Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ovis aries

It was the night after the election. As such, paraphernalia coated the room. Ballots scattered the table, pins and flags for the opposing sides. A verification of voter fraud here, a certification of count there. Dusk threw streaks of orange through the windows of the presidential office, highlighting the scrambled mess of shattered hopes and dreams. JSchlatt stood at the table, hands clasped behind his back, an imposing figure made all the more threatening by his bloody first act of power. He didn’t turn as Tubbo cautiously entered the room. Quackity was at the president’s side, talking of power and ambition, but Tubbo was sure JSchlatt wasn’t really listening, which was confirmed by the immediate dismissal of the vice president. His dark eyes dug into Tubbo, though still somehow he thought he wasn’t really being seen. 

JSchlatt ran a thoughtful hand over his bearded chin. “Tubbo, Tubbo, Tubbo. What to do about you.” Tubbo smiled brightly and made a silly comment. His heart was pounding and something seemed to be crawling up his skin, a sense of unpleasant wrongness that whispered to him over and over how big a mistake he’d made. He should’ve run. He should run right now. But it was too late, he didn’t know where Tommy was anymore. Tubbo was trapped in a nation that suddenly felt not like a haven but instead a prison. This was never how it was meant to be. 

JSchlatt didn’t answer his own quandary at that second, simply loomed over the boy before apparently deciding he’d made his point. He swaggered over to the messy table, snatching a glass bottle with a bow tied on the neck. A gift, then. Or, Tubbo had thought it a gift at the time, but in retrospect knew it was the string of the puppet master. It was only at the very end he realized it was knotted into a noose around JSchlatt’s throat, but at that second it was a gift. The cork was popped, and sweet golden liquid was sloppily poured into a glass, a few drops spilling on the table. In the future, JSchlatt was far less careless, but he hadn’t learned that sort of desperation. Soon, but not yet. Tubbo looked back on that day a lot, given how much had gone wrong. Sometimes he wondered the course of history had things gone differently, but this is not that story. 

This is the story of a man drinking golden cider, sharp smile hidden by the rim of his glass as he demands fealty from a child. 

That was the last day JSchlatt was a man, although it was true in many senses. In the definition of metonymy, he was a country; in the definition of morals, he was a monster. That’s what Tubbo had thought at the time, at least, the scene of Wilbur bleeding out in the middle of the crowd replaying over and over, an arrow pinning his second life to the dark earth. A pointless coup of an ex-leader. Whatever hopes anyone had possessed of the possibility of JSchlatt being a good president died slowly of blood loss, just like Wilbur had. 

But over time a third facet would develop. Humanity has always been a tricky definition, not dichotomous despite how much we wish, and while later you could argue at what point Theseus’s scale was tipped, the fact was this: with that first sip of golden apple cider, JSchlatt was doomed to fall. 

The only question was how many people he could drag down with him. 

Technically it was a cabinet meeting, but JSchlatt didn’t actually really consider anyones’ suggestions, merely pretended to. It was a dictatorship in all but name, but then JSchlatt changed the name too. This wasn’t the same country at all. JSchlatt was leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink. It was the only seat in the office, and everyone else was forced to stand. His eyes were focused, but his too-long ears were down, fluff intermingled with increasingly curly hair. He absentmindedly rubbed at the top of his skull where horns were coming in. JSchlatt had always been inhumane, but now he was not even entirely human. 

Tubbo caught Fundy’s eyes across the table, catching him mid adjustment of the fox-skin cloak he threw over his business clothes. Fundy blinked back at him. Nobody knew what was happening to the president, and nobody dared mention it. Then again, how could they? The history was so vile and self sabotaging that it destroyed itself on the way out. Part of it was societal collapse, part of it was purposeful obfuscation, but part of it was fear. Nobody really liked JSchlatt, but support was too large for anyone to voice dissent. It was odd, really. The problem was this: Tubbo was Tommy’s best friend and Fundy was Wilbur’s son, but yet here they were on the wrong side. Surely that must mean commitment. Surely. Neither dared speak. 

His fingers were gone, replaced by hoofed digits that dug a bit too tightly into Tubbo’s shoulder. Faint wisps of white fur curled over his knuckles, swirling across his forearms and into his beard. His breath reeked of hard cider, but it always did. JSchlatt leaned over Tubbo’s shoulder, checking on a flier being made. Crumpled drafts littered the desk alongside paints and banners and lists detailing the supplies needed, from popular music to wooden chairs to yellow concrete to impenetrable fences. 

The horns were longer now, beginning to curve around his skull. His face was longer too in a way that was uncanny and horrific, fur beginning to cover it in mangey patches. Tubbo couldn’t imagine the pain of having your jaw grow and lengthen, but maybe that explained the medication. JSchlatt constantly complained about aches. He tried to make up for it with exercise regimens and protein powder, but it seemed the only cure was more of that golden liquor. It was a solution JSchlatt happily took to, and he carried the bottle more often than not. The viridian ribbon on the neck was lopsided and drooping, tied so poorly as to nearly only have one tail. The loops nearly looked like eyes underscored by a crooked, cruel smile. JSchlatt took a swig straight from the half full bottle as he overlooked the planning for the festival.

The glare of the golden concrete reflected on JSclatt’s yellow eyes. They were angled inhumanly, pupils sinister black boxes. He leered into Tubbo’s cage, and they pressed at the walls, banging until their hands hurt. Tubbo’s breaths came fast and shallow, humidifying his tight enclosure as the truth of his immediate execution became apparent. JSclatt’s horns fully spiraled by then like some twisting cruel crown. He’d never been president, simply a tyrant in sheep’s clothing. He laughed at Tubbo, snorting at the cowering boy. The sneer split what was undeniably a snout. His hooves clacked against the stage as he drunkenly sauntered away, and beyond Tubbo could see the pale, horrified faces of the crowd about to watch him die. 

Funny, really, that he’d decided he wanted Manburg to explode only for it to beat him to the punch. 

Staring into Technoblade’s dark gaze as he preemptively apologized for pulling the trigger, Tubbo accepted that animal eyes were the last thing he’d see in that life. His chest burst outward and his guts splattered against the walls of the enclosure, another blast shattering his heart. Technoblade could’ve just killed him, he didn’t have to destroy a precious life too. But even as a glitter of bloodlust lit those dark eyes, Tubbo could only remember the haunting golden ram gaze that had ordered the trigger to be pulled.

The battle slowed, sputtering in halting motions until not a single weapon was raised. On the orders of Dream, everyone filed into the tiny drug van that had started it all. Dust motes hung in the air along with the scent of chemicals and drying blood. 

He was pathetic, really. JSchlatt had driven away every member in his country until nearly the whole world was against him. And now he was stumbling around a lab, crashing into vials and equipment. Scrambling together any elixir or cure he could think of, screaming about protein and strength. It was odd. Everyone had built up the tyrant as the cruel mastermind villain, but now everyone stood quietly around an old atrophying man. His limbs were weak. His joints locked up. He scratched at his skin like he was going through withdrawal (like fur was flipping sides, curling beneath his skin as the transformation couldn’t be maintained). His heart was strangled by the addiction he’d cultivated, and he clutched the near empty bottle until he flew into a rage, smashing the glass against Fundy’s skull. As Fundy cursed and screamed about how JSchlatt ruined everything he touched, the president ignored everything just as he had for his entire reign. Instead, he scrambled through the broken shards of the bottle, hooves unharmed where fingers would’ve been cut. He triumphantly raised a sliver of glass up. A single droplet of gold clung to it, and JSchlatt eagerly licked the shard for the last of the golden apple cider. It sliced his tongue, blood smearing into his fur, but he didn’t even care, eyes closed in pleasure. Demands were made, bargains, ultimatums, threats, pleas, but JSchlatt didn’t care. Had never cared. 

He was old. He was weak. He was dying. It happened quickly, no one was quite sure how, but the tyrant was not slain. In the end, a heart attack destroyed what was left of his old body, and he dissolved into smoke and experience. His last life hung in the air, looking almost strangled. Indents criss crossed it like invisible threads, pressing in and growing deeper by the second. Nobody dared touch it. Nobody even dared breathe.

And then, suddenly, violently, JSchlatt’s last heart was guillotined into countless chunks as if by dozens of golden strings. 

(Later, far later, they found the lifeless husk of his reformed body back in his bed, never to be reanimated. A funeral was held, the man’s legacy jeered and derided. They split him into pieces, tokens and trophies of a tyrant. Ever since the Red Festival, one of JSchlatt’s horns had been blasted into splinters by a stray rocket. The person who’d taken his head had thought something similar had occurred to the other one until one day they split his skull open to find his brain speared through by a curling horn.)

The windows of the presidential office were cracked from the explosions. The view beyond was of rubble and dust, the fountain at the heart of the stage crumbled, water gushing out of the pipes to tumble down into the crater of a once great nation. It didn’t seem fair that the yellow execution cage still remained atop the ruined stage. No one had ever bothered to clean up his stains, and so Tubbo got a lovely reminder of that moment in his country’s past. One corner of the wall was torn down, pick marks scratching at the bricks, and Tubbo for the life of him didn’t know who or when or why, but certainly couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The history of the building lay in its jumble of items and the memories attached to them. Faded ballots, the crumpled minutes of a tense meeting, a cheery banner for the festival with red, white, and blue scorch marks. Empty bottles and down turned shot glasses, weights and dumbbells and desperate attempts to fortify a weakening body. The lingering scent of liquor and cigarettes and decay. And Tubbo. The leader of the rotting carcass of a nation. His knees tucked to his chest in the too-large president’s chair, arms slumped over the messy desk, banging his head against the table. Of course there was Tubbo in that awful room. 

And no one else. Tubbo was all alone and it was entirely his fault. He was scared, and frustrated, and wished he was crying but the tears just wouldn’t come. And so he banged his head on the table, cursing JSchlatt, cursing Dream, cursing Tommy, but most of all cursing himself.

There wasn’t a point. Well, there had been, to save L’Manburg, to protect his citizens. But Tommy had been the heart of the nation and Tubbo had been the one to tear him out and cast him into the dirt. He was left with a soulless nation, a dead nation, one trampled and beaten too many times for Tubbo to ever think they’d really win. He’d exiled his best friend just to buy time, and all he could think was JSchlatt’s first act had been an exile, too.

And what good would it do? Dream would only be appeased so long, and the country was too debilitated to ever catch up power wise. His cabinet was screaming for revenge, their enemies were screaming for submission, and Tubbo was just screaming. Loudly. The words weren’t articulated, he was just yelling until his voice went hoarse, beating his fists into the desk. 

At once, Tubbo rose, sweeping everything off it. All the past, the plans, the pains, all of it falling onto the carpet. He’d inherited a mess and he wanted none of it. All he’d ever wanted was Tommy, and now he was gone because Tubbo had prioritized the remains of a beleaguered and targeted nation. 

He stormed out of the office. Kicked back his chair, past the bars and bottles, past the fliers and rockets, past an ignored proposal from when he’d been secretary, past the misplaced votes that had decided everything, past the white marionette propped against the threshold who was to blame for it all. Beyond the windows a reminder of his brutal execution, and beyond that a smoking crater of a country destroyed by the very man who’d created it. Beyond that only the moon, whose pockmarks matched the nation it gazed upon. Tubbo saw all and hated all, and so he stormed out of the president’s office, determined to make everything a problem for the morning. A smile burrowed into his shoulder blades as he stomped into a hall. 

Tubbo’s steps slowed. Wait. Waaaait. He ran through the last scene for the incongruity. Among the political junk and history lay the being that shaped so much of the nation simply by trying to beat the country out of existence. 

Tubbo raced back to the room, catching his hands just on the threshold and staring disbelievingly at the cruel vacant smile. His pants were harsh and tinged with panic. The short birch wood marionette stared at him, held perfectly in place by chartreuse strings that seemed to emerge from nowhere. Posed and confident and composed in a way Tubbo simply wasn’t. 

How- long had Dream been there? Tubbo decided he didn’t want to know. He wasn’t sure he could handle the answer. On closer examination, he wasn’t sure he could even ask, as it would betray weakness. Instead, he simply caught his breath and asked, “how can I help you?”

He knew immediately it was the wrong choice for the way Dream’s smile widened, green threads pulling it open. No, he was the president, this was his country, his office. He’d set the power in the wrong direction. JSchatt wouldn’t have made that mistake. No, JSchlatt was too self absorbed to offer help in the first place. He’d served himself first and foremost, not his country, and most certainly not an outsider. 

“Actually, the question is: how can I help you?” There should have been no way a pale block of birch moving up and down to mimic a jaw should not have produced words, but Dream had always gotten away with far more than he should’ve. 

“You’ve done enough already,” Tubbo said shortly. He wanted to snarl it. “What do you want now?”

A maneuvering of ghostly strings, and the puppet waltzed over to him, smug for all his inorganic features. His shadow cast out an unearthly chartreuse, spilling over Tubbo’s toes and making the hair on the back of his neck raise. 

“I just wanted to come here to congratulate you, Mr. President. I was surprised you were smart enough to weed out the undesirable, but it’s a pleasant surprise. With someone as clever as you in power, I’m sure we’ll work together wonderfully.” The word he used incorrectly was, of course, clever. What he really meant was someone as weak as you, someone as easy to control as you. Tubbo could still perfectly picture Dream crashing his inauguration, a dancing web of threads that only ever seemed to ensnare the citizens he was slaughtering. Tubbo didn’t accept the not-compliment, instead stalking over to JSchlatt’s desk and dropping into the chair. It had been a common power play. Only one chair, afterall, and it gave JSchlatt a position of comfort while clearly stating who was really in the throne. The ploy of course failed. The short puppet was about at eye level when Tubbo sat, and it felt less like a power move and more like he was squirming in the principal’s office, waiting to be punished. Ah. Well. His legs were tired anyway. He was tired. It had been an awful day, and a whole lot of it could be blamed on the devil before him. 

Something emerged from the lime shadows, a clawed hand reaching to hand a bottle to jointed wooden ones. Viridian strings lingered, tying the bottle to the shadows, before vanishing. Dream swirled the golden cider with a smile before pulling out a single glass in a similar fashion and carefully filling it. “I was hoping to christen our partnership. Cheers to a successful business?”

Tubbo pinched the bridge of his nose. What he wanted to say was I hate you and so does everyone else. Kindly go die. What he said was: “I’m not an adult.”

“You certainly have the burdens of one. Why not the boons as well?”

His was a country built from a drug van. His was a country on its third life. The nation was destroyed. Tommy was gone. What could possibly be left?

As long as I can’t be the next Schlatt, you can’t be the next Wilbur.

Tommy had already broken that. He’d burned buildings to the ground, dancing in the footsteps of a dead man. Tubbo had to be rid of him. It was the only way. L’Manburg couldn’t survive a second Wilbur. It couldn’t survive Dream’s ire. Tubbo had to bend and scrape. He’d get down on his knees in supplication if that’s what it took for his people to live. For whatever reason, Dream wanted him to drink it. So he would. 

Tubbo snatched the glass and took a deep draft. It tasted like nectar, sweet and divine. He’d thought it would burn on the way down. He’d been wrong. A second swig, then, the holy flavor dancing over his tongue. He savored it. 

It was only then he thought about JSchlatt. Would he really follow the drunken footsteps of that dictator?

Tubbo sat down the glass forcefully, sliding it away from himself. Dream’s smile didn’t change, nor did he drink himself. Only one glass had been set out. Only one snare. 

“So glad you’re reasonable. Maybe under your leadership L’Manburg can make a change for the better. No other president managed to cull the toxins out, yet here you are, firmly making a statement: L’Manburg will not tolerate someone as self-destructive as Tommy. Speaking of destruction, L’Manburg is such an eyesore these days. That’s why I wanted the wall, really, nothing malicious…” he rambled on. Tubbo sat in silence as the devil whispered poison in his ear. He didn’t really hear any of it, attention waning. Dangerous, likely, but he’d had a long day and wanted to go to bed. A budding headache was blossoming on the sides of his skull, not particularly painful, simply present. Probably from the stress. Tubbo found his gaze had drifted away from Dream’s painted smile down to the mostly full glass. Noticing, Tubbo was encouraged to take another sip. He declined, feigning not being thirsty. This was a lie. He felt parched, and was sure the drink would be just the thing to quench it. Tubbo thought perhaps that his unease should be growing, but it was instead lulled. 

He refastened his gaze to that of Dream, determined to pay attention so that he might know what he had to protect his country from in the future, but his focus refused to fix upon anything but the delicious cider. His headache was growing as the night pressed on and Tubbo wanted to blame Dream on it. 

A second time his attention had to be pulled back, but Dream uncharacteristically didn’t seem slighted by this, rather he appeared to be pleased. Tubbo rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck at the cold trickling feeling creeping down it and started making vague comments about how late it was, only to be met by an assurance that Dream could stay all night. That wasn’t the point. Tubbo didn’t know if the puppet slept (surely they had to have a bed to spawn in, right?) but he certainly needed to. He just didn’t know if he could get away with turning Dream out. Diplomacy was a tight walk waltz after all, and Dream had always been fond of yanking on strings. 

It was as Tubbo attended to an itch on the top of his head that he ran into something. At once the laughing excuse he’d been making stilled, expression dropping to confusion. His fingers investigated the growth and came away bloody, his hair apparently damp with it. It hadn’t been sweat at all creeping down to stain his collar; no, this was far more malicious. Something sharp jutted out of the top of his skull, ridged and somehow emerging from his scalp. To his horror, there were two of them, slowly pushing and growing. He realized at once the headache pangs originated from the same places. Something was immensely suppressing his pain response in order to hide its effect upon him. 

At once Tubbo’s gaze darted between the golden drink and the marionette before him. The pull of it only grew, the enjoyment of its flavor only a mask for a tangible longing sprouting like a weed in his gut. 

Half a glass, and Tubbo was sprouting horns. Dream wasn’t just trying to turn Tubbo into a puppet, he was trying to turn him into JSchlatt. Tubbo swallowed roughly, calming his breathing. “Kindly leave and take your poison with you.” He kept the words level and carefully articulated.

Dream’s grin dropped by degrees. “Why should I?”

He hadn’t debated the poison part. “It’s my office.” 

“And we’re doing business. This is a transaction. I’m offering you far more than you know. I thought you were agreeable.” Compliant. “I suppose that was my mistake, but you’ll be the one paying for it.” Tubbo ignored him, pulling at the horns. They were slippery from blood, and trying to remove them only left him with clumps of hair and pain. He clawed at the distorted skin where the bone emerged from. No matter how he scrambled to tear them they refused to budge. Tubbo bit down, clamping a hand over his mouth, fingertips leaving sanguine smears. 

“Stop being difficult about this, Tubbo,” Dream chided. He lifted the glass up, and at once Tubbo’s gaze was caught in golden nectar. “Finish the dose. It’ll be easier and painless if you just comply.” Tubbo reached out against his will, the drink intoxicating his thoughts. Dream smiled as the president accepted the snare. Smudges of blood sullied the glass. Tubbo raised the cup to his lips, inhaling the perfect aroma. 

With a last outcry of will, he flung the glass away, cider arcing out and catching the moonlight as it splattered across the room. A hand immediately emerged from the shadows, quickly recapturing the cup. Only a small mouthful remained in the glass, the rest soaking into the carpet. Viridian shadows rippled like a tumultuous sea. 

Anger inflicted Dream’s words as he wiped the yellow stain off his wooden face. “You don’t know how much that’s worth. That’s a very costly mistake you just made.” 

“Leave. Now.” He gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, trying to hide the fact his hands were trembling. Something felt like it was buried beneath the bed of his nails, digging its way out.

“No.” Dream’s head canted upwards as Tubbo towered over him. 

Tubbo pushed off the table, storming past. He threw open the door to the stage, slamming it behind him. A pressure began in his chest trying to pull him back to the poison. Emerald shadows slipped beneath the door like venomous snakes dogging his step. Tubbo raced away, thundering down the stairs that gave out about half way, stumbling through the debris. He burrowed into the heart of the L’Manburg crater, hoping to tuck into the rubble and avoid Dream. The pale moon crossed overhead and monsters pulled shadows into bodies, drawn by the presence of his soul. Tubbo tucked behind the tatters of a banner, drawing an axe from his inventory. Its diamond edge glittered in the starlight, enchantments washing over in purple streaks, faint curls of steam peeling off from the recent summoning.

They’d know. Every one of his citizens. There was no going to anyone for help with this, they’d see in a moment he was just like JSchlatt. And they were right. He’d fallen to the same mistake. A hint of cider clung to his heavy breaths, each one reminding him what he needed. From the pit, Tubbo looked through the tatters of a festival flag to the cracked windows of his office, spying the silhouette of the mannequin peering into the dark. There’d been a little bit saved. All he needed to do was to climb out, to beg Dream to let him finish. That’ll stop the pain, you know. Whatever he asks of you would be a small price to pay. Anything and everything just for another taste.

Tubbo shook his head, trying to wrestle with the yearning. It was only growing louder. Soon persuasion would turn to demands. He wanted to be sick. He couldn’t be. His skin glimmered with protection, the scratches on his hands and knees from scuttling into hiding glowing and stitching closed and betraying his location. He felt like power incarnate. He felt despicable. Tubbo was running out of time. Till what he did not know, but he had to do something. Clutching the war axe in his fists, he steeled his nerves, and raised it. The horns had grown to the point of poking out of his hair, already beginning to arc. Slowly, steadily, Tubbo set the blade of the axe against the base of the growths. 

It bled. He didn’t know why, and it was frightening, but it wasn’t painful and he refused to stop. Something was heavily interfering with his pain receptors, and he might as well take advantage of it. Tubbo simply grit his teeth and sawed his weapon back and forth, slowly slicing through the thick bone. As the excursion set in, the effort of the action and the weight of the day dulling his movements, Tubbos’ cuts dragged, skipping and stopping until stilling. Tubbo clenched his eyes shut, trying to clear his mind. His mouth was salivating uncontrollably. Renewing his efforts eventually met with success, and the nub of one horn clatter to the floor. He was swaying by then, the midnight wind cruel. Blood dampened his back, crawling down his neck and scarred face. 

A rock cluttered and skid, and Tubbo looked up, heart jolting. Dream stared down at him, draped in green shadows. “Now what are you doing, Tubbo?” He said it in the same light scolding way one reserved for a pet dog who’d taken to nibbling on your boots.

Tubbo rose slowly, the handle of his axe gripped tight in bloody hands. He pointed the blade at the smug villain. You know, his thoughts whispered. Dream probably has more. If you kill him you could rob his corpse. No one would miss him. 

Tubbo found it a rather excellent idea. His eyes flashed gold in the faint moonlight. If Dream were gone, Tommy could come back. If Dream were gone, Tubbo could gorge upon nectar. He had magic pressed into his limbs, glimmering vitality and strength. He’d win. As if suddenly sensing his intent, Dream shifted back, uncertain of the creature he’d made.

It was all the invitation he needed. Tubbo swung at Dream with wild abandon, slicing a gouge in his chest that burst into white splinters. Dream stumbled back, and Tubbo pressed on. The second blow was caught by a Chaos Brigade shield, wisps of smoke still reeling off it from the summon. They danced in combat, Dream’s experience staggering but Tubbo making up in wild frenzied attacks and inhuman strength. The terrain of the ruined country caught at Dream at every opportunity, but the pitfalls and rubble meant nothing to Tubbo, foot work deft and unfailing, each step light as air. The desperation and anger only grew in the child president, a golden haze unfurling like fog in his mind, lucidity lost to an apple scented madness.

In case you were wondering, this was not, in fact, going to plan. 

JSchlatt had been far easier, and he was far more stubborn than Tubbo. He hadn’t cared about much besides himself, which made him difficult to control. Dream had been spoiled with Tommy as the boy created bonds and attachments as naturally as breathing. Thus, threads to pull on. JSchlatt only cared about himself, but even that could be used. A simple promise of godhood and JSchlatt had been completely willing. Dream was sure he still didn’t trust him, but once he was addicted it mattered little. 

JSchlatt had still been difficult then. But why would he ever need a book of resurrection when he was a god? He’d been loath to part, but eventually Dream had gotten exactly what he wanted. With no more use of the president, he stopped supplying doses, leaving JSchlatt with the consequences. The man had only ever cared about himself, although even a few things had mattered up to that point. But then the last of his bonds had vanished, the man fully consumed by himself, with strength, with power, with the golden apple cider. 

Tubbo cared far more than his predecessor ever had, but it had proven such an effective rein Dream would be a fool not to replicate it. Except then Tubbo had refused the full dose and now every planned detail was suddenly thrown into jeopardy. This wasn’t what he’d expected. This was a bid for control, but now Tubbo was anything but controlled. Dream cursed. What a nuisance. He’d thought now would be the perfect time, given Tubbo had just proved pliable. The boy had delivered what no other had ever managed: Tommy, isolated and vulnerable, on a silver platter. So sue Dream for thinking that meant this would go just as easily. Tubbo was supposed to be a yes-man, his base nature begging to be shepherded, to be controlled. Why was he rebelling now? Had the power gotten to his head already?

