Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

i.

When the tip of the blade, its stainless steel stained with the innards of bested soldiers, pressed against the skin of his neck, brushing just over his Adam’s apple, Philza’s first thought was Of course this is how I die. 

In the thick of a petty war sired by greed and pride. At the hands of the merciless Blood God. Alone.

Fucking great. 

Sturdy stone walls and a great and looming castle watched over the bloodbath befouling what was once a lavish field of green acres and baby buds of flowers. Squirrels scurried away when a body landed with a harsh thump beside a tree with twisting branches. Maroon and black ichor speckled soft green blades of grass. Birds began circling the land, surveying for something freshly decomposed, something to feast upon. 

The songs of war—the battle cries, the screams of the damned, soldiers gurgling as blood flooded their throats—had faded away, the nurturing melody of nature reclaiming the land. Bees buzzing, the rustling of leaves against the wind, the padding of deer hooves deep within the woods. 

But the war had yet to be won. Standing in the center of the gruesome maelstrom, the mighty and cold-blooded Blood God wielded his sword, prepared to take one last life.

Worst of all, the battle was not won with simple violence and manslaughter, but utter cowardice. As if the sight of the Blood God brought the soldiers to their knees, those remaining had scurried away to live another day. And Philza, with a deep, bleeding wound in his leg weighing him down, watched his own unit run away as they left him for dead. They didn’t even spare him a glance. 

What fucking assholes. Not like he didn’t expect it, though. Those bastards never gave a shit about him in the first place. They only valued his skills on the field and his way with a sword. He was pretty sure none of them knew his real name aside from his moniker, Angel of Death. He might as well have been the grime under their boots. 

(On his worst nights, he’d be inclined to agree with them.)

A quiet panic surged through him, not so loud as to consume his thoughts, but enough to keep him alert. With the sharp blade threatening to cleave his throat and scar the peaceful land with more blood and viscera, Philza’s mind raced with the speed of rushing waters, clambering for something to get him out of his predicament. There had to be a way out of here. An escape route, a sign of weakness from the Blood God he could use to his advantage, a nearby weapon, anything. 

But Philza was completely alone, too injured to move, let alone stand to try and fly away. The Blood God stood firm and guarded. The man's boar mask concealed his expression, giving away nothing. Any ideas for Philza’s escape, for his survival, came to the same horrific conclusion:  it won’t work. I can’t get out of this. 

There’s no hope. 

This is it.  

He grew still against the blade at his neck. That panic dwindled, numbing as somber acceptance found its way into his heart. His expression shifted. No longer did he glare at the warrior that had bested him. Philza didn’t even show grief or sorrow over his inevitable demise. 

Why would he, when he understood that this was his time? She said everyone ran out of time eventually; perhaps his clock had reached its endpoint. He thought that he’d have a bit more time, to explore the lands and do something beyond killing and taking orders when he wasn’t stowing away in isolation. But who was he to question Her? 

Still, for a brief moment, Phil mourned himself, because no one else would. 

He shut his eyes, waiting for the finishing blow, waiting for that agonizing, unbearable pain, waiting to see Her at the end of his story. 

The world grew quiet. The wind brushed through his hair, and he winced at the pain in his calf. But there was no other pain, and there was no other sound. 

Until a clang on the ground convinced him to open his eyes. 

The Blood God stood in front of him, a colossal beast of a man, a mercenary who never hesitated when increasing his body count. His sword, however, lay abandoned in the blood and dew tipped grass. Though still decorated with an ax across his back and a knife strapped to his boot, he did not unsheathe those weapons, either. 

Philza’s eyebrow shot toward the sky. 

Then, the man did something even stupider. 

He kneeled at Philza’s side, a potion withdrawn from within his red, flowing cloak. Philza nearly lunged back on instinct, but his leg protested. Then, a deep voice made him freeze altogether.

“You’re gonna bleed out at this rate.” 

Philza took a moment to process what was said, taken aback by the shift in his dire situation. He couldn’t contain himself. He burst out with laughter. Before the Blood God dared to question his sanity, Phil said, “Isn’t that kinda the point, though?” 

“Heh?” The Blood God squinted underneath his mask. He pulled out a flimsy rag, tore it in two, and dabbed the healing potion over one piece, glittery liquid staining the fabric. “Yeah, I’m not following.” 

“Mate, you’re—” Phil scoffed and spread his arms out. “Hello?!”

“Uhh, hullo?” 

“There’s—oh my god.” This? This was the imposing, terrifying Blood God? No, surely not! Phil let out another laugh, a hand pressed over the side of his face. “If you haven't noticed, we’re on different sides of the war. You could’ve just stabbed me and called it a day. Heck, ya could’ve just walked away and left me to bleed out like a sad sack, if you really wanted!” 

“But I didn’t,” said the Blood God matter-of-factly. 

“I can see that,” Phil said, feeling his sanity draining, “but why!? ” 

“You know, you sound very upset about me not planning to kill you. Did you… wanna be murdered or left for dead?” the Blood God asked, in a genuine manner that paved the way for concern, of all things. 

“Well,” Phil answered, stifling a chuckle. Oh god, he was being far too casual with a man who he swore was about to slaughter him a minute ago, “if I had the choice, I’d probably say no. I would rather avoid it if possi—aah! Fuck!” He interrupted himself with a loud hiss as the potion-stained rag made contact with his open wound. 

“Then quit complainin’,” the Blood God muttered, eyes downcast. 

“I’m hardly complaining!” Phil protested. He leaned back as the pain numbed to a cooler, more distant feeling. “And you never answered my question. Don’t think I was just gonna forget! You looked at me like a man ready to slaughter a damn chicken for dinner, but then you just… stopped.”

The Blood God fell silent. The mask did nothing for Philza as he tried to gauge whatever was on the other man’s mind. He pulled the rag away. His gaze studied the wound for a moment. “You’re the Angel of Death.”

“Yeahhh,” Philza let the word drag to emphasize his confusion, “what about it?” 

“I've heard plenty about you. A warrior with wings sharp enough to slice through bone, agile enough to take down even the strongest of men without a single wound…” The Blood God looked up, and beyond the mask, harsh red eyes glinted. He retrieved a canteen of water from his inventory and wiped away the blood staining Philza’s leg with the second rag. “But your soldiers abandoned you.” 

“Oh, yeah, they pretty much shat their pants the moment they saw you. And to be fair, I’m a little incapacitated at the moment. Hard to drag out a wounded soldier who can’t even carry his own weight.” He tapped his knee, and when he glanced down, the dampened wound below where his hand rested already looked less severe than a minute ago. The pain was receding. 

“I gotta be honest, you look light enough to throw overhead like a sack of potatoes with one arm, so,” the Blood God continued, despite Phil shooting him a dirty and offended glare, “I’m sure they’d have gotten you outta here with no problems. Instead, they left you to the wolves.”

“I dunno what to tell you, mate,” Phil said, throwing out his arms in defeat, uncertain about the point his enemy was trying to make. His monotone voice made it all the more difficult to tell whether his words came from a place of sympathy or cruel mockery, though the latter made more sense than anything else. He curled into himself slightly. “They don’t give a flying shit about me, so they’d rather save their own skin. ‘S not complicated.” A thought emerged, and he managed to smile. “Though god, I can only imagine their faces when they see me back at the base after all that. Just me goin’ ‘I lived, bitch! And then I stab ‘em!” He chuckled at the image. 

The Blood God hesitated. “You really wanna go back after that?” 

“Pft, it’s whatever,” Phil brushed off the question. “I don’t exactly have much else going on or anywhere else to go. I’m all fine here.” Somehow, despite most of the Blood God’s face hiding behind the skull décor, the way he looked at Phil felt too much like pity. When Phil continued speaking, acid dripped on his tongue. “I don’t need the fake sympathy. I’ve probably got it fuck tons better than dealing with the king you’re working under, the bloody tyrant.” 

“What about him?” The Blood God’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Oh, christ, don’t even get me started!” Phil threw his head back and crossed his arms firmly. “The bastard captures and forces young kids—usually, like, orphans or kids struggling to support their families, those sort—to join his army. He also willingly positions them in the frontlines, probably as bait or a distraction or whatever, we’re assuming. Absolute dick,” he swore, nearly spitting the words out in disdain. He tried to stand, but his leg screamed in protest. He grunted. “How do you not know this? Do you seriously not know anything about the soldiers you’re working with?”

“I’d never want forced soldiers in my army,” the Blood God sneered, a fire brimming in his eyes. He retrieved his sword from the grass, and though Philza flinched, the Blood God never pointed it in his direction. Not yet anyway. “Whatever you’re hearing’s probably stories spread from negative propaganda. Happens all the time. I work closely with the soldiers I work with, and I’d trust them to tell me the truth if that was the case.”

Phil’s head lolled against his shoulder. “Ahhh, got it; it’s only propaganda when it’s about you lot. Except, we’ve had soldiers who had escaped your ruler’s dirty, greasy hands and told us it was all fucked over there. You’re more than welcome to ask them.” He tried his best to meet the mercenary’s hidden gaze, glaring up and demanding, “Open your fuckin’ eyes! You’re being lied to, mate!”

