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The first is called Azrael, and its wings are bright and shining like the iridescent patterns of light through oil, dark and viscous but as magnificent as morning and evening could only hope to be. It does not wear a cloak. It does not hold a scythe. It does not walk the earth. It kneels before the mortals and pries their souls from their flesh with nimble hands and clever fingers, and then it is gone as though it never was. Perhaps it never was. Perhaps the glorious feathers are just oil-dipped corvids. Perhaps the talon marks across scorched earth are just the murders of carrion crows. Perhaps the eyewitness accounts are just delusions. Perhaps it is. Perhaps the faint space between life and death dances upon the air of an angel’s wing. Perhaps the eyes of heaven watch those who falter and fumble. Perhaps the angel truly soars over the souls that walk the earth.
She holds its hands and smiles as its wings crumble to naught but ash and starstuff, laughs as it shivers in Her grasp, strokes its hair as She presses its essence into the soul of another. The next is called Michael, and its wings are pale and bleached, reminiscent of bone and the ashes of crystalline stone. The next is Nasirdin, with knives instead of feathers. Next is Sammael, the Enemy. Next is Yamaraja, sharp teeth gleaming in the pale light of the crown and the sceptre and the throne. Next is Saureil, horn of ivory and gold singing dread songs as it flew. Next is Mot, the Land Beneath. For a moment that is eternity that is no time at all, Abbadon reigns.
The people change, but the dance remains the same. There are other Riders. They are not Hers, and yet they are. They are wild things, born of human hopes and human fears and human needs, but even they lead to Her in the end. All things lead to Her. The art of living is running for as long as you can, as fast as you can, as far as you can. What most do not realise is that they run towards Her.
His wings are tar and oil and the sun on obsidian blades. His eyes are the sky and the sea and the waves in endless yet recurring motion. His talons are sharp and shining, as beautiful as all of Her blades must always be. In many old tongues, his name is the word for Destroyer of Worlds. He is not alone. He is never alone. The right hand of Death is Famine. The slow degradation of man, the silent crumbling of the ivory tower, the soft silence after the final scream. The left hand of Death is Conquest. The endless horizon, the light at the bottom of the ocean, the undying hope and fear and need. Famine is the art of not getting enough of what you need for so long that even the smallest of offerings seems as if a feast to be devoured like the desert wanderer beneath the crows. It is not enough. It will never be enough. Conquest is the art of getting what you want without satisfaction for so long that all has been said and done and destroyed. It is not enough. It will never be enough. War stands at Death’s back, moving in equal and opposite motion to end up at the same place. War leaves corpses as cats leave mice, and Death brings War as sins bring torment, and they are the same and they are opposed, for what is Death but the War against Life, for what is War but Death made a game?
War swings his blades and dances to the songs and forgets why he fought so long ago. There was a reason once, a cause for which he would have sacrificed everything, and now he has sacrificed everything and still he fights. The fighting never stops. The left hand of War is Famine. It is said that bellum se ipsum alet, the war will feed itself, but this is only half of the story. War feeds Famine and Famine feeds War, and hunger makes for poor soldiers but feral fighters, and the draft makes for poor harvests but fertile fields, and Ouroboros is spiralling smaller and smaller but still it consumes. The right hand of War is Conquest. They hate and love each other in equal measure, though they never meet and never will. War is born of Conquest and Conquest is born of War, and each only live with the death of the other. Conquest rules the head that wears the crown, and War destroys the head that wears the crown, and Conquest crafts the crown to fit the head, and War tightens the crown’s fit on the head, and they dance in intricate motion that will never collide, and they are everything that the other isn’t, and they are cast from the same mold all the same. Death stands at War’s back, following behind to separate the soul from the flesh, to hold the offerings close as the sun burns down, to delight in the world that is dying and dead and long since gone, charging ahead to bring cataclysm to peace, to incite passion from apathy, to light the spark that War will kindle into a wild flame. The secret: War does not need Death, and Death does not need War, but they chose this, and now they are inseparable.
Famine is a starving child on the streets, a mangy dog beneath the front porch, a shining star that is horribly, terribly alone. Famine is need and desperation and a quiet sort of suffering making itself known in jutting bones and hunched shoulders and gnashing teeth. The right hand of Famine is War. The soldiers came and burned the fields to ash and took away the farmers and left corpses in their stead, and now the children eat rats and leather and wood because there is nothing else. They starve to death, and the others fall upon their corpses. They starve alive, and the others fall upon their still-warm flesh. The left hand of Famine is Death. The crops are naught but rot and mold, and the farmers are naught but bone and ashes, and the children, the pitiful children, they are nothing at all. The animals are cold and hungry and dying and there is nothing to eat but the art of Ouroboros, and even that cannot last forever. Conquest stands at Famine’s back, for they are opposed and alike and distinct all the same. The winners are greedy and gluttonous, and the losers are left with nothing. The winners are left bereft of safety, and the losers are left bereft of food. The winners flinch at every shadow and startle at every noise, and the losers huddle together in the cold and pretend they don’t notice when someone tries to sneak a bite. Hunger rules them, owns them, is them, and they have been conquered as nothing else can.
Conquest runs before it can truly walk and screams before it can truly talk and devours before it can truly eat because nothing will ever be enough. Conquest is want and devastation and a vibrant sort of suffering making itself known in the whispers of the mad and the songs of the damned. The left hand of Conquest is War. Conquest runs onwards and War is dragged behind, or perhaps it is the other way around, or perhaps they are both running and both falling, and they look so similar and so distinct all the same, and they are both sharp and both clever but one is flesh and one is spirit and one of them heals and the other scars, and scars of the soul don’t fade. The right hand of Conquest is Death. Death is Conquest’s Aleph Tav, the beginning and the end, the dawn and the dusk of Empire, woven through the tapestry of Conquest’s existence as eternity sings in the ears of the bold. Famine stands at Conquest’s back, for they are the same image through different lenses. One the winner, the other the loser, and yet they are the same moment and the same side and the same story. Conquest demands a victim, and Famine demands a victim, and the only difference between the two is who hurts. At least they share a victim.
They may not all know it, but they still serve Her. All things serve Her. And She loves them. It may not be love as they know it, but it is all the tenderness She can offer them. It does not amount to much, in the end. It is not enough. It will never be enough.
Imagine the talons of a bird of prey. There are four of them, three forward and one behind. Now imagine the bird digging its talons deep into the flesh of a mortal creature. The creature has four wounds inflicted by the same hand, but as far as the creature is aware, each talon is a separate entity, moving independently to claw at its spine with morbid intent. The talons may not recognise their unity, but the bird knows, and that is all that matters. In this manner, all things serve Her. The difference between the bird and Her is that the bird’s talons will never turn against each other. Her pawns dance to a more intricate tune.
The mortals bleed red, and it is beautiful. The godlings bleed gold, and it is beautiful. She loves them as only She can.
There is a madman set to conquer itself, and a child who needs safety like fish need oxygen, and an angel as absent as the light at the end of the tunnel, and a weapon held in its own hands, and they are not the same, but the harmonies resonate in a way that is almost a chord. Almost.
One laughs, and the others smile, and they call that loyalty. They call that fidelity. They are happy as long as they can pretend there is a common goal. They are happy as long as they can pretend they are in tune. They are happy as long as they can pretend there is progress.
