Chapter Text
It starts on a slow and chilly November night.
Up north, past the Magical Mountains and up through the curtain-like boughs of Willow Forest, up a glacier entrance and to the left of a moss-covered rock, is a small cabin. The windows are lit up orange by the candlelight within, two eyes and a hungry mouth door a dark shape against the cold snow and beckoning all those who come near. This far north, not many people come across it, especially not as it sits on the glacier.
This one shambling horse, with two precious packages bundled up its back, apparently does not get the message. It makes its way across the snowy terrain, pushing through the light flakes as it heads towards a spot of light on the glacier-side. That cabin is its destination.
Inside the cabin, it is warm. There are two figures huddled within that slow stretch of taffy-coffee-molten heat, one in an armchair with a blanket over his legs. Reading glasses are perched on his nose, the echo of someone’s voice in his ears calling him an old man, but it’s true, isn’t it? He has a book in between long slender fingers, pale hair the color of corn silk tickling the edges of his ears.
On the floor is another man, sitting upright against another chair. One foot is stretched out towards the fire, the other up by his chest as he also reads, the spine in between his fingers and thumb holding it open. He’s wearing glasses too– not that he needs them, but he likes to be in solidarity with his companion.
It’s quiet. Neither of them speak, and the only sound is the howling of the wind and their combined breathing, the crackle of firewood. Occasionally one of them will move, either to refill their mugs from the tea kettle or to feed firewood to the flames, but other than that there is just a calm, happy silence.
Until there isn’t.
Ice cracks– rattles in the distance. A long, winding, wounded noise. Both of their heads snap up.
“Just the wind,” the larger one says, the one with hair as pink as a sunset.
“Mm,” says the other, not quite convinced. “Sure, Techno.” He lets it go, though. They’ve only just settled when yet another noise breaks through their precious solitude.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Okay,” says the pink one– Techno– as he looks at his companions. Both of their heads had shot up in alarm. For a moment, neither of them make any other moves at all.
Then, “You’re not expecting anyone, are you?” the blond asks, turning his head a little too much like the crows he favors to look at Techno with a gleam in his eye.
“No, Phil, I’m not,” Techno says defensively. “Are you?”
“Not tonight,” Phil says, and he sets down his book in his lap as Techno stands up from his seat, slowly and carefully. Every movement has purpose as he steps silently towards the cabin door, feet pressing into the wood planks of their floor and making no sound. His hand finds the handle of an ax he keeps by the door, always sharpened, and curls his fingers around it to lift it to his side.
The knock comes again, insistent. Without any more preamble, Techno pulls open the door and lets in the winter chill.
He blinks. There in front of him is a semi-translucent (clearly magical) green fist, who, upon noticing its job is done, dissipates into the snowy evening air with a cocky wave of its fingers. As it goes, it makes a pointing gesture to the horse behind it, and Techno’s gaze is immediately drawn to the dark creature.
“What is it?” Phil asks from behind him, and Techno steps forward, eyes narrowed slightly. His ax is put to the side. The horse lowers its head as he approaches, a dark, beautiful thing that is clearly exhausted from its journey. His hands pass over its face and then down the front of its chest, finding a small vial strapped to it alongside its tack. His warm fingers make quick work of the cold metal latch, and before long he’s holding a parchment note. He squints, turning a bit toward the cabin door to catch the light and read it. Scrawled in green ink is simply:
Calling in on that favor.
Underneath the message is a smiley face. Techno grunts, and lets the paper fall from his hand, sparks trailing as it lights and immediately catches fire. It’s ash before it hits the ground, a dark smear on the freshly-fallen snow.
“What is it?” Phil asks again, and Techno rounds the horse towards the dark bundles on its back. He reaches up, finding rough rope tying the fabric to the saddle, and so he quickly pulls out a knife and slashes through it. He isn’t accounting for the bundle of weight that comes with the action, and before he can catch it, one of the bundles slips, sliding right off the edge of the saddle and off of the horse entirely. It lands in the snow with a heavy thud and Techno steps back, the blankets come loose from the package as it fell, and–
Hair, golden-bright in the candlelight catches his eye.
“Oh lady,” Phil says, sounding mildly horrified as he finally steps out to join Techno in the snow. He kneels by the fallen bundle– dragging away the blankets from the face of a young-looking boy, eyes closed and lips blue. “It’s a child.”
“It’s children,” Techno corrects him, eyeing the second bundle still on the horse. And now that he’s looking for it, he can see a shock of dark brown hair there too, blending in with the dark blankets they’re wrapped in.
Phil is already picking up the smaller bundle that had fallen, blankets dripping from his arms like slick oil, dark and shapeless. The child inside is small and pale and Phil gingerly rests his head against his own neck, holding him against his body carefully. “He’s cold,” he says. “They must’ve been riding for hours. Techno, get the other one.”
Techno does as told– reaching up and slicing off the rope that binds the child to the horse, catching this one as it falls. It’s bigger and probably a bit heavier than the other, but still bird-bone light in his arms as he cradles them close. When he brushes away the blankets from their face to investigate, he finds more blue lips and striking cheekbones. Boys, it seems. Young, but likely double digits.
“What did the note say?” Phil demands as Techno holds open the door for him to go back inside. The horse seems to know its own way towards their stable in the back, and disappears around the side of the building. The warmth of the cabin is jarring after being out in the cold for only a few minutes, and the second they step inside both boys they’re holding seem to let out a long, synchronized breath. Both of them pause, and then Phil lifts his eyes from the blond’s face to Techno and glares. “Techno.”
“Someone was calling in on a favor,” Techno murmurs, setting the brunet down on the floor by the fire much to Phil’s dismay. He immediately starts piling more logs on. “Or their weird idea of a joke, but.”
“They’re freezing.” Phil’s tone makes it clear he will be pressing Techno for more information about this once they make sure these two aren’t going to die. Phil is already at work unwrapping the blond, and underneath the blankets are threadbare clothes and skinny limbs. Far too skinny. Both of them fall into silence as they take in what has been left, or purposefully dumped, on their remote doorstep.
Phil brushes a hand over the younger one’s hair. “Magma cream,” he says. “And any loose clothing you have. Wool socks. Health potion.”
