Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Technoblade is falling.

Plummeting through smoky, ashen air, the taste of iron on his tongue and the feeling of embers drifting against his singed feathers, his wings beat out helplessly. Careening this way and that, tumbling like a ragdoll through the crimson Nether skies, he can’t tell which way is up. His left wing burns—quite literally, flames licking along dark red feathers, dark droplets falling from the open wound there. Behind him, the ghast shrieks its awful wail, hidden somewhere behind the great pillars of netherrack. He has the briefest moment to feel relief, evading its searching eyes, before he catches a glimpse of the ground rushing up to meet him.

His wings flare at the last second. Burnt and aching as they are, they catch the wind and cushion his fall just enough to not shatter bones on impact. It still hurts. He hits the ground at a bruising speed, all the air rushing from his lungs in jagged wheeze. His arms, outstretched to catch himself, crumple against the stone, shielding his head from the worst of it. He can’t even summon the energy to cry out, too busy focusing on urging his stuttering lungs into action.

For a long moment, he lies winded, motionless on the floor of the Nether.

All around him, beneath the ragged sounds of his own breathing, he can hear the steady crackle-pop of lava. In the distance, he hears the ghast moaning, but it’s moving further away now, having lost interest in its wounded prey. With his face pressed up against the hot stone, he heaves a weary sigh of relief.

He’s safe.

At least, as safe as a grounded avian can be in the Nether.

“Crap,” he groans, as the impact finally catches up with him. His whole body aches, the world spinning around him as he pushes himself up and onto his elbows. His wings flare out instinctively to balance himself, and that sends new fire through his veins—white-hot and prickling, stemming from the joint of his left wing and tingling all the way to the tips of his primaries. Gods, that ghast had gotten a lucky shot in—the blast connecting with his left side, burning through feathers and fabric alike. Blood trickles down his arm from a similar wound on his shoulder, though it’s hard to feel the pain from it over the agony in his wing. Wings are sensitive, and it’s been years since he’s been unlucky enough to sustain an injury like this.

Luckily, he came prepared for something like this. It may be his first time in this part of the Nether, but he’s not a complete fool. He pushes himself up and into a sitting position, and reaches for the bag slung across his good shoulder. It takes a few minutes of fumbling with the clasp to get it open, his hands shaking violently and his vision fuzzy from bloodloss. He throws it open, and feels the pit in his stomach widen into something bottomless at the sight that greets him.

His potions are shattered. Precious, life-saving liquid seeps into the fabric of his bag and onto the Nether floor, glass shards clinging to what little other supplies he carries. They must have broken in the fall, and now he’s left with nothing.

No potions. No totems. No wings to fly his way to safety.

“Alright. That’s…” He tries to push his way to his feet and fails, his knees wobbling beneath him like the legs of a newborn calf. He settles for sitting on a short ledge, stretching out his wounded wing with a pained hiss, allowing it to drape across the warm stone beneath him. “That’s fine. This is fine,” he assures himself, staring out at the endless sea of red—great netherrack cliffs and a sea of bubbling lava as far as the eye can see. “We’ve been in tighter spots, this’ll be no trouble.”

He pulls out his communicator to check his coordinates.

It crumbles in his hand.

“Heh?”

Well. That’s great.

All of this for some measly gold—not even enough to make a dozen golden apples. He groans, burying his face in his hands as his mind races, juggling a hundred different scenarios and possible ways for him to get himself out of this mess. Nobody will come to rescue him—he’d set up his portal far away from any villages, next to the first foundations of his new cabin. He’s on his own, and it’s not like he’ll find any friendly faces in a place as hostile as the Nether. Every mob for miles wants him dead, so the best he’ll be able to do is lie low and pray he can retrace his steps back to the portal before he runs out of food.

Or blood.

Right. His wounds. He needs to bandage them—needs to keep moving. Every second wasted is precious lifeblood wasted, and though his hands shake and his wings rattle behind him, wracked with shivers, he fumbles with the hem of his shirt, moving to tear a wide strip loose to use as a makeshift bandage. 

Before he can, though, a flash of movement catches his eye.

He freezes. Even his breath catches in his lungs, every instinct screaming at him to hold still, to remain motionless and blend in with the russet rocks around him. His eyes, though, follow the movement, darting toward where he swore he saw a flicker of something gold. There’s nothing there, though—just the barren, rocky terrain and the crackling flames tracing the occasional crack and crevice in the stone. He sighs, some of the tension draining from him, and turns back to his work, moving with a new swiftness. He can’t stay for long—can’t risk lingering in the same spot where the ghast could find him, or worse…

Stones rattle behind him. He jerks upright, wings bristling behind him, and turns to find himself face to face with—

A piglin.