The lack of bonds in Tubbo was nearing dangerous. He had no strings to pull in battle, a fact suddenly apparent as they twisted through the ruined crater. Dream didn’t like that he was on the defensive, but Tubbo refused to relent in his onslaught, deaf to insults, cajoling, and threats. Golden eyes peering out through a blood streaked face, glowing in the gloom. Horns and inhibitions both broken. He swung the blood splattered axe with a feral intensity, advancing through the rubble with nary a stumble. The marionette unfortunately did not manage the same, and Dream failed to correct the mistake in time, only yanking on emerald threads to drag his body out of the way of a harsh blow. Knicks gorged into the pale wooden back, stone scraping into the soft birch. The axe head lodged momentarily into the debris, and Dream took the opportunity for revenge, scoring a slash against Tubbo’s torso that matched his own. Tubbo barely paused to scowl as he wrenched free the weapon, the gash already radiant and slipping close. Injury meant little to him, and as the fight dragged on no weariness seemed to color his actions. If anything, Tubbo became faster, more brutal, chopping at Dream if given the slightest chance. Dream had always been highly efficient, but against such an opponent he gained a ferocity necessary if he were to win. Each strike had to be powerful enough to crack bone just to slow him down. It still wasn’t enough. 

The moon crawled across the firmament, glinting off the axe blade as Tubbo raised it high for a devastating attack. Green strings struck like vipers, latching onto his wrist and violently tearing the swing off course, quickly diving into a cracked open boulder that Dream’s shadow was cast over. Tubbo’s hand shattered against the rock, metacarpals turning to splinters from the force. Light shone through the mangled fingers, bone fusing back into proper shape, but not fast enough. Dream seized the axe, and it vanished in wisps of fog into his inventory. 

The lack of weapon did little to deter Tubbo, and he threw the newly reformed knuckles into a punch that whipped the fixed smiling head sharply to the side. The pair were thrown into a wrestling match. A strength he shouldn’t have possessed fueled Tubbo, but with experienced maneuvering Dream squirmed out to be on top, pinning the boy president briefly. Viridian tendrils stitched him into the larger shadow, but it was a temporary bind. Jointed fingers wormed into fluffy hair, digging into the scalp between what was left of the new horns. Sharply, Dream yanked his head forward before slamming it into the ground with a nasty crunch. Blood splattered out from the collision, Tubbo howling a sharp cry. A second smash, and Tubbo froze momentarily. Then, the regeneration fixed the damage, fusing shards of skull back into cohesion. Tubbo began to buck beneath him, golden eyes wild. 

It was no use. Dream needed the fighting to stop so he could try to scrape together a more complete dose. At once he seized Tubbo’s skull again before a deft maneuver snapped his neck.

Were he respectable, he should have died immediately. But Tubbo was not courteous enough to burst into smoke and experience, merely going limp, head canted at an awful angle. His life flickered tentatively into view, but he did not wish to cull it at this moment, even if Tubbo was being a nuisance. 

Right. Right. Limited time weighed upon him as Dream drew out a pair of ender pearls, twitching threads to wrap wooden fingers around them. Quickly he tapped one against Tubbo’s chest. By Dream’s nature, he could see the way Tubbo’s soul flew to the dark pearl, alongside the gilded golden apple restraints beginning to strangle the crimson life. It had worked, at least to some degree, so that was a reassurance. Really, Dream was about one more rebellion away from deciding he really didn’t care this much. Threats and emotional manipulation were far easier than this crap. Not that he even had many apples left to make the cider given how difficult they were to obtain. Even weaning the stock so much didn’t extend the supply as much as he’d hoped, and then he had to deal with their constant cajoling, which was a waste of time on their part given he only had a little wooden body to puppet. It was all so much effort. He nearly considered lifting the dimensional ban just because surely nobody else would decide to waste their time the same way. Though how effective an embargo it could really be was debatable given he kept coming across already looted End cities…

Anyway, all that to say Dream’s thoughts were not particularly charitable as he lobbed up a pearl to smash into the side of the presidential office. It exploded into smoke, and the miasma reversed upon itself to become a mostly dead Tubbo. The one beside his marionette dissolved, and Dream cast his own ender pearl, carrying a beryl beleaguered soul that came from the shadows. 

He dragged Tubbo by the scruff of his broken neck, which was billowing up healing particles and light. Fortunately he stayed unconscious despite the rather rude scraps acquired from Dream pulling him across the jagged terrain. They healed instantly anyways, so it didn’t really matter. He left the president in a heap on the office floor, scrambling to find the poison. Tubbo really had no idea how much time and resources they’d ungratefully spilled. All that was left to do was coax the last of it down and pray Tubbo would realize how stupid his recalcitrant ways were. 

Tubbo awoke himself again in a cooling pool of his own blood. The lights on the ceiling of his office were blinding. He also woke up being cradled in Dream’s arms, which, you know, kinda a little bit insanely terrifying and disturbing. Also, something was being poured down his throat, thick cider choking him. Tubbo immediately tried to splutter, but a wooden jointed hand painfully seized his jaw shut. Tubbo tried to wrench it away but found his strength to be no match no matter how hard he pulled. 

“Stop resisting, Tubbo. You’re just making this more difficult. Just swallow, it’s not difficult.” Irritation bled through what was supposed to be a smooth and unbothered voice. Tubbo scratched at the hand but only succeeded in getting splintered stuck beneath his— those weren’t nails. Those weren’t nails at all. They were tiny slivers of hooves. His nails were gone, or at least most of them were. A few still clung by the beds, though the rigid replacement grew out, the original falling away, littering the floor with crescent slices and sanguine. Shards of wood and dried blood were buried under what unholy thing replaced his nails and Tubbo’s body was still changing against his will. Cold slithered down his spine, chasing after suppressed agony. He’d scream if he were able but he was still choking on that vile godly poison. Tubbo bunched a handful of the green strings threading the joints of Dream’s hand and yanked them away. Finally freed, he spat it out, wracked with coughs that shook him. Some awful impulse wanted him to go after the nectar even as it mingled with blood and nails upon the well worn rug. 

“Fine,” Dream drawled. “Reject my offer. Because of that you’ll suffer in more ways than just this. Enjoy the effects of an incomplete dose.” And with that he strolled out of the office, rippling shadows and jerking limbs betraying his true ire. Dream left Tubbo to curl in agony, in want, in madness for the rest of the night.

Tubbo…did not have a good next morning. The insane need had died out mostly, but it wasn’t gone. His memory was fuzzy, but he knew for a fact whatever was going on was Dream’s fault. His floor was stained with alcohol and blood, his office utterly trashed presumably by his own hands. And he did still have hands, thank you very much. Only his nails had changed. The keratin had altered, digging into his skin and threatening to expand its conquest. Hooves. God, he was growing hooves. Just looking at them filled him with the violent urge to rip them out which, while tempting, sounded exactly like a torture method. He solved the problem with gloves. The horns unfortunately had regrown at some point and were about double the length. They’d have to be cut again. Groaning, he peeled himself off the gross carpet and stumbled to a bathroom, bracing himself for what he’d find in the mirror. Closed eyes, a deep breath, and Tubbo stared at himself. 

It…it wasn’t that bad. The horns were the most noticeable thing for the most part, though part of that was the choppy hair drawing even more attention. He leaned close to the reflection, checking his teeth to see if they were different. They were fortunately unaltered, though his mouth tasted really bad. The patchy discolored scars from his execution were the same as ever, but there was the oddest line of gold sliced across his eyes, although it was hopefully faint enough to not be a problem. They reminded him a little of JSchlatt’s boxy pupils, and the comparison made him feel worse. In profile his face didn’t look longer, but doubt had him second guessing. There weren’t that many obvious signs of…of sheep-ness or whatever. But when he pulled the hair back from his ears disappointment struck. They were distinctly longer than reasonable and had wisps of fur on them. Ok. Alright. His hair was fluffy enough to hide that. It’ll be fine. None need know. Still, fear sunk deep in the pit of his stomach. He was just like JSchlatt. He was going to die surrounded by his citizens and not a one would raise a hand to save him. 

Tubbo quieted his racing anxiety and peeled out of his shirt, scrubbing the dried blood off him with ample splashes of water, scraping at his scalp. He summoned his axe, mentally preparing, before beginning to hack at the horns again. He was quicker this time, and soon both were below hair level. He washed again and threw the tips into the crater on his way out, slipping his arms into a too-large formal jacket, using it to hide. Tubbo preferred not to think about who it used to belong to. He already looked far more like JSchlatt than he had the day before. But the jacket served his purposes. 

Unfortunately, he did not get to the closest barn without notice. Fundy waved at him, racing over with a chipper greeting. Tubbo returned an echo of it. Fundy pulled his fox cloak tighter, a habit he had when his thoughts turned to serious subjects. He apologized about Tommy. Tubbo didn’t want an apology about Tommy.  “I know he was your best friend, so not seeing him will be hard…”

That wasn’t true. Tubbo knew Tommy was angry at him at the moment and it was fairly mutual, but they were still friends. Of course he’d visit him in exile. Just…just once this problem was dealt with. He didn’t want Tommy to know his mistakes. He couldn’t stand the imagined look on Tommy's face when he noticed. As soon as everything was fixed Tubbo would see him. It shouldn’t take too long.

But he had to find the supplies he needed first. Fundy helpfully offered directions, though unfortunately hung around, tailing Tubbo. “So what’s the plan today Mr. President?”

“I’m. I heard there were some new lambs born recently. I was gonna check on their health.”

“Oh?” It was disappointingly not very important work. “That’s nice of you. Taking care of the little people. You’d never catch JSchlatt doing that, even if he was— uh. Y’know. Ram-ish.” Tubbo hummed noncommittally. He swept into the barn, finding the veterinary supplies and rummaging in them. Fundy apparently had nothing better to do and hung over his shoulder. “I can help you dock them. Don’t want them getting -oh what’s it called- fly strike.” 

“Thank you, that would be helpful.” The duo reached a pin to find no lambs, which was little surprise given Tubbo had lied. “Huh. Guess I heard wrong.”

“I can take the supplies back,” Fundy offered.

Tubbo shook his head absently, twisting an elastic band around his gloved fingers. “Naw. It’s alright. I don’t know that they’ve been fed this morning, so I’ll just do breakfast.”

“It’s noon.”

“Lunch, then. I…I want time to think,” he admitted. 

“Oh. Oh. Yep! Got it! I’ll just be out of your hair then.” Fundy awkwardly departed, scrambling away until he was only a ginger colored speck on the horizon. Tubbo watched him depart. A handful of sheep gathered around him, one of the rams butting his head into Tubbo’s leg. His reverie was broken by a cow mooing from a desperate enclosure, and Tubbo giggled nervously in the same way everyone who was entertaining an extremely stupid idea did. 

And then he was off, searching for a corner to tuck himself in where nobody would find him. 

Docking was, unsurprisingly, painful. Just an overall unenjoyable experience. 0/10, would not recommend. At least once the blood circulation was cut off he didn’t have to worry about the fact he had a tail. Yeah. He had one of those, by the way. And it was very fluffy, thanks for asking. And would hopefully be gone soon if he did this right. He’d docked tails before. Hard to live in such an agricultural society and not know how to. Even so, Tubbo found himself hesitating. He blamed it on the angle, since that was the easier option than knowing what he was about to do to himself. Cutting off the horns had been hard, but it wasn’t like they had pain receptors. But he didn’t have a better choice. 

Eventually he’d lose sensation in his tail, and it should fall off in a few weeks. But right now, it very much was still there and very insistent in pointing out he apparently had a lovely new map of nerves to deal with. Sitting was right out of the question. As such his legs were sore from standing all day. Sleeping was tolerable, sorta, but sometimes he rolled onto the limb he was actively strangling to death which was extremely unpleasant. 

Also, in the morning the horns had grown back. Greeeeeat. He cut them off again. Tubbo was actually getting pretty good at it, having found a gigli wire saw and file in the livestock supplies. He could get pretty close to the skin now. All he had to do was make it a daily routine, like brushing his teeth, which were thankfully still very human. Tubbo had even checked using an old anatomy book he’d found, although a good half of the pages had been ripped out, the title scratched out, and random swaths of paragraphs were redacted. To be fair, most old books looked the same. Not a lot of literature in the world. 

All in all, he had it very well handled, thank you very much. The growths should stop any day now, painlessly recede, and he could go visit Tommy. It was just a matter of time. 

So…meat? He was cautious at first, but it seemed to still be a viable option. He still had an omnivore’s teeth. The problem was that Tubbo wasn’t entirely sure if he still had all his nice human organs. He liked his human organs. They were very nice and…organy. Poking his stomach occasionally did not reveal if his innards were the same, however. But eating meat didn’t seem to give him any stomach problems. Then again, he’d once seen a cow scarf down an entire chicken in what was an extremely traumatic encounter, so. Technically Tubbo did know that herbivores could eat meat. He just wasn’t so sure if he should be worried about mad cow disease or whatever. His sanity was already in pretty heavy question nowadays. Because even with all these horrid effects…he still salivated at the thought of the taste of that toxic liquor. 

Tubbo really, really hoped his organs were normal.

Then again, he kept coughing up these disgusting clots of halfway digested food which made for this fowl, slightly acidic, regurgitated nightmare that he had spit out onto the ground, so, you know, the hope wasn’t very high.

Tubbo was tired. Oh god was he tired. Despite him knowing for a fact he was sleeping more than usual, he woke up every day exhausted. It was a bone deep tired that seemed to grip his very soul. Maybe it was a symptom of whatever was happening to him, but it couldn’t be entirely blamed on the golden cider. The weight of a nation sagged his shoulders, the problems of his citizens burdening his every step. That had to be the difference between them. JSchlatt had never once cared about his people. Tubbo was determined to care with all he had, even if it was starting to grind his body down.

He was tired of the obsidian walls partially encircling his country. He was tired of checking over his shoulder for a malicious green shadow. He was tired of staring at a hole and wondering how they were supposed to fill it. He was tired of cabinet meetings (even though he’d sworn he’d actually hold them instead of the mock advisors of JSchlatt) and Quackity demanding blood from the blood god. Hey, Tubbo wanted revenge or whatever, too; Technoblade had exploded both his soul and his country. But couldn’t Quackity see they were in no position to go on the attack? 

Distinctly it was that last scruple that was the specific reason he was yawning widely, as he’d gotten up unreasonably early to try and take steps to fulfilling that plan. With so much on his mind, Tubbo knew he was forgetting something, but the early glow of dawn hadn’t even graced the land yet. He’d only thrown on a suit jacket over the crumpled clothes he’s slept in, and he hadn’t even brushed his teeth. Or had breakfast. His stomach growled as another yawn cracked his face. 

Tubbo knocked again on Philza’s housing unit. Probably rude at this hour -scratch that, Philza could probably murder him and be justified- but word was Philza had been the one to slay Wilbur and he knew where Technoblade was. Seemed the best bet to finding the anarchist and giving him a trial. Quackity had said Philza had refused to disclose any information, but Quackity could also be…a bit much. Tubbo thought it would be best to try again on his own.

He rubbed at his eyes with a gloved hand. So, that wasn’t what he was forgetting. Good, Philza didn’t need to know he had weird pseudo hooves. He kicked at the porch, wondering if he should knock again. The wooden planks creaked beneath his shifting weight. Wrong house maybe? He squinted at the dwelling in the faint lantern light. No, pretty sure this was the right one. It wasn’t like there were many houses left. Another rap upon the door, and he heard some rustling upstairs. A few minutes, and a small candle was lit, slowly moving between the windows. Its tiny light caused the early morn shadows to shift strangely, casting out a meager glow. 

Tubbo almost hadn’t been expecting it, half convinced Philza wasn’t…you know…real? Tubbo, to be completely honest, had never actually, uh, met Philza? Like, he’d heard a lot about the guy, since he’d apparently raised Wilbur and Tommy when they were really young before dipping for no apparent reason. In all honesty, he was just a legend to Tubbo. Wilbur had refused to talk about him, and since Tommy liked making up stories and never explained what had actually happened, it had been the natural assumption. Tommy was a deeply lonely guy, making up for it by grabbing on tightly to anything and everything. To L’Manburg, to Tubbo, to stupid, pointless discs. Philza was a ghost of a story a little boy had told himself, and now his haunting was a little closer to Tubbo than the president preferred. 

But he was real, and Tubbo would just have to adjust to the fact. Let alone that he had shown up the moment Tubbo’s country had exploded, killing the father of L’Manburg. And considering what Wilbur and Tommy had made of themselves, it wasn’t encouraging. Throw in a strong connection to Technoblade, and it made for an intimidating encounter. Maybe he should’ve brought protection. Was that what he was forgetting…? No. He’d declared no armor to be worn in L’Manburg, and he didn’t want to bring a crowd since that might feel like a threat. He wanted to have a nice first impression. Philza had helped with some of the rebuilding after all, even if they’d sorta commanded that he stay in their country. Apparently he was healing from an injury from Wilbur’s explosion, though, which L’Manburg of course was helping with, although admittedly the term ‘house arrest’ was being thrown around an awful lot…

When the door was thrown open, Tubbo was face to face with an old man draped in clothing of a distinctly different style than was worn by their continent. He could make out a few features that reminded him of the sons Philza claimed, if he squinted. A man of flesh and blood, and yet Tubbo couldn’t shake the thought in his mind that he stood before a legend. Shadows seemed to crowd around Philza despite the candle held aloft, like the night spilled over him, a specter of death clinging to his side. 

Tubbo launched into a greeting. “Hi, I’m the president, but you can call me Tubbo. Sorry for the early meeting, but I was hoping we could…talk about…Technoblade…are you…? What are you looking at?” Philza seemed to be slack jawed, gaping at Tubbo. They glanced awkwardly away and back. His gaze wasn’t quite uncomfortable, given it wasn’t actually meeting Tubbo’s own. No, it was raised higher. Tubbo patted their hair. Was his bed head really that bad..?

Oh. O H. “I forgot to cut them,” he mumbled in realization. Quickly, Tubbo’s head whipped around, frantic to know if anyone had seen. “Um— can we take this inside, Philza?”

“I think that would be for the best, yes.” He looked as pale as if he’d seen a ghost, gesturing Tubbo in quickly. He slammed the door shut and locked it before turning to Tubbo. “How did you get golden apples?” he demanded.

“Um,” Tubbo said stupidly. “What?” He’d been sorta skimming his brain wildly for any lie he could think of (ranging from claiming it to be a fashion statement to tearfully admitting his mother was a goat), and was caught off guard. 

“We destroyed every trace of them,” Philza swore vehemently. “We made sure of it. How in the world did you get them?”

“There weren't any apples. It was this cider.” 

Philza carded a hand quickly through his hair. “Oh so there’s new forms of it. Great great great. I’m going to scream.”

“So, how’d you know about…?” As answer, the night surrounding Philza unfurled into great black crow wings. He spread them out wide, and the bandaging looping through a tattered, exploded one shone brightly in the flickering candle light. Tubbo stilled in shock as he stood before an angel. Was he to bow? To pray? To weep? 

“Because I’m an idiot,” the legend snapped. “Now would you care to tell me why you’ve decided to kill yourself? Why you’d accept poison into your blood? Was it the power? Oh, I bet it’s the power, you have to be the ambitious type if you’re president. Or maybe you’re a coward. Heard the last few tyrants were slain and you want to save yourself. Well news flash, mate, you’ve royally screwed that up. The moment you run out of apples you won’t have the energy to support your fancy new additions, and the parasite is going to drain you of energy until you die in an ugly mixture of unnatural biology. You won’t even get an afterlife, do you know that? It will consume your sanity, your life, and your death, all in one fell swoop.”

The words hit Tubbo like an anvil, the breath completely crushed from his lungs. Philza carried on, berating him until Tubbo’s quiet words interrupted. “What do you mean I’m going to die?”

The anger in Philza died to be replaced by a resigned and bitter pity. “You don’t know, then. Well. Sorry to break the bad news, but you weren’t gaining any sort of godhood or invincibility. You only gained a death timer. If you have more doses, you can probably prolong it, but I won’t give you any of mine. Sorry.”

“I don’t have any more,” Tubbo said faintly. “I— I poured it out the second I realized what was happening. He certainly wouldn’t give me any more, not after—” his words broke off into horror. He was going to die. He needed more, it was the only way to save himself, right? He needed more, it was his only salvation. Attack dream. He could mobilize his country couldn’t he? It wasn’t hard to get people to hate Dream. Tubbo had power, would it really be so wrong to use it? 

No. No, no, no, those were his thoughts at all. Tubbo couldn’t quite breath right, his chest frozen. An awful feeling crept up his throat, threatening tears. Dying. So that’s what this was. He finally had a name to this nightmare. 

“Who’s ‘he’?” Philza asked gently. “How much did you have?”

“Dream. I didn’t know what it was. Two, maybe three mouthfuls? I don’t know if the last counts, he was trying to force it down my throat but I think I spat out most of it…” that had been about when the tail showed up, as far as he could tell, so it probably didn’t change anything. “He’s assassinated me,” Tubbo realized in a hush. Just like he had with JSchlatt. Everyone had been blind, seeing only a frail man, but JSchlatt hadn’t really been that old. In his late twenties probably. But he’d decayed so quickly. He hadn’t even been able to swim, his muscles and joints were so atrophied. Was that Tubbo’s fate too, then? Dead from a heart attack at sixteen? 

He was just a kid. Only a kid. Tubbo wasn’t ready at all. What of the life laid before him? All the places he’d never see and people he’d never meet? What of his country? Of his Tommy?

A deep breath. A second. A third. Tubbo set his shoulders and swallowed the rising lump in his throat. He didn’t want to think about this at all. Deal with it later. (But really, how much later did Tubbo even have?) “Right. So. Tthat’s an issue for another day, and certainly not your problem. I’m not here to— to discuss this topic with you. I’m only here because you seemed to know the location of Technoblade. He needs to be held trial for…for a lot of reasons. I’m sure Quackity has outlined them for you.” Likely with a number of expletives in between the legal jargon. 

“You— you just found out you’re doomed and you’re still after Technoblade?” 

The boar had taken one of Tubbo’s lives already. Why not let him have a second? “L’Manburg needs justice more than it needs me.”

Philza stared at him for a time before his jaw clicked close sharply. “You know, I’ve acquired a rather sudden disgust for martyrdom. It’s not pretty, Tubbo. Whoever you think you’re saving by it, you won’t be. I can assure you of that much.”

“I’m serving my country.” There was little enough to separate him from JSchlatt. All he could ask was not to die despised. He wondered faintly if that meant he should go find Tommy and tell him. He could only imagine the resulting death charge against Dream. Maybe…maybe it was for the best he was in exile then. He couldn’t find out that way. Oh god, and who would take over L’Manburg? Quackity? He thought somehow that would end badly. Maybe the nation should end with him. Its body had exploded alongside Wilbur, its heart stolen when Tommy left. All that remained was a dying brain in a dead vessel. Reanimation seemed cruel. Tubbo would serve his citizens until there was nothing left of him, and that would be the end of that. 

The candle was set down on a table, feathers rustling in the dark and Philza approached him, setting an oddly clawed hand down upon his shoulders. “Right. Listen to me. Enough of that nonsense. You will not be dying on my watch, thank you very much. I’ve had enough of watching children die recently. I’ll give you the location of Technoblade -eventually- so you can stop having that distraction.” Halfway to get the kid to trust him, halfway to give an incentive to actually, you know, save his own life. Goddess deliver him from children with no self worth. “But what we’re going to do is this: I’ve found a way to halt the progression. It’s going to be dangerous and difficult, but you have a chance. We might not even make it in time, but we’ll try, alright? And you’ll have to keep making golden apples for the rest of your life, but at least the transformation seems to be slight enough that you won’t require heavy frequent dosage like me or Techno. Alright mate? Sound like a plan?”

Tubbo looked up slowly. “You can make it go away?” 

Philza’s wings shifted. “No. I never said that. I can save your life, but I can’t fix everything. I can stop further progression and that is all.”

Tubbo nodded. A just punishment for the mistake of having trusted a dreamon. Besides, he could already control most of the symptoms. When Philza offered a hand, Tubbo shook it.

The nether was menacing and dangerous, all the more so for them having abandoned the spider web of roads connecting portals and ruins. Having turned off Philza’s ankle monitor to allow free roaming, Tubbo had quickly set what affairs he had in order, though he worried about abandoning his country. There technically wasn’t too daunting of a crisis at the moment, but he didn’t know what would arise nor how long he’d be gone. Just in case, Tubbo left instructions to his cabinet for what they should do in the event of his death. They’d brushed it off as a joke. As a last step, Tubbo wrote a will. It consisted of these three lines:

“Tommy gets dibs on my stuff.”

“I would kindly ask Quackity not to eat my heart, but if that’s too much to ask it’s understandable.”

And lastly: “Don’t avenge me.”

He signed it and placed it on his pillow. The page shimmered with the attached name, sealed from further tampering. Then, Tubbo had snatched his things and followed Philza through the swirling portal, the sulfurous heat of the nether biting at his skin.

Apparently their destination was deep into the wilderness, so far in fact that the compressed nether was necessary for travel. Even then, the journey was long and arduous. Part way in their travels, they came across a fortress. No one knew what they were from, who would feel the need to stab jutting towers and arcing bridges that stretched over boiling lava and into the depths of the most lethal of biomes. Why a fortress? What was there to protect? The scale spoke to possibly hundreds of people, but they’d all vanished without a trace. The ancient architecture survived as it had been built to, inhabited only by the rotting wraiths of a once mighty nation. It was a rot only too happy to consume new victims in decrepit and crumbling castles so long abandoned none alive even knew how to craft even the simplest of bricks the ancient civilization had used. 

They were good for looting, at the very least, hence Tubbo rummaging through a random chest. What use did the dead have for artifacts? He invoked the right of those still breathing to take whatever he needed to sustain that holy and sacred breath. The dark ancient stone was warm beneath his knees, nicked and weathered from years, spiraling out into a piceous castle that sprawled across the inhospitable land. The chest creaked open, the wood grainy and warped from the heat. 