“On it.” Techno moves before he can think about it, hands skimming over the contents of the various chests around their house, fingers scrabbling the high shelves for a potion bottle, the swirling pink inside betraying the type. He gathers extra clothing of both his and Phil’s, the warmest he can find, and by the time he gets back Phil has already unraveled the second one from his cocoon and is pressing slim fingers between his own palms, warming them with his breath. “Frostbite?” he asks, and Phil just shakes his head. Together they administer the magma cream and potions, smoothing the heated substance over the chilliest extremities and slowly, degree by degree, warmth returns to them. Their faces gain color and they both start shivering again– both a good and bad sign. They’d been close to death, Techno thinks, layering socks and mittens onto their hands over the cream and then helping Phil lay them down by the fire. Once their lips are no longer blue, both men sit back, staring at the strange boys and each other.
The closeness had given Techno time to study each of them in turn. They’re both lanky and thin, long limbs malnourished and beaten. There are some visible bruises and he’s sure many others lie hidden, as well as a couple scars. The brunet is taller and older, the blond younger and still wearing on his face the baby fat of childhood. Each of their hands are worn from labor, but the older has calluses on his fingers that Techno recognizes but can’t quite place.
Most identifying of all is shown on their faces and scalps. Both boys have a strip of shock-white hair, and spiraling down their faces are pale lancing lichtenberg scars.
Interesting.
“So,” Phil says into the silence that has befallen them. He’s eyeing Techno accusingly, but not maliciously. Just curious and maybe a bit confused. “A favor?”
“Old friend,” Techno says, and Phil just raises an eyebrow at him. They’re both sitting on the floor with the kids, looking at each other above their heads. Techno sighs. “It was Dream.”
“Dream?” Phil asks, blinking. “Techno, didn’t you kill him?”
Ah. Techno winces.
(A fight, not too long ago, that had ended with his ax in another man’s chest. It had been the last fight he’d participated in before leaving, and he can remember the blood on his fingers vividly. The deep thrum of magic and bloodlust roaring through his veins, the claim he’d placed down on the man’s soul as he’d sent it down into the earth.
Apparently, not down far enough. Apparently, his magic hadn’t stuck.)
“I may have… left out some details,” he admits, and Phil sighs, heavy and long, pressing his hand to his face.
“What details?” he asks.
“It’s long,” Techno says. He’s not even sure he understands it himself. “And… complicated.”
Phil gestures. In front of the fire, two children sleep on. Their faces are thankfully, no longer blue, and Techno takes a little comfort in the fact they’re not dead. “We have time,” he says.
“I did kill him,” Techno says, a little defensively. “To be fair. I did do that. He just– didn’t stay dead. I thought he might. But he didn’t. I didn’t make it stick.”
Phil seems to understand what he means with that, because he simply sighs. “The immortal circle is so crowded these days,” he grumps, and he sounds every year his age when he continues, “It’s those stupid universities, pushing the boundaries of natural law. Kristin is going to be pissed if anyone else decides they want to cheat Death. And you have no clue how he did it?”
“Kristin is a softie,” Techno points out. “And no. I don’t. Stuck an ax in his chest and thought he was gone, until he walked into my house a week later.”
“Damn,” Phil says. Techno hums. They both fall silent, looking at the two steadily-breathing lumps lying on their living room floor.
“I wanted to be done,” Techno says, after a second. “I’d promised it was the last one.”
“I guess it couldn’t accept that,” Phil says noncommittally, and Techno leans his head back until it hits the soft fabric of Phil’s armchair.
“What do we do with them?”
“We wait for them to wake up.” When Techno opens his eyes, Phil is still staring at the two small lumps. Watching. Waiting. “Then we ask them how they got here, make sure they’re safe, and send them out again. Escort them to the next village, if we have to.”
“Seems fair enough to me,” Techno mutters and damn, now he’s tired. The excitement of the night hadn’t been expected, and he can feel that tired ache in his bones that has always come hand-in-hand with the onset of the winter months. “I’m gonna–”
“Don’t you dare hibernate on me yet,” Phil says warningly.
“Sleep,” Techno finishes. “Regular old sleep, like a regular old person, right here on our regular old floor.”
Phil smiles, crooked and fond. “Alright,” he says. Techno heaves another heavy sigh and leans back until he’s comfortable. The image of Phil watching the two kids burnt into his eyes, he sleeps.
Techno wakes up to someone screaming.
He’s moving before he’s even fully pulled himself out of slumber, the familiar race of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he pulls himself upright and out of the cold embrace of unconsciousness. Eyes shut he’s on his knees, fingers scrabbling under the armchair for the sword he knows is stashed there because there are weapons all over this house. As his brain finally catches up with his ears and instincts, Techno’s eyes snap open, and he freezes.
The little boy– the blond one, the smaller one– is sat upright by the dimly-smoldering coals. Daylight pours in through one of their east-facing windows, bright and sunny, but it does nothing to shock the darkness away in the house. The little boy is staring right at Techno, eyes wide and caught pale blue in his terror, hands clutching at the blankets that still surround him like a lifeline.
Crap. This isn’t good.
“Hey,” Techno says, and he pulls his hand out from under the chair and leaves the sword where it is. Phil is already rustling to awakeness, and the shape next to the boy squirms as well.
And then he’s screaming again, apparently only stopping long enough to catch his breath.
“Hey!” Techno snaps, louder now, because that high pitched whine is going to give him a headache if it goes on any longer. He must be doing something right, because the boy’s mouth snaps shut and he cowers back, nearly into the–
“Wait wait wait!” Techno says, scrambling forward to grab at the kid as he nearly rears backwards into the hearth. The kid opens his mouth again to scream, but before he can the blanket pile next to him rustles and the other kid shoots out of it and latches onto Techno’s arm with his teeth.
“What is going on ?” Phil’s voice asks, breaking through the reverie, and the little blond thing’s breath hitches on a sob as Techno roars in pain and rears backwards with the other kid still hanging off his arm. He’s drawing blood! Little monster!
“I just woke up– ” Techno tries to argue over the various noises of terror and his own muffled pain as he shakes his arm roughly. “Let go!”