Conquest is victory, and Conquest has been conquered, and the white horse changes Rider far too often. Conquest is victory, and it lost. It is not Conquest.
The monster that wears Conquest’s skin smiles, wide and weary, as ideas spill from its lips like ink and blood and poison.
“Let’s be the bad guys,” it murmurs as it holds Famine’s arm in a grip of iron, and Famine cannot help but crave the days when Conquest was soft. Not all victory is cruel-hearted, not all command is iron-bound, not all blades are meant to hurt, and yet it hurts. It hurts others and it hurts itself and it cannot help but scream as the words on the walls do not align.
Here lies victory, defeated.
War is a game of patience, of tactics, of brilliance and strength and power, and War is the art and the mind and the game, and no one will ever be quite so bright. Famine is not a game, will never be a game, is Life fighting Death and need fighting want, and he is so starved of all the things he’s ever needed. Conquest is victory, but there is no winner here. Just a pit and a boar and a child and a cackling jackal.
War brings Famine, and Famine brings War, but they still should not exist in the same space, for they weaken each other even as they feed the fields of the other. Conquest brings War, and War brings Conquest, but they are still antithesis, opposite, the beginning and the end. Famine is Conquest, and Conquest is Famine, but there is no Conquest here.
Famine bleeds, and War bloodies, and She smiles, for it is beautiful.
There is a room with blood on the walls in intricate patterns of meaning without soul, and the monster that was Conquest longs for the taste of smoke and ashes even as the thought makes it want to weep. It had everything, because it was Conquest. It has nothing, because it was Conquest. Was. The most horrible and beautiful word ever made. There is an ending. There is always an ending. There is a way out. There is always a way out. Even if you want it, even if you don’t, there lies the end. It is beautiful and horrible and magnificent and terrifying, the infinite sea and the distant horizon.
There is something wrong with it.
There is something very wrong.
There is something.
It is not Conquest.
It is Wrong.
Famine craves safety like selkies crave the sea, but War is all he has now that Conquest is no longer, and War will have to do. The warmth of blood is not the warmth of companionship, but it will have to do. The pain of bruises is not the pain of shared burdens, but it will do. Famine was alone, so he found a child to be warm, and the child grew up but he did too, and now they do not align as well as they used to but they still care they still try to care they still want to care.
And War
And War
Death is not something easily forgiven. They still have not forgiven the angel for its sins. He still has not forgiven the monsters for their sins. He still has not forgiven War for its sins. He still has not forgiven, but War is all he has. War is all he’ll ever have. He is alone, and he is cold, and he is scared, and he wants needs wants needs craves stability, but he is Famine, and he never gets what he wants, what he needs. He is alone. He will always be alone.
He will not die. He may want it, but he will not die. He is Famine, and he never gets what he needs. He is alone. He will always be alone.
The pieces do not recognise each other but they play their parts so well, and the difference between the bird’s talons and Her pawns is that her pawns bleed, and it is beautiful. It will always be beautiful.
She loves them as only She can. She blesses them as only She can. She curses them as only She can.
War is callous and bloody and swift, and there is no time for the fragile sort of mercy that is cruelty in disguise. Death comes on silent wings, and there is no scythe but there are obsidian talons. Here is a choice: Die fast or die slow. What do you choose? What will you choose? War is many things, but War is not intentionally cruel. War does not leave the flesh to suffer. War simply leaves the flesh to the crows. War is a bloodstained field surrounded by corpses. War is a stalwart warrior at the end of the long road. War is alone. War will always be alone.
War will not die. War will never die as long as there is Life because Life wants what Death doesn’t, and War is alive in its own way.
He worries, he fears, he loves, he serves. He is many things to many people, but he is alive. He is forever alive.
There is something wrong with Conquest. There is something wrong with all of this. They’ve always been perfectly matched, aligned and opposed, but now Conquest has gone sharp at the seams and vicious at the mouth, and War has gone soft at the roots and quiet at the road, and sometimes they do not recognise the other as their mirror.
There is something wrong with Famine. There is something wrong with all of this. The child has always been bright and feral, wild and desperate as only it could ever be, but now Famine has gone still at the limbs and fearful at the heart, and War has gone empty at the hands and bloody at the teeth, and sometimes they cannot help but stare at the other without a touch of connection in their dead stares.
It’s the choir, he explains a shining day many centuries ago. Her blessing and Her curse. They sing, and he does not hear, does not see, does not think. (They do not remember this because they are not meant to remember this, and the words and the wisdom of the ages crumble to dust.)
It’s Chat, he explains a rainy day a week ago. A gift from his god, both blessing and curse. They speak, and he cannot hear, cannot see, cannot think. (They remember this life because this is all they have, and the words and the wisdom of the ages crumble to dust.)
He serves a god of blood and bone, and he gives all he has to offer, and soon, there will be nothing left of him. (He is blood and bone and soul and spirit, and he does not know because he is not and he is and he is not.)
Famine is hungry. There is little to eat in the catacombs of Paris, and he was dragged down with all the other plague victims without them noticing that he was still alive. Or perhaps they did, and they simply did not care.
Tommy is hungry. There is little to eat in the caverns of Pogtopia, and he was dragged down with the other troublemaker without them noticing that they were falling apart at the seams. Or perhaps they did, and they simply did not care.
Famine is tired. He stands guard at the entryway of a grand palace, and he cannot sleep. He is not allowed to sleep. If he sleeps, then he will be punished, and he will lose his position and quite possibly his life.
Tommy is tired. He stands guard at the entryway of a damp ravine, and he cannot sleep. He is not allowed to sleep. If he sleeps, then Wilbur won’t, and he will lose Wil’s trust and quite possibly his sanity.
Famine is cold. The fire will not catch, and the heat escapes due to an unfortunate lack of a ceiling, and his fingers are purple at the nails. His companions burrow under blankets and covers, but someone has to keep watch.
Tommy is cold. The fire will not catch, and the heat escapes due to the lack of a ceiling in ravines, and his fingers are purple at the nails. His companion burrows under blankets and covers, but someone has to keep watch.
Famine is alone. Everyone else is gone, victims of the plague or the monsters in the night or the horrors of the world, and he is alone. There is nothing left.
Tommy is alone. Everyone else is gone, victims of the tyrant or the monsters in their heads or the horrors of the world, and he is alone. There is nothing left.
His hands look wrong. Rough and scraped from harsh stone, turning colors from the cold, losing calluses from lack of time. Hands such as these could never make music. Hands such as these could hold a sword. He is a musician. Words instead of weapons. His hands are not meant to hold a sword. But no, these hands could never fight. They are shaking. Look, they are shaking as though there is something to fear as though there is something to run from as though there are any monsters but the ones in his own head.
There is something wrong. There is something horribly, terribly wrong.
He slipped, once. He fell off the winding staircase and into the depths below, and there was nothing to catch him but cold stone. It hurt, but what was worse was the way the stone seemed to curve around his flesh in a mockery of the hugs he never seemed to receive anymore. The stone surrounds him now in a mockery of mockery, and his blood a bitter flower from the pain as the monster stares at him with harsh fists and unyielding eyes.
Everything is quiet.
He was hungry. He was cold. He was tired. He was alone.
