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The Witcher rides along a silent, stormy road. There are dark clouds ahead of him and dark towns behind. His mount’s hooves strike the stones, echoing in the absence of any other sound; even the chirping insects and small creatures by the roadside are silent for the Witcher’s passage.
Technoblade’s never much liked the whole imposing air he gives off when he’s travelling, but it is what it is. At least it staves off unwanted conversation. And wanted conversation. And, well, sometimes sorely needed conversation, when he’s running low on coin and the village folk aren’t yet quite afraid enough of whatever’s haunting them to swallow their pride and ask him for help. He’s gotten pretty good at living by it is what it is. He is what he is, after all.
When the Witcher rides, other travellers draw away, hide in copses and groves and, if they’re desperate, low hedges. They watch him pass, eyes bright like animals’. This is why, when Techno draws his old horse level with another traveller on foot further up the road - heading the same way Techno is, further into the distant storm, which has not yet soaked the earth but serenades them with low thunder - Techno expects this lone traveller to startle back at his approach. Or retreat, gently but composed, onto the stony verge. He is not expecting the traveller, a tall slender figure with dark hair curling about him and a lute cradled in the crook of his arm, to glance upwards, gaze directly through Techno’s eyes into whatever he finds behind them, and say, “Took you long enough to catch up, Witcher. And I was walking so slowly, too.”
Techno knows the angle of his jaw. The crooked nose and only somewhat less crooked grin. The fringe he used to push out of his face every so often, those long-lost days. He draws his blade, the tempered metal singing a warning as it leaves its sheath, and levels it at this ghost of a bard with a steady, scarred hand.
“Ah-ah-ah,” the figure says, mock-hurt, and raises both hands. “You know it’s really me, Techno. Those Witcher senses never lie to you.”
Techno really hates that he’s right. Like, really hates it. “Sometimes I wish they would,” he grunts, even as he’s already sheathing his blade.
“There we are,” Wilbur says, grinning. “There you go. Well, don’t leave me hanging - how have you been?”
Techno stares at him. “Wilbur, it’s been two hundred years. How are you -? You were human -”
“That’s not exactly hey, how are you conversation,” Wilbur says tartly. “I, for one, have been doing splendidly.” (He’s lying. Techno can tell. Techno has always been, will always be, able to tell. Only when it’s him.) “Creative vibes are flowing great, man, I’ve been writing so much - pretty well off for coin too at the moment, given said creative vibes - your most beloved bard is officially no longer in debt to his alma mater! You proud, Technoblade? C’mon, man, give me something to work with here -”
“You were very in debt,” says Technoblade, off-kilter and - gods damn this man to all the hells - begrudgingly impressed. Which is, of course, what Wilbur wants him to be. Damn him.
“University fees. What can you do?”
Techno slides out of Carl’s saddle, the old horse whickering in faintly disgruntled protest - perhaps she’s judging how gone he is, still and already and endlessly and against every smidgeon of better judgement he’s ever had. Finally, he’s at eye level with Wilbur again - can’t stop himself from peering into his irises, searching for any flash of spellcraft or hint of inhuman heritage. Wilbur is right - Techno can tell, deep within him, that this is the bard he travelled with for years, not some copy or imitation or imposter - but Techno had been so utterly certain that his favoured bard had been human. Thin human skin. Fleeting human lifespan. One morning Wilbur had just been gone, his belongings taken with him and his trail leading off to the west; Techno could have tracked him to the ends of the Continent, but Wilbur had sent him a pretty clear message. Everybody parted ways with a Witcher eventually; Wilbur had just chosen to cut his losses while he still had all his limbs. So Techno had turned Carl east - a different Carl, because unlike Techno and apparently Wilbur, horses did not generally become bicentenarians - and gotten used to the silence again.
“You’re not gonna find anything,” Wilbur says, amused, even as he widens his eyes to give Techno a better view. “You’d save a lot of time if you believed me on that one, you know.”
“You’re not a Witcher,” Techno says, drawing back to regard him.
“No.”
“You’re not an elf.”
“Gods, no. It’d be an honour, don’t get me wrong, but my ears are as round as the next Oxenfurt attendee.” Carl huffs, scuffing at the ground, and Techno places a hand broad and soothing on her flank; she’s warm, alive, beneath his skin. He can feel the fearsome musculature. This time around, his Carl had been a retired warhorse; Techno, old and scarred and exhausted, had found he could relate to that.
“What are you?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, Technoblade,” Wilbur says, as abruptly solemn and fierce as a glacier, a silent resolve in his eyes. With feigned lightness: “You know how it is.”
... Techno does know how it is. He’s outlived countless children, lovers, loved ones. Once or twice, he’s tried his utmost to settle down - just for a few years, just for a moment’s reprieve, just a few years away from the Path before he returns to his fate-slash-damnation-slash-day job - and been driven away, the unaged, scarred figure in the hut just outside town, ever so slightly too unearthly to be trusted. To be kept around. Damn Wilbur, but Technoblade knows exactly how it fucking is for - for creatures like them. Whatever breed of creature Wilbur happens to be.
“Okay,” Techno says, low and disgruntled, not meeting Wilbur’s eyes. “Okay.” He risks a glance back at Wilbur, and finds no smugness there - only a quiet relief. When Wilbur sees him looking, he gives a small, gentle smile, made of gratitude.
“This one’s called Otherside,” Wilbur says, not grandiose as he usually is when introducing his pieces, still in that hushed voice to match Techno’s. Carl shuffles again. It’s too easy to let Wilbur get away with it, to fall back into step with Techno like he never left, to pick notes out one by one on his lute, tentative at first, until he’s comfortable enough to blend together the harmonies and send his voice echoing over the hills. Techno wonders, slightly amused at himself, if the stony road will provide Wilbur with the good acoustics he’s been bemoaning the lack of for as long as they’ve been travelling together.
Techno will let Wilbur keep his secrets. It’s who he is, for better or worse. He’s missed his bard - and Wilbur is his, damn it, no matter who else he’s been gallivanting around with for the past two hundred years, he made his name singing about Technoblade and Techno learned to love again with Wilbur at his side. Otherside is jaunty, at first, with some strange haunting undertone that Techno can’t quite put his finger on; in the hedges by the road, the insects begin to sing again.
The storm clouds loom ahead of them. Techno can feel his fingers again. Wilbur strides forward into the dark, chin lifted, lute bared - and Techno, like he’s coming home, leads Carl in his wake.