The kid, thankfully, listens. Unlocks his jaw and hits the floor hard, but before Techno can make another move he’s scrabbling backwards until he’s pressed up against the warm stone of the hearth next to the other kid. He’s hovering in front of the smaller one on his knees, using his body as a shield, arms splayed wide.
“Leave him alone!” he snarls, eyes flashing darkly under his greasy and matted fringe, gaze darting between Techno and Phil. His chest is heaving. His lips are blue again. He looks everything in the world like a trapped animal as the smaller boy clings to his back with his dirty fists. “Where are we? What’s going on?”
“Okay,” Phil says, and he steps in front of Techno and kind of pushes him back as he does in one long, smooth motion. Techno goes, if only because his arm is still bleeding. He clutches it with a hand and then releases, the sting of blood reassuring on his fingertips. They sparkle, once, and he catches the way both of the kids flinch and so quickly he suppresses it. “Okay,” Phil says again, hands up placatingly between them. “Look, you’re alright. Hush. It’s okay.”
“I said where are we? ” The boy repeats. His eyes are a little foggy, a little hazy, and he apparently still hasn’t caught his breath.
“Our house,” Phil answers truthfully. There’s something about Phil that has always called to children, made them enjoy his company and play in his shadow. It’s probably something to do with the fact that children are much closer to unbeing than being, in their small fragile bodies and wide open minds. Phil is good with things like unbeing . Despite that, these kids don’t seem receptive even with him. “You’re in our house. We found you outside, on a horse, nearly frozen to death. You’re alright now. We helped you.”
“We didn’t need your help,” the kid says, and the younger one clings to him and whines. “We– we–”
“Wilby,” the little one says, whispers. If Phil and Techno weren’t what they were, they probably would’ve missed it. “Wi–”
“Shh!” Despite the distraction, the older one’s eyes don’t pull away from where Phil is standing.
“I promise you we’re not going to hurt you,” Phil says gently, kindly, and that seems to be what breaks the camel’s back.
“He’s gonna be so mad!” the tiny one wails, suddenly and painfully. Techno grimaces. “Wilbur, we–”
“I said, shh!” The older one snaps, finally tearing his eyes away from what’s in front of him in order to deal with what’s behind. He pushes the younger one further behind him, nearly smothering him in the back of his shirt. They really are grimy, Techno notes.
“Wilbur,” Phil says, in that same gentle tone one uses when confronting a wild animal. “That’s a nice name. Is it yours?”
“Yes and you can’t have it, ” Wilbur snaps fiercely.
“Smart,” Phil hums. “You’re very clever and brave.”
“Stop trying to– to trick me!”
“Us,” the little one says from behind him. Then louder: “Stop trying to trick us! Yeah!”
“Shut up, Tommy,” Wilbur hisses, and ah, there’s the other name. Wilbur pales as he realizes what he’s said, and says something about not being able to have his name either and the little one, Tommy, is chiming in, but then all of it stops as Techno lumbers forward.
He’s a big guy. He’s intimidatin’, one might say. So when he moves up to Phil’s shoulder, both of their mouths snap shut and their eyes widen in terror, almost as if they’d forgotten he was there.
See, Techno’s good at being intimidatin’, but he’s also good at being quiet and making you forget you ever saw the threat.
Now, though, he tries to soften that edge.
“I’m Techno,” he grunts. He lands a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “This is Phil. He wasn’t lying or tricking you. We found you outside–” Deposited on our doorstep. “–and brought you in to keep you from dyin’ of hypothermia.” That, at least, is the truth.
Wilbur looks between them, a confused and foggy expression on his face. He’s still got his arms outspread, keeping Tommy safely behind him, and Techno’s fingers tighten on Phil’s shoulder, just slightly.
Why did Dream send them two children? Where did he even get them?
“I don’t believe you,” Wilbur says after a second, voice cracking. He coughs, and it rattles in his chest. Techno starts to feel the beginning of a rising concern. “I don’t– you’re lying, you have to be, he said–”
“Wilbur,” Tommy whispers in that way that children do, loud and frightened. “Wil–”
“They’re lying, Tommy, they’re, we have to–” Techno sees the moment the kid’s knees give out on him and he thumps to the ground, chest heaving around wheezing breaths. Tommy shrieks, scrambling over the other as he hits him with a fist, frantic and panicked.
“Wilbur!” he shouts, and Phil has clearly had enough of this standoff as he swoops in, ignoring Tommy’s painful and frightened cry in order to catch Wilbur before he can fully hit the ground. His eyes are hazy and pained, half-open, and Phil frowns as he touches the back of his hand to his forehead.
“He’s burning up,” he says quietly, and Techno can just hear it under Tommy’s wails.
“Let me go,” Wilbur murmurs, but he coughs again and it really shakes him now. Techno sighs, and steps forward, but it only seems to make Wilbur struggle harder.
“Let him go!” Tommy shrieks, kicking his feet out of the blankets and beating on Phil’s arms, although it does very little to stop him from holding Wilbur so he can cough better. Phil gently nudges him back, but it doesn’t do much, and he gives Techno a pointed look.
Techno has no clue what to do.
See, Tommy looks so small as Phil all but starts to tear Wilbur away from him, eyes filled with glassy tears of panic and fear. Wilbur is similarly in a state, weaker though as the cough rattles his chest, and Techno can't just keep standing there. Tommy looks so terrified, so hurt and broken and reaching out with shaking hands like he'll be able to keep his grasp on the other boy’s sweater. and so, without thinking, Techno reaches out and dislodges him, swooping him up into his arms. Picking Tommy up is like picking up a fallen baby bird- light, brittle, trembling.
He knows he's made the wrong decision when Tommy goes entirely limp in his hands, and Wilbur screams on vocal chords already raw.
“Don’t hurt him!” he howls, and Phil flinches back. Techno freezes for a second, terrified his own magic has spilled through in his panic, but when he tunes into it, no. He hasn’t. Nothing of his own nature has touched Tommy, although– there is a coil of something there when he looks. Wilbur cries: “Please, I’ll be good, I’ll– don’t hurt him!”
