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He watches over the mortals like they are his little beings, his hands caress them sweetly and mold them into perfect warriors as such deemed. The forests are shaped out of curiosity, some wondrous place to leave the people behind and shape a world so different from humanity. Little ponds, tiny trails to off-site witch huts that deer and foxes guard with protective gazes. Forest spirits are created that way, tiny, little, abnormal balls of light that guide a traveler to the right path, their presence never proved yet theorized by many.
Yet the humans are gluttonous, their hands—that he created, by the way— used to steal, to murder, to kill. They wage wars for selfish reasons, their narcissistic selves watching as kids bleed and decay in their arms, no mercy shown to mothers who are expectant. Jewels that he put below the ground now used for greed and dealings that result in blood, emerald and rubies forged to be made nice with are now used for negotiations in war, markets, battle. He finds it ridiculous how humans can destroy their own selves.
Consequently, he creates the Gods, immortal and abnormal beings so unlike forest spirits that lay watch near humanity’s grasp. Gods of Beauty and Kindness, of Hunt, of Fate and Destiny that forges the path that humans now take. Gods of Death and Life, two lovers who, despite the difference, harmonize and change the fates, together. Humanity, albeit still broken, now has guardians.
The God of War watches from above, his eyes fixated on the battles around the world where small children are being forced out to carry blades of steel. Small and humorous tales of bravery told of heroes with more blood on their conscience than any warrior of the afterlife, they raise their self-esteem and then wonder why they deserve such betrayal and horrible fates. “If you watch over them so much, why not join them?” He smiles at the small remark from an old friend.
The crown placed on his head by his creator has always been an enigma, and thus also the voices that cloud his mind. Voices that— Blood, Blood, Blood— bawl of crimson red spilled in war and battle. His eyes fixate on ongoing wars, the dazzles of emeralds that he picks up in castles and forests, if he squints he’d be able to see forest spirits gliding around a man in the forest, their distinct bodies floating from a further distance near golden strands of hair.
His voice hoarse and never much help to seem approachable, “My abilities lay better above the clouds, it’s better to watch, you know that, Philza.” He speaks of past actions, of screams that echo in his shallow mind and tiny arms that reach out for help but before they reach him they fall and spiral. He means blood spilled on dangerous voices roaring his mind. “Maybe it’s better to just watch, just for now. How’s Kristin?” The Goddess of Life, her hands so soft and her wings enveloping you in warmer climates than the sahara back on earth.
Philza, God of Death, laughs, his echoing cackle dancing to his ears like an old friend’s hug. Almost close. “Kristin is living, anything else and I’d be worried. Old friend, you need to believe in change, we’re gods after all, we mustn’t live in the past.”
He turns to his companion, his oldest friend of the gods, his lips turned to a grin while a hardened look overtakes his eyes. “The voices, Phil, you know what they do. Death, they don’t wane; I fear I've become mortal in a sense, in fear of my own guilt.” There’s a smile pulled on his face as he says disturbingly that the God of War feels guilt and regrets over past battles.
Phil frowns, rare flicks of emotion bleeding through his eyes. The God of Death feels for no one, his eyes seen more than any god of creation, the dances and matches he holds for fun like a sick game that he’s been taught to win at. No one wins Death, it’s told in the storybooks as such; humans should stop thinking they know better than the divine. “The voices only control you that much, Blade. Channel them out, I’ve taught you this.” And that he has, Phil’s wise words taught him how to fade out the voices and their pleas for blood, only thanks to him has the bloodlust ceased. If only for a little while. “It’s time to step out again, to prove to humanity that the divine does exist. The forest spirits have missed you down there, you’ve always attracted them.”
He smiles, different from the grin he wore before. “Alright, old friend. The mortals have suffered enough, haven’t they?” Yet he does not pretend to care for the men and women that slay and demolish, humans mean nothing to him and his feelings don’t advance onto them. Voice roar, they long for action where blood will be spilled. He fears that he’s not God enough to keep them sedated, it’s been far long that he’s been above earth, far too much time spent watching over mortals that the voices have pent up their anger on them.