Everything is quiet.
He is empty. He is numb. He is drained. He is nothing.
Everything is quiet.
Red.
The words go soft and indistinct, and all he can see is red.
The red blood of mortals, of weaklings, of corpses.
The red blood of someone who is perfectly still.
He didn’t kill the kid, right?
Right?
It was just… an argument. One stupid child who didn’t know the way war works, one seasoned veteran who didn’t care enough to explain it to him, and one former president who didn’t see the fear in the child’s eyes. It wasn’t supposed to kill anyone.
The child is breathing. The child is alive.
The child is red.
Everything is red.
Hands. He does not recognise the backs of them. How long has he spent staring at his own hands?
How long has it been?
How long have they been here?
What time is it?
What is time?
What?
What?
The child is red. It’s a subtle sort of thing, but he can tell by the look in the child’s eyes and the twitch in the child’s hands. The child is red.
The other child is dying. It’s a subtle sort of thing, but he can tell by the empty fires that once were burning bright. The child is dying. Not death of the flesh, but of the soul. It’s a slow, insidious thing, but he cannot stop it. He does not have a grasp on the child’s soul, not like the red child does. But the child is red. Put on your own oxygen mask first.
Faith can only carry someone for so long, and the child is red.
The words that once spilled from his lips like swears now stumble on his tongue. His hands falter during the sacraments, and he longs to return to the church he built with his own hands. Hands. Such strange creatures.
The cloth and the flesh and the blood and the bone are red red red red red red red
He is not of the faith of the child, but he holds faith in something, and he knows intimately the loss. He leaves the child a prayer mat and hopes it goes to good use.
Pyrrhus was a wise man and a fool, and he won and he lost and the trumpets that celebrated his victory were wrong, and as he stares down at the corpse of his greatest enemy, he cannot help but empathise with the long-dead conqueror, for this is no victory at all. This was all he had, and this is no victory. He did not win. He failed. This is failure. His enemy died by its own hand, and he was weak enough to fall to that? His enemy died by its own hand, and he was weak enough to not kill it before it died? Either he was a failure then, or he is a failure now, and that is no victory. He is a failure. He lost. He is no conqueror, no champion, no victor. He is just himself now, and he cannot imagine a worse thing to be.
He looks upon the world and feels nothing but revulsion. This was his nation, his country, his blood and sweat and tears, and now it is nothing. His enemy defiled it so thoroughly that he can see nothing of what once was in its corpse. And he cannot even have vengeance. He cannot even have bitter satisfaction. He is a failure. He failed his vision, his nation, his self. He failed. He is just himself now, no nation to keep him soaring, no promises to keep him chained, no hope to keep him alive. The world is so disgusting, apathy an insidious rot as it coils through his veins. He hates it. He hates it so much. He had everything, and now he has nothing. He has nothing at all. He is just himself now, and he cannot imagine a worse thing to be.
So he stops.
He once grew fields of a root crop exclusively to make a nation live and die at his mercy, and when he grew tired of them, he waged a war against what he had sown, and Famine held the children as they starved.
He once faced a monster in the heart of a maze in a dangerous game for his life, and when he grew too wild for them, he waged a war against what he had been sacrificed to, and Theseus screamed as he fell upon the rocks.
He once grew fields of a root crop exclusively to fuel a revolution to kill a nation, and when he grew apart from them, he waged a war against what he had served, and Tommy looked so betrayed as he ran.
He is not their god. He is not their monster. He is not their weapon. They do not get to own him.
Everyone around him, and yet he is alone. He thought– He thought–
He does not want to rule. He cannot trust himself to rule. Look at Wilbur. He is so much less than what Wilbur was, and just because he has less distance to fall does not make him any better.
This is victory, and he does not know if he likes the taste.
This is victory, and he can almost smile through the threads of discomfort in his bones.
This is victory, and he stares at them celebrating, and he thinks that he is happy.
This is victory, and he is happy.
This is victory, until it isn’t.
He looks at the monster and the monsters and the loss of everything, and he cannot help but hate. This was all he needed, and now it is gone. It’s always gone. The pillar of marble and iron is gone. The pillar of honey and gold is gone. The pillars of stability in his life are all gone. Now he has nothing. He is the one who must be stable, because nothing else is. He is himself, and he has always been himself, but now, others grasp his mantle as though he can pull them to shore even as he drowns.
There is a pain in his chest, a bitter, cold agony, and it takes him a moment to realise what it is. That was trust, and this is its absence, and it will never rise again.
He is alone. He is alone and he will never stop being alone. He is alone, and he thought that maybe he didn’t have to be, but look where that got him. Seppuku is an honorable way to die, but death is death is Death is Her, and he will never be able to live with it.
And gods, isn’t that ironic? The Angel of Death unable to live with his own kills. Isn’t that just hilarious? Doesn’t that make you want to laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and LAUGH?
The land is gone. He won. It does not taste of victory. It does not taste of joy. It does not taste of much of anything at all. He is empty. The voices are quiet, and it is only then that he notices his hands.
He does not regret, because there is nothing to regret, but he cannot help but wish that it did not have to happen. But this is who he is. This is what he is. This was always inevitable as soon as they decided to flaunt their hatred of his ways.
He does not hate them. He does not know if he can. He is too numb for hatred, too drained. There is nothing left of him. Nothing left but all that he wanted and acquired and hated all the same.
He hates war. He hates it.
He is cold. He is so cold, and he tries to be warm again, and he tries to be himself again, but there is nothing left of his fire, so he makes his own. He makes his own, and it works all too well, and he is alone amidst the flaming ruins of a house of his life of his soul and there is nothing left of him and there is nothing left of him and there is nothing left
He tried to be fire, but the flames burned down until soot strangled the embers, and all his choices are the wrong ones, it seems.
He could have been good, but then again, he couldn’t. He was always meant to destroy everything he’s ever loved. He needs and he wants, and he never gets what he wants.
He could have just listened. But then again, he’s always had a little too much fire for that.
He was always just a bit too wrong to get what he wants. He was always just a bit too wrong to get what he needs.
And now he is alone.
The tundra is cold, but not cold enough to freeze the fury in his veins. The frost just makes it change form. Blinding rage turns to gleaming talons. Molten fury turns to numbing hate. The voices still scream, but there is a strange sort of distance to them, as though they are not there at all.
The war against war is a difficult thing, but he faces it well enough, he thinks. He does not have to plan or fight or bloody his blades. He does not have to fear or worry or stare at the walls. He is just himself now, and he cannot imagine anything he’d rather be. There is a fickle sort of peace to it all, like a house of cards in a hurricane, held together by nothing more than sheer force of will.
He thinks he is winning.
Prayer spills from his lips like blood, and the fire burns low, and he is cold. At least he has a friend. At least he has someone who will never abandon him, never leave him, never let him go. At least he has someone to keep him.
What are his possessions compared to that? What are his former friends compared to that? What are his feelings compared to that? He could never give this up for anything. He needs this. He needs someone to help him. He needs this help. (And if he needs so much more than that, well… he doesn’t have to know. He can be good. Maybe. Hopefully. He will teach him.)
