Chapter Text
Lamentation brought a bittersweet taste to Dream’s mouth, his eyes rested upon the worn away path. However it wasn’t necessarily a path, but it had been walked up and down so many times that a lighter imprint in the grass had formed. The morning glories had learned to avoid the path, adapting to the repetitive journey of the pale brunette boy that now rested in the god’s arms, holding on. George used these few brief moments of awareness to silently rest his head against dream’s chest. It was a soft, delicate move made by George which caused Dream to feel a burning sensation in his throat as he withheld the urge to mourn. From the sky descended slow, warm droplets that struck Dream’s body. Not the type of warmth to cause intentional harm, but to embrace the figure walking.
But the sky had never been clearer that day.
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Rain battered upon the juror and executioner, Wilbur Soot, as he stood on the podium above the three war criminals found guilty that day. Thunder shook the ground with a low violent grumble as the wind whistled. Techno attempted to fiddle with the taut rope binding his wrists together, all while his eyes burned through the passionate persecutor standing above the three. His long hair had loosened from the struggle he had attempted to put up in the beginning, half of the drenched pink hair now cascading over his eyes and obstructing his vision. A loose ponytail hung over his shoulder. Wilbur stood, tall and prideful as the axe rested against the podium.
“Technoblade, who speaks on behalf of the Empire. The jury have concluded that on the 29th of November, here at The Saint-Malo Trial, the Antarctic Empire is to be disbanded and the lands it once possessed will be shared among the rightful owners,” Wilbur stated, a tone in his voice which could make the sweetest of honeys spoil. To which a laugh escaped from Techno’s lips, a sudden burst of amusement that led to Wilbur being forced to conceal his surprise. He continued, recovering quickly from the shock, “The jury have acknowledged Arlus Finch’s participation in the war crimes committed by the Empire and have agreed to detach him from any penalisation due to the belief that he was a victim of manipulation at the hands of The Antarctic Empire’s leader, Technoblade.”
A laugh erupted from one of the guilty parties, this time not belonging to Techno, but to the blonde haired male by his side, Phil. He was quick to hush himself, but Techno answered back to Wilbur once the silence had lingered for too long, “He agreed to surrendering Iceland and disbanding the Transatlantic faction when joining the Empire!” His words were brash and to the point, much to Wilbur’s disliking.
“On behalf of the jury, I would like to say that the juror’s decision is final and Arlus shall be removed from any responsibility,” Wilbur asserted, eyeing the fair haired man beside Techno’s side. “Your acolyte Phil however-”
Techno’s response was harsh, cutting into his persecutor like a newly sharpened blade, “He’s much more than that.” The rudeness and clear fondness over Phil that techno portrayed led to Wilbur cocking his brow. He masked his thoughts and feelings well, like a skilled poker player, wasting time glancing between the two. The water clung to his clothes and hair as the wind and rain continued to attempt to knock him down, just like his pride. Wilbur would not budge.
The jury was fairly quiet, apart from the small hesitant noises of the boy who was debating whether to come forth or not. Down a few seats from him sat a man with a black robe, golden trimmings lining the edges in order to hide and protect the delicate, intricate stitching underneath. A rich emerald green shawl hung over his shoulders, one side folding over the left shoulder to create the appearance of a silk scarf that had been carelessly thrown over the shoulder. However, the green fabric was an intentional part to the outfit and further helped the unfamiliar character become shrouded in mystery. A large hood further concealed the identity of the figure. Tommy’s leg bounced up and down, apprehensive at the jury’s decision. Every few minutes he would take small moments to glance at the figure a few seats across, attempting to learn any new information.
The blonde boy fiddled with the damaged patch on his pilot jacket, it had not ripped off entirely but was only supported by three or four weak stitches. It was a fairly basic design, but designing was never his forte, after all. It consisted of basic shapes to resemble a suit and tie, despite it being a flag of the Business Bay Faction. Found to be located within the South Eastern region of Russia. He ran his fingers along the lining of the jacket inside as he watched on. His jacket was adorned with patches which he had collected over the years of his childhood and adolescence. Tommy could be questioned about each patch and he would be able to describe fully in depth the story behind them. They were the most important things he had ever possessed. That’s why it hurt during the altercation with Phil where The Bay patch had been damaged.
Dream was bored. He had heard the persecutor and men on trial bicker back and forth, no matter how much Wilbur had insisted his word (speaking ‘on behalf of the jury’ that is) was the be all and end all. Phil and Techno continued to prod at the man’s fragile temper, attempting to crack him. Wilbur remained resilient and did not give in, however. He looked toward the quietest member of the Empire, Pete. He was cunning, strong-willed, and as wise as he appeared. The silver in his hair showed how much more experienced he was in the world. Wilbur was not certain whether or not Pete had been an experienced war criminal before his participation in the Antarctic Empire’s world domination. Wilbur couldn’t decipher him, unable to pick his brain apart, unable to see the inner machinations and workings of the older man’s mind.