Immediately, he recoils. He falls hard on his hip, wings flaring out to avoid being crushed beneath him. He scrambles instinctively for his sword, fingers curling weakly around the hilt, but the creature in front of him immediately holds its hands—hooves?—up. It stares at him with wide, strikingly blue eyes and a sheepish smile, and makes no move to attack.

“Sorry,” it rumbles in a light, low, oddly-accented voice, and it takes Technoblade a long moment to realize that the beast is speaking to him in Common. A little broken, a little clumsy, but Common nevertheless. “Didn’t want scare you.”

“…What?”

The piglin’s brow furrows. It hums, and then tries again, speaking slower this time, every syllable careful and over-exaggerated. 

“I am sorry. I not mean to scare you.”

“No, I—” Technoblade blinks. “I understood you, I just—what?” His mouth opens and closes wordlessly a while longer, and then he’s finally able to force out the words. “You can speak?”

The piglin’s expression hardens.

“Obviously,” he says, with far more sarcasm than Technoblade thought possible. He holds out a hand expectantly.

Technoblade blinks. 

“Uh…” He’d forgotten about what he’d been warned about—the customs of the Nether, the importance of trade in their culture. He doesn’t exactly know what the piglin is offering in return, but it’s clear what he expects, so Technoblade starts digging through his bag until he finds it—a small handful of gold nuggets. He wishes he at least had an ingot, but he hasn’t had a chance to melt anything down yet, so this will have to do.

He places the gold in the piglin’s waiting hoof and gives a slight smile.

The piglin’s face immediately drops. He blinks down at the gold, quirking a brow, then back at Technoblade—then back again. 

And then he promptly chucks the gold back at Technoblade’s face.

“Your hand,” he says, voice nothing short of a growl. Tentatively, Technoblade holds his hand out again. The piglin seizes it and hefts him upright with surprising strength for such a small creature, Technoblade’s legs wobbling only briefly beneath him before the piglin presses up against his side to steady him. “Not so hard, see? Not here to hurt,” he says, looking up at Technoblade with a wide smile now, as though finally satisfied.

Technoblade struggles again with the right words to say, utterly perplexed. From what he’s always been taught, piglins are violent creatures, using brute strength instead of words, only sparing those willing to trade valuables like gold and precious gems. This creature, though, seems almost meek— smiling up at him with a wagging tail and a calm, soothing (if sarcastic) voice. He looks… soft. No—that’s not quite it either, because he’s got a sword and potions strapped to his belt, and Technoblade can see the muscle beneath his fur, scars parting pale pinkish-gold as he moves. This piglin is a warrior, there’s no doubt about it.

But he’s also no brute, either.

“Come with me,” the piglin says, and it isn’t a request. The shorter creature tugs on his good arm, gesturing with his snout toward the warped forest in the distance. He makes a soft rumbling noise deep in his throat, not altogether unlike one of Technoblade’s coo, and it’s oddly soothing. “My house over there. I can heal you. Come.” His tail is still wagging. He looks far too eager about this. Technoblade considers refusing, but truth be told, he’s grounded in the Nether with a bad wing, and he’s fresh out of healing supplies. This piglin is probably his best chance at survival.

Besides…

He looks at the size of the creature, his hat barely coming up to Technoblade’s chest as they stand, his form lithe and slender. Technoblade, in contrast, is a bird of prey, bulky and muscled and tall, with sharp talons and the instincts of a trained gladiator, and the chorus of the Blood God singing in his veins. 

He’s pretty sure he could take this guy in a fight, if worse came to worse.

He goes with the piglin. Together, the two of them travel across the rocky, uneven ground, ducking beneath looming pillars of red stone, dodging around the place where the ghast looms in wait, staying carefully out of sight. Oddly enough, it seems to be the only threat around, the ground free of the usual hoards of zombified piglins he’s come to expect. The strange golden piglin looks at ease on the ground, his fur smoothed down and the smile still spread wide across his muzzle. With the floppy hat hanging over his eyes, it’s hard to take him too seriously. Technoblade, despite it all, finds himself relaxing, too, as the piglin leads him down winding paths through the grove of trees and toward a curtain of vines.

“House here. Safe here,” the piglin says softly, one hoof outstretched to the wall. He tugs at the vines, parting them to reveal a small grove inside, sheltered from prying eyes. Within, there’s a small, patchwork hut, and, oddly enough, what looks to be a garden beside it. As he’s led through the tangle of vines, he looks up and sees the cavern’s roof dappled with glowstone, almost like stars. It’s quiet, and if Technoblade didn’t know any better, he’d almost expect to see a little stream bubbling around the back of the house, a picturesque scene in the middle of the Nether’s hellscape. It’s a strangely domestic little home for a piglin, but, then again, this particular piglin has already been full of surprises.