“Aww, it’s empty.” He was sorta bummed. Philza glanced at him as he ran a glowing sword across the chest of an encroaching wither skeleton. It vanished in a puff of smoke and experience. Droplets of glowing energy spilled across the ancient floor, then drew tentatively to the closest soul, settling to softly illuminate Philza’s chest. Only a few bones and clumps of dark residue remained, among them a clunky corrupted stone sword. Philza picked it up, examining the blade, before it shimmered and dissolved into his inventory in a puff of smoke. He approached the president.

“Yeah. Me and Techno cleared out nearly everything for a hundred thousand chunks of the world heart. Raided basically every ruin both here and the overworld. The fortresses, bastions, mineshafts— even the ruined portals. Took years.”

Tubbo stopped snooping and rose, stretching. The pair stalked the halls of the nether fortress. Between barred gaps in the weathered brick came glimpses of the simmering deadly land beyond. “Yeah? You get lots of loot?”

Philza hummed, tapping the walls with his sword. “That wasn’t the point of it. More like…evidence removal.” 

“Isn’t that the destruction of artifacts or whatever? All these civilizations are dead after all.”

“Dead for a reason. Not that anyone alive would know it, I personally played a hand in destroying every last scrap of information about the old world. To be fair, not everything collapsed because of the golden apples. There were politics, wars, diseases, famines. Weapons of mass destruction. But it mostly came down to tampering with things they shouldn’t’ve. Golden apples for the elite. Made them stronger, thus it was easier to control the masses. They had the resources to support such transformations, but it led to squabbling, disputes, battles. The typical symptoms of avarice.” Philza had never realized until he’d finally fought his way into their ranks. Ignorance hadn’t been bliss, not for the starving and war ravished poor with little idea what they were being slaughtered for, but it certainly had its own dangers. Once the nations began to decline such usurpations were easier. He and Techno had created an empire, created power. And then they’d discovered the cost. They’d survived, barely, but very few did. The world fell into disrepair, only the villagers surviving due to their unimportance, the piglins from their brutal ways and immunity to the toxin, and a scarce number of humans rebuilding long, long after history had faded into only the scars upon the land. 

Even just supporting the two of their needs had grown too much. The friends had split apart to avoid the same pitfalls of bitter infighting. Terrible weapons and constructs had been raised for the resulting wars, horrible magics wielded until madness and mutually assured destruction consumed everything. The greed, the addiction, it had crumbled nations. What chance did they have? What chance did any of them have?

“Wow. How old even are you?”

“Centuries.” And oh what a weight they had. 

“Huh. I thought you were, like, sixty five.”

Philza rounded on him. “I have the perfectly healthy body of a thirty year old, thank you very much.” 

Tubbo held up his hands defensively. “That’s just what Tommy told me!”

“I’m going to strangle that kid.” They twisted through the labyrinth, pressing on through long tunnels filled with danger. Philza collected blaze rods, muttering something about ‘even blasted constructs having their use sometimes’. Tubbo wasn’t really sure who had figured out how to press life into fire, only knowing they were probably long dead and that it made for an excellent magic imbued fuel source. Having collected enough, they began to work their way out. Tubbo raced up a flight of stairs that broke open to the hellish sky, surprised how easily the ascension came, only to find Philza stooped at the bottom. He scampered back down to find the guy scooping his hands through a little netherwart garden, brushing aside fungi that snapped easily. The dark soil slipped through his talons, small faces swirling in the sediment. 

“Soul sand makes me uncomfortable,” Tubbo commented. “And it always pulls at your feet and slows you down.” Tiny ghosts too weak to actually drag you down with them, but just strong enough to be annoying. His heart always tugged towards it, and while not painful it was certainly an unpleasant feeling. “How come there’s so much of it anyways? I know soul sand valleys have those big rib cages in them, and the nether is deadly enough to kill a buncha things, but can there really be that many souls?”

“You have to factor in time. New sand is generated every day, and it’s been doing so for eons probably. And it’s not just people, but animals and plants and items. Everything has a soul and it has to go somewhere.”

“Huh.” Tubbo didn’t know all of that. It was sorta neat, he supposed. “Is that why you’re interested in it?”

“No. It simply reminds me of someone.” He failed to elaborate on who he was referring to and stuffed a handful into a pocket.

Philza poked halfway out of the purple miasma of his temporary portal. The obsidian was strangely cool against his palm, serving to sever the dimensions to allow the rift. Obsidian reminded him of Her, too. It felt odd to be a body half real, his lower half yet unformed from the violet curtain made of fog separating the dimensions. The sweet, non-sulpherous air of the overworld made up for it though. The soul-bonded compass in his hand swirled frantically before stilling on his destination. Alright. Adjust the course a little bit, they’d strayed to the left. They were still far too distant to travel outside the nether, even though roughly two days had been spent in such a manner. It was hard to tell between the fatigue from travel and the enervation of a body being drained, but either way Tubbo was beginning to lag. Far from unwanted eyes, the boy no longer cut the horns, and their rapid growth had slowed. Still, they were beginning to curve around his ears in a worrisome fashion. 

Covertly, Philza slipped out a second compass. It twisted a minute before pointing in nearly the opposite direction. He sighed, reminded how far Technoblade was. Reminded of the promise he’d made to sell him out. 

Philza slipped back into the nether. “We’ve still a ways to go.” He began to deconstruct the temporary portal. First, though, they took a break for lunch, making a meal of some roasted hoglins that had attacked. Tubbo perched high upon a cliff, although not particularly close to the edge. He couldn’t exactly sit properly. Tails took a long time to lose circulation, and though the limb was beginning to discolor, it was also growing long past the point of hiding beneath a jacket. It wiggled sluggishly in contented fashion as Tubbo ate at the cliff edge. It overlooked a craggy plummet into a pool of lava, though that was a fairly common feature of the nether. Small mushrooms clung to the cracks, lingering from the nearby crimson forest. He hesitantly chewed on his pork, examining his own compass. Curious, Philza approached, staring down at the aimlessly shifting needle. The name unfurled at his approach, small and faint compared to his and Tubbo’s own, but firm. Important enough for a name, and judging by the moniker ‘Your Tommy’ he had no doubt who the compass was bound to. 

“It’s useless here. Wrong dimension for it.” 

“Yeah,” Tubbo agreed softly. “Was thinking he might pop in at some point, though.”

“Not much use this far out. How is he these days?”

Tubbo had a distant look in his eyes. “I haven’t…spoken to him recently,” he said in a too-measured tone.

“Has to be sooner than when I last did.”

Tubbo gave him a wary glance, tone edged in a reproachful manor. “He said you left when he was really young.”

He winced at the barb only a protective best friend could deliver. “I have…many regrets in my long life.” Somehow, the golden apples were at the center of every single one. Tommy had been too young to understand anything. In all actuality, it was something he’d never be ready for. Philza prayed to his Lady every day Tommy never discovered why. Ignorance was safety for the both of them. Wilbur, though…Wilbur knew exactly why. Or he used to, at least. Only the Gods knew what the dead remembered. If his sins hadn’t survived the purging, then Philza was afforded more mercy than he ever deserved. “Did…did Tommy ever talk about me?”

“Wouldn’t shut up, to be honest,” Tubbo shrugged. “He thought you were the greatest man to ever walk the earth. It was a nice enough story, aside from the fact you didn’t seem to exist at all. I didn’t think you were real, sometimes. A perfect dad he made up to make himself feel better. It explained why he could never just tell me why you weren’t there; if you’d died or run away, it would ruin the fantasy, wouldn’t it?”

Philza didn’t know what to say. Really, there was nothing that would save him. He’d done his best, and it simply wasn’t good enough for his family. Shame on him for trying to make one at all. “Is…is he doing well at least?”

Tubbo stared at the compass, then set it down on the netherrack, unable to bear looking at it. “Probably. Tommy gets along fine just about anywhere, he figured out how to take care of himself long ago.” Suddenly, Tubbo’s ears twitched, and his head twisted to a point on their left. He immediately jolted upwards, and by then Philza could hear the ghast due to its very loud screaming. The pair scrambled out of the way of the incoming fire ball. They were actually pretty slow if you were ready for them, which they were after many hours in the nether. 

Except then Tubbo suddenly lunged forward into the path of the explosion. Philza immediately caught him by the neck of the collar, yanking him back into his arms. “Wait, no, my compass, I need to-”

The blast landed, and Philza’s wings wrapped around the pair in instinct. Memories of a far larger explosion echoed in his mind, and Philza’s talons dug into Tubbo’s arms in a fear grip. Tubbo howled as the cliff side cracked and crumbled away in the fiery blast, the compass flung into the air before plummeting down. Realizing the child in his arms was in fact not a bloody corpse mangled at his own hands, Philza shakily released him, collecting his nerves and drawing a bow out to loose an arrow into the side of the ghast. It screeched a deathwail and burst into steam and tears. 

Tubbo raced to the edge, looking down, frantically searching. “I can see it, caught on an outcropping.”

Philza, who’d been attending to his twinging, half healed wings, glanced up. Abandoning the health care (it was useless, anyways, they were already ruined from Wilbur’s final act), he walked over. Tubbo pointed out the gleaming edge of the compass. The glass looked cracked but the needle still spun. Philza frowned. “I don’t think that’s retrievable.”

“It is.” Without another word, he scrambled over the side of the cliff. Philza nearly had a heart attack in response. When he peered over the ledge, he found Tubbo scaling down, finding impossible footholds as if by magic. Whereas any other person would’ve fallen, Tubbo traversed with if not ease, at least impressive capability. The lava below gurgled, currents streaking through in sluggish convections. 

A trio of wrathful ghasts spun into existence, screeching and clearly aware of their presence Realizing Tubbo’s precarious position, Philza drew their ire alongside his bowstring, striking one and killing it immediately. The survivors immediately retaliated with a twin volley of blasts. Dodging the explosion, Philza knocked another arrow but was thwarted when he heard a panicked yelp. He raced to the edge, realizing the cracks carved in the netherrack were deep and far reaching. The crevice Tubbo had been using as a handhold crumbled. He screamed in fear, scrambling for purchase and failing to find it. At once he summoned a pickaxe into his hand, dragging it into the stone, slowing his fall if only for a few seconds before the cliff curved away and he was caught in mid air. Without a second thought, Philza launched himself off the cliff, diving towards Tubbo. A fumbled catch and Philza clutched the boy, wings straining from the weight and injuries. The final ghast hissed, and Philza swept into a spiral as a fire ball sped through the air he’d been in moments before, frantically looking for any place to land. His eyes caught the gleaming arc of the compass as the slight edge it had been caught on exploded, tumbling straight into the burning lava. Tubbo screamed inarticulately as it melted into the depths and they soared away.

Well. ‘Soared’ was a huge overstatement. As was flight in general, since Philza hadn’t enough wing left to do that before, let only carrying a passenger. ‘Glide’ was also questionable, so they were basically at ‘there’s enough of an updraft from the lava that they aren’t plummeting as fast as they could be’. Also, he was caught in an uncorrectable turn thanks to his left wing being practically unredeemable damage wise. 

With more luck than he ever deserved, Philza managed to crash into a giant crimson fungus overhanging the lava lake. It snapped from their impact, as did something in Philza’s chest. They went sprawling into the burning nylium. Tubbo sat up first, wheezing, but Philza continued to lay on the ground. He could breathe perfectly fine given his biology, or at least would be if it weren’t for the fact he was coughing up blood. He looked down. No external injuries. He summoned a healing tonic and started chugging. Tossing the empty bottle into the lava, Philza decided to continue his supine existence while he tried not to cough out all of his potion. 

“Are you all right!?”

“Yeah, I um-” coughing “-just snapped a rib I think. I got these-” coughing “-these brittle bird bones.” Hollow bones. Who had ever thought that a good idea? Let alone the agony of when his bones first started to carve themselves out. No matter how long ago it had been, it still filled him with an disgusted wrath at how fragile his body was. Where was his promised invulnerability? The power? It felt nothing like divinity and everything like he was being scraped from the inside out. 

“What happened to your wing?”

“Same thing that happened to your country. Was locked up after and didn’t have heavy enough healing supplies, so it’s scrappy at the moment. Ow. Owwww.” He hadn’t meant to fall asleep in an injured state, but he’d wept himself to the point of exhaustion. His wounded soul impressed upon the point of rest, and by then it was too late to reset his body. A rookie mistake made in grief, but a permanent one he’d have to deal with. Philza lay groaning, letting himself simmer in the pain, before slowly getting to his feet. Tubbo helped him up before his attention turned to the ghast lingering by the destroyed cliff. He pulled out a shimmering trident and angrily hurled it through the monster. It died in an explosion of magical lightning, and then a rope of magic flickered into visibility, reeling the weapon back to be caught roughly. 

He glared at the lava that had destroyed his compass, but rage quickly turned to distress. Philza patted him on the shoulder as the pain of the healed bone faded. 

“Sorry about your item, mate.” It was perfectly reasonable to be upset over losing an object. It didn’t matter what it was, if you’d bonded with it it hurt for that tether to snap. Still, Philza suspected there was more grief tied to the compass than typical.

“How am I supposed to find him now?”

“You can still go to his house.” Assuming it was still standing. 

“No, he wouldn’t be there. Tommy was exiled, and that was the only way I had to find him.” His face twisted. 

Philza’s brow furrowed. That seemed like a big development. Why had nobody told him? He found himself thinking that a lot recently. It seemed Wilbur’s letters were lacking in details at best and deceitful at worst, not to mention everything neglected entirely. “Well, you’re the president now, you could undo it,” he consoled. 

Tubbo kicked a chunk of netherrack into the lava. “Can’t. I decreed it. He brought it to himself and it was the only way to stop Dream from hurting L’Manburg. But I was still going to go see him. Y’know. Once all this was cleared up.” He gestured wildly at his horns. “Once I didn’t look like JSchlatt,” he muttered. 

“You could probably ask someone who knows where he is,” he consoled.

Tubbo thought for a moment. “Ranboo might. I don’t know him as much as I want to, but he seems nice enough to have visited,” he ventured. “And Fundy has to know where he is for the assignments. Probably loads of other people besides, Tommy has tons of friends. I bet he has loads of visitors. I was just hoping…never mind.” The boy seemed exhausted, the bone deep kind that couldn’t be blamed solely on his situation. The golden apples were leaching him dry. 

“You ready to continue?” Tubbo hesitated, staring at the blinding lava before nodding his head shortly. 

He’d thought the island Philza’s compass led to was a flower biome at first. Tubbo wasn’t actually wrong, but the term didn’t encompass the reality of it. The sky was a brilliant azure and the air hung with the sweet fragrance of pollen. The island was an astounding array of golden flowers, dandelions and daffodils and sunflowers spilled over the land, so bright they seemed to glow. The world was gilded as if wealth rained down like soft summer storms. The whole of it teemed with life, a vitality so strong that for the first time in days not a hint of exhaustion seemed to even touch him. Philza swore him to secrecy on pain of death, and Tubbo dumbly nodded, mouth agape at the small oasis of the divine. 

At once, Philza pulled out his compass, tracing something within the island. The needle oscillated wildly so close to its target, leading them to the heart of the island. A spring sat at its center, water glistening and pure. Yellow lilies and lotus covered the edges, and a menagerie of animals crowded around, all far larger than natural and kept in perfect harmony. They did not seem perturbed by the once-humans, nor even each other, ocelots lounging near chickens and wolves near lambs. The pair pushed past the willows ringing a perfect circle to find the heart of the island. Before them stood an enormous golden cow drinking from the crystal waters. They were easily double the size of any bull he’d ever seen, and at their approach they looked up, large dark eyes blinking slowly. A crown of flowers adorned the golden idol, blossoms peppering their flank and back, seemingly growing from the gentle beast. Golden petals floated out into the water around them.

Philza raised a hand in greeting. “Hi Bessie.” A low melodic moo bellowed a greeting. 

Tubbo leaned to Philza’s shoulder. “You named the nature deity what?”

“It’s a very normal cow name.”

“That’s not a normal cow! What— what are they?”

“Moobloom.”

As Tubbo stood in awe, Philza crouched down, digging into the fecund dirt with a hand. He slipped an assorted mixture of seeds out of his inventory into the tiny hole he’d made. Then, he scooped soil over them, patted the ground and stood up. He grabbed Tubbo’s arm, tugging them away. “Alright, that’s all we needed. Let’s go.”

“What? But we just got here?” He craned his neck back to the spring. 

“And unless you want to sit and watch grass grow, now we’re leaving. I mean, it’ll grow pretty fast, given that’s why we’re here. No way we could do anything with your time limit otherwise. Still, we got many other ingredients we need since you’re, you know, dying.”

“I don’t feel like I’m dying. Better than ever in fact.”

“Sure. Course you do,” he readily agreed. Philza didn’t really seem to be paying much heed to Tubbo. He reached down and scooped up a rabbit larger than a cat. They seemed amiable to the sudden change in height, staying calm in his hands. Swiftly, Philza summoned an enchanted sword and sliced it through the bunny, which exploded into smoke and experience. 

“PHIL!” Tubbo shouted, traumatized. 

“Oh calm down, I needed a rabbit’s foot for a potion. I used Looting III, too.” He dangled a severed limb for show. 

“Still!” Tubbo protested, shooting a scandalized glare. He glanced around at the giant animals, but they hadn’t even seemed to notice the burst of violence, all still staring at the beautiful bovine in admiration. In fact, none of them were moving. They breathed, but not much else, content to bask in the golden glow, barely even blinking. A wind whistled through the island, swaying the flowers and creatures, and not a one reacted. The flowers growing out of the blessed bovine rippled out of their skin, and he wondered, should one cut them open, whether they’d find veins or roots. He wondered if you could even hurt Bessie at all, or if the soothing mind control would suppress that. Gold, he thought. Gold like the golden apples, or money, or the ore piglins would slaughter you over. Gold seemed tied almost to consuming desire. “That’s…ok that’s actually kind of creepy.”

“Yup.” Philza popped the ‘p’ as he clamped a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder. “Extremely. Now come on, we’ve a busy day ahead.”

Tubbo was far more relenting now, even if that meant more time in their glorified canoe. Tails were not made for sitting at all. It had lost sensation, and was discolored in ugly shades, but still refused to fall off. Philza, unfortunately, had refused to let him cut it off. Still, he wouldn’t mind more travel if it meant getting away from the Moobloom. 

As he stepped off the island into their boat the weight of his exhaustion hit. His chest ached from it, his posture visibly slumping. He commented on it, and Philza replied drily. “That’ll be your fancy new features. They’re made of energy, and without new doses of golden apples, that all has to come from somewhere. Basically it’s just draining your soul until you collapse and die.” The cow had only been a brief respite. 

“That’s about what it feels like, yeah,” Tubbo grumbled. Despite it all, the mention of the fruit overwhelmed him with want. It was all he could do to keep his sentence straight. “I’ve never been so tired in my life.”

“Well it’s about to get worse.” Philza, unfortunately, was not exaggerating.

The day was exhaustingly spent running across the land gathering an odd assortment of items. Alongside the blaze rods and collection of mushrooms Philza had rounded up and partially ground into powder, Tubbo was sent for a quantity of sugar cane that really just seemed excessive. Then, a mining session was in order, and among an (already raided) mineshaft they gathered redstone and farmed a spider spawned for string and eyes. About midday they emerged, discovered a village, and had lunch. 

“What’s all this for?” Tubbo inquired, sipping warm mushroom stew. “Like, potions, obviously, but what kind?”

“Well, it’s a problem with your soul. Hence, we need a way to actually see it. Think of this like a diagnostic tool. Also, while we’re on the subject, how many lives do you have?”

“One.”

Philza immediately spewed out his soup. “Sorry, what???”

“Explosions got me.”

“Wilbur ‘went off with a bang’ bad enough to get you twice?”

Tubbo smiled acerbically. “Nope. Eret got a lot of us with a trap, and then Technoblade executed me on stage in front of basically everybody.”

“Oh. Huh. That would do it.” There was a tension in Philza’s jaw. He didn’t know how to deal with the fact his friend had murdered the kid beside him. An awful part of Tubbo wanted him to have to confront that fact. 

“Yeah he promised he’d make it as colorful as possible.” He couldn’t keep the vitriol from his voice, gesturing to his fun and festive facial scars. “And then the next thing he did was beat Tommy to death in a pit.” Thankfully he hadn’t seen the need to crunch Tommy’s soul into the cave floor until it was only a pulverized mess. Only Tommy’s skull got that treatment. “Really great day all around.” Philza winced. “I forgave him though.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. You’re hunting him down.”

“That’s for setting withers on everyone. Yeah, yeah, our fault for setting up a new country in front of an anarchist.” The sentence dripped with sarcasm. “Still doesn’t mean he had to stab us in the back deep enough to paralyze.”

“Oh, he’s an anarchist now? Huh.”

“Now?”

Philza scrubbed the back of his neck. “Me and him ran an empire back in the day.” Lovely. A madman and a hypocrite to boot. Just wonderful. There were only two people on L’Manburg’s hit list, but between Technoblade and Dream he didn’t know which he wanted gone first. Dream had never succeeded in killing Tubbo, afterall, even if he’d certainly tried. Lunch ended fairly quickly after that. Philza proceeded to pull out emeralds and haggle for a pound of fat from the butcher, as well as a genuinely horrifying number of experience bottles. Tubbo, meanwhile, was ordered to press as much of his gathered sugar cane into parchment as possible to then sell to the cartographer. After gaining a bit of trust and a lot of emeralds, Philza talked his way into getting a map with a crimson cross on it.

Traveling to the map marked destination took a long time, so by the time they were even on the chunk the map depicted it was dark. About halfway they’d found a herd of wild horses and Tubbo had befriended one enough to serve a mount. They raced into the night, Tubbo slumped into Philza’s feathery back, dozing intermittently in the lull of waves of motion. Something was beginning to fester inside him, a second hunger almost aside from it originating from nowhere. It was a longing gripping the whole of him, an unquenchable yearning that refused to leave. Before it had been a pang, flaring up whenever he thought of the fruit, but now it pressed at him relentlessly. Tubbo dreamed of the taste of ambrosia, that sweet heavenly cider that had been made of it. The longing didn’t reach the same level of feral madness of that first night of withdrawal, but it was slowly increasing towards it. The obsession burned into them. 

The horse pulled to a stop, hooves sliding in the leaf litter of the dark forest. Before them lay a towering mansion, windows dimly glowing. Philza dropped down to the dirt, lifting Tubbo off the horse and setting him on the ground. Tubbo yawned, stretching. They set off into the woodland mansion, weapons drawn.

Having defeated the round of vindicators on that floor, they wandered around, trying to find the stairs. From the corner of his eye Tubbo spotted a chest, and he raced to it before Philza could. Throwing it open, he was pleased to see a few bars of gold carved into coinage. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the gold of an apple, but it was still nice. Tubbo ignored disappointment. “Hey, you haven’t raided this one!”

“Guess not this far out. Careful, some of them might be trapped.” Tubbo waved him off, shoving money into his inventory. Chest significantly emptier than before, he pushed aside bags of dilapidated seeds and coal to find— there. Dimly glowing and perfect. He started salivating immediately. Tubbo lovingly took the golden apple and raised it to his lips. Just seconds before his teeth broke the skin his reverie was broken by footsteps thundering towards him. Tubbo jolted upward, fleeing from Philza, who was charging at him. He was caught quickly, the prize stolen from his hands.

Tubbo immediately whirled, hatchet appearing in his hands. “Give that back,” he demanded. “I found it.”

“Mine now,” Philza responded, knocking aside the blow with his shield. Tubbo huffed and lunged forward, powerfully head butting Philza. The shock of it sent the golden apple tumbling, and Tubbo swiped at it only for Philza to kick it away. The pair raced for it, or had until a giant crow wing caught Tubbo in the gut and shoved him down. He scrambled up at once, mind caught in dreams of gold, tearing out chunks of feathers from the exploded wing until he could claw his way past, all to find Philza slamming down an enderchest. Tubbo rushed forward only to be blocked by midnight wings, whose area denial was too great for him to overcome. He tore at the ragged feathers, digging into injury, but it wasn’t enough. 

The enderchest hissed close and the frenzy switched off immediately. The insane want lingered, but the drive to attack Philza over it was gone pretty instantly. 

They’d raided everything for a reason. Even after so long, the apples lingered, their owners long killed. Philza faintly wondered who the mansion had belonged to, and whether he would have recognized their faction. Illigers had assumed it, a race desperately trying to follow the doomed footsteps of their forefathers, but they didn’t truly recognize the possibilities of the world. They could only corrupt, not create, turning allays into vexes, making ravagers. Constructs. Blasted constructs. He hated weapons of mass destruction. He and Techno had tried to strip away every trace of the old ways, but enough remained for stitched together replicas to fester. And, apparently, full on relics. He hadn’t expected to find a golden apple, couldn’t have braced for the terrible longing. 

For his part, Philza’s ears were red from the embarrassment of also being so uncontrolled. A familiar failure, but still. It was like fighting off a starving mutt while you were peckish. Technically, he needed to make sure Tubbo didn’t get any more so their transformation would be as limited as possible, but to be painfully honest Philza only remembered that later. “Let’s never speak of this.”

“Agreed.”

Little more than simple directions interrupted the silence as they waged battle against the monsters within, fighting off waves of vindicators and vexes until finally defeating the evoker and stealing their totem of undying. 