The hounds feed on flesh and blood and bone, and he will provide. They follow where he roams if he does not keep them bound, but he lets them. They are very soft. They are very sharp. They are wild and wandering, but for all their faults, they will never betray him. They cannot betray him. They may abandon him or use him or profit off of him, but there is no oath or bond or promise to betray. They cannot betray what does not exist.
The walls are old brick and smooth stone and glass and they curve beyond his skull and the ceiling is high high high high high but still he almost feels claustrophobic, and just because the cage is pretty doesn’t make it less of a cage.
Sometimes, he stands on the tracks and waits. And waits. And waits and waits and waits and waits and waits and waits and waits and waits and waits and
The train never comes.
He broke his hand on the wall once. The bloodstain remained, and he stared at it and stared at it, and he blinked and it was gone. His hand did not hurt anymore. Maybe it never hurt in the first place.
The words on the walls that are not on the walls that are on the walls in his mind in his head in his brain are not the ones that he sang so long ago are not the ones that he wanted to sing are not the ones he died for but they are words enough, and he would die for them and live for them and hate for them and love for them, and he hates them he hates them he hates hates hates hates hates
The train never comes.
Sometimes he can see a face in the glass. It takes him minutes hours years days centuries heartbeats eons to realise that the face is his own. He does not recognise it.
The clock on the wall does not work. The clock on the wall is wrong. The clock on the wall is a lie. The clock on the wall is too fast. The clock on the wall is too slow. The clock on the wall is no longer on the wall because he climbed and he fell and he climbed and he fell and he climbed until he could touch it and he ripped all the numbers off and took the hands for good measure and shattered its face and took out its inner workings and fell upon the pieces and tore it all to shreds and when he looked up again, the blood was gone.
There is a clock on the wall. He hates it.
Maybe there is something wrong with him.
He had a prayer book once. He thinks. It was purple with black lettering, and it recounted the words in patterned verse. The book is gone. He burned it. He burned it because his friend told him to and he has to listen to his friend and he has to obey his friend and his friend just wants him to be good, so obviously it was the right thing to do. And when the prayers do not spill off his lips as they used to, when he cannot remember the exact shade of purple on the cover, when he forgets to kneel in supplication one too many times, he does not weep. He is not allowed to.
Animals are so much better than people. They do not hurt him. They do not dehumanise him. They use him because of course they use him, but they use him for the little things instead of the burdens of Atlas. They are kinder than humans. They have simple needs and simple wants and simple hopes and simple fears, and he can balance those on his shoulders easily enough. He does not need to appease them with the words he cannot find or save them from their own heads or pretend that he doesn’t know how they feel about him. He does not need to be anything but himself. And that is peace, he thinks. That is good. He is just himself now, and that is enough.
His knees hurt from where they rest upon stone, but he remembered the color purple for the first time in weeks, and the words fall from his lips like water from the falls, and he thinks that maybe he can be good.
He had a prayer mat once, to save his knees from cold, hard stone. It was in the caverns and caves, the spiralling passageways. He does not know what happened to it.
Maybe it burned in the explosion.
Maybe he lost it forever.
Maybe he lost everything forever because that’s what he deserves that’s what he needs that’s what everyone needs him to do.
The words from his mouth slow to a trickle, then stop altogether.
No, he can never be good.
Feathers. Feathers are soft and silken and oiled and burned to ash and dust and soot because his son his child his sun his moon his star, his world, and there is nothing left there is nothing left there is nothing left and he is laughing because if he doesn’t he’ll cry and he can’t cry he did this he chose this he wanted this obviously it was his sword his blade his hand his bloodstained hands and it’s his fault his fault all his fault.
Blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue he’s not sad he has blue blue blue blue blue and nothing could make him sad when he has blue blue blue blue blue and he could never be sad when he has blue to take the pain away blue to take the memories away blue to stay sane blue to make him numb blue to be free to be empty to be blue blue blue blue blue
He’s not broken. He’s not. He can’t be broken when he has blue.
Here is a truth that people rarely acknowledge: The Blood God accepts blood of all creeds and classes, all types and talons, all knaves and knives. Even your own.
It hurts, but that means that he is paying penance for his sins, and he is a good person will be a good person wants to be a good person and he’s a monster but even demons serve Her in their own way and the prophet of divinity will make him good.
This is peace. This is sanctuary. This is haven, and it is the best thing he has ever known.
The words on the walls the words on the walls the words on the walls the words on the walls the words the words the words the words the words the words the words they are changing they are wrong they have always been the same they are different they are erroneously filed please submit your taxes on the day of the dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead words dead stone dead glass dead station dead soul dead self he is dead he is dead he is dead and still here in his station in Hades dead Wilbur waits dreaming he is dead he is gone he is broken and all he wanted was to close his eyes and never wake up where are the gods where are the gods where are the gods if there is an afterlife then where are the gods
The faith holds him like iron like earth and the ceremonial false burial could be so real if only he jumped. He could be free. His Lord would take him and cradle him close, and even though he wants to be good, he could be safe instead. He could be loved instead. It’s a choice, and he wants to make it.
Does he want to be good? Does he need to be good? Does he need the prophet to guide him when he could so easily fall into divinity like the wounded dove?
Does he need to stay? Does he really need to stay? He could go. He could be loved. He could be held. He could be warm again. He wants it. He wants it wants it wants it wants it wants
He jumps.
He falls.
He flies.
Falling and flying and falling and flying and they are the same until the ground swallows you whole and
He does not get to die.
He has not earned it.
Not yet.
This is a sign. A sign from his Lord, from the divine, from Her. He is not allowed to die.
The Lord wants him to live.
He has to live.
He has tried to perish and been denied, so his life is now his own by the will of the Lord. There is no more penance.
He is free.
He knows he is a monster but he can already taste the blood on his tongue and the blood on his ankle and the blood on his wings that will never stop bleeding that will never stop never heal never get better because he deserves this he’s earned this he killed his son he killed his son
He was just himself, but now they drag him back as though they want to die and they cannot see they cannot know but they are wrong and he knows they are wrong but they do not they are fools and cowards and enemies.
He’s not one to judge alternate morality systems, but they see the Other as foreign instead of a unit and thus unintentionally practice the ways of Ouroboros yet do not see how they are eating themselves alive.
The Prisoner’s Dilemma has the easiest of easy solutions if one realizes that the group is the self and the self is the group.
Society.
He swore an oath once, a war against war, a war against the innermost parts of the self. He swore an oath, but pacifism can’t protect anyone if the war comes to you. He swore an oath, but the world will not let him keep it.
There is no other way.
The blood sings as he dances and the world is so clear and sharp and vivid as the screams echo faintly through the chanting in his ears.
He is winning. He is a champion of the Blood God, and he wins every fight he’s ever had.
And then
His life is his own and his penance is done, but he has nothing from the old to the new. He is not welcome in the place he once called home or in the lands he once knew. There is only one way forward.
This will be his place to hide and prosper and live. This will be his.
His bones knit together with a dim sort of agony that was still nothing compared to the taste of emerald and gold. His flesh bleeds green and for the barest moments, he almost
maybe
possibly
feels
the feather-light touch
of wings
The gold-coated apple tastes like honey and metal and gold and smoke all at once, and he eats and eats and eats and eats even as his stomach aches and his mouth stings and he cannot help but smell blood
He has found his enemy. He has found his purpose. This will be the end of tyranny, the end of false justice, the end of government. This will be the end of the nation that should have perished long ago.