The Blood God grew quiet. The mask concealed his expression as he thought over something, whether he was contemplating Philza’s words or whether to just kill him already. Philza still couldn’t move far, aside from pushing himself a few feet back, so if it came to the latter, he wouldn’t have much of a chance. 

“Fine,” said the Blood God with a grunt, his voice terse. “Then come with me. To Eastfield.” 

Philza blinked. “Huh?” 

“If you’re that certain that things are wrong in the kingdom that hired me, then I wanna know what’s really going on.” There's a curve of a frown on the man’s lips at the edge of his mask. “And if you’re right, I might need to have a word with the king.”

“Lemme guess, is that word murder?” Phil smirked. 

The Blood God shrugged. “Ehh, if it’s the only one that he’ll listen to. Besides…” His chin jutted out slightly, his mouth twisted into a smirk of his own. “I was already commanded to kill the Queen of Dole in an upcoming invasion. What’s another cruel ruler to add to the slaughter?” 

“Dude!” Philza exclaimed, a breathy laugh escaping him. “And you’re telling me this?!” 

“I mean, are you really gonna go back and snitch?” The Blood God’s voice shifted, a challenge displayed on his tongue. 

“Fuck, no, I’m no snitch,” Phil said, waving his hand out dismissively. “Like, your king’s a shithead, an absolute monster, but I got my own qualms with the queen. Hell, I might join ya.” He snickered. 

The Blood God nodded, and he turned away. They both fell silent, and the Blood God did not rise to his feet. Rather, after a minute, he sat down fully in the grass, resting feet away from a beheaded soldier. Someone with the crest from Philza’s kingdom, he noted, though Philza couldn’t be damned to remember his name. 

The sun set streaks of orange and yellow loose over the horizon. The Blood God looked out toward the mountains, where Philza knew the Kingdom of Eastfield rested. A country led by a barbaric man seeking control of whatever did not have his name branded on it, his army assisted by a mercenary whose proclivity for bloodshed had become stories parents told their children to heed harming others, lest you carve your path towards that of the Blood God. 

Phil sat upright and stared at his so-called malevolent enemy. The man who tugged at the ends of his pink, braided hair. The man who healed Philza, when his own soldiers left him for dead. The man who turned his back to him, his weapons discarded. It’d be so easy to slice his throat or pierce him through the heart.

“You good, mate?” Phil asked instead.

The man sighed, his shoulders slouching. “Y’know, if what you’re saying is true, they didn’t tell me. Not just the soldiers, but the royal family, too. They promised me their honesty and goodwill to the people, and I gave them my strength in return.” He clenched his fist, clawed fingernails threatening to penetrate the skin. “So… if you’re right, then they’re just using me. Well, more so than they already were just by hiring me.” The lilt of his voice carried a tragic tune, as if doubt had already been out on display, as if this was not the first time this friction had arisen. His eyebrows narrowed. “Playing nice to use the strength I offered them. I’m nothing more than a toy for them.”

“Ah, well, fuck ‘em.” Phil managed to straighten his posture, sitting on his good knee as he inched slightly closer to the man. He stared off where the Blood God’s eyes wandered. “I swear, all these monarchs are the same, just… can’t be bothered to care about the people they’re ruling. Just worried about putting money in their pockets or owning the most land. Sucks you got caught in the crossfire, though.” 

The Blood God turned toward Philza. “I really hope it’s not the case this time.” 

“Trust me, I’d be more than happy to be wrong. Though,” Philza added, chuckling, “you are far too trusting toward someone who’s basically your enemy.” 

“Hardly enemies. Even if your soldiers hadn’t abandoned you, I wouldn’t have fought you today,” said the Blood God, and he stood up fully and offered his hand to Phil, a smile shining on his concealed face. “It’s not exactly fair to take out an opponent while they’re down. I like a little bit of a challenge.” 

“Fair. Shame, though, ‘cause I’d have absolutely kicked your ass.” Phil flashed a wicked grin. He cracked his knuckles. “Oooh, I’d rub it in everyone’s face, how I took down the Blood God.” 

The Blood God snorted; he honest to god snorted. “Y’know, that kinda arrogance could be your Achilles.”

“Not if it’s absolutely true.” 

“You’re gonna have to prove that, then.” The Blood God fidgeted his hands to address how it still hung there, still offered to Philza. “By the way, I’m Technoblade.” 

Philza glanced between the Blood God—er, Technoblade—and his outstretched hand. His glove had been taken off, revealing small scars nicking tanned skin. A thin line over the heartline of his palm, a burn mark over his thumb. And when Philza took his hand, he could feel the callousness of Technoblade’s skin, much like his own. 

He smiled up at Technoblade. “Philza. Or Phil.”

The moment Technoblade offered his hand and Philza, in turn, accepted it, was the moment that Phil, so at ease to embrace death earlier, would begin to truly live.

❁❁❁

Death had been a shadow lingering over Philza for centuries. 

It never quite touched him, not ready to claim him. It simply followed him from the moment he met Kristin and was graced with the title Angel of Death, her agent of the damned. Wings stretched from his back, and he soared through the skies with the ease and grace of one who had them since birth. He skated through the Void, and embraced the warmth and comfort that was the presence of his wife, the Goddess of Death in all of her glory. He found love, and he never wanted to let it slip away.  

But such a heavy shadow bore down just as heavy costs. Decades passed, and his hair never grayed. The only wrinkles ever etched into his face were delicate crow's feet when he smiled. Centuries passed, and he barely looked over thirty. 

He buried his parents. He buried close friends. He buried his brother, and his brother’s children, years after. Every grave looked the same.  

Eventually, relatives lost touch. Intentionally so. He knew his family grew tired of seeing their ancestor appear younger than them, an ancestor that no longer cried for the deaths of his family members, because he had run out of tears for the departed long ago. Funerals were awkawrd, to say the least. Perhaps they thought he didn’t care. When they shut the door in his face, permanently, he couldn’t blame them. Not really. 

Eventually, Philza didn't have a home to come to. He lived in the same village as his great great nephews, but it didn't feel right to stay, when it was clear he wasn't wanted. And so his home became the skies.

Wanderlust swept him off of his feet and toward the unknown. He tried to settle down, to find comfort in domesticity in a calm and quiet village. They gave him kind smiles and genuine welcomes, after all.

But the mountains he hiked opened his eyes to gorgeous views of every island and country, of the brightest streaks of pink and orange that beamed across the sky during sunset, and of just how small everything and everyone looked down below. The oceans seemed so plain when waves weren't tumultuous, but down below, the dark sea was brimming with mysterious life far beyond simple human perspective. Good thing I'm not human, he thought. 

Instead of spending a night in a small inn, or lounging in bars with strangers, the sort of drunks who compliment you seven ways to Sunday, the world beyond called him with its siren song, her melody too tempting. Places felt too temporary, like a time bomb waiting to detonate and destroy all in its radius. In no way, did he want to be in the midst of crossfire. Meanwhile, the skies, the seas, the mountains, were all a gentle embrace in how endless nature was. 

Ever the curious in his hiking, he once stumbled into ancient ruins in a land sparce with life. Phil nearly cooed out of fascination. Among these relics were just as ancient beings, ones that stood as tall as skyscrapers who sculpted green and lively terrain with their bare hands that bled magic beyond human comprehension. He approached them, they smiled with faces that looked kind, and they said, "You're welcome to stay."

So Philza did. 

He travelled across luscious green fields stretching across hundreds of acres, the world so open but so empty. Animals sauntered around, mobs gargled when moonlight spilled from above, but not a human to be seen for miles. No structures, no cities, and only a few rare villages from time to time. It wasn't enough. 

As he mined deep in the cravens and and trekked over mountainous hills, he saw this nothingness, and his active mind raced, the gears turning. He looked upon wide land and open sky, where something could be forged. He had always liked working with his hands, a master with tools and just as wicked at finding new ways to craft with them. The deities, even, were curious of what such a simple man with wings and time could do.

Like a painted with a fresh canvas, he began to sculpt the earth at his feet, built homely domes in the depths of the endless ocean, and lit up the skies with shining beacons. He'd mine and hike and fly and fight Nether beasts until every bone in his body ached, and he laughed as he sat back in bed to rest his weary body. Days and weeks became months and years, though he wouldn't know the difference. Time vanished in a blink regardless of how long. 

This world was his, though it was a quiet one. The animals were nice company, but the caws of the crows that followed him everywhere he went couldn't compare to the sound of a human voice. The nudge from a friendly cow paled to the warmth of embracing a friend or loved one. Though generous, not even the ancient beings gave him the time of day.

He was so utterly alone, and with that loneliness and isolation, came a sudden detachment from everything. 

Kristin once told him how easy it was for beings graced like him to lose touch with their sense of reality and time. Like a side effect of medicine. Given they had eons to explore the mortal realm, disconnecting with the world for a few days, months, or even years hardly mattered in the grand scheme of forever. The knowledge didn't make it any less unsettling.

