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Weightless. As if suspended in water. His vision was a murky white, waving like the unceasing motions of the ocean, blinding like the refraction of sunlight on the crest of tides. Light confined him, a barrier, a cage. Somehow, it pulled on him—not on the limbs, not on the heart. It pulled on his soul, carefully extracting it through the orifices of his face, bleeding him dry.
Someone was screaming. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear desperate cries. Shouting, wailing, begging. Begging for help. Begging to stop.
It took Tommy three passing seconds to realize the pleas were his.
His body moved unbidden like it was not his own, yet feeling, seeing. Feeling the terror that wracked in tremors throughout his entire body, seeing through the fog of engulfing white.
A figure, featureless and gray, stood in front of him, looking down. When had he gone on his knees? Tommy grappled for purchase in the air, in the murky water, reaching out a hand. The figure’s face was hidden behind a mask, of pig bone and ivory tusks, dead eyes like void sinking into him, judging.
“Help me!” he begged, shifting closer. The white light kept him still. “Please! Help me!”
The figure stood unmoving, only looking at him with cold disinterest.
Yet, Tommy continued, screamed, “Please! Help me!”
The figure only stared, watching him in his misery, watching him in his impotence.
Tommy screwed his eyes shut. His torso curled in on itself as he shrieked, “Techno! Please!” And he had not once prayed to the gods for a hundred years, but in that moment, his prayers were a mantra of molten lava, running hot and sweltering.
He wished.
He hoped.
He waited.
Techno wrought out a hand.
But it was not a gesture of kindness. Instead, his palm glowed white, the same blinding white as the barricade surrounding him. It pulled on his soul, bled him dry.
Tommy could do nothing but look up, heart falling to his stomach. The world shattered, broken glass floating in the waves of the ocean.
Color seeped into Techno’s figure, pinks and whites and reds bursting like blooming roses. And only then did he speak, with colors of the rose in his entirety, their thorns riddled in his words.
“What makes you think you’re worth saving, Tommy?”
“Tommy?”
Tommy blinks awake.
“Tommy!” a voice greets. “You took your time napping.”
Tommy groans as he sits up. His back thrums in a mild ache, pinching at his spine, and he groans once again. He shoots the voice a half-hearted glare, softened with sleepiness. “Why did you wake me up?”
"You were thrashing around in your sleep." Wilbur throws a loaf of bread onto his lap. Tommy jerkingly catches it when it tries to roll off of him and to the ground. “And you haven’t had anything since yesterday. Eat.”
A part of Tommy wants to object for objection’s sake, but a bigger part, specifically centered around his stomach, keeps him quiet. He stuffs the bread in his mouth. The loaf is nice and fluffy, if not a bit coarse. It’s heaven in his mouth all the same, so much better than the bread he had eaten in the first week of his descent at least. He's fairly certain there was mold growing on the crust of some of them.
Wilbur, satisfied, squats right beside him before collapsing on the dirt. He leans back on the tree with a sigh. “We need to reach the next village before nightfall. We can start heading out after you finish your breakfast,” he says, afternoon sun piercing through the foliage.
But as Wilbur turns to Tommy, he’s already in the middle of standing up. The bread has completely disappeared. Tommy is clapping his hands to dust off the crumbs. Wilbur blinks. It has only been five seconds.
Tommy pats the soil off his pants, flicking a grasshopper off the hem of his shirt. “Let’s get moving, then.”
Wordlessly, through a vague fog of shock (though, honestly, he should be used to this by now), Wilbur follows, standing up. He adjusts the strap of his lute.
And get moving they did.
The journey comes like it usually does. Tommy leads, more agile and versatile with the terrain. He clears the path for Wilbur, pushing low-hanging branches and cutting down overgrown bushes.
They pass a patch of anemones, brightly colored and pretty. They stop for a moment to pick a handful for Tommy to carry. He simply can't resist holding a bouquet of them. Wilbur tucks a violet anemone behind Tommy’s ear, and although Tommy grumbles about it, he makes no effort to take them off.
After a couple dozen thousand steps, they spot an apricot tree hidden beneath oak and birchwood. Tommy easily scales it. He tosses an apricot down to Wilbur who barely manages to catch it.