He has a pickaxe and armor forged of iron, and his enemy wears gems coated in metal from a land he could have called home in another life and wields a blade of glistening crystal.
Not even close.
The enemy stares at him through a singular eye and broken teeth as his body falls limp.
Technoblade never dies.
Sometimes he can see ghosts. He knows they are ghosts because their counterparts are still alive. He knows they are ghosts because they have gaping wounds and empty smiles. He knows they are ghosts because one of them has his face.
One of them looks like Tommy. Neck at strange angles, limbs askew, eyes blank and cold. But then the ghost flickers out of the station as though it was never meant to be.
Sometimes, he can see sloping tunnels in shades of blue. He makes the blue ghost claw at the walls just to see if it’s any different.
It’s not.
And then he realises that the tunnels are just his tunnels, that the walls are just his walls, that the blue of the world is nothing more than a mirage.
There is something wrong with him.
Eyes meet eyes, and fear meets blood, and desperation meets violence and oathbreaker meets oathbreaker, and for a shining, crystalline moment, they are perfectly in tune.
“HEH?!?!?!”
One has lingering gold veins and emerald in its eyes. The other has burnt fingertips and old bruises. They say nothing. They see nothing. They are nothing.
Nothing is wrong.
(Things would be so much easier if they just talked.)
If this is friendship, then he has never had any friends in his life. There is a moment where he thinks that he is safe, that he is fine, that he is well, and everything seems to fit together like a jagged puzzle made of bones.
There are people that he can trust. That is worth more than their weight in golden apples.
It’s… nice, having an apprentice. It’s almost like having a self-feeding Steve but weaker and less intimidating. Like owning a fish but one he can touch without possibly killing. It’s almost like a completionist thing, adorning the kid with fancy trinkets and armor and weapons. It’s almost relaxing in a weird way. Here is living proof that there is more to the world than stubborn idiots who cannot see beyond their own little world. Maybe there is redemption.
A word from him, and he would already be back in the life that was not his anymore. A favor called in, and he would be gone. He had thought, perhaps, that he was safe here. How silly of him to forget precisely how precarious his position is.
There is no safety to be found.
He offers the child the greatest gift he can: Trust. Hope winds through his veins to the beating of a silent drum, and maybe this is something he can keep.
The words leave his mouth, and he didn’t mean them, of course he didn’t mean them, yes the discs are beautiful and wonderful and almost magical and so important so very very important, but this is Tubbo.
Take away all the history and attachment and whatnot, and the discs are just that. Discs. Things that play music. He knows the songs already, he’s listened to them hundreds of times. And he can get more. It’s not like there’s only one Cat and one Mellohi. Other people have copies, other people have other iterations. And sure, it’s not the same, but it’s still Cat and Mellohi. His discs are just pieces of plastic.
What is the worth of a disc? Can a disc give him a hug when he’s feeling down or ramble on about bees or plot the destruction of the world or smile at him despite everything? Can a disc give him secrets pried from within its ribcage like precious jewels snatched from a dragon’s hoard? Can a disc cherish a compass? Can a disc come back after death?
Can a disc regret?
Can a disc be as good as Tubbo?
Can a disc ever be as good as Tubbo?
They have chosen their sides. The child is a thief with no honor, and he will never forget. There is no redemption in the world. There is no peace. There are only promises, and those who break them.
The screams rise up from the land, and it’s almost like the Great Dying all over again. There is a sort of bitter satisfaction to a job well done, but even as he tries to grin, he sees the traitor.
They have chosen their sides. The Blade is a murderer with no heart, and he will never forget. People, not things. Hold them close and never let them go. There are only people, and those who hurt them.
The world falls apart, and it’s almost like the first dying all over again. Fear like poison runs down his spine as he watches the world turn to smoke, but even as he tries to run, he sees the traitor.
“You betrayed me!” they yell, and for a blinding, shattered moment, they are perfectly in tune.
(Bleeding hearts, bleeding souls, and it is beautiful.)
The latest ghost has burn scars lacing its flesh, and it wears Tommy’s face.
He smiles, wide and feral, before realising exactly what who he is looking at. Then horror washes away the smile, but not quite the joy, thick and cloying like spoiled milk.
There is something wrong with him.
He could leave the obvious bait alone. He could just live his life now, free from exile. But there would always be a shadow. He would always be looking over his shoulder. He would always be afraid.
He does not want to be afraid.
If he is afraid now, when all is as well as it could possibly be given history, then he will never stop.
He is more than his fear. He is more than his scars. He is more than what they made of him.
He is afraid, but he is more than his fear.
He is afraid, but he is better than his fear.
He is afraid, but he is stronger than his fear.
He is afraid, but he is victorious.
Sometimes, the spider gets caught in its web. Sometimes, the puppeteer gets caught in its strings. But sometimes, the tangles are just slipknots.
That doesn’t make it hurt any less.
That doesn’t make the scars any less vivid.
But when the blood runs down his flesh in vibrant scarlet, he clings to the fading memory of a friend in a white hoodie.
He is afraid, but he is stronger than that. He is better than that. He has power now. He has all the power. He holds life and death in the palms of his hands. He cannot be hurt when he can catch dreams.
He stares at his own face in the pale, blue mirror. He does not like the look of it.
When all the world abandons him, there is red. Red will cradle him close, red will whisper sweet nothings, red will keep him safe. Isn’t it only right that he share this beauty? Isn’t it only right that he protect this beauty? Isn’t it only right that the red red red should get everything, anything, all the world in a warm, red embrace?
(The mortals bleed red, and it is beautiful.)
They call it a vault, and it’s correct enough. Pandora’s Box was meant to unleash horrors. Pandora’s Vault is meant to contain them. It would be so easy to kill the prisoner, but that’s not the purpose of the vault. Containment. Keep it safe, keep it away. That’s the goal.
Nothing else matters.
Not even the child.
Not even the bruises and cuts and burns and blood and blood and blood and he can see Tommy’s bones through his skin what happened what happened what happened
Colloquially, anarchy means chaos. Formally, anarchy is a political philosophy that rejects all involuntary, coercive forms of hierarchy, particularly the state, which is held to be unnecessary, desirable, and harmful. For the Syndicate, anarchy is the end of government and tyranny. It does not have to be. It could be a variety of other things and a variety of other iterations. But for them, it is.
For them, the death of the enemy is enough.
“If you want to change things, you need power.”
He is afraid. Of course he is. He has seen power and faced it and emerged defeated. He is weak. He must be strong. He needs power.
The thing is, Dream was powerful. He had the whole server dancing to his tune, even as they hated him. He just slipped up once, and once is enough. Quackity slipped up so many times, and he is lucky enough to still be strong enough to fight. He cannot lose again. This is the only way.
(Words slip like poison from his lips, and his victims allies fold like mice before the cat.)
He is himself, but he is also more, and he does not want to be. He wants to just be himself with the patchy memory and wishful thinking and fragile mental state, not himself with all of that and actions he doesn’t remember doing, words he doesn’t remember learning, books he doesn’t remember writing. He does not want to be more.
He tried to keep his other self contained. He tried to keep his other self subdued. He tried to keep his other self imprisoned. This is the only way.
