Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

   Once upon a time, in the world of gods and men, there was a railroad line. 

    (A railroad line, on the road to Hell.) 

    And on this road to hell, on these metal tracks and worn down dirt, there are the lilting trails of a melody. 

    (It’s an old song. It’s a tragedy.)

    We sing it anyway. 

     It starts as most songs do, on a quiet note. It starts with a man who would give the world, and the two people who loved him enough to give it back.

    It starts with Technoblade. 

    Technoblade was a fighter, and a farmer. He had hair his brother would teasingly call pig hide, rose stained strands tied up to his head. He had eyes that looked like they would kill you, until you spoke to him and all he would talk about was the growing rate of potato harvest. He had a laugh as rare as rain, not so impossible, but like treasure all the same. He had a voice deeper than the ravines Phil would warn him about, like thunder in his chest. He had scars he wore with not so much pride, but acceptance, and a heart more precious than any golden apple. 

    And he was dead.

    His brother had found him, bloodied in his field, and wept. He burned him on a small pyre, a coin under his tongue and flowers in his hair. Hydrangea and lily. 

    Several people came that day to pay their respects. Wilbur didn’t recognize any of them, not that he would be able to past the angry sting of tears in his eyes. Smoke burned into an orange sky, soot and ashes soon blown away by the wind. The mourners leave in a steady trickle. Wilbur stands alone by the seared stone. 

    And he curses the gods. He calls them by name, cursing each and every one of them. The musician, now left without his other half, screams his laments into the air. The winds whip around him, the trees entranced by his cries. He dares them to take him as well, to strike him for his insolence. 

    The gods are not cruel. They do not care enough to be cruel. They do not hear the musician’s pleas. His words fall on deaf ears and whistled breeze.

    Wilbur is left miserably alive. He gathers his guitar, picks himself up from the harrowed nest of leaves and soil he's knelt in, and looks to the south. 

    A piercing noise interrupts the gauze in his ears, a shrill tone and the scratch of metal. He sees a hint of railroad tracks, abandoned and rusted, and echoed by a train. Like shadows and night, a monstrous creature of steel, it soars past him, deafening in its call. There is wind that blows in its wake, but his hair is not ruffled, and his jacket stays still. It goes fast enough to steal the breath from his lungs, and then it’s gone, and he stands by an empty track, half dusted over and lifeless. 

    It did not come for him. But he will follow it. 

    The tracks stretch on for miles, and then some. It winds and goes and disappears into the woods, into the mountains and hills and valleys. It stretches on into eternity. Wilbur breathes in the fog and dirtied musk, wipes the grime off his brow, and follows the railroad track, down on the road to Hell. 

    But he was not the only soul on this road. 

    No, fate has other plans. 

    (On the road to hell, there was a railroad line.)

    And there is a survivor looking for his friend. With a striped hat and sungold hair, he lived the world with stories lined on his face. He’s walked far, with aching soles and wearied back, but a smile twists his lips. 

    He arrives at an overgrown farm. 

    He arrives at a quiet home, with furniture dusted over and a bed that’s not been slept in. He arrives at a field, and he arrives at a pyre. His shoes step over the grey smear of ash, and the dying embers of a great fire. 

    He arrives at the place looking for where his friend once lived. Instead he finds a grave. It is empty now, and not a soul to be seen. No one sees the smile drop, nor the man fall to his knees. Trembling hands curl around singed lilies, somehow untouched by the fire. 

    The brother had cursed the gods. The friend now utters a prayer. 

    Philza cups the flower, nestling it back into the wood and stone. He picks up his hat, closing wearied eyes for a second before he turns, catching on a glint by the outcrop. 

    He approaches the tracks, and once more a faint whistle calls. He hears it sing, like a warning and an invitation both. He looks back at the wisps of smoke rising from the oak, and the flowers in its cradle, and he walks down the railroad track. 

    (That will take you to your final destination.)

    And they walked. To where the sun doesn’t shine, and it’s always gray. Where the mine and the machinery and the stink of rot wrap around you like chains and toil.

    They walked the way down to Hades.

Chapter Text

    They meet each other on the third day. There is a chill in the air, a nip of the coming winter. The flowers rest feebly in his palms, like exhaustion warps their stems. The birds fly north, to where the cold has not reached. 

    And there is a song.

    Phil follows the track, and with the creak of his bones and puffs of breath, there is a strumming of strings, like an epitaph. It’s sad and beautiful, and then the author starts to sing. 

    It’s like the world listens. 

    The song wraps around him, sinks into his marrow like snow, like gale in a thunderstorm, it rattles his chest. The voice feels godstouched. 

    Philza finds his legs moving on their own, to the well from which this song springs. It brings him to a clearing by the side, a small canopy carved into the woods, a pocket of divinity.

    The boy sang like sunlight, like the gods wove air into song just for him. He swears the trees and the grass lean forward, as they all listen with baited breath. As they all mourn with him.

    The boy stops, eyes flying open. They stare at each other, the only two living souls on this road.

    “You’re crying,” he says. 

    Phil touches a hand to his cheek, finding the tips of his fingers shining wet. 

    “That was divine,” he says, like it was not blasphemy, because it was not , it was truth. This boy could not be mortal, not like he was. 

    “My mother was a muse,” the boy replies, “Why are you here? I haven’t seen anyone living since I stepped foot on this line.”

     “I’m following it,” Phil nods to the track, wiping the tears from his eyes, “to Hades.”

    And the boy looks at him with renewed interest, eyes a touch sharper than they were before. 

    “You know the way?”

    “I know how to get there.”

     The boy almost glares, though it’s not directed at him. There is a determination that sets his shoulders as he throws a hand out, at Phil’s direction, “I’m Wilbur, and I’d like to join you. I’m looking for someone.” 