Legs happily swinging on the branch, Tommy takes a big, juicy bite of the apricot. He freezes. There is a hole in the fruit, a slimy worm slithering in it. He shrugs and takes another bite. Worms are good for protein, he’s heard.
After a brief intermission involving trying to drink polluted springwater, they finally arrive at their destination.
Stonespire.
From what Wilbur had heard from the previous town, Stonespire specializes in distilled alcohol. He grins. Exactly the type of place he thrives in. The town itself is small and quaint apart from the hulking mansion on the western outskirts of the area. Must be where all the booze is treated and refined.
The sun has begun to set, the sky a bleeding painting of orange, yellow, and dark blue. They walk through the streets, passing windows lit by candlelight. Over yonder, a rustic tavern already starting to bustle with people could be found nestled between a barbershop and a small vegetable kiosk.
Wilbur smiles at the sign plastered next to the entrance. “Looks like I can perform without prior arrangements.”
Tommy nods. “That’s good. Wouldn’t want another situation like with that dickhead from Hazelbrough.”
And just as Wilbur had said, snagging a gig was a cakewalk. It's quite early on into the night as well, considering he applied so late.
They filter inside, sitting in the comfiest-looking, available seats. They weren’t comfortable at all despite that, and Tommy could already predict the numbness at the back of his spine hours into the night. He orders two mugs of beer to fight that inevitable ache.
Wilbur gets on stage thirteen performances later. At the center is a dingy stool, seeming about to collapse any moment, but he seats gracefully (or graceful as could be, almost falling off the stool with it tilting unexpectedly). He turns his strap and pulls the lute to his lap. He scans the audience, most of the patrons busy chattering and drunkenly laughing away to notice him at all. Tommy takes a sip from his tankard and smiles. That’s about to change soon.
Tommy describes it as the flames of a candle burning out before reigniting to a stronger flame. Wilbur takes a deep breath, the small flame, before his expression changes into something so unlike him yet everything he knows him to be, the stronger fire.
With his eyes closed and fingers confident, he strums the strings of his lute, mixing into the din of the tavern. Then, he plays the starting chord, humming along already.
The melody catches the attention of several audience members, turning away from their conversations to watch the bard on stage.
“Once there was a boy of odd mark, in a seaside town that savaged strange kinks.”
Tommy tilts his head in wonder. He sloshes the beer in his mug. For all the songs he’s heard Wilbur perform, he’s yet to hear this one. Is it a new song perhaps? Or an especially old one he wanted to revive?
Wilbur sings, breathy and mellow, as he always does, “Loathed was he, subject of snark,”—he leans forward, feeling the melody—“for the strands of his locks were carnation pinks.”
Tommy’s breath gets caught in his throat. He coughs into his palm, beer spilling out of his tankard from the rapid movement.
The patrons don't pay him heed, too entranced by Wilbur's song.
"Reared only by his mother’s hand, lost he’d become when Death took her so. Hard did he cry since the earth’s reprimand, even the heavens were moved by his woe."
Once the coughing subsides, Tommy gapes at Wilbur, brows knitting together.
"For his thousandth tear, they intervened, 'Sweet, honest child,' the gods whispered."
Tommy screws his eyes shut. His grip on the tankard tightens. He tries to reign his composure back, but Wilbur's voice lilts too beautifully for the lyrics he's singing.
"'The overworld is unbecoming and demeaned. Your divinity is unworthy of such blister.'"
Tommy grits his teeth, breathing growing uneven. The wood of the handle splinters.
Oblivious, Wilbur strums his lute, fingers ever deft. "They promised him eternal beatitude, if he could complete ten simple tasks. 'Earn the nether's favor and the world's gratitude. You've the aether's blessing to unmask.'"
The handle breaks. The tankard falls from Tommy's hand and lands on the scraggy tabletop, it's crash an accompaniment to Wilbur's song, blending into the melody. The beer he'd yet to even drink spills all over the place—on the table, on his tunic, on the floor, on his lap.
"The first task was what one would deem—"
Tommy presses his hands against his ears, desperate to drown out the lyrics.