On the long and dreadfully lonely days, a thick mist curled into his mind, gripping him tight to ensure no easy escape. As he meandered through the land, as he kept his hands busy with creation, as he fell into easy routine, his hazy mind wandered into the void. Whenever he woke, he might have been in the middle of building a tall structure, and he’d lose his grip before finding it again. Or a crow screeched in his ears, because he had been quiet for too long, and he’d jolt before scolding his feathered friend. Sometimes he'd sit by a sapling he just planted, and then... he’d wake, curled against the bark of a tree that stretched a dozen feet above, roots brushing against his ankle.

No one was there to tell him how long he had been out, and no one was there to drag him away from the fog. It was only him. It had only been him for so long. 

But he wasn't meant to stay there forever. Maybe the ancient beings' fondness toward him sputtered over the years into exasperation, or even boredom. Did they grow weary of the small winged being who flew through their lands? He'll never know. Because when his eyes opened one early morning, he scanned his surroundings, and the towers and beacons he built, the ruined old villages and archaic monuments, weren't there. For acres, there was nothing but spruce trees and blades of glass that sprawled up to his waist.  

Heart racing, Philza searched through the sky in a frenzied dance. For familiar landscape, for the structures he had made, anything. But there was nothing. Everything he had crafted with old and callous hands, the deities that welcomed him into their home, where did they go? For days he travelled through sky, across land, over stormy seas, looking for what he had begun to call home. 

But just before his hunt became week long, the forest he stumbled into grew more sparce, towering trees parting for something shaped abnormally in the distance. When he parted the branches for a better view, it was a a village.

Except it wasn't a village, not the ones he's familiar with. No, no, a small town rested a few acres away, with a library and a school and a bank. People were milling about, a family gathering food from the market. Humans. 

His return to civilization was almost... anticlimactic. No goodbyes, not one last thing to craft to end his projects. All his hard work was just... gone. And he simply walked into that village as if he had been doing so for years.

When he asked a lone elderly woman behind a fruit vendor about the current year, her answer, he realized too late, didn't help him. Mostly because he didn't remember what year he had started working with the deities. He had a feeling at least a few decades had passed since he took residence with the deities, maybe more.

If only he had family to return to, people who would be worried about him being gone for so long. But no. The world moved on without him. No one cared.

The sting of this revelation didn't have such a sharp edge, but it still hurt. It always hurt, being around people, because everyone got hurt when he got too close. Everything he touched died, and he was left to watch it all fall to ash. The lost lands felt safe from that pain, but now he was back, and he... he wasn't ready. 

Philza built his temporary homes in the outskirts of villages, or on the rare occasion, rented an inn before moving on to the next location. From one place to the next. He couldn't stay long. It'd be too tempting to make permanent residence, and stay with the kindly villagers, because he had always enjoyed their stories and their jokes. 

But this was easier, on his mind and his soul. It meant he didn’t have to make allies or friends, only to watch them die like watching the last few pieces of sand in an hourglass cascade to the bottom. Why place the knife within his own heart, to be twisted years onward when all he cared about was taken away, only for those left behind to push him away when they saw that he did not physically mourn?

Mortal life felt so slippery, so delicate, so minute. Why get too close to such fragile things, when his hands were so deadly even with the most careful touch? 

He didn’t understand it, and he never received any answers to the questions that plagued him. No books he read had such answers. Graced beings are no John Doe. There was no one to reach out to, or to ask the why’s and the how’s. Even Kristin, a goddess who had not touched the Earth in so long that she had not a clue what grass looked like, couldn't hep her husband. 

He was all he had on this damned earth. Maybe that was why, centuries later, it was so easy to fall back into the slaughter.

Philza barely remembered the days of old, before the curse of longevity plagued him. The days of being a soldier too young to understand why he was fighting, simply doing what he was told. The days of hesitating on the last strike, because his heart was too kind, too open, even though he’d receive a great lashing for every falter or pause. The days of acclimating to each murder, as the years went by, growing colder every time he watched the light leave someone's eyes. 

He lied. He remembered it all far too well. 

And as he looked around, several centuries alter, it seemed the world had never changed.

Philza had become a familiar witness to the cycle of human cruelty. The extortion, the avarice, the calls for war, and death oh so much death. He had seen the poor that begged for scraps, the child soldiers that knew nothing of what they were fighting for, the families crying for a modicum of kindness from the gods above. 

The rulers, however, those kings and queens on high thrones, turned the other cheek, ignoring their pleas. Every fucking time. Philza had hoped that in his time away, the world would have bettered itself, rather than tear itself apart for a mere sliver of power. 

What a fool he was. Foolish, human mortals continued to turn the wheel of greed, and warmongering. Corruption dripped into every crevice of nearly every kingdom.

And Philza sought to one day raze it all to the ground, except he was only one man against the world.

One day, a queen asked for his assistance as he visited the Kingdom of Dole, a quiet little country resting on the edge of the ocean. The queen was likely aware of his history and name, and she ogled at his wings, noting they looked razor sharp, pointed enough to cut through the skin of her enemies. She looked positively giddy.  

Despite the red flags, Philza accepted with a simple shrug, even though he held no love for Dole and gladly sought to see this country fall, too. The queen offered little more than a house under his roof and enough money for food and other necessities. That was all, and Philza did not ask for much else.

After all, he wanted to be here. He was Death’s Angel. His hands were already stained with ash and decay. Blood tasted warm on his tongue every waking moment. What point was there in stopping now? 

His presence among the lower ranks, however, was less welcomed than the ruthless queen. Some looked at his wings and curled away, eyes flashing with fear. Others sneered at his presence, remarking how the wings blooming from his back were an affront against nature. Humans saw him and his gift from his beloved, and did not see a person, nor even an angel, but something wicked and wrong. 

The title Angel of Death became the one acknowledged on the battlefield, spat by his fellow soldiers and spilt out of trembling lips by his enemies. The fog still tended to swallow him, and he’d awaken to a sea of bodies and a few scars of his own. Though he had always wondered if it’d bring his victims any peace if they knew that he felt no joy when throats were slit or hearts were carved. 

Every evening, he’d return to his empty small home, sitting idly until the next slaughter. No neighbors greeted him upon his return or bid him goodbye at dawn. No one dared befriend the wicked Angel of Death. He passed through the next several years fighting and killing and sitting around, nothing more. 

Maybe he was always meant to be here, in the eye of a blood rimmed hurricane. This was his calling, the place he’d take refuge until Lady Death came unto him and said it was time to go home.  That was what he deserved. 

Then Technoblade. 

Phil didn’t know how it happened. He didn’t expect to survive that massacre just outside the castle walls. His wounded leg, and the way the Blood God aimed his sword at him, rang all the bells in his head that his time had come. It would have been a clean kill, swift and painful for but a moment before he passed. 

(He wouldn’t have minded so much.)

But then the Blood God dropped his sword, and Technoblade offered to help Philza stand, and Techno and Phil ran. They killed the King of Eastfield, murdered the Queen of Dole, setting free thousands from their tyranny. 

After the assassinations, Philza thought this was the end of the road. He almost expected Technoblade to turn around, unsheathed his sword and demand a duel to the death. There wasn't anything else keeping them together. Even though they spent the past few months in each other’s company, they didn’t know each other. Why would this man want to keep the Angel of Death around?

When Techno turned to him, however, as they gathered their things in the inn they rented, he didn’t extend his sword toward Philza’s throat again. Rather, he remarked that he had been granted a taste of tearing down corrupt governments, and that the sensation of helping the citizens who had no power to stop the system felt good. So why stop at the two savage nations?

The whole world was wrought with greed and evil, he said, and he sought to raze it all to the ground.  

Philza, in the midst of packing his things, stopped.

“And while I could definitely take them down all by myself, no doubt there,” Techno said with a mighty confidence that Phil believed, “I figure having someone help me out will make things a lot easier. Someone I can trust.” 

Trust? Philza thought immediately, trying to keep a poker face. He wanted to laugh. Why the fuck did this man trust him? 

Too many of Techno’s words buzzed through Phil’s mind. It sounded too good, like his ally planned to lure him in only to later backstab him when the moment was just right. And he was tempted to let that paranoia drive him; it kept him alive this long, after all. 

But after all these months, Philza had been letting his guard down—like a fucking idiot —and Technoblade never used that to his advantage. Whenever they sat down on the floor of a cheap inn, Technoblade told ridiculous stories about a massive potato farm he grew. In battle, they’d stand back-to-back, fighting in sync as if they had been at it for centuries. The same hands that Phil had seen crush skulls tended to wild animals with the most delicate, gentle touch. 

“And I can trust you to join me in this, right, Phil?” Techno asked, spurring Phil from memories he realized could be described as fond. Techno’s voice was slightly hesitant, giving away that mountain of worry that pressed against the man’s back, all due to the mere ounce of doubt that still rested between the two men. 