But alas, Dream was bored.
Tommy prepared to bounce to his feet, opening his mouth, “Wilb-” His hand remained lingering within the inside of his pilot jacket, preparing to remove something from it. However he was hushed, Wilbur not even taking his eyes off of the criminals.
“Not now, Tommy,” the juror spoke, raising one hand to silence the boy. Then, despite the vicious lashing of rain, Wilbur removed his glasses and used the cloth of his dampened shirt to wipe off the thick droplets of water off of the lenses. A vain attempt to be able to properly see again.
Tommy sat back down with a small huff, followed by a saddened sigh. His hand slowly left the inside of his warm, insulated jacket. He crossed his arms and slumped his posture in dejection. Which caused Dream to look over in his direction in wonder, intrigued by the golden haired boy’s actions. Tommy went back to fiddling with the partially torn off Bay patch mindlessly.
Techno’s shirt was sodden and sticking to his skin, creating a miserable, suffocating sensation. His ice blue cloak lined with a heavy thick white fur had been thrown off when he and his men were apprehended at the border of Belgium, during the struggle to escape. Not too long after the war criminals were transported to the north of France in Saint Malo to face trial and prosecution. Techno was a curious case to the other men, as it had been a wonder how he had not frozen to death in the piercing cold rain and lack of layers that weren’t there to protect his skin. Whereas the spectators shivered from the cold, Techno sat unaffected. Some had speculated that he was too cold-hearted and unforgiving to be at all phased by the weather. This would have been true.. Before he had met Phil. Somehow Phil had managed to thaw his way through to the centre of the god’s icy heart and find a special place within it. Techno would be willing to follow Phil to the end of the world, stopping at nothing in order to protect the blonde man.
Philza was a threat.
And for the greater good of the world, that threat needed to be eliminated.
Rain battered upon the juror and executioner, Wilbur Soot. The weapon threatened to slip from his hands due to the wetness of the handle. After getting a good grip, he removed one hand from the handle and, with incredible dexterity, cut through the air in one fell swoop. He didn’t appear to be at first glance, but he was very skilled with a weapon. His weaponry skills were as sharp as his wit, and so was the blade that had sliced from the top of Phil’s throat down diagonally and down across his chest. Phil was still, blood seeping out of the large laceration like it had been beckoning for freedom for centuries, gargling out the red, sticky substance that was all too familiar to Techno. Philza’s skin turned pale suddenly and his body shook violently from shock. A sick, thick, crimson liquid oozing out of his lips and wounds. It wasn’t long before the blonde man fell to his side, unmoving, any sign of shaking or convulsions were not present. His eyes remained open, but the slightly cloudy, sky blue eyes were draining of colour as any form of life dissipated.
Techno’s head shot to his right hand man, eye’s widening as he let out an ear-splitting scream, seeing the severity of the injuries made his stomach flip. The god had never felt like this before, he felt sick to his stomach. The onset of grief rising to the back of his throat in the form of sudden dehydration. The prosecutor stood silently and apathetically. It didn’t take long for him to raise the axe a second time, swinging the axe in a horizontal direction so that the sharp edge buried itself into the skull of the wise, old man, Pete. Unlike the clean cut Wilbur had made on the other man who fell victim to his axe, the axe didn’t smoothly exit the side of the second man’s head. It wedged itself in his skull, and Wilbur had to use the muddy boot he was wearing to put weight on the silver haired criminal’s chest and push him back in order to dislodge it. Thankfully, Pete wasn’t in pain as the blow to the side of his head had killed him instantly.
The sky had begun to pour buckets of water, the thunder had returned with its new associate, lightning. The sky crackled like a distant whip from the lightning. The crowd of witnesses sat in stunned silence, both repulsed and betrayed by the actions of Wilbur Soot. The jury had not agreed upon this fate for the two criminals. Within the crowd sat a boy who had matured too quickly. Wilbur used the bloody weapon to gently lift Techno’s head, the sharp blade sat against his throat. However it was held in a way that showed that Wilbur had no intention of harming him. He had already hurt him enough. Techno tried to look at Phil, but the risk of losing his own life was too high to focus upon his bleeding friend. “Technoblade,” Wilbur calmly and coldly began, “You are hereby exiled to the Antarctic for an indefinite period of time. Any attempt to escape your sentence will result in your death. You will be placed in a holding cell until the weather conditions improve and from then you will be transported back to the Antarctic.” He casted the axe to the ground and began to walk away from the trial.
“Court is adjourned.”
The self appointed judge was playing God.