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Chapter Text

Nobody knew if the rumors were true, of the man who could take down entire nations with nothing more than a wave of his sword. Many didn't believe them until they had witnessed his destruction firsthand, until their kingdom was destroyed and they were at the mercy of the bloodthirsty killer himself. 

Not even he knew for certain whether the rumors were true, whether his frenzies of destruction were even within his control. His sharp ears would often hear the hushed whispers of people telling his story by a glowing campfire, oblivious to the fact that their beloved country would be the next to fall. Through the endless chanting in his ears, he always felt a little twinge of pain in his heart, a fragment of guilt through the chaos that he was causing. 

The campfire tonight sits in the bottom of a valley, light smoke billowing from the lighter flame. Shadows are cast onto unknowing faces as they whisper tales around the light of the fire. In the early night, while the sun is still fighting to stay above the horizon, the stories are light. The children are still awake, and their mothers are burdened with the responsibility of caring them through night terrors, so innocent tongues sing innocent stories for their innocent ears to hear. He doesn't hear his name mentioned in these tales, he never does this early in the evening. The stories of him only swallow the late hours of dark nights as the fire begins to dwindle and fear creeps into the hearts of the strongest. 

He almost wishes that one of his stories would be heard by young ears, that there was a single fable about him soft enough to be told to the little boys and girls. Not tonight, though. Tonight the hunger rages inside him again, and whispers from the outside give way to the screaming in his head, commanding him to destroy everything that these innocent people had created, urging him to stain the snow with the crimson despair of those poor little boys and girls, promising him that these people wouldn't live to see the sun fight it's way back into the sky.

The familiar pang of guilt stings his soul, almost enough to make him wince. His face stays stone-cold, though. He's better than this pathetic mortal emotion, and he fights it away. Instead he focuses his attention to the stories told, sitting silently as a pretty woman tells chronicles of adventure to entranced youth, her voice nearly inaudible over the deafening sounds of the screaming inside of him.

The sun loses it's battle to the darkening sky, weeping  the last of it's light into the air before it vanishes entirely. Darkness gradually washes over the land, broken only by the dim light of dying flames. The children are long asleep, and voices are hushed impossibly more as tales become more grim.

Another woman is telling this story, skin pale and green eyes glinting with youth and fire. She looks barely old enough to be of age, yet her eyes darken just the same as the familiar story is told. "They call him The Blade, a merciless man known to take down the most powerful kingdoms in the blink of an eye. No one is safe, and every nation will have to fall before him eventually. Some say he wears a mask, reaped from the country of nether-hunters that fell up north a few moons ago. They say his face is too littered with scars to even be recognized as human, and that's why he wears the Piglin mask."

Well that's a bit of an exaggeration.

The furious cries pound into his skull, their patience dwindling. They demand blood, but he isn't ready yet. This young woman had captured his attention, enthralling him in the story that he already knew the ending to. She has quite the gift for storytelling, stretching the truth just enough for it to be believable, and snatching the awe from her audience. It impresses him, and he might as well let her finish before she meets her fate.

"There's no way to escape his sword. If you come within eyesight of The Blade, you might as well make your final prayers to the saints above, as you are not making it out alive." The woman's delight is clear on her face, staining her eyes feral as she continues. "They say the tip of his sword is forged in lava, gleaming with magic from the scribes of the east. Death will come quickly to anyone who dares to look into his eyes. There's not a single feeling in those blood-red eyes of his, not the smallest fragment of remorse or sympathy as he murders you and everyone you know. Nothing fuels him other than his lust for blood."

Another sting in his heart causes a little twitch in his ears, though they are still hidden under his cloak. The screams in his mind don't like this, outraged in his tiny display of emotion. He tries to reason with them, to convince them to wait just a few more heartbeats before he lets himself go. But their shouts and screeches don't relent, so he shuts them out, as he trained himself to do after many centuries of deafening wails and blood-stained hands.

"His skin is paler than the snow that litters the ground in the cold moons of the winter. His hair is pink, dyed by the blood of his younger victims. He wears it long, reaching past his waist to mock us with his victories, with the blood he's spilled over many decades. And even in battle, he wears a golden crown atop his head, flaunting his victories and treating himself like a king."

He doesn't treat himself like a king. Kings are selfish bastards who let their subjects die under their rule without care, then bring them together only to exploit them and benefit from the misery of those they should be caring for. He would never compare himself to one of them, no matter what terrible sins he is pushed to commit.

"You never know when he's coming. It could be many seasons from now, it could be only tomorrow. The only thing known is that some day, our land will fall to him as well, and nobody living will stand a chance." Her voice wavers out, concluding the simple tale. Her face still shines with glee as wide eyes dart nervously around the space, unsettled by the story. He smirks at this, the simple gesture twirling up his skin in a mixture of pride and anticipation. The screaming was silent now, every voice inside of him holding its breath as they waited for his first move. 

It takes not even a tug at his cloak for it to fall, revealing the nearly incandescent blade of a newly sharpened sword. The slaughter had begun.

He moves with lithe precision, vanishing into the harshly-cast shadows with practiced agility after three clean kills. Some carmine blood spatters into the fire, erupting into the flame briefly before boiling in the heat. He kills a few more, satisfied by the strangled cries that echo through the valley.