The God of War steps on the lands of earth, his footsteps making a dent in the hidden forest where forest spirits lay long and watch as a flash of pink hair continues toward villages and society. They wonder, what is the fate that lay upon them this time? After all, the villages are still burnt up in ashes.
He knows of one place that always stays the same; humanity has always been obsessed with fighting. The cold look hardens behind his eyes, his hands clenched in fists as he listens to the cheers and shouts of men gathered around a group of two fighting each other.
He sees this a lot while observing. Men and children gathered near a fighting ring, circling in two men who are there for just a pretty penny and recognition as a fighter. He fades in, his regal-looking clothes not catching attention of bystanders, something he’s to be glad for. He can feel eyes on him, he looks up and almost sees an old friend there with cold eyes staring down at him. He grins, the feeling of dirt beneath his feet again. Dazzling jewels decorate his skin, the carnelian stones that dangle off his ears with small golden chains attached to them. His ruby eyes are the same color as blood, molded to be like blood by The Creator, the God of War is one to not care for humans, to spill their blood rather than forgive and listen.
His crown is an enigma, as having said before, it has never been real, he’s no king to worship and bow down too, he’s always been better than a simple piece of golden jewelry placed on freshly brushed hair. He wishes for no man to be less of him, no man to be better than him, he prays for an equal.
Someone touches his shoulder, he breathes and turns around, his expression gloomy almost looking like someone died. But still, hasn’t everyone? The man in front of him has sweat on his forehead, the God of War recognizes him as a man who was fighting as he arrived here. Now, it seems, he’s zoned out so the fight has ended.
The man, warrior, Techno suspects, has a glint in his eyes. Something the god has seen too much to not recognize. “What’s your name?” It’s curiosity, he knows, he’s sure it’s present in his eyes as well.
“They call me many names, some old, some new, always terroring the listener.” He muses strongly, the man’s eyes narrowing as he listens. Crows watch from a distance, a tell that an old friend watches as he muses of tales old and new, their icy blue eyes burning into his skull. “You don’t seem to be a man for many stories, the tides of war changing around you while you hold no care for those who fall.”
The stranger laughs, a quiet chuckle that’s been hidden deep within, something that’s been suppressed for long. “Someone whispered that you might be a loony, now tell me, terrorizer, where do you get your info on me? Who has told you such foolery? While I might be a warrior in the king’s army I hold no connections to the mad ruler and tyrant, unlike many, I mourn those who have died, walk with a slump through thick forests in search of spirits to guide me to a right path.” The man muses with a slight frown, his voice saddening when mentioning deaths of comrades and friends.
“There are not many warriors who still hold their morals upright in so many wars, one would think you’d lose hope after so much unnecessary blood.” He guides them to a quieter spot, yet never leaving the eyes of Death watching from above. You’ll never hide from Death’s birds. “In our short conversation, you’ve never told me your name either, how do you expect to know mine when I don’t know yours?” A light pink flushes over the warrior’s cheeks at that comment, Techno wonders. Huh.
“I suppose I’ve forgotten that small detail,” He chuckles awkwardly, reaching out his hand in a form of greeting. “I’m Dream.” It’s such a peculiar name it makes Techno think of godlike beings, of divine beings mixed up in mortal’s doings. Dream’s face is starred with outstanding freckles, such a distinct feature of mortal features, one of the most attractive, as he’s heard from Philza.
He takes Dream’s hand, shaking it once, twice. “Technoblade,” Dream laughs, such unexpectant behavior. Techno’s eyes widen, maybe not to the seeing eye, but his mind races.
“Well, Techno, you tell me you’ve been called many names, some old, some new. There’s no terror up my spine by your name, but I think that might change once I hear your backstory.” Techno smiles, a grin pulled upon his face that’s not creepy in this sense.
He studies Dream’s facial expressions, no lie or misleading found in there. “Do you believe in legends, Dream? Have you been told stories of the abnormal?”
He finds Dream enchanting, some type of deity sent down to enchant him with his beauty. He traces his hands against the soft, tanned skin, his hands make their way down to Dream’s face where the younger squirms away from contact. His face covered in deep red blush as he buries his head in his beloved’s chest, the laugh he lets out sounding shameful.