    Phil shakes his hand distractedly, mind casting about. Wilbur, the son of a muse. Late night conversations flash in his mind, from an old friend by a campfire. A musician , Techno had said one night, could sing the world to its knees if he wanted to . 

    “Wilbur...Soot? Technoblade’s brother?”

    Wilbur starts, hand sharply pulled from his hold. Something like grief and pride wars his expression. 

    “I never caught your name.”

    “Philza,” he says, relieved at the recognition in Wilbur’s eyes, “I’m going down to get your brother back.”

    Wilbur’s mouth forms an ‘o’, and he nods, gesturing to the train tracks, “Lead the way.”

    “We keep to the tracks.”

    (Any way the wind blows.)

    Wilbur is good company. They don’t talk much, but that’s fine. What do you talk about when your only connection with someone is a dead man? But Wilbur hums, and Phil listens, and they walk. 

    It feels like they’re getting closer. 

    The sky isn’t quite as blue, instead a muted grey. The trees lose more of their leaves every day, long branches like twisting spires reaching to grab them. There is a silence that grows with each passing hour, as they step over stone and loose soil, weighted and heavy. 

    Nothing lives here, no birds nor plants nor running streams. It’s a dead quiet. 

    It wears at them, as night falls and they make camp by the wayside. 

    “Got a match?” Wilbur asks, almost whispering. 

    Phil shakes his head mutely, fishing around his pouch for a piece of flint. He strikes it against the blade of his knife, letting the sparks catch onto the pile of dried leaves and twigs. It quickly catches alight, and Phil savors the crackle of fire. 

    Wilbur reaches out to the flame, palms facing it. He accepts the dried meat Phil offers him, biting into it without much fervor. 

    The silence is stifling. 

    “I used to do this a lot with Techno.” Phil says before he can stop himself, “Camping, I mean.”

    Wilbur smiles faintly, “Yeah?”

    “We’d take turns keeping watch. He’d always insist that he’d take the later shift, claiming my old bones needed rest,” He snickers quietly to himself, “He hated when I’d sleep up in the trees. Would get a heart attack every time I even shifted in my sleep.”

    “He doesn’t like to admit it, but he worries.” Wilbur says fondly. He frowns, “Well, worried.”

     Phil smiles sadly, “He liked to joke, but you should’ve seen him any time one of those baby zombie fuckers got within ten feet. All five stages of grief were experienced that day.”

    “ Oh , I remember him complaining about that,” Wilbur lights up, “ You’re the one who almost died to a baby zombie?”

    “It was a combination of things,” Phil waves a hand, “He decided to latch onto the baby because it was the most embarrassing one.”

    “I’m sure it was.”

    “Oh my gods I see now how you’re brothers.”

    “It’s the family charm.” Wilbur blinks, and there’s a wet sheen to it, “He had a saying, y’know.”

    Phil feels something in his chest clench, despite the grin that comes, “Technoblade never dies?”

    Wilbur laughs wetly, “It was a childhood bit. I used to be scared of the dark. Still am, to be honest. He’d hide us both under the blanket and promised to protect me. I asked him who would protect him, and he told me that he’d never die, so no one needed to.”

    Wilbur sniffs, wiping his eyes, “Liar.”

    Phil’s hands ball into fists, and he feels a rush of determination amidst his grief. He thinks of a brilliant smile, of triumphant laughter after a long fight, of quiet nights by firelight. He thinks of a friendship forged in blood, of the twin earring to the emerald that hangs down his ear. 

    “We’re getting him back.”

    “W-What?”

     “Mate, listen to me,” Phil settles heavy hands on his shoulder, “We’re getting him back. Technoblade never dies, right?”

    Wilbur nods, voice small, “I can’t wait to deck the smug grin off his face.”

    “You’re going to get to do that,” Phil smiles with grim conviction, “I’m going to force him to buy me so much cake. He’s going to regret dying on us.” 

    Wilbur gives a shaky laugh, “Yeah.”

    (The wind comes up)

    On the sixth day, they meet a god. 

Chapter Text

    He dances by a boulder, flowers springing up with his every step, color shooting up into life for seconds before decaying once again. Sunspun hair and sky blue eyes.

    The god of spring. 

    Wilbur approaches the young god, guitar slung across his back. “Hello?”

    The god turns abruptly, momentarily losing balance and catching himself on the stone. His face twists into something like wonder, like a curious child finding a new toy. 

    “Who are you?”

    “My name is Wilbur, and that’s Phil,” Wilbur says, voice gentle, “We’re trying to get to Hades?”

    The god blinks, peering up at Wilbur. He turns to Phil, hands ghosting over his hair and cloak, “Did the train miss you? You don’t seem very dead.”

    Phil averts his gaze, “Er, no, we’re not exactly lost souls.”

    Wilbur walks up to them, and the god pauses his inspection of Phil to turn back to Wilbur, “We’re alive. We want to bring someone back with us.”

    The god pauses, and then laughs. It sounds like sunlight. It sounds like rejection. 

    “You can’t do that. The person’s dead, you see. There’s no coming back from that.”

    “That’s why we’re going to Hades, mate.” 

    The god cocks his head, crouching down on the dirt. Grass spouts out from around him, forming a kind of cushion as he leans on his ankles. “Who are you looking for?”

    And they tell him about Technoblade. 

    They tell him about a warrior, a farmer, a brother, a friend. They tell him about the man who laid siege to a kingdom, about the man who waged war with the village farmhand over crops. They tell him about his seasonal smile and his thunderstorm laugh. They tell him about the promise he made under blankets, about the earring he wears to match with another. 