.The village is awake now, youth sobbing in fear as their mothers huddle around them protectively. It's a little pathetic, really, how they think they can protect their children against the ruthless beast before them. It almost makes him want to laugh, but he has a task to finish. 

More die, falling to the ground and painting the young grass crimson. The fire is long abandoned, left to choke on cold air as the wood burns through. Only small embers are left now, much similar to the state of the  village. Not many people remain, cowering in the corners of their homes and frantically murmuring barely audible prayers to those above. He finds it beautiful, how little effort it takes to bring the walls of the prosperous town crumbling into the bloody dirt. The young storyteller is the last to leave, glaring up at him with fight in her eyes even with the sword buried into her abdomen. She doesn't give up easily, battling the heavy feeling of her eyelids falling shut. She was wild; She was strong.

He stands in the ruins of the town, gazing at the now  deceased flame of the campfire. The damned guilt pricks at him again, and he allows a soft sigh to leave his lips. The voices are quiet, satisfied at the adequate terror that he caused. They praise him softly, their invisible words only doing more to grow the spark of remorse that he tried to fight away. 

With nothing more than a scrunch of the nose, The Blade tucks his sword into its sheath and flips the long braid of pink hair behind his back, feet moving on their own accord to his next location as the sun forces itself back into the sky in the beginnings of yet another day.

Chapter Text

Much less people believe the legends of Philza, the man who can cut the fragile strings of life with nothing but the whispers of his own tongue. They say he's survived for thousands of years, his soul tied with the love of Death herself, but cursed with the truth that his immortality separates them forever. They say he stood and watched as the first civilization came to life, silently bringing those of age or weakness to their end. He was much more subtle than the Blade, his only weapon the sharpness of his tongue. He uttered words below his breath, only to be heard by the next victims. It was all as it should be, though, as death gave way to new life. He was the one to bring the balance, committing his endless years of existence to easing more and more blessed people to the love of his wife. He's not like the Blade, the angel of death more a god of peace than of war. He preferred to silently observe, to stalk alone and bring quiet and comfortable deaths. He wasn't brutal, he was kind.

The angel watches yet another village fall victim to the brutality of the Blade, watched as the essence of their pain splattered his pale pink hair slightly darker. The legends were true about the Blade, he did always wear a gleaming crown atop the braid. He wonders how the Blade's crown even stays on his head, the darts of movement from the man more than enough to jostle the crown off of it's palace of pink. He doesn't voice his wonderings, though. He sits from afar and watches with a heavy heart as more are dragged reluctantly to face the ethereal face of Death herself. 

This is a hellish world, he thinks, a merciless place to live for even a few decades. Only he was cursed enough to keep himself here for eternity, never able to find the peace of the heavens, and he wouldn't wish this ghastly fate on any living soul. 

The pitiful village of western farmers falls quickly, not lasting nearly as long as some of the Blade's other attacks. They fight their hardest, but they aren't gifted magic or nether-forged tools and potions or near-indestructible redstone fortresses. They are much weaker than many nations that have fallen to their knees at the mercy of the Blade, much simpler in their short lives. A young woman is the last to fall in the village, feeble campfire reflecting the flame of pride in her eyes before they dull and go glassy. The angel smiles softly from his distance as her head nods off and her toned body falls limp. She had fought so hard to stay in this world, her pride glowing even through her final heartbeats, but little did she know the everlasting bliss that was waiting for her on the other side. He feels happy for all that are taken out of this world, meeting the grace of his wife and seeing the clarity of the end. 

The Blade turns and readjusts his crown, flipping the long braid of hair over his shoulder before beginning a journey South. The angel is almost spotted, and he ducks quietly behind a slender bush. The entire world is silent, a soundless tribute to those who so bravely fought to stay inside this cruel world. It isn't tense, it's relieving. 

The Blade sighs, loud enough to be heard by the Angel of Death even from countless footsteps away. He sounds almost sad, almost remorseful, before he twitches his ears and raises his chin, marching proudly into the new dawn.

The Angel wonders what went on in his head in that single moment of hesitation. Does he regret his killings? Is he proud of himself? Was there someone that he knew in that town? The Angel, again, kept his questions to himself, preferring to observe and pick apart the character of everyone instead of asking them outright. 

Obsidian wings spread as the Blade is long gone, their midnight tips swallowing all light into their inky darkness. Their color is almost unsettling, but something about them brings the heavy weight of comfort. The angel watches the way they move, how the wind catches between the feathers and nearly gives him goosebumps. It's freeing, having something that separates him from the living, something that lets him know that he's not human. He's still mourning his eternal life here; it's not something that seems to cease, but it's numbed slightly by his adrenaline as he takes flight. 

The deafening roar of the wind in his ears is far too quiet as he flies to the little shelter he calls home, not nearly enough to drown out his thoughts. He wonders if The Blade will ever meet fate and find himself face to face with death. His immortality, unlike the Angel's, was rather a blessing, a relief from the fear that death had brought him. He wasn't cursed, he got to be happy. And one day, when he's ready, the world will smile down upon him and grant the Blade with death.

The angel almost wishes the brutal man was cursed; Maybe if he were cursed with immortality, the angel would have a friend. Some time, whether it be mere days or hundreds of millennia from now, maybe they'd meet properly, and he'd have someone with him until the end of time.