Techno kisses each scar that decorates his beloved’s skin, the marks that have been left behind by war that he’s been in charge of. He comforts his lover after nightmares from the king’s malicious words that have left their mark in some pocket of his mind; he feels guilt, he’s the God of War, a god who’s in charge of battle and leading the armies who he’s blessed to victory. In theory, he’s to blame for his lover’s nightmares, his desultory actions result in nightmares for mortals who he swore to never care about.
Now, as a mortal lays asleep in his arms, he wonders, was he wrong to judge the humans that endured his fury all those decades back?
He’s never been one to care over wounds, his own healing after hours, days if truly fatal, some perks of being immortal he supposes. But Dream has never been like him, nor will he, his wounds scar and leave marks. Dream will age, and while it will never decay the beauty the blonde possesses, he will age. Something that Techno now feels guilt over even though he’s not Fate. He kisses Dream’s scars, a secret magic, ability, that he has. He kisses the wounds and they heal, faster than they should, at least. Dream has yet to notice, never notices how the wounds or scars that his beloved partner kisses fade eventually, nothing left of it but clear and soft skin.
The crows stay as do them, Techno supposes they’ll never leave. Not as long as he remains connected to society.
“Love— are you okay?” Techno’s arms are pulled over Dream’s slightly smaller figure protectively. Not that Dream needed protection, his partner was beyond helpless, never needing help in his own scuffles. But Techno will always protect Dream, if his immortality comes to it, let it be like that. “Techs?” Dream’s voice is muffled by his chest, his head buried near his heart so he could hear his heartbeat when he fell asleep.
Techno places a kiss on his boyfriend’s head, not once ashamed of being in love with a mortal. No matter how many promises he goes against.
Dream laughs, the vibrations from his chest connecting with Techno’s body that he’s laying on top of. “That’s not an answer, you know.” Dream feels as Techno’s hand rubs his back, well, he’s not sleeping, not that he even considered it earlier. He pouts at the continuing silence, it’s often that it’s silent in his home, the quiet not unfamiliar to him. Yet he does not feel alone, the feeling of being alone, although familiar, has not been felt in the months that he’s known Techno. “I don’t like the silence, you know that.”
Techno shifts under him, Dream smiles at the indication of listening. “I’m sorry, love, I just—” His lover pauses, a pregnant pause held before he continues. “I’m just thinking. Did you have a nice rest?” It’s just like Techno to focus on his partner instead of himself, to put his lover in front of everything. While Dream likes to be cared for he’d also like for his partner to take care of himself too.
“It was fine, now, my concerns are on you, darling.” Techno tenses, something that Dream is used to he might just brush over were they just hanging out. But they weren’t, and Dream was worried. “Talk to me, you know I’ll always listen. I don’t like seeing you worried.” Techno hums, his fingers rubbing soothing circles into his back. Dream smiles, yet the worry doesn’t leave. He debates asking again, to ponder him with further questions, but he finds it annoying, finds it rather repulsive. So he stays quiet, disliking the silence that envelops the both of them.
Techno’s clothes are switched to comfortable ones, the weight of his cape now gone as is the invisible enigma of a crown. But something is still weighing on him, even Dream can see that.
An earring is dangling off his ear, not the same that was when he arrived but a different one. More meaningful than the previous one. A carnelian crystal replaced by a green calcite stone with faded ends. He remembers the night Dream gave him it, the blonde’s own green jades shining with skittishness as he stares at the small golden earrings with particular green crystals in his lover's hands. Techno smiles at the nervousness, soothing it over with a long kiss. He changes his jewelry out the next day.
Dream knows, actually, he doesn’t know. He suspects, he'd always suspected. There’s a reason he approached the off-looking man after the fight in the village, there’s always been something about Techno. The way he laughs, talks, looks at him, it leaves something to think about. He’s always been one to believe in the abnormal.
“I’m fine, darling. There’s no one to harm me— us — here.” An answer comes after minutes, which feel like hours, of silence. Dream sighs.
“Read to me, please. I don’t like the silence, you know that.” Dream pleas, begs, almost.