Techno gently turns the boy in his arms and finds a terrified face looking back at him, distant and foggy. But not foggy like Wilbur is foggy– there is no fever when Techno presses his hand against Tommy’s brow. He leaves only faint smudges of maroon in his wake.
“It’s all right,” Phil is saying in the background as Techno just holds the kid, propped up against his chest with all his limbs loose and mouth shut quiet. “It’s okay, Techno’s got him, come on you, you’re not well–”
And Wilbur is screaming until he’s not, and Tommy is crying and Techno can’t bear to see him like that, confused as they both are. So he passes his hand over Tommy’s head again, like he just had to check for his temperature, but this time he lets his magic crackle through. There’s a smattering of pink sparkles that jump from blood smear to blood smear, and then Tommy’s eyes close. His breathing evens out.
The silence he leaves in his wake is echoing and hollow.
It is midmorning, but the house feels dark and gloomy as Phil and Techno silently pick up. Both boys had been hysterical beyond belief– it makes Techno’s fingers itch for a blade, but he buries the urge for now in order to get them both somewhere safe.
Wilbur is sick, that much is true. He shivers and rattles with pain even under Phil’s watchful eye and magic, a cool compress over his forehead. He sneezes occasionally. Coughs even more.
Tommy just sleeps, his tiny chest rising and falling. Techno watches him for a while, having set him down on Phil’s armchair and placed a blanket over him. Wilbur had gotten Phil’s bed, through one of the doors on the other end of the room. He can hear Phil in there now, puttering around as he cares for the other boy, and so Techno takes the time to think. He props his chin up on his hand and stares at Tommy and those scars like lightning down his face and wonders– what happened to you? Who are you?
He gets no answers, of course. When he reaches out with that magic-touch, he finds nothing clue-like in Tommy’s Path.
Paths are unique to each person. They’re personal wells of magic, places that people draw on in order to make their own little miracles. Some have larger pools than others– some have raging rivers, while others only trickles. Techno likes to think he has a nice waterfall inside, crashing with foamy rage over rocks at the bottom. Phil is a more wide, open expanse of slow-moving water. Tommy is small, but the well Techno feels as he reaches inward is significant. He’s a fiery little spirit, his flickers of protection wards biting at Techno like they’re happy to do it, but Techno has much practice in evading those. He easily pushes past, but all he finds inside are the fading echoes of his own touch and an even more faded, darker presence that he can’t figure out.
Not until Phil reappears, looking haggard and worn.
“How is he?” Techno asks, not dragging his eyes away from the furrow worn into the sleeping boy’s brow.
“Not dead,” Phil quips, and collapses onto Techno’s chair. He kicks a foot out. Techno has restarted the fire, poking the coals to wakefulness, and they chase off the daylight’s chill. “Sick. I think being out in the cold was bad for him. His lungs are full of…” Phil trails off, and then grimaces. “Gunk.”
Techno looks over. “Ew,” he says. “Will he get better?”
“I’ll try my best.”
For a moment, neither of them speak.
“That was kind of overwhelming,” Techno admits after a second.
“Yes,” Phil agrees. When Techno looks over at him, he’s dragging a hand down his face. “It was. Not at all what I expected, honestly. They were so…”
“Scared,” Techno finishes for him, a bit lamely.
“Wild,” Phil breathes. Techno knows him– knows him like the back of his own hand, so he knows when not to push and when Phil has something to tell him. He is rewarded in his patience by the steady breathing of his old, old friend and then his quiet words.
“Techno," he says softly, gently. Unsure. "They're– I mean, they bear Her mark. Somehow they got– close enough to touch, or See, or– somehow. They've known Her. Almost."
Techno's never been hugely interested in all of Phil's "chosen priest of a huge death lady goddess" background before. Now, though. Now.
“Oh?” he asks, keeping his voice light and interested. “Wanna explain?”
“I can feel it,” Phil murmurs. “Can’t you?”
And then Techno realizes what he’s talking about– the darker magic he’d felt in Tommy’s own Path, faint and hidden but tinging it all the same. Her. Death.
“You don’t think–” he starts, and Phil shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “I would know if they were one of us, Techno. And if Dream had forced that choice upon children, I–”
“I’d hunt him down right alongside you,” Techno growls, low and angry. Again, his magic sparks. Whatever Dream did, however he came upon these kids– Techno hopes for his sake, he didn’t cause any of this.
He’s not sure. He can’t be.
“I think it’s best to let them sleep,” Phil says softly. “We’ll keep Wilbur in the other room there, and when they wake up, keep them separated. It might make them more receptive.”
“Or terrified,” Techno snorts, and Phil shrugs.
“What else can we do?” he asks. “We can’t convince them we’re not going to hurt them if they’re throwing fits.”
“Fair enough.” Phil makes a good point. With any luck, by the time his little trick wears off and Tommy wakes up, he’ll have calmed down some. Or he’ll notice the other’s absence and start screaming again. That would be a pain. Techno is back to watching him, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“Should probably do morning chores, mate,” Phil reminds him. Techno hums. “I’ll keep an eye on them. Carl needs food.” A nudge to his shoulder, and so Techno gets up, mind whirling. His magic-touch pulls away from Tommy, and the kid’s reaches out back to him, almost aching to see him go. But he pays it no mind– Phil is right. They do have to be self-sufficient, after all, and winter is coming closer every morning they wake. Before the real storms set in, they have to be prepared.
So he dons his cloak, and gets to work.
By the time the sun is setting on the horizon (days are short when it gets cold, long in the summer) Techno has mostly kept up with their meager farm. They don’t need to eat as often as most, per say, but the two children currently in their care do.
So Techno lugs in carrots and potatoes from Phil’s tiny greenhouse after he brushes the snow off its glass top and sides, and after he feeds what he can of their stores to Carl and the other steed they’d gained. It’s a pretty thing, exhausted but resting, and Techno dubs them Harold in his head and unfreezes their water with a snap of his fingers before going back inside to the warmth.
