t be here to protect him, then Technoblade would do nicely. He was the head of the Antarctic Empire’s military legions and was famed for being the Emperor’s ruthless protector. In every memory Wilbur had of growing up, Techno was present, standing silently in the background with his trident ready to protect the imperial family. He was kind and resourceful, always taking the time to help Wilbur practice his swordsmanship, while also dedicating an incredible amount of time to his own exercise. Once one saw him with a sword, one understood why his enemies called him the blood god.
Wilbur looked up at Techno with big, glassy eyes. He begged, "P-Please fight the thunder.”
Techno’s eyes, usually iced over with austerity, melted. He sympathetically replied, “I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness. There are few things in this world I cannot fight and thunder is one of them. It has no form to attack.” When Wilbur’s bottom lip began to tremble dangerously, his eyes widened and he quickly said, “But I can distract you from the thunder!”
Techno leant over to the nightstand and began to fiddle with the candle and matchbox. Wilbur looked at him carefully: was this the first time he’d seen the man without being obscured by a clunky suit of armour? Techno was the type of man who never lowered his defences in the presence of others. He must have heard Wilbur’s crying and jumped out of bed, hastily grabbing his boots and trident as he went. He was dressed in worn brown trousers and an off-white tunic that seemed several sizes too large on him. His pink hair was all over the place, messy like a lion’s mane. Wilbur had never seen Techno look so… normal. He liked it.
Techno lit the candle and a dim orange glow illuminated them. It was much more pleasant than the flashes of electric blue that had been taunting him all night. His eyes swept the room with an inventive look in them before finally landing on something.
“You still have the guitar.”
Wilbur tiredly rubbed at his wet cheeks and replied, “Mhm.”
The guitar which sat in the corner of his chambers were a gift from a foreign diplomat. The instrument was made of fine wood and strings that would shine like silver in the cold Antarctic sunlight. When Emperor Philza was given the guitar with a sweeping bow from the diplomat, his eyes lit up excitedly. Wilbur knew that look— it was the same one he saw when his father saw an aeroplane shoot through the pale blue skies or when they made pilgrimages to the sacred stronghold each winter solstice. His hands, mapped with adventures and experiences Wilbur only had heard of through mythos, ran across the guitar’s body and delicately felt the spirals and swirls intricately carved into the wood. He had admired the guitar for a few moments before turning to his son, who he sat attentively on his throne, and gave him it.
“Here you are, Wil. A guitar. You’ll love it, trust me.”
And he’d walked away, his long blue cape swishing behind him like a curtain drawing to a close after a performance, with the loyal soldier Technoblade following diligently, but not without sparing a fond glance toward the guitar first.
Wilbur had never had the time nor interest to try the instrument. Too many strings, all far too harsh on his little fingers. He was sure there were other valid reasons why he’d abandoned it but the dread he felt while anticipating the next clap of thunder was so strong he could barely think of anything other than the impending terror that would strike his heart.
Techno made to stand, but Wilbur stayed clinging onto him. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a whimper as a flash of bright blue illuminated his frightened features. When he opened his eyes next, Techno was looking at him with a stern but soft face, one that promised I will protect you .
His little fingers unwrapped from his protector and he anxiously watched him retrieve the guitar from the other side of the room. He held it by the neck and quickly strode back to Wilbur. Despite him only being gone for a second, Wilbur missed his touch terribly.
“Hop onto the bed.” He instructed. Wilbur clambered back onto the thick mattress. He purposefully avoided the blankets and their horrible prickliness, instead choosing to stick close to Techno. The man sat with his back against the headboard, the guitar in his lap. He twiddled with the sticks at the end of the guitar’s neck, grumbling tired curses underneath his breath. Techno knew how to play the guitar? He hadn’t expected that he would have any hobbies besides slaying beasts and protecting the royal family. He wondered how many times he’d played the guitar for his father…
A sudden clap of thunder sent a shock down Wilbur’s spine. He yelped and— without thinking— wriggled his way into Techno’s lap. The man quickly raised the guitar, allowing the young boy refuge within his crossed legs, and said, “You’re alright, Wilbur. Come here, I’ve got you.”
Shame bubbled up inside of Wilbur. He was the crown prince of the Antarctic Empire, son of the feared Emperor Philza, how could he succumb to something as trivial as a thunderstorm? Where was the bravado he showed while putting on plays for the palace staff? Where was the bravery his father’s blood bestowed upon him? Gods, he felt so useless. He was such a baby. Cowering like a scared mouse, frightened to his core by some silly flashing lights and loudness. How pathetic, how stupid, how—
The gentle plucking of the guitar snapped Wilbur out from his spiralling mind. Techno’s head was bowed, eyes darting back and forth from the neck of the guitar where his fingers stiffly shifted from position to position and his other hand which hesitantly plucked above the soundhole. It took a few moments for the plucking to register with Wilbur’s ears, for the stray notes to come together and create a song. Techno’s soft humming helped.
Wilbur pressed his head to his protector’s chest and felt the rumbling vibrations of his humming. It was astonishing. And when he began to sing… Wilbur felt as if he was completely encompassed by softness.
His voice was shaky— no doubt from years of being hidden— but somehow that comforted Wilbur. To see the gentle man behind the armour was a privilege, but to hear him sing? Wilbur was worried that if he pinched himself he would wake up and discover this was nothing more than a dream.
“For you shall run in meadows green and sport with otters all in the stream.” He sang, “And you shall chase the dapple deer and swim with salmons in water clear.”
A flash of blue lit up the room. Wilbur didn’t notice. He was completely entranced by Techno’s lullaby. Where fear and anger once lived, a sleepy softness took root, as promising as the white blossoms that bloomed in the palace courtyard each spring.
“And when at last your course is run, joy of my joy, Prince Wilbur.” Through the gaps in his pink locks, Wilbur saw a small smile grace the man’s scarred lips, “Beneath the sky, you’ll stand alone, flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.”
His fingers confidently took control of the guitar. Techno now strummed the strings with the same spirit Wilbur saw when he raced ahead on his horse into battle. He smiled down at him and sang, “You shall stand on the coal-black sand to cross over the waters of the western land, but now I have you at my chest: Lulay, Prince Wilbur, gently rest.”
Wilbur melted against Techno like snow underneath the summer sunlight. He felt as warm as the summer sun— though it was not a burning type of heat, it was a pleasant, tender warmth that made his soul feel brighter. The guitar was so beautiful. He understood his father’s love for it now.
The thunder’s growls continued, as did the lightning’s villainous flashes, but Wilbur did not wince. How could he be scared when he was so soothed by Techno’s song? The burning prickles beneath his skin had been eradicated, replaced with silky softness. Being so close to Techno was nice. Feeling his steady heartbeat soothed him almost as much as the lullaby.
“Wilbur?” Techno whispered. His voice did not shatter the comfortable silence, Wilbur smiled at the return of his shy voice, “Was that… okay?”
Wilbur wrapped his arms around his guardian’s waist, tightly hugging him in a way he hoped communicated his gratitude and admiration, and yawned, “Don’t tell my father about this. ‘m not a baby.”
Techno chuckled and settled the guitar down beside them. Wilbur, now feeling much more like himself again, wiggled against the man until he lay flat on his back. Like a nesting bird that had found its true home, he snuggled into the nook of Techno’s neck. Finally, he felt safe enough to sleep.
(Little did he know, Emperor Philza stood in the doorway to the chambers with a soft smile etched into his weary, sleep-strewn face directed at the wonderful sight of his son and his companion cuddled on the bed. In the chilly Antarctic environment, there was nothing that could warm a man’s heart like a sight such as this.)