    And the god listens. He strings daisies into a chain while they talk, tying it up into a bracelet just as they finish. (They could never finish talking about him, but they had to stop all the same.)

    He pulls Wilbur’s hand forward, draping the chain around his wrist. The flowers don’t wilt once they leave the god’s fingers. They continue blooming, a brilliant white peeking out from under his sleeve. 

    “Good luck.” The god says, patting his hand and Phil’s shoulder, “Keep following the track, you’re almost there.”

    He runs off into the thicket, dying flowers in his wake. 

    (Do you hear that sound?)

    They arrive by nightfall on the seventh day. 

    The tracks lead into an opening sliced into a mountain, carving deep into the dark. The rails curve downward. Wilbur feels his hands tremble. 

    “You ready, mate?” Phil asks.

    “As I'll ever be.” Wilbur says, breathing in the night air. It might be his last in a long while. He stuffs his shaking hands into his jacket pocket, shouldering the weight of his guitar. The strap chafes his shoulder. It grounds him. 

     And they forge forward into the dark. 

    (Ain’t no compass, brother, ain’t no map) 

    It stretches on like the sky. Like a void. They walk it, this endless sea of black. One foot after the other, lit by fire on a lantern wick, the light cast wide enough only for the next step. 

    They continue down the tracks.

    It feels like hours, these long minutes. 

    (Who are you?)

    Phil turns to him from where he leads the way, blue eyes staring back under striped brim. 

    “Sing for me?” He asks.

    (Who do you think you are?)

    So Wilbur does. He sings of the myth his mother would tell him as a child, of a goddess and her wayward son, of a runaway boy who brought with him spring. 

    But the boy would always come home, and with him came winter.

    “ And for half of the year, he would walk in the sun ,” he sings, “ and the sun in turn burned twice as bright. And that is where the seasons come from, 

    “And with them, the cycle of the seed and the sickle,” his voice falters, “and the lives of the people, and the birds in their flight.”

    “Singing…?” Philza whispers.

    Wilbur’s head dips, “ la la la la la la la ,” A child’s melody. It sounds mournful now. 

    Down below, and up above. In harmony and rhythm.

    “The gods sang a song of love, and the world sang it with them. But that was long ago,” Philza sighs, “back before we were on this road.”

    “You know this song?”

    “It’s an old one. Long time since I heard it.”

    The pair fall silent, the tune lingering in their minds. And then Phil stops. 

    “Phil?”

    He holds a hand up, holding a finger to his lips. With the other hand, the one holding the lantern, he gestures forward. Listen , he mouths. 

    Wilbur strains his ears, and then he hears it. A long, wailing, howl. 

    Hounds. 

    “Follow me,” Philza mutters, in spite of the tremor that rattles the lantern’s chain. Wilbur nods, walking with shorter steps. Phil looks on grimly, as they head down onto the bottom land. 

    Wilbur doesn’t see them at first. 

    They prowl in the shadows, fur like midnight. A metal band around their necks, slobber dripping from their maws. Eyes like stars in the dark. They growl and snap as the two approach, having caught whiff of their mortality. 

    Phil grimaces, watching as one of them rush forward, barking and biting at air, the chains around its throat the only thing keeping the pair from joining the dead. 

    “They’ll eat us alive .” Wilbur cries, his voice laced with panic.

    “Normally, yes,” Phil murmurs, “but I’ve been around, done some favors.”

    He reaches in his satchel, rooting around and pulling out a round, gold coin. At its center a heart is engraved onto it. 

    “I only have one of these,” Phil says, “so you have to stick close , do you understand? You are my shadow, every step I take, you match.”

    “Got- Got it.” 

    Phil approaches the beasts slowly, and Wilbur follows, a hair’s breadth away. The points of his shoe scuff the back of Phil’s. The hound gives a warning growl as they come closer, and Phil reaches out a shaking hand, the coin cradled in his palm. 

    It sniffs the outstretched hand curiously, milky unseeing eyes roving over them. It takes the coin in between its teeth, and like a ticket, it bites into it. It clatters to the floor, two holes like eyes punctured into the gold. 

    The wolf lies back on its haunches, tamed. 

    Philza walks stiffly forward, foot crunching over the discarded coin. Wilbur matches him, heartbeat drumming in his ears. The creature shifts behind him, ears flicking curiously. It leans forward, letting out a rush of hot breath.

    They both freeze, neither daring to even breathe. 

    It snorts, lying back on the ground. 

    Phil stumbles forward. Wilbur steps over the coin, keeping his footsteps light. 

    It feels like centuries before Phil slows to a stop, bringing a hand over his mouth. He lets out an incredulous gasp, verging on laughter. Wilbur exhales, clutching at his chest. Imprints of the wolf’s unseeing eyes burn holes into his head.

    “Oh my gods, “ Phil stutters, “I can’t believe that fucking worked.” 

    Wilbur grasps at his knees, too shaky to hold himself up. “Holy shit . I swear my soul was already halfway to Hades.” 

    “Its tooth scraped over my fingers.” Phil laughs frantically, “I thought I’d lose a limb.”

    Wilbur brings a foot forward, and then another, staggering, “What’re they even guarding, there’s nothing here but-”

    His shoulder bumps into something solid. He reaches forward, fingers trailing over cinder. Philza brings the light closer and it stretches up, a structure of iron and concrete.

    “The Styx,” Phil breathes. 

     A wall so high it bathes one side in complete darkness. 

     They’ve made it to the gates of Hades. 

Chapter Text

    The city lights burned dimly. Flickering pinpricks like dirt on a window. But the main source of light came from the red eye up above. A round, facsimile sun, crimson and marked with grids of wires and beams. It seared into the citizens of the unbreathing city, glaring from up above. It could almost be beautiful, if it didn’t reek of death.