Drown out his song, drown out his voice.
Drown out the words, drown out the tune.
Drown out the ocean of white.
Drown out the color blooming like rose.
Drown him out.
Drown that bastard out.
But soon, his arm grew weary. He is not a close friend to exhaustion, but warding out his thoughts proved more arduous than the day's journey. His fingers cave ever so slightly, enough to expose the last lines of Wilbur's torturous song.
Even then, Tommy thought weakly, Wilbur's lute is as sweet as it always has been.
"Fate is a mistress loyal not even to deities, a ball of red string furling to unfurl."
His lips part, arms truly lowering then. That's right. Fate is a mistress loyal only to herself, unimpressed by shallow prayers and despondent cries of even the highest heavens.
"Such tragedy shall be met by fealties. Ode be to the god… "
Tommy's eyes widen, heart falling to his stomach. Tommy's breath hitches. His ribs constrict his heart, clamping, squeezing, wringing it dry. The world shatters, broken glass floating in the waves of the ocean.
"… betrayed by the world."
He slams his hands on the table, and only then did the patrons notice him. They turn their heads as Tommy turns his heels, storming out of the tavern, jaw set and fists balled.
Wilbur is jolted awake then. "Tommy?" he asks, though he knows he wouldn't answer him—couldn't. His voice is lost to the confused din of the tavern, and even if he could have been heard, Tommy is already out the door before he could finish uttering his name.
Wilbur takes a moment to glance at the crowd who returns their attention to him. He glances at his lute, at the stage, at the stool that gave under him even before the performance. He glances at the door, oak and ornate for a simple building, swinging to a close.
He stands.
Wilbur spares the audience with none of his usual ending remarks. He runs. He pulls on the strap around his torso, shifting the lute to his back.
He finds Tommy just outside the tavern. He's sprinting through the streets, devoid of notable life under the light of the moon. Midnight is the time of slumber, of peace and drifting dreams, but Wilbur still screams, "Tommy!"
But Tommy doesn't look back. He keeps sprinting.
Wilbur does his best to follow.
They reach the outskirts of town. There are young trees sprawling from the ground and growing in numbers as they encroach the forest. Still, Tommy doesn't stop, and instead runs faster.
Wilbur pants. How far is this bastard planning to run? They've been sprinting for more than a quarter of an hour. The forest is thick now, scraggly branches and twigs scratching Wilbur's arms. Still, he trudges on. He's never seen Tommy this upset; worry claws hungrily at his chest.
Tommy finally stops at the peak of a slope.
The slope forms a cliff overlooking Stonespire. From there, one could observe that the hulking mansion's roof is painted silver by moonlight, and that the surviving candlelight speckled throughout the town are like twinkling stars in the map of Stonespire's roads and houses—a night sky.
The wind brings the chill breeze of the night, raising the hairs underneath their clothes and settling on their bones. With it, it brings Wilbur's question. "Why did you run away?"
Tommy, uncharacteristically, remains silent. He only stares at the view from his vantage point up above. Somehow, though inexplicable, with his posture straight and eyes shuttered, Tommy belongs. Watching over from aloft.
Wilbur carries on, "Did you not like my song?"
Tommy's lips pull taut. After a tense second, he answers, voice small, "I didn't."
Wilbur blinks. He was mostly joking, but Tommy's answer was feeble, wavering. And though Wilbur has only been with Tommy for a short while and has yet to know all about him, he thinks Tommy couldn't be more honest if he tried.
Wilbur hadn't expected the candidness and laughs if only to diffuse his shock. "What did you not like about it?"
"A lot of it." Tommy's shoulder sag. "I didn't listen to most of it."
"If you didn't listen, how did you know you dislike it?"
Tommy shakes his head. "I didn't listen because I disliked it."
Wilbur hums. That's the first he's heard him say that. Tommy is always the first to gush about his songs, unfailing to ask him to sing every single day. He'd never told him that he disliked one this directly.
"Why? Was it from one of the lyrics? You have told me off multiple times before about their inaccuracy."
Tommy's jaw visibly sets. His fists quiver. Ah. Right on the money.
