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There is a crow perched on top of a fence-post. Its eyes, blank white, survey what is left of the village. The feathers don’t make it an omen, but the bone-white eyes are found in no natural bird: milk-glazed, and yet sighted, their scrutiny carrying the weight of Fate behind them.
Techno never cared much for fate, even centuries ago when it still applied to him. But this omen means something special.
He thought he recognised the style - travelling through the valley he’d noticed a child who had been struck by lightning, and wondered. When he’d smelled the smoke - soft pine burning, in this valley of hardwoods, the notes of it familiar - then, too, he had wondered. They had been afraid of strangers, all the villages of this valley, and Techno had wondered why - but he hadn’t known until he’d come upon the killing and known the angle of every knife wound intimately, remembered the shape and weight of the blade that had caused them, seen even the corpses of the fools who had let their killer close enough to touch. Perfect unmarked corpses, those - healthy, in all but that they were dead. Unblemished, unmarred, the soft brush of Death-blessed fingertips had torn the light from them.
Techno knew the ways Phil killed. But he hadn’t been certain until he saw the omen; the crow was still perched at the top of the fence post, unfazed by the body slumped at the bottom. It cared little for the death all around it, bound as it was to one who trailed death like a cloak, played with it was a way to pass the time. Immortality, after all, got boring fast.
“Hey,” Techno says into the morning silence. The crow tilts its head his way, eyes boring into him. “You good there, buddy?”
In a flurry of feathers, it alights upon his shoulder - he had barely been able to track its passage through the air, so quickly had it moved. The thick fabric of his cloak provides ample purchase for its talons. There’s a faint chill in the air all around it, but Techno doesn’t shiver; if he’d ever flinched from Death, it’s worn off by now. He knows Her well, after all. Not quite as well as Philza, but … well enough.
The sun rises late in these valleys, having to claw its way over the mountains, before spilling brilliantly and all at once down the slopes, flooding the villages with light; as gold creeps into the dead village, Techno looks up, expectant. The sun cradles the corpses. The crow on his shoulder gives a low, agitated caw. Phil is not waiting to the east, silhouetted against the sun - it’s only his style when he wants it to be - but Techno feels the air shift against his back, keyed as he is into the very fabric of the Universe, one with its favour. He knows reality intimately. (Has been, on rare occasion, intimate with it. Kristin … knows people. Phil can be … overenthusiastic.) Thus it’s impossible to surprise him; he knows, even before turning, the exact shape of the man at his back.
But then, he’d know this man’s shape blindfolded. Would know it as a mortal, as human. Would know the crescent scars gracing his chest, the hollowness of his bones, the way he leaves feathers in the sheets even when his wings are hidden away; Techno keeps one of those feathers, those great dark feathers, on a pendant at his throat. It’s smaller on the pendant, the size of a normal bird’s. Were he to remove it, his arm would be tiny in comparison. Those wings have always dwarfed his husband’s shape at full size; it’s no wonder he keeps them small and palatable as he travels among the mortal. Anything like truth would attract the wrong kind of attention.
“You must’ve been really bored,” Techno observes drily. The chuckle from behind him is more familiar to Techno than his own laugh, and has quite literally moved the universe; in the mid-morning light, it feels almost mundane. Brilliantly so. As though, were they human, they would love each other still. “How’s, uh, how’s your Lady?”
“‘Your’,” Phil says with a chuckle, and he’s skirting Techno even as Techno turns to face him; they meet halfway. There’s a new scar, white and moon-like, across Phil’s cheekbone; it will fade, Techno knows, with time. Everything does, even the deepest of wounds. His hair’s drawn back into a messy bun, and a few strands hang loose, framing his face; Techno wants to touch them. He doesn’t. Instead, he looks, and looks, and looks. “As if she isn’t yours just as much.”
“Well, we’re hers,” Techno says, words a little clumsier, a little stickier, as they always are when he hasn’t seen Phil in a while. “How is she?”
“Good.” Phil’s grin slants diagonal across his face, not unlike the slash of a knife. Techno’s missed it. “She sends you this.”
(The crow, giving an offended caw, flutters away to watch them from a nearby branch. Techno rolls his eyes, just shy of fond, and does his best to ignore it.)