Tommy is still asleep when he enters, dumping a load of firewood onto the floor beside the cold door and kicking off his snowy shoes and cloak. Phil shushes him, but Techno knows his magic will keep the kid knocked out for at least a little longer, so he doesn’t bother to keep too quiet as he fans the flames and hands over the vegetables to Phil. They share the workload when it comes to cooking, but Techno’s been out in the cold all day and his hands are stiff, so Phil goes to the counter and starts chopping evenly. Techno at least can put on a kettle, and he does, the smell of tea filling the room before long.
It’s just about then, when Phil is stirring the broth and adding the meat and vegetables to it, Techno trying (and failing) to read a book, when Tommy starts to stir.
Both of them go entirely still. Then, Phil moves, gently finishing his work at the pot and standing up. He glides across the room, deposits his knife and cutting board on the counter, and then heads towards his bedroom.
“Phil,” Techno hisses. Tommy shuffles under his blanket– the kid is all stretched out underneath it, and he can see his breathing pick up. “Phil, where are you–”
“I trust you to handle this one, mate,” Phil says smoothly, opening the door and moving to shut it right away. “It’ll be better if he’s not overwhelmed. But holler if you need me.”
“Phil!” And the door is shut and Techno seethes for a second, shutting his book with a snap.
When he looks over again, he meets the piercing gaze of one blue eye.
Tommy is watching him, one eye open, the other eye closed. His chest is moving up and down slowly in a facsimile of sleep, and Techno wonders how long he’s been aware. If he’s even aware now– he’s guessing yes, based on the way the eye staring at him is full of bright fear.
“Hullo,” Techno says. Tommy’s breathing stops entirely. Techno inhales, then exhales, and then rips his eyes away from Tommy’s and looks pointedly at the fire.
“Would you like some soup?” he asks. Tommy is still staring at him when he looks back, and as Techno finds his face once more his other eye blinks open slowly. Almost sleepily.
Time to try another tactic. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Techno says. Awkwardly, “it’s alright.”
“Where’s Wilbur?” His voice is breathy and scared, but bold. A brave little thing.
“In the other room,” Techno answers breezily. “He’s sick.” Tommy’s breath shudders out of him all at once, so Techno follows up with, “But Phil is with him, and Phil will help him feel better. He’ll have some soup later, when he wakes up.”
Something in Tommy unclicks as he speaks. Movement under the blanket, and then a small hand appears, bracing itself on the cushion of the armchair as slowly, Tommy pushes himself upright. Techno stays where he is. The kid has angry red marks pressed into his cheek from where he’d been lying down, and his hair is a mess, matted and sticking up on one side. His body is strung tight with tension, a string ready to snap with the force of his fear.
“We have tea,” Techno offers, because a good host always offers.
“I don’t like tea,” Tommy says, almost experimentally. Techno just kind of shrugs.
“Milk?” he offers. Tommy’s face scrunches up, and he gathers the blanket in his lap to his hands, fisting them tight around it.
“Where are we?” he asks instead, too scared to look around properly and look away from Techno.
With the strength of a hundred men, Techno breaks the kid’s gaze for him, and looks back down at the cover of his book. It’s red, soft when he runs his hand over it. “Phil and I’s house,” he says.
“Where?”
“In the north.”
“Where in the north?”
“Just… north.”
“Where-The-Snow-Falls-Gentle?”
“No, no. This isn’t faewood, kid.”
“Where, then?” Tommy turns angry, now, that fear giving way to a deeper emotion. “Where? Where? Where are we, what are you gonna do– ”
“I am going to give you soup,” Techno says blandly, interrupting the spiraling words.
“I don’t want soup!” Tommy shrieks, and he flips the blanket off of his lap. “I want Wilbur! ”
“He is sick,” Techno repeats, and Tommy inhales and opens his mouth, but Techno beats him to it. “And we don’t want you to catch it. But you can still see him. We won’t keep you apart.”
“Then let me see him–”
“He’s asleep. For now, you eat soup.”
“Fuck off!”
Techno smiles a grim little smile. “How old are you?” he asks, and Tommy opens his mouth, then shuts it like he’s recalibrating, then opens it again.
“Old enough to know you’re a wrongun,” he says fiercely, and Techno can’t help but laugh a little. “What!”
“What constitutes a wrongun?” Techno asks, curious now as to the kid’s sense of good and bad. Tommy is staring at him, fingers shaking a little in his lap. He’s still wearing the oversized sweater Phil had wrangled him into before they’d woken up the first time, and it hangs off of him. He’s small. Too small.
“Bad,” Tommy snaps. “Bad people. Bad magic. People who take Wilbur away from me and hurt us and steal us and make us do things we don’t want to.”
“Well,” Techno says. “I like my magic. Wilbur is still here. And I haven’t hurt you, or stolen you, or made you do anything you don’t want to.”
“Well I don’t want soup,” Tommy says testily, and there’s a glimmer in his eye that makes Techno think ah, he’s testing boundaries.
So all Techno does is shrug and say, “Sure, if you’re not hungry, you don’t have to eat.”
And then he opens his book.
He doesn’t read, per say. His eyes skim the words but don’t absorb them, too busy listening to the staccato of Tommy’s breathing catching in his chest and then falling again. There is a heavy silence between them, and he knows the kid is hungry, because look at him. He’s tiny. Barely any meat on his bones, and he probably hasn’t eaten in Lady-knows-how-long, and he’s young. He hadn’t answered Techno’s question about his age, but he’s still a child, clearly. And so Techno sits there, letting the conversation stew between them as the soup bubbles over the fire and gets more and more fragrant by the minute.
Eventually the silence breaks. Fabric rustles, and when Techno drags his eyes up he finds Tommy halfway out of the chair. He stops, his bare foot hovering precariously above the floorboards.
After a moment, Techno says nothing and looks back down at his book.
He can hear shuffling and the sound of footsteps after a long, terrified exhale. Tommy is moving around, slowly, like if he goes quietly and slowly enough Techno won’t notice him. Of course, Techno’s nerves are alight with awareness, listening to him as he creeps his way across the room and towards the rooms where Techno had gestured to before. Probably trying to find Wilbur.
“So,” Techno drawls, and he can hear the way Tommy’s breathing stops and starts, how he freezes in his place. “How about this. You and I put some soup into bowls, and then we both go in and see Phil and Wilbur? That way both of you can eat.”