(The water burns, but his determination burns brighter, and he can almost feel his eyes start to gleam.)
He wakes up. He steps outside. The world is sand and dust and barren earth.
He wakes up. He steps outside. The world is sand and soot and old memories.
He wakes up. He steps outside. The world is sand and ruins and hidden books.
He wakes up. He steps outside. The world is sand and dark and beating hearts.
He wakes up. He steps outside. The world is sand and pain and piercing questions.
He wakes up. He steps outside. The world is sand and fear and vicious monsters.
He wakes up. He steps outside. The world is sand and smiles and slot machines.
“Power isn’t gained from diplomacy and bureaucracy and giant courthouses suspended in the sky.”
He is not kind. He cannot afford to be. He is a cruel and harsh leader, cold and firm. He must be victorious. He must win. No weakness.
He thought he was safe. He thought the fear was over. He thought the pain was over. He thought it was all over. He thought
He was wrong.
As long as there is even a chance of the monster escaping, he is not safe.
And there is a chance.
There is so much more than a chance.
There is a favor.
A word from the monster, and he would have already been taken.
A word from the monster, and he would already be gone.
He thought he was safe, but he isn’t. He will never be safe until the monster is gone for good.
This is the only way.
“It’s gained from swords. It’s gained from blades. It’s gained from steel and iron.”
He hurts them. He has to. There is only one way to gain power. There is only one way to be powerful. There is only one way to maintain control. This is the only way.
He sees his ghost in flickering shades of blue. Closer and closer and closer, close enough to touch
In the distance, he can hear the faint whistle of a train.
Hope is a delicate thing of gossamer strands, but he manages to cling to it nonetheless.
In his dread house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.
In his shroom house in Kinoko, lost George waits dreaming.
In its dreams, it is alive.
In its dreams, it is red.
In its dreams, it is bleeding.
In its dreams, it is dying.
It does not to die.
It wants to emerge, but it does not want to die.
It does not want to die.
It can’t die.
It cannot bear the thought.
It needs to live.
It wants to live.
It wants to be alive.
It needs to be alive.
It is not alive, but it will be.
It will live when the world is safe.
The world is safe when it is red.
(The mortals bleed red, and it is beautiful.)
He is a god, so he cannot die. He is a god of the sky and the sea and the end of all things, and so his domain is of all things. He is forever while he is within his own power, so he is always forever.
But he is a very young god, practically an infant from forever’s point of view, and he knows in accordance with his age.
Which is to say that he knows nothing.
He walks into the mouth of the beast with nothing but joy in his heart, and he does not walk out.
(The godlings bleed gold, and it is beautiful.)
Call it a common enemy. Call it desperation. Call it any number of things. But here is the outcome: Enemies side by side, back to back, facing a nascent god as one.
(She loves them as only She can.)
“You will have to kill. You will have to torture. You will have to maim.”
The blood spills down the prisoner’s face, and he almost smiles. The prisoner wears crimson well, even if it does not bow to the slow trickle of blood and the harsh crack of pain.
He knew from the start that this was what he would have to do. He knew from the start that it would always come to this. He knew from the start that this was the only way to gain power.
It’s easier than he expected. Just a bit of pressure, and the flesh parts so easily beneath the blade. The bone follows close behind. He thought he would be horrified, but he isn’t. He thought he would be disgusted, but he isn’t. He thought he would be powerful, but he isn’t. He stares at the flesh and blood and bone and feels nothing but discontent.
Home is a place and a feeling and a direction, and the paths are so myriad as to render the odds of encountering another along the way to nearly nil. And yet, sometimes, the odds twist themselves into place. Or perhaps something else twists them. (She loves them as only She can.)
A child and a warrior meet in a hellscape of fire and stone.
He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t doing anything he could get in trouble for. It’s not against the rules to go for a walk and oh so coincidentally run into the prison along the way. It’s not against the rules to look at the prison. And besides, the Blade is an anarchist. Breaking rules, even unspoken ones, would probably earn him brownie points.
These thoughts do nothing to ease his anxiety.
“Hey, big man!” he says, grinning nervously. “Fancy meeting you here!”
Technoblade says nothing. Just stares at him while the pack of wolves crowd around them.
“I was doing absolutely nothing wrong!” Why did he say that? He could have just kept walking. He could have just left.
“Obviously,” Technoblade replies, unamused. “So obviously that one might question why you needed to mention it.”
He laughs faintly, trying to think of something to say in response.
“What were you doing, Tommy?”
He stops laughing.
“What were you doing?”
The words stop in his throat, and he can’t say anything.
“If I find out you were tampering with my stuff while I was gone…”
“No!” he shouts suddenly, desperately. He already has one enemy. He doesn’t need another. “I was just looking at the prison!”
Technoblade stares at him again, raising an eyebrow.
“What? It’s not a crime to do a bit of looking around, is it?” He looks for a way out, but the easy paths are covered by dogs.
“I never said it was. Just wondering why you’re looking at the prison now, when it’s been two months since the last significant activity.”
“I’m not scared or anything.” It’s getting harder to breathe. Maybe it’s the air? Maybe it’s their proximity to a lava flow?
“Never said you were.”
“I’m not a coward. Tommy Careful Danger Kraken Innit is no coward!”
“Again, never said you were.”
“I’m gonna walk into that prison, and I’ll never have to see that stupid smile ever again!”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“And he’ll never hurt me again!”
“Bruhhhh.”
“He’ll never burn my things again!”
“It’s like I’m not even here.”
“He’ll never ruin my friendships again!”
“Seems like a you problem, honestly.”
“He’ll never get to touch me again!”
“Could you move? You’re blocking the path.”
“He’ll never destroy me again!”
“It’s almost like he’s in prison and can’t do anything unless you go to him.”
“I just have to kill him.”
“And what, you’re going to go back into the prison and die again?”
He blinked. Then he looked at Technoblade. “Okay, that’s just too far.”
“Now you’re listening to me? Bruhhh.”
“I’m going to kill him! I’ll be free! Free of his lying and hurting and his stupid face!”
“Or you could just leave him alone and be fine.”
With that, he gets truly angry. “Well, I can’t, can I? Because he has that stupid favor, and one word from him and you’ll break him out! And then I’ll never be free. I’ll never be free of him.”
“Tommy.”
“What?”
Technoblade sighs and puts a large hand on his shoulder. “I owe him a favor, and I will never break my word.”
“So what, you’ll give me up when he says go?” he snaps back, pulling away. “Wonderful. Just wonderful.”
“I owe him a favor,” Technoblade says, leaning closer. “I owe him, but that does not, and cannot supersede my word.”
“Speak English!”
“In exchange for a favor, I can protect you from him.”
Tommy paused, shocked for the first time since blood crossed his eyes and tore his spirit from his flesh. “Indefinitely?”
“Well, not forever, but a favor for each time.” Techno held out a hand. “Deal?”
It was like a weight had been lifted from his heart. It was like relief had stolen his lungs. It was like the first time he had ever gone to church and the chants had echoed through his very soul. He took Techno’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Deal!” He was safe.
“Good.” Techno nodded a few times, then extricated his hand. “Now, could you move? You’ve been blocking the path for five minutes!”
