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Tommy could not remember a time he had been a happy child, if you’d asked him.
It was not something he warranted pity for; it was just a given, something that felt as true as anything could be. When he opened his eyes, he would not feel the longing for a smile- he would just know a smile wasn’t something Tommy was meant to have. It was not something he was missing. It was simply something he did not, and would not, own.
He was reminded constantly, from the looks given by the townspeople, disgusted and fearful, or the pitying children that gazed upon him with innocent wonder. How had such a boy ended up like this? Desperate, pleading, alone?
Tommy did not know, but he considered it to be rather unfair.
He continued, desperate, pleading, alone; desperate gathering pieces of bread he knew he did not deserve to have. He pleaded, using what little sympathy people held for him and exploiting it in a way he should’ve surely felt guilty for. Alone, like a rite of passage, huddling in cold corners with his own threadbare rags and gaunt bones to find solace in. He could not pity himself. He did not know any better, so he had nothing to mourn.
He thought it best that way.
The townspeople had been particularly disinterested in him lately. He hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary; hadn’t even spoken to others as of recent. They were insistently angry, however, and he curled in on himself to provide any form of comfort he’d come to discover. His own arms were small, the skin holding onto bone with a flimsy grip, but he found a dull sense of familiarity in the way it felt. The way his own, tired body was perfect for that and that itself.
A woman had spit on him, and he did not cry. He simply acknowledged her, a small nod, and she grimaced once more, skirts sweeping across the brick path, before continuing on her way.
Tommy held his head high, for he managed his own self the way his father had taught him all those years ago.
He didn’t remember his father anymore, really. The image of his face was splotchy and dull, fading more and more with each set of the sun. He didn’t fight it, however, but instead grasped the rules his father had so adamantly followed. Bravery. Respect. Survival.
It had worked up until this point, and Tommy was not about to contradict the man, even years after his death. He had insisted that illness was a common thing, and nothing any of them could have done anything to prevent.
Tommy stayed out of crowds more often after that. Disease had been frightening, and his father had died slowly, his skin going a deadly shade of pale white and seemingly melting off of his bones. His breaths became labored and constricted, nothing more than a wheeze of minimal air. It seemed excruciating, and it was excruciating to watch, but Tommy held his father’s hand in their small corner till his heart slowed to nothing at all. His chest fell, and it did not rise, so Tommy walked away, wiping tears from his eyes that hadn’t fallen. His father was dead. His father was dead.
His father was dead, and Tommy was more alone than he’d ever been before.
Alone.
The offers to stay in the orphanage had long since ceased. He had always denied, and it’d gotten to a point where Tommy didn’t think they’d allow him to stay even if he had wanted to. It was confusing, at first, the way they hated him with no clear reason why. It took time, but he’d grown to understand. The nobles enjoyed the simplicity of being just that; nobles. Tommy was not a noble, nor was his father, and he held no role in fueling the economic affairs. He hadn’t gotten schooling. He held no role in society, and he was, therefore, inferior to all the people surrounding him. It was a simple write of passage he was adjusted to.
Despite all of it, however, he felt the indescribable urge to do something his father would’ve forbidden. At first, it had been nothing but a nagging in the back of his head, and he’d done well to ignore it. Over the weeks, however, the thought became less of a suggestion and more of a corrupting urge, and every time he passed the shrine, the idea of sprinting inside became harder and harder to reject.
Until, one day, the opportunity arose.
There was a festival going on in the town square. The sun was finally setting, and the entrance to the shrine was unguarded and bare. Now, Tommy considered himself to be a very logical person, but it was right there and his mind was screaming at him to go, go, go.
He trusted his mind. He had always trusted his mind.
So he allowed himself to listen to whatever creature had been whispering in his ear, and ran inside.
The moment he entered, he sighed in the relief it gave him. The place was full of sculpted gold (surely that couldn’t be real?), the surfaces so shiny he felt dirty just looking at it. The further he walked inside, the more comfortable he got, until he noticed a hallway that led deeper into the shrine.
If he was already here, what more was there to lose?
He moved down the hallway, feet hitting the ground with quiet sounds. The further he got, the better he was able to see the structures at the end of it.
There, placed grand and center, were three statues of the Gods his town so dutifully worshipped. In the middle, broad wings spanning behind the others, was the Angel of Death, the pinnacle of strength and reliance. His presence was supposedly a promise, allowing overwhelming safety to those he blessed. Rather obviously, his name seemed misleading, but he was a God with power that anyone could’ve longed for.
To his left, the Blood God. A name far more intimidating, he was known for his outstanding battle skills and prowess with a blade. His talents were used to sway the fates of wars, picking a side and determining their fate with a flick of his risk. Those he blessed gained athleticism many could only wish for, agility and strength beyond their wildest imaginations.