Phil glanced across the room. Technoblade dragged a rag across his dirtied sword, ready to be used once more in his next mission. A sword that had never been pressed into Phil's back when his guard was down. 

Phil smiled and continued folding the pair of pants in his hands. “To the ends of the earth, mate.” 

They had been running ever since. They hardly ever stopped.

They ran and crushed tyrants and shared stories over a fireplace as they hid away in the freezing arctic. Battles brought a skip to Phil's step again. Where senseless murder had become numbing, swiping the heads off of his enemies with his new friend put a smile on his weary, often bloodstained face. In the midst of the battlefield, the Blood God, a mercenary whose folklore made children quiver in fear, became Technoblade, a man who made Philza laugh with his quips and dry and dark humor.

God, Phil hadn’t had a genuine laugh in years. 

They never left each other's side, as they brought cruel governments to their knees. It was them versus the world, and the world never stood a chance. A few years went by, and Philza’s head still spun from how quickly his life was changing. He wondered if Kristin somehow strung together the events that brought Technoblade to him, as if to say, “Make friends already!”

(Or maybe it was a curse, because nothing ever stays, and who said this was going to be different?)

On more than one occasion, the thought of running away nagged in the back of his mind. It became an itch that was tempting to scratch. The temptation never won out, but it was there, festering his thoughts. 

Being around someone. Waking up and going downstairs only to remember that you were not going to have breakfast alone. Having someone who was comfortable enough to sit beside you in silence on a lazy Saturday with nothing but a couple of books and a mug of fresh, hot coffee. Having the fog begin to curl back into your mind when you knee deep into a project, only for someone to snap you out of it because he came to remind you that dinner was almost ready. It all unsettled him in how foreign the luxury of companionship felt. Worst of all, the comfort terrified him, down to the bone. 

At least when Death plucked a stranger from the living, the knife would not slice through his skin and muscle and organs until there was nothing left. The barriers he crafted with bloodied, calloused hands were for his safety just as much as they were for the safety of everyone around him. How could one slowly and agonizingly watch his first new friend in years fade away and decompose until there was nothing left? There were no answers, and the unknown gripped his heart. 

With every few years, Philza anticipated the small changes of age to become more palpable with Technoblade. The wrinkles carved into skin, emphasizing smiles and stress on someone’s forehead. Dull whites and grays streaking once bright and brilliant hair. The ache of bones, one’s body slowly decaying from inside until it could move no more. 

Phil never said anything about it, and Technoblade never seemed to let the thought of death weigh him down. “Technoblade never dies!” he  said on more than one occasion, like a reckless, impulsive child who swore they were immortal because they fell from their treehouse and lived with merely a scrap or two. And Philza wanted to believe him, even if he knew Death would see such a man and think Is that a challenge?

When would this all come to an end? When would Phil be left all alone all over again, forcing him to continue this miserable cycle all over again? 

But Technoblade never left. 

They began to part ways on many occasions, different goals taking them on separate paths. No matter the circumstances, however, they found one another again with ease and fell back into easygoing chatter and banter like they had just seen each other the day before.

Decades flew by, and Philza thought he'd one day see Technoblade keel over and pass away with age. Or to leave for a few months and come back and realize Techno had died while he was away. 

He tried not to think about it too much. It’d make him clingy. 

Yet with every day, Techno breathed, alive and well. He wielded a sword and sliced through their enemies as though he was always a spry twenty-something. His hair never grayed. His skin never wrinkled. His voices never calmed, always raging, always screaming, and Philza would be there every time to bring his friend out of the red-hazed fog the voices dragged him into. 

A century and a half passed since Philza met him, and Technoblade stayed. And Philza swore to always stay at Techno’s side; it was the least he could do. 

They toppled tyrannical continents, forged their own empire, and beyond that, forged a friendship that lasted lifetimes. And Philza dared to wonder, Will things be different?

It was just a shame that he wasn’t sure which answer he’d get, nor did he know how to feel about either of them.

❁❁❁

They walked  beyond the outer walls of the empire, a harsh blizzard pelting the two leaders' hair and the bitter cold nibbling on any exposed flesh. Neither of them were suited for the freezing territory, especially this late in the evening, what with Technoblade’s Nether-born blood and Philza’s hollow bird bones. Even with two layers of thick winter garb, Philza’s teeth clattered. 

He didn’t want to be out in the open. Exhaustion was beginning to weigh over him like a thick blanket. But as soon as Technoblade received news from an old friend, that the friend's foster child ran away and snuck out the walls of the empire, Phil refused to let Techno go on this search alone. Over the past few months, Techno had grown fond of and became friends with the kid, a firecracker of a human who looked up to Technoblade and swore he’d be a soldier just like him someday. 

They braved the storm as they trekked through the nearby forest. Phil kept a critical eye out around the bushes and all elsewhere. Their search was coming up empty, however, and what little hope he had was slowly dwindling. 

It had been over an hour since they began their search, and Philza sighed. “I gotta be honest, mate. It’s been, what, two whole hours since anyone’s last seen him. And none of the guards have seen anything either. The odds aren’t favoring anybody here.”

“I know, but I’d rather not stop now, if there’s a chance he’s still out here,” said Techno, a few feet away and his back facing Philza. He scanned through the woods. “Besides, not like we’re suited for this weather, either, but we power through.” 

“True, though the layers upon layers of clothing help, too.” 

Technoblade made a noise of agreement, and they wandered deeper into the forest. Techno muttered under his breath as he spoke unintelligibly to the voices filtering in his head. Philza’s eyes surveyed every angle of the woods, but there was nothing. The only signs of human life were faint footprints, though fresh snowfall began to cover the tracks. They were small footprints, too, barely the size of Philza’s entire hand. How a young child wandered this far into the woods was beyond him.

As for surviving out here… well, Phil kept his mouth shut about that. For as long as he could, at least. 

Then, he looked through a thick bush sprinkled with snow, and a lump on the ground caught his eye. One with thin clothes and pale skin etched with icy blue. Phil swore under his breath, and his voice softly carried through the air. “Techno…” 

Techno stopped and turned toward him. He stood behind Phil and followed his gaze. “What’s…” His ears fell. His voice quieted. “O-oh…” 

“Poor kid, nature got to him,” Phil whispered, walking around the small body blanketed in snow. The boy’s eyes were clamped shut with frostbite. “Can’t imagine why he’d come out here this late at night, but…” He looked up at his crestfallen friend. “Sorry, mate.” 

Technoblade didn't speak. He pulled off his brilliant red cape. He bundled the still, freezing body of the boy around the red fabric. The child’s body was stiff with frostbite, skin tinged with a soft blue. Silence fell over the dull white expanse. Words escaped Phil as he watched a storm rage in his friend’s eyes. 

Another minute or so passed, and Phil scrunched up his nose, which was tinged pink. “We should go. It’s freezing as shit, and we have that meeting tomorrow. I don’t think we should be getting sick while talking to royal pricks with sticks up their asses,” he said, leaning toward Technoblade to get his attention. Techno didn’t answer, didn’t even move or look at him. “Techno?” 

Techno looked in Phil’s direction before his gaze wandered back to the bundled dead body in his arms. “Sorry, just needed a moment.” 

Philza nodded, and they stumbled back in a quiet only interrupted by the winter winds whistling. Technoblade was whispering to his chat again, telling them to calm down. Phil placed a hand on his shoulder, a steady weight against a raging storm. “C’mon, let’s go before the storm worsens,” he said again, pulling away to rub his hands together to combat frostbite. 

“We’ll have to contact his foster father to let him know we found him,” said Techno, his voice back to a stiff monotone. Perhaps too stiff. Forced. “Do you know a good place we can bury him?” 

Philza tilted his head as they walked out of the forest, and the stone walls and billowing fireplace smoke from within the walls greeted them. “Depends on where they live. There’s a few of them around. The closest one to the castle’s probably toward the west by the castle.” He glanced over at Techno, gauging the look on his friend’s face; a quiet, mournful look as he shifted his attention between their destination and the lifeless child held securely in his arms. A child who Techno had known for four months at best, yet was holding back everything to not lose control of his emotions.

“Ehh, that’ll work, I guess.” When Techno moved his head, their eyes met. “I can see those gears turnin’, Phil. What’s on your mind?” 

“Nothing.” Phil straightened his posture, swearing under his breath that his friend knew him too well. The guards standing at the gate saluted them upon their approach. “I’m just, uh, sorry about the kid.”

“Mhh.” He paused. “By the way, his name was Gillian.” There was no admonishment, no terseness to his voice. It was just a fact, plain and simple. 

Phil nodded. “Yeah. Sorry about Gillian.” 

When they returned to the castle, Technoblade was quiet for the rest of the evening, as well as most of the next morning during the meeting. Philza didn’t rebuke him over it, even though he was forced to do most of the talking among a table of snotty, smug royalty. Rather, he stayed at Techno’s side, as if to say that he was there if Technoblade needed him. 

