Chapter Text
Once, there was a war.
Once, there was a boy who fought in the war, in a rebellion against a King.
The boy struggled valiantly for his people--but he was too young and his eyes too bright. He died on the blade of a soldier, in a field in a forest by the Kingdom's edge.
The boy fell among the fallen; the fallen slept alongside the boy. The Kingdom crowned a new King and then crowned another.
The field still slept forgotten in the forest.
Spring nipped at the robes of Winter. The fallen slept, but the boy awoke.
One moment, Technoblade was nothing. The next, he was the entire universe; then, he was lying on the ground, arms splayed against rough grass, birds chirping noisily around him. The morning sun was blinding and he winced as his shattered consciousness arranged itself.
Where was he? What...was going on?
Distantly, he could hear the coo of a mourning dove rise above the din of birdsong. Squinting his eyes open, Technoblade gradually identified the blurred outline of clouds set against a tranquil blue sky, and tall grass swaying in and out of his field of vision. For a moment, Technoblade lay there. As much as he tried to remember where he was, who he was, his memories slipped through his grasp like fine sand; all but disintegrated by the unrelenting flow of time.
The dove cooed again, insistent.
Techno sat up slowly, hissing from the rush of vertigo that blurred his vision. He pressed a palm against his temple to clear his head--his hair felt strange against his fingers, too long and tangled in knots--and tried to make out his surroundings. His eyes fell on a dull glint of light beside his bare feet. He blearily reached his hand towards the object, closing it around something rough and hard. Techno dragged it towards him to investigate.
A rusting helmet, dyed brown from old bloodstains.
His eyes refocused, the cacophony of birds reverberating in his skull. Dropping the helmet and rising up, he found himself standing in a clearing scattered with wildflowers and rusty armor. Delicate white morning glories had slowly overtaken the old battlefield, creeping over rotting wood and up the hilts of broken swords. Saplings peeked from in between abandoned chest plates as the forest reclaimed its plot of land. His heart twisted inexplicably. A distant memory tugged at the corner of his conscience, and he reached out for it---
The birds sound like they are screaming.
He winced as an overwhelmingly sharp pain shot through his head, odd patterns swirling before his eyes. He crumpled to the floor, his breathing shallow and panicked. Slowly, the pain ebbed away, and he cautiously moved to prop himself up. As he pressed his hands against the cool dirt, he froze.
The forest had gone completely silent.
The crows and sparrows which had been flitting between trees were still, staring in his direction with human intensity. Techno shivered. Even with the fog hovering amidst his thoughts, he could sense the tense and unnatural energy of this place--almost resonant, like a plucked bowstring. His instincts screamed at him to leave. There was something different in his presence, and he did not want to remain in the clutches of the forest after dark. Distantly, Technoblade could make out the steady sound of rushing water; likely a river, which could lead him towards a town or village. It did not matter how he had gotten to the forest, or what his past had been. For now, all that he had to do was survive. He started towards the noise, slipping quietly between trees until the clearing was out of sight.
Phil was a wanderer by nature. The wind under his wings guided him to distant lands and he had long learned how to smile just right to get villagers and soldiers alike to lower their guards. He had traveled in his years as a human; He still traveled now, as a messenger of the divine. The gods beckoned through the forests and fields and streams and Phil followed, administering their will. The Herald of the Gods, they whispered in their stories. The Angel of Death. Philza cautiously walked the line between human and other. It was in this sentiment that he flashed another disarming grin at the barkeep, who had been sending curious glances his way. The winds had ushered Phil northwards before suddenly falling still; now, he had entered the only tavern of a modest town, waiting for any sign of divine instruction. In caution, he had withdrawn his wings before entering. While he could easily pass for an avian, this town was human and isolated enough to not take kindly to other.
A burly man leaned towards his companion, catching Phil's attention as he murmured something into the other's ear. Phil had entered the tavern with the expectation of listening in on some local gossip or regional news, anything that could guide his travels. Instead, the patrons of the establishment sat in close groups, their somber faces piquing Phil's interest. He waved the bartender over on the pretense of ordering another drink, hoping to entice the man into spilling some information.
"Charming establishment you have here, sir", Phil engaged the barkeep jovially. "Though its patrons seem a little out of sorts tonight". The man smiled abashedly.
"Our town is normally more welcoming", he apologized in a low voice. "It's just with the recent events..." Phil tilted his head in curiosity.
"I suppose you haven't heard, then, being a traveler and all. About the messengers from the capital coming North."
"A decree from the palace?" The barkeep nodded grimly.
"Yes, so stockpile food and supplies. They want to house soldiers here." His words were tense and anxious. "The official reason is border defense, but there are rumors that they're planning to attack Marconia. Over the railroad dispute and such."