    “Don’t look anyone in the eye,” Philza says, tugging Wilbur forward from where he stares at the razor wire and power lines, “Stare too long and they’ll pluck your soul right out your throat.”

    Around him, the city hums. There’s a beat to it, the clanking of pickaxe on stone. The beams of light from hardened helmets. There’s music to this place, the disenchanted song of the dead. Around him they shuffle forward and back, eyes shadowed, shoulders slumped. 

    Wilbur swallows, pointedly turning his gaze to Phil’s hat instead. “Where to?”

    Phil mutely jerks his head forward, to a spiraling tower in the heart of the city.

    “Her office. We go to Death’s door.”

     Now in Hades, there were a lot of souls. Working on the wall day and night. They moved around the pair like water, like tumbleweed. They kept their heads down, like no one dared to look up at the sky, the imitation of it. Like they didn’t dare to hope. 

    Wilbur dares a glance, and he finds that he can’t quite see their faces right. 

    “Is this the price of dying? You get to work yourself into the ground ?”

    Phil doesn’t meet his eyes. 

    “They call it freedom. You’re punching in every second of the day, but you don’t go hungry. You don’t grow tired.”

    “Why won’t they look at us? Why don’t they speak?”

     Phil gives him a look, like pity, “What do they have to say? This is all they know.”

    “Is Techno here?”

     And then, oh , there’s heartbreak in those blue eyes. They stand in the swarm of the dead, and Phil, for the first time since Wilbur’s seen him, bows his head in grief. 

    “Yes.”

    Wilbur grits his teeth. “ No .” 

    “ Mate ,” Philza says, and Wilbur can’t bring himself to meet his sorrowful gaze, “He rode the train.” 

    “No. No . He can’t- “ WIlbur shakes his head, “Phil, this is a death of another kind .”

    “...We’re almost there.”

    Wilbur seethes, as they make their way past the factories and the warehouses, past the end of the tracks, where a train station waits. New souls make their way off the train, stumbling and confused. Wilbur scans the crowd, daring to feel relief at the absence of his brother.

    Philza leads him away from the new arrivals, bringing him down a cobbled alley. It winds around concrete houses and alleyways, until they arrive at the square.

    In its center, a crawling staircase, and above it a catwalk and metal railing. A door. 

    Just as they catch sight of it, a bell tolls. Wilbur whips around, catching a glimpse as the train leaves once again, its shrill whistle wailing throughout all of Hades. For a moment, it’s quiet. There is no hammer, no resounding crash of metal on stone. The souls pause, and their heads lift, minutely, watching as the train rushes down the tracks, and out the gate. 

    Phil takes his hat off, holding it to his chest. 

    For a moment, Hades stops its work song.

    Then the bell tolls once more, and the dead lower their heads. 

    Wilbur watches with growing dread, as lifeless eyes smash hammers into cold hard ground. He hears the sound of the pickaxe ringing.

    The opening creak of a door sounds, and then Phil’s gasp.

    Wilbur turns, and feels his heart fall into Tartarus. 

     A head of rose tinted hair, hair he used to jokingly call pig hide. Emerald earring swaying in the sweltering air. 

    Technoblade closes the door to Death’s office, making his way down the winding staircase.

    “Wilbur-” Phil tries to say, hand catching on his sleeve, but Wilbur jerks away, rushing forward. 

    He embraces his brother, fingers gripping his shoulders tightly. From over his shoulder, he hears Techno suck in a breath, lifting a hesitant hand to cup the nape of his neck. Wilbur holds him tighter, feeling his vision blur with tears. He chokes down a sob, burying his nose into Techno’s collar. 

    “You left so early, Techno,” Wilbur whispers, “Couldn’t you have waited five more minutes?”

    Techno’s heart is unnervingly still in his chest. His hands are cold. Wilbur pulls him closer. 

    “You’re...warm?” Techno says. His voice is small, full of wonder, like he’s forgotten the last time sunlight touched his skin. 

    It’s an eternity before he pulls away, rattled fingers cupping his other half’s cheek. 

    “You died,” Wilbur shakily says, “What happened to our promise, Techno?”

     Technoblade stares blankly at him, mouth twisted in a small frown. His hand drops falteringly from Wilbur’s shoulder. His voice is small, still. 

    “I’m sorry, I- “ Techno draws back, “Who are you?” 

    (Who are you to think that you can walk a road that no one’s ever walked before?)

Chapter Text

    Wilbur flinches, like he’s been struck. 

    Techno steps back, with a guarded expression, and Wilbur almost cries again. He looks at him like a stranger. Never has Techno ever looked at him like a stranger. 

    His brother mutters a low apology, and steps around him, giving Phil a glance before he walks down the street.

    Phil watches him go with sadness in his eyes, but he doesn’t call out to him. His eyes gleam with the wet shine of tears. His hand reaches out for a moment before it falls back to his side.

    “He didn’t know who I was.” Wilbur grabs Phil’s shoulder, forces the older man to meet his eye, “Why didn’t he know who I was ?”

    “I tried to warn you,” Phil sighs, “This is all they know.”

    “He fuckin- He looked at me like I was a stranger , Philza,” Wilbur makes a strangled noise, choking back a sob, “He didn’t even know my name.”

    Arms wrap around him, pulling him down. Phil hugs him, resting his chin on Wilbur’s shoulder. Wilbur keens quietly into his shirt.

    “When souls die, they forget who they used to be.” Phil says softly, voice thick with grief, “It’s easier for them. Without their memories, they need not mourn.” 