The almost-wishes die on his tongue. He would never wish a fate like this on anyone. There is nothing worse than the knowledge that you will never find the peace, the tranquility that pure nothing can provide. He almost wants someone else with him, but he's not quite selfish enough to fully desire it.

The night falls before the angel even blinks. He finds that time seems to do that a lot, after existing for longer than the earth itself. The only remains of the sun's grace were the somber twinkles of her kin, spatters of timid white freckles that weep feeble light into the sky, trying in vain to mimic even a shadow of her glow.

Night was good too, though; night was peaceful.

The angel's nest greets him with warm comfort, embracing him with the isolation that he'd been forced to love after tens of thousands of years. He sits high in the tree, wings splayed out in all of their obsidian magesty. Cerulean irises wail wordlessly into the shallow light of the moon, pleading for the day that he didn't have to be alone in this world.

Lips fall open, barely a whisper of sound ringing out into the cold air as his voice dances out. Song flees from his soul, tone beautiful and comforting and washing the world with a chill that was unmistakably death. It doesn't bring unease, however. The tune worries it's way under the skin of every creature in the hooded forest, relaxing the world and bringing happiness to even the most dismal beings. 

The world falls asleep, and the angel is once again left completely abandoned until morning.

Chapter Text

The legends of Dream, however, are the most well known. Some called him 'God' or 'The God' or 'Our God,' but no one ever dared utter his name. They almost saw it as taboo, feared that if the word fell from their mortal lips, then they too would fall victim to his wrath.

He was perhaps more brutal than even the Blade. There was seemingly no justification for his actions, no voices screaming in his head for him to kill, no love that he knew he could never meet. Many saw him as a heartless, cruel monster. But alas, there are two sides to every story, right? 

Dream sits in his temple, the marble palace chiseled by shaking hands and fear-stricken faces feigning adoration. He had never asked them to do this for him, never ordered them. They crafted this by hand out of fear of what he would do to them if they hadn't. He had never planned on doing anything to them, he never even wanted this monument in the first place. But insistent hands still carved away at the stone for years with chisels and hammers and cold, pounding hearts.

He sits at his altar, gazing at the lazy moonlight through the windows of the marble shrine, as he often found himself doing. He wonders how the mortals of this world see the night. It is dark and mysterious and unknown, just like him. Do they see the night in the same way that they see him? Are they scared of it, too?

Dream isn't scared of the night, or of the dark, or of the moon or the stars. He finds it beautiful. He envies the artists in the heavens for their skill, every night painting the sky with it's beauty. Or maybe he doesn't. Maybe he pities them. All of that work to make the stars shine with blissful light, only for the humans to turn away and sleep through it, ignoring their beauty and waiting impatiently for the sky to brighten. 

A clear song whistles through the air, cold and refreshing as a gust of breeze on a hot summer's day. It calmed his nerves, flowing through his veins and making his blood feel like lead. He wanted to sleep. He wishes he could. But that was one thing that the God never got to experience. One thing that he would forever envy mortals for. 

Sometimes, he can lay down, closing his eyes and pretending to drift off into the hazy nothingness. But he was still there, still awake and experiencing everything that reality is willing to give him. He wonders if sleep feels similar to death, just a blissful nothing. He wonders if mortals feel refreshed by the embrace of death, whether once they reach that point in their lives, they look forward to death as they would the comfort of their warm bed after a long day. 

The angel of death still sings, even once the moon reaches the peak of her perch in the sky and the entire world seems to be asleep. Except for Dream, at least. The angel of death doesn't seem to be sleeping either, Dream thinks. Dream wonders if he can, if the angel is at least graced with the blessing of a break from consciousness, or if he too is cursed by its permanence.

Dream remembers the face of an old friend, one who he had known for years, one of the only who had dared even speak to him. This man would sleep a lot. He would wake and tell Dream about the wonderful images and scenes his mind had conjured in his unconsciousness, only to sleep again and repeat the process the very next day. Dream often wonders what it's like, to see things while in your sleep. The man had only ever told him about the beautiful things that he had seen, but Dream knew of darker things. He had watched the man in his sleep occassionally, seen him kick and thrash and mumble near silent prayers in a panic, only to wake and pretend like everything was fine. Did those who sleep see bad things too? Does Dream pity them for this? He might, but his jealousy of the blessing that is sleep far outweighs even the possibility of sympathy for their nightmares. Nightmares happened during the day too, after all.

The night creeps by agonizingly slow, as Dream often finds it does. Philza's song never falters, whistling strongly through the air until the first feeble rays of sun reach into the horizon. Only then does it stop, leaving behind nothing but a memory of his songs  beauty in its wake. Now birds whistle into the cold morning air, striving to get the first morsels of food before it is taken by another, all in a desperate desire to survive. Dream thinks it's stupid, almost comic, the way those birds fight for even the smallest scrap of worm. Anything to survive.

People begin trickling into the temple, kneeling before Dream and whispering prayers that he didn't care to listen to. Another hour, another terrified frenzy of apologies for sins and prayers for life.

Dream wishes this wasn't how his life went. He wonders what he ever did to deserve all of this. He never wanted this from people, and if he was being completely honest with himself, with every new person who came in begging for his forgiveness was another twisted fantasy of snapping their neck just to make this torture end. He doesn't actually want to, and he knows that he probably wouldn't, but the idea is oh so enticing. Sometimes, he doesn't fantasize about killing just one, but all of them, completely wiping out the human race just so that he wouldn't have to endure their antics for another damned minute. He doesn't let himself dwell on these guilty desires for too long, though, afraid that if he thinks too hard about it, that his fantasies would project into reality, and all of these innocent people would die by the hand of nothing but his own mind.