Phil furrowed his brow. Was this why the gods had led him here? The continent of Antarctica was rich with precious metals and treasures below the earth, but its country's capital was built on barren ground. Little could grow in the harsh climate, so imports fed the kingdom of Argyris. Marconia-- its northern neighbor linked by isthmus-- was more suited to agriculture, and as a result, the Argyris Kingdom had its eyes on Marconian land for years. Now that Marconia was building a railroad to divert Argyris' revenue from the transport of goods between seas, tension was high. Argyris has the advantage in military technology but is limited by rations. If it starts a war and the conflict is not swift and decisive, the Argonian people would starve. How arrogant they are, Phil thought, the mortals with the lives of countless others at their fingertips. Always vying for more power at the cost of their own.
"Being close to the border as we are, my town's seen many conflicts, and I know it'll stand to see many more. But..." the man trailed off, lost in thought. "Wars can never truly be won. I advise you to take caution on your journey-- and a word of advice? Avoid Porta. It's a popular destination for travelers, but almost all trade to the kingdom from the East Sea comes through there. If war is truly on the horizon, that city'll sure to be involved." Phil inclined his head.
"Thank you for the warning," The barkeep refilled Phil's flagon of beer and moved to attend to other patrons, leaving Phil with his thoughts. The gods were still silent, so he would have to puzzle out their intentions on his own. He sat at his table for a while longer, lounging in the warm glow of the fireplace and the chatter of other patrons. He was halfway through his drink when the door opened with a whoosh of cool air as an older woman entered; the sound of distant cawing leaked into the tavern.
"Damn birds outside are yellin' up a storm" she called to the bartender, who raised a hand in greeting. Phil frowned. Something must have upset the crows. He set down a few copper coins as he rose from the table, moving to exit the establishment. He slipped out the wooden door quietly. The sky had grown cloudless and dark in the hour he had spent in the tavern. The wind picked up; Phil's cloak whipped around him, and he clung to it. Above, he could hear the flap of wings as his messengers came to greet him. Phil raised his head to look up--
For a moment, the world stuttered, and all went quiet. The stars extinguished, the wind died.
The air trembled suddenly, and Phil could feel a faint tug on his soul. He whipped around to find the direction of the pull, but---
Then Phil was brought back to reality. The crows continued to flit about the rooftops, cawing over each other in their excitement. Muffled conversations still leaked from the tavern, as though nothing had happened. Even so, his racing heart and the shiver of magic rippling through his wings told him what he had already suspected-- someone had tugged on the woven strings of fate, and Phil was experiencing the ripple of the aftermath. Mortals, oblivious, continued on with their lives.
The crows fought over one another to deliver a message.
another
We found another
different
find Them
another
"Settle down." he admonished the crows sternly, but his words were lost in the frenetic energy of the flock. Phil sighed. In this state, he wouldn't be able to pry any coherent information out of them. One landed on his shoulder, a rumpled white flower in her beak. Phil took it from her gently. Convolvulus Arvensis, he thought absently. Morning glory.
He tilted his head to look at the sky, stars twinkling innocently. The full moon shone steadily overhead. A pivotal decision had just been made, and the gods predictably refused to explain any of it. "What are you trying to tell me?" He asked wearily. There was no response from the world, aside from the gentle brush of the breeze against his cheek.
Shooing away the crows who scattered off into the distant fields, he unhitched his horse from the fencepost. He had no way of locating the miracle, but gods had an abrasive habit of meddling in human conflict. A trade epicenter like Porta in the midst of a brewing war would be a perfect place for divine intervention. If Phil was ever planning on heeding the tavern keeper's warning to steer clear of the city, he certainly wasn't now. Stepping onto the stirrup, he swung his leg over the saddle. "Let's go" he murmured to his steed. Porta was no less than a hundred miles away; with the wealth of enchantments on him and his horse, the trip would take a day and night. Phil could only hope that he was heading in the right direction.
Techno wandered east towards the rising sun, guided by the rushing currents of the stout stream he had been drawn towards. Despite walking for half a day, he did not feel the dull soreness of continued exertion seep into his limbs, nor a parched throat signaling him to drink. Rather, Techno felt numb to any pain, and his head felt fuzzy as though it were stuffed with wool.
He took breaks and drank from the stream at regular intervals to be cautious, untrusting of his body's sensations. The forest grew warmer with every step, and it was the cusp of midday by the time he emerged from the trees into a stretch of the hilly plain. He was relieved to be free from the keen gaze of the birds, certain that they had been following him from the treetops.
Contrary to the stilted chatter of the forest, the wind here whispered in graceful breezes and distressed the tall grass that brushed across his knees. A particularly strong gust of wind-- and a short distance away, peeking from the grass, Technoblade recognized the stout outline of a tree stump. People were here. Breath tight within his chest, he hastened up the nearest hill for a better viewpoint. There-- along the river-- rising smoke from a few red rooftops coalescing with the delicate wisps of cloud in the sky. I'm not lost anymore. Technoblade thought mutedly. What am I supposed to do now? He glanced back at the forest, almost instinctively. Lingering for a moment, his eyes searched the shadows behind the trees. The forest seemed so silent now; here, the busy chatter of the birds was lost in the dull roar of the wind. No. The only path for me is forwards. Turning away, he fell into a firm pace towards the settlement.