    “I want him back, Phil,” Wilbur says, suddenly feeling small in Phil’s embrace, in the city of the dead. He’s struck by how much he wants to go home, back to the farm, back to the life he used to know, “I want my brother back.” 

    “I know.” Phil says, “I know. I miss him too.”

    Phil’s voice cracks, “I miss my best friend.” 

    “You’re not from around here.” A woman’s voice says.

    Wilbur draws back, turning to face the goddess lounging on the catwalk, arms folded over her chest. Pinstriped suit and hooded veil. 

    Philza bows, “Lady Death.”

    Death takes them in with icy eyes, lips pursed. Wilbur feels a chill run down his spine.

    “You don’t belong here,” She says, “It’s not your time.”

    Wilbur stiffens, “We’ve come for someone. We’ve come to take him back.”

     “Once reaped, it cannot be sowed again,” Death says, calmly, “If your friend rode the train, then he belongs here. You both, however, are on the wrong side of the fence.” 

    Wilbur feels her eyes burning into him, but he fights the urge to avert his gaze. They’ve made it this far, they’re not going back without Technoblade. 

    “We’re not leaving. Not until you hear us out.”

    She narrows her eyes, veil shifting, “I know who you are, son. I knew your mother. I knew her voice. I know of your honeyed words.”

    “My lady,” Philza protests, and the goddess turns her quiet fury onto him, “Surely a bargain can be had? The hounds let us in.”

    Death tilts her head, “With Zephyrus’ coin, I know,” with two fingers, she draws out the punctured coin, “You’ve earned the west wind’s favor. However, it only allows passage for one. Before me, I see two.”

    Phil smiles grimly, “The wolves must have missed it.”

    Death regards him with renewed interest, “What is a man so dedicated to surviving doing in the land of the dead?”

    “As Wilbur said, we’ve come to bring someone home.”

    “So you would risk your life?”

    “I would risk anything, my lady.”

    “It was his time,” Death sighs, “He’s signed the papers. You cannot grow a plucked flower. What would you have me do?”

    Wilbur steps a half step forward, “We don’t ask for your verdict, we only ask for your time.”

    Death watches him with flickering eyes, and he holds her gaze, jutting his chin out stubbornly. The swing of hammers echo every second that passes. His heart beats loudly in his ears. She dips her head minutely. Red highlights the cowl of her hair. 

    “Very well. You paid for your passage, It’s only fair you get your money’s worth.”

    She steps aside, gesturing to the stairwell, and to her door. 

    “Step into my office, gentlemen, we have matters to discuss.”

Chapter Text

    The office, for the most part, looked like an office. There were no skulls, no mark of death, nothing godly, it was just a touch messy. A cabinet lined with wine bottles sits in the corner. A line of hanging orchids line the window sill. They’re still blooming. Papers cover the desk. There’s an ink stain on the corner.

    Death makes her way to the cabinet, pouring herself a glass. She glances at the two, but both shake their heads. She smiles, “You know the consequence?”

    “We’d have to stay here forever, if any food or drink touches our lips,” Phil recites, similarly amused, “Everyone knows the punishment for indulging with the dead.” 

    Wilbur nods, “One of the first tales my mother told me. Not that I’m in the mood for a drink either way.”

    Death inclines her head, “More for me.” She takes a sip of the red liquid, leaning against the window frames, “Well?”

    “Well- Well, what?” Wilbur asks.

    “You asked for my time, musician,” Death says, “Do you intend to spend it in silence?”

     There’s a million things he could say. With Death before him, he could plead, or cry, or beg, or sing. He could raise up his voice in protest, he could, he could, he could . 

    “Did it hurt?” he asks, shoulders raised, “Did it hurt when you came for him?”

    Death is silent. 

    “Did he fight? Did-Did he ask to come here?”

     She draws in a breath, “He fought me until he no longer could, then he came with. It did not hurt, not physically.” 

    “He doesn’t want to be here,” Wilbur murmurs, “Can we take him home?”

    Death turns away, “It’s not a question of desire, love. No one wants to ride that train, your brother was not the first to resist.”

    “Please,” Wilbur whispers.

    “I’m sorry.” Death answers. 

    Wilbur folds his arms to his chest, trying to curb the heartbreak in his chest. He can’t— He can’t think of a good enough argument to justify breaking the rules of the universe. How can you bargain with a god? What can you offer, other than yourself at their mercy?

    They both turn to the sound of footsteps. Philza approaches the window sill, a hand reaching out and cradling a flower gently. 

    ‘“Winter’s coming,” he says quietly.

    Death sets down her glass. 

    “Yes,” She softens, “It is.” 

    She doesn’t look as inevitable like this, yearning and worn. There is a way she holds the orchids, like fragile glass. It looks like she held the world in her palms, like the white petal and green stem meant more to her than all the riches the underworld could offer. It looks like in her hands, she held home. 

    There was a time, when Wilbur was a boy, that thunder roiled in the night sky. Frightened, he slipped off his sheets and tiptoed to his brother’s side of the room. The poor boy was asleep, but Wilbur had shaken him awake. Each flash of lightning and rumble of thunder hastened him, until disgruntled, Techno had opened a bleary eye. 

    I’m scared, Wilbur had said, the gods are angry.

    Techno only looked at him, before moving to the side, leaving space open for Wilbur to crawl in. Gladly, the boy huddled himself against his brother’s back, pulling his knees up to his chest, calming himself with the steady drum of his heart. 

    In the dark, the sheets rustled, and a warm hand drew him close, tucked him underneath the other’s chin. 

    Wilbur wouldn’t be able to describe the warmth he felt that night, nor the ease at which he fell asleep, but he knew he was home. 