Maybe it's for the better, he thinks. Maybe he shouldn't be able to sleep. Whatever that sleepy friend had sometimes seen in his sleep could not have been pleasant, and he didn't seem to have any control over it. If Dream could see those things in his mind, who knows what his brain could project, and who knows how many people could get hurt.

Even then, it pains Dream, the fact that he will never know the comfort of sleep. He's seen his friend rise after a long night, content and rested and seemingly more energetic than Dream could ever manage to be. He wonders if that's because of the sleep, the new mindset that he would always wake with. He wonders if sleep is what gave him the will to get up. It hurts not to experience that, Dream thinks.

He remembers the old friend, remembers holding him in his arms, sobbing into his shirt as he just wouldn't wake up. He remembers all that led up to it, everything that happened before it. He was admiring the sleeping man, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, hearing his soft huffs of breath. He wished he would watch him like this forever, that he could see his best friend sleeping for all eternity. He wished that his best friend never had to wake up to this cruel world, that he could stay asleep forever and shield himself from this reality.

That was all it took for the steady rise and fall of his friend's chest to cease. 

Dream didn't realize he was crying until a warm silver droplet had fallen into his hands, glistening with the grief of his best friend, which he had killed with nothing more than his own thoughts. The grief of the fact that he was feared because of it. The grief that he would never know the comfort and bliss of sleep that his best friend had welcomed so easily every night. Instead of having to stay awake every damned night and listen to the silence, feeling alone and heavy and tired with no way to fix it, only to get up the next morning feeling even more tired, and somehow even more alone as the crowds of people came into his temple to pray for him out of fear

Maybe it was best he didn't sleep, though.

Chapter Text

It is exactly three months more before The Blade and the Angel of Death finally meet.

The Blade just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, choosing a sturdy kingdom far North for his next slaughter only to find the angel bringing a sleeping man into the afterlife. Or perhaps it wasn't the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe it just happened to be the right place, the right time, for their eyes to meet, for Technoblade's eyes to twitch slightly in confusion at the sight in front of him before regaining his composure. And then with nothing except a small, sad nod, the angel took off, leaving the blade to wreak his havoc on the kingdom.

The image that he saw had unsettled him, had made that damned guilt come back to snag at his heart, as he found it doing far too often anymore. He saw the way the angel had leaned over the dying man, the simple smile that had decorated his face. He had looked almost sympathetic, but there was something else in his eyes as well. The angel looked happy for the man, pride shining in his eyes and the smallest touch of envy ghosting behind them. He had whispered something to the man, too quietly for Technoblade's sharp ears to hear, and in less than an instant, the man had moved on. 

When he had turned around to face Technoblade, his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. The voices in his head screamed at the angel for this, singing of weakness and vulnerability that Technoblade must be sure to never show. He couldn't let himself be weak like the angel.

The voices urged him on again not even a moment later, watching for a split second as the angel took off into the sky before returning to the task at hand. This kingdom was stronger, less willing to fall, but eventually, it did. They always did when Technoblade found them.

Still, with every swing of his now bloodied sword he felt the ever-growing twinge of remorse, stinging a little more every time. Every pained scream that rang through the air had brought him back to the angel, huddled over a peacefully sleeping aged man and quietly easing him into the afterlife. The angel of death had been so gentle, so kind as he brought the man to the heavens. It was no different to a loving mother shushing her crying infant, softly ushering it back to sleep in the dead of night. It felt so different from the Blade's own killing habits, and as he slaughtered the final remnants of the kingdom, he truly felt like a monster.

The voices were much less easy to pacify this time, screaming for more and more and more until he had milked the kingdom of any sign of life. They seemed almost angry at him, upset by the fact that he would let something as stupid as the angel get under his skin. He ignored them again. They were quieter now, easier to push to the side. 

Technoblade knew that the voices in his mind wouldn't be satisfied for long, and that it would likely only be a few more days or even mere hours before they demanded he destroy another civilization. Still, he couldn't find it in himself to try to keep going. He needed some time to think, a little bit of a break from the screaming that threatened to shatter through his skull.

He needed quiet. 

But that wasn't possible for him, was it? 

Sighing, Technoblade stands from the rock he was sitting on. He hadn't moved so much as a single muscle in the three hours he had sit there, and his muscles ache from the stiffness. He picks up his sword from where it lays glistening in the grass, tainting the pure snow with the stains of what he had done, and throws it over his shoulder. The voices are loud again, and already they cry out for more. 

It hurts a little, doing nothing except killing for all of his life. But he tries not to think about it. Letting himself feel the grief of his victims would not but anger the voices. So he keeps moving. He keeps going, keeps running from every nation he destroys, hoping to leave the grief behind with it and leaving again before it has the time to catch up. He likes to think it works, that running from his problems would let them dissolve on their own. But as much as he hates to admit it, when he finally does slow down and gives that damned grief the time to catch up to him, it hits hard. 