Finally, to the right, the Willow of Covenant, a God dedicated to promise and reassurance. He kept his word, and assured others kept their word, using those he blessed to administer his recommendations and granting the power of dangerous communication to those that deserved it. He may not have been as outright as his counterparts, but his power with settling agreements had saved- or ruined- millions of lives.
Their shrines were full of offerings, ranging from various fruits and loaves of bread to knives and swords. The amount was overwhelming, and some small, spiteful part of Tommy thought about how much this could’ve helped, in the past.
“It is a large amount, isn’t it?” An echoing, angelic voice said from somewhere, but when Tommy whipped his head around to find who spoke, there wasn’t a person in sight.
“Hello?”
The thing laughed, and it bounced off of the walls of the shrine. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was just eager to meet you, that's all.”
Another voice joined in, much deeper and monotonous. “Is this the one Kristin spoke of?”
“Yes, mate,” Another, and this one made a sense of comfort settle on his shoulders before he even realized it, but he stiffened again, defensive. “I think we’ve scared him enough.”
Before he could speak once more, a man materialized in front of him, a small green and white hat atop his head. His hair was curly and long, reaching to his shoulders, almost, and the smile on his face was one of the most welcoming things Tommy had seen in a long time. There was something about the shine of his face, the too-tight curvature of his jaw to be human, but he was adequately normal enough.
A brush of wind, and two more figures were beside the man (?), one with startingly bright hair a shade of color Tommy had never seen before. It was swept behind his head, tied in a ponytail, and he had a poet's shirt that seemed too crisp a white. On the other side, a man with soft, brown eyes looked down at him, a curious look on his face. His hair was a curly mop on his head, delicately handled.
They looked quite regal, in Tommy’s opinion, but he hadn’t a clue who they were.
The one with the brown hair took a step forward, but not close enough to touch Tommy. He kneeled down, making himself eye-level. “If you are willing, come here, little one.”
Tommy didn’t feel entirely willing. But it felt oddly comforting, being surrounded by these beings, and he didn’t have it in himself to reject the offer. He took one step forward, then another, before he was standing right in front of the man.
“My name is Willow, but, well, I much prefer Wilbur,” he offered softly, as not to scare him off, “and what may yours be?”
He knew he wasn’t supposed to give his name to strangers, but he didn’t feel like that was necessary here. This- this man was more than a random stranger. This man was a God, with the power to create or destroy life. He could put together the identities of the two men behind them; it was unsettling, but he did his best to hide the residing fear. “Tommy,” he murmured quickly, before bowing, and adding, “how blessed I am to meet you, Wilbur.”
Wilbur, apparently, laughed, and the sound was nice on Tommy’s ears. “I am glad to meet you, too, little one. You don’t have to bow. We’ve heard much about you.”
The men behind Wilbur took a few steps forward, and the one with the hat nodded.
Tommy frowned, confused, raising his head once more. “I don’t believe I understand.”
“My mother, of sorts, will mention a mortal from time to time. One that she notices, or one that stands out. Normally, we go to meet them, albeit without the mortal being informed,” Wilbur paused, smiling at Tommy in a soft way. “Your light was very bright, Tommy. I decided I wanted to speak with you myself.”
“What does that mean? My- light?” He knew he shouldn’t be speaking to such a being like this, but curiosity was overwhelming. These creatures were everything but intimidating, and he couldn’t help but swallow down the lingering fear. “Is that why I’d wanted to come in here?”
Phil laughed from behind them, something effortless and powerful. “I’d assume, mate. You’re a very curious one.”
Tommy bowed his head at the man. “I’m very sorry.”
“No, no!” He sounded frantic, kneeling beside Tommy as well. “It’s not a problem. I was just taken aback, is all. I haven’t spoken to many children lately. I forgot how much they yearn to know.”
To that, Tommy had no answer.
Wilbur looked back at him. “Your light is an aura, of sorts. It’s something all mortals have, and the brightness varies. Yours, in this case, was the brightest in the entire area.”
Tommy frowned. “That makes no sense.”
The God smiled, and Tommy couldn’t brush off the way it felt comforting. “It need not make sense, little one. Just remember you are special. I’ll be back, you know. You will not be alone. You will never be alone.”
And before Tommy could reach out a hand and question once more, the three were gone, a blink in time and a wind blowing his clothes, knocking the reality out from under small feet.
He looked down, and there was a perfectly ripe apple in his hand.
For the first time in a long time, Tommy felt a small grin pull at the corners of his mouth.
. . .