"This isn't the first time my lyrics were inaccurate, but you'd usually only berate me for five minutes before moving on." Wilbur tilts his head. "Why did you storm out?"
Tommy reaches out a hand aimed for Stonespire. He closes his fingers, catching the shape of the town in his hand. But that was only from his perspective, in Wilbur's, he was only seizing air. "Hah, how fitting." He retracts his hand, both Stonespire and the air slipping from his grasp. "... The subject of your song, who was it?"
"Hadn't I made it obvious?" Wilbur says, "The muse was Technoblade."
Even now, the name brought warmth to Tommy's heart.
It is quickly followed by all-consuming ice.
"That Technoblade. Do you know why he is dubbed the god of betrayal?"
"Because he was betrayed by the god he served under. Then, he usurped that god in vengeance."
"Wrong." Tommy turns and faces him. His expression is one Wilbur has yet to see donned so clearly on his face before, lips curled downward and eyes glazed with fog. "He is called the god of betrayal for he was a god who betrayed me."
The breath Wilbur intakes is sharp. "... He betrayed you?"
Tommy barks a laugh. There is no mirth in it, trembling in a sort of anguish. "He did. Quite harshly, too. He was my closest confidant, my closest friend." The last word strikes a chord in his chest. "At least, I thought he was."
"You were friends with Technoblade?" Wilbur whispers. It's so much like Tommy to drop the most shocking things to him unannounced. In fact, he had done it many times over. Wilbur can never get used to it, however frequent, and this particular admission shakes his heart more than ever.
"Not anymore." Tommy sighs. "If we ever were."
Technoblade is the name of a god everyone knows. One of the most prominent and worshipped gods of the main pantheon. He is known and exalted for many things—blood, war, revenge. Betrayal.
Just who was Tommy to be close friends with such a god? Although Tommy had admitted to being a deity, he had never told Wilbur his divine name.
Wilbur meets Tommy's gaze, and speaks his mind, "Just who are you, Tommy?" He tries to keep his voice steady, but he doubts he succeeded.
Tommy smiles, pained. "Isn't the answer already there?"
Wilbur's brows furrow. "To be betrayed by Technoblade, if myths hold true," Wilbur says, voice diminishing in volume as he thinks, "then you would have to be…"
"Then I would have to be the god he served under."
Wilbur draws a breath. "The god he—" His eyes grow wide, mouth parting. Technoblade served under a handful of gods, but only one whose name was ever mentioned in myths. "... Theseus?"
Tommy chuckles. His gaze is filled with unformed tears. "For how sharp you are, I expected you to find out sooner. You disappoint me, Wilbur."
Wilbur's chest tightens. He clutches the cloth above his heart, beating faster than the galloping of horses.
Theseus. The penultimate God of Gods and Ruler of Heaven. After arrogating the previous God of Gods, Dream, he took control of the throne and completely reformed the heaven's system. But Theseus only appeared briefly in the mythos, disappearing as quick as he came, like billowing smoke. Then the coming mentions of his name were few and far between, but they all shared a common theme:
They were all a mockery of his rule.
Theseus, the God without Face, the embarrassment of the heavens. The same god smiles upon him. "Close your mouth, why don't you? You look stupid. You'll catch a fly."
Wilbur flounders. "Theseu—the Theseus?"
"The one and only."
Forgive Wilbur for having such a hard time comprehending this fact. When the former big daddy of gods stood two feet from you with threadbare clothes and a mortal form one could label peasantry, you'd reel from the shock, too.
He holds his cheeks in the cups of his hands. His cheeks are cold to the touch, a product of the chilly gale. The warmth of his palms anchors him. "To think that all this time, I've been talking to such an important god…"
Tommy's smile falters. "I'm only god by title. I might as well be as powerful as a third-rate shaman. I'm no longer the 'almighty' deity I was back then." His smile completely falls. "I was never almighty in the first place."
"Just how did you lose your power to begin with? You say you weren't almighty, but the Ruler of Heaven doesn't just fall so easily."
Tommy laughs. The tips of his ears are red—why? From the cold? From embarrassment? From shame? Perhaps all of them at once. Every emotion, incomprehensible and overwhelming, stirs in his veins like a tempest, seizing his heart and clogging his throat.