He turns to leave, feeling guilt cloud around the frayed edges of his heart. He almost takes the first step South, but he stops as something catches his eye. Something black, or perhaps even darker than black. Even from the brief glance he stole, the color seemed to swallow all light from around it. Normally, Technoblade would be unsettled by the sight of a darkness so unnatural, but something about it seemed right.  Even though he only saw it for a fraction of a second, he could tell that it was beautiful, whatever it was, and it catches his attention more than he could ever expect it to.

Surely they can spare me a few more minutes.

Technoblade moves silently through the snow. Or at least he thinks he does, though he can't hear anything through the outraged cries pounding through his skull. They curse him for his curiosity, singing of weakness and submission to feeble mortal emotions. The beauty of whatever he saw urges him on, though, beckoning him further into the ruin that he had caused. 

Whatever he had seen before was gone now. He is alone in the remains of what could have once been a library. Tattered books litter the floor, stained with the speckles of blood spilled by those Technoblade had killed. The voices laugh in his head at the sight of it, the worn yellow paper corrupted by the crimson that has for centuries corrupted Technoblade's life. Their laughter only makes him feel worse. 

He picks up a nearby book, turning it over in his calloused hands with so much care, you could think it was made of glass, like it could shatter if you set even one finger out of place. Technoblade flips through a couple pages, gazing over the words but not truly reading them. It was some sort of love story, he guesses. He didn't care to think about the careful hands, perhaps even more careful than his own, writing this story. And he didn't care to think of the person, the living, breathing, loving human being that was attached to those hands. The human being that may have related personally to this story, who may have written it from their own experiences, who may have loved. Just another human being who's life was cut short by the brutality of Technoblade himself.

He doesn't know when his head started spinning, only that it does. The voices are outraged as he collapses to the ground, screaming of weakness as his breathing picks up. But he can't find it in himself to even acknowledge them. Their screams seem distant.

Technoblade clutches his hair. The same hair that used to be white, that used to be pure, before it was stained with the blood of young, lively children. He did this. He was the one who ended all of these youthful lives. They all had so much potential.

His ears are ringing, perhaps louder than the cries of the voices inside of him, yet still not loud enough to drown them out. They want more. They want him to do it again. to kill over and over and over in a never ending cycle of death and guilt. He couldn't run fast enough. He always knew the terrible, crushing grief would catch up to him eventually, he had only wished that it would not come this soon. 

Technoblade feels something cold wrap around his arm, and his head snaps up against his own accord. Piercing blue eyes meet his, freezing over the skin that he hadn't realized was burning. A man, Technoblade realizes. A man with sandy blond hair and blue eyes and a deep green robe and massive beautiful black wings splayed out behind him. The wings are what he saw earlier, he thinks distantly. 

The steady stare of the man in front of him, the ice cold fingers wrapped around both of his arms, the wings that now surround the two of them, shielding them from the torture of the outside world. These are all that Technoblade can feel, all that he can see, and the thought alone is enough to cool his feverish skin and calm the voices inside of him.

Technoblade doesn't know how long the man kneels there beside him, holding him steady and calming him long after the grief had subsided. All he knows is that after enough time, the winged man stands, tucking the beautiful midnight wings behind his back. He offers a hand out to Technoblade. 

"I'm Philza." He says, eyes soft and tone achingly kind, and from that moment Technoblade knew he had a person to call his first friend. So he takes the hand held out to him and stands beside Philza of the ruins that he refuses to think about what once were.

"Technoblade."

Chapter Text

Months fly past as if they are only mere seconds while in Technoblade's company, Philza has found. 

He never thought that he would ever see the all mighty Blood God with his guard down, laughing and smiling with seemingly not a care in the world. What he expected even less, however, was to see himself do the same. He feels something, an emotion that he has long forgotten the name for. An emotion that he never even imagined he would feel since the day he was torn from his place in the heavens. An emotion that had nearly startled him out of his cloak the first time he caught himself feeling it. 

He had taken Technoblade to his home, taught him how to climb his tree with patience only otherwise found in the holiest of mothers. He had showed the almighty god of war his nest, the intricate weaving of sticks and twine and leaves that he had crafted with delicate hands over the course of centuries. Technoblade was careful as he crawled into the nest, treading with a gentleness that Philza had never expected to come from such a brutal man. He respected the nest, admiring it cautiously and being sure to not leave even a single twig out of place. That was the first moment since this world had birthed that he truly felt happy. 

Philza tried not to get himself too attached to the man, knowing that someday, hopefully hundreds of millennia away, he would be swept into the heavens too. It was hard though, and he felt his heart swell at even the mere mention of the name Technoblade. A name that at one point in his life had brought him both jealousy and pity in the same heartbeat. 

Technoblade basks in the sun beside him, crown discarded a few feet beside him. It must be a burden, Philza thinks, wearing the heavy gold atop his head wherever he goes. A burden that he only ever lets himself release when in the presence of the angel, when his guard is down and he finally grants himself the chance to feel.

Technoblade says the voices are quieter when in the presence of Philza, that they are calmer, less demanding. He still needs to leave sometimes, to destroy a small civilization when they get especially pissed off. Philza always knows when he does. He seems tenser, more reserved. And then, just like that, they meet eyes, thousands of words being said without either man opening his mouth, and Technoblade is off again. He leaves for a week, maybe two. But he always comes back. And he's more relaxed, the voices are quiet again.