It is only after he turns to tell the blue ghost that the plan is off that he takes a moment to consider. Was the offer made in truth, or as an attempt to get him to stop talking from a socially awkward soul? What would a favor to the Blade entail? What would happen if he couldn’t deliver? What would happen if the Blade turned on him for such an act?
Another thought: A vow of protection. Indefinitely. No terms attached. Protection no matter the circumstance. Even if he invites the trouble. Even if he chooses the trouble. He will be protected. Even if he strikes first.
Maybe the assault is still on after all.
Drink to forget. Alcohol is liquid regret. Blue is crystal nepenthe. It hurts, but he holds the little blue shards and it stops. He wove the crystals into the wool of a sheep into the flesh of a sheep into the essence of a sheep until it’s so strong that just the color can rip his heart out of his chest.
It feels like nothing. That’s the point.
He breathes, and everything is blue blue blue blue blue
In the distance, the train whistle grows louder, and he can almost feel the bench beneath him start to shake. He wanted to die, he wanted it all to end, he wanted peace, but this is not peace. This is not an ending. This is just the beginning, and though there is a shiver of grief of the thought, he cannot help but smile.
He leaves the blue blue blue sheep behind on the day he enters a building ruled by red.
Everything will be alright. That’s what was promised, so that’s what will happen. Even as worry mounts up in his chest, even as sickly purple fear etches itself into his bones, even as he sees the smile of a face so similar yet not his own in the corners of his eyes, everything will be alright. It’s just because Friend’s not there. That’s all. That’s all.
He waves hello because that’s what he’s supposed to do, he’s supposed to be loud and shiny and eye-catching so his friend who is not Friend who is not blue blue blue blue but is close enough can slay the dragon. He smiles. It almost doesn’t hurt.
Tommy slips. The axe falls. The floor pulls away. He is alone with the dragon.
Everything will be alright.
He is alone with the dragon, and the knight in shining armor is gone gone gone gone gone and there is nothing he can do and there is nothing he can do and he doesn’t want to die he doesn’t please please please please please
Everything will be alright.
Please come back please he doesn’t want to die he just wants to see Friend again and let the blue sink so deep into his veins that there is nothing left and visit his baby boy and look at the sun rise one last time and he thought he would be okay with it but he’s not he doesn’t want to die he doesn’t want it please no please no
Everything will be alright.
Not at the hands of a dragon please he just wants the dragonslayer to hold him as he plunges the blade deep into his own heart just like he did with his other son the other self he just wants to be held he just wants he just wants he just wants to die warm
Everything will be alright.
It’s so cold and yet it burns and the stone is frigid and aflame in the same instance and he is so cold so so cold please no please just let him get out of this place please he wants to live he wants to go away he wants to die at the hands of his father as his other self did so long ago he wants to be held he wants to be warm
Everything will be alright.
There was a promise and a sheep and a child and they’re getting all mixed up now and he can’t tell them apart he can’t tell any of it apart please please please please he doesn’t want to die he doesn’t want to die he just wants wants wants wants the air and the sky and the sun and the blue and the blue and the blue blue blue blue blue
Everything will be alright.
He wants to see Friend again and watch it nibble grass as the cool, crisp air of early morning brightens into the warmth of the daylight as his father smiles at him and holds him close for the first time for the last time for any time he has never been held he has never been cradled he just wants to go home
Everything will be alright.
But home is gone home never was home was people and places and a great nation with a song and a flag and walls to keep us safe walls to keep the monsters at bay but the monsters stole his people and the monsters stole his world and the monsters stole his nation and there is nothing left of home
Everything will be alright.
He promised he promised he promised and he lied and still he keeps lying but the numbers but the numbers but the numbers he’ll play along if only to pretend
Everything will be alright.
He said it’d be okay! He said it’d be okay! He said–
The whistle blows, a hollow, echoing sound that he can feel down to his bones, and for the first time in thirteen years, he can see the dark outline of a train. His smile is a sickly thing, sharpened by long years of isolation with nothing but a pack of cards that doesn’t exist to whittle down the hours and crimson flowing from shattered hands. He knows but does not care. It is his smile, and he is done changing himself for other people. He is done being anything but himself.
He can see the train in full now, shining with lights of its own. There are faint gleams of violent and gold, the shimmers of enchantment, but his focus is consumed by the first person he’s seen in years. A smooth, pale mask stares back at him, eyes empty and cold. He should feel something different, something less gentle, more vibrant. He hated this man. He worshipped this man. He fought this man. But he can muster nothing but a faint sense of gratitude, though faint is a relative term. It is weak compared to what he felt in life, but still far stronger than his petty bouts of rage in death. There is nothing but gratitude towards the green god in his heart, and the very thought is enough to freeze his smile in place as he battles with disgust. Gratitude? Gratitude? As though his savior this person has done anything for him.
Except rescue him from the cold and dim train station. Except come fetch him when all else failed. Except give him hope when nothing else ever has. Except be there when everything else abandoned him.
Of course he is grateful. How could he be anything else?
He smiles warmly at the first person he has seen in years, at his savior, at the conductor of his ticket out of this place, and he boards the train.
He cannot even spare the slightest scrap of pity for the twisted reflection that takes his place.
He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it. He thought it would work. It would have worked if he hadn’t slipped up. If he hadn’t failed. It’s all his fault. If it weren’t for him, Ghostbur wouldn’t be… wouldn’t be…
He didn’t mean it. He didn’t.
That doesn’t absolve him of the consequences.
It hurts. That’s the first thing he feels. It hurts, a dull and throbbing pain that seems to radiate from everywhere at once, and the world seems so soft at the edges and blurry at the seams. His eyes, his eyes, they burn. He can’t feel the stone floor beneath his feet where it should be where it always is where it should always be. He can’t feel anything that he should. Where is the slightly stale air? Where is the flickering torchlight? Where is the bench? Where is everything?
The first thing he sees when his eyes adjust to the blinding light is blue. Soft blue wool on the face of a sheep that seems so familiar and so disparate and he shouldn’t be smiling, why is he smiling, why is he smiling?
What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with this stupid blue sheep named Friend that he can’t stop smiling at? What’s wrong with him?
Why is the child telling him to be calm? He is very calm. So very, very calm. No calmer person could ever walk the earth. He is so very calm, and as such, he is perfectly justified in backing away and snarling.
Why is the child offering him drugs? Crystalised sertraline is not something to be used lightly. He’s used it himself a number of times (more than that, let’s be honest, he’s been dangerous with it, but Tommy’s not depressed), but where did Tommy get it? He had his own special recipe for the crystalline form and told no one. And he’s throwing it too! Sertraline isn’t good for animals, especially not in human-sized doses. What’s wrong with the child?
Everything hurts. Everything hurts, and it all feels so weighty on his bones as though there is something wrong and he does not know where he is where is he where is he where is he where is he where is he where where where where
Oh. L’Manberg. He doesn’t recognise it. He did all this? He rendered the mighty earth to naught but dust? He did this beautiful terrible thing?
It takes him a moment to recognise the emotion swelling up in his chest as pride.
His world can be neatly divided by each explosion he’s ever seen. It’s almost beautiful, in its own way. Almost shining. The sparks and the smoke and the dust reflect the light of the flame, and it is something that could be admired.
