Work Text:
Technoblade had been netherite mining when the voices suddenly went from sparse whispers to all encompassing unorganised screams, each overlapping the last in a cacophony of urgent words and desperate pleas. Techno groaned, so far the voices had been content to simply listen to Techno's monologues and watching him tear through the nether in search of the rare metal, but apparently his luck with them had run short. He massaged his head, trying to dispel the slowly growing headache.
"Chat I can't even hear my own thoughts, not to mention understand what you're saying." His voice was rough from exhaustion, he had been in the nether for much longer than he planned having to evade a particularly stubborn pair of ghasts.
Chat quieted down, although there were plenty of voices that screeched in Techno's ear just to piss him off. Techno's headache stopped its growing advances, calming down until it was just another beat in the background humming of his brain.
"Now, what exactly is so urgent you need to almost break my head in?" Techno huffed, continuing back on his steady path through the mines.
baby runt
gold, gold
runt hurt must help
cold runt needs to be warm
E E E
runt yes go find runt
techno your mic is muted
baby runt
Techno sighed, "Chat we're nowhere near any sort of bastion or village, there are no runts this far out, especially baby ones."
Chat exploded again into angry shouts before one of the much much older voices calmed them down.
TechnoPepeSadge Techno doesn't believe us
there is a rumt!!
yes yes runt is there!!
trust us techno!!
it'll only take a moment
Techno paused in his mining, letting out a defeated sigh and murmured, "Where is he then?" The voices erupted into cheers, happily buzzing in Techno's ear.
As the voices began to excitedly list off directions Techno veered off course until he found himself at the edge of a soul-sand valley. Techno hesitated, his instincts whining and dragging him back. logically he knew soul sand valleys were not much different from the usual netherrack wastes, yet superstition ingrained in his mind through generations of fear made him extra weary of the desolate wastes.
Before long, Techno's ears started to pick up a faint whining and snuffling coming from further into the sand washed biome. Technos instincts screamed at him, his eyes going wide that was a squealer one that shouldn't be anywhere but at their mother's side. Techno sped up, the undeniable instinct to protect and calm the little one taking over until he was sprinting desperately to where the sounds were coming from.
As he rounded a bend in the path he finally found the source of the noises, a small tiny little squealer sat there, shivering and sniffling from being so far away from any substantial heat source. Techno reached them, his instincts exploding into a bout of chuffs and purrs, reverently picking the little thing up and swaddling it in his arms.
He could tell the squealer was weak, it wheezed and coughed between whines in his arms as Techno desperately tried to soothe them. He could feel their ribs beneath his calloused hands, their chest stuttering pitifully for air. Their fur was matted in places, both sand and dust covering the small one and diluting its fur. As he checked them over, searching for any injuries he found one of their legs were twisted and bent in an angle that made Techno cringe, gently testing it for breaks or dislocation, yet the squealer seemed to not react at all to Techno’s proddings, acting as though the foot was of no discomfort. Techno frowned, it obviously wasn't a break with how the younger reacted, but what could it be? Almost as soon as Techno's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, one of the voices spoke up it's a rare birth defect, his leg did not grow straight nor did it fully develop while it was in the womb Techno nodded in understanding, that would explain why the squealer was out here if they belonged to a bastion, many bastions purposefully exiled squealers who were-what they deemed-weaker than the rest. It was a tactic meant to keep bloodlines pure, yet often many young souls never got to reach their full potential because of it. Techno whined sadly, his squealer didn't deserve that, and neither did any others.
Techno pressed their foreheads together and purred, rubbing his cheek over their fur, letting the scent from his facial glands soak into the younger. He pulled them close, settling them just beneath his chin and wrapping them in his cloak. They were horribly cold, he feared they had already caught the deadly wither-death-soul-rot sickness that many squealers suffered from if separated from their sounder.
Techno drew out a small bottle filled with milk; Techno had been planning on using it on the off chance that he came across a witch or got hit by a wither skeleton, yet he deemed this just as -if not more- important than either of those encounters. He ripped a piece of his shirt off and put it over the opening of the bottle in an attempt to make the milk run slower for the squealer, securing it with a spare hair tie. Once he presented them with the make-shift bottle they latched hungrily on, purring and snuffling happily to show their thanks. Techno cooed at them, a deep purr of his own surfacing as he slowly started the trek back to his portal, little bundle in tow.
Later, Technoblade would watch as his squealer grew. Later, his squealer would play in the snows of the tundra, a newly carved cane by their side. Later, Techno would read to his squealer, books of heroes and warnings, all to protect his little one. Later, Techno’s squealer would dance in clothes threaded with gold. Later, Techno’s squealer would no longer be his squealer. Later, his squealer would become a shoat, one Techno could be proud of. Later, Techno’s squealer, now a shoat, would leave the thick walls of their shared house. Later, Techno’s squealer would no longer come to him for comfort nor heat. Later, his squealer would embark on a journey that Techno could not prepare him for. Later, Techno’s squealer will come back, battered and bruised. Hungry and skittish. Later, Techno’s squealer would not be his own.
Later, Techno would stand over his squealer’s grave, head hung low, a pained whine bubbling in his throat. Later, Technoblade, once mighty and strong with the power of a god on his back, would wonder where he went wrong. Later, with the weight of a mourning father on his back, Techno would break.
Later, a constellation would appear in the sky, Theseus and The Minotaur, with Orion watching ever so softly over Theseus’ shoulders, too late to save him from his fate.
Later, a father will stand where his son once stood. Later, a father will have learned and grew while his son never got to. Later, later, later.
Many things will come later. But for now a little squealer was wrapped in thick red fabric, listening to their protector’s steady heartbeat, swaddled in warmth as they were carried across a desolate tundra.