During the child’s funeral, Technoblade offered his presence as condolences, as a friend to both the father and the son. This time, however, Phil stayed behind in the castle. He gave the excuse that there were too many documents that needed to be signed and sent out within the next few days in order to avoid waging war against a nearby faction. 

The day passed, and Philza, getting lost in sorting through papers after papers after papers, blinked when he felt something bonk the top of his head and lay there. His eyes briefly glanced to the side; night had long since ascended. Of course Techno was back by now. 

Exhaustion slurred Technoblade’s words; he mumbled about irrational anger toward a grieving family and how if the father had known just a bit earlier, the kid might have been saved, and how unfair it all was.  

Not that Philza said anything, because he knew that “what ifs” were an ugly way to cling to the past. They were impossible questions never to be answered. He merely patted his friend over the head, telling him that it would be okay, that Kristin would treat the young boy well. 

“I can make some cocoa, if you want,” Philza offered, a slight smile on his face. “Might cheer you up.” That, and Techno never said no to a nice drink late at night when everything was a bit too loud. 

This was the one exception. Techno went to bed early, and Philza watched him leave. He leaned back toward his papers, all these meaningless and incessant documents that made the idea of ruling the entire world an absolute bore. 

His eyes wandered out through the window beside him. He could faintly see the cemetery in the eastern fields not too far off. The little boy’s headstone rested somewhere in there. It lay among a field of tombstones of people whose names Phil never learned, people whose lives he knew fuck all about, random people who had whole lives simply… taken from them in one fell swoop.   

He glanced back down at his desk, and continued writing. 

❁❁❁

“Have you ever thought about how you’d die?”  

Technoblade peered up, ears flickering slightly. He only appeared somewhat surprised at the question, though hardly phased. “I always kinda expected to die on the battlefield, like I’ll be fighting and fighting for years and years, until I finally just flop over. Just somethin’ I grew up with, y’know?” He shrugged, swirling his cup of coffee idly. 

“Fair ‘nough.” Philza nodded, tasting the satisfying burn of his own drink and hiding his grin of appreciation because finally, someone who didn’t look at him like he grew five heads when he asked such a question. He placed his cup down. 

“What about you?” 

Phil hummed in thought, head tilted toward the slightly ajar window overlooking the empire. “I’ve thought about it a lot—”

“Bruuuuuuh.” 

“Oh, pft, c’mon!” Phil defended weakly, his voice more high-pitched. “I’m old as fuck, can’t blame me for thinkin’ about it once in a while.”

“That is true; you are very old,” Techno agreed, a glint in his eyes before he downed the rest of his coffee. 

“You’re hardly a spring chicken, mate,” Phil snarked, leaning forward over the table. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m, like, three years old.” 

Phil’s body shook with his loud, almost cackling laughter. “Then you,” he said around his wheezing, “are the oldest damn three year old I’ve ever seen.”

“Wooooow, Phil, harassing a toddler.” Technoblade stood and picked up both of their empty cups. “I thought you were better than that.”  

“Then you’re a fuckin’ fool.” Phil’s laughter gradually died down by the time Techno cleaned their mugs in the nearby sink. Phil’s eyes drifted back to the window, watching the specks of people floundering about in the streets. The day looked particularly clear today, and his wings yearned to stretch after not being able to fly for the last few days. 

“So where’d this topic come from, anyway? ‘S a little too macabre for a Tuesday morning, honestly,” Techno noted, sitting back down in his spot on the other side of the table. His eyes focused, looking more concerned, and then he turned to Phil. “It wasn’t the close call the other day, was it?” 

Phil waved him off. “Ahh, maybe, and ‘sides, none of those fuckers stood a chance against either of us. I wouldn’t even call that a close call, more like an… oops,” he managed to weakly describe with a shrug. 

“A sword through your shoulder isn’t an oops, Phil! That’s most certainly not an oops!” Technoblade suddenly looked somewhere between wanting to strangle Phil and going back to bed to call it a day. 

Phil smirked against Technoblade’s conflicted stare. “You’re right, it’s called ‘I have a new sword now; it’s mine now’—but that’s not important!” He held out his hands, because Technoblade’s gaze flattened and oh, he definitely looked more like he wanted to strangle Phil now. “Don’t have a heart attack on me yet.” 

“I promise nothing.” 

Phil coughed to push back a chuckle. “But that wasn’t, like, the only reason. I just think about it a lot. A might bit too much; it’s definitely made people go ‘jesus christ, the fuck’s wrong with this one?” He laughed to himself. “Guess I’m just weird about death on the whole, though the Angel of Death thing kinda just comes with that, I suppose. Being super fuckin’ old, all that.”

“Do you even know how old you are at this point?” Though it came across as a teasing question, Technoblade’s tone was genuine.

“Fuck no,” Phil said, crinkling his nose. “Lost track of that shit ages ago. I could be five hundred or a thousand years old, I dunno. I…” He scoffed and turned away, raising his hand then dropping it onto the table. “I don’t even know how old you are. You could die of old age next month, for all I know.”  

Technoblade might have given him some sort of look, though Philza avoided looking at him. “True, but you know me, Phil. Technoblade never dies, so I ain’t going down that easily.” 

“You say that a lot. The whole ‘Technoblade never dies’ thing.”

“It’s basically my brand. Gotta get that trademarked.”

“Oh, shut up,” Phil snickered. “But given how long you’ve stuck around…” An eyebrow rose. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

“Well, ehh,” Techno answered, hovering his hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture, “if we’re going for being one hundred percent accurate, it’d be more like ‘yeah, this guy’s really hard to kill,’ which just doesn’t have as good a ring. Thus, Technoblade never dies. Wayyyyy more intimidating.” His chin jutted toward the ceiling. 

“So, what, are you like me, then? Can be as old as time itself, never age, but die with a sword through your chest?” he asked, biting back a grin. 

“Well, as far as I know,” said Techno, resting his chin over his palm. “When I became the Blood God’s emissary, He didn’t exactly give me a brochure on what’s going on. I could be immortal and not even know it. Or maybe I could die of old age, just at, like…” He leaned forward, shoulders hunched. “Several hundred years? Two thousand years? No idea.” 

Phil’s gaze wandered to the table. Even Techno didn’t know when he was expected to die, or if he did. What could he even say to that? Hell, he didn’t even know how he felt about it.

Of course he can’t live forever. No one can; talk about a miserable, lonely life, Phil, the man who once felt as though he had been living forever and a day, thought. 

Phil glanced back up at Techno, whose brow furrowed in an observant manner, as if ready to ask what was going on in the mind of the Angel of Death. Before he could, Phil wore a smirk. “So the question is:  when do we put you in the retirement home?”

Technoblade pressed his lips together. He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Please, we both know I’ll be dragging you in there first, kicking and screaming,” he said with a half smile. 

“Then I’ll see ya there, you fuck.” Philza waved out his arms in defeat. “And I’m gonna kick your ass at bingo.”

“That’s—I hardly call that a competitive; bingo’s a random game of luck—”

“Not if you use, like, five bingo cards at once. Totally increases your chances of winning—”

“Pretty sure that’s just cheating at some locations.”

“Only if you don’t hide them all that well.” 

After Techno learned as to why Phil was no longer allowed in a majority of bingo halls, fairs or wherever else that might hold bingo nights, they rose to leave the kitchen. The rest of the day was one they dreaded. Political squabbles would plague them hour after hour. Trade agreements, peace arrangements, discussion of property of open land in the east. Hopefully they’d managed to stay awake for every single meeting. 

As they trudged down the hallway toward the throne room where they were to meet the monarchs of the kingdom out west, Techno had fallen quiet. Not uncharacteristically so, though his narrowed eyes, focused and in thought, made Phil too curious. 

“Spare a coin for your thoughts?”  

Technoblade hesitated, his snout scrunching in contemplation. “You’ll miss me when I’m gone, right?” 

Phil’s heart sank. I’d rather you be the one to miss me first, came the morbid and selfish thought that Phil quickly stacked away. He smiled crookedly. “Aww, Techno, ‘course I will.” 

Technoblade looked away. “I wouldn’t blame you if it didn’t hit you really hard. The whole death thing… it’s gotta be weird, I imagine. Different for you. So it’s fine, really.”

His words only twisted that knife deeper.

About two doors down was the entrance to the throne room, where they would be discussing trade agreements with stuffy rulers. Philza stood here, basking in Techno’s words, and that room couldn’t have been as small and insignificant as it felt now. Phil gripped Techno’s arm, forcing them to a stop in the hallway.

“Look, you’re not entirely wrong. Christ, I can’t even think of the last time I actually cried over someone dying, or even buried someone I cared about. I lost count after a few decades.” Phil grinned awkwardly. “You just kinda… get used to it. It becomes so part of you, you know?” 

But then his jaw clenched, his smile fading as he looked Techno in the eye. “That doesn’t mean I don’t fuckin’ care, though. Or that I won’t. Or that I’ll fuckin’ forget you after you’re gone. Gods, that’s—if I ever made you think that, I-I’m sorry, but…” He took a long, deep breath and draped his arms across his chest. “Until now, I haven’t even had someone to someday bury in a long, long time. That’s all.” 