"You don't know what you're talking about. Gods are only as strong as their will. All it took was one ambush, one moment of vulnerability…" Tommy's lips tremble. His nails dig into his palm, forming crescent indents in the skin, red and ruddy. "Technoblade, that pig bastard. He was the only one I had left. All the gods hated me. They all wanted me gone. Even Tubbo turned his back on me. But Techno… he—he stayed. Techno stayed. He settled a hand on my back and told me I'd be fine. He carried me through hardship and acted as my shield. Gave me false hope."
Tommy slams his forehead with his palm. "I asked him for help! I did. When—when all those gods backstabbed me and tried to drain my power away, I begged Techno to help me." He grips the threads of his hair, pulling, pulling, pulling, just barely off of tearing them off. "I was powerful, you know? I was. I could've blown all those traitorous gods away with one breath, but even when I asked Techno for help, he…"
Tommy's grip goes limp. His hand drops. "He didn't help me." He blinks, once, twice, several million times, as if he could see something ingrained behind his eyelids. "He only stood. He only stood behind all the white magic that drained my powers. I begged him for help, shouted, screamed. I was on my knees. I was desperate. But instead of me, he helped those gods instead. He—Technoblade chose to help them."
The light in Tommy's eyes is a fire that burns everlasting, flames of different colors and strengths, but each and every fire dancing in harmony. Now, his gaze held none of that usual light, none of that fire. A deep pool of abyss, an endless black pierced with a frigid blue. Even the moonlight can't reach the bottom of its depths, lost to the darkness.
An itch settles on Wilbur's hand, quickly growing to his wrist and to his elbows, to his arm and to his entire being.
Tommy looks so lonely, overseeing Stonespire by himself.
"And that's when I realized no one had my back. Not Phil, not Tubbo. Not Technoblade."
Wilbur takes a step forward.
"And even when I could've slaughtered the entirety of heaven, I lost all meaning. I lost—I lost it all. What would be the point?"
The grass crunches beneath his weight. The wind guides him forward. The leaves rustle, and his arms unwind.
"What was there to gain? New gods would naturally be born, but won't they betray me as well? Everybody hated me. They'll come to naturally hate me, too."
Wilbur hugs Tommy, soft and loose and firm. He closes the distance between them, placing a hand behind Tommy's head, gently coaxing him to lay on his shoulder. Tommy is wetted clay. He complies so easily, shutting his eyes.
"And so I lost my powers. They took everything from me. I no longer had the right to tread the heavens, so even the clouds outcasted me." Tommy lifts his own arms and wraps it around Wilbur's torso. He clutches Wilbur's tunic, scratching the cloth. "I fell. I fell so fucking hard. It hurts. Do you know how much it hurts when you fall from that height? I already had this fragile body in my descent. Every muscle tore and every bone broke. I pierced an eye and twisted all my limbs. Nobody came to help me. It took me half a year to recover enough to crawl."
Tommy pulls Wilbur closer, hugging him tighter, face fully buried in his shirt. And though it's come to hurt, his fingernails digging into his skin, Wilbur merely lays his chin on Tommy's head.
"Now look at me. I've been stuck here with this mortal body far longer than I've been a god. Those who promised to stay by my side casted me away from the home I made for them." Tommy through gritted teeth, says, "I'm fucking pathetic, huh?"
Wilbur shakes his head. "You aren't pathetic."
Tommy's voice is muffled by his tunic. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You're lying."
"I'm not." Wilbur drags his hand to the top of Tommy's head. He pulls it down, feeling each strand of hair, soft somehow despite the two weeks they've spent neglecting bathing. He repeats the action, up and down, up and down, gentle as can be, if only to convey how precious Tommy is to him. Drill it into his skull with light pats and honest words.
"Tommy, do you know how long I've been wandering the world? Two dozen years might be an ant's lifetime for an immortal god like you, but it's all I've ever known. Twenty years, all of it lived for the moment, lived for myself. I left home when I was four, and I've been traveling since then. I picked up a lute and learned every song I could before I started writing my own. I met all kinds of people and all kinds of beasts. I tasted every kind of dish and every local booze. I inflicted all kinds of injury and nursed the most painful of wounds.