Phil’s always had to reach up if he wants to kiss Techno; this is why Techno knows, deep and familiar, that the look in his husband’s eyes is one beckoning him to lean down. Phil had always been a lazy bastard when it came to things like this. He huffs, a piglin thing - he’s in his half-shifted form, which he supposes is for the best since Phil insists it’s the most ‘interesting’ to kiss. (He doesn’t really get how it makes any difference, and Phil had made sure Techno understood that he would kiss any form, anywhere, any time; it’d been a bit of a wasted spiel, honestly, since Techno’s not super fussed about the whole kissing thing anyway, but he can admit it might have been a sweet gesture if they were the kind of people to be sweet. They’re a little mismatched, always have been. That’s okay; they talk it out.)
Then Phil’s kissing him, just briefly, Death on his lips. Literally, Techno supposes, leaning into it; this is ostensibly from Kristin, after all. Techno’s met her only a few times, touched her even fewer, but she’s been sending him affection with Phil as a proxy for as long as Techno can remember. Sometimes she’s there, sharing Phil’s body - they have similar but distinct smirks, and Techno had, once, become very familiar with both of them, very adept at telling them apart. (Once, her possession ritual had gone a little wrong; the three of them had been stuck in one fused body for the better part of a century, and it hadn’t actually been that terrible.) Mostly, though, she tells Phil to pass something on. As she has this time - a brush of lips, nothing too intense, just enough to remind Techno hey, I love you too, not just this feather-brained idiot. They’re not primary partners, but Techno loves her as well as he knows how.
Phil draws back, eventually; Techno stays there, stooping, close, eyes almost closed. He says, as dry and dignified as he can manage, “She sent that? Nothing from you, then?”
“I think,” Phil says, with a satisfied little huff of breath, “this is enough for the two of us.” He lifts his head slightly, nudging his forehead against Techno’s, then settles back down - onto flat feet, Techno realises with significant amusement, because he’d had to rise onto his tiptoes to reach - drawing Techno after him. They rest there, in the sunlight, leaning their foreheads together. Techno cracks an eye open after a moment to find that Phil’s have fallen shut; content, he closes his own again, can’t help pressing a little harder, just briefly, affectionate. Phil laughs, again, into the silent morning. He was more than right; Techno doesn’t mind the kissing, especially because he knows it’s most of how their Lady expresses affection, but it’s never his first choice. Resting like this … it’s different. Not better, but … closer. More Techno. It feels like putting down roots, in a world that will never let them do that.
Around them, an empty village begins to rot; Techno doesn’t mind. They’ll head back into town soon, with Techno shifted into his best human form, with Phil’s wings hidden away, neat and palatable; it’s far more tolerable when they have each other. When they know the truth of each other. Masking isn’t so bad, when they’re together - they’ll get a room, and Phil will let his wings sprawl across the bed, and Techno will murmur the old Piglin ritual words, and they’ll be their whole selves. Ancient. Undying. Not quite living, but doing their best to stave off the boredom for the rest of their time on this earth.
“Wanna head back into town?” Phil mumbles, just quiet enough that only Techno can hear him. It’s unnecessary - there’s no one alive for miles - but it feels warm, nonetheless.
“Yeah,” Techno murmurs, matching his volume. “Let’s, uh, let’s stay the night.”
The next village over is small but alive, in the same human way that gigantic cities can house thousands and feel long-dead. And yet the villagers seem wary. There’s a look in their eyes that Techno has seen on millions, as though Death stands behind them with her scythe held idly at her side; they must have heard, then, about Phil’s work.
“Were you just … bored?” Techno asks, glancing to his side. It should be jarring, to be that much closer than usual to Phil’s height - not that he doesn’t still have a foot and a half on his husband, but his human form is certainly his shortest - and yet his brain constantly catalogues Phil’s presence, is hyperaware of every movement, and he knows exactly where to look to meet Phil’s eyes. Phil’s wings, too, are hidden away. If Techno stares, he can almost make them out, that shimmering disturbance in reality - but he doesn’t bother. No need to weaken the glamour without good reason.
“Yeah,” Phil says, and shrugs. His grin is the one with teeth; sun flashes across them. The main street in this village is bright and sunlit, and midday blesses it like a lover, light flooding the street from the sun’s position directly overhead. “Not my best.”