If it were anyone else, they’d spit in his face and call him cruel and callous and coldhearted for his words. Even as Philza explained himself, though, Techno did none of that. No verbal lashes, no demands of if you really cared you’d cry! You don’t give a shit! Stop giving excuses! Like all the other times he had seen death, and people retaliated that he wasn’t reacting how they’d expect a normal person to look upon seeing a good man die young or a beloved elderly woman pass away. 

Instead, Techno nodded with a deep sense of understanding that only they had, a smile creating lines around his mouth. He didn’t say anything; not that there was anything he needed to say. 

Phil’s arms fell back to his sides as he leaned against the wall, minding his wings. “So, do you want to be buried, then?” 

“I guess,” Techno answered, his voice lacking certainty. “I mean, I’ll be dead, so well, not like I’ll care. If you fed me to my horse, I wouldn’t know the difference.” 

Phil lost it. He nearly bent over from holding himself as the halls echoed with his boisterous laughter. That was not the answer he was expecting, and now tears are glassing over his eyes. “What the fuck?” he exclaimed, palming over a damp eye. He lightly pushed Techno’s shoulder. “Here I was, tryin’ to be respectful, you shit!” 

“I am, too!” Techno defended. “Hecate might need a good meal that day. Do horses like part pig meat—”

“OH MY GOD!”

❁❁❁

The silence between them cackled with a dangerous air. 

Phil’s body had been tense for half an hour now. He bit his tongue, because if he said anything, his words would come out bitter like freshly plucked kale. And he was pretty sure that Technoblade, too, was willing to allow the weird hush hang between them. Mostly because he knew Phil would smack him upside the head for daring to speak right now. 

Phil preferred to let the awkward silence envelop the tent. Even if it meant a just as awkward walk back to the safety of the empire’s walls, he’d prefer it over talking. 

Please don’t talk about it.

As Phil dragged a fresh towel coated with disinfectant across the wound, Techno gritted his teeth. Phil’s critical eye caught Technoblade's attempts to hold back noises of pain. Phil’s face fell, but he scrunched up his features with a haughty scoff. “Idiot,” he muttered despite himself.

“Hey, I’d argue I’m quite the intellect,” said Techno, rolling his shoulders.

“You’d think an intellect would stop fuckin’ squriming.” 

Techno rolled his eyes, and they both let the conversation drop there, if momentarily. 

The tent flaps quivered in the breeze, cold air trickling through. Outside, a few soldiers rushed about, attempting to recover from the damage dealt from the battle. Technoblade’s eyes firmly snapped shut as Philza dabbled a new batch of healing potion over the deep gash in his side. “Wouldn’t squirm if it didn’t hurt,” Technoblade said, fidgeting. 

Phil clamped his hand on Technoblade’s shoulder, keeping him in place to give him a dangerous look. “Then pay fucking attention next time.” He bonked the top of Techno’s head lightly with a fist. “It’s what you get.” 

“So I deserve to be stabbed through the stomach, heh?” Technoblade asked, his tone light. 

Phil flinched, barely enough for a plain eye to see. His hand was reaching out for a fresh roll of bandages, but it stopped. He huffed. “You know what? Sure. It could teach you a lesson or something.” As he grabbed the scissors to cut the bandages, he blatantly ignored the slight tremor to his fingers. 

When he looked up, though, he saw Techno’s gaze flit toward Philza’s hands. Techno’s lips curled into a gentle frown. “I, uh, scared you back there, didn’t I?”

Philza bit his lip. He lowered his head and began to swath the gauze around Technoblade’s body. 

Did that even properly describe how he felt about what happened? Scared? The word didn’t sit right with him. 

That feeling of seeing Technoblade fall, blood gushing from a deep, open wound like the rush of a cool stream did not feel like fear. Seeing Techno struggle to stay afoot, to not allow himself to succumb to weakness surrounded by those seeking their demise didn't bring terror to his bones. 

No, what twisted in his gut was more akin to a rage unlike anything else he had ever experienced, something raw and visceral. It consumed him, a beast swallowing its prey whole until he became the beast itself. His skin itched, his human form threatening to tear apart, to give way to something more ethereal as gifted by his goddess. However, he restrained himself as best as he could, lest he lose himself entirely. 

A second pair of wings tore from the skin off his back, black like an endless voice, swirling and forever. The sky blue tint to his eyes bled away to a deep, pitch black. Claws stretched out from his fingertips, teeth now barred with vicious fangs. He ripped away a sword from the loose grip of a fallen enemy or ally (did it matter, one or the other, at this point?). From above, a murder of crows appeared as if out of thin air. The sky darkened before the sea of screeching birds plunged toward earth with sharp beaks and wings. 

Wielding two swords, Philza lunged through the sea of soldiers gathering around both him and Technoblade. A few stray soldiers working alongside them tried to fight, but their numbers had dwindled against the sudden invasion. 

Not that that held any significance. Because Philza, oh Death, nothing satisfied him but your soul. Slashing with swords that glisten with force and might, clawing with nails sharp enough to dig through skin like tearing through sand. And no enemy could touch them. None of them dared to. How could one face the Angel of Death when he feasted? How could anyone face an agent of Death Herself? 

Throats were bisected, heads were severed, and blood contaminated pristine, snow-crusted land. Bodies twitched until the last breath left their bodies. Screams bellowed in the breeze, transforming into gasps of that last breath of life. 

Philza, sadly, had no time to revere his work, to watch the life drift from their eyes. He stared at his work briefly, eyes empty and lifeless, before he stopped himself. He wrestled himself away from the fury that ravaged his soul. He turned around, and Technoblade’s body rested several feet away. He was unconscious, and Philza only saw a few faint breaths once he rushed to his side. Blood still poured from the wound that carved into the lower side of his body. 

With a sigh of relief, Philza felt the eternal power slip back directly into his heart. His extra wings vanished, eyes returning to color, and his claws retracted. The crows vanished except for a few that pecked at the ground and perched atop the cold bodies. 

Standing here, so human, it brought a quick escalation to his heartbeat. Neither of them had totems, and Philza only had the one potion left on him that he managed to force down Technoblade’s throat. He could only wait and press down on the injury with a torn piece of his haori. There wasn’t a village for another two miles, and their base was an extra mile from there on foot. 

Philza briefly glanced up. Among the bodies littering the snowy fields. It was only the two of them left. In the distance, he faintly saw footsteps heading in the direction heading away from the battle. Cowards, the lot of them. 

Collecting his breath, he looked back down at Technoblade, who hadn’t made a sound for minutes now. His face looked pale, too. “C’mon, get it together, you fuck,” he said as he pressed further against the wound, constantly inspecting it to see if the potion was working its magic. At best the bleeding was slowing down, and sparkles of healing magic flickered in the air above the broken skin. 

But Technoblade was still silent, his head resting against the snow with his eyes shut. His chest was barely moving now. Nothing was happening. As if the potion did fuck all. 

Philza’s own body stilled, panic surging like an electric current. No, he refused to break apart again; he needed to save Techno. This didn’t have to be the end. His emotions were going to make all of this so much worse. He needed to get it together. 

“Nah, nah, don’t you—” He shut his eyes, and he forced out a laugh. “Don’t you dare. You don’t get to spend an eternity in my wife’s domain until I give you the say so.” 

Techno still said nothing. He didn’t move. 

Misery dawned on Phil’s face. 

How silly of him. He was silly to think he got any say in this. Maybe this was it. After almost two centuries of friendship, after running an empire they forged with their bare hands, this was the end for Techno. If Kristin thought it was Technoblade’s time, then it was his time. Everyone has an expiration date. Technoblade was bound to meet his eventually, and with Phil always being at his side, of course he’d be there as a witness as his friend was claimed by time itself. 

He let this happen. 

His vision blurred, and something wet and warm cascaded down his face. “F-fuck this,” he hissed as he tried to inspect the wound, except his vision was too blurry. He wiped his eyes furiously. “I don’t wanna bury you, mate. Not yet.” A sob constricted in his throat, his chest tight. 

With his eyes shut, he didn’t even see a pair of eyes open just slightly, or the tension on the person’s face as they looked up. 

“How dare you,” a low voice whispered below Phil, followed by a grunt of pain. 

Phil’s eyes opened wide to see a pair of dark red eyes staring up at him. His entire body sagged, a hand against Techno’s shoulder keeping him upright. “Oh fucking christ, mate. You really had me going there — oi!” Phil shrieked, because Technoblade had thumped him lightly over the head with the pummel of his sword. Thrown for a loop, the last of his tears fell away. “The fuck!?” 

“You really thought I’d be taken down by some lowly, scrawny soldier from the southern territory,” said Techno, not an ounce of bitterness to his words. “Do you take me for a fool, Philza Minecraft?” 

The whiplash of the change in tone forced a shaky laugh out of Philza. “The biggest fool I know, that’s for sure,” he said around an uncertain smile. 

