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It oftentimes begins in libraries.
Strongholds are old, ancient things—but old, ancient things hold knowledge. And knowledge, of course, is power. Technoblade would say it smugly, as though he knows something the enemy does not, and that is where the power comes from. Wilbur Soot would say it with mischief in his eyes, but the kind of longing that tells you oh, he has knowledge, but power? Philza would say it the way it is meant to be said: a simple fact, and one learned over a long, long time.
(Tommy, of course, thinks it is bullshit, and he is the only one who could ever get away with believing so.)
Stone brick clicks under Philza’s footsteps, and there is the echoing, faint sound of dripping water. Black feathers brush against the ceiling, the walls, the floor—strongholds are old, ancient, powerful things, but they are also incredibly claustrophobic. The libraries, even more so—the aisles are cramped with spiderwebs and rotting wood, moldy books falling from their shelves. It is a rotting tomb, and Phil takes his time in extracting the salvageable. He peers at pages, disregarding any languages he cannot recognize, springing upon the ones he can. Three books, in this haul, and another stronghold on the way home for him to check.
In another place, another time, there are two boys within another stronghold’s walls, laughing and shoving (and wholly unconcerned about the swarm of silverfish trailing behind them, a bucket of lava at Tubbo’s side, regardless) and stumbling upon the grandiose shelves of the library.
There is less studying, less grace—much less tact. Tommy grabs books from shelves without looking through them, piling them into his inventory without much thought. Half of them will be old, historical texts he cannot read. Many will be too old, too faded, too water-damaged. But many will also glow with enchantment, and there will be a piece he has been missing from his thorns enchantment, and it will be a victory in the end.
Another stronghold, a different angle—Wilbur Soot sits on the floor with books spread across the stone brick, Technoblade across from him as they cross reference, take notes. Runes hastily scrawled across paper and translations scrawled in margins, old sets of iron and stone gear scattered across the stone to practice on. A scholar’s paradise, a room that has been long dead now revived by the presence of two studious boys, speaking the same words that many before once spoke, thousands of years ago.
Four swords gleam with runes of lapis and gold, and the story behind each is different.
Sat in the van on a sunny summer day, two boys practice their runework. Tubbo carves, Tommy stitches, and the world carries on around them.
“I think I’ve done it wrong.” Tubbo pushes the chestplate towards Tommy. “It’s not activating.”
Tommy pauses in his work, peering over at Tubbo’s. The same enchantments, protection, for each of them. He squints at the runes, looking back at his own work before his eyes light up with understanding. He taps one of the runes.
“This one’s s’posed to be switched with that one. The word loss goes after all.”
Tubbo pulls the chestplate closer again, frowning as he squints at his work. “Oh. That was stupid.”
“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, “it was.”
“You are so mean,” Tubbo says, “for no reason at all.”
“To be fair”—Tommy returns to his stitching—”it was stupid. Don’t shoot the messenger, pal.”
“The messenger is going to get shot”—Tubbo points, accusingly—”by my arrow.”
“Well that’s not very nice,” Tommy says, petulant, and a clump of lapis gets thrown at his face.
It results in shrieking laughter and blue dye smeared across their hands and arms and faces, staining shirts and getting into hair. And when Wilbur scolds them, fondly, asks what happened, they will point to the other and go he started it, and there are no worries of war or death, just a president and older brother’s faux wrath.
(And one day, in the far future, in a cabin in a snowy forest, lapis will be thrown and smeared and Wilbur will ask what happened they will once again go he started it and this time there is no president, just older brother, and the fight will begin anew and blue will be stained across fingertips not to draw out sadness, chasing it away under a different tune.
And that day, it will finally feel like healing.)
Directly after the event, if you were to ask Eret do you regret it she would not look you in the eye.
It had to be done, they might say, but their fist is curled into plush red fabric and the question that sits in their soul and the mind of every person on the server, nerves alight with fire and tension sneaking through the air, the question is did it?
(And the answer is no, gods, no it did not.
But tragedies never choose the right answer, in the end.)
If you were to ask Eret did it hurt, you would not get a response.
The way they clutch the hem of their cloak, fingers staining lapis-blue, enchantments done by a boy they just sent to his first execution, first death of many, the first of so many unfair duels, a dance with Lady Death he did not deserve—
It is answer enough.
If there was one thing Wilbur kept his hands steady for in Pogtopia, it was enchantment.
He could not lift his guitar and strum a chord, no, but his runes were painted in lapis and gold and redstone the color of his blood and they were pristine, beautiful things inlaid in the wooden chassis of his crossbow.
(His armor was always dented, the runes scratched over, the metal discarded. It was not worth it. He was not worth it.)