    And home, home was the treasure you kept in the hollows of your chest, the spaces in between your ribcage. Home was flowers under your heel, sunlight in your eyes, and shade by the wayside. Home was quiet nights by firelight, stringy meat in your hands and memories in your eyes. Home was tilled dirt and beds pushed together. Home hands on your shoulders, pulling you into a crushing embrace. 

    Home was a song he knew how to sing. 

    ( La la la la la la la )

    Death’s expression flashes, “Where’d you get that melody?”

    Wilbur remembers Spring dancing by the tracks, dancing to a song he couldn’t hear. Was he dancing to this? 

    “You used to sing it,” Philza says, “When Spring came home to you.”

    “I did.” She says, her face hidden in the folds of the veil.

    Wilbur brings a hand up to clasp his guitar strap. As he does, his sleeve lowers. Death freezes. 

    “Musician,” She says, a faint waver to her tone, “show me your wrist.” 

     Wilbur blinks, stretching out his arm. The daisy chain tumbles free, dangling from his wrist like the wire hung on telephone lines. They remain a brilliant white despite all the time passed. 

    “He gave you his blessing,” She murmurs. 

    “We met him on the way,” Wilbur says shyly, “We told him our plan.”

    “And you’ve earned my son’s favor.” Death says. She’s softer now, like the very mention of Spring reminded her of a time when she was not a queen, just a mother. 

    “May I…?”

    Wilbur unclasps the chain, spooling it into her waiting hands. She holds it gently, fingers trailing over dew-touched petals. 

    “This was your song?” Wilbur asks, quietly.

   “ Our song,” She answers, still entranced by the flowers, “My boy, my sunshine. He used to sing this to me, back when his legs couldn’t even hold him up.”

    She turns to them, eyes shining, “This was his tune, he would cling to my robes all day, singing.”

    “Singing…?” 

    She sighs, fingers furling around the chain, and she opens her mouth, and starts to sing, “ La la la la la la la. ” With a faint smile, she closes midnight eyes, swaying to the tune of an old memory, “ la la la la la la la .” 

    “You miss him,” Philza says softly, “Just as we miss Technoblade.” 

    Death opens her eyes, something mortal fractured in them. 

    “You want him home .” 

    “We do.”

    “Alright,” Death whispers, “Alright.”

Chapter Text

    Death rounds the desk, slipping the daisy chain into her pockets. With her other hand, she picks up a pen, shuffling a few papers. 

    “There will be a price,” She warns, “I cannot permit you to leave without paying the cost.”

    “Anything,” Wilbur breathes. 

     She lets the west wind’s coin clatter onto the table. It comes to a rolling stop, the punctured slits staring up at him like eyes. 

    “You paid passage for one soul only, only one will be allowed to leave. One of you will have to stay, and the other will walk the way back.” 

    WIlbur freezes, “ No .”

    Philza’s expression is unreadable, his fingers curled into fists. 

    Death smiles wanly. It’s a joyless smile. “You told me you’d risk anything for him.”

    “I know but-” WIlbur sucks in a breath, turning to his friend, “Phil-”

    “I’ll stay,” Phil says, face hidden under the brim of his hat. “I’ll stay behind.” 

    Wilbur grabs at the sleeve of his coat, something surely wild in his eyes. “Phil, Phil you can’t be serious.” 

    Phil looks up at him, eyes full of unshed tears. He beams, “I did say anything, mate.”

    “ Phil ,” Wilbur whispers. 

    “There was something I forgot to mention, during the night by the fire,” Philza says, bringing a hand up to his ear, “But, well, I suppose it’s too late for that now. Here.”

    He take’s Wilbur’s hand into his own, prying open shaking fingers. Into it, he gently places a single emerald earring. 

    “To the gates,” He murmurs. Shaking his head, he looks back up at Wilbur, “Give it to him when you make it out, yeah? Tell him not to meet me too early.”

    Wilbur’s hand closes over the emerald, and he tugs Philza close. Weathered hands wrap around him, and he hears Phil breathe in a shaky inhale, feels his shoulder grow wet. The walls keep out the swing of hammers, the pounding of nails. In that moment, there is only silence, and it wraps around them like a goodbye. 

    “Are you sure?” He asks softly. 

    Phil laughs, “I’ve lived long enough,” He fingers tighten on Wilbur’s jacket, “You’ll be alright, mate. Go do the thing.”

    Wilbur’s heart catches in his throat. He burrows his head into Philza’s coat, hand clutching the earring so hard he feels the metal dig into his skin. 

    “Thank you,” He says, words muffled into cloth, “Thank you for the pleasure of knowing you.”

    “ Mate ,” Phil says, his voice breaking. He weeps into Wilbur’s chest, with the resignation of a man about to die. There is a fear in him, in the tremor in his shoulders. Wilbur holds him tighter in his embrace.

    In the end, it’s Philza who pulls away. 

    He turns to Death, who watches them with saddened eyes. She holds a small bowl in her hand, placing it down besides a small shot of whiskey.

    “Where do I sign?” He asks.

    Death pushes the bowl forward. It’s porcelain, with linear lines like the grids on the red sun painted onto it. But that’s not what catches their eyes. 

    Rolling to a stop in its center, is a single pomegranate seed. 

    She tilts her head to the side, “You know the rules of this land,” She pushes the glass forward as well, “if it helps wash it down any easier.” 

     A single seed. Such a small thing. How it fills Wilbur with dread. 

    “You can still back out,” She says gently, “I’m sure he wouldn’t blame you.”

    Philza breathes out a shaky exhale, picking the seed up with his thumb and forefinger. There is resolve in the set of his shoulders. He puts it to his lips, and swallows. 

    And the contract is signed. 