“Come,” the piglin says, ears flattened against his skull. He casts an anxious look toward where the vines are still swaying, yet to settle. “Patrols come. Stay here. Stay inside.”

Patrols. Piglin patrols, no doubt. He’s not sure why this one is so afraid of them, but he follows him toward the small little home, allowing himself to be led down a stone path to the green-wooded door. It’s built with surprising craftsmanship, intricate little designs carved into it—skulls and mushrooms and great, big wings, not unlike his own. The piglin opens it and beckons him inside, and Technoblade hesitates for only a moment before following, beckoned in by the scent of something cooking and the soft glow of candlelight.

He promptly hits his head on the door frame.

“God,” he hisses, clutching at the now throbbing lump on his forehead. The piglin rumbles out something like a laugh, tugging him down into a nearby chair as he grimaces and rubs at the new injury. Everything inside is too small— a kitchen table and chairs short enough that his knees would knock against the table when he sits—a bed in the corner that his feet would surely hang over the edge of. It would probably be endearing, were his skull not throbbing like it’s been split open.

“Not that hurt,” the piglin suddenly huffs, as if hearing his thoughts. “Big bird act like piglet.”

Technoblade glowers.

“I heal,” the piglin continues without skipping a beat. He turns around from the chest he’s been digging in, a roll of bandages tucked under one hand and a single potion in the other. He trots proudly over to Technoblade, tail swishing behind him. “Sit still,” he orders, as Technoblade eyes him skeptically. He doesn’t look like much of a healer. He’d rather do it himself, but—

A towel, damp with potion, swabs at the gash on his shoulder. He hisses at the sting, starting to pull away, but the piglin holds firm, keeping him steadily in place. His ears flick as he works with surprising deftness, cleaning out the wound as the potion begins to work its match, stemming the worst of the bleeding. Technoblade’s feathers bristle at the pain, but he’s no longer worried about the piglin’s capabilities, so reluctantly he holds still and allows him to work. He moves onto Technoblade’s wing next, and his hooves are surprisingly gentle as he tends to the burns there, handling the tattered feathers carefully so as not to bend or break them further. 

Technoblade feels his eyes starting to drift shut as the piglin starts to bandage them, soft white fabric swathed across his injuries by competent hands—or, rather, hooves. He opens them only once his bad arm is being lifted, cradled in a makeshift sling across his chest. 

“Finished!” the piglin chirps proudly, stepping back to survey his work. It might be a bit overkill, but he can tell by the look in his new companion’s eyes that any protest would be immediately shut down. Technoblade wisely keeps quiet.

Instead, he reaches for the gold in his pocket again. It’s custom to trade, right? Piglins like gold, and this one shouldn’t be any different. The last thing he wants to do is let this debt go unrepaid, so he gathers an even bigger handful this time, holding it out expectantly to him.

He’s met with a withering glare. He quickly places the gold back in his pocket.

“Thanks,” he tries instead, and the piglin’s features soften. It’s clear that he recognizes the genuineness in his tone, his smile returning—albeit this time a bit softer. 

“You’re welcome,” the piglin answers. He settles down in the chair next to Technoblade, his tail curling around one ankle. “You live far? Long walk?”

“I’m not sure where my portal is,” he admits.

“Lost?”

“Yeah.” The piglin’s brow furrows at the admission, his snout crinkling. “I’ve been traveling for at least a day or two, and that was with my wings.” He ruffles his good wing, casting a forlorn glance at the injured one. Even with the help of the potion, he’ll be grounded for a while until it fully recovers, which could take weeks. He’s not looking forward to making the journey back on foot. And it’s not like anyone’s going to come looking for him, either. “Look, do you have any supplies I could borrow? I don’t have enough for the trip home, and I—”

“Stay. Heal. Go back when fixed.” 

“I really can’t stay, I need to get back to—”

“Big bird die if walk.” The piglin is adamant, his fur bristling a little. “I take care. Help. Make tea.” He gestures brightly toward the kettle on the stove. Technoblade blinks.

“Look, I appreciate it, but—”

“Stay.” The piglin clings to his arm now, looking up at him with bright, eager eyes. “I fix. Bird fly again. Get strong. Heal.” His ears perk up, his eyes wide and round like a puppy’s. “You teach me speak. Friend.”

“I teach…” He ignores that last part for now. “You want me to teach you how to speak Common better?” Technoblade asks. The piglin nods eagerly.

“Yes. Fair trade.”

Crap. Trading. The guy doesn’t want to trade with gold, he wants knowledge. Taking a look around, Technoblade can see the books scattered around the place—old, worn leather novels and even tattered children’s books, probably stolen off of some poor unfortunate travelers. There are paintings up on the wall—recreations of book covers, crudely drawn charcoal images that somewhat resemble the Overworld. The piglin must catch the recognition on his face, because he jumps to his hooves, clapping his hands together. 