Techno shifts, his head lowering on Dream’s hair. The golden strands of sun soft under his head. “I do not know any stories you haven’t heard from me already,” Techno sighs. Every tale from the unbelievable, every legend or myth he knows, or has heard from Phil, has been retold to Dream on quiet nights like these. He’s told stories of Fate of her pulling the strings, of the married couple Life and Death that, despite differences, manage to love each other.
“Then retell me a story you’ve told me already. Please, anything to fill the silence, you know I dread it.” Dream says, his eyes closing as he hears his partner’s heartbeat. At least it’s not that silent. It’s comfortable, like he’s used to, he loves it. He loves him.
Techno sighs, a present smile on his face. “There’s a castle, somewhere on hidden grounds, hidden by crows of Death and doves of Life, the magic lies beneath the grass. Two small children hide there, their existence not a secret but not a well-known thing either. I visit sometimes, the children they’re lovely, while I prompt about not liking many I do like them. Life and Death have raised them well.” He pauses, memories flooding back of two children so alike their mother and father, but so painful to recognize mortal children so unlike their parents. “Last time I visited was a few years ago, though, I wouldn’t call it a visit. I merely just watched from afar—” Soft snores echo the living room yet Techno continues his story. Voices are quiet, the silence overtaking his mind, he finds that Dream has that effect on him.
His efforts were in vain, Technoblade knows better to plead with Fate. Her ways are always final, no god or the lover of one is in difference.
The God of War stands on a hill just before the kingdom where his beloved used to reside. He deafens out every additional sound, including his mind where the voices roar louder than they have ever before. His friend that stands behind him is no longer there in his mind, his supporting words have been long drowned out.
It was not my fault, youngling. He asks her not to speak to him like he’s less than her, he is no fewer than the Goddess of Fate, nor is he any more than her. He asks her to be equal, yet he knows it to be untrue when she holds the life of all humanity in her hands. The way of Fate comes to every mortal, no exceptions made for those who we love. You know this, God of War. And he does, Dream’s fate was never a haze or blur, it was always destined. Techno always knew what was ahead in Dream’s life, the gruesome ending to mortal life.
“He was not yours to take, goddess.” He says, aware of an old friend behind yet still uncaring. The goddess watches from above, her eyes feasted on villages burning and mothers who reach for their children to no avail.
Those who you have burned are not mine to take either, yet I guide them to Death’s door and envelop them in warm hugs and mourn with them those who they’ve lost. He doesn’t claim to be the token of all kindness, nor is he the carrier of evil. He wishes to be wanted once again, to have arms wrap around his torso and crush him in kisses small and meaningful. While I mourn your partner’s death and feel guilt for taking him away I feel no regret for guiding him to Death.
“Tell me, Fate, was he happy to go, did he willingly walk with you?” In those last fickle moments where Dream had yet to step into the afterlife, he told him he was content with it. He promised to remember their moments together, he requested to be remembered as well. Techno would rather lose the very thing that makes him a god than forget the way Dream’s eyes shined as he listened to him talk.
He hears a hum of thought, he opens his eyes to see the villages burn. Men and boys walk out of their homes with their sisters and daughters in arms reach, their protective arms shielding them from the hotness of the fire. Of course, he sees the mothers looking for their missing children who are long gone, small toddlers calling out for mother and father that have been lost to the fire. He knows they don’t deserve the fate that’s been put up to them, yet he feels no remorse.
He spoke of you, War. Talking of the divine to me as we made our way to the door, I won’t lie, he was not one that deserves such fate, yet nothing can be done to change the way his story ended. I’m sorry, my dear. Her words laced with such compassion, such comfort, that Techno almost forgets the way his life has ended. He is not yours to save, my dear. I’m sorry for such an ending.
He lets tears fall from his eyes. It’s been long since that happened, the God of War could only assume that it’s been a few millenium.
“You’ve prolonged your stay on earth, old friend. It’s time to head back, I’m sorry for such fates that we’ve bestowed upon you.” The voice of his old friend makes it to his ears again. He nods, turning away from the burning villages. The God of War steps back above.