The ride back was long, the night dragged on. The steed had stayed, thankfully, and so they rode back to the village, Philza gripping the makeshift reins around the slumped form of Tubbo, strong arms wrapped around to make sure he didn’t fall off. Tubbo’s consciousness was skipping, unfolding just long enough for river crossings and snatches of terrain overlooked by blurring stars. 

Philza dumped Tubbo in a spare bed offered in the village. The kid immediately snuggled in, snores half mixed with a cute bleating noise. Philza stared longingly at the second bed in the room before plunging back into the night, hunting down endermen. With high looting, it wasn’t long before he had a nice stack of pearls. They weren’t the only members of the End he tracked down. After days of Nether travel, insomnia lingered, and phantoms drew to his soul like a beacon, relishing the idea of revenge. So long since he’d last anchored his soul, remnants could finally be glimpsed in the world. It wasn’t an articulated vengeance, but then again they weren’t articulated beings, simply the faint vestiges of a dragon’s soul. They were a species nearly hunted to extinction, for their power of flight, for being the embodiment of raw nature. And now they were nothing but memories of fear, exacting hate upon what few humans were left. Each to annihilate the other. An old guilt, but Philza had long accepted the price of his survival, and killed each one silently, gathering the whispers of dead ghosts into a handful of soul sand. 

Golden apples had a high price, both for its users and those used. He didn’t think Tubbo even knew what a dragon was. No one did, not anymore. Before the current ban upon the End, it had been completely plundered of resources. Great wars had waged upon it until the land lay scarred and decimated, rings of asteroids in a starless void. 

He returned to the guest room, pulling out the array of ingredients. While the whole of them were still yet to be acquired, he set to work on what he was capable of, chiefly that of an insanely effective speed potion. Inverted with a fermented spider eye, it made for a brutal slowness tonic. Then, he set to work creating a paste to be later added, swirling up a concoction composed of animal fat, a number of powders ranging from mushrooms to glowstone, and spider silk. It wasn’t done either, but the last few ingredients mixed in included a thin slice of golden apple (he kept an eye on Tubbo) and the concentrated spirits caught in a sprinkling of soul sand (he kept an eye on the windows leading to the village beyond. Wouldn’t do to be burned as a witch). All together it made for a disgusting texture and an even worse appearance. To be honest, aside from the golden apple, a good portion of the ingredients weren’t all that hard to get. Most of the trouble came down to the time crunch and location needed to solve it. Of course, this wasn’t anything near the painstaking process of creating golden apples. Most of this was easy stuff. But once he harvested the plants he’d sowed by Bessie, the last item was likely unobtainable by anyone other than him. Hell, trying to figure it out had taken him years and mostly came down to scoring countless books, luck, and charm. Philza was the only person in the entire world to have found, if not a cure, a stalemate, and thousands had personally died for that, even disregarding the millions of innocents killed along the way. 

But that was for the morning. Philza slumped into his bed, trying to get what rest he could. His eager soul sunk into the place of rest. Regardless of his extremely late bedtime, he still woke before Tubbo. He tapped the boy’s shoulder, yawning. Tubbo bapped his noggin against the pesky hand, protecting his sleep like a precious hoard. Philza snorted and kept at it, pulling him out of slumber into a crisp morning. 

The first order of business was breakfast. Tubbo was drooped over it, though he certainly perked up when hearing today they’d finally be ready. Philza did not envy his enervation in the slightest. Where once their conversations roamed in subject, now they were fixated completely upon golden apples. He wasn’t sure if that was the excitement of tantalizing freedom or Tubbo’s obsession growing. Despite being opposite motives, their symptoms were far too similar.

The second order of business was to return to the moobloom island. Philza was pleased to find his seeds fully grown under the aura of Bessie, carefully digging up the golden carrot he’d planted and pulled the saffron up by the roots. Its violet buds clashed wildly with the yellow island, and they left quickly, the lure of warm albeit creepy nature far behind them.

Finally, they picked a random island, one with wide open space and rolling grassy hills. Philza got his set up, arranging a makeshift table to host the potions and supplies needed while he forced Tubbo to dig an incredibly deep hole. As a precaution, he placed a bed and interrupted the hole digging to have the both of them set their spawn. The short snooze made him feel worse, but Tubbo seemed to enjoy the nap. The bond of rest safely secured, Philza launched into the last few details. Checking the president’s work, he found it satisfying enough, and set Tubbo to filling it with water. He topped it off with a trap door, rolling an enderpearl in his hands.

“Right, this next part is getting weird. For this last thing I have to screw with the natural order of life and death, hence the stasis chamber.” 

Enderpearls were…complicated, to say the least. It was teleportation, technically. Your body and soul moving from point A to B. They just…didn’t exactly do it at the same time. When a pearl landed, it exploded into smoke and particles in order to create the new body. The soul had to get there somehow, and was conveniently delivered by the pearl itself, which had a tendency for soul sucking much the way soul sand or a really bad job did. The old body poofed into non-existence, neatly destroying the pesky little paradox of having two bodies.

The problem, of course, being when you threw the pearl with your heart inside and it didn’t immediately create a new vessel. Primarily as you were a walking husk. Very little energy remained in a body without the soul, leading to a person who was all very well and normal save for a quickly depleting energy source. It was enervation similar to the type currently plaguing Tubbo, if on a faster time scale. A bed was where body tied to soul, and eventually the person succumbed completely to slumber both from energy depletion as well as in effort to refasten the two. When the stasis ended, the problem was solved.

Philza wasn’t exactly after that. It was close to an unstable situation, but he needed to break it just a little further to get results. After dropping the pearl into the water, he pulled out a totem of undying and carefully set it next to the chamber, instructing Tubbo to neither worry nor touch anything. Then, he drew the stone sword he’d acquired from a wither skeleton.

He flashed a grin. “Show time.”

Philza was a dramatic jerk. Tubbo had sorta suspected it, of course, given who he’d raised. Both Tommy and Wilbur had always had a mean spirited flair to their antics of varying levels. Tubbo had been on the receiving end of many pranks, but honestly this one took the cake to be dragged through (literal) hell to the middle of nowhere just for Philza to abandon him by immediately slitting his own wrists open. 

He laughed, too, as Tubbo frantically scrambled to find a health potion. Black ooze mixed with his blood, the wither racing up his veins and discoloring his skin to ghastly shades of midnight purple. It was an infection reminiscent of gangrene, and it was brutally quick. Philza waved away Tubbo’s efforts, his hands already blackened with rot, skin flaking away. “Nah, this has to happen. Don’t worry, it’s all part of the plan.”

What plan? The plan to peel a weakened Tubbo away from his friends and leave him to die alone from either enervation or insanity? He had no way to get to his home, Tommy, or Technoblade. No cure. It had all been for naught.

“Seriously? What the hell man!?” He spluttered on his words. “Why kill yourself in front of me of all people?? Don’t you have so much to live for or whatever?” Well, um, actually maybe not, given he’d outlived most of his contemporaries, abandoned his recent family years ago, and was trapped in a cursed body. Honestly it shouldn’t have been a surprise the man was insane given his company with Technoblade and Wilbur. Oh. Right. Wilbur. Add the son he’d just murdered to the list. Literally why was Tubbo even shocked? Wasn’t this really the predicted outcome?

Philza grimaced. His flesh was dissolving near the wound, turning to ash that peeled away to charcoal bones. Ebony curled up the veins along his neck, his skin sickly and growing worse as the disease took him. His legs trembled and gave out, an ugly combination of blood loss and weakness. “This is-” his breath hissed out feebly “-about as terrible as I remembered. And calm down, mate, I’ve done this before.” That was…about equal parts concerning and comforting. “I just needed to get attention.” 

What a terrible way to cry for help. “What could you possibly be trying to gain!?”

Philza squinted at him. He was losing the whites of his eyes rapidly. “You’re life? Sorta the whole point, or have you forgotten?”

“Wait, that’s what this is?”

“Yeah??” Oh. Um. Ok, sue him for being a little paranoid, his last two deaths had been betrayal assassinations. Philza looked at him like he was crazy, which, between the two of them, wasn’t true. Tubbo wasn’t sitting in a pool of his own corrupted blood while strips of blackened skin sloughed off his forearms, thank you very much. Besides, of all the ways to perish, withering to death was not the hot girl summer way to go.

“Why withering? It’s one of the worst ways to die.” He was atrophying rapidly, the shiny luster to his feathers gone, wings becoming equally ragged. Primaries and down shed, peppering the ebony sanguine. 

“Efficiency. Fast continual health drain is easiest. Oh Goddess.” He bit down a scream. Honestly Tubbo thought he should be howling in agony. “Don't touch anything. Use the totem on me if you can but only after you get results. If that’s not an option, that’s what the bed is for. And Tubbo?”

“Yes?”

Philza smiled, though it was distorted, more rictus than anything. Behind his dark corrupted eyes Tubbo realized he was terrified. This wasn’t a betrayal; it was an act of trust. “Please don’t kill me. I’ve only the one life.”

After that, he was in little shape to continue the conversation, more preoccupied with curling into a little ball and dying. The disease progressed rapidly, gripping the extremities. Philza began to spasm violently, but the seizures stilled soon enough as he didn’t have enough muscles left for movement of any flavor. He’d rotted away completely, leaving only a dark skeleton. No longer hidden, Tubbo could see the tangled mass of bones that made up his back, a hectic structure fused unnaturally to support the alien wing structure. The shoulder blades were twisted and misshapen, and Tubbo couldn’t imagine what confusing weave of muscles would’ve needed to exist to support it. For a second his corpse lay sprawled in the debris it had once supported, curls of feathers and skin indistinguishable from one another and starkly contrasted to the streaks of crimson. The wither disease ate at that too, ink spreading across blood, until the last of Philza succumbed to darkness. The stygian bones crumbled, and he billowed into smoke. 

Dollops of experience exploded out of him before the shining energy drew towards Tubbo, absorbing into his skin. Some of the weariness ebbed from him, and he stood a little straighter. The whole of Philza’s inventory, now that there was no soul to host them and their bonds had been snapped, spilled outwards. Tubbo carefully sidestepped the items, respecting Philza’s wishes to not disturb his possessions. They drifted towards him, desperate to relatch upon a person, but Tubbo avoided their range and the scattering of items stilled. Instinctively, Tubbo glanced to the bed. It was uncomfortable, the wool sheets itchy, and the mattress unused and unfamiliar, but it was still the last occupied anchor point. He waited for respawn smoke to rise, but it didn’t. There was no heart to be found, neither at the point of demise nor revival. 

Tubbo frowned. Maybe Philza was taking a while, since that was part of it somehow? Tubbo waited a few minutes, kicking at the grass. A few more ticked by, and he crouched down since he was rather tired. In the dirt, he started absently drawing little apples for no particular reason. Nothing wrong with brown apples, right?

Tubbo blinked, eyes narrowing. For a second he’d thought he’d seen something move in the dirt. He shifted the soil around, wondering if there’d been a worm or something. A dark streak raced through, a flash more than anything. Then a second. Shapes were beginning to slip through the earth, mere shadow but clearly real. Tubbo brushed aside the grass, trying to see if a larger patch of dirt revealed anything.

Faces. There were faces in the ground, twisting and misformed, hideous. There was a sinking feeling inside Tubbo, but it was tangible, his heart tugging downwards. Around him the grass yellowed and died, spreading out until a perfect circle of soul sand grew upon the land. What he’d taken for the hush of the wind grew to be a cacophonous hiss of the dead. Tubbo rose to his feet, uncertain what was transpiring. The lure upon his essence weakened, and with a start he realized that was because the earth was rising upwards, whispering frantically. He stumbled quickly out of the circle, watching as a swimming curtain of dark soil defied gravity, rising up and up into the air. The ground dissolved beneath shadows, thick to the point of tangibility and darker than the void. They twisted and danced into lovely form, Tubbo’s brain struggling to piece together what he witnessed.

Mortal eyes tended to be difficult like that. 

Her dress was made of earth and night and souls, Her skin like bones and moonlight. She towered so tall as to be lost to the clouds, and yet Tubbo knew deep in his last life that this was not the entirety or truth of her. Carefully She kneeled down, the slightest shifts quaking the earth. Tubbo tumbled to the ground, hands sinking into soul sand, unable to even breathe as he beheld. Adorning Her head was a veiled hat shielding Her visage, a curtain made of a night shimmering with stars. Just barely could he make out features, a curl of dark lips, impossible eyes, and he was unable to escape the knowledge that this being before him was the goddess of death. 

She surveyed the scene, puzzled. “Now what could possibly be going on—oh, hello dear. Do you know what’s happening?”

She was looking at him. She was looking at him. The weight of Her hidden gaze stole the air from his lungs. A cornerstone of reality had deigned to acknowledge him. Tubbo shook his head. And ok maybe his entire body was shaking so it wasn’t a distinguishable gesture. “No ma'am!” he squeaked. 

“Are you trying to mess with the natural cycle of life and death?” It was a teasing tone. Beneath it lurked danger so immense that to die would be a mercy.

“I don’t— I don’t think so?” Tubbo really, really hoped not. “He sorta…murmured something about a sure fire way to get attention and withered away.”

The goddess of death nodded understandingly. “Well it worked. Now, let’s go about fixing this, hmm? Don’t want any naughty mortals fucking around and finding out.” She lightly tapped his head lightly with an index finger. His knees nearly buckled. The goddess then turned Her focus to Philza’s set up, and Tubbo could finally breathe better. A chill lingered uncomfortably in his lungs. 

“Oh, I see…” She muttered before raising giant hands up, swirling them over each other to summon a contorting sphere of black earth. She made a beckoning motion, and Tubbo’s eyes widened as Philza’s soul lurched towards the goddess, still safely encased within the pearl. At once She dismissed the sand She’d been wielding, accepting the heart into Her embrace. The mountain was cast aside and plummeted to the ground, sure to crush Tubbo before it slipped into the folds of Her dress, a danger no more. The goddesses examined the minuscule wisp of essence in Her palms.

“…Philza!?” Outrage scrawled across Her features, shadows ripping. A blast of frigid air nearly toppled Tubbo. “He’s going to have much to answer for,” She sibilated. At once Her focus crushed Tubbo. “Tubbo, could you be a lamb and grab that awful totem he brought? Yes, thank you very much.”

Tubbo picked it up cautiously, wondering if She’d read his nametag or simply knew it. The fog letters were certainly far too small, but then again She’d managed to see the totem of undying. Was She omniscient? The disturbing debate so consumed him that he didn’t see the massive pale hand descending until it was gently scooping him up. Gentle of course being relative, and it was on the whole a rather traumatic encounter. He felt rather much like a bee sitting in someone’s palm, aside from the fact he couldn’t fly and would absolutely plummet to a nasty death. The way your bones and meat just exploded on impact was not an enjoyable experience, thanks for wondering.

Upon instruction, he tapped the totem against the hovering pearl, which neatly shattered into purple particles around a shining crimson heart. The totem burst into a bright shower of energy, gold and emerald fumes curling up in a massive cloud. They spiraled into biology alongside the enderpearl’s plumes, reproducing Philza. Unfortunately, he was still a very dead husk. This wasn’t a problem for long as the totem worked its magic, radiantly burning through the darkness. It scored his bones back to pristine white, smoke forming muscle and sinew around them. The infection raged at this, corrupting the new flesh only to be driven back. The battle was persistent but ultimately fated, the wither pushed back though the still forming veins, repealed from renewed healthy skin until it was only ringing the jagged edges of the gashes through his wrists and were then gone. Light poured through the slits, blinding, energy pouring into the wound until they, too, were healed. 

Philza dropped to the floor, stumbling but managing to remain upright. He was groaning, rubbing at his arms. “That’s always so uncomfortable when not in a bed,” he complained. 

“I’m going to smite you,” the goddess of death declared, the decree falling thick upon the air. So close to Her face, the veil swirled with distant galaxies consumed by ravenous black holes. Far below the soul sand spot spread, grass withering at Her feet.

“Uh huh. Ok.” Philza did not seem particularly fazed. 

“How dare you? What right do you have to do this? My wrath against you shall-”

“-rage for eons and not be quenched, yeah, can we speed this bit up? We’re on a time crunch.” Inarticulate fury overtook the goddess. Tubbo wondered faintly if the resulting punishment would destroy him as well. He thought most definitely yes was a safe bet. Finally the human tongue returned to the furious divine ruler.

“You could have just sent a crow!” She sounded distinctly exasperated. 

“You know it scares them. Also, the look on Tubbo’s face was funny.”

The goddess grumbled. “Still, this wasn’t really the best way to get my attention. And look! You’ve terrorized poor Tubbo.” 

Now that Tubbo wasn’t terrified about Philza’s impending death and his subsequent demise in the crossfire, he recalled he was actually rather mad at the man. “Yeah, that’s right! I’ve been terrorized! I thought you were a suicidal maniac!” Maybe it ran in the family or something. Thank goodness Tommy had definitely avoided that gene. Well, if it even was a biological relation. Hard to say when fish birthed people. Anything was possible. 

“Yeah, like Kristin’s entrance didn’t freaked you out way more. Probably thought Her threats were real, too.”

“Oh, he knows I would never hurt either of you unless you did something to really destroy the cycle of life and death. And Tubbo is far too smart to do a silly thing like that, right dear?” Tubbo nodded mutely. “See? Far more scared by your little vanishing trick.”

“Ten stacks of emeralds he wasn’t.” The pair turned upon the boy, expectant. 

“I’m so kind and unthreatening, right Tubbo? Unlike mean old Phil, going around stabbing himself all willy nilly. Right? Right?” The voice was sweet, up until the point it wasn’t. Tubbo nodded quickly, and a flash of victory lit Her hidden eyes. “See? Tubbo agrees with me.”

“Only because he’s scared of you, proving my point. Pay up.” She groaned theatrically as more emeralds than Tubbo had ever dreamed of spilled out of the dark soul sand. Philza pocketed them, chuckling. 

“Oh, you’re robbing me, you are. That’s the only reason you visit anymore.”

“Nah, actually I needed another of those obsidian dagger thingies.”

“You mean The Unholy Blade of Lady Death, The Sever of Bonds and Reaper of Souls?”

“Yeah that thingy. Mine broke.”

“It WHAT!?!?!? That’s a god tool, Philza!!”

“But as it is volcanic glass, it’s very fragile, you see, and isn’t well suited for use as a weapon.”

“Oh.” She paused. “I do suppose that would be an issue in a mortal’s hands. Right, two obsidian dagger thingies coming right up.”

Philza frowned. “I only need the one, though.”

“Oh trust me,” She said lightly, though its weight pressed upon them at once. “You need two.” She set at once to crafting them. The night spiraled into being, sliced into impossibly sharp edges beneath Her free hand. As She worked, Tubbo leaned over to Philza.

“Um. Hhow do you know the goddess of mortality?”

Philza did not bother to return his whisper. “Oh, Kristin? I work for her. I’m her angel of death.”

“And what’s that entail?” Tubbo asked faintly.

“More paperwork than you’d think,” Philza grumbled. 

“No one.” He was going to be sick. He couldn’t actually puke anymore thanks to whatever sheep biology he had, only regurgitute food on a fairly timed manor in order to rechew and swallow it, but he wanted to if only to be rid of the horrid rolling feeling in his stomachs. “No one mentioned that about you. You being—. How the hell did we imprison you??”

Philza shrugged. “Well, you put an ankle monitor on me.”

“And that worked!?” He was never going twenty blocks within a curse of binding ever again. Scratch that, fifty.

“Um. I assumed it did, else why would you have done it? Plus I was busy trying to heal my wing with no medical supplies. I mean, it worked out for you since otherwise I’d have been too long gone to help.”

Tubbo nodded in dumb amazement and horror. He seemed to be doing a lot of it recently. “Does that make Tommy…?” He didn’t know how to finish that. A god? A demigod? 

“Nah. Mortal as ever. I’ve been working for Her centuries before Tommy.”

“Is it work that kept you away then?”

“No…no, that was something else.” The old sadness he carried resurfaced, closing off the conversation. The pair watched the shadows stitch into swords. Threads of night weaving in a way that reminded him of Dream, almost. The process was mesmerizing, until at last the weapons were done, the tendrils of dark fading from mortal eyes. Kristin drew one, brandishing the blade to slit through the clouds. As She handed them over, they shrunk like an optical illusion, perfectly human sized the moment they were set into Her moonlight palm. Tubbo collected them, marveling at the smooth obsidian glass. Obsidian had always been powerful, ranging from use in beacons to portals to imprisonments. The sever of reality. It was cold to the touch. Philza let him have his awe before slipping them into his inventory. The goddess beamed at them. 

“Now that you’ve come crawling to me, you can’t escape a business meeting. Any worrying experiments I need to know about?” 

Philza tapped a claw against his lips. “Hmm. I think Technoblade has been messing with withers, but honestly those are nothing.”

Tubbo spluttered. “Nothing!? He slaughtered so many people with those things! The crater of my country is a biohazard because of him!”

Kristin booped him lightly. Tubbo was starting to be worried about concussions. “They’re only withers. They’re just like iron golems when you think about it, or blazes or wardens or guardians. They’re just soul bonded constructs, and humans have been using those for centuries.”

“For better or worse,” Philza muttered darkly. “I still think they shouldn’t be allowed.”

“But it’s not your decision, it’s mine. Now, withers are destructive to the environment and I might have words with you if they’re left out too long, but on the whole relatively safe and thus not prohibited. I allow you to have fun, after all.”

Tubbo felt like pulling out his hair. “Relatively safe?? Relative to what????”

The goddess of death and Her angel shared a glance. “Nothing you need to worry your fluffy little head about, sweetie. You have other problems to worry about, such as messing around with god apples. Now, what made you do a silly thing like that?”

“It’s not my fault,” he muttered.

At Her disbelieving note, Philza stood up for him. “He’s telling the truth. Apparently some shadow demon named Dream is out there shoving poison into people. Probably to control them or something, I’ve never met him so I don’t know any motivation. He’s apparently been a thorn in everyones’ side for a long time.”

The air dimmed as Her mood darkened. “Oh, I’m familiar with him. He’s the one currently in possession of my resurrection book.”

Philza went still. “It’s possible then?” He asked quietly, as if barely daring to even voice the thought. “Wilbur could be…?”

She sighed. “Not now, dear. We need to talk. Later. In private. But give it time to settle. Grieve him first. And before that you need to deal with Tubbo. I’ll be on my way, but Philza?” He snapped completely to attention. Her voice had grown grave, cold and deep and empty, crusted with dirt. “He’s not as far gone as you were, but he only has the one life. Take that into account before this lamb joins my flock.”

“I have.”

“You think you have.”

“As much as I can really know anything without out time to experiment. See, I’m trying to balance the energy requirements by compensating with experience, and if you take into account the observed level decline you can calculate how much the growths are draining, meaning I can-”

She waved a giant hand. “Oh, don’t bore me with the details. I’ve work to attend to. Love you.”

“Love you too.” She sunk into her own pool of shadows and was gone, leaving only a patch of soul sand, a lingering chill in the air, and both mortals safely on the ground once more. The second the goddess of death left, Tubbo choked. 

“Love!?”

Philza snorted. “Mate, didn’t you know I was married to the job?”

“But are you actually married? Like in a court of law?” He searched for a ring but Philza unhelpfully hid his talons. “Is it for tax evasion purposes or is it because you like like her??”

“Fantastic, the dying man is searching for gossip.”

“That doesn’t answer the question! Are you or are you not married to a giant dirt lady?”

“Oh look, the potions are nearing completion, better go get them…” Tubbo was not actually ever informed if Philza was a wife haver, as Tommy would say. One of the mysteries of the world or whatever. He was, however, finally given a neat outline of what all the stuff they collected was for. A night vision potion was brewed from the golden carrot and inverted with the spider eye to become a potion of invisibility. Philza then added a very disgusting (and yet appetizing, Tubbo couldn’t shake longing when he saw it) concoction into it, along with saffron blossoms. Another corruption, and it made some indigo potion Philza dubbed ‘true sight’ and Tubbo dubbed ‘gross’. A drop of the gunk was also added to a slowness potion. Lastly, Philza poured countless experience bottles over Tubbo’s head until he was practically bursting with energy, which Philza explained was to help him have the proper energy to support the transformations afterwards. He described it as being analogous to an IV drip.

“So we got the diagnostic-” pointed to the true sight potion “-the scalpel-” pointed to the god sword “-and the, eh, operation table restraints?” He vaguely gestures to the slowness potion. “The metaphor kinda falls apart. But all we need now is the patient.” Tubbo did a little jazz hands motion. “So…how d’you want to do it? Figure you wouldn’t want to wither, but I gotta other couple weapons. There’s the ocean right there. We could go back to the village and have the iron golem yeet you, make it funny.” At his blank expression Philza’s face fell. “Um. Right. The Golden Apple is kinda leaching off your soul. To get it off I need to directly reach it, hence you needing to be, uh, dead. It won’t be a real death. I’ll have to touch your heart afterwards, but I won’t break it. Alright?”

Tubbo pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re…literally the first thing you did upon coming back was filicide, why am I surprised.” So he had been right. He’d been dragged out here to be slaughtered. 

Philza collected his breath. “Wilbur asked me to.” He said it carefully and articulately.

“Well I’m not.” He sounded stubborn even to his own ears. Even to his own too long and fluffy ears. 

“You are, actually. This is the last step to getting rid of its effects on you. I need to untangle the golden apple from your soul. Technoblade trusted me to do it, and he’s still alive.”

“I’m not him. I only know you from stories Tommy had. You’ve only ever been some distant paragon to me. We don’t trust each other, not really.” The panic over the summoning was proof enough. “Besides, you're betraying him right now. This was all in exchange for his location.”