“You know?” he asks, pointing to what looks like mountains. Technoblade nods, and the piglin makes a happy, churring little sound, bright and delighted. “Teach me! You stay. Tell story, teach me. I heal. Teach you.” He gestures toward the door, and the Nether waiting outside. “I know Nether—know tricks.”

Technoblade nods slowly. As much as he hates to admit it, the piglin’s probably right. He can’t make it back on his own like this, which means that he either needs to find somewhere to live until he’s healed again, or…

Stay here.

“Stay,” the piglin insists again. 

After a moment, Technoblade reluctantly agrees.

“I’ll stay,” he says. “But only until my wing heals.”

The piglin smiles, nodding back at him with no shortage of satisfaction. He plops down into the chair beside Technoblade, looking up at him with undisguised curiosity, hooves drumming against the wood of the tables. And then he seems to realize something, head jolting up, ears pricking in surprise. He turns to face Technoblade fully, waving to get his attention, and then he points to himself, to the very center of his chest, and speaks again.

“Philza,” he says, and it takes Technoblade a moment to realize what he means.

“You’re… Philza?”

A small nod. Technoblade is struck by unexpected warmth as the name settles in his mind. It fits the piglin, oddly enough, and it’s nice to finally have a name to go with the face of his savior. He finds his lips twitching into a smile of their own as he stares down at his new companion. Philza smiles right back.

“My name’s Technoblade,” he offers.

“Tech–no,” Philza’s brow furrows as he tries out the unfamiliar syllables on his tongue. “Techno!” He looks so excited by his success that Technoblade doesn’t have the heart to correct him, not when his tail is wagging a million miles a minute. “Techno stay, live here!”

“Only for a bit,” he reminds him. It doesn’t seem to dampen his spirits. The little piglin sets about rearranging his house from top to bottom, throwing out a blanket and pillow in the corner for Technoblade to sleep on, grunting and squealing to himself in his own language as he tidies the place like he’s preparing for house guests. It’s strangely domestic. 

It’s comforting.

Before he knows it, he’s being handed a book and a cup of tea.

It’s a book of mythology—of the heroes of old. It’s actually one of Technoblade’s favorites, and he smiles as he opens it, thumbing through the pages. Wood squeaks as Philza scoots his chair closer, leaning against the table on his elbows, eyes wide and bright and curious.

“Read?” he asks simply.

Technoblade laughs, shaking his head with a weary sigh.

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll read to you for a bit.”

They make it through half of the book that night. 

Chapter Text

Technoblade hates the Nether.

It’s cramped, and hot, and impossible to fly in with a Ghast lurking around every corner, waiting to launch a fireball at him. Nevertheless, he finds himself venturing into its depths yet again, abandoning the open skies of the overworld in search of something far more precious. The problem is—he’s looking for someone about half his size—one that just so happens to resemble every other piglin he sees wandering the cliffsides. Luckily, he’s walked this path often enough to have it nearly memorized, even if the Nether is always changing, shifting with the ebb and flow of molten tides. 

So, yeah, he knows where he’s going. Probably.

It’s just… been a while, that’s all.

“Philza?”

Technoblade’s wings tuck a little tighter behind him as he ducks below a curtain of low-hanging vines that enshroud the cleverly-hidden nook, hiding it from prying eyes. It’s a good disguise, one that keeps piglin patrols from straying onto his friend’s property, but, damn, if it doesn’t make the guy hard to find. Technoblade’s teeth grit as the vines trail along his feathers, but soon enough he’s made his way into the gaping cavern, and sets his sight on the familiar, quaint little cottage in the Nether.

“Philza?” he calls again, and he hears a soft clatter from behind the cottage in response. “Philza, it’s me—Technoblade. You still alive, old man?”

Sure enough, he is. The little piglin comes trotting around the corner of his home, that stupid floppy hat draped across his ears and a basket of mushrooms hooked around his elbow. When he sees Technoblade, he beams, throwing his hooves out to either side with delight.

“Techno!” he says brightly. “‘Bout time you showed up again, mate!”

“Sorry,” Technoblade laughs, with a sheepish burn to his cheeks as he moves to meet the piglin’s embrace. “Been a little busy. Seein’ the world, fightin’ in tournaments, y’know…” Phil snuffles pointedly at his messy scruff, and Technoblade laughs, shoving his snout away. “That tickles—get away, you overgrown pig.”

Philza huffs, ears twitching beneath his floppy sun hat as he shoves a hoof right in Technoblade’s face, the other hand resting pointedly on his hip.

“Leave me alone for months again, and I’ll make a pillowcase out of your feathers, you bird-brained fuck.”

And with that, he turns, leading a slack-jawed Technoblade into his home.