The knowledge that simply being with him can subside Technoblade's voices and help him truly live is nearly enough to bring tears to Philza's eyes.

Philza is louder than he once was, more energetic, more free. He spread his wings more often, truly enjoying their presence rather than seeing them as nothing more than a tool. His wings are spread in the sand on which he lays, warmed by the fleeting evening sun. In their darkness, Phil's wings seem to absorb every ounce of heat from it, and if he were to run his fingers through his feathers, he would find it nearly burned. That never stopped Technoblade from using the tip of a soft Stygian wing as a pillow underneath his head. 

Philza is more impulsive now, less reserved and quiet and calculating. He has never once considered that a bad thing, though. It only meant that he was happier, that he was comfortable enough to express himself without constantly having to worry about how every action would shape his future. 

"You know Phil," Technoblade started turning his head to the angel. "The first time I saw you, the voices saw you as weak. I had seen you draw that old man into the heavens, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. They yelled at me for it, screamed, even. When you turned around and had tears in your eyes, they had called you weak. They had ordered me to never let myself be weak like you."

"Well I'm glad you didn't let yourself get shoved around by a bunch of idiot hallucinations." Philza laughed.

Technoblade laughed with him, but it was quick to die. "That's the thing, Phil. I had let myself get shoved around by them. I let them control my life for thousands of years, and I sometimes still do. As much as being with you had helped me, I still have to leave every once in a while and kill more people. They told me not to be weak like you, but it's kind of funny. I'm much weaker than you have ever been, all because of them."

"Well I mean at least they're not bad now, right? You've been a lot better. You only have to leave once every couple of months now, as opposed to what it was before. Don't you remember that? You would never stop, it was just town after town."

"You don't have to remind me, Phil. I know, and the guilt still nearly kills me to this day." Technoblade begins to sigh quietly before catching himself, quick to readjust his posture and take on that dead look in his eyes again. He never usually does this when he's around Philza. He's uncomfortable. "But the point is, I'm still doing it. It doesn't matter if I'm doing it less than before. I'm still letting these stupid voices in my head take control of my life and I'm still killing! I'm still killing innocent people who don't deserve to die yet. They're still young, they still have so much potential in their life, Phil. They have families and friends and lovers and I end it all. And then after I'm done, I feel dirty. I feel corrupted. No matter how much I wash my hands they never feel like they're clean. All I can see is that they are still the same hands that have murdered so many people and I hate it. I hate it so much! I don't want to be a monster but that's all people see me as!"

"Techno-"

"No, shut up Philza! You don't understand. You get to prey on the old and the weak and those who are ready to die. You get to bring them peaceful deaths. You get to make them at least feel calm in their final moments of life, but I don't! I have to watch the faces of every person I kill and see the fear in their eyes, you don't know what it feels like to see someone torn from their place here, scared and in pain, and know that you're the one who caused it."

Technoblade is quieter, now barely mumbling under his breath and only hoping that Phil couldn't actually hear. "You get to be good."

Philza bites he tongue, words dying in his throat before they have the chance to reach his lips. He tries to force something out, some reassurance or comfort or advice or anything that could help Technoblade, but his tongue feels like lead. "Maybe you should go out again, it's been a while since you've done that. Maybe you just need some time to calm them, and you'll feel better." Philza doesn't dare elaborate further, fearing that any mention of death will only make things worse. 

The look on Technoblade's face is helpless, tears glassy in his eyes and lips pinched so tight they turned white. "Fine, maybe I should. Maybe, if I kill more people it'll make me feel less bad about those I've killed before. Maybe, if I let the voices control me and do everything they say I might just be able to shake the powerlessness that has been suffocating me for the thousands of years I've been alive. Or maybe it'll do the exact opposite. Maybe, I won't feel better about being a monster by becoming any worse. Maybe, my hair will only be stained darker with more blood. And maybe, just maybe, telling a guilty murderer to go murder more is about the worst idea to ever face this earth." 

Before Philza can say anything back, The Blood God turned his back and strode away, sword slung over his shoulder and the crown that Philza had never noticed he picked up again resting atop his head. 

It is long dark, and Philza's wings feel cold.

Chapter Text

Dream lays atop his altar, eyes closed and face relaxed, though still forever conscious. The entire world is silent in the damned night, spare the angel's song. It sounds different tonight, though. It sounds pained, mourning. 

Dream is familiar with the feeling, the grief that shakes you down to the bone, stripping you of everything you are until you are not but an empty shell, drowning in so much pain that even the most immortal of bodies cannot handle it, and they shut down. He knows this feeling well.

It hurt so much, too much, but as much as he had wanted to scream, his lungs couldn't gather the air. He wonders if the angel is the same, if he can't take in enough air to muster a scream or even a feeble sob. He wonders if song was the only vessel he had to carry his grief. He wonders what happened to the angel of death, to leave him in this state. He doesn't make any attempts to ask, though. He never asked about the angel's songs. They have rang through the night for longer than the earth had been spinning, but Dream didn't dare disturb him. Instead, he lay upon the frigid marble of his altar and closed his eyes, pretending to find the comfort of sleep and waiting until the sun fights her way back into the sky in the beginnings of another dreaded day.