“It seemed a little pointless,” Techno says fondly. This is where he and Phil have often differed. Pointless pain just bores him to inflict; he prefers to punish grudges, while Phil loves the deliverance of it, treats each body as an offering to his goddess.
Sure enough, Phil digs an elbow into Techno’s side, leaning briefly against him. “You know me.”
“Unfortunately,” Techno says. He knows that Phil can read what he isn’t saying.
It’s always been Phil’s job to do the talking when they’re together, not because Techno isn’t capable but because he just doesn’t enjoy it very much. So, when Phil spots an inn advertising open rooms, he’s the one to chat up its keeper at the counter; Techno looks on, unbothered, and marvels at how utterly charming his husband manages to be. To the point that their room is several coins cheaper than the advertised price. (Phil makes some kind of overture towards the innkeeper’s coming in and ‘checking the room’s alright’ - Techno rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest. As long as Phil’s enjoying himself, toying with them like this, Techno doesn’t really care what he does or who he does it with. And besides, the innkeeper will probably be dead a day from now.)
The innkeeper waves them upstairs, noticeably flushed, and Phil laughs as he beckons Techno upstairs into their room, the key tucked away into his sleeve. There’s lightning in his laugh; he’s the eye of a storm, Techno supposes, that deceptively calm patch of peace. “You’re being cruel to them,” he says, faintly amused.
“Hey, they might be a good fuck,” Phil says, shrugging. Then, even though he’s asked a thousand times: “D’you mind?”
“Nah.” Techno sets his broadsword down upon the bed, tracing the sigils inscribed upon it - most of them Kristin’s work, but Phil had helped, and they’d presented it to him in their best approximation of a Piglin wedding ritual. At Phil’s brief glance, he rolls his eyes and sets it in the stand at the bed’s side instead; Phil has a thing about blades on the sheets. “You’re so picky,” he drawls, and it’s thick with familiarity, with weight.
“Just how I am,” Phil shrugs, and across the room, the air begins to ripple; his wings spill out of the fabric of the room and then don’t stop unfolding, a dawn in shades of darkness, an impossible iridescent void. They’ve been called eldritch. Techno supposes they’re pretty enough. Phil stretches them once - they should dwarf the room, but reality has a way of bending her boundaries for Philza’s sake, and instead it seems to warp before their eyes. Then he draws them close, gives a pleased shiver, stares at Techno with horridly imploring eyes.
“Aw, come on,” Techno complains, already on his feet. He’s never once told Phil no when it comes to this - not even the first time, back when they’d been mostly-mortal and fragile and so very young. (Techno sometimes imagines what those selves would think, could they see himself and Philza now; they’d been such idealistic things. Like children. The first time Techno had preened Phil’s wings, he’s pretty sure Phil hadn’t even met Kristin yet - wow, that puts things into perspective.) Techno crosses the room, then settles into place at Phil’s back, then leans a little closer out of habit; Phil turns and rests their foreheads together for a moment, laughing into it. Preening’s always made him giggly. Techno threads his hand into one of Phil’s wings - not exactly helpful, just resting there, both teasing and a moment of intimacy - and waits until Phil snickers again and twitches the wing, a silent signal for get the fuck on with it, as affectionate as anything spoken out loud.
Techno huffs, that low Piglin song of affection - it had been a lullaby in one breath, that sound, back home - and sets to work. A loose feather here, a snag of aether there - no one else could do this, not for these wings. It’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. Techno doesn’t quite make a noise at the state of them, but Phil hears what he doesn’t say anyway.
“It’s not been that long,” he says.
“Longer than I’d like,” Techno mumbles.
“A day is longer than you’d like,” Phil retorts, and Techno has no comeback for that.
Then there’s voices - shouting - at the door. A mob. The townspeople. Techno doesn’t stiffen - he doesn’t need to, with nothing to fear, but anger begins roiling in his stomach at the interruption. Across the room, his broadsword’s sigils hum to life, casting a red glow across the bed. “They’ve worked out who we are,” he says, mildly annoyed, and some stranger begins knocking furiously on the door.
“Ah, well,” Phil says, stretching, his wings shimmering death-blessed before Techno’s eyes, reminding themselves of their true allegiance. Of their true nature. “The peace was nice while it lasted.” His laughter is as golden as the dawn.
But we were never really made for it, Techno thinks, and summons his sword.