“So, what’d you bring me this time?” Phil asks, setting his basket carefully down on the old wooden table at the window. It had been a gift from Technoblade years ago, carved sloppily with untrained hands, yet no less loved. Phil had insisted on a wooden one, despite the dangers of keeping wood in the Nether, and Technoblade’s grateful to see it still in one piece. He cracks a smile at Phil’s eager anticipation—the way the little piglin rocks on his heels, the way his hooves fiddle together while he waits for his gift.

It’s become tradition for Technoblade to bring a piece of the overworld back for him with every visit. New building materials, flowers, even food. Phil delights in all of it. His walls are adorned with sketches, beautiful renditions of the flashes of scenery he’d glimpsed during his brief, disastrous voyage out of the Nether. Smudged charcoal depicts the forest that sprawl in front of Technoblade’s nether portal. Messy graphite sketches make up the silhouette of his home at the foot of the mountains. Phil is fascinated with the overworld, and everything in it, and Technoblade delights in feeding his friend’s curiosity whenever he can.

This time, though, he has a special surprise for him.

He gestures for Phil to take a seat. 

Phil promptly doesn’t, his tail flicking behind him as he goes to put on a pot of tea. Blue eyes crinkle with warmth as he turns to look at Technoblade over his shoulder, and the avian is overcome with a rush of fondness that nearly sweeps him off of his feet. The tea cradled in his hooves is the kind Technoblade brought back so many months ago, and it’s clear Phil’s been saving the last of it for this very occasion. His ears flicker and his tail curls loosely around his ankle and his snout twitches with barely-contained excitement, and Technoblade is quickly reminded just how childish the old pig can get when he’s worked up about something.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Phil huffs impatiently, lips curled around his tusks in a teasing smile, though his eyes betray a hopeful gleam. “Gonna make me guess, this time?”

“Hmmm.”

“Oh, you motherfucker.” Phil laughs, bright and breathy, accompanied by the familiar whistle as the water comes to a boil. He’s quick to pour them both a cup, and only then does he settle down at the table beside Technoblade. The familiar aroma of overworld herbs and flowers rests on Technoblade’s tongue as he takes a deep breath—it’s Technoblade’s favorite, the kind he’d brought specially for Phil to be able to enjoy—and when he shoots Phil a knowing look, the piglin just shrugs, muffling another laugh.

“Right, then.” Phil’s brow furrows as he taps his hoof contemplatively against his chin. “You bring me some new building materials? Some of that shit from the ocean monuments, like you were talking about?”

“Nope.” 

He almost feels bad when Phil looks a little dejected at that.

“Okay… New food then? New spices, or something?”

“Better.”

Phil’s tail flicks impatiently behind him, fluffy tip brushing against the floor. 

“Fuck , dude, I don’t know…”

Technoblade grins. Slowly, carefully, he reaches into his satchel, pulling out the precious parcel inside. It’s small, wrapped in at least six layers of protective cloth, and Phil looks utterly perplexed as it’s handed to him. He shoots Technoblade a bewildered look before setting the object gently down on the table, unwrapping it with tentative yet eager motions. 

“Well, I know you’re always starin’ at those sketches on your walls, and you always complain about the Nether getting boring…”

The last piece of cloth falls away, revealing sparkling glass beneath. A single bottle, the contents swirling with a dozens colors, bobbing lazily as Phil lifts the potion up to the light.

“Techno, you didn’t…” Phil sounds on the verge of passing out, his voice hoarse and disbelieving.

“I figured—probably about time you were finally able to see it again with your own eyes, right?” Phil’s mouth opens, and Technoblade pushes on, eager to shove away the twisting of doubt in his own belly. “For good, this time. I hope. That is—” he swallows, his heart in his throat, “—if you want to. Come with me. Live with me in the overworld. If you want.”

Phil is silent for a moment. A long moment. He stares down at the potion in his hooves, his mouth opening and closing silently, his ears pinned tight against his skull. For a heartstopping second, Technoblade thinks he’s overstepped—

But then warm arms are closing around his waist and tucking beneath his wings, and his ribs creak as Phil squeezes him tight, buying his face in the folds of his shirt.

“Thank you,” Phil breathes, and Technoblade pointedly ignores the way the shirt grows damp beneath Phil’s cheek. “Gods—thank you, Techno.” Technoblade’s chest squeezes with something warm as he pulls the piglin a little closer, great red wings folding around the two of them. He can’t judge Phil for this little moment of weakness—not when the poor guy’s been trapped in the Nether all his life, stuck staring at shades of red and orange, with nothing but rough netherrack beneath his hooves and no sunlight to warm his fur. If anyone deserves this freedom, it’s Phil—and, gods, is he happy he’s able to give it to him.