“He’ll be fine. You won’t be, and I’ll fix it because I’m the only one who can. Tommy wrote about you so much, you know. His best friend in all the world. He barely had me, but he had you.” Guilt welled in gold scarred eyes. Betrayal. He’d betrayed Tommy utterly, and the only way to fix it was to destroy the curse. His resolve nearly crumpled entirely. 

“We’re going to kill Technoblade, you know,” Tubbo admitted, trying to push Philza into revoking his aid. 

Philza frowned at him. “You’re going to try. Technoblade never dies, and you’re foolish to contest that. I don’t have to fear for his safety, only yours. I can’t see much of this land, given that your country imprisoned me fairly swiftly, but I can see Tommy doesn’t have much else but you at the moment, no matter your present mistakes. You can’t fix them if you're dead. I’m not going to kill you permanently, Tubbo. I ask again, do you trust me?” The quest ran through his mind, memories of backs pressed together in battle, of dark wings sweeping him away from lava, of all the danger Philza had accepted just for the chance of saving his life. 

But the fact remained. “No.” A quiet truth. Days of camaraderie didn’t erase the fact this was a near stranger. Philza was a kind man, a great man, even, but Tubbo knew too many of his allegiances that held him and his country in contempt. 

But the fact remained, again, because there were many factors in the tangling web of the situation. Tubbo was dying anyway, a bid for control by Dream too well planned. Either Tubbo complied, puppeted by his addiction like JSchlatt had been, or he was removed from the picture. He was either a pawn or not on the board at all. There was little else to do but put his fate in the hands of Philza, and if misplaced trust burned him again then let him be scorched to ash. All his other deaths had been betrayals. Tubbo was a consistent man, at the very least. 

“I don’t trust you enough for this, but do it anyway. I can’t live like this.” In the corner of his vision spiraled sturdy horns. No matter how much he cut they always returned. He suspected the tail docking was equally pointless, though not enough time passed to tell. His ears altered, his hands strange to him. He didn’t know what happened below his skin, what changes were pressed into his organs. All he knew was that every single part of it was bleeding him dry, that nearly every step took effort and that golden thoughts threatened to usurp him if given half a foothold. His fate was the same death as JSchlatt’s, and he refused for it to unfold. 

In the end, he did it himself, burying his loyal trident deep in his traitorous guts. The channeling enchantment worked perfectly as intended, crashing the weight of his own energy against himself. As much exp as Tubbo had at the moment, the crackling bolts of electricity raced up his spine and stilled his heart instantly. Claws tightly gripped the handle of an obsidian dagger belonging to a man framed in midnight wings. He watched Tubbo’s corpse bleed out. 

A last, glittering life flickered into existence before Philza, and at once he seized it tight in his talons, backing away from Tubbo’s body to avoid stealing the glittering experience pouring out of him. The soul in his claws dolefully waited to be murdered, as defenseless as any other lamb at the slaughter. When no killing blow came, it faded, slipping through his fingers and drawing to Tubbo’s last resting place, to where the wisps of his presence still lingered. 

His body was contorted in brutal fashion, lichtenberg patterns carved into his skin from the lightning. An ugly, if instant, way to go. Probably, uh, better than withering, though both had to be about the same level of brutally painful, separated only by the time it took. Tubbo split along the root the voltage had taken to his heart, smoke hissing out at the seams where his body dissolved into base form, but the corpse would remain till his heart had returned to the place of its last slumber. Items spilled out, happily leeching off the wisps of the boy’s corpse that glowed with the radiance of experience. 

Sixteen. This kid was sixteen, and he’d already died twice. No, more than that, killed twice. Philza felt so, so tired. His decades of pillaging and book burning seemed useless in retrospect. Conflict still swept through the meager generation after the construct wars, and sure their strength was laughable compared to the armies and titans of old, but it didn’t take a machine that defied the gods or toxins that turned you into a raving beast to kill someone. The current survivors may not remember the old bloody ways, but they’d invented new ones of their own, and it left him a bone deep wariness. He’d thought he’d ensured peace, but human nature didn’t care for his endeavor. Philza could destroy every last trace of Golden Apples all he wanted; apparently they were a poison that had dug roots into the very heart of the world, too entrenched to ever be pulled out. Still strangling humans and their leaders even after all this time. 

Tubbo’s soul was not in his hands, he realized with a start. CRAP. He did not have any experience bottles left, and Tubbo was sure to die if they didn’t keep all that excess energy in their body. This couldn’t be done a second time. The life had faded out of visibility completely, and with a start Philza grabbed a fistful of soul sand, waving it frantically in the direction of the bed and no doubt looking rather stupid. Oh Goddess, if he accidentally got this boy’s essence absorbed into limbo because he’d been distracted pontificating he was going to cry. 

The heart appeared seconds before the soul sand subsumed it, tiny ghosts of people and plants and monsters and rocks and tools and everything to have ever died reaching out to caress the essence and accept it into their amalgamation. The soil screamed as he let it spill to the ground from between his talons. Tubbo’s heart lurched to follow, but he caught it, refusing to lose attention this time. He poured the gray tonic of soul slowness out over it, and it stilled at once, drawing neither to bed nor to sand, though drawing out of visibility. Even lethargic, a pressure began upon his hand, the soul lured away, longing to inhabit a body of smoke once more. 

Philza uncorked the true sight potion, letting it pour over his hand and the heart trapped within. His own fingers dissolved, peeling back the layers of a crow’s claws to the frail, trembling hands of an old man. Blotches lined his ancient skin, really it was more bones than anything, covered by a thin layer of skin. His true age, if not for the golden apples. Veins lacing through, running alongside the strong gold wires of the poison. But even if it looked like a strong gust of wind would send his fingers crumbling to ash, Philza still held on tight to Tubbo’s soul, which had once again revealed itself. But there was more this time, not simply their essence but the things tied into it. 

The bonds of Tubbo’s soul revealed themselves under the glittering magic. Dozens of threads all spiraling out, fading into nonexistence as droplets of potion dew could cling to them no more. A web spun by a spider, catching onto anything Tubbo had ever loved or loathed. There were white ones, physical ties from attachment to a place, a bed, a house, a country. There was a particularly thick one leading back in the direction of L’Manburg, almost like a chain. It shimmered with darker grays, conflicting in how Tubbo felt about his own country. Another pristine white line was growing by the second, heading straight for his bed. The soul crept agonizingly slowly towards it, but it took little effort to draw it back. 

Then were the lapis colored bonds to items, which were currently spilled around the pair. They’d greedily stolen the smoke of Tubbo’s body to create their own forms. Philza’s inventory was filled with random ingredients, and any more would be too much strain on his heart. Hopefully nothing despawned with no sustained energy flow from their possessor. The tie that wrapped around the pole of the bloodied trident still buried in Tubbo’s gut was dark with betrayal. A cold hand still gripped where the pole protruded from his stomach, veins shot out with electricity, skin blistered. Lighter shades of blue lead off to nowhere, save one snapped, dangling thread that looked singed and probably belonged to the boy’s compass. Philza twinged with guilt for not managing to save it. Apparently it had meant far more than even he knew. 

The rest of the bonds were the same bright ruby as the soul, ties to the living. The one leading to him was murky, and Philza sighed. He didn’t expect Tubbo to really trust him, but, really, he was trying his best for the kid. Philza couldn’t help it, children in desperate need just did something to him. He’d sacrificed so much to ensure this world got another chance, and he’d protect it with everything he had.

The tangle of silver, sapphire, and ruby bonds emerging from Tubbo were beautiful, of course, but they weren’t what he was here for. No, his focus lay upon the glowing golden wire that wrapped around the soul like a vile serpent. It was not something formed by love, an invasive vine that couldn’t actually get at the precious energy of Tubbo’s essence no matter how desperate to feed it was. Instead, the golden string could only strangle the heart, slicing deep lines into the soul. The experience it abused out was absorbed, causing the entrenched roots to only grow. A parasite drinking in the energy of its host. Philza withdrew the obsidian blade. Carefully he hovered it over the surface of the soul, not allowing it to touch or taint the shining heart or slice his own fingers. He slid the tip beneath a golden line, careful to touch no other bond for fear of destroying it. The gilded chain hissed and burned, glowing an abhorrent radiance as he began to slice through. Dark withering veins shot out from where the cut began, stretching along the gold. It fought back of course, eating back into the dark midnight, burning away the evil with its own brand of it. Healing, as that was its favorite lie.

But it was enough to weaken it. A slice, and the string fell away. The goddess-crafted blade shattered in his hands at the force, sending jagged slivers into his palms. No doubt She had known that would happen, and trepidation filled the pit of his stomach at why She believed he would need a second dagger. He wondered what She knew that he didn’t. But it could be a far off worry, Philza still needed to ensure Tubbo would survive. He poured out potion that would guarantee such a stranglehold could never be regained. The infection could grow no more in the boy. His bonds dimmed, but it was a price worth paying to never again fall victim to the golden apples. Never again would Tubbo be strangled by gilded avarice so deadly as to ruin entire nations. 

First time, Philza was a ghost fixing his own hearts. Confused, but one of the memories he had was the elation of discovering how to save himself. A mixture of a totem of undying and unwinding golden threads from his heart freed him, the price of his other two lives paid so he’d have enough energy to maintain his wings. It was a costly venture, and he’d never be able to pay back the lovely goddess of death for teaching him the secret to salvation. It had pained Her, too, to see Her children revert to mere beasts, destroying their own souls to never reach Her lovinging embrace. 

Tubbo’s soul would not be one such obliterated. Still, the fact he only had one life worried Philza deeply. Not that Tubbo needed to be able to support massive new limbs, but he had no idea how much energy they’d require. Slowly the true sight wore off, the soul disappearing. Philza carefully skirted the pool of energy glimmering around Tubbo’s corpse, heading over to the bed. With a grunt, he shoved it next to the body. The cadaver eventually exploded into smoke as it was meant to, and steam rose above the impression of Tubbo’s weight still sunk into the mattress. Fog curled and condensed, knitting into bones that gleamed with light as the experience began to draw to its former owner. The skeleton lifted in the air, blood and muscles beginning to swirl out of the smoke and attach to the body, building a Tubbo from the outside in. Radiance flocked towards him, soaking in and dimming as flesh began to weave around the form and stitch itself on. Not a hint of electrical damage or deep punctures, forgotten as it had happened after the save state. 

A perfectly human child, till things went wrong. Jagged bone growths burst through his skull once more, ripping through newly formed flesh. The glow beneath Tubbo’s flesh dimmed, devoured. Bone jutted out along his spine, and Philza winced, having never actually seen his tail. It was discolored from the docking, no doubt barely hanging on. Tubbo twisted in the air, curling in unconscious pain as the gold apple once again asserted its territory on his body. 

But it seemed there was enough energy to support the forceful rearrangements of his anatomy. Perhaps a little tiny, cheeks shallow, but at least more important vitality had been stolen, experience and smoke taken from life critical organs for the sake of a selfish parasite. 

Tubbo slumped into the bed as gravity took hold, head thunking first as the weight of his crown of ram’s horns dragged it down. He groaned as his scarred eyes squinted open. But he was alive, and the thin gold slit across his pupils would never grow larger. 

The operation was a success. 

What happened after Tubbo did not know, nor did he wish too. He awoke for the first time in a week feeling refreshed, only realizing how much the burden of the toxin had ground him under heel once he was free. It was like having cut off a ball and chain, or having an extreme slowness potion wear off. He was nearly bouncing with vitality. 

Philza offered him a tired smile, holding the shards of a broken obsidian dagger in his hands. The parasite was finally cut out of his soul. Tubbo was free.

Of course, it wasn’t actually that simple. The features had seemed to shrink, his ears nearly normal, the hooves limited to just his nails. But the symptoms of recovery were clear. Tubbo recut the horns for the last time, filing them carefully to the nub. By the time they made it all the way back to L’Manburg they hadn’t regrown even a little bit. They left a rough patch of skin and still felt weird, but his hair covered it for the most part. Tubbo thought he might grow it out just in case. Likewise, the docking finally worked, and Tubbo had tossed his tail into a lava pit. Again, a bit of a nub left at the end of his spine, but sitting was finally completely bearable. It took awhile to notice, but he wasn’t coughing up his food anymore. Tubbo completely lifted his dietary restraints, reveling in the feeling of being a complete omnivore once more. He was free.

Philza still made him promise to immediately report if he had any other types of cravings. As uncharted territories as cures were, he wasn’t even sure such minor characteristics would need to be sustained by occasional golden apple doses, or how frequent. The treatment had always been to stop the spread of madness and transformation, after all, not to reverse it utterly. Tubbo readily agreed. At the border of L’Manburg, Philza regretfully parted with the compass leading to Technoblade, and then rushed off to write a very frantic warning letter.

But that was for another day in Tubbo’s books. First, he wanted to see his best friend. Nothing could go wrong, now that he had removed the curse. Tommy would probably be upset having been left in exile for a week, but he’d understand once Tubbo explained, which he could now do now that he didn’t look like JSchlatt’s second coming. He was free of the poison, of Dream’s attempted manipulation, of the possibility of ever following in the tyrant's hoof prints. Nothing could go wrong, right?

Surely not.

Chapter Text

Conflicting pale glows slipped over the birch ball joints of Dream’s fingers; the slight glint of the pale crescent moon overhead, the eerie emerald shadow of the Dreamon, the enchanting glimmer of the golden apple held out to Technoblade. The boar’s gilded blackstone eyes caught upon the cursed fruit. He wasn’t sure what to expect from the summit, but this…well. It changed a lot, and perhaps he’d be able to consider the implications, but for now he was enraptured by the thrall. 

Summit was a double edged word. The wind was crisp so high up, sweeping past the peak of the mountain and ripping at the map in his hooves. The parchment had been well marked, summoning him to this jagged outcropping of rock amidst the ocean. The windswept tide crashed on jutting spears of stone, a storm brewing on the open sea. What brave thatches of grasses that had managed to cling to the pillar surely regretted it now, as they were nearly ripped out. The two men (if men they could be called) stood on either side, but really there wasn’t enough distance for him to be convinced of any sort of safety. Technoblade’s hackles bristled, but that could be blamed on the cold if he needed it to be. Scarcely any room at all, if the marionette lunged for him, but really it was more likely the other way around. Streaks of gold and magic streamed out between the wooden hand, calling to him and worming into his thoughts. It made good company, this temptation, nestled tightly between all the other ghosts in his head. 

He could take Dream. Technoblade knew it for a fact. When he’d first come to this land he’d made a point to challenge the strongest duelist. It made a good first impression with the locals, a finally calculated point that he was not someone to be trifled with. Sure it had been closer than he’d liked, but that was on equal footing, and Technoblade was well known for his insane amassing of power. It would not be a fair fight this time. Perhaps some idea of diplomacy was offered in the foundation of this clandestine meeting, but he found his hand drifting to the handle of the Axe of Peace. The grooves fit perfectly in his hooves as they clasped onto reinforced oak, whispering a confirmation that blood was his right. It was always so, so much easier to take things by force in his experience. 

The cursed fruit arced through the air and he caught it on surprised instinct. Curls of purple smoke marked the path through the night, shifting through the midnight breeze and fading. He sucked in the scent greedily, the lingering dark magic and power sharp in his snout. His broad chest swelled with the inhale, a tendril of warmth worming down his throat and glowing in his soul as the addiction’s flame was fanned. 

The mannequin’s smile widened. Technoblade eyed him suspiciously, wary of his schemes. Questions unfurled in his mind. How Dream had acquired forbidden knowledge, by what means had he procured one, how he could resist the thrall, why he would give away such power. Scarcely could Technoblade imagine ever bequeathing one of his own god apples. Too good to be true. It was a lesson embedded into the very nature of the cursed fruit, and it lingered in the back of his mind even if it was drowned out by manufactured avarice. 

Dream waved a hand at a chest and Technoblade lifted the lid with the edge of his axe, attention still firm on Dream. A peek suggested a bounty of wealth, potions and explosions and power. Nothing special, really, compared to the golden capstone. The marionette’s head canted. “I trust you’ll make good use of it.”

It was an odd handshake, not a single drop of softness to it between hooves and bark. An odd pair they made, The Blood God and the Dreamon. If it was a truce, it was an uneasy one. Each too powerful to really consider a true alliance. Technoblade had the distinct feeling he was being bribed, and don’t get him wrong he’d take it, even if he distinctly didn’t know what was being bought in the transaction. 

Verdant shadows rushed into an enderpearl, the darkness left behind ominous. One last thread of emerald jerked the arm before being sucked in, casting the pearl into the night far from the little summit. Something seemed vacant in the short doll left behind. Not that it fell, but that it slumped into itself, lacking that ethereal suspension Dream usually had. Technoblade curiously waved a hand in front of the painted eyes and got no response. Vaguely, the voices murmured that he could destroy the body right here and now, as Dream could do nothing to stop him. It would be little use, his life already gone. Smoke ate through the wood, the dark noxious plumes of the End that smelled like ash and void, quickly erased by the sea wind and leaving him alone, wondering what strings were attached. 

Drip. Drip. Even as far down as his base was, and even further down his bunker, the river above seeped through to his secret complex. The damp of the earth wasn’t an entirely unpleasant scent as his hooves echoed across the blackstone foundations he’d laid out, his king’s cloak swishing behind. He found himself pacing, staring at the golden apple in his hands long after he’d sorted the other supplies away into the tools of the rebellion he was planning. 

Technoblade and Philza had failed. He’d taste it like bile on the back of his throat if the memory of sweet golden ambrosia wasn’t contaminating his thoughts. Dream had access to god apples, JSchlatt, too. They’d thought to rip out the twisted, toxic roots from the land, but it hadn’t been enough. Decades dedicated to destruction, and yet the golden threads still clung like choking vine. A stranglehold of evil too conniving to ever be fully uprooted. It was a bitter thought, that they’d always remain. That humanity would never be free of the temptation of wild, feral power. He wondered if they’d been there since the beginning, that curse of antithetical Eden. The destruction of civilization. Some punishment from the gods, though he wouldn’t put it past humanity to be their own destruction. Foolish of him and Philza to think they’d be the ones to save the future generations. 

He didn’t trust the gift, but it was impossible for him to destroy it, the curse still threaded in his brain. Technoblade simply didn’t know what other magics Dream had pressed into the present, if his recipe was corrupted by partial information or if sabotage was more intentional. Best not to find out, but if he got desperate he might turn to it. 

Withdrawal was a horrific, soul destroying process. 

But it wouldn’t do to have it mixed up with his real stock. He ended up tossing it into a random chest in his lab where the Pogtopians would never be. Arm them he may, but Technoblade still reserved the true power for himself. Freedom for the people of the land was more…a side project. Something to amuse himself. Not that he didn’t pray this independence would last, but as an immortal he was well acquainted with the cycles of humanity. 

Wars raged, new governments were tested in the blood of birth and admittedly a number of his personal withers. He was bitter the Pogtopians fell into the same pitfalls of the rest of humanity, in subjecting themselves. He’d hoped it would be different. That Philza’s spawn would be better. But the foolish mortals continued to construct their own oppression no matter how he tried to stop them, to cull the asinine sentiment. It was the only thing people listened to, power. 

But like children they shoved their hands over their ears and screamed. Technoblade grew weary of the old fallacies of man and drew away from mortals once more. He’d tried to care, for Philza, had so much hope that things could be better. He wanted a better future, he really did, but they refused to understand they wrote their own tragedy, too short sighted. Too short lived. They dreamed of power because they did not know its burden. 

Regardless, he’d been betrayed, or rather, the mortals had betrayed themselves. Technoblade could not continue to live in his carved out home beneath the river, not after he’d thrown open the doors of hospitality to the people of the land. His supplies were a mess, pillaged a few times over, and while the more important items he made sure were sorted as they were brought to his retirement home, the latter jumble of supplies took little note. Chests were simply loaded onto Carl and carried off to the Arctic, the lazy pig telling himself he’d sort it later. With so much on his mind, Dream’s gift was forgotten and lost in the clutter. 

In a small chest in the corner of his miscellaneous supplies, the forgotten god apple glimmered, biding its time. 

Technoblade had been enjoying retirement. It was very relaxing. No pressing matters to attend to other than his own. The various battles and fights had been fun, of course, but they’d never really been his own. He had no problem spilling blood, relished it even, but his cause had been served. The governments lay crushed and broken, and even if not dead, surely dying. 

He had all the time in the world. Technoblade had even managed to start stockpiling golden apples, and the thought made him feel secure. Always best to have a generous margin against his own demise. Too long, and the madness would set in— well, more than it already had. Blood wasn’t his only craving. 

The cold bit at him, and his fur bristled. He carried a bundle of sticks beneath one hand and a war axe in the other. What? Why bother beating your sword into a plowshare when the The Axe of Peace was equally good at felling lumber as it did lives?

Carl nickered as he approached. Technoblade plunged the axe into the snow, letting it serve as a sheath. He stoked the steed’s muzzle, wishing he had fingers to better feel it. An old wish, an old ache, and it didn’t sting as much as it might have. Hooves just weren’t quite the same for certain things. Years had passed and yet he still cursed a younger him for mistakes he couldn’t have realized. Carl was bumping his muzzle against Technoblade’s chest, investigating the bundle of wood for treats. Technoblade’s swine snout peeled back in a smile. 

“No treats yet,” he chuckled, stroking the star on the steed’s forehead one last time. He dropped the logs by his dwindling pile of firewood. Man, who knew the Arctic would be so chilly? Constantly needing wood was starting to be annoying. A familiar struggle, but tedious nonetheless. At least the renewal of golden apples had danger…no. No, that wasn’t a good thing. Prefer the mundane, he scolded himself. 

He swung the axe over his shoulder, ducking into his storage room. The warmth calmed his shudders. He sat the axe on a hook by the door, ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice. While he was retired, other people weren’t. Technoblade began to sort the various resources from his packs into his chests, not caring to have any real consistency or order to their placement. Although he’d been in his new home for weeks, he had never bothered to sort his chests. 

Hmm. He wasn’t particularly tidy, but his belongings were clearly rifled through. A few supplies were missing, he was almost sure of it. Nothing important, but still. Odd. Armed with a carrot and lump of sugar, he opened the door once more to the bitter snow, whistling to let Carl know he had treats. A shiver of anticipation, and Technoblade trudged back outside. Pigs truly were never meant for the cold. Carl certainly appreciated the sweets though, and Technoblade was able to escape to the warmth of his house after only a few more pets. 

He bustled around his home, setting to his business. Feeding the fire, himself, Hubert, the villagers. Ugh, kidnapping and forcing people into lives of capitalistic slavery really was so much work :/

It wasn’t that, of course, just his offered housing complex below his own dwelling, but he called it that because it was funnier. They gathered around and had cake. He kept an eye on the mortals, bemused by what concerned them. He’d long lost touch with what a normal life looked like, had little understanding for the pace of it. And part of it was the entertainment of watching them go about the day, but also for the dormant hope of acquiring more followers. The voices were always hungry for more. 

The villagers chatted with each other, doing a few trades here and there. A party returned from gathering supplies, trailing in with the guard dogs Technoblade sent with them for protection. Really, the villagers were absolutely terrible at combat, hence the reason they’d survive in the first place. They were no threat in the grand scheme of things, and such were one of the few intelligent species to survive in their modest, scattered hamlets. Anyway, he couldn’t have all his business partners dying just because they needed more beetroots or what have you. That’s why Technoblade had offered his protection in the first place. Plus, if basically all the traders lived in his house, it meant he didn’t have to go out in the cold to find their town. A quid pro quo situation. They didn’t die, and he wasn’t chilly. 

A clock on the wall suggested it was growing late, ticking away from the redstone within, and many of the mortals went off to private chambers to sleep. That had been a sticking point, since Technoblade had wanted to just mine a large chamber and have everything in it, but the villagers insisted that he’d have to dig out separate rooms, even if it made the whole thing take longer and possibly be less structurally secure. Whatever. He had to agree it did look nicer, stretches of spruce support beams and torches flickering warmly. 

Technoblade’s gaze drifted to the clock, watching it slowly rotate, dawn far off. His thoughts, too, drifted, running over analytics, supplies, plans. The histories he’d lived that become legends, the stories he’d like to write for the future. He was broken from his reverie when he heard an odd noise. Brow furrowed, snout crinkling, Technoblade twisted his head around, large pink ears twitching. Rising, he began to investigate. All the villagers were asleep. The location of the noise was proving downright impossible to pinpoint, although it seemed to be loudest in the common room. But nothing was there. It sounded sort of like a rodent, but there wasn’t one as far as he could see. Like it was coming from below…

Pickaxe in hand, he felt a little silly as he began to burrow downwards. But if there was some small hole where monsters could manage to crawl into existence from, he needed to get rid of it so the villagers wouldn’t die. Such an incident would really inconvenience him.

He’d been expecting a sort of natural cave, so to find a ladder was strange. To find light glowing up the small tunnel was stranger still. Technoblade quietly descended, clutching the pickaxe in one hand in case he needed to send it through someone’s teeth. He crept down the ladder slowly, keeping his movements soft and stealthy. Faint humming registered, the opening of a chest with a squeaky hinge, a soft thump. There was natural stone and some sort of yellow concrete below, but beyond that he couldn’t see much. Technoblade jumped from the ladder, hooves clattering loudly as he landed in a deep crouch that he used to launch himself into battle stance. His pickaxe gleamed wickedly as he swung it over his head, voices crying in glee, warcry blossoming in his throat–

Wide shocked eyes stared at him. Technoblade blinked at them, and lowered the makeshift weapon. It was just Tommy. Wait. Tommy? What was Philza’s pipsqueak doing here? “Why are you doing under my house???”