The Gods visited more frequently after that.
Even when they weren’t materialized right in front of him, he could sense their presence; in the way the breeze ruffled his hair with a delicate touch, or the way the townspeople seemed to keep their eyes off of him a little more.
The days were not as cold, the nights not as dark. With every passing moment, every lack of a grievance, Tommy began to expect their presence more and more. And welcome it.
It wasn’t a swift change. He had been hesitant, at first, adamant to respond to things that felt all too good to be true. These creatures were nothing like him; they had lived thousands of lives before, and they would live thousands of lives after. He was a blink in their timeline, a blowing petal in their own breezes.
But they did not treat him as such.
They treated him kindly, delicately. They spoke to him as though he were truly small, truly special, but never belittling. They treated him as the child he deserved to be but never truly got to experience. They indulged in his questions, responded to his quips, and Tommy basked in every moment of it.
It was a steady process, and eventually, he began viewing them as something more than a passing glance, or a brief reprieve. They were something he could live for, and no matter how eternal their lives had seemed, he was something they could live for, too. He wasn't treated as a pet, or a burden, or a problem. He was treated as a person. He was treated like himself.
They walked through town together, and as Tommy pointed at stalls or showed them treats, they easily indulged him, showing him the prettiest of things that were offered. Somehow, the townspeople were deceived into believing that they were just a normal group, infatuated with a little boy that the rest of the town despised.
On evenings and at nights, he could find refuge in the shrine; they made him his own bed and everything, but Tommy often retreated to a familiar corner right behind the statues. It made him feel special. They made him feel special.
He learned that the Angel of Death was truly nothing like death at all. He knew someone with relations to it, however, and he spoke of her so softly that the Angel must enjoy her presence very much.
Often, the Angel insisted that Tommy didn’t call him that name at all. It’s just a title, mate, he would reassure, the ones I care for only call me Phil.
Tommy had laughed at that for a very long time. The most he had laughed in a very long time.
Phil looked very proud that day, and rested a hand on Tommy’s head, ruffling his hair ever so slightly and smiling to himself.
He came around often. He was a constant, even if he wasn’t solidified in skin and bone. He was the voice Tommy heard sailing around him, advising him on what to and what not to do. Tommy had only gotten lessons from his father, and even then, they were nothing extensive. Tommy appreciated the Angel’s words of wisdom. After all, he was very wise.
The afternoons spent together were warm and welcoming, even during the shifting weather from winter to spring, and he accepted the change with open arms. He had never been fond of winter; winter meant illness, and illness meant sadness and cold and death. Tommy had had enough of that.
Contrary to popular belief, Phil brought the total opposite of that. He was all smiles and sun and soft touches. It was new, but in a good way, and he wasn’t angry.
Not at all.
One morning, Tommy had slept in later than usual. He was in the shrine, sitting in a back corner where many of the visitors wouldn’t spot him. He assumed their reaction to his infestations getting all over their holy space wouldn’t warrant much peace.
He had woken up to a gentle shaking on his arm. Tommy opened his eyes, slowly, until he recognized the green and white hat placed right in front of him.
“Tom?” Phil said gently, stepping back once. “People will be coming up here soon. Would you like to stay, or would you like me not to interfere?”
Tommy paused, thinking. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“I would be a fool to just let them hurt you, now wouldn’t I?”
He stiffened. “Why are you asking me?”
Phil smiled, standing straighter, almost apprehensive. “Well, I would’ve stopped them anyways. I just like giving you a choice. If you want to stay, we can stay. If you want to leave, I’ll gladly get us out of here. It’s truly not as important as people believe,” Then he winked. “They haven’t a clue on what’s really important, do they, Tom?”
And Tommy stood there, staring at the thing in front of him, an anomaly and a blessing all the same. It was confusing, and it was terrifying, and it was perfect, so he nodded, smiled back right ahead of him, and reached out a hand.
“No,” he admitted quietly, “I guess they don’t. I think I do, though, and I think you’ve shown me.”
It didn’t feel like a lie.
. . .
The Blood God was a completely different story.
He was quiet, reserved. Tommy analyzed him long enough to learn his tells. He was not a very emotional being, and showed his love in small, hesitant gestures. A pat on the shoulder, a hand on Tommy’s back to steady him.
It was different than the other, but not worse. His validation felt earned, and it made Tommy’s chest warm, leaving a perfect feeling in its place.
“Technoblade,” He had murmured one day, and Tommy turned his head up to him.
“Hm?”
“My name. It’s Technoblade.”
Tommy smiled at him, picking up the wooden sword he’d been gifted weeks earlier. “That’s much better suited for a God than Phil, I think. Don’t you? It’s rather nice. You’re rather nice.”