Phil pulls away with a breathy laugh and a hiccup, scrubbing at his eyes as he takes a few steps back to lean against the counter. There’s a suspicious wobble to his jaw and a shine in his eyes, but he’s grinning from ear to ear as he hefts the potion.

“You sure it’ll work?” he asks.

“Positive,” Technoblade answers. He’d spent months poring over every ancient text he could find—hell, he’d even convened with the Blood God to ensure he wasn’t about to kill his best friend. “Can’t guarantee it’ll be fun, but… it’ll work. You can come with me, Phil. You can finally leave.”

Phil laughs again. All in a rush, he starts to hustle around his home, gathering supplies and tossing them haphazardly into bags. He only takes a few things—mostly gifts from Technoblade, a few momentos from the Nether, and jewelry—precious chains of gold and jewels, the kind he always keeps hidden beneath the folds of his robe. There’s not much—Phil’s never been one for material possessions, most of his heart poured into the landscape and home around them. It takes him only a few minutes to gather that which he deems crucial, and then he’s at Technoblade’s side, ducking beneath his wing to peer up at him with wide eyes.

“Ready?” Phil asks, with a little bounce. Technoblade smiles, unable to help the soft noise that bubbles up in his chest, something halfway between a coo and a chirp that has Phil’s grin sharpening into something teasing. He grabs gently onto Technoblade’s wing, tugging it around himself, knowing exactly what he’s doing as the avian’s instincts go wild, pulling him tightly against his side like a hen would her chick. 

“Awww, mate,” Phil teases, snuffling from behind soft feathers. His nose is cold against Technoblade’s wing, and his feathers puff out—which makes the piglin sneeze and squawk in protest as they tickle his nose, pushing his way out from under the limb. “Chill the fuck out, dude—I’m not going anywhere,” he says, as though he’s somehow innocent, which makes Technoblade retaliate with a playful shove. The two of them dissolve into a playful scuffle as they make their way out of Phil’s home, and it isn’t until they’ve made it a good ways off that Technoblade realizes Phil hasn’t stopped to look back—not even once.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, watching his friend bound up the steep cliffside toward the familiar purple glow, his bag slung over his shoulder and a smile plastered to his face. Phil blinks down at him, head cocked ever-so-slightly to the side and his brows furrowed, as though Technoblade has just asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just—well, this is your home, isn’t it?”

Phil snorts.

“Mate, this place hasn’t been ‘home’ since I was a kid.” Phil’s shoulders set, and he casts a long look to the side—out over the lake of lava, past the forest, where far beyond a bastion sits. He’d told Technoblade about it before—hell, Technoblade had visited on his own. It was where he was born—where he was raised, until he’d been cast out from his sounder for his differences, left to die by a patrol of his own family. He’d been young then—a teenager in piglin years, though Technoblade’s not sure how it translates when not even Phil knows how old he is. Phil had made a life for himself on the outskirts, hidden away from his own kind, scorned first as a disappointment and later as a curse. This place isn’t his home any more than the Pit had been Technoblade’s, and he can see it in his friend’s eyes now as he stretches out a hand, offering Technoblade a support to lean on.

His home is with Technoblade, now.

Technoblade grins, and takes it.

Together, they scale the cliff, weaving around the narrow switchbacks that carve their way through the netherrack. It’s hot, sweat dripping uncomfortably down Technoblade’s back, and he’s never been more grateful to set eyes on the portal. His wings flap eagerly behind him—a little hop-skip as he bounds forward toward it. Phil is quick to bound after him, his hooves clopping softly against the hard stone beneath, a delighted chuckle following at his heels.

“Oh my gods,” Phil says, with a giggle suspiciously like a squeal, clapping his hands together as he’s cast in a soft purple glow. “Holy shit —it’s finally happening—Techno, hurry up, let’s fucking get out of here already!”

“Are you sure you’re hundreds of years old?” Technoblade grumbles good-naturedly as hooves poke and prod at his back, shoving him forward. He bats Phil playfully over the head with one wing, unable to suppress his own laughter. His friend’s excitement is contagious, and it’s quick to quell Tcehnoblade’s rising concerns.

Well. Most of them.

He eyes the potion dubiously, scrutinizing the swirling, glittering contents. It’s going to work. It has to. That’s not what he’s worried about, though.

Will Phil regret his choice? Will this new world be everything he hoped? Have Technoblade’s stories been promising false hopes? Has he been idealizing things too much? He prays Philza will not be disappointed with what he finds on the other side waiting for him. He hopes his meek little cottage in the mountains will be good enough for his friend—he hopes Phil won’t grow sick of his company once they’re finally together for more than a few days. He hopes and he prays that Phil won’t grow tired of the world—of him—and that he won’t be left behind in the end. He wonders if the dangers of the overworld will prove to be too much—when even the smallest things are different, and he wonders if Phil will ever spend sleepless nights awake fearing the new threats that lurk outside their home.