    He reaches for the whiskey, drinking it in a single burning rush, placing it down with a quiet thump. 

    He looks up at Wilbur, and gives him a small smile. Wilbur can’t shake the way those blue eyes are filled with so much terror.

    “You got this,” Phil says, “You know the way.”

    Wilbur feels the sting of emerald pricking his palm, feels the edges of its cut, the coolness of its metal frame. “Just like you showed me.” 

    Death looks at them with something like pity, and she raises her glass to him, downing what remained of her wine. “The hounds will let you pass. Follow the tracks, back to the surface,

    “Oh, and Wilbur, a caveat,” She says. 

    Wilbur turns back to her once more.

    “Whatever you do, don’t turn back .”

    “My lady- ”

    “Your brother will follow behind you. Walk until sunlight touches every part of you, and do not glance back even once till then. If you do, you will lose him forever.”

    Wilbur feels his blood run cold, “ Why? ” 

    (It’s a trick.) 

    Death fixes on him her dark gaze, “A trial, I’m afraid. If you want to walk out of hell, you’re going to have to prove it before gods and men.”

    Wilbur leaves to the sound of the door closing behind him. He thinks he catches a glimpse of a green coat bent over hardwood desk as it clicks shut. He stands facing the worn door, fingers half-curled over the knob. He might have heard traces of a conversation, if he strains his ears. Around him, the city clangs, eternal in their work. He feels the false sun burn into his back. 

    Traversing the city is trivially easy. The dead part around him, continuing their stream of work. He makes his way to the station, sees the empty seats, the metal sign. He sees the empty tracks. It almost feels like a dismissal, of sorts.

    Until the bell tolls. 

    The souls stop their working, and they look up at him. A million unblinking eyes. He doesn’t hear the whistling call of the train, nor the thunder of its wheels. There is only the silence of the dead city, the echoing throes of hymnal ring. The bell tolls for him. 

    He thinks he might crumble under the weight of their gaze. 

    It’s a long walk. It’s a long way.

    (It’s a test.)

    He breathes in a rattling breath, and places one foot on the railroad line.

Chapter Text

    See, you rarely need to fear the howling and gnashing of hounds at the gates of Hades. They lie down and quiet with the command of their queen. The musician passes them with ease, they part before him like a herald would royalty. 

    No, the meanest dog you’ll ever meet isn’t the wolves guarding the souls of the undead, nor the mutts prowling the streetsides, it’s the ones that howl in your mind. Those are the ones to fear, the ones to run from, however persistently they follow. 

    Their howling will drive you mad, and in the sound of silence, it’s the loudest noise you hear. 

   The musician sings. 

    His voice is frail, like wind chimes. It shakes in the darkness, a fragile song fallen from worried lips. The caverns are too large to echo, too spacious to answer his call. His voice tapers off into the dark. 

    His childhood fear never did quite disappear, did it? 

    Even now, several winters later, the inky blackness of it clings to his skin, like water, like ocean, they threaten to drown him into nothing. 

    He sings. He sings. He sings. 

    ( La la la la la la la )

    The melody curls from his lips like wisps of smoke, dispersing into the nothing without any reply. 

    There are no footsteps behind him, no warmth, no light. It’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold .

    There is no one to pull him under the covers, no one to light a fire, no one to ward the monsters away. 

    There is only him, a broken song caught in his throat, and the storm in his mind.

    How strong the gale. 

    (The wind is changing) 

    (How cold it’s blowing) 

    How treacherous the seed of doubt, that it meets a stranger walking on the road, and unfurls its leaves ready to bite. 

    He feels his soles scuff against metal, his only guide to walking out of Hades. Stumbling, he makes his way slowly against dust thrown floor. 

    ( La la la la la la la )

    Who did he think he was? 

    A poet, a musician, a muse’s son. A grief stricken boy always following, tugging the sleeves of someone larger than life, always looking toward the light cast to burn away his own shadow. 

    There’s no light here. There is no light to burn away the shadows that crawl in every corner.

    Who did he think he was? 

    To challenge the gods, to call upon them for audience, to bargain. Who was he, to be worth being honest to?

    There are no footsteps behind him, there is no life behind him.

    Death looked at him with pity in her eyes. Did she pity how gullible he could be? Did she send him on a fool’s errand, knowing how desperate he was for absolution? 

    Silence. Silence answers him and his questions.

    The emerald burns in his pocket. Its sharp edges cut into his palm, he feels the sting of flesh and blood. He remembers the terror in lapis eyes. 

    He should have stayed, in that office. It was he who deserved to taste that seed, to condemn himself inside the walls of Styx. Stumbling boy, on the railroad line, walking the test before gods and men.

    Could he dare to face his brother, and tell him of the friend he left behind? Could he dare offer the earring like lamb on altar, as if this was his atonement, a meager frame of gold and emerald for the life of his old friend? 

    Was his brother even walking behind him? 

    Was he walking five, ten feet away? Would his feet make sound on the steel of the tracks? Would his breath linger in darkened air? 

    Where is he now? 

    Was he following, as Death promised he would? Or was he among the shades of Hades, blank eyes staring past the tracks, watching him as he tries to act worthy of the gods, performing act of the mortal heart. 

    Wilbur wasn’t sure of many things, but one thing he knew in his very bones was that once he stepped foot out into the sunlight, he would no longer be allowed entry into the underground. 

    Would he walk out alone, fragile smile on his lips, turning to face the morning air? Would the gods laugh at him, as they surely have many times over, by taking the one person he cared for more than he did his own life. Is this a trial, and she told him it was, or was some cruel jest, he a plaything for godly hands. 

    He wants to go home. 

