Work Text:
When the lever is pulled, there are only two places to look.
The skirmish in the stands stutters. All eyes go to the sky, to the anvil loosed into it. Off-black struggling against the night sky, the anvil could almost vanish, were it not for the brutal finality exuding off of it in thick, commanding waves. It's impossible to look away from, even when it moves too fast to truly be seen.
It takes on the eager eyes of the butcher, his hand still on the lever, devouring every second with a rapt, ravenous hunger. It takes on the sharp eyes of the archer, sharp and precise in contrast to his shaking hands, because even loosing a useless arrow is better than watching helpless. Even the condemned casts his eyes straight up, watching the anvil swallow the sky.
Every spectator gathered that day watches the anvil's descent. They watch death slough off Technoblade like water off an umbrella, a man-made miracle brought to life before their very eyes.
But when the lever is pulled, there are still two places to look:
The anvil or its mark.
What do you see in the face of a man who knows he is about to die?
No mortal creature has ever stared death in its face and won. Death does not do anything so human as to hesitate. Humanity always flinches first.
Technoblade is so human that he aches with it.
Despite the rumors, Technoblade can bleed. He does not bleed the golden ichor of gods. He bleeds bright, vulnerable red. No matter how heavily he dresses it up in gleaming netherite and outlandish boasts, how heavily the whispers of a god of blood cling to his skin, his skin is tinged pink by the red that runs below the surface.
Despite the rumors, Technoblade's blood spills the same as anyone else's, and he knows it.
Technoblade knows enough about blood to realize that the anvil making contact will splatter his across the whole stage, the diameter larger than he is tall.
Technoblade's knuckles are white around the totem.
He knows that he'll be okay, but the knowledge is shrouded, as though shouted to him over the din of a crowd. After all, fear has never once cared about something so trite as knowledge, except when it can use that knowledge to roil the stomach and race the mind.
Okay is a distant concept, for a version of Technoblade in the far-flung future, so out of reach he may as well be a different person. Still, even "okay" does not mean unscathed.
Worse, after all, is that he knows this will hurt.
Despite the rumors, Technoblade can feel pain. He feels it in every battle in the form of a hundred gashes and burns and breaks, in a million bumps and scrapes and bruises, in his weighing heavier in sore muscles.
He feels it outside of battle, too—Technoblade is plenty familiar with the way betrayal stings in the pit of his gut, the backs of his eyes, the lining of his throat. He is familiar with how his chest aches every time he sees Phil's jet-black feathers taper off into grey-black ash or when Phil's eyes cloud over with the grief he won't let himself feel. He is even familiar with the petty little burn that simmers in the undersides of his eyes when he hasn't gotten enough sleep.
Despite the rumors, Technoblade's skin splits the same as anyone else's, and he knows it.
Technoblade knows enough about pain to realize that nothing he has ever experienced before will compare to the anvil making contact.
Technoblade has never been so aware of the wind.
It is sparse, gentle, only strong enough to ruffle his hair. It's not particularly cold, especially compared to the snow of Technoblade's home.
It billows, brushing over an old stain set in Technoblade's otherwise white shirt.
If asked, he wouldn't be able to pinpoint the source, though he'd notice the lapis-blue hue and be able to conjure a few guesses. It could be from enchanting, or from dyeing a firework star, or from one of Ghostbur's many good-natured gifts.
But he hadn't worried about how it looked when he'd dressed that morning. After all, the stain rests just above his ribs, where it would be safely guarded below his chest plate. Technoblade is rarely without his armor, so no one would ever see it. Not even Phil, which is good, because the man would have made fun of him for it for sure.
He has no armor now. The stain is exposed to the open air. He thinks he might be freezing.
There are very few people who would describe Technoblade as anything but unflinchingly brave, near to the point of arrogance. Most would think him terrifying. Few would ever think him terrified.
Despite the rumors, Technoblade can feel fear. It takes him in little moments, when he finds himself in crowds of strangers he doesn't know how to interact with. It blankets him with panic as he stands on a stage and his his brain goes blank, Tubbo's face reflecting the same frantic buzz he hopes he can keep from his voice. It seizes him as he watches a sword rest at his horse's throat, as he looks up to see Phil cooped up in his balcony.
In any other time, Technoblade would take the fear and turn it on its head. He prepares for hours before any battle, his mind racing with anything and everything that could possibly go wrong, allowing him to do everything and anything to counter it. His strength rests in his preparation, in his planning, and it makes him fearless.
There is no plan, here. He is surrounded by enemies, his only friend is in chains. He has no weapons, no armor.
Despite the rumors, Technoblade's hands shake almost imperceptibly around his totem, and he knows it.
What do you see in the face of a man who knows he is about to die?
Technoblade's face is pale, and sweat drips down from his hairline. His eyes are blown so wide that his pupils nearly vanish. His slack jaw is balanced out by shoulders so tense they may as well be iron, bunched up around his ears as if they can take the weight bearing down on his skull. His breath catches in his throat, as if practicing for the moment it will not be needed. His heart pounds, and he hears nothing but.
It might have been likened, if he were feeling generous, to thunder. Technoblade does not feel thunderous.
Technoblade is scared.
The anvil connects, and the sound is a wet, resounding crackle, reverberating through the bones of everyone who hears it. Red smears in a vibrant, damning arc across the stage, but in a blink it is gone, totem drawing it all back into his body, and all proof of Technoblade's mortality goes with it.
Technoblade dies, violently and brutally, but Death fumbles, allowing Technoblade to scrabble out between her fingers. His spectators watch an anvil connect with a feat fit for the gods. In the destruction of the totem is a creation of an idol, a monster. It is a man larger than life; too powerful to feel mortal peril, to feel mortal pain, to bleed mortal red.
What do you see in the face of a man who knows he is about to die?