“I want to see him now, ” the kid says petulantly.
“Too bad,” Techno says simply. He shuts his book and dogears the corner to come back to later, placing it on the floor. Then he stands in one motion and he can see the way Tommy locks up as he does it. He’s halfway across to where Wilbur is, and when Techno bears down on him, immediately tries to flee.
He doesn’t get far. Two steps towards the door and Techno easily reaches down, but stops short of picking him up. He can remember the last time– how Tommy had gone eerily limp in his grasp. So he settles for a hand on the kid’s shoulder, rooting him to the stop with his all-encompassing terror of Techno.
And it should feel good. It usually does, knowing he strikes that much pure, raw fear into someone.
On Tommy’s face, it just makes him feel a little sick.
“Hey,” he says, gentle in a way he wasn’t meant to be. “C’mon. I can hear your stomach growling from across the room.”
“Please don’t hurt me,” Tommy breathes.
“I won’t,” Techno promises, and gently, cautiously guides him back across the room. He sits the kid down on the chair where he’d come from, and then grabs two bowls from the counter. Then, two more. The soup is done by now, the smell of it lingering in the air and fading into the background as Techno bustles around the fire and ladles out four bowls of it, careful to not overfill any of them too much. Then he plops a spoon into each one, and turns. Tommy is watching him with that lingering fear, but a new emotion has squirmed its way into his gaze– hunger. He follows the movements of Techno’s hands warily, but he’s leaning toward him all the same when Techno approaches with two bowls in hand.
“Here,” he says, leaning down to hand him both of them. “One for you, and one for Wilbur. Okay?”
“I can see him?” Tommy asks, restless and excited and still very, very frightened.
“Yes,” Techno says. “Be careful, those are–” Tommy takes off towards the bedroom door, eyes wide and dinner sloshing in its bowls. Techno sighs. “Hot,” he finishes, then traipses after Tommy.
With one foot, Techno nudges open the door for him as they approach, rapping on it with one knuckle before he does so. He doesn’t want to startle Phil or, Lady forgive, Wilbur. He’s not even sure this is a good idea, but based on the way Tommy looks up at him as Techno comes up behind him and stares, he thinks it’s probably their best bet.
The door creaks open gently, made of solid wood and iron hinges. Inside it’s dim, but not entirely dark. Phil has a window and a few candles burning, and Techno eyes adjust as he nudges Tommy forward with one knee inside, toward the darkness. The kid seems a little more reluctant now that he’s seen how truly dark it is in the room, but after a moment of hesitation steps forward once, then twice. Phil is sitting by his bed, one hand pressed gently to the forehead of a slumbering Wilbur. His face hasn’t smoothed out in sleep– it stays scrunched and stressed, and Tommy makes a small noise. Before Phil or Techno can say anything, he’s scrambling onto the bed and crawling toward the other boy, sniffling.
“Wil,” he says, and Phil removes his hand from Wilbur’s forehead in order to take the soup out of Tommy’s hands. Newly freed, his attention entirely on the other, he shakes him. “Wilbur!”
“He’s okay,” Phil says soothingly, looking over at Techno. “Just tired.” What he means is that Phil has been keeping him asleep. Probably for the best.
“Can he wake up?”
“If he wants to.”
Tommy leans down and gets right up against Wilbur’s ear. “Wilbur,” he whispers, hissing low and upset. “Wilbur. Wake up.”
The other boy, for a moment, does not move. Techno reaches out and flits his Path past Tommy’s, settling over Wilbur’s. He inhales sharply– Phil’s magic lifts as he dips his fingers into the metaphorical water, deep and oily and slick. There is something tinged with horrible dread here, a toxic sludge of fear and despair, a slurry of bad magic like a vegetable left out on the counter to rot for weeks on end. Techno can practically hear flies buzzing in his ears as he pulls away from the kid, his own Path retreating on itself and shaking the leftovers off like a wet dog. A shiver rolls down his spine, uncomfortable, and Phil glances over. They lock eyes as Tommy continues trying to wake up Wilbur, now free of Phil’s grasp, and Techno wonders how he’d been doing it. How he’d held on and not lost his grip to that… well, whatever it is, it’s not void.
After a moment or two more of Tommy shaking Wilbur awake, the kid groans. Rolls over in his sleep, coughs once, and then seems to register the fact that it’s Tommy above him. His arms come up and Tommy returns the hug with such ferocity that Techno notes the way Phil tenses, wanting to step in but settling after a second.
“Careful,” he warns instead. “He doesn’t feel well, Tommy.”
Techno bites back a snort of unamused laughter. No crap he doesn’t feel good. He’s running on poison.
“Wilbur,” Tommy is mumbling again, and there’s a hushed word from Wilbur that Techno can’t make out. He leans against the wall, flicking his gaze from Phil to the kids and back again. Phil looks harried in this light, shadows catching on the long lines of his face and hair in disarray around his chin. It floats a bit in a nonexistent breeze, and Techno absently wonders when the last time Phil spoke to Kristin was. He’ll ask later.
When he looks back over at the kids, Wilbur sitting up a bit with Tommy by his side, supporting him.
“We brought soup,” Tommy whispers. Phil holds them up, and Wilbur’s eyes snap to the bowls.
“No, Tommy,” Wilbur says. Tommy blinks, then shrinks back.
“But I’m hungry–”
“I said no,” Wilbur whispers, voice raspy and low. His lips look blue in the darkness. Techno hopes it’s a trick of the light.
“Look,” he says, holding up his own bowls. “I have some for Phil and I too. It all came out of the same pot, right Tommy?”
Tommy slowly nods.
“We ladled it out together,” Techno explains, and he shuffles his load around until he can get a hand on a spoon and bring a big bite up to his mouth. It’s warm and filling, the broth easy to drink and chunks of vegetables soft enough that he hardly has to chew them. “If it was poisoned, I’d die. Right?”
“Right,” Tommy whispers. “I helped, Wil. Please?”
