Chapter Text
Tommy had always bled gold. All the blessed did, all powerful enough to be revered as the very Gods they were blessed by. Those that fell out of favor, lost their ichor, and those that bled tar were scorned as unforgivable monsters.
But, nobody had ever seen Tommy bleed.
It wasn't unintentional, he assures you. Every child born into the world knows who the blessed are. What they can do, who they were blessed by, and why they're so important. They often know it before their own names.
He thinks his parents might have known. Every set always nicks their newborn just to see the color of their blood. Like a ritual. It's how Philza, the once almighty Angel of Death, and one of the rulers of the all powerful Antarctic Empire, was discovered to be blessed by the Goddess of Death herself.
That Empire, though, filled to the brim with war-torn citizens and rivers of blood that spanned its history, was also his downfall. The Goddess rules death, yes, but she does not love it, and in turn, she did not love her Angel. In his last conquest, before he shut himself behind those towering doors of ice, Foolish, the ruler of the Kingdom of Undying- blessed by the four-headed Goddess of resurrection- slit the man's chest open, only to reveal the pooling tar that haunted even the most isolated peasant's dreams.
Scorned for betraying his favor, he shielded himself away behind doors that no other could break into. Pete, the second ruler, though not a blessed individual (which was unheard of, really. Only the blessed ruled. Were seen as capable enough to rule. Many rumored that he actually was.), headed the Empire after that. Their third ruler, the great and mighty Technoblade, was a ruler only in name. He ran no division, and was more of a battering ram for their greed than an emperor.
Technoblade, though, was an odd one. It was rumored that he was originally claimed by another God than the one he worships like a second skin, and that it is why he had never been known to bleed anything other than sickly tar. He worships the ravenous God of Blood, after all, and the Blood God has never been known to turn down an offering. A vile lord, but one due respect, regardless.
Many believed that he had originally been claimed by the Goddess of Death, just as Philza had been, but anyone with half of a brain knew that it was rare for a God to claim more than one champion. No, Technoblade had originally been claimed by the God of The Lost, who guided young spirits and those who deserved far better than their fate into the afterlife. A kind spirit who was said to always bless orphans, and those with enough power to change fate itself. It's why the Piglin brute abhorred the little children he slaughtered on vicious whims, jealous that they may be taken in like he wasn't, despite how he threw the opportunity away himself.
Wilbur, blessed by the minor deity of the musical arts, had told him stories of the empire. He'd grown up in that fortress' walls, after all. Born to the Angel of Death after he had been shunned, and lived a life of misery surrounded by nothing but ice and agony. Now, though, that little boy who hated his father, his uncles, and the land that they ruled with an iron fist, was grown, and had escaped with nothing but the clothes on his back and his beloved guitar, only to start his own country.
"We're a Democratic Republic, Tommy," he had once said, "because if my people have no choice in what we do, then I am no better than my bastard father."
Not many people knew the two were related, as the announcement of a child had never been made. Wilbur never even knew his mother, though he said he liked to pretend that the refrigerator that held the picture of that gorgeous woman with dark tresses was her, though now he knew that it was just an old painting of the Death Goddess. It would be even harder to guess, as one of L'manburg's few enemies was the Antarctic Empire itself. The others changed like the tides of the ocean, but that remained the one, steady constant.
He liked Wilbur, the man he called an older brother, or papa when he was feeling particularly vulnerable, despite having been just some street rat. He had actually robbed the man, seeing an easy-to-grab coin purse and taking the opportunity. It didn't work out well, as it turns out that the president of the country had really good leather bands, but it landed him a home and a family, so really, he couldn't complain.
Wilbur was blessed, and Tommy was, too, but yet, he couldn't bring himself to reveal it. Nobody had known, and now that he loved Wilbur like family, he couldn't take the glory of that away from him. Not when his patron was the Goddess of the Night Sky, a deity old enough that she was revered as one of the First. A primordial being who even had a human name- Clara. Wil was blessed by a Minor, and he could not drop that on him. He couldn't.
Especially not after Fundy was born, Wilbur's wife, Sally, a traveling shifter, died in childbirth, and Fundy was not born blessed, breaking the tradition of passing the torch from parent to child. Not all blessed came from blessed, obviously, but it was said that those in favor would pass their might down for eternity.
Wilbur mourned for three days after, only doing the bare minimum to care for himself, Fundy, and an eight-year-old Tommy.
They rejoiced when, on Fundy's fourth birthday, after breaking down and saying that he wasn't the girl he was born as, but a little boy, his crimson blood turned to ichor, blessed by the God of Change and Nonconformity. It was a bit of a common blessing, actually, one of the few deities to give to the world freely, but to Wilbur, it just meant that he hadn't failed as a father, and that was enough.
So, their family sat, nestled in the small yet prosperous country of L'manburg, its blessed President and son ruling over it happily, with their 'normal' adopted street rat just along for the ride.
Of course, all good things couldn't last.