And then his frantic thoughts come to a screeching halt—like a bucket of icy water dumped over his head as he remembers exactly who he’s fussing over. 

Phil. Philza. The “God of Death” to Technoblade’s “Blood Angel”, and gods, if it isn’t a fitting moniker. He’s seen why they fear the piglin—understands why they avoid his home like the plague.

Beneath his small stature and friendly disposition, Phil is hell waiting to be unleashed. Technoblade never believed in magic before he met Phil—at least, not like the storybooks told. He’d seen the magic of the gods, sure, but Phil… Phil is a witch, a disciple of Death Herself. With every breath, he steals life away. With a wave of his fingers, he can cure the rot from the Nether piglins, freeing their trapped souls at last into Death’s embrace. Technoblade has seen Phil at his most powerful—the whites of his eyes turned black, shadows curling around hooves, the very air around him turned cold.

Phil is Hers. Technoblade learned long ago not to underestimate him.

The tension in his heart finally begins to settle as they pause in front of the portal. Phil turns to him with one hand extended, and Technoblade carefully hands the potion back to him, watching as the piglin carefully unstops the bottle, squinting down at the contents.

“Well, no turning back now,” he says brightly. “Down the hatch!”

Without further ado, he tips his head back and downs the potion in one gulp.

He promptly starts coughing.

“Phil?” Technoblade is at his side in an instant, bracing the piglin with one hand on his shoulder as he chokes and wheezes, doubling over. “Phil! Phil, are you okay?” Phil lifts a hand as he attempts to catch his breath, hooved fingers splayed wide.

“Shit’s… shit’s fucking vile, dude,” he gasps out after a moment. “What the hell did you put in that?”

False alarm. He breathes a deep sigh of relief, shaking his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose between two taloned fingers.

“Trust me,” Technoblade deadpans, “—you don’t wanna know.”

“Gods.”

“Awww, quit bein’ so dramatic, old man,” Technoblade teases once Phil’s caught his breath, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve and looking rather offended. “A potion’s hardly gonna kill you. Besides, are you gonna let something like that stop you from gettin’ through that portal?”

Phil immediately brightens.

Got you.

“You’re right!” he says, puffing out his chest and squaring his shoulders as he stares down his challenge, bracing for what’s to come. A shiver seems to run through him, starting out small before rattling him down to his hooves, his strawberry-blonde fur puffing up and nearly doubling his size.

“Relax, man,” Technoblade soothes. “It feels a little funny, but portal travel is painless, I promise.”

Phil nods.

“Right. Let’s—let’s just fucking get it over with, then, yeah? Enough talking.”

Technoblade wisely doesn’t point out that Phil is the one dragging this out. Instead, he nods, and moves to join Phil, their shoulders brushing as they prepare to step up through the portal. His breath catches in his lungs, his heart stuttering with anticipation as he lifts his foot, and—

“Wait!” Phil suddenly says, with wide blue eyes as he turns back to face Technoblade. Technoblade’s chest lurches, his heart dropping like a stone.

“What— what, is everything okay?” he asks urgently, and the piglin shakes his head. Technoblade bites back a warble of distress, all of his worst fears rushing to the front of his mind. Phil is having second doubts—Phil doesn’t want to come with him, after all—Phil wants to stay in the Nether, in his home, and Technoblade will have to return to an empty cabin and—

“I forgot my mushrooms,” Phil exclaims. 

Technoblade blinks.

“Heh?”

“Back at home—the basket of them! We need to go back!”

“Phil,” Technoblade says, torn suddenly between exasperation and affection. “There are mushrooms in the overworld, too. You can grow more.”

Phil hesitates.

“I promise, I’ll get you more,” Technoblade soothes. He knows this is about more than just the mushrooms. His hand settles against Phil’s shoulder, squeezing gently, a silent understanding passing between them.

I’m here.

Phil smiles. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and reaches for Technoblade’s hand, small, hooved fingers curling tightly around larger ones. Together, the two of them turn toward the portal, swirling and purple and humming with enough energy to make Technoblade’s feathers stand on end.

“Together,” Phil says.

“Together,” Technoblade echoes.

And, together, the two of them take the step forward.

It’s dark at first. Then—a wash of white, bright and blinding, accompanied by the familiar lurch in his belly and the sudden chill of crisp winter air. They stumble through the portal together, and when Phil’s legs tangle beneath him, he drags Technoblade down along with him. Together, they spill into a pile of fresh snow, the powder frigid against Technoblade’s palms as he catches himself on his hands and knees, wings flaring out on either side. He’s still for a brief moment, chest shuddering as he reorients himself, never quite used to the dizzying rush of portal magic. And then Phil makes a soft, confused noise beside him, and he’s moving, crawling to brace his hands on the piglin’s shoulders.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and when Phil doesn’t immediately answer, his heart stutters, looking him over for any signs of decay, any glimpse of the rot that he should be protected from. Mercifully, he finds none—instead, he finds Phil staring down at his hands, or, rather, the snow he cradles in his palms.