Wilbur’s stress is visible on his face, in the way his eyebrows scrunch together and he makes a face strikingly similar to the face Phil makes when he encounters a language he surprisingly cannot read. Petulant and frustrated, bratty and upset. But Tommy tugs on Wilbur’s sleeve and something in him seems to break when he looks at the younger, eyes softening. The smell also seems to be aiding their quest to feed these scrappy brats– Techno definitely hears one of their stomachs growl as Wilbur turns back to Phil and holds a hand out. “Okay.”
A strike of victory wiggles through Techno’s stomach as Wilbur takes one bowl and hands it to Tommy, then the other for himself. Techno hands Phil his serving and shuffles over to stand by the wall as Phil sits gingerly on the end of the bed, the same spot he’d been in when they’d first come into the room and Wilbur had been asleep. It’s clear Wilbur doesn’t trust them– he waits to eat his own portion until Techno and Phil are a few bites into theirs. Tommy does not wait. Tommy digs in and eats like a starving animal, slurping and smacking his lips and getting the front of his borrowed sweater thoroughly stained. Techno privately mourns its loss.
They eat in relative silence, that is, until Tommy finishes. His bowl is scraped clean and he’s sitting next to Wilbur, feet on top of the blankets and pressed up against Wilbur’s side and arm. He watches him eat, and after a second, Wilbur slowly puts his spoon down and turns. Offers the bowl.
“Want mine?” he asks Tommy quietly, so low Techno has to strain to hear him.
“It’s for you,” Tommy says, lips twisting.
“Not hungry.”
“Liar. I heard your stomach.”
“I’m really not. You can have it, Tommy.”
“You can’t keep doing this, Wil–”
“If Tommy wants seconds,” Phil cuts in, and both boys’ heads snap over to him. “All he has to do is ask.”
Wilbur glares at Phil, the weight of his gaze heavy and thick. Heavier now, now that Techno knows what lies underneath.
(Simmering, hot thermal pools of rancid waste and eviscerated corpse-smell. Techno had barely dipped his fingers into Wilbur’s Path but he hadn’t needed to look any deeper to know what lies underneath– oil, all the way down.
He wonders what a kid his age had to go through to end up coming out the other side like this.
Sickness these days can be so much more than physical.)
“I can have seconds?” Tommy asks timidly over Wilbur’s shoulder.
“There’s plenty to spare,” Phil says kindly, and Tommy grins and moves to come forward, but Wilbur stops him with an outstretched hand.
“Don’t,” he says. Then he coughs, pausing for a moment. “Tommy, they’re just being nice so they can– remember the beginning with him? It was– it was like this.”
“I–” Tommy’s eyes dart from Wilbur to Phil. “But–”
“Him?” Phil asks, tipping his head. Both boys shut up, mouths clacking together so hard their teeth must ache with the force of it.
“None of your business!” Tommy says after a second, and he decidedly stops trying to get seconds. He pushes Wilbur’s bowl back toward him. “Eat it.”
“I said I wasn’t–”
“Eat it!”
Wilbur shuts up, and keeps spooning soup into his mouth. Tommy is scowling, and Phil gently places his half-eaten bowl onto the bedside stand.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “I know both of you are scared, but we’re not trying to hurt you. We’re not going to starve you, or kick you out into the snow. Wherever you were before– whoever was with you before is gone.”
“No he’s not,” Tommy says.
“Do you see him here?” Phil asks. Tommy squints at him, then around the room.
“No…” he says slowly.
“There you go,” Phil says, leaning back, propping a hand in the sheets to keep himself upright. “You and Wilbur are safe here. And we’re going to make sure you stay safe. Do you– do you have parents? Somewhere to go?”
“No,” Wilbur says, clinking his spoon against the rim of his bowl.
“My parents are dead,” Tommy says brightly, as though he’s commenting on the weather. Techno nearly spits out a carrot, but manages to contain himself so it just sounds like a particularly nasty cough. What is with this kid? “And Wilbur’s are too. We’re brothers, though. We don’t need parents to be brothers.”
“No, I suppose you don’t,” Phil says thoughtfully. “No parents. Alright. Maybe let’s make it a little easier. Where are you from?”
“Nowhere,” Wilbur says, at the exact same moment Tommy says, “L’Manberg.”
“We’re from nowhere,” Wilbur corrects, elbowing Tommy fiercely. “But– if you– if you had to get technical, before we were here we were… in L’Manberg.”
Techno knows that place. He’s been there once or twice, even– coming in through the seaside port and fighting around for a penny to spare. He can recall the thick black walls rising high, locking the citizens in and the way the narrow streets had bustled with activity and life. It had been so crowded– one of the reasons he’d left, in the end. Too crowded, with political newspapers scattered underfoot and graffiti all over the walls. None of the stuff Techno wanted to get involved with. It was easy to hide nefarious under dealings when there was such a loud, distracting surface world to deal with.
L’Manberg prided itself on moving forward. On technology and camaraderie and unity. Magic had little place inside those walls.
Or so Techno thought.
Now that he thinks about it, whenever he reaches close to Wilbur’s Path, he can just barely taste ash in the back of his throat. The same smell that had seemed to permeate his clothing long after he’d left the city all those years ago.
Hm.
When he tunes back into the conversation, Tommy is babbling. Mostly nonsense about L’Manberg and living there, an anecdote about living on the street and how he and Wilbur met– a busker kid teaming up with an orphan to become the world’s best scam artists. He has to hold back a snort. It’s through this little tale that Tommy betrays Wilbur’s age.
“–and then we had Wil’s thirteenth birthday on top of the walls before anyone could see us–”
Thirteen. Wilbur winces, and Tommy grins, pounding a hand on his chest.
“And I’m nine!” he says, full of pride at that fact. “The biggest man ever!”
“Not even double digits,” Wilbur mutters. It’s a half-hearted jab at best, but Tommy takes it personally, gasping loudly and turning to glare at him.
“Dickhead!”
“Tommy,” Phil says with a smile, having been fondly listening to the younger brother speak this whole time. At least, outwardly he had been. “Don’t be a bitch.”
Tommy stares at him incredulously. “Did you just call me a bitch?” he shrieks. He looks over at Wilbur. “Did you hear that? He called me a bitch!”