Tommy shrugged, sitting cross legged on a collection of blankets squeezed into a hoard of surrounding chests and overflowing items. It was a haphazard pile, clearly stolen. Jumbled possessions like it was all the teen had in the whole world, held close to him. “It’s complicated,” he said through a full mouth of food. Gross. Tommy raised his hand, taking another crisp bite from a golden apple.

Technoblade’s blood turned to ice. 

The pickaxe dropped to the floor, clanging sharply against the rocks. He lunged at the teen, who startled, jerking back and shouting in surprise. Technoblade knocked the cursed fruit from his hands, and it went rolling across the stone leaving a trail of gold nectar. Gripping Tommy by the shoulders, shaking him desperately, “Spit it out,” he demanded. Tommy squirmed beneath him but was pinned down. A vein of gold threaded his cobalt irises, jagged and thin like scars, irregular but clearly infecting him. All his plans, all his carefully laid stories– ruined. Tommy was supposed to be the protagonist, the hero, the one to rise to glory, to greatness, only to tangle in his own vices, a tragedy that ended in a noose of his own making. Technoblade had seen this story over and over, it was supposed to be inevitable. This was far too soon in the narrative for a fatal mistake, Tommy was meant to rise to so much power before it all came crashing down. Just when it was starting to get entertaining, too. No. He couldn’t let Tommy be ruined, not yet. Not when he was destined to be amazing. “Spit it out now!” he yelled.

Tommy responded by chewing faster, defiance coloring his features. A stream of gold trickled down from the corner of his mouth. Technoblade got off him and Tommy scrambled back. The pig recaptured the kid, twisting him into a Heimlich maneuver. After a few tries, Tommy coughed out the pieces of apple. Technoblade released him, scrambling through chests, apparently all filled to the brim with the pig’s belongings.

“Did you bother to steal some water!?” he shouted at Tommy, who didn’t respond, preferring to wheeze in the corner. A bottle glittered in the corner of a chest and he snatched it, rounding on the teen only to catch him reaching for the golden apple. Technoblade rushed over, kicking it away. He shoved the water into Tommy’s hands, ordering him to rinse his mouth out. Pale blue eyes only glared at him. “Stop being difficult! You just ate poison, Tommy!” Technoblade roared. The teen’s eyes widened, and he scrambled with the cork, popping it out and beginning to chug. 

The water, when Tommy spat it out, was stained honey yellow. That wasn’t good. Technoblade only let him stop once it was clear. 

He could feel a headache coming on. The golden apple, a rough yard away from him, was making him acutely aware of its presence. He curbed the temptation just as he would any other voice in his head. Tommy was still eyeing it, though, gaze wide and darkly ringed with exhaustion. 

“Didn’t taste like poison,” Tommy muttered, doubt that wasn’t exactly his own creeping into his mind. The shard of infection sparkled. “Are you just saying that because you don’t want me using your stuff?” 

Various scenarios and options were racing through the boar’s mind. Hopefully he’d averted all danger, but he couldn’t be sure. “If it tasted like poison, you wouldn’t eat enough for it to kill you,” Technoblade explained. 

“Am I going to die?” Tommy asked, a little uncomfortable by the prospect, but not terrified. Huh. Sort that out later. Technoblade had survived years with toxins bound to his blood. Assuage the concern.

“No,” he replied shortly. “Where did you get it?”

“You left it out,” Tommy answered airily, leaning around the pig to get a better view of the poisoned produce. He bounced on the makeshift bed a little. “If you didn’t want it stolen you should’ve hidden it with your other valuables. Which, by the way, where are they? I thought you’d have way more stuff?”

Paranoid fury screeched in Technoblade’s mind. Tommy had found his god apples, had stolen them all, was going to doom him. Kill him now, before he kills you. The apple was singing to him, worming into his thoughts. Technoblade rubbed at his temples and hoped the insanity would shut up soon, because he was starting to get a headache. “I’ve seen you eat them,” Tommy accused suddenly, eyes flicking up to meet his. A shimmer of gold flashed across them. “When I was little. When you thought I wasn’t looking.” There was an odd quality to his voice, dreamy. Technoblade didn’t have a response to it. The pair stared at each other, silent and motionless. 

And then Tommy lunged for the fruit, grasping and pulling it towards his mouth. Technoblade clasped a hoof around the teen’s wrist, wrenching it off course. The pair grappled until Technoblade managed to snatch the golden apple, using his height to keep it away. Great longing filled him, demanding he consume the sweet fruit. He hitched it up a little higher, Tommy standing on a chest and trying to jump to get it. Technoblade was almost transfixed with want, staring up at the smooth shining surface. To the boar’s growing horror, he realized there were numerous bite marks on it. How dare they steal his precious stock? Was Tommy trying to kill him? To steal his power— he shook his head, familiar with the manipulation. But Tommy wouldn’t be so equipped. “Tommy, stop listening to it!” Technoblade commanded to little effect, vanishing the fruit to his inventory. It did little to quell the greed, and no doubt it was beginning to occur to Tommy the only way to get the apple out of the inventory was through murder.  

“Come on, just a nibble! You’re being greedy!” Technoblade scrambled up the makeshift ladder to the villager dormitories, then up his far sturdier one. Tommy was right on his heels. Another ladder, and he was in the main room of his house. Shoving it into his enderchest, Technoblade was only soothed when he heard the satisfying hiss of the storage portal closing. 

Tommy stopped trying to get the golden apple, blinking a bit. “Rude,” he scoffed. The eye bags seemed bigger than when he saw them last. Technoblade checked for other signs, not quite sure what to be looking for yet. Though the teen’s ears were a bit sharper than he remembered, it wasn’t by much. 

He discarded several of his plans. Many of them, actually. Gods, this destroyed so much. Away from the greed of the apple’s presence, his mind didn’t clear so much as be seiged by other flavors of madness. Half of him wanted to let Tommy finish the dose, just to see how powerful the boy could get. Technoblade always loved to watch just how high an Icarus could get before crashing and burning. 

But on the other hand, he was creating competition. He’d learned with Philza it was nigh impossible to share territory, and Philza was a predictable man. Tommy was a chaos shaped question mark carried by childish wants that flipped any way the wind blew, and Technoblade loved that about him, but as an enemy it made him awful to strategize against. As it was now, Tommy wasn’t anywhere near a threat, but under the power and greed of golden apples he would have to be dealt with eventually, kill him now, before he has time to amass power–

He shoved it all down. What mattered right now was not his intrusive delusions. This was Philza’s kid. He’d held Tommy as a newborn, watched him open his bright blue eyes for the first time. The voices fading away beneath the peel of his infant laughter. In his more lucid moments, he was abhorred by the idea of being this boy’s destruction, and the guilt of his carelessness finally sunk in. That despite all his efforts, Tommy had fallen into their doomed inhuman footsteps. This wasn’t the road to greatness, or an act of usurpation, or anything like that. This was poetic, poignant tragedy attempting to repeat itself, and he was the only one who could stop it. 

He could not allow anyone to make the same mistakes as he had, no matter the reason, be it selfish or protective. There will not be a second Sally in this family. That was final. Tommy making it through the night was the top priority, ok? Can all of you just get on board with that? Thank you.  

Technoblade needed a safe place to put him, but didn’t have one. The pig was careful about such things, and hadn’t felt the need to make such a contingency, which had been pure conceited folly on his part. The storage room? No, all his stuff would be destroyed. Couldn’t be put below that, either, Tommy could kill the villagers in the throes of madness. His house wouldn’t do, that would be trashed as well. Why hadn’t he made plans for a worst case scenario? Wasn’t that something he was supposed to be good at? Or, no, he had been preparing for a crisis, just the wrong one entirely. Fine. Just repurpose the room. This was more important, or at least presented a more immediate problem. “Come with me, alright? We need to go somewhere.”

Tommy frowned. “Are you going to kill me?”

“What? No.” What the voices wanted was a different matter. 

“Sounds like you are.”

“Tommy, if I wanted you dead your corpse wouldn’t even be warm at this point. I'm actively trying to save your life, so if you could, y’know, cooperate, that would be fantastic. Now, come on, get your coat and let’s go.” The anarchist was already warmly dressed in his retirement tunic, and so threw open the door, racing out into the snow. He made it to the bottom of the stairs, looking back up to see Tommy trailing after him, illuminated from the warm glow of the inside of the house. Technoblade frowned. “It’s cold, you need something more than that.” Tommy had his standard red shouldered shirt thrown over a long sleeved white one. Both were frayed looking, covered in various stains that were a mixture of blood and dirt. A few large holes ripped through, exposing bare skin. He was already quivering.

Tommy stuck up his chin. “It’s fine. I don’t get cold.”

“You’re going to get hypothermia and die. You’re already shivering.”

“I’m shaking in rage!” Tommy insisted. Technoblade wrestled between going on regardless, getting Tommy a coat, or straight up strangling him to death in order for the problem to go away. He was leaning towards the second choice, but the third was always on the table. 

Technoblade huffed, breath hanging as fog in the air, and raced back up the stairs, shaking snow from his ears. He grabbed his old red robe, glancing around and snatching a torch as well. After tossing the clothes at Tommy, he lit the torch in the fireplace, turning around. The teen was dwarfed in the ruby robes, the white fur lining the collar tickling at his ears, hiding the fact that they, too, were becoming fluffy. Rubbing at them unconsciously, Tommy did not seem to notice anything off other than a dull ache. The rings around Tommy’s eyes were clearly spreading. Technoblade looked him up and down, eyes catching on a bare foot and a problem. 

The toes were elongating, claws forming. They were discolored a dark black, a pigment that was growing as he watched. Adjustments were made to his mental count down to a sooner time. Maybe fifteen minutes left? No more than that, surely.

That was secondary to the fact Tommy was clearly missing a shoe. His foot was dirty, and looked oddly swollen, dried blood crusting the bottom of it. Technoblade wasn’t entirely sure what to do about that, since it wasn’t as if his own shoes were made for human feet in the slightest. “What happened to your right shoe!?” Technoblade spluttered. 

“Fell in a pit,” Tommy said shortly.

“Why didn’t you retrieve it?”

“Pit exploded.” Ok. Sure. Fine. Probably just Tommy being stupid and messing with explosions. Again. At least that explained the ashy looking burn holes in his pants. 

Tommy trailed after him as he scaled back down a ladder to his storage room, throwing open the doors to the outside. Technoblade hopped the fence to Carl’s enclosure, slipping the bridle onto the horse. They’d have to go bareback since his saddles weren’t made for two. Quickly leading Carl out to the door, Technoblade stroked his neck to calm him since he was picking up on the boar’s own anxiety. But Tommy just stared at them, squinting into the dark. A bit of snow was starting to drift down, quenching even the light of the stars. Carl shifted a bit, muscles twitching beneath Technoblade’s calming touch. The teen squinted at him distrustfully, unconsciously pulling the boar’s old robe tighter against the Arctic chill.

“You’re acting just so incredibly weird right now. I reckon you’re up to something. I can figure out that stuff now, you know. When someone’s manipulating me. I don’t think that it was poisoned at all, you’re just lying. I feel better than ever, in fact.” Of course he would. Part of the trick, after all. Those toxins who only made their kills through repeated doses always had to convince their target another way; golden apples were the slowest acting poison he’d ever encountered, and made up for it with their siren’s song.

“Tommy, we don’t have time- ! Fine. Fine. Alright. You want proof? You want symptoms? Look at your hands.”

Tommy gave him an odd ringed look, then complied. The defiance gave way to a bewildered horror. An inky black stretched across to his wrists, fine hair starting to sprout in uneven ugly patches. His fingernails were sharp needle talons. The fingers were still fairly human in nature, however, and Technoblade’s cogs spent in circles trying to figure out what in the world Tommy was becoming. A worst version of himself, naturally, but he wanted specifics. The dark patches were spread across the teen’s visage like a shadow, eyes dilapidating, ears twisting back in a way humans couldn’t manage. Technoblade pressed the torch into the alien hands, the fire light dancing over the boy’s features, illuminating the whirl of confusion and terror.

Tommy was still hissing curse words through his sharpening teeth when Technoblade hoisted him onto the back of Carl. The boar boosted himself up with the ease of practice, tapping Carl’s ribs and setting them into a gallop. 

Snow came down heavier than before, stinging his eyes. Beasts prowled in the pitch of night, wisps of shadows weaving themselves into bones and mutilated flesh, drawn by the once-humans’ very presence. Technoblade pressed Carl forward, darting around foes and running so fast that arrows couldn’t get them. Snow flew up behind his steed’s hooves. Cinders trailed behind the glowing torch, quickly consumed by the cold. 

At the mountain’s face he pulled Carl to a stop a good distance from the cliff. Wouldn’t do for him to startle. He told Tommy to stay, and he seemed ready enough to agree, pulling his hands into ruby sleeves and holding the torch as close as he dared. The fire highlighted the various scrapes and bruises that danced along his grimy skin, diminishing and fading, wounds knitting themselves closed as the golden apple worked its costly magic. A bare piceous foot curled in the cold. A boy clothed in tatters and robes, a trophy from an usurpation, a tyrant Technoblade had replaced. It felt nearly poetic that they should be used like this. They were a history of succession, a wretched title stolen. He’d worn it with pride, once, till he realized his own corruption and hubris. The sanguine became a badge of shame, for there was little revenge he could have upon his past self save denouncement. Atonement came from the dismantling of a budding nation, a guarantee his mistakes wouldn’t repeat. That had been his gift to the future, and the ruby robes reflected even this. Whereas Technoblade had stolen them at bitter cost, Tommy was given them freely. The ostentatious garments of royalty repurposed only for firm practicality. The Technoblade of the past would have scoffed at the mere idea of conceding power to another. This Technoblade, an anarchist instead of a despot, retired instead of a war monger—

Well, he had a lot more to give Tommy than just an old robe. 

The Technoblade of the past couldn’t have imagined it. He couldn’t imagine many things, caught up in dreams of glory and bloodshed and godhood. Then again the Technoblade of the past had still been human.

The snow was almost at knee level, hindering progress at every turn. Technoblade dusted powder off the rocky surface, hooves ghosting over stone, searching for any hint of a small outcropping. He found what he was looking for, and slammed a fist down on the button. Gears clicked and whirred, drawing down the secret door. The vault lay open, dim shroomlights casting otherworldly illumination across the dark snowy night. Technoblade turned back, whistling for Carl to come, who was eager with the promise of treats and shelter from the chill. Tommy’s eyes widened —the irises were too large, eclipsing the whites of his eyes— as he saw the insides of the second vault. Rows and roses of malicious skulls lined the walls, glinting sinisterly in the dark chamber. A sense of wrongness pervaded the room, the unnatural sin inherent to wither skulls crawling beneath one’s skin.

Tommy screamed in startlement. Carl didn’t balk, as he was trained to handle far worse things. Animalistic eyes met Technoblade’s, though the descriptor was apt for the both of them. “What is this!?” Tommy demanded. “What kind of terrible doomsday are you planning!?” He hated the fear in the boy’s voice. This wasn’t supposed to be how it went. None of this was how Technoblade had foreseen anything happening. There hadn’t been time for trust. 

Or…or there had been, once. When Tommy was young, and Technoblade was always the first one he called for help whenever he got in over his head. Tommy was the only reason he’d come back to this land at all, to have his back in some battle that felt so long ago now. No, he knew exactly when that trust was broken, because it was like that, spines pressed against one another in battle, that Tommy had stabbed him in the back. Perhaps Technoblade’s prescription to the disease of government was harsh, but it was an insidious parasite that needed to be culled completely if humanity was ever to have a chance to survive. The trust between them had been broken entirely by Tommy. If the boy thought him an enemy, that was his error. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Technoblade said, because what did any of that mean when here he was yet again, so desperate to stop Tommy from making his mistakes? “Help me move them out,” he ordered. He began to carefully slip the skulls off their holders, moving outside and setting them into the snow. 

“I’m not going to help you attack my fri– L’Manburg! No!”

Technoblade bit down rising ire. They didn’t have time for this. “That’s not what it’s for.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, since it wasn’t as if he had a plan on who would be on the receiving end. The point was adaptability, giving the power needed for whatever threat next arose. Maybe Philza would chide him for using soul constructs, but even he couldn’t be a one man army. Besides. Philza wasn’t here. 

And, well, maybe he suspected L’Manburg to be the next target but that was neither here nor there. Technoblade had never planned for himself to wield it, merely provide the means. “It’s just insurance. Now help me get these out of here, we need a safe place since we’re trying to save your life, in case you forget.” For some reason, Tommy didn’t seem to be realizing or caring about that. Probably just the apples messing with his judgment. 

Tommy slipped off Carl’s back, but didn’t actually help. A pile of the skulls began to build up. The snow around it was tainted with black tendrils of corruption striking through the pristine surface. Technoblade was being a lot less careful by that point, dropping the skulls a bit further than he might’ve normally, walking faster than really safe. Most of the bottom rows were cleared, but Technoblade still wasn’t sure it was enough. 

Tommy just stood there, frowning slightly, holding the torch aloft. It was growing shorter, just as their time was. Technoblade reached for a skull just out of reach, pushing to get it off the hook. He misjudged the force, and the skull went crashing to the ground, shattering into dark bone fragments. He winced, then moved onto the next one. 

“You’re acting like Dream,” Tommy muttered. Technoblade flicked an ear in his direction, dumping another armload of heads into a second pile.

“Hah?” Technoblade didn’t really understand the connection, the context, or the connotation. 

“You’re acting all terrible and taking things from me but pretending like it’s a good thing.” Tommy’s face was sharp, ears poking out of his hair. A splotchy contusion lining his jaw shrunk, purples and greens fading back to red and then to the tan of Tommy’s normal skin tone. There was a dual scar there Technoblade had never noticed. The structure of his face was shifting a bit with the arrangement of his teeth. They were longer and more jagged than typical, the canines being the most noticeable, stained pink from the blood filled saliva. Tommy was rubbing at his cheeks a little, but it seemed most of the additions were close enough to humans to not be too painful. Still an omnivore likely. Technoblade reached up, grabbing another skull. 

“Golden apples are bad, Tommy. You shouldn't've had them, they’re dangerous.”

“He said that about my pictures.”

Technoblade was tossing the skulls out into the snow by that point, not caring whether they survived, only that they were gone and that Tommy wouldn’t be able to get them. A power-mad Tommy did not need access to withers, that was just a recipe for disaster. Why, oh why had Technoblade chosen dramatic walls lined with skulls instead of something more practical? The answer, of course, was for the theatrics of the reveal, but that didn’t stop him from being annoyed. “Those aren’t the same at all. This is poison, Tommy!”

“No it isn’t! Poison doesn’t make things better. I don’t believe you.”

Looming over, Technoblade whirled on the teen, tusks bared. “It’s a trick. A dirty, nasty, trick, because that’s the exact same thing I thought, too. But golden apples are toxins, even if they’re not the typical sort. That’s the truth of the matter and I refuse to let you find out the same way I did. I don’t care if you believe me or not because even if you fight me every step of the way I will not let you make my mistakes.” The words echoed sharply in the stone walls of the bunker.

Tommy remained quiet after that.

The last armful of skulls shattered as he dropped them but it didn’t matter. He began dragging chests out, scraping them against the floor in a sound that grated at his ears. The snow was falling faster, tumbling into the entrance. The moon (when he could glimpse it between swirling white vortexes) was rising fast. He was beginning to really hate the fact they’d ridden bareback, since at least then he might’ve been able to use the saddle bags to help with the process. 

When Tommy swore, Technoblade hadn’t bothered to check. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, so, really, he couldn’t be blamed for that. But when he heard the torch clatter to the ground he was forced to pay attention. Technoblade rushed over, dumping a flask of water on it to douse the flame. 

Tommy was clutching the base of his spine, teeth clenched against the pain. Something was writhing beneath the hem of Technoblade’s robe, eventually growing long enough to poke out from beneath the fur trimming. Jagged bones were growing out of him, sharp white and elongating before their very eyes. Tommy screamed as a growth spurt hit, the limb jolting and adding another foot to its length. Seemed his luck had finally run out, anatomy diverging too far from human to allow easy transformation.

Technoblade felt a pang of sympathy, fully aware how agonizing it was to have a vestigial tail become something more than it was ever meant to be. He uncorked a splash potion, pouring bright pink solution over it. Tommy briefly stopped swearing, and the skeletal tail seemed content to be roughly a yard long. Then, hideous muscles began to extend, crawling up the base of it like vile worms, parasites latching themselves onto the thrashing skeletal base. Veins laced through them, blood gushing from tubes until the loop completed, hooking up to Tommy’s circulatory system. The muscles gleamed ugly reds until skin started to wrap around it. Technoblade shoved a drinkable tonic into the teen’s shaking clawed hands, getting back to work. A few more minutes, and he tossed the netherite armor perfectly tailored to Tommy into the snow, finally having emptied the entire vault. It had taken weeks to fill it, but one night managed to tear all that effort away. Whatever. More important things had arisen.

Technoblade whistled sharply and Carl raced out of the vault. Tommy looked up, still stood in a puddle of his own blood. He made to follow but the pig stopped this. “No. Stay.”

Tommy frowned. “What?”

“That’s the point. You stay here while it wears off.”

Fluffy ears flattened. They were noticeably longer and higher than human ears tended to be, though that wasn’t a surprise by that point. “No. I’m not going to,” Tommy insisted.

“It’s the safest option.”

“I refuse!”

“Well. Good thing it’s not really your choice.” He slammed his fist into the button as Tommy’s eyes widened and the kid sprinted for the exit far too late to escape. “Welcome home, Theseus. It’s yours whether you like it or not,” he muttered. He felt worn from the night's events. 

Technoblade had always suspected Tommy would come to him eventually. There was little else for him to go, really, cast out from the country he’d poured his soul into. Exiled. Despised by his people. Technoblade had always thought Theseus deserved a little revenge for being betrayed. That would have happened in a world where justice existed. The vault was always to have been a gift to Tommy, to give him the means to be the hand of karma. Insurance, yes, but a present once Tommy had proven himself. Perhaps too much power for the boy to reasonably wield, but Technoblade had always planned for the boy to join the voices and couldn’t be blamed if he was a little impatient. He wanted to see what Tommy could really do, not held back by loyalties or morals or a lack of power. He wanted to see the precise way Tommy carved the world in his own image. 

It was too soon. A context so far from what he’d intended. It was being used all wrong, not sparking a rush from the thrill of power and amazement in the teen but instead fear. It was meant to be a present, but was looking more and more like a prison by the second. 

It’s for his own good, Technoblade assured himself as he tore the button from the wall, wires trailing after it and red stone spilling from the hole. He stepped back through the threshold into the dark Arctic night, surrounded by mounds of wither skeleton skulls and the fragments of a once grand plan. Really, though, how had he expected anything to go right once Tommy was involved? He was a whirlwind of chaos, which was what Technoblade liked about him, but this was a level of catastrophic even he wasn’t prepared for. 

Mechanisms whirred, and the door began to rise. Tommy tensed, the uneven bushy patches of fur on his tail standing on end. Tommy lunged for the door, eyes wide and almost feral, but it raised too quickly, plunging the boar into pitch black as the light of the vault was blocked out. Pounding at the door, screaming to be let out, but Technoblade ignored the child’s pleas. A bar of illumination was cast against the snow, shrinking by the second. His ears twitched as he heard scratching noises at the door. Technoblade patted Carl’s neck, then hoisted himself up onto his back. The vault door was slinking to the top, and the scrambling on the other side grew more frantic and…higher. 

Technoblade nearly swore when he saw Tommy’s head poking up from the closing door barely a few feet from slamming shut. The teen squeezed through the shrinking gap, throwing himself over the stone face. The secret door slammed shut behind him as he plummeted to the ground. The snow exploded around him from the impact, blackened by the infection of wither skulls. Technoblade scrambled off Carl, rushing over to the lump of humanoid in a heep of scarlet cloth. Tommy shakily rose to his feet, clearly favoring the bare foot even though the cold had to have been almost burning. He swayed but stood fast. 

“I’m not dying in another bunker,” he hissed. Technoblade desperately dug through his supplies, pulling out another healing potion. Tommy took a step back and crumpled as his left foot gave out. 

“You’re not dying, Tommy, you’re just not safe!” Technoblade almost yelled as he shoved the vile into dark hands. 

“You were going to trap me in an empty room!” His tail, fully furred, was spiked in fear, stripes of gray and black puffed up.

“Just for one night until the thrall wore off! You would’ve been fine.” Technoblade fruitlessly hit the outside button, but his earlier vandalism did its work. The stone face was unmoving as if it truly were just another facet of the mountain. He slammed his fist against the rock, cursing his earlier successful sabotage. Technoblade took care to inhale deeply and release the breath slowly. 

“Alright, get back on Carl. I guess we’ll have to do this at my house.” Ugh. There wasn’t a convenient room to lock him in for the night. Technoblade was beginning to think he’d have to be a lot more proactive, and was already mourning the sleep deprivation that would entail. 

“No! Not after what you just tried!” It was almost a snarl. “I’m not going to just willingly die! I made up my mind yesterday, and I don’t ever plan to change it. I’m not going to go back with you!!”

He stared at the hysterical teen who was glaring at him with suspicion. The pig sighed. “Listen. I get it. Last time we talked we weren’t exactly on good terms.” Opposite side of the battlefield, more like. He’d thought Tommy wouldn’t side with L’Manburg after his exile, but that didn’t exactly mean he’d be with Technoblade. He’d spent years near stitched to Technoblade’s hip but apparently one little assassination attempt was enough to drive him off. Really, where was the loyalty? “But I need you to trust me, just for the next ten minutes. You don’t understand the gravity of the situation, not really. We don’t have time to even be talking now. You’re running out of it far too quickly for words.”