And Technoblade smiled back at him, admitting, “Yes, Tommy. I suppose that’s true.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re playing fun at me.”
Technoblade stiffened, frowning slightly. “I wouldn’t. I won’t.”
“Hm,” Tommy murmured, tilting his head to the side. “You’re very different from the people I’ve met.”
“That only makes sense, Tommy.”
He frowned. “No, not like that. I just… the way you are. The things you say, or do, or even think, but I can’t read your mind so I don’t know for certain. But I do know you’re much better than a lot of people.”
Technoblade paused for a moment, silent, motionless. Tommy almost thought he wasn’t going to respond, but then a hand was placed on his back, and before he could realize what was going on, Tommy was pulled close to Techno’s chest.
“Thank you,” He whispered.
Tommy laughed, but held tighter, letting himself relax. “You aren’t supposed to say that. You’re a God, don’t you remember? I’m just a person.”
“No, kid,” Technoblade began, voice soft and quiet, “I’m starting to think you’re everything.”
Tommy shoved him in the arm, but looked up to meet his eyes, and allowed a smile to take up the entirety of his face. “I think you’re everything, too.”
“Everything? That sure is a lot.”
“That’s the point!”
“Well, then I agree.”
“Good,” Tommy finished, leaning up to look at the sky ahead of him. “Because I think we met because we make each other everything. Before, we were different pieces of everything, but now, we’ve made it better.”
Techno blinked once, then even quieter than before, he added, “Then I suppose I must thank you once more.”
“No, silly,” Tommy shook his head. “Thank you.”
. . .
“Tommy!” Wilbur called, chasing him down the field beside the village. “Be careful, please. You could trip and fall.”
He laughed, the sound free and loud. “I think you’re just scared you won’t catch up with me.”
Wilbur smirked. “Oh, that’s most definitely not it. I’d just rather not deal with your knees all scabbed up.”
Tommy only ran faster, and even though blades were biting at his legs and flowers were whizzing past his vision, he had never felt clearer, never felt freer.
He’d spent almost seven months with the three, and he had to admit, it was the best he’d been in a long time. Not only with where he lived, or how much he ate, but Tommy was able to look at himself in the reflection of a pond, or the image in glass, and be okay with what was looking back at him.
Somehow, being with them made it easier for him to be with himself. He still heard his father’s voice in his head, looming and present, urging him to run, to hide, to stay alone. Always alone. When he was still alive, he kept them away from the entirety of the village unwilling to risk their lives or show their faces to people who had been so cruel previously. Tommy’s father decided that, after seeing enough bad things, that meant the entire world had to be just as bad.
So they hid, and they kept each other company, and they stole. They lived alone. They thrived alone.
Safety meant alone.
For the first time, Tommy realized he disagreed with his father. It was liberating, and once he’d thought about it, he started thinking about everything else at once. Was everything he’d told Tommy true, or was it all a lie, manipulated and weaved to create something that wasn’t real at all?
The idea had been eating at Tommy for weeks, so when he was done running around, he sat down in the field across from Wilbur and tried to ask him exactly what it all meant.
It was getting dark, and he knew they would have to get back soon, so before he decided against it, he blurted, “Wil?”
He looked up quickly. “Hm?”
“I have a question,” He murmured, desperate not to make eye contact.
“Ask me anything.”
“I don’t know how to ask.”
Wilbur frowned slightly, like he always did when he was thinking. “Just say whatever comes to mind. I’m sure I’ll be able to decipher it. You speak differently than everyone else, and I think I’ve caught on.”
Tommy raised his eyebrows. “What’s that mean?”
“I think it means you’re special to me. I don’t know for certain. I’m not- I don’t exactly know how your kind of emotions work,” He admitted, shrugging. “I like how you make me feel right.”
He paused. “Right?”
Wilbur looked down at him, and there was something unknown swimming in his eyes, something contemplative. “Do you want me to show you something?”
“Of course!”
“Follow me, then,” Wil mused, gesturing forward towards the edge of the forest. Right now, it was bright with vegetation and light, and Tommy wasn’t at all scared.
He wouldn’t have been scared anyways. Wilbur was the sun and the moon and the stars and everything, so he could always keep Tommy safe.
They walked at a steady pace, side by side, and Tommy started skipping towards their destination. Once they got there, Wilbur paused at the entrance of the forest, before bending down and picking something up.
“You see this?” He asked.
Tommy cocked his head. “It’s just a flower.”
“Well, yes, it is a flower,” Wilbur admitted, before turning around to show what was behind him. “But it’s with these other flowers as well. They bloom together, seasonally, and they wilt together. They provide food for other creatures, and they provide beauty for things like us.”