There was a pretty young woman crouching by the stream. As he got closer, Technoblade realized that she was washing clothes. This is perfect, Technoblade thought. I can talk to her. But his throat felt tight. He had gotten quite close to the other edge of the riverbank when he had finally worked up the courage to speak. "Um, hello?" he asked tentatively, but his words were swept away by the sound of rushing water. "Hello?" He asked again, this time louder. The woman looked up, and their eyes met. Technoblade opened his mouth to speak again, but her expression had morphed into one of shock, her complexion pallid. Before Technoblade could make a sound she had dropped the basket of laundry and rushed back towards the houses of the settlement. He stood frozen his hand awkwardly out in front of him, unsure of what to do next. Had he done something wrong? The glint of sunlight in the water of the stream drew his eyes, and he found himself staring at his reflection.
Ah. That was why.
His skin was crusted with dirt, long hair matted at his back. His clothes hung off of him in rags, their original color indistinguishable from the dirt and what looked like dried blood staining them. He could feel his face flush with shame. As long as he looked like this, he would scare off anyone he approached. He glanced at the wicker basket the laundress had dropped; perhaps he could return it to her once he had made himself presentable.
Techno stepped into the brisk water, allowing the current to rush past his waist and carry the dirt downstream. He cupped water in his hands to pour over his hair, before giving up and dunking his entire head under the surface. Drawing his nails back and forth across a stubborn patch of dirt on his arm, his mind drifted to the laundress again. He would introduce himself properly this time.
Please don't be scared. I've forgotten who I am. Do you know anything about dead soldiers in a forest?
Sorry for earlier, I'm Technoblade. I'm lost. Could you help me?
...Hello. My name is Technoblade.
After he stepped out of the water, Technoblade found himself sopping wet but adequately clean. His clothes were still stained and ripped, so he borrowed a too-large pair of trousers and a tunic from the dropped laundry basket. His hair was still a tangled mess -- he'd have to cut it off -- but his face and body were free from dirt. Gathering the rest of the clothes, he walked towards the hamlet at a comfortable pace while hefting the laundry in his arms.
Past the first line of houses, the woman and a bulky farmer were arguing. Techno was still a comfortable distance away, but he realized that he could still discern their conversation with unnatural clarity.
"I swear, I saw one!" the woman begged.
"You're seein' things, Mags. I swear the stress of your wedding is getting to you. First was that owl, now this--"
"Please, I know what I saw! Feral, wild. He looked young, but his eyes..."
An older man stepped between the two and placed a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder.
"Come on now," he chastised the farmer. "There's no gain in arguing. The least you could do for your sister is check it out." The farmer ran a hand through his hair roughly.
"Fine, fine. Ya saw it by the river?"
"Yes..." The woman turned in Techno's direction, trailing off as they made eye contact. He heard her gasp softly as she took in his form.
"Mags, stay back." The farmer grunted lowly. He stalked towards Technoblade, a steadfast look in his eyes that made Techno's headache. He felt himself take a step back.
Should he say something? Should he run? Unconsciously, his eyes flickered back to the woman and before he could react, the man lunged and pinned Techno to the ground under his full body weight, the laundry knocked out of his hands onto the floor. Cheek pressed against the earth, Techno watched the shadow of the man's fist rise up--
"Stop, Simon, he's just a child!" The woman's voice rose in distress.
"I've seen his kind before. Unnatural beasts, the lot of them." The voice above him spit. "If there's one, there could be more..."
"Please, I'm not here to hurt anyone. I'm just lost." Techno finally gasped out, writhing under the weight of the man. "Please." The man scoffed.
"Let me talk to him, Simon." Techno heard the the woman draw near then take a hesitant step back. "Hello-- I'm sorry. We're-- just farmers. We don't want any trouble. What can we do to reach an agreement?" she asked quietly. Techno's heart twisted at the slight tremble in her voice.
"I'm not here to hurt anyone," he wheezed, eyes closing in defeat. "I'm lost. All I ask is for directions to the nearest town."
"You think we're just going to let you go? Like hell, we will." The farmer snarled, shoving his knee roughly against Techno's back.
"You should listen to Margaret. You're being rash again." The old man spoke nearby. "The trader who's lodging here. Why don't we ask if he can take this one along? He's bound to stop at the next city." A pause. "You can understand me, yes?" The old man addressed Techno. "Demihumans spell danger for a small community like ours. This is the only kindness we can offer you." Techno nodded mutely, dizzy from the lack of air. Slowly, the weight above him eased and he sat up, gasping and coughing. The larger man looked down at him dispassionately.
"Fine. But he's either within my sight or tied up."
What happened after felt blurry and disjointed. The humans brought Technoblade to an old farmhouse where a shrewd-eyed man examined him and nodded along to the words of the elder. He was led to the stables beside it and bound to the supports of an empty stall. With only the horses and his thoughts to keep him company, he waited uncertainly for the sun to fall to darkness.
Techno awoke in the morning to light footsteps approaching. The young woman, watching him cautiously, wordlessly set a satchel that smelled of bread and cheese beside him. As she left, she glanced behind her-- eyes full and sad-- before quietly slipping out the door.