“And you’ll let me go and I can leave and never return?”

He wouldn’t be in any state to. Well. Tommy wouldn’t have enough mind left to realize the trick. Already he was shaking, acting on atavistic instincts and fear rather than any real logic.

“Of course,” Technoblade promised. He didn’t have the dexterity to cross his hooves, and wouldn’t have bothered anyway. 

Tommy tried to stand, but his right foot refused to hold any weight. Technoblade whistled Carl over, scooping up the teen and setting him atop the steed. He flicked the reins as soon as he was on, fleeing into the night. Snowy mountains jutted up around them as a streak of torch fire smeared through the valley. The wind was howling, and wasn't the only thing doing so. Creatures prowled the Arctic night, evil silhouettes that blurred in the buffeting snow. Eyes peering hungrily at their energy filled souls from the craggy cliffs boxing them in. Through the storm he could make out the faint outline of his house, a warm beacon of hope. He pressed Carl faster. Tommy was shaking from behind him.

Shadows suddenly rushed at them, swallowing the trio. Technoblade looked back, squinting through the dark. Tommy had dropped the torch, hands wrapped around himself. Mutilated mixtures of hisses and snarls wormed their way out of his throat. 

“Tommy…?” he cautioned, but there was no response. They were out of time. Though scarcely a dozen yards from the house, he didn’t think they’d make it. Carl suddenly squealed in pain, and the pig glanced back to find Tommy had plunged dark claws into the stallion. The only light came from golden sparks in his flashing eyes.

Well. 

Things were about to get far, far worse. 

He pushed Carl on regardless, the house looming closer. Carl began to become difficult, refusing directions. A deep, rattling growl came from behind, and Carl bucked, trying to throw off the attacker. Technoblade dug his knees and leaned forward, throwing a hand back to catch Tommy by the shirt to prevent him falling off. The teen responded by latching onto his arm, dragging sharp talons through his skin. While Technoblade didn’t scream, it was a near thing. The voices exploded in agony, demanding blood for The Blood God, demanding the death of the fool who dared attack him, demanding a cruel and brutal demise for Tommy. It would be so easy to shove him off the steed and strample the child underhoof, and the voices didn’t care whose hooves it was specifically. 

They were close enough, he decided, and he twisted around, wrapping arms around Tommy and throwing the both of them off the horse. Snow cushioned the impact, flying up around them as they went rolling. He left Tommy half buried in the cold, racing to the gate and kicking the door open for Carl. It was barely closed when Tommy tackled him, surprise sending the pair sliding into the ground. Tommy had him pinned, slashing wicked claws against the arms the boar had thrown up to protect his face. Technoblade kicked the teen off him, scooping him up before he had time to renew the attack. Staggering up the stairs, Tommy thrashed in his arms the entire time, ripping into his back. His retirement tunic was in tatters, his flesh equally shredded by the animalistic teen. Technoblade was almost to the top when the assault paused. It was a brief moment of respite, however. Sharp fangs sunk into his shoulder and his vision was swallowed by ink momentarily, nerves screaming. He lashed out instinctively, throwing the assailant far from him. Tommy tumbled down the steps, claws raking through the snow but finding little purchase. Fur bristling, his eyes flashed bright gold, unmarried by pupils, ringed by a dark mask lit up by the haunting glow. When he snarled his teeth were stained in the boar’s own blood. 

Technoblade threw open the door, hearing the scrambling of Tommy racing up the stair behind him. The teen slammed into the fence at the top, not having the time nor sense to slow before the corner. He shook off the bludgeoning damage, rushing into the house after Technoblade to find him halfway up the ladder. Jagged pain burst through the pig’s calf as Tommy’s claws sunk deep into it, trying to drag him down. Leaving a dark bruise of a hoof print, Technoblade swung a kick at him, managing to connect hard enough to convince the teen to disengage. He made it up to the attic, panting, Tommy scrambling up the ladder far faster than he preferred.

The bell rang out as Technoblade was knocked into it, rolling across the floor in a loud clanging noise. Distracted, Tommy briefly took to attacking the item instead. Technoblade reached for another healing potion and found he had none. Right. Wasted them all already. He spat out a bit of sanguine, rising to his feet. Tommy whirled around at the scuff of hooves on spruce flooring, lashing out. Pain burst into existence as slices opened up across the pig’s snout. Technoblade caught his wrists, keeping enough distance. Tommy’s sharp teeth snapped at him, aiming to tear at his throat. When that failed, he sunk fangs into a hand that held him bound, almost reaching the bone. Technoblade kneed him in the stomach, and the teen released the bite with a hiss. Swipe with the legs and Tommy was down, howling. Technoblade pinned his wrists to the floor, teen trapped beneath his weight. Tommy twisted, scoring faint scratches at the boar’s forearms, but ultimately unable to escape or attack in any meaningful way. For all his feral strength, Technoblade still had the skill to force him back into the vulnerable child he was meant to be. Finish it off, the voices demanded, chanting louder and louder for blood. 

Not yet, Technoblade murmured to them. No, Tommy was far from done with his story. Tommy wanted to be a hero so badly, and Technoblade knew he had so, so much farther to go before his tragedy was over. He’d seen so many heroes over the years, knew how to diagnose them at a glance. Maybe it was the way Tommy rallied people together, the impetus charging forward with a charismatic fervor that swept up nations behind him. How everything always, always came back to Tommy. 

There were two wars Technoblade fought that night. The first, for his own life. The second, for Tommy’s. Each jeopardized the other, and had to be held in equal balance. For hours, Technoblade held him there, blood dripping down his arms, muscles trembling from the tension and exhaustion, but refusing to budge even against animalistic brute strength. Staring into feral golden eyes that held no recognition or reason, and having to accept that, for all his self control, he was the same type of beast. Tommy writhed and hissed, utilizing every opening that presented itself. If he faltered for even a second, Technoblade paid for it in blood and pain. 

The night dragged on. It was a long one.

Tommy’s mouth tasted like blood. He ran his tongue over his teeth and winced as a cut opened on it from a canine tooth. Now it really tasted like blood, through he was still sure it had before. Not important, really. He curled the robe tighter around himself, snuggling deeper into the mattress. The sun was stabbing at his eyes, and he pulled a blanket up to hide away from it. Probably meant he’d slept in. Well, who could blame him? He had a mattress, a proper one, for the first time in a week. Tommy relished the way it sunk beneath him. Ahhh. So soft. That was one of the many things he hated about exile. The wool he’d tried to use for blankets was really itchy, and he always smelled like hay afterwards since that’s what he’d piled up to use for a mattress. So maybe he was sleeping in. Who could blame him? Luxuries should always be appreciated.

Except why was he in a bed? Whose bed was it? The question was nagging at him so, with a sigh, he pulled the blanket off of him, sitting up. He regretted it fairly instantly, since the air was a bit chilly compared to the nice warmth of the covers. The sun was fully shining. Noon, maybe? Perhaps even later. Still stupidly cold for midday. He pulled the robe closer around him. Soft furs billowed up around his head, tickling at his neck in a way that was annoying. 

Tommy did a double take at the coloring. The bright sanguine color was immediately familiar to him. He lifted his arms up, sleeves far too long and fur cuffing hanging down. Why was he in Technoblade’s robe? Tommy looked around the room sharply. It wasn’t immediately familiar, but registered as the anarchist’s attic, if worse for wear. Weird scratches were etched into the floorboards. The subscriber bell was dented and thrown to the side, and it felt wrong to see a religious artifact cast aside, even if Tommy personally didn’t pray to the voices in Technoblade’s head. A window was cracked, a hole completely open to the Arctic air and likely to blame for the chill in the room. The wind hissed sharper than he imagined, his hearing crisp. Damage littered the whole of the room, but more so was it concentrated on its inhabitants, which Tommy realized with a start was a plural word. Because there, at the side of the bed…

Technoblade was sitting on the floor, slumped over the mattress by the footboard. The blankets were scrunched a bit to offer some semblance of a pillow, arms doing most of the labor. Long bloody scratches lined them, crusted and starting to scab. Some sort of animal bite pierced his hand in a mutilated crescent. Claw marks lined his snout, littered in fainter and more sparing lines across the rest of his face. His blue tunic was tattered, rising and falling softly with his unconscious breathing. 

Tommy blinked. That was…something. He wondered what had managed that sort of damage, since Technoblade usually killed things too fast to acquire many (if any) wounds. He’d fallen asleep before healing, too. Not a typical mistake for someone as experienced as he was. Must’ve been a wild fight.

But it still didn’t explain what Tommy was doing there, so he didn’t really care. 

He at least didn’t seem to have gotten hurt, which was nice. Actually, he felt better than ever, the aches and pains accrued during exile having seemed to fade in the restful slumber. To his growing consternation, when he looked down he didn’t have his shirts on. Tight gauze was wound around his chest. A few smaller bandages littered his torso, mostly directing to things he remembered, like a burnt patch on his upper hip from where he’d been stupid and stood too close to a pit, or a slash across his stomach from a piglin back when he’d been allowed in the Nether. Tommy’s brow wrinkled. No tight feeling burned in the explosion injury when he stretched the wrong way, nor ache in his belly. Glancing at the scratches on Technoblade’s arms, Tommy hitched up the long sleeves, wondering if he’d find wrappings for those as well.

Tommy froze.There was blood under his nails. Splinters of wood, too. Except they weren’t nails at all, a fact suddenly undeniable despite how little it made sense. They were claws.

His hands were the obsidian black of wither disease, except no streaks of ebony traced up his veins like poison, and his hand didn’t feel feeble even if they were trembling. It ended a bit past his wrist, hair raising as a chill crept over him. No. No, not hair, fur. Tommy quickly shuffled the sleeve back over the weird sight. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, and elected to ignore it.

The tightness of bandages stretched along his feet as well and, with a quick glance at the still slumbering Technoblade, Tommy began to slowly peel the blankets away from the end of the bed. His toes curled a bit in the cold. They were a tad too long and the same dark coloration of his hands. Crisp white gauze wound around the foot that had been missing a shoe and been forced to endure hours of travel across snow and ice. More bandages encircled his other ankle, and it twinged a bit but felt fine compared to other injuries from the last week. 

To be frank, he was flummoxed. For the first time in ages he barely hurt at all. His knees didn’t feel battered, despite all the times he’d been shoved into a kneeling position, forced to cast aside his belongings. His jaw didn’t ache from a punishment for getting mouthy. In fact…he didn’t hear any ringing at all. The last explosion had been far too close, and he hadn’t been able to hear much at all for a bit until after he’d come out of the ocean after jumping, the briny waters having apparently unclogged something, even if it burned. Still, the ringing had remained. Sort of like a twitch prime bell, except constant and never ceasing. He’d never thought he’d hate the sound of pure ringing, but then it hadn’t gone away for an entire day. 

But it was gone now. Tommy wasn’t sure what had managed that. Amazed, he reached to touch his ears. 

He didn’t have any. His clawed hands only met warm skin and the beginnings of his own hair. What? That didn’t make any sense, he could hear things still. The bed creaking as he shifted, the soft respiration of Technoblade, a horse whinnying from outside. The skin where they should’ve been felt patchy like scar tissue, trailing in a direction, almost as if it had been stretched. But where were his ears?  

A little higher than normal, was the answer, longer and fluffier as well. Tommy slightly frantically felt at his nose. Thankfully it was just as it had been the day before, which really shouldn’t have been such a surprise as it was, except apparently his body had decided to completely change while he hadn’t been looking. The area around his eyes was definitely furry though, and he carefully traced the edges to find it spilled over to the crest of his cheekbones, arcing around his temples and merging with his eyebrows.

It was about that time that Tommy wanted to start screaming. Something was obviously very, very wrong with him, and it wasn’t like he could really think of any better solution. Except Technoblade was partially draped over the end of the bed and seemed inclined to continue sleeping, and Tommy didn’t think waking him would be a great idea, even if (for whatever reason) Tommy was already in his house, bed, and clothes. 

Dream, right? No, nightmare, definitely. Tommy was very well acquainted with nightmares, even if this was a very vivid one and Tubbo wasn’t there watching him silently and apathetically. Still, it was definitely a dream. That was likely why nothing hurt or made sense. 

(But he couldn’t shake the terrible gut wrenching suspicion that he was very awake.)

Tommy peeled himself out of the bed, careful not to disturb the slumbering boar. He untangled himself from the robe, setting it aside, and standing up. None of the typical dizziness accompanied the gesture, and no ink filled his vision briefly. Tommy blinked a bit in surprise. The wood boards were a little cold, in a way that was sharper on the pads of his toes and balls of his feet. Thankfully his trousers were still on, if rolled up to his knees. A bit of further bandaging peaked out from the edge of them. Bitter air nipped at him, and with a shiver Tommy decided he’d use the anarchist’s robe. He’d probably stolen it or something anyway, might as well keep it. 

When he took a step forward he found his balance was terrible. He was all off kilter, pulled backwards by a weight. He glanced back, eyes widening. A bushy striped tail swished behind him. Turning around in circles didn’t work because it seemed to follow his movement.

“What the-” he breathed. Alright. That’s it. This was getting too weird. Tommy snuck out on tiptoe, casting one last glance to make sure Technoblade was still out, and stealthily shimmied down the various ladders to get to his hide out. 

He felt a lot safer once inside his hidey hole. The bright patches of dandelion concrete were calming. The prime log was comforting under his hands. The thin fur on them made it harder to feel, but it seemed he’d been left a few patches of dark calluses at the top of his palms and fingers. He checked his bare foot, and it was the same. Toe beans. Oh god this was a nightmare. But, to be honest, he’d lived far worse nightmares than whatever this was his brain had churned up.

Tommy set to work, starting a small pile of pilfered objects that he planned to bring with him. As he worked, small snatches of memory slipped through his mind. A taste of divinity on his tongue, golden ambrosia warming his insides. Technoblade shouting, the words gone but the anger and impatience and…fear? still clear on his animalistic face. Rows and rows of black skulls and the sharp bite of terror. Being trapped, empty eye sockets all trained on him as a door rose, it was just like Eret, he was going to die again, scrambling up the door, claws tearing at the surface until he was almost there, almost free-

None of it made any sense. But a trio of things were obvious. 

1: Technoblade had discovered Tommy’s shelter.

2: Tommy had to leave as soon as possible.

3: He had nowhere left to go. 

But even with no destination in mind, it was clear he wasn’t safe here. He didn’t think there was anywhere else in the world that would be any different, but he still needed to run if not to something at least away from it. He poofed the ladened bag into his inventory, keeping the valuable things on hand. Primarily by tucking the prime log under one arm, hand gripped on the reassuring sensation of a sword’s hilt that was in the scabbard on his hip. It was slightly off, tactile sensation dimmed by fur, but it made him feel more confident either way. 

He scrambled up the ladder into a large chamber. The startled emerald eyes of a crowd of villagers met his own. Seemed they’d risen in the time it took for him to get ready. Tommy glanced between them all, slowly raising a blackened finger in the universal gesture for silence. A handful of dogs wove through the people, streaming up to meet him. Tense, if not ready to attack. Tommy set out a pacifying hand, a nervous smile stretching across his face. 

“Good boys?” he tried.

The sound of barking jolted fear through him. Tommy scrambled up the ladder with far more speed than he expected, head whipping around once he crawled into the next chamber, frantic to find an exit. He dashed into the cold, acutely aware he hadn’t managed to find either his shoe or shirt. A loud scream startled him and Tommy flinched away, a horse rearing up and kicking their forelegs in a threatening manner. Fear disentangled itself from his guts slowly. There was a fence. The horse couldn’t get out. They were still squealing in distress, joining in with the chorus of barks, howls, and the faint calls of the villagers. 

It took muffled footsteps to register in his odd ears before Tommy could move again, exploding into action as he scrambled away from the house. The snow burned his feet, but less so than it had in the past. He pulled the anarchist’s robes as tight as he could to ward against the chill. 

A door slammed open, his name was shouted. It only served to spur him on faster. Snow flew up behind him. He glanced back to see Technoblade racing down stairs after him. Though Tommy had shorter legs and a heavier load, he also had a head start and fear. Technoblade sprinted after him, but wasn’t able to catch up. A glance over his shoulder found the boar leaned over, condensation hanging in the air as he panted. The teen slowed, stopping as well. Crisp air burned in his lungs. Honestly, he’d expected Technoblade to do better. Not exhaust so quickly, at the very least. Uneasily, Tommy continued on, glancing back every once in a while. Technoblade seemed to be headed back to his house, defeated. 

It took the muffled thumps of four hooves for Tommy to realize what the boar’s plan was. Ice gripped his stomach as he saw the horse racing towards him at a gallop, the small figure of the pig steady on their bare back. Tommy broke into a sprint, darting for the tree line. Tall pines soon hid the view of Technoblade, but he knew it was only a matter of time. There wasn’t any way to outrun him, no way to hide with snow revealing his every step. Tommy ditched the prime log and supplies, scrambling up a tall conifer. It was far easier than he expected, claws able to hook in better than his fingers ever could. He figured he made it a decent distance by the time he heard the sound of his hunters, making it farther still before he could actually see Technoblade pulling to a stop, looking up at him from far below. 

The ground swam a bit. He figured it was enough to break his neck should he fall. Well. Maybe not, actually, what with the snow and all. It wasn’t anywhere the height of his tower, but the fact he’d been higher didn’t seem to make it better. The comparison was making things worse, actually. Whatever. Not like he was afraid of heights. Tommy shivered a bit, but it was entirely because of the cold. Undoubtedly. 

From far below, Technoblade frowned at him. It tugged a recent looking gouge across his muzzle. “You couldn’t have waited till post breakfast? Or at least till after we got you some sort of shoes?” 

Tommy returned the expression. “Why the hell am I an animal boy?”

“You’re the one who stole cursed fruit from me. I’d say that one can be pretty clearly chalked up to a tragic flaw, since you’re a known kleptomaniac.”

“Huh?”

“Thief,” Technoblade huffed, visage hidden in snatches by the bristling pine needles raining down clumps of snow from the teen’s jostling of the tree. 

Flattered, Tommy grinned. “Yeah I am.”

“Are you gonna come down anytime soon? Cause I gotta say I had a pretty terrible time dealing with you all night, and I’d really appreciate more than four hours of sleep. I mean, I get it, if that’s too much to ask, but as terrible as I’m sure this day is going to go, I'd bet another hour or two would be good for the both of us.”

“You’re welcome to leave whenever you want,” Tommy retorted. “I won’t come down until you’re long gone.” The claws of his feet curled into the branch beneath him, peeling up bits of bark. 

“Tommy, I’m a mass murderer, not a monster. I’m not letting you back out into the Arctic without a proper shirt on. I’d prefer if you had actual supplies with you, and if your injuries were completely healed that would be fantastic, but I’m willing to settle for you not to be shirtless. I put way too much effort in keeping you alive last night, and refuse to let all my effort go to waste.”

“What did you do to me?” Tommy accused distrustfully. Technoblade’s words were sounding far too…not evil. But it was probably his fault, right? It was usually Technoblade’s fault. 

The boar scowled, twisting the bloodied scratches across his snout. “You did that all by yourself. I stopped it from being worse.”

“Worse!?” Tommy spluttered. “I’m a furry! It can’t get much worse than that!”

Technoblade gestured up and down his susoid body. “You’re barely there. You still got a normal nose, most of your skin is right, your skull didn’t change much, and your ears are almost in the right place. I’d say you got real lucky.” There was a dark and bitter bite to his words. 

“I have a TAIL!” He was very aware of the fact, since it was lashing seemingly of its own accord, running into tree branches and causing him to worry about his balance.

“You still have fingers. Stop complaining. You didn’t have to be a mammal. Your lungs could’ve been stuck half way between breathing air and filtering it from gills.”

“I’m a raccoon!”

Technoblade frowned. “Really? I thought it was a cat.”

“I. Am. Not. A. Cat boy!” Tommy carefully punctuated the syllables to make sure it got into his stupid little pig brain. “But why am I a little raccoon boy? Why not make me a pig, like you?”

“If it were my choice you’d still be human!” he shouted in a sudden outburst. “But you’ve destroyed that, Tommy. You’ve crossed a line without thinking and you can’t ever go back! So excuse me from trying to make sure you don’t go any further! Now can we please take this indoors, since I know I’m freezing, and you can’t be doing any better fifty feet in the air and barely clothed.”

“And why would I trust you for one second!? I know you’d kill me given the chance! Everyone would!”

“That’s rich, coming from you. Tommy, I wasn’t the one trying to murder anyone last night. That was all you.” He spread his arms out wide, displaying the numerous scratches lining his body. Tommy’s eyes dropped to his hands. The claws were sunk into spruce bark, but he could still see the dried blood caked underneath them. 

He’d thought maybe it had been a really bad monster attack. Maybe wolves. But that didn’t make much sense, in retrospect. Technoblade would’ve killed them long before he got so injured. Far too many times had he seen the way the man danced in battle, dealing lethality at every turn, laughing in wicked bloodlust the whole time. His eyes darted back down to the swine, checking for weapons. No cruel glint of axe edge or blade, no crossbow strapped to his torn up back. Could be his robes hid some sort of dagger or hunting knife, but ultimately he didn’t seem to be reaching for any weapon. He could always summon one from his inventory of course, but that tended to take longer than simply drawing a weapon, so most people preferred to simply wear tools on them. So while he could still be taken by surprise, it was a minor point in Technoblade’s favor. 

Barely, just barely, Tommy could make out the indents of a deep bite mark along one hooved hand. Slowly, he lifted his own hand, gently placing it in his mouth and pressing down the bite. The teeth cut sharper than he expected, canines far too long. It matched the size of the bite mark on Technoblade. Tommy removed the hand, wiping it on his grimy shorts. His mouth still remembered the taste of copper. 

“Why…why did you let me? Why didn’t you just…kill me?” It made no tactical sense, and Technoblade was a tactical guy. 

His voice was soft for all that it carried, but there was the strangest undercurrent he couldn’t pinpoint. “Believe it or not, Tommy, I like you, and I think you’re going to do amazing things. You’re a hero.” But the way he said it felt wrong, like that wasn’t something good. Perhaps that was simply learned instincts from Dream. Weaponized flattery. But that couldn’t make sense, because what could Technoblade possibly hope to manipulate out of him that he couldn’t take by force? Not that Dream wasn’t the same, but he liked to get in your head in a way Technoblade never cared to. Technoblade never felt the need to lie to anyone, preferring brutal honesty, so if Technoblade said that Tommy supposed he must believe it. Still. The light in his dark eyes felt ominous, if only for a moment. 

Tommy didn’t understand much. But a sort of realization settled on him: that he’d been the one that had brutalized Technoblade and that, despite that, he was still very much breathing. 

Guess that meant he wasn’t lying about wanting Tommy alive, no matter his intentions. 

Tommy dug through a barrel of food, rummaging for something to eat. Technoblade was preparing some hashbrowns on a stove since apparently everything he ate just had to include potatoes, but he was impatient. 

“There’s some apples in the chest to the left, could you grab some?” He complied, finding an overflowing quantity of ruby produce in a thin netted bag. He got out a handful, setting them on the counter, and returning to scavenging. Technoblade started cutting them up, adding a few slices to the pan to sizzle like a weirdo. Tommy noticed some jerky next to the apple bundle and scooped it up, rubbing it a bit between his palms on an instinct he didn’t used to possess. The flavor was odd, to be sure, but he was hungry. 

“Your cooking is trash,” he said later through a mouthful of hashbrowns. To be fair, it tasted amazing, filling his belly with wonderful warmth and chasing away the lingering chill in his bones. There’d been an almost constant ache in his stomach during exile, and he’d spent hours just trying to scrape enough food so that he could sleep the whole night instead of waking ravenous at early hours. He might be willing to stay just for the fact he wouldn’t have to survive on his own. But. Like. He wouldn’t actually say that. 

“Yeah, I was never as good as Phil,” Technoblade admitted.

“Phil cooked?” Tommy for the life of him couldn’t remember. It’d been years, afterall, only spotty handfuls of visits to remember his own father by. There was always a weird feeling in his gut whenever Phil was brought up, but Tommy always elected to ignore it. Life was complicated enough without unearthing more issues. “Guess that makes sense. He could do everything, pretty much.” He gnawed upon the meat. It paired pretty well with the apple slices and hashbrowns, actually.

Technoblade looked confused. “What are you eating? Where’d you get that?” He felt the strangest sense of déjà vu.

“Jerky?? It was by the apples.”

“But that chest was for trades, so that doesn’t make sense…” his eyes widened, and a revolted expression grew on his snout. “Gross! Spit that out!”

“Never,” Tommy hissed, with an echoed vehemence and conviction that confused him.

“Tommy, that's rotten flesh!” Tommy immediately spluttered out the meat. It made a really ugly lump on the table. He could suddenly notice the little veins of putrid green running through it.

“WHY WOULD YOU PUT THAT WITH YOUR FOOD!?!?!?!?!?”

“It was for trading with the villagers!! Why do you keep putting things in your mouth that are bad for you!?” They dissolved into a brief chaotic shouting match. Breakfast, otherwise, was very lovely. Some of the villagers drifted in and out, taking part in the exchange of meals. Tommy had never been fond of their food, since in his opinion it was on the bland side, but it was nice. Apparently the inedible addition to his breakfast did little to divert his appetite. He commented something to the effect. “Probably the raccoon stuff. Honestly, I could probably eat it, too, but I have standards,” the boar sniffed. “Your constitution is likely far better than it used to be.”