“It is a very pretty flower.”
He nodded. “Yes, it is.”
“But I still don’t understand-” Tommy cut himself off, before sighing.
“You,” Wilbur began, “remind me of this flower. With your kindness and your heart and your soul. You have helped me, and for that, I don’t know how to thank you.”
He met Wilbur’s eyes, and once he did, Wilbur nodded once, as if accepting something inside himself. “I haven’t the slightest idea how you did it, but you’ve changed my entire universe, Tommy.”
And he smiled, reaching across the field, and held Wilbur’s hand. “I don’t think that’s right. I think you just learned how to make the universe right for you.”
Wilbur shook his head once, scoffed, but didn’t say anything else on the matter. “You’re quite the anomaly. Now, what was your question?”
Tommy wrung his hands a bit, trying to settle on a clear answer. “I think I just need to know for certain. You’ve- I think with everything you’ve shown me, I’m beginning to understand, but I just need to ask.”
“Of course.”
“Was my father right- everything he told me?”
Wilbur hummed. “I don’t think that anyone in your father’s position can be entirely correct.”
Tommy didn’t respond; only waited for a longer explanation.
“He was sick. And he loved you, and from what I have seen, humans do foolish things for the ones they love. Even if they want to do the best.”
“So you think he loved me?”
“I do.”
Tommy nodded. “I think so too, then. I did love him.”
“I know you did.”
“I still do.”
“I know.”
“Do you know everything?” He asked.
“No, no,” Wilbur shook his head. “But I think I know you. And I know it’s okay that you love him.”
He smiled up at Wil, before taking the flower from his hand and holding it up. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I think I love you, too.”
And Wilbur wrapped his hands around Tommy’s, encapsulating the flower in their grasp, before whispering, “I’ll always love you.”
. . .
“What if one day,” Tommy murmured, fear laced so intricately it felt like a part of him, “you see me how I see myself?”
Wilbur ran a hand through his hair, soft and delicate, “No, no, darling. I will see you as you are.”
He frowned. “I don’t understand you, Wilbur. You- you came so fast. All of you.”
“We are sudden creatures.”
“Well, I know that,” He smiled, soft and quiet. “You are special. And quick. But it’s just- you came so fast for me. It was different. It’s nice, I’ve learned, to feel like this.”
Wilbur paused. There was nothing but the wind blowing around him, the sound sharp. The silence lasted so long that Tommy doubted he’d ever get a response, but right before he lost hope, Wilbur blew in a deep breath.
“You are a beautiful soul, little one,” he whispered it like the promises he was known for, curving the words into Tommy’s heart as if to solidify it in the most perfect way. “I would know your light in a crowd of millions.”
“You’re ridiculous, Wilbur! That’s not possible!” He laughed up at him, a smile on his face that felt everything like the truth.
Wilbur smiled back at him, eyes softening. “I swear it.”
He gasped. “Oh, no. Oh, but you can’t break a swear. That’s against the rules, isn’t it?”
“That is entirely the point.”
Tommy laughed again, the sound pure and light. “You will always confuse me.”
The two lay there, facing the stars, comfortable with the presence of the other. It felt right, in a way he couldn’t explain; safe so certain that doubt couldn’t place itself in his mind if he tried.
Wilbur’s voice was soft, almost fragile, like his words held too much power to be heard by such small ears. It was a power reserved for Tommy, he knew, and it made him feel like the constellations Wilbur described so beautifully. “I will tell you the truth until you know it as I do.”
“I hope so,” Tommy admitted quietly.
Crickets chirped, and the sound was a cacophony of nature that he couldn’t help but marvel at. How could such small, independent creatures make such pretty songs?
Together, something in his mind suggested.
The creatures made such pretty songs together.
“I know so,” Wilbur whispered back, and Tommy knew he’d be okay.
Over time, Tommy would age. He would grow and he would learn, and he’d do things on his own. He would teach himself his own lessons. He would understand how the world works, and how cruel or twistedly beautiful it could be. Time would be fickle, and time would be fleeting, but time would be his, and he could spend it however he wished.
And after everything, he wouldn’t be alone.
So one evening, when he was no longer just a little boy, and his family offered their eternal promise-
he denied.
Yet they still kissed his forehead, and they still held him softly, and they welcomed him into the arms of their beloved in death, as he drifted into somewhere they would never go. They mourned him, but they loved him too much to keep him in their grasp forever. So they let him go.
They let him free.
Because first, all those nights ago, they showed him how to live; loved by something that had finally made him whole once more, and reunited him to a world that would treat him as the most delicate of stars.