The quiet of the night doesn't last long. The silence is strangled by a lone scream, shattered into shards of broken glass sharper than the sword that had pierced the screaming child. Dream jolts on his altar, sitting up and listening out once more, closer, grasping for some evidence that it was real, and not just another twisted trick of his mind. Dream sits perched on the marble altar for what could have been hours before he hears anything more.

Another scream, this time that of a man. It sounds different though, outraged and violent and still choking on thick sorrow but lazily concealed with wrath. It sounds close, and Dream almost managed to stand from his place at the marble table before his temple is struck. He almost finds it in himself to ask what hit his palace, but some part of his mind already knows. The Blood God.

Dream steps out of the temple, brushing past the stabbing cold of the night and not but rolling his eyes at the beauty of the stars overhead. He never saw the majesty of them. Another strike shakes the monument, this time weaker. A gentle sob cuts through the silent air, barely loud enough to be heard by Dream. But he approaches anyways, and his eyes widen as he finds the blood god unconscious in the grass, knuckles split but skin stained with the blood not of his own. A gleaming golden crown sits firmly atop his head, not askew even in the sprawl on limbs on the cold forest floor.

Dream does not dare wake the man, instead sitting beside him lest anything try to attack. He knows the Blood God can handle himself, but he can't find it in himself to leave him alone, unconscious in the forest.

The Blood God blinks his eyes open a few hundred heartbeats later, face reserved even as his pupils constrict in shock at the sight of Dream. No man dares speak, even in the early morning when the angel of death's pained song gives way to that of joyous morning birds. 

It takes far longer than it should for either god to speak, but Dream is the man who finally tears the stretches of silence. "You live with the angel of death, correct? Should you not be with him now?"

The Blood God only sighs in response. "I suppose."

"And you? What are you meant to be doing?" The Blood God prodded back, bringing Dream back to his earlier thoughts.

"Trying not to be responsible for the death of innocent people." It's not a lie. Quite the opposite actually, but the Blood God lets an amused snort, as if he were joking.

"I understand you there. That's actually why I'm not with Philza right now."

Dream's eyebrows furrow. "I'm not sure I understand. I always heard you were one to crave death.." His voice trails off, wavering at the sight of the Blood God's eyebrows twitching downward.

"I'm not sure you need to understand." Is his only response. "Are any legends ever fully true?"

Dream is silent for a long moment, memories of his own past flooding back to him in waves of pain. "No, I suppose not." He stands, wiping twigs from his clothing before reaching a hand down for the Blood God to take. "Would you like to come inside? It's a bit warmer, I personally think hypothermia would be a pretty lame way for an immortal to go out." He chuckles at his own joke, and Technoblade's mouth spares an amused twitch. He doesn't take the help getting up, though, instead standing on his own, adjusting the crown that had slightly fallen to rest perfectly on his silky pink hair. He follows Dream inside, though. His fingertips are red, purpling at the tips, Dream notices. But if the Blood God feels the chill of the air, he doesn't make it known.

The temple is pristine as always. Dream has never had many belongings, many things to fill the large space. The only things decorating the white walls were statues and gold he never asked for, fearful gifts of adoration he never wanted. He helps the shivering god to his altar, the very place he finds himself sat atop every morning as the mortals come to bring him more gifts. He remembers the wide eyes of everyone who brings him offerings, afraid of what fate they may meet if their gifts aren’t suitable. The image is almost burned into his eyelids, Dream finds, thousands of years  worth of meeting the same face imprinting it into his mind, only to project into his vision every time he dares to close his eyes.

When the Blood God sits on the altar, his posture is hunched. His eyes are wild with something Dream hadn’t noticed when he had first awakened. But there was also hesitation, conflict, something he would never expect from the impulsive and bloodthirsty Technoblade he had heard of time and time again.

Dream thinks back to his old friend, the short and sleepy man that he would laugh with every day. The short and sleepy man that loved mushrooms and the color blue. The short and sleepy man that he hoped would never have to wake to this world. The short and sleepy man who never got to grow past twenty-six years old.

The short and sleepy man with which all of the rumors had started.

Dream thinks of all the fear he has provoked, over centuries, how each and every legend and tale spread about him would only be more cruel than the last. Some say that he has killed hundreds, some say hundreds of thousands, with only his mind. Some say he likes to play with them a little first, a few days of torture until they’re pleading for the sweet grace of death. Some say he won’t hesitate to do it again and again to every poor, pathetic person who dares cross his path, who dares walk his Earth without worshipping him with meaningless gifts. 

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t tell him just how false those stories are.

The Blood God is no longer sitting on the altar, hunched pathetically over himself in an attempt to stay warm and fight whatever mental battle he may be going through. No, what Dream sees not is perhaps even more pitiful, yet he still finds it in himself, in the most selfish corner of his mind, to envy him. Technoblade is curled upon the altar, crimson cloak draped over him, asleep once more.

His friend would often sleep curled in on himself like that, though it was a long time ago, long before the temple that the altar stood on was even built. Even then, Dream can’t stop the image of his late best friend from crawling into his mind, the red of the Blood God’s cloak reminding him all too painfully of the beds of mushrooms his sleepy friend would like to sleep upon. He looked so peaceful, so at ease, so weak and vulnerable in a way that somehow felt like bliss. Dream almost sees that in Technoblade too.

Dream had never meant to become a monster, and though the people treated him as the purest of gods, he knew they saw him as sin itself.