    And when he opens his mouth, to sing the lifting melodies of a faraway song, he finds he can’t quite remember the tune. 

    ( La la la la la )

    And that wraps around his chest tighter than any mortal fear, tighter than the dark that surrounds him. 

    He walks on shaky knees, mute, the dark burned into his vision. 

    He tries to remember the warmth of apple orchards, of plowed fields, of mock fights and shared meals. 

    (Who are you to think that he would follow you into the cold and dark again?)

    There is nothing but the shiver in his spine.

    (Who are you to think that you can hold your head up higher than your fellow men?)

    His voice cracks like splintered glass, like the weight that curls his back and hunches his shoulders has broken it. 

    There is the railroad line, and there is Wilbur Soot.

    For once in his life, he cannot sing. Not the way he did in the office, like light dripped from every note from his lips. Fear clings to every word from his wretched mouth, shaking his voice and breaking his melody and-

    Halting the song he once heard. The song of Spring, the song of home, the song of coming home, and he’s forgotten how it ends. He can’t see how it ends. 

    All he sees is the dark. All he hears is silence. He is so terribly alone.

    (The coldest hour) 

    And then he sees it. Or he thinks he does. It filters in like grain through an hourglass, a small sliver of light. Like a candle in the dark, stark against the pitch black. 

    He doesn’t dare believe it. 

    His steps quicken, sliding over loose soil and rocks. He stumbles over the tracks, shoes catching on the metal in his haste. He runs with the desperation of a mad man, wild eyed and drumming heart. 

    (Of the coldest night) 

    He prays to all the gods that will listen, he prays to Death, and to Spring, and to the winds, and he runs, staggering, tripping, he runs .

    The light widens, like a door, like a way out. It’s almost tantalizing in how close it seemingly is, taunting him as he runs faster than he’s ever ran before. With the light filtering in, he can see the tracks, the dirt, the path to the surface. He’s so close he can taste it, like blood from a bitten lip. 

    And as he bursts through, the warmth of the morning sky hitting his face, and dewdrop air curling against his cheek, the birds sing their birdsong. 

    (Comes right before the- )

    And he turns. 

    Techno stands before him, just the same as the day he left. Red eyes find their way to meet his own. There is recognition there, the familiarity of someone you’ve known your entire life. The sunlight cast rays through him, through the translucency of his skin and clothes. 

    His brother steps up to him, lifting a hand up to wipe away the smear of blood from his cheek. 

    “You’re early,” He whispers, teasing.

    Wilbur freezes, and looks down, to where his foot is shadowed by a jagged rock from the cave entrance.

    He thinks he feels something in him shatter irreparably. Like someone reached into his chest and ripped his heart out, something gaping and hurt and empty. Bitter guilt and shame wraps around him like a chokehold, and he feels a swell of tears sting his eyes. Gauze muffles the ringing in his ears.

     Walk until sunlight touches every part of you, and do not glance back even once till then . 

    Godsdamn it. What have you done .

    “ I missed you ,” He brokenly whispers back, like an apology, a prayer. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. 

    Techno smiles at him then, expression touched with something like forgiveness, something Wilbur knows he will never be able to accept. 

    He holds his brother's gaze for a single second, for a single eternity, and then he blinks and he is alone. The birds sing their birdsong. The wind tickles his cheek. Sunlight beams down at him like fire’s heat.

    A musician stands alone facing the mountain side.

   There is no railroad line, only a grass field and birch trees. Among the flowers, the daisies and orchids and hydrangeas and lilies, the musician falls to his knees and weeps. 

Chapter Text

    And that is how it ends. 

    Don’t ask why, brother, don’t ask how. He could have come so close, just to lose it all in the end.

    It’s an old song. It’s an old tale, from way back then. It was written long ago by weathered hands on soulspun string. The words written in the stars, like poetry, like sunrise making its way to the setting horizon. 

    It’s a sad song. It’s a sad tale. It’s a tragedy. 

    It’s a quiet song sung in tavern corners, a work tale told in the dark of the mines, a child’s rhyme in the heat of the afternoon. 

    And we sing it anyway. 

    Because here’s the strange little thing about heartbreak, about songs written with grief etched into each note. It plays on and on. It’s sung again and again, echoing down the valleys, the mountains, the railroad line. And hopefully, it reaches the shades underneath the red sun.

    To know how it ends, and to still sing it again, as if it might turn out this time. That is the folly of man. 

    But is there anything more precious than our fragile mortal hope?

    Keep that bird tucked into the space of your chest. Feel it fluttering, feel it’s down soft against your heart. 

    And sing with me. 

    On a winter night, there was a railroad track. And a boy stepped onto the cold metal, wind blowing through his golden hair. A train whistle called through the carved path, and the screech of steel soon followed.

    Spring had come home. 

    And Death greeted him with open arms, as she does every time.  

    And world keeps spinning. The souls hum their work song. The city lights burn bright. 

    Somewhere, on a treaded path, a boy wanders. A muse’s son, a brother, a friend. In the dim light of the tree’s shade, an emerald glints in the moonlight, dangling from a single gold chain. 

    Alone, upon the earth, he wanders, a song creeping from his lips. 

    Wherever he is now, I pray he finds his peace. 

   Pour the wine, and raise a cup, to Wilbur Soot, to fallen brothers, and to friends left behind. Raise a cup to thunderstorm laughs and seasonal smiles. Raise a cup for those who survive, those who bloom in the bitter snow. Raise a cup for the one who remained. 

    Raise it high, and drink it dry. Sing your song to the sky, and pray that somehow, the musician hears. 

    For him, and for all of us. For the gods, for men, and for the passengers riding down the railroad line.

   May their symphony be rewritten.