“Bruh,” Techno began to say, but he hissed through his teeth. “Oookay, maybe that soldier got a good hit. How’s it lookin’? Think it’ll come with a cool scar?”

Phil wiped away more of the blood with his makeshift rag. The wound, though still open and deep, had stopped bleeding, the potion working its magic. He smiled. “Yeah, you’ll be fine. Just another scar to add to the collection.”

“Let’s goooo,” said Techno, though his monotone made him sound less than enthused. He sat up, but immediately regretted it as he curled into himself, one arm reaching for the wound. “Alright, help a guy out, huh?” 

Philza scoffed, teasing him as he offered an arm to help lift Techno onto his feet. They found their horses hiding away in the fair distance, thankfully unharmed by any of the enemy soldiers. Phil helped Techno onto his steed, and once Philza perched on his own, they made their way back to the nearby base. 

They had much to prepare, well aware that that invasion was just the beginning. War tasted like ash in the air. It was coming. 

But Phil had other priorities. 

“I’ll be more careful next time.” 

Philza nodded, returning to the present with a grimace curling his lips. “I’m sure you will,” he mumbled, fighting to keep his emotions below the surface. The last thing he needed to do was mess up Techno’s bandages. 

“Hey.” Phil looked up at Technoblade, who sat patiently on the bench. Techno's features were soft, and he leaned forward to place a hand on Phil’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

Philza swallowed a pit in his throat. He scoffed and finished wrapping the gauze around Technoblade’s stomach. “‘Course you’d be the sort to apologize for almost dying. You don’t need to.”

“I’m sorry,” Technoblade repeated with more emphasis, eyebrows knitted downward, “for making you think I was gonna die. For, uh,” he hesitated, his expression faltering. He squeezed Phil’s hand, “making you cry.” 

Silence returned with a mighty vengeance. Phil’s eyes drifted to the floor, finding his boots far more fascinating to look at. He tightened the bandages for good measure. The wound was sure to scar. Technoblade already wore so many, but for some reason, Phil felt for certain this one would haunt his dreams. 

“That should about do it,” Phil said, his eyes returning to his first aid work. He hummed and stood up. When he turned, his attention focused on the map resting on the table opposite to the bench. It displayed the layout of the countryside. “We should get back soon. We need to keep an eye out on Aeris; it was their insignia, I think, on their armor. We should start preparing for the worst.” He gazed over his shoulder. “That is, if you’re well enough to go now.” 

Technoblade rose onto shaky legs. He balanced himself on the bench before pushing himself toward the table. He approached Phil, placed his hands on his shoulders, and bent over slightly so they were facing one another eye-to-eye. “Only if you are,” Techno said, and the mix of sincerity and somberness to his voice nearly made Phil buckle under the pressure. 

But he refused to break down. Techno was fine now. Everything was fine, even if that bandaged wound brought a lingering sense of rage billowing from within. Even if his hands still trembled until he was forced to pull them further into his sleeves. Everything was okay, no matter the fact he cried over someone's death for the first time in years, which brought a sense of dread clawing at his heart.

Philza smiled at him, tight-lipped. “I’d feel better if we got back to the castle right away. So let’s just go, alright?” 

And deep down, he knew Technoblade did not accept that answer for even a second. But for now, like Technoblade, who nodded and stiffly walked toward the table, he pretended that all was right. 

❁❁❁

The winters in the Antarctic always held a deathly grip on all who rested in its biome. 

To even stand outside on the balcony was a mighty task for a man with hollow bones. Every gust of wind brought shivers curling into his spine. The bitter ice consumed the warm, sealed air from within his bedroom, and only the single coat over his shoulders covered the rest of his light clothing. His teeth clattered from standing outside for only a few minutes. 

Regardless, he decided he’d brave the storm. He had calculated this; the worst of the winter lasted thirty minutes in flight before he reached new, warmer territory. That was fine. He could weather that. Not like he’d have to deal with the cold for much longer after that.  

Philza’s wings stretched wide, greater and wider than the balcony itself. His feathers brushed over the railing. They itched to soar through the air, wanderlust fresh like sugar on his tongue. His hands brushed over the railing, ice cold against gloveless fingers. A few scattered crows lingered beside him, then jumped into the air and flew onto the shingles of the roof above. 

He wondered where his flight would take him. He didn’t have any destinations in mind. It wasn’t like he belonged anywhere else but here. Maybe he’d find time to discover another hardcore world, a piece of nature separated from the rest of this world that he could forge into his own creation. 

All by his lonesome. All alone, all over again. 

Maybe that had always been where he was meant to be. Maybe he had it wrong over the last few centuries. Maybe things weren’t going to be different, because he always found himself returning to the same life. It didn’t matter whether he wanted that life or not; it was the one that called to him, the one that was safest.

Philza stood atop the railing, toes curling in his boots. His eyes drifted down below, at a little garden dome that Philza loved to tend to, even though they had plenty of gardeners who insisted they could take care of the plants for him but helped him out nevertheless. The training area, blanketed in snow. They needed to get that cleaned. Surely, Techno wanted to put it to use soon for the new recruits—

Behind him, the door hinges creaked. Phil stiffened, feathers puffing out, and he glanced over his shoulder. Phil’s face dawned with unconcealed horror.

Technoblade stood in the doorway, donned in his cozy sleepwear. He guarded his expression, exposing no upset or shock or whatever he was feeling as he peered up at Phil.  

“I… hey,” Phil greeted, cringing to himself. 

“Hey.” Techno’s gaze flitted across Philza, head to toe. Then his eyes trained on the bag Philza had slung over his shoulder, for extra food on the road. “You’re headin’ somewhere.” It was not a question.

Phil looked away, staring across the horizon, pink streaks painting the sky in a delicate portrait of sunrise. The world had yet to fully wake up, but here they were. “Yeah, I am.”

“This is pretty last minute. Is it something serious?” 

“Nah,” Phil said, shaking his head, “no one’s in danger, if that’s what you mean. Nothing’s going on, I swear. I’m just…” Words failed him miserably. He pressed his palm to his forehead. “Going. I’m just going.” 

Techno said nothing, which was somehow worse than an actual response. Philza’s eyes clamped shut. The thought of looking Technoblade in the eye right now cast dread over his heart. He didn’t even want to talk to him. It was why he attempted to skulk out of the castle like a teenager going out late at night without his parents’ permission. 

“Alright,” Technoblade accepted with ease. But then, “But how long you gonna be gone for? ‘Cause next month’s that whole big dumb ball/gala/whatever they wanna call it. And if you plan on makin’ me go alone, then I’m definitely not forgiving you for this one.” Phil could almost see Technoblade’s smile at the playful tease, even though those words stung like a horde of bees. 

Phil felt silent, his wings wilting. The cobblestone floor brushed the tips of his feathers, freezing to the touch.  

Phil’s lack of response seemed to snap Techno from his lighthearted mood, and his next words came out quiet. “Or is this a longer trip?” he said, his tone calm and level, as though his best friend was not about to abandon him on this icy terrain. It was like he wasn’t upset with Phil, when he had every right to. It hurt more than any surge of anger or upset that Phil anticipated, striking like a spear through his chest. 

“I… I don’t know.” 

Maybe another minute or so passed in unbearable silence, until Techno spoke again. “If I didn’t run into you here, would you have just left? Wi-without a goodbye?” That was when Phil heard the crack in Techno’s voice, just for a second. And any average person wouldn’t catch it, but Phil read his best friend like an open novel. 

“I figured, uh…” Phil smiled, but not only did he continue hiding his face from Technoblade, but it almost hurt. “Figured you would’ve stopped me—or tried to, at least—if I told you.” 

“Well, if you had someplace to be, then who am I to hold you back?”

“No, gods.” Phil shook his head again, and he started laughing. Nothing about this was funny, but his shoulders trembled with each guffaw. He rubbed the side of his face. “No, Techno, yo-you’re not holding me back. Never were, ever. And…” His laughter subsided, and his hand slowly fell back to his side as he gazed beyond the castle and beyond the mountains. At whatever stood out there, waiting for him. “Actually, I don’t know where the hell I’m going. At all. No fucking clue.”

“Then why leave?” Techno asked, without a moment’s hesitation this time, and Phil felt a strange bout of something close to fear when he heard footsteps, inching closer and closer with purpose. When Technoblade continued, his voice was almost directly beside him. “Wh-why leave like this? ” 

Phil flinched.

“Look, I’m sure you have your reasons. ‘Cause, duh, we’ve both had to leave to take care of some business every once in a while. It happens, but we’d talk about that. We’d say see ya later, we’d promise to see each other again. So why would I try to stop you this time? Unless—” Techno cut off his words abruptly, like the air had been stolen from his lungs from a thief in the night. Seconds ticked by, each one more agonizing than the next.  “Unless… this is permanent,” he answered for himself, defeated. “And you’re leaving for good.”