“It’s hot,” Phil says, lifting it up. “Like fire.”

He shivers.

“It’s cold,” Technoblade clarifies, and without hesitation pulls the cloak from his shoulders, draping soft red and white furs across Phil’s unclothed shoulders. He’s too overcome by his relief in their success to feel anything but overwhelming joy—and, besides, his wings will keep him warm just fine. “We’re gonna have to get you some warmer clothes, huh? Guess I should’ve thought of that.”

Phil doesn’t answer. He’s too transfixed by the powder that’s begun to melt in his palms, a stark white against the dark tips of his hooves. He holds it up close to his face, scrutinizing it, and jolts when he finally realizes that it’s coming down all around him—tiny white flakes, dancing and spiraling and settling down on soft pink fur.

“I’ve never seen so much ash,” he breathes.

“It’s not ash,” Technoblade rumbles, and makes sure Phil is watching before he sticks out his tongue, catching a flake on the tip of his tongue. Phil’s face contorts with disgust. “It’s called snow, Phil. It’s frozen water. Remember what I told you about water? How it rains from the sky here?” Phil nods. “It’s like that—but really cold. Go on, try it.”

Phil reluctantly obliges. He sticks his tongue cautiously out from behind his tusks. At Technoblade’s urging, he tips his head back to stare up at the pale grey sky—blue eyes going startlingly wide at the sight of something other than the Nether roof, and wider yet at the light of the sun that pokes through the clouds far in the distance. A snowflake lands on the tip of his snout and he practically squeaks, jolting back and covering his nose in a panicked motion that has Technoblade doubled over and wheezing with laughter in seconds.

“What the fuck?” Phil spits, ears pinned close against his skull. “It feels—it still feels so…?” He looks helplessly over to Technoblade.

“Cold,” the avian reminds him, feathers puffing up against the chilly breeze. 

“Cold,” Phil echoes, trying the sounds carefully on his tongue. He scoops up another handful of the snow, as if to study it further—and that’s when he finally seems to notice everything around him. The handful of snow falls, forgotten, to join the rest by his hooves as he stares, awestruck, at the sight that greets him. Sprawling mountains and dark forests stretching as far as the eye can see—an icy river winding like a snake along the roots of the stony cliffs. At the base, a short walk away, smoke climbs high into the sky from the chimney of a cozy wooden cabin, nestled snugly between a cluster of trees, backing right up to the snowy slopes. 

Technoblade’s cabin.

“This is…” Phil’s voice trails off weakly. He’s grinning from ear to ear, a tell-tale shine in his eyes. He doesn’t even blink, as if he’s scared the image will vanish, utterly transfixed like a child staring into a shop’s window. “It’s…”

“‘S beautiful, isn’t it?” Technoblade asks. He stares fondly down at the piglin, one wing moving to curl around his friend’s back. “Been waiting for you to get to see this again for a long time, Phil.”

“It’s better without the whole—‘zombifying’ thing,” Phil jokes lamely, his voice hoarse and breathless as he sweeps his gaze slowly across the landscape, drinking in every square inch. “It’s… it’s so fucking big, mate.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Technoblade answers. Words can’t even begin to describe the warmth in his heart—the steady flicker now set ablaze by the sight of Phil’s joy, unguarded and pure. “There’s so much I want you to see, Phil. So much for you to explore.”

Phil sniffles, scrubbing at his eyes again. 

Technoblade doesn’t tease him. 

After all, he’d be a hypocrite—his own eyes burning and his cheeks suspiciously damp. Dozens of years, and they’ve finally made it. Phil’s finally here—here beside him, in his world, and he’s alive and safe and the potion did everything it was supposed to. He swallows thickly, shoving a sniffle back with a muffled chuckle instead, his delight too great to restrain any longer.

“We did it,” Technoblade breathes.

“You did it,” Phil rebuttals, bumping his shoulder gently against Technoblade’s, enough to get him to lean obligingly down. Phil butts his forehead up against his friend’s, a brief bump that says more than any words could, and yet, still, he looks Technoblade in the eyes with a fond smile, and nods. “Thank you, Techno... For everything.”

“‘Course,” Technoblade rasps.

Phil pulls back, turning to settle his gaze on the snowy stone path that leads away from the portal—up the little hill and to the old wooden door of the cabin. The windows glow with the light of the lanterns, warm and inviting, beckoning them inside for a cup of hot chocolate and a woolen blanket.

“Welcome to the overworld, Phil,” Technoblade says, and Phil smiles. “…Welcome home.”