“I dunno,” Wilbur says, drawing his blanket closer around his shoulders. “You were kind of being a bitch.”
“Ex- cuse me!” A socked foot shoots out and lands a solid hit on Wilbur’s thigh. “We are supposed to be a team!”
“We are a team,” Wilbur argues.
“Well you’re being a bad teammate right now,” Tommy says fiercely, crossing his arms. “I bet Phil and Techno are never bad teammates. I bet they don’t fight.”
Phil and Techno exchange a highly amused glance.
“Stop it, Tommy,” Wilbur says. “We’re not– fighting. We’re not! Stop it.”
“I don’t want to be quiet!” Tommy shouts.
“I–” Wilbur’s face screws up. “Tommy, you–”
“I’m tired of being quiet! I’m done! I like yelling!”
“Yell somewhere else!” Wilbur snaps. “I have a headache!”
“Okay,” Phil says. “Alright. That’s enough, Tommy. It’s getting late– stop shouting.”
“No!” Tommy grimaces, all teeth. “I shout!”
“You’re hurting Wilbur,” Phil points out, and Tommy whips around to face Wilbur, eyes wide. Wilbur is pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shut and breathing hard.
“Wilby,” Tommy says after a second. “Wil. Sorry, Wil.”
“It’s okay, Tommy,” Wilbur whispers. Then, even quieter: “I know you’re scared.”
“‘M not,” Tommy whispers back. “I just–” They both quiet down for a second, and Techno can hear hushed whispers so loose they might not even be words.
Then Wilbur sighs, and says, “Yeah?”
“Okay,” Tommy says.
“Good.” Wilbur relaxes just a tiny bit.
“I just have to go to the bathroom,” Tommy says loudly and quite abruptly, whipping around from Wilbur again to look at Phil and Techno. Techno looks at Phil, who just kind of shrugs and gestures with one hand.
“Do you want me to show you where it is?” Phil asks kindly, and Tommy nods. He grips Wilbur’s fingers tight even as he leaves the bed on unsteady feet, staring at Phil with a fierceness that Techno is slowly coming to expect from him.
“If you get me, I’ll get you,” Tommy warns him out of the blue, and Phil nods very seriously.
“Understood,” he says. “Come on.”
The brother’s reluctance to part is evident in the way Wilbur strains when Tommy is gone, the door shutting behind him and Phil gently, but it makes the older boy wince all the same. Then he coughs, and then he groans.
And then he looks up at Techno through his fringe and freezes, as though he’d forgotten he was there at all.
“Don’t mind me,” Techno says awkwardly, and the kid–
He laughs.
“Are you always like this?” he snipes, voice raspy.
“Like what?” Techno asks, feeling just a bit defensive over the question.
Wilbur shrugs, then gestures to Techno’s… well, everything. Techno glances down and then back up at him, opening his mouth, then shutting it. Then opening it again.
“Well that was rude,” he says, and Wilbur laughs again. It’s tired and scared, yes, but it’s a laugh. It’s something other than screaming. Techno can work with that! “Also, you bit me. You got no legs to stand on, kid.”
“I wasn’t going to let you hurt Tommy,” Wilbur says, and he stares as Techno as he says it.
“I wasn’t going to,” Techno argues. “I’m still not.”
“Jury’s still out for me on that,” Wilbur mutters, looking away. “You know– Dream hated it when we talked to him like this.”
“Dream,” Techno says slowly. “Hm. Was he–” He stops. Goes to start again, but finds he can’t. Wilbur watches him from the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction, and when Techno fails to speak, does so for him.
“You know him.” It’s not a question. More of an accusation.
“I killed him, once,” Techno mutters.
“He won’t die.”
“I’m aware of that now, ” he says. “Wasn’t at the time. I owed him a favor.” He lets himself look at Wilbur again, breathing purposefully in and out. “He apparently wanted to cash in on it.”
Terror seizes Wilbur for a moment. Techno can tell just from how his Path thrums with it, and the spark in Wilbur’s eye.
“If you hurt Tommy–” he starts through the fear, and Techno raises a brow.
“You’ll let whatever’s inside you out?” he asks. Wilbur goes stock still.
“Shut up,” he hisses after a brief, terrified second. His voice rasps on the words, and he shudders– likely in pain. “Shut up. You don’t know what–”
“I don’t,” Techno says. “Which is why I’m curious. There’s not many things I don’t know, so to have something like you show up on my doorstep with a note calling on a favor– that gets my attention. What happened to you?”
“It’s none of your business,” Wilbur snaps. He looks exhausted, bags under his eyes.
“It is now,” Techno says, because it is.
“I don’t care,” Wilbur says. “I’m not letting either of you hurt me or Tommy, and I– it’s not–”
“We’ve told you,” Techno says. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“Well I don’t trust you!” Wilbur bites, shrinking in on himself. He wraps the blankets more firmly around his shoulders to fight off his shivering, which has gotten more and more violent. He bows his head, staring down at the bed. “I don’t.”
“You don’t have to,” Techno admits, and that makes Wilbur lift his head up to look at him again. He looks so much more tired than he should. “I’m just saying you can trust us. It’s a possibility, but not a requirement. We’re not going to hurt you. I swear it. You can get better here.” Techno hums. “Things tend to be a lot… wilder, in the north. Less eager to fall into easy categories.”
“I like categories,” Wilbur says weakly.
“Yeah, so do I,” Techno hums. “Stupid human brains, findin’ pleasure in unimportant patterns. Amiright?”
Wilbur is staring at him with something approaching confusion. Techno grins at him, and then the door snaps open.
“Wilbur!” Tommy all but shouts, and both of them flinch. The kid barrels onto the bed, the bottoms of his pant legs soaked, Phil trailing behind with a hand over his mouth as he stifles his amused laughter. Techno raises a brow at him. “Wilbur! We have to go outside to use the bathroom! It’s another tiny house!”
“That’s–” Wilbur pauses, looking over Tommy’s head to Techno and Phil. Something unreadable crosses his face. He looks, for the lack of any better descriptor, constipated. “Inconvenient.”
And somehow, that’s what cracks Phil. Laughter rings through the house like bells.