The cold air whistled. People were shuffling down below, moving freshly imported goods inside. The day was beginning. Phil’s silence was the only answer Techno needed. 

Philza swallowed something lodged in his throat. He still refused to meet Technoblade’s gaze, because Philza Minecraft, the coward he was, refused to face his truth. His eyes drifted shut again, shame crawling through his skin. “Not necessarily forever. I can… I can always visit, and—”

“I… I know you’re always talking about how you used to travel all the time, way back when. You couldn’t stay in one place long,” said Techno, interrupting him. A bleak acceptance had taken over his inflection, the fight having left the great Blood God in the heat of battle. “You’d travel all over the place, no real home to speak of. If you miss that, I’m not gonna force you to stick around.”

“You’re not…” Philza clenched his fists tight at his sides as he hissed out a noise of frustration. Not at Techno—god, never—but because what the fuck could he say at this point? Besides what he so desperately wanted to keep brushed under the rug? He dragged both hands over his face. “You’re not forcing me to—”

“Now, I know I’m not actually pointing a gun at your head. But if you’re just staying here—and you wanna leave—just ‘cause of me, then don’t! Don’t let me stop y—”

“I don’t want to leave!” Philza interrupted, shifting in one swift movement to turn around, bend down, and look Technoblade directly in the eye for the first time that evening. His lips curled into a nasty snarl. “I have to!” 

“But why?!” Technoblade asked again, his voice rising, and now that Phil was looking at him, the anger was prominent in his tightened features. Yet Techno’s eyes were brimming with treacherous misery, concern, and dare he think, guilt, of all things. “Quit hiding these things from me, Phil! Stop running away, and just talk to me!” 

Philza’s heart pounded against his chest, on the verge of tearing straight through skin. His face fell, his jaw agape but no words came out. How could he explain why his departure had both nothing yet somehow everything to do with Technoblade? He couldn’t, so the cat swiped his tongue.  

Whatever Phil’s expression contorted into, it made the creases in Techno’s face falter, eyes flickering with some sort of realization. “I…” Technoblade sighed once more, shoulders slumping. He let out a tired sigh, and his lips dragged into a long, ugly grimace. “Nevermind, don’t-don’t worry about. You don’t have to tell me. D-don’t feel obligated or anything. Just, wherever you’re going, if you just straight up don’t come back…” He spouted out his words hastily, forced out with a mouth that fought against what was being said. He took another few seconds to continue, struggling with his words. “You’ll at least write every once in a while, right?” 

This was it. The seal of approval. His way out. Phil got what he wanted, and he never felt more miserable. His heart ached.

“Yeah.” Philza swallows something catching in his throat. He offered one last smile, one that was wobbly and tight against his face. “Yeah, of course.” 

“Cool, cool.” Techno nodded, his expression now guarded, his feelings concealed behind a wall of brick and mortar. “I’ll, uh, see you around, then.” He was quick to turn on his heel, and—

Something about seeing his friend turn his back toward him, and imagining that door closing behind Technoblade one last time, and never seeing him ever again, made Philza’s heart lurch. This was stupid, this was all so fucking stupid, and he couldn’t take it anymore!

Blinking something out of his eyes, he spoke without thinking. “How can…” And he stopped, catching himself in the act. His words felt heavy on his tongue, like lead weighing over his back. They were the fears and paranoia he had always kept to himself, because he was all he had, for so long.  

“Huh?” Technoblade stopped, looking over his shoulder. 

But keeping his questions locked away was not worth this. 

“How can…” Phil gritted his teeth. Such a conversation was pulling teeth, but goddammit, he would bear the pain if it meant he never had to see Technoblade close a door between them with such finality, even though Philza put the door there in the first place. “Fuck, dude, you care so much. Too much, if you ask me. For every little fuckin’ thing. Every little animal and person an-an-and—no matter how many times you watch everything die around you, you still…” 

Phil scoffed, frustrated with himself, his eyes on the pale pinkish sky as he threw a hand out. “You’ve lived for centuries now! And all this time, how can you watch it happen every time and still let yourself…” He struggled again, fingers tightening as he glared at them. He threw out his arms one more time before they slapped back against his sides. His eyes met Technoblade’s, begging to understand something so beyond him. “ Feel ?” 

Technoblade’s mouth hung open. “I—Phil—”

“Doesn’t it terrify you?” Phil cut him off, his voice hush. 

The air weighed as heavy as those words laid out on his tongue. Phil waited, and he would wait centuries more if it meant understanding . 

“I…” His thoughts no longer guarded, Techno just looked sad. “I gotta be honest, Phil; I don’t have an answer to that. Whatever I feel—grief, guilt, what have you—it just comes to me, and I let it happen. I don’t think twice on it. Nothing philosophical about it or nothing. I-I don’t…” 

Phil, despite everything, smiled. What a simple answer, and why did he expect anything less? Of course such empathy and compassion was as natural to Technoblade as breathing or wielding an ax. “Ah, well, you’re a better man than I could ever be.” 

“Mhhh, nah. You’re pretty cool, too.” 

“Aww, mate.” His shoulders rose as his grin widened.

There was a pause, and the mirth in Techno’s eyes faded. His faraway look made him look almost as ancient as Philza. “It’s another story, though, when the voices make it hard to think or control myself. Sometimes they’re just loud and scream nothing but a single letter, or call you old, or whatever. But the next moment they’re screaming for murder, even when I don’t want to cave into that feeling. O-or when I realize I’m being used or betrayed. While it feels like a thousand random people screaming in my ear…”

When he looked up at Philza, the far off look in his eyes was gone. He appeared attentive, remarkably so. “It’s still me. Wanting to destroy anything that hurts me, like I used to, a long time ago. And it’s sometimes really tempting to let that part of me take control and let loose. But…” He scratched the nape of his neck, claws digging through the soft pink fur there. 

“But what stops you?” 

“Aside from just me telling them to shut up? Well...” A small smile played at his lips, crinkling his face. “Your stories sure put them to sleep.”

Phil snickered, head bowed slightly. “Oh, those fucks. They just don’t know good storytelling when they hear it.” 

“Nah, they actually like listening to you... Phil.” The emphasis on his name forced Phil to lift his head back up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“... One day,” he replied, his soul twisting as he shut his eyes. “I don’t know when, it could be years from now, tomorrow—”

“When I say, Technoblade never dies, it’s not just the branding. I mean it.” Techno took another step forward and poked Phil lightly on the chest. “You’re stuck with me for a long, long time. Whether you’re here or I don’t know where else you’d go, I’ll be right around the corner. Better get used to it.”

Phil nodded, blinking rapidly again to combat tears. His eyes grazed over the floor of the balcony below him. Somehow, it felt like such a deep and heavy drop to the surface. But he released a heavy, long overdue exhale, releasing tension from his shoulders. Making his decision final, he hopped off the railing. He landed right in front of Technoblade, and he smiled just a bit. “Well! Guess you’re stuck with me, too, then,” he said, hands against his hips. 

“Good. ‘Cause if you think I’m going to that gala and dealing with all those obnoxious aristocrats by myself—”

“I never liked those either, y’know.” The warm air from inside washed over the both of them, and Phil shivered at the change in temperatures. “There’s always so many people, too many for one goddamn room. Feels claustrophobic.” 

“At least you can carry a conversation for more than a minute,” Technoblade whined as he shut the door behind them. A few flecks of snow slipped inside, only to melt in midair. “All these people bragging about all their wealth and how much they steal from their own citizens, I don't know how you fight the urge to just—I dunno, throw them out the window.”

“Ohhh, no, we’ve both definitely done that at least once,” Philza said, shucking off his heavy winter coat.

“I can count five instances off the top of my head,” Techno replied after a genuine moment of silence to tick off the numbers in his head. Phil had seen the gears turning. 

Phil began to lower the coat and bag onto the chair in front of his work desk. His gaze lingered on a letter with the Antarctic Empire seal on the back. The front had Techno’s name scrawled in Phil’s messy writing, hastily written minutes before he had stepped onto the balcony. 

Technoblade caught him staring at it, and Phil grabbed it before Technoblade had the chance to first. “Well, as an apology for almost running away,” Phil said as he ripped the note in half several times, “if some bastard’s bothering you at the party, just say the word, and I’ll chuck him out the window.” With a bit more flourish than necessary, he released the pieces of his goodbye letter, scattering them into the air before they descended into the trash bin beside the desk. 

“Hey,” Techno said in a tone much heavier than their light conversation, causing Phil to look his way, “you don’t need to apologize.” 

“Techno—”

“You’re still here.” Techno held out his hands at ‘here.’ He shrugged. “That’s all that matters.” 

Phil nodded, though hesitantly, even if that didn't feel like that was all that was important, and his mind continued to spin like a loose thread. I still don’t understand. I want to, but I probably never will, but I’m here, so that’s all that matters, I suppose. “Good, that’s… good.” He walked toward the door leading to the hallway and opened it for Techno to lead the way. “Though the defenestration is still on the table.” 

“Oh, it better be,” Techno said, as Phil closed the door behind them.