But his bows, his crossbows, they were beautiful, he pressed a bow into Tommy’s hand and Tommy’s fingers curled around it and it fit perfectly, because he was not going to lose his brother to an unlucky shot twice.
Back from the dead and his writing, oh, it is dreadful, but his runes are straight and even and perfectly spaced, and he used to say words over violence but these words, they are violence, and it is a tune he is learning to carry rather sweetly. He carves into the new crossbow, a new Chekhov’s Gun, of sorts, and makes sure his writing is pristine.
(They are the only enchantments his father ever praised him for, in the end.)
Out in the tundra there sits a cottage, and that cottage—it is lined with bookshelves.
Relics of ages past line those walls, and men of ages past poke through them. Some languages, they can read—others, they must decipher. Phil knows more than Techno (on account of him being ancient and all, Wilbur had once said), but Techno is adept at things that Phil is not, and vice versa.
The nether script, the runes that Phil cannot study without getting a headache or a feeling of deep, deep dread, they come easy to Techno. Curses and enchantments of fire are simple, things he can scrawl out without second thought.
(Phil spends one evening, after he first arrives, grinding the enchantments out of a diamond sword that is singed around the edges.
He begs Techno to re-enchant it the next day, and what is Techno to say to his friend except yes?)
They sit in peace and quiet, now, Techno carefully modifying runes carved into netherite. He curls a bit of lapis off the edges of the script, gives the writing a small flourish—something uniquely his own, and now the chestplate will not rest comfortably around anyone else’s shoulders.
Phil sits with a grey cloak and golden thread in hand, trying different runes and combinations—phrases of flight, of freedom, of healing, anything he can think of. He has been doing it for days, for weeks—months, since he arrived on this server.
He has yet to find the right combination.
“Any luck yet?” Techno finally says, voice quiet as to not break the peace.
Phil lets out a low, frustrated noise. “Not yet.”
Techno hums, sympathetically. “I can go lookin’ for stuff on elytra, Phil. Texts can’t be that hard to come by if we know what we’re looking for.”
Phil doesn’t look up. “XD will just take them, Techno, it’s fine. I can figure it out on my own.”
And he is right, ultimately, but Techno has never really been one to adhere to the god’s will, and he does not plan on starting now. But Phil is determined, and if the task gives him something to focus on other than the nightmare that is everything right now, then Techno supposes he won’t take it from him.
“Alright,” he says, “but the offer stands.”
“Thanks, mate.” Phil still does not look up.
Techno sighs, and returns to his carving.
While few of the texts found are written in enderscript, there is still something about the language that feels natural to Ranboo. Something simple, something he can get a little lost in—if he were to look at a book on enchanting with a clear mind, he could not tell you what was in it, but he knows the other part of him has knowledge he does not.
He wakes up from the enderwalk to find near-perfect, pristine pieces of enchanted gear from time to time. It’s not worth questioning.
The runes are perfectly straight, written as though he is intimately familiar with the language, and many of them he cannot actually read. The lapis is perfectly within the lines, painted on and set to channel the magical properties of the art, and Ranboo finds his enchanting materials—his carving tools and paintbrushes, all of it perfectly clean, no signs of heavy enchanting work.
It’s almost unsettling. But Ranboo will take the little victories, the little gifts where he can. And anyone would be stupid (or just Tommy, but the words stupid and Tommy fall in line a lot—in the most affectionate way, Ranboo swears) to not accept free tools and armor, enchanted to perfection.
He doesn’t know how he can do it—but he’s glad it’s of some help.
(There is something from exile that Tommy can’t quite remember, not with perfect clarity, something… odd.
Drista stands before him, frowning as he recounts how Dream made him throw away his sword and the enchanting materials he’d cobbled together, and she is frowning and thinking and that is never a good combination—
And there is a sword. Tommy can remember the sword.
It is netherite and glowing and it is the most beautifully made sword he’s ever seen but it hurts to look at, the runes are too perfect, too straight, too strong, and a sword should not be able to contain that much magic and the hilt is hot to the touch and Tommy had forgotten where that burn scar came from—
Dream destroys it like the rest, despite the unbreaking that should, by all means, be entirely and utterly unbreakable.)
It comes in the gleam of lapis and gold on netherite, the faint blue and ruby glow of lapis ground with redstone into white thread on the inside of a yellow sweater. It is elaborate stitchwork side by side with large, messy, sprawling runes, secret markings etched on the underside of a bow, near-invisible to the naked eye.
Phil paints. Techno carves. Wilbur whittles away at wood, and Tommy stitches elaborate lines and script work into the clothing his brothers-by-choice wear.
Protection and infinity and flight and flame, and all of them—all of them—come out perfect in the end.