"I saw every sight to see. From the most blissful memories to the most agonizing tragedies." In one second, they all come flashing through his mind—colorful bunting and a cheery campfire, a decrepit cobblestone watchtower and a mound of broken crossbows, a shattered glass vase and spilled tulips. "But, though I've come to see so many things and so many people, it took me twenty years to meet the most wonderful person I know."
Tommy sniffles. "That pink-haired girl from Hedgesmouth?"
"No." Wilbur chuckles. He fixes the soles of his feet on the dirt, steadying his stance. Then, he lifts Tommy up and spins him around. "It's the blond idiot I'm holding right now."
Tommy yelps, taken aback, but after being settled down, takes his revenge and lifts Wilbur up, too, spinning even faster. Wilbur laughs, enjoys the whip of the wind and the blurry lights of Stonespire.
"Tommy, I don't know much about you. You tell me the most dazzling stories and the most captivating legends, but you never tell me about yourself. So I don't know all the details of what had happened, but that doesn't matter." Wilbur has Tommy beat on height. With one struggle, his feet are back on the ground. He doesn't let go, however, keeps holding him close. "This person in my arms right here, right now is the most amazing person I've ever had the pleasure to meet. You're kind to animals, and you're kind to plants. You're stubborn and reckless, but only because you're courageous and reliable. You're sympathetic and compassionate to a fault. You can't sit still when others are in need." Wilbur digs the knuckle of his two fingers into Tommy's scalp. "And you just can't help dragging me into your charity deeds, huh?"
Tommy laughs, swatting Wilbur's hand away. It's the first of the past few that sounded genuine. "Shut up. I know you don't mind it. You boast so much about our acts afterwards."
"I do it only because you do most of the jobs. You're boast-worthy."
Tommy snorts. "Oh, so is that why you made a ballad about 'the great Wilbur's achievements and kind-heartedness?'"
"Of course." Wilbur pinches Tommy's cheek. Tommy is grinning like a fool, but Wilbur has no doubts he was doing the same thing. "Gods, Tommy, you are a menace and a blessing. You never fail to make me smile and all the others around you. You're not pathetic. Far from it. You're incredible." Wilbur taps his forehead. "Just a little dim-witted sometimes."
Tommy rolls his eyes half-heartedly. "You say that, but weren't you the one who confused taike for gorold mushrooms?"
"I never said I'm not a little stupid myself."
Tommy cocks a brow. "A little?"
Wilbur sighs and raises a white flag. "Fine. I'm a big, dumb idiot. I'll let you have that since you're crying so much."
Tommy sputters. "I'm not crying!"
"Then what's that in your eye?" Wilbur wipes the tear tracks mudding Tommy's cheeks with the back of his finger.
"These are your tears, idiot! Disgusting, by the way. They're spilling all over my face."
Wilbur pauses. His tears? He raises a hand and touches his face. It's cold, even colder than before, like the frozen surface of a winter lake. Ah. So he was crying. He hadn't even noticed.
Tommy says, "Why are you the one crying anyway? Shouldn't I be the one sobbing my heart out here? Especially with that song you sang. You're cruel, you know, singing so highly about that pig bastard."
"That song…" Wilbur had forgotten the reason why they're here in the first place. Already, it feels like an eternity ago, especially with all these mind-numbing revelations. Tommy tends to do that. He's timeless, never slowing down, and Wilbur has the hardest but most thrilling time trying to catch up. "Can you tell me about what truly happened then? This is the first song of mine you actively dislike. Tell me how you want me to change it. I'll rewrite the entirety of the lyrics if I have to."
"As you should." Tommy takes a breath and slumps onto Wilbur. This time, he was truly wetted clay, putty in Wilbur's grasp. "You need to change every positive connotation into a negative one." Songs of Technoblade that are of praise are an automatic zero stars in his review.
Wilbur huffs in amusement. "An unbiased retelling as much as possible, please."
"Fine." Tommy grunts in protest but nods all the same. "It's a long story, though. And I mean a long one."
Wilbur skips not one beat. "We have all the time in the world."