He thinks back to what Technoblade had said, and he understands now. Legends are never true, they can’t be. They are tall tales by design. Any story told by word is bound to be distorted over the years. Maybe the Blood God isn’t the bloodthirsty monster that people whisper of in the dead of night, and maybe Dream doesn’t take sadistic pleasure in the single murder he’s actually committed.

And maybe, just maybe, Dream has someone he may dare hope to one day become a friend.

Chapter Text

When the Blood God wakes, he is surrounded by the gleaming light of crystalline marble. He hears birds singing, and distantly, there is the clamor of people. They sound weary, anxious, and it reminds him all too closely of the tone his stories are told in.

He remembers the storyteller woman with the gleaming, fiery eyes whose life had been taken far too soon all those months ago. He remembers the spite in her eyes, the pride, even through the haze of her fear and her pain. He remembers the way she had glared up at him even with metal pierced through her abdomen. He remembers the warmth of her skin, and the twisting of his stomach when he realized she wouldn't be warm for much longer. He's felt that unmatched nausea many times over the endless years. He knows the feeling well.

He notices the gleaming gold of his crown on the altar beside him. He doesn't recall removing it, and he reasons it must have fallen off during his rest. He is quick to snatch it, though, placing it carefully atop his head as if scared his soul may shatter without its protection.

He hears Dream sigh beside him, and he finally sits up. He is met with a sharp pounding to his skull, almost enough to make him wince. He doesn't dare, though, he thinks he couldn't if he tried. He couldn't  show evidence of his pain. Not in front of The God.

"Technoblade," Dream starts. "people are going to be arriving soon, they do every morning. Something tells me you don't want to be seen." His voice is strained, exhaustion and dread bleeding into his words. He knows vaguely of the worship that Dream receives each morning, of the faux gospel and feigned rapture they sing out, praying to be spared. He used to watch from afar, so long ago he lost count of the decades. He never took part though, he could live without this strangers salvation. He's older than he was, not physically— he hasn't aged physically in what he could only guess has been millennia— but he's matured since then. He can see the truth now, it's clear in the God's eyes.

"Something tells me you don't want to be seen, either." Dream tenses slightly next to him, and he pretends not to notice.

"I'm afraid I haven't a choice." Something drips off the edge of his voice, something that sounds damp and thick enough to suffocate. Something that, if he hadn't known better, the Blood God might perceive as emotion.

It's silent for a long time, the Blood God thinks. Or perhaps it isn't. Perhaps it is not more than a few heartbeats that pass— time has no meaning when you've lived as long as he has. But the longer he sits there in silence with the man everyone has grown to fear, listening intently as terror-stricken whispers from outside nearly drown out the voices of his own mind, the longer he thinks he might be right. The longer he thinks the god beside him might be suffocating in his own longing, in his own grief. Not unlike yourself; the thought makes his face twitch, and he curses himself for the reckless show of his own emotion.

He dares speak, dares slice through the stiff quiet with a voice that echoes painfully through the marble walls. "You always have a choice." He is surprised by how even his voice comes out, how even now as he's fighting with everything inside him begging to let himself break open, he resists. "Perhaps it is not but a matter of making the right one."

The people outside are close now, forming a trail that throughout the day will surely grow to be miles long. They are restless. They will come inside soon, will see The Blood God in all his gruesome glory and they will run. They will run like they always do. He will satiate the voices in his head and he will kill. He will kill and leave the grief and guilt to crush him later. Then he will travel home to Philza and he will smile as the angel locks him into a crushing embrace. Philza will say that he missed him, and The Blood God will say it back. Philza won't ask about his trip; he won't even mention it. He's learned not to over the years. Philza will help him wash away the stains. The Blood God will want to cry and Philza will encourage him to, but the tears will not fall. They will not fall because he allowed himself to become a monster so that's all he will ever be. All he will ever be is the terrible thing that the legends say he is, never anything more, never anything less.

The Blood God remembers the feeling of his hands melded into fists, cramped and stiff from clutching the handle of a sword for far too long. He remembers the stab of pain inside of him with every pair of eyes he has drained the life from. He remembers the melody of pained wails when those left alive find their loved ones, and the symphony of screams when his sword meets them soon after. He doesn't want to remember, but he does. He knows he always will.

Technoblade remembers the feeling of his hands melded into fists, warm and loose from intertwining with Phil's. He remembers the stab of pain in his skin when they're sparring and Philza knocks him to the ground and digs the point of his sword into his chest with the warm smile of victory adorning his face. He remembers the melody of whistling laughter as Philza splits through the warm air, and the symphony of shouts when he dives back to the ground to land in a stance of finessed power. He wishes he had more memories, more time to have made them. But he knows he has forever.

Technoblade stands, pulling the cape over his shoulder with newfound vigor and turning away despite the roaring in his head. "I'm leaving." He flips his hair over his shoulder, ignoring the faint pink that glints in the sun, ignoring the fact it was once white. "You can follow me, if you want to. Something tells me you want to be here just as much as I do."

Dream hesitates, face spilling emotion and conflict out for the whole world to see. Technoblade can't tell whether to pity him for his pain or admire his unabashed show of it.

"There's always a choice, Dream." He flinches a little at the mention of his name, as if he almost doesn't recognize it, as if he hasn't heard it in centuries. "It's up to you to decide which is the right one."

The temple is empty by the time the crowds of people finally enter.