If he was a crueler soul, he might even smile as he watches the mercenary mourn the loss of the only home he’s ever had. But he doesn’t. He just watches. It almost feels worse.
The world is so much prettier now that he knows all the words for things. Being primordial ooze was fun, but this is even more fun! He loves the world! He loves it so much.
It’s obvious. So very obvious. But if there is even the slightest chance of legitimacy, then he must follow. He cannot go back on his word. Without his word, he has no trust. Without his trust, he has no honor. Without his honor, he is nothing more than an animal. He is a warrior, a leader, and his soldiers must be willing to follow him into the abyss. Fear leads soldiers for a time, pretty words for longer, but honesty sharp as a blade longest of all.
He has never led soldiers. There were no armies when he was young, just sprawling worlds for the taking, and he has never led solders. He is far too young for that. He is a mere score and change years of age, and there have been no wars save those of his own making. He has never led soldiers. He has never led soldiers.
And still he remembers the polar nights huddled together for warmth with mighty warriors dressed in white and blue as the fire burned down. And still he remembers the sun that never sets. And still he remembers the aurora australis.
He has never led soldiers.
His comm beeps. A new message.
<Technoblade>: Dream called in the favor.
<Technoblade>: I always keep my promises.
<Technoblade>: Even for you, traitor.
He hasn’t seen the sun in thirteen and a half years. It’s so much brighter than he remembered. It burns, but he savors the feeling. It’s the first warmth he’s felt in thirteen and a half years.
Three days, he said. Three days. The fifth day (at least he thinks, it’s hard to track time in here without a clock) marches along at the pace of a lazy panda. He’s worried about Phil. Something must have happened. Something went horribly, terribly wrong.
There is only one way to gain power. There is only one way to win. He neither wants nor needs resurrection. He is alive, and he trusts no one to return him from the grave after he is gone. But the puppeteer is useful only because he is the only one who knows the art, and once the knowledge is his, the puppeteer no longer needs to exist. And here is the trick of it: Once the knowledge escapes, the first one to own it is the ultimate authority. No one wants to die. No one wants to die forever. How long could someone fight while knowing that eternity could be theirs if only they bent their knee to the crown?
He is so tired of visiting again and again and again, and even the blood running in rivulets across rough obsidian brings him no joy, and he is tired. He is so, so tired.
He has a world now, a world of his own, and if he was slightly more naïve, he would consider that enough. But he has been sharpened by hardship, tempered by struggle, and he knows intimately that his pathetic little world is not enough. It will never be enough.
The child is his, but the years have been long, and perhaps he has forgotten his place. He cannot claim the shining hoard of the new dragon, but he can hold the child’s hand as the dragon clings to what is not his and never let go. If the child bruises, so be it. So be it. He will not let go.
He would have allowed it. Maybe. If the child could have proven that it was the best thing for him. But the child needs him, needs him like cygnets need the ducks. He’ll grow up eventually, and when he does, he will be glorious, but he is just a child now. It’s alright. He’ll be taken care of.
Equal and opposite and equal and opposite and equal and opposite and the dragon is not so bad once he has been defanged, and he almost feels pity for the dragon. It’s so small, really. So, so small. They are not the same, but they could have been, in another life. Possibility.
Confrontation is not his strong suit. He likes pretty words and pretty lies far more, but there is only one way to gain power. The dragons have been chained. The only two people who can really touch him are imprisoned at his control. This is his chance. His only chance.
Look, he’s not usually a panicky guy. He has faith in himself and his abilities. But it’s been three months, and his plans have fallen through entirely, and something’s wrong with Phil. His anxiety is through the roof right now, and it’s made worse by the homeless Teletubby he’s been trapped with. Always with the “woe is me” quips, always so tragic. At least there’s an emotional support dog.
“I have a pickaxe, and I’ll put it through your teeth!”
The duality of man. Victory and failure. Strength and weakness. Triumph and despair. There is a subtle difference between seeming to be something and actually being something. War is powerful. War is seen as powerful because War is powerful, so powerful that it becomes obvious to any observer. The aspiring heir to Conquest is seen as powerful because it is trying to be seen as powerful, so powerful that it becomes obvious to any observer. And yet the heir is not powerful.
If only he had won. If only Conquest could reign again.
He remembered the number, but time is a social construct born long after he stopped caring for the trappings of mortal minds. He could almost feel guilty, if he tried. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t think he can anymore.
Call it hatred, call it justice, call it vengeance, it’s all the same. He wants something. He’ll do anything to get it. So he does.
He didn’t mean to kill him forever. He didn’t.
He got what he wanted. He got everything he wanted. It’s not enough. It will never be enough.
He does not cry. He does not cry. He does not cry. He is better than that. Stronger than that. He lost, so he needs to save everything that’s left. He’s lost everything else. He can’t lose Las Nevadas too.
He promised to get the green man out of the prison. After that, it’s his own business. He always keeps his promises. Even to traitors. Even to children. Even to former friends.
He is a person. He is a person, and the child chose his discs over that, chose his enemy over that, chose everything else over that.
But no matter. He always keeps his promises. Even to traitors.
His tail wags back and forth as he follows the Liege to the black box. He is a good boy. A very good boy. He even has a name now! He is a very good boy. The bestest boy. He’s the only one going with the Liege! The bestest bestest boy.
He doesn’t even complain when his nice fur gets singed. Such a good boy.
He doesn’t even complain when his eyes hurt from the fire water. Such a good boy.
He doesn’t even complain when his inside parts fall outside. Such a good boy.
He doesn’t even complain when his eyes close for the last time. Such a good boy.
The bestest boy.
He has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s all for it, whatever it is. The obsidian looks pretty nice, honestly, and lava flows are visually pleasing. Very satisfying, honestly. He still doesn’t know what’s up with the “stolen valor” part, but he’s honestly doing alright.
Free stuff? Yes please.
A place in the Syndicate? Yes please.
A free place to stay? Yes please.
Today was a very profitable day.
The blade sinks into his chest, and it’s so sharp that it doesn’t hurt until after the blood spills down his suit. Green and red, perfect Christmas colors. Maybe he could just skip buying paint next Christmas and use his blood as decorations. Or maybe that’s the blood loss talking.
“He has Michael,” he says, and the last of the light fades from his eyes.
<Technoblade>: He’s free.
<Technoblade>: I always keep my promises.
Even with the promise of safety, he is still afraid.
He has an old friend to visit. A very good friend. With friends like him, who needs enemies?
<TommyInnit>: youj saod you woduld protsdt m3
<TommyInnit>: yoijf porwoesed
<Technoblade>: Where are you?
<TommyInnit>: yow sadd id bde safe
<Technoblade: Tommy, where are you?
<TommyInnit>: mt hwouse in trapo
<Technoblade: On my way.
The jukebox breaks in less than a second beneath his axe. The disc follows suit. The child is huddled into a corner, hands over his ears. He kneels down to be at eye level.
“I always keep my promises, Tommy,” he says. “Even for you.”
Death sits at an empty table and slowly chews a handful of poppy seeds.
War holds an axe in a single hand and awkwardly offers comfort with the other.
Famine shivers in a dark room as the laughter of the enemy echo through his mind.
Conquest is dead. Long live Pestilence.
She loves them as only She can. Most would not call it love.