“Wait. So I could just eat rotten flesh and be fine?”

“Well. Probably want some variety in your diet…”

The idea took hold of him, passion lighting up his features. “I’d never have to starve again!” 

Tommy needed to watch his tongue better. Subconsciously, Technoblade’s brow furrowed, but it was ephemeral. “I mean, you could…I don’t think legally I can let you eat it though. CPS would kill me.”

“What’s that?” He couldn’t imagine anything powerful enough to murder Technoblade. 

“Something that should really exist in this land. They provide the same service I do: taking care of orphans.”

Tommy paled. “They make organizations for that?”

“Yep. Just another reason why governments are awful,” the boar snorted. Technoblade was laughing at him, he was sure of it. Tommy scowled.

“What do you even have against governments?”

“Tommy, you can’t sit there after being exiled and still think they care about their citizens. I’d think your rose tinted glasses would be long broken by this point. Which is sorta what I’ve been thinking about for awhile. What do you think about teaming up?”

“What? No. That’s stupid.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have a reason to trust you.” There was a vast ravine between knowing someone wouldn’t stab him and being all buddy buddy with them. Not that, uh, Tommy had a whole lot of options for friends these days. 

“You seem to be benefiting so far. Gotten a bunch of supplies out of it, food, clothing, medical care.”

“That was you?” He glanced at the bandages adorning him. 

Technoblade pinned him with the most dumbstruck expression. “Who else? Had to wait for you to pass out first, since you were attacking me for hours, but yeah, that was me.”

A disquiet settled over Tommy. Right, apparently he’d done that. “And you didn’t patch up yourself?”

“I sorta fell asleep before I got around to it.”

“Well, that still doesn’t mean I’d associate with you,” Tommy sniffed.

“What do you think the arrangement is now?” he asked genuinely.

“I’m stealing from you,” Tommy said seriously, sitting in Technoblade’s robe, wrapped in his bandages, inside his house, eating his food. “Besides, you’re evil. It’d be bad for my brand.”

“I'm in retirement, and that’s not going to ever change. I’m at peace now. I’ve no qualms with you, not that I ever did.”

“You literally tried to kill me on the battlefield.”

“I didn’t try to kill you, I attacked you. Big difference.” Ok maybe he’d a little bit tried to kill Tommy, but that didn’t make him special. Technoblade tried to kill a lot of people. It didn’t mean anything, he was just trying to force Tommy to respawn so he’d stop being a nuisance and learn a lesson, not take a life. “Last night you did more damage to me than I ever did to you. Call that your revenge, if you want, cause I’d say the score is even.” 

He was battered. Gouges lined his flesh, scabbed over, but then again he’d always healed unnaturally quickly. Tommy couldn’t even count the wounds. Dried blood caked into his fur. Deep exhaustion lined his eyes, and Tommy faintly wondered how long his assault had raged. He couldn’t imagine doing it, but the words rang true, the proof laid at his feet. “What…what happened? You said you’d tell me.”

Technoblade sighed. “I did. To be brief, you stole something you shouldn’t have. A sort of poison, if you will, but not a normal kind. Part of it draws out power, your latent beastial characteristics. It makes you stronger, faster, resistant to damage, heal better.”

“That doesn’t sound bad,” Tommy frowned.

“But that’s just to lure you in, see? It’s the most addicting substance ever made. It worms in your mind, Tommy, making you do anything for it. That’s what happened to you last night. I’m the one who took it away, so you fought me. You were feral.”

“So…it’s a drug? Like Wilbur’s lab?” Old memories stirred. The birth of a country in a small metal van. 

Technoblade pondered the information. “Didn’t know he had one. I should probably check in, make sure he wasn’t…uh. I don’t know. There’s quite a bit more magic involved. I’d explain it, but it’s a curse I don’t want to share with you. You only got a small dose, and the hope is it’ll wear off. While that happened it would be safest to monitor you. That’s why I wanted to form an allyship.”

“How long would that take?”

“A week, maybe. I’m not sure, I only stopped the advancement of the effects in myself long after, and only because Philza figured it out. I don’t know how he did it, but we were further gone than you are now, so I think it should be ok.” Oh gods let him be ok. Technoblade was not emotionally prepared to watch a child die because of him. Uh, poor choice of wording, Technoblade loved making children die because of him, but Philza’s kid? The one he watched learn how to walk? The one he taught how to fight? That was a bit much for even him. 

Tommy squinted at the boar. “So, just one week and I’d be free?”

“If that’s what you want,” Technoblade replied evenly. Tommy wasn’t sure what was happening, or what would come of his apparent mistake. But Technoblade seemed to have more understanding, and could probably make sure he didn’t die or something. The way the anarchist was acting made him feel uneasy. It wasn’t often Technoblade looked scared, after all. Tommy agreed to the arrangement. Besides, if he got a bed and stuff out of it, he couldn’t complain. “Alright, a few base rules,” Technoblade began. “Don’t steal my stuff.”

“Deal’s off.”

“Too late. Two, there’s a few off limit areas, since I got some pretty dangerous things lying around. Don’t go messing around with Steven-”

“Who?”

“My polar bear-”

“Your whAT!?”

“-or Carl, I think he’s scared of you right now. Don’t trade with the villagers if I’m not there since they’ll price gouge you. Don’t go lurking around the mountain behind the house, or any lava pits, or the Nether, at least until we get you some armor for the last one.”

“I’m not allowed in the Nether.” Dream made that explicit. 

“Good, so you’re listening to me. Please don’t step on any turtle eggs, don’t eat any more rotten flesh, and don’t hit any dogs because there’s about a hundred of them and they’d tear you to pieces.”

“I’m not gonna go looking for trouble,” Tommy scowled.

“Right, the next rule is don’t lie to me.”

“Hey! I don’t start things!”

Technoblade gave him a flat look. “Pretty sure you’re the instigator for every single war in the last year.”

Tommy stuck out his tongue. “Well I have a few rules of my own. First, you must call me Supreme Alpha Male. It’s non-negotiable. Second, give me your sword. Third-” a dog began to bark an alarm, carrying crisply despite distance. It wouldn’t be much of a problem on its own, save the fact Technoblade had not been exaggerating about his quantity of canines, who all decided to descend into frenzied barks. Both sets of ears flattened at the cacophony, Tommy cursing as he tried to cover up the sound with his hands. “What the hell? Nevermind, I don’t want to live with you if they’re always barking like this,” he shouted over the commotion. 

Technoblade frowned and pushed his seat back as he rose, hooves clacking upon the floorboards as he crossed to a frost stained window. “They don’t tend to unless there’s a threat,” he muttered, peering into the edge of the clearing where spruce sprung up like an encroaching army. 

“They didn’t clock onto me,” Tommy sniffed. 

“Right, I said a threat.” Gilded blackstone eyes narrowed at the white blur marching through the equally alabaster snow. But the streaks of viridian were unmistakable. “Is that– can’t be, there’s no reason to come. What on earth could Dream want with me?”

The shudder that raced down Tommy’s spine went on for far too long, his skin prickling as fur bristled on his tail. Nausea tangled his guts in tight knots. But shouldn’t he have expected this? Of course Dream would hunt him down and find him. Dream would be worried about his friend. Dream would be worried about his pawn. What was Tommy even doing here? Dream was going to be mad at him for causing trouble, he should’ve never left, he should’ve obeyed, should’ve been good and stayed where he was supposed to, should’ve–

“Uh, judging by your reaction, I’m guessing you know why he’s visiting?”

“I. I shouldn’t be here. Deals off, I can’t stay. He’s here to bring me back.” He didn’t know what there was even left to take from him, but Dream always found a way to escalate punishment. He knew he was the only thing Dream was scared of, but it certainly didn’t feel like that now when he felt like he couldn’t breath perfectly good air, felt he was waking up from another nightmare only to find the ocean closing up his throat once again. 

“Excuse me, but you aren’t getting out of an allyship that easily.” He began to root around in a chest, shoving through vials of multicolored liquid and desperately trying to remember the right hue. Whispers of smoke curled from the edges of his hooves where they touched the items, curling into the letters of true names that danced over the potions as he sorted through them. “I don’t care what Dream has to say about it, frankly, and I don’t trust him to make sure you survive the withdrawal.” Not if Tommy was this freaked out about even seeing him, and especially not since he knew Dream had god apples. 

“He’ll find me! He always does.” 

Technoblade shoved a lilac colored potion into his claws. “Not if he can’t see you. Allies protect one another, got it? I’m not going to let some chest high teletubby steal my new goon that easily.” Tommy had no idea what a tele-Tubbo was, but Technoblade was deceptively old. “Can’t find you if he can’t see you, right?”

Fear still curled in the pit of his stomach. “What if it goes wrong?”

“We’ll just be having a conversation, Tommy. But if he wants to speak it in the universal language…” he bared his tusks in a reassuring rictus. “Well. We settled the score a long time ago, and I don’t think he’ll want to contest that 6-4 in my own territory. Drink up. I can hear his footsteps.” The threat had Tommy scrambling with the cork and tipping the tonic down his throat. It was sugary to the point of over saturation, gritty, with an unpleasant flavor from a mixture of mushrooms, redstone, and, of course, the bitter taste of netherwart. Still, despite it he could taste pure gold on his tongue in a way that made a beast slumbering in his chest rear its ugly head and demand more. Tommy eagerly sucked down the rest of the potions, which proved a mistake as at once the fermented spider eyes slid into his throat. He choked it down since it wouldn’t work otherwise, but hated every second of the feeling of optic nerves slithering down. 

Particles began to rise off his skin, steam swirling up into the air. More and more billowed up, his skin peeling back as it evaporated into light gray clouds. His muscles stung a little as they were exposed, then dissolved likewise, his body stripping down layer by layer, bones strung out for anyone to see. Then little left save for the suspension of organs and curling intestines, and then nothing at all as it converted back into the smoke it was made of. A cloud lingered in the shape of his silhouette till he took a step back. Only the thinnest distortion of fog remained, really only a haze, though it condensed a little where his feet would be, scraps of flesh and claws and a few bone fragments that suggested toes. Technoblade waved a hand through to disperse the cloud, accidentally swatting Tommy and causing a flash of shoulder to appear and dissolve just as quickly. 

“Hide,” Technoblade hissed as the knock on the door rang out. “I’ll go about my morning routine.” Tommy stuck an invisible tongue out at him, then scurried over to a trapdoor table next to the fire, hoping it would mask the curls of smoke peeling off him. Just barely phalanges materialized enough for him to open the flap and duck under. Realizing he wouldn’t see anything, Tommy summoned his axe and cracked it through in time with the knocks, just barely making enough of a scratch that he could peer through. “Cut that out! We’re trying to appear normal!”

“Techno, I know you’re in there,” Dream sang through the door as viridian crept over the threshold. “I can see the smoke in the chimney.” 

“Give me a second! I’m praying!” His voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “Tommy tell me right now what he’s after you for so I know how angry he is.” 

“He hates me for being more powerful than him.” 

Technoblade bit off a response as the knocking grew more insistent, scrambled upstairs, rifling through his bedroom for something. Green pooled at the edge of the threshold, but didn’t quite dare to invade the anarchist’s lair. “Stop stalling, Techno, I know he’s there.”

Technoblade slid down the ladder in a way that surely would have given his fingers friction burns if he’d had any. “If you’re looking for Phil I haven’t seen him in a while. I could send him a crow if you want? Leave a message after the ring?” The clear sound of a bell rang out as a hoof flicked it. Technoblade set it before the fire in a rush that nearly knocked it over, then stampeded over to the door, flinging it open. Right. Casual. Technoblade leaned against the threshold in a way that blocked the entrance. The puppet looked up at him with the same manufactured smile as always. Snow capped his shoulders, streaking water stains down the wooden body. Emerald strings leading to nowhere picked up the slack, bringing the jointed hand up to wave a smooth salutation. Not that Technoblade would ever think of any of Dream’s movements stiff. He knew the Dreamon’s little body far too well for that, knew exactly how much force each ball and socket could take before breaking. Remembering the taste of glorious combat, the voices grew excited seeing him. Technoblade curled his lips back into a tight smile, bearing his tusks.  

“Dream! It’s been awhile. Something’s different about you. Wait. Don’t tell me, I’ll get it in a second. Hmm…why, is that a birch body? I thought you preferred oak, or has that changed recently?” He honestly couldn’t tell. During their duel, Dream had certainly put up a valiant fight, but had gone through a number of bodies to do so. Longer the fight went, the rougher the construction on each new mannequin. Word was Dream claimed that’s why Technoblade had won, but frankly the boar didn’t care as long as his point was made. 

“Where’s Tommy?” Dream asked at once. 

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy…short kid about knee height right?” Or so it had seemed only yesterday. Mortals and their maturation. He was almost impressed they didn’t hurt themselves growing that fast. “Last time I saw him was on the battlefield I believe. Shouldn’t you be checking with L’Manburg?” The puppet stood a little too close, pressing to get inside, but Technoblade was steadfast in his barrier. Of course, that did little to stop the chartreuse shadow seeping beneath his feet and impatiently pouring into the room behind him. Technoblade figured obstinance in this was useless, and standing out in the cold really only affected him, and so motioned a hand inside. “Come in, come in. I was just in the middle of morning worship.”

As the door closed behind, Dream stood stock still, staring at him. Technoblade fidgeted awkwardly as the green shadow swept through, rustling the tapestries that dwarfed his cozy walls as they were once meant for throne rooms and dangling over fortresses, pausing at the golden crown gathering dust due to his retirement, ghosting over the clutter of items thrown about, scrutes and dandelions and netherwarts that spoke to a man who dreamed of power and had the dearth of knowledge needed to acquire it. Also to a man who was very bad at cleaning. Also that. 

Shimmering green bathed the room, and the doll’s head tilted up to stare at him dead on. “So you don’t know where Tommy is?”

He did not have the hours of sleep necessary for this. His hooves drummed on the handle of his axe, though he didn’t mind the nervous tic if it made a point. “Can’t say I do. I’d like to know where he is myself, actually, our last conversation got…interrupted. By the withers I unleashed. Directly onto him.” There was a very muffled thump from the corner of the room that human ears wouldn’t have picked up on, though his certainly did. But Tommy's opinions on the matter were irrelevant if it convinced Dream he wasn’t working with the teen. Then again, Dream didn’t have ears technically, so Technoblade really didn’t know if the noise would alert him, or the breathing and heart hammering there would’ve been if Tommy was physical. Hard to plan around an enemy who was a chunk of wood. 

“Really now? He didn’t scamper off here, tail between his legs?” Technoblade stiffened a little at the idiom. It was a little too accurate for his liking, even if Dream wouldn’t know why. He passed the mannequin brusquely, kneeling reverently before his subscriber bell. Light from the cobble fireplace glinted off the relic, catching the gouges Tommy had left in it last night. Technoblade took a deep, calm breath, and rang the bell. The pure notes sent out ripples in the sea of voices, settling them into tranquility. They’d been far too bold for his liking recently. Honestly if anyone had heard his internal monologue in the last day they’d probably think him a psychopath. Or, well, a bigger one than he really was. 

“I can’t think of where he could possibly be, since it’s not like anyone wants him,” Dream continued. “No one but me, of course. I’m the only one who sheltered him after everything he’s done, and the ungrateful brat–”

The bell rang out sharply, cutting the mannequin off. “Gwyndola of the Southern Moor, thank you for your donation,” Technoblade announced clearly. Beads of gold and green experience grew visible as they flowed towards him, trailing along the invisible bonds that led to his soul like dew drops hanging on spiderwebs. Technoblade accepted the tithe from the long deceased follower. 

Dream stopped utterly in his negging tracks. “What– what are you doing?”

“I’m using the subscriber bell.”

“Why is it called that?”

“Because they subscribe to my beliefs.” Dream drew in as if he could not stop himself, consumed by fascination. Unearthly green light poured over the golden bell. A wooden hand reached out to ring it, but he seized the wrist in a vice grip, hard enough that little slivers of bark peeled up beneath his hooves. 

“Kindly don’t touch my bell.” The voices bristled with incense, and he was right there with them. The wrist was turning to splinters in his grasp, but Dream scarcely noticed, enraptured. Then again, what need would a mannequin have for pain? 

“What are your beliefs?” It was a little sharp for mere curiosity, closer to a demand. 

“I practice some good old fashion self confidence. I’m a me-first kinda guy, nothing complicated.” Only difference was, he’d managed to convince others to believe it as well. The voices began to cheer his name, and it was sweet, deranged music to his ears. Not his current name, no, Technoblade was just another moniker to him. He’d had so, so many of them over the centuries, to the point he could scarcely remember his original name. Only one title mattered to him anymore: that of The Blood God. 

Unearthly shadows draped over him as the Dreamon seeped over the scene. A flash of a smaragdine scimitar smile widened along the golden surface of the bell. “Might I watch?”

Technoblade glanced at the clock hung over the threshold. Tommy had a very limited time, but if it served as a distraction… “Why, Dream, are you thinking about converting?” Like hell he’d let the Dreamon anywhere near the inside of his skull. The haze rippled around him, emerald mist catching on the bonds he’d stitched to countless mortal souls over the years. He recognized it from their fight years ago, a verdant briar around his head that Dream had found endlessly useful for exploitation in their match. Something had just always seemed unnatural about the wooden puppet being pulled throughout life by a conniving shadow spirit, but what exactly about the situation was weird he couldn’t put his hoof on. “The congregation is really sparse at the moment, it’s a real shame. There is a hefty membership fee, I’ll warn you.” He rang the bell again, letting a subscriber surface from the sea of voices. “Wickburn of the Basalt Bastion, thank you for your donation.”

Dream watched intently as the experience slipped down from the tangled knot around his head to be embraced by his soul. Strange to see the red life bathed in viridian hues beneath the spirit’s influence. “Who is sending it?” It was hard to attribute really much intent at all to painted on eyes, but Dream certainly managed to have a spark of hungry ambition in his features. Perhaps it was the way the strings drew taut around him, or the fact his hand lay in splinters, barely hanging on by jade threads, and yet he didn’t deign to care. 

He weighed how much he really wanted Dream to know. “Worshipers.” Frankly, Technoblade didn’t imagine him having the ability to replicate his own experimental procedure. Simply, there weren’t enough humans left in the world to generate massive, all consuming, writhing bodies of zealots. Had to have entire societies before one could define the cultural zeitgeist. He knew of one temple in the entire land, and the Prime Church didn’t have the most committed of congregations. 

“Who do they worship?”

Technoblade’s snout split into a wide, tusked grin. “Me.”

Dream straightened, drawing back slightly, contemplating the development. Technoblade knew what it looked like, do not mistake him in that. Megalomania wasn’t a look many pulled off well. But was it not simply what he was owed? By his continued existence, the subscribers clung to life as well. It was only right that they should make sacrifices to him. Perhaps the echoes of ghosts were cacophonous inside the confines of his god apple corrupted skull, but it was worth it to be so adored. Immortal as he’d foolishly become, was it really so wrong to wish to keep reminders of the humans he’d once known? To try to ensure they lived as long as he did? He was insane, yes, but he was reasonable about it. Anyone would go crazy living as long as he had, Technoblade was just willing to admit it. 

The mannequin plucked at a bond, considering it. “How many followers do you have?”

“Alive? None.” Technoblade was suddenly very much reminded of the fact Tommy was listening. Mostly, because the blithering moron had chosen that moment to have a snack. Golden carrots, by the scent of it, and even if Dream seemed too enraptured to notice Technoblade might just have heart palpitation. “I have at least one candidate I’m heavily considering at the moment.” Yeah, and if he was stupid enough to make noise when hiding, Technoblade might dismiss the nomination altogether. 

There it was again, that intensity. “Bonds snap after death,” Dream responded, but there was an amusement in the statement, like he thought himself above a principle of the universe. Men of power always thought themselves above the rules though, and Technoblade was no exception. Only difference was he was fair enough to recognize laws shouldn’t bind others, either. 

“Not necessarily.” Particularly if you tied pieces of reverence to an immortal beast. “Depends on your afterlife.” As for himself, Technoblade did not concern himself with thoughts of after. That was a petty concern for mortals to worry themselves over, and he’d abandoned it long ago. Death was his to unleash, so it would make little sense for him to fear it. 

As for Tommy…well, he couldn’t help it, Technoblade was fond of the boy. Tommy was a charming personality that would fit nicely in his collection. He wasn’t to die for some time yet, hopefully. Genuinely, he wanted to watch the boy live with all that entailed. Tommy was destined to be one of the greats, with all the inevitable doom that implied. It would all be so perfectly tragic. To pick up his mangled corpse just as gently as he’d held Tommy as an infant, and to finally deliver him to The Blood God’s Valhalla. Oh how he dreamed of that day. Technoblade deeply loved Tommy, and so waited patiently for the day the little mortal’s time ran out. Soon, Tommy would join his rightful place among the voices, and everafter Technoblade and Tommy would be inseparable. 

But as for Dream…well. Considering some of the exploits he seemed to concern himself with, Technoblade wondered how kindly Lady Death would treat him, particularly with his hand in Her son’s demise. “What do you think your destination is after?” he inquired, curious to what Dream thought of himself. 

“I don’t plan to die,” Dream mused. 

“Can’t say I do either. Technoblade never dies.” 

“Now why is that?”

Dream knew full well about golden apples. Or did he? There was no accounting for what he’d learned from the dredges of old societies. Enough to link at least the one apple he’d procured to results if he’d offered it to a chronic user. But certainly he didn’t know that only Technoblade and Philza had developed a cure to halt the assured death sentence of the addiction. Technoblade was a near one of a kind specimen, and he didn’t like the feeling of being under Dream’s scalpel. Besides, the invisibility potion was bound to be wearing off soon, and he didn’t want Tommy getting ideas. “Like I said, I practice self confidence,” he waved nonchalantly. “Positive affirmations do wonders. Now, I really do need to be attending to worship, and intruding on people’s religions has been historically a bad move.” 

The puppet drew back, as if coming to a conclusion. Not the conclusion to leave, no, that would be convenient. “Hm. I’ve decided to give you an ultimatum. Either reveal where Tommy is, or reveal how to replicate your…worship.” Something was important there, in that Dream thought Tommy equivalent to the secret of siphoning power off the willing souls of countless followers. 

“Well, see, I actually understand what a double bind is, so nah.” Dream made a confused note, so he clarified. “I don’t, like, actually have just the two options. Cause honestly I could also chuck you out the window if replacing the pains wouldn’t be a, uh, pain.” Pro tip! Defenestration is always an option in any negotiation. “Sorry, but I can’t help you with either of those two things. What do you even want with Tommy so bad you’d bother random guys about it?”

Dream paused, calculating. Honestly it was annoying as far as power plays went, controlling the flow of the conversation like that. Technoblade had ADHD, man, he wasn’t built for this, much less on so very few hours of sleep. “I’m simply…worried about him.” 

“Worried?”

“Yes. I mean, wouldn’t anyone? A little boy out there in the cold, all alone. I’m his friend, it’s only natural that I'd be worried. He wasn’t dressed properly at all for this climate, didn’t even have two shoes to his name! I fear this place will do permanent, irreparable damage to his body. I was the only thing protecting him, not a scrap of armor to his name, not even iron. And he was injured, too. My poor little Tommy makes me worried sick.” And, for the first time, Technoblade really wondered about the state Tommy had come to him in. Because it wasn’t hard at all to get armor with a little bit of effort. Had Tommy picked up Wilbur’s aversion? It would explain why he’d had so much damage on him before the golden apple fixed it. Why hadn’t he bothered to heal before he went to sleep? There’d been bruises for crying out loud, who let injuries last that long? And how did Dream so intimately know the state Tommy was in beforehand?

It wasn’t his first inkling that exile might’ve been bad for the kid, but it was the first one Technoblade consciously noticed. 

Dream sighed. “I shouldn’t be surprised, though. He’s always putting himself into dangerous places he shouldn’t be. Too reckless for his own good, and he isn’t strong enough to protect himself. That’s why he needs me, you know? Tommy is a weak and unloved thing, but he’s mine. We both know that. And I always protect what’s mine, even if its a stupid, helpless, despi-”

The bell rang out sharply. “Quideon of the Astrid Circle, thank you for your donation.”

If Dream could blink, Technoblade swore he would’ve. “Ah. I suppose I got carried away,” he recovered quickly enough. “I just want to know my friend is safe.”

“Tommy grew up fast, I’m sure he’s taking care of himself.” Or, Technoblade assumed he had; his absence specifically would’ve been the reason a young Tommy would have to fend for himself in the first place. “And you think he’d come to me? I’ve killed him several times. Though, admittedly, less than I’ve killed you,” he said pointedly. 

“I think he is a confused child that believes himself to be desperate enough to turn to you, even though he has a perfectly loving home to come back to. Perhaps everyone else may drive him away, but my arms are always open to the prodigal runaway. I can’t imagine many others offering the same, is all. Why, the look of loathing on Tubbo’s face as he exiled–”

Ding. “Oliker of Mycerian, thank you for your donation.”

“--Tommy. I mean he destroys everything he touches, it was only a matter of t–”

Ding. “Grian of Silence’s Keep, thank you for your donation,” Technoblade nearly sang. 

“He’s pathetic,” Dream flung out, almost desperate. “I’m his only friend–” 

“Sure about that Dream? Because it kinda sounds like you’re the one without anyone else.” 

“I have friends!”

“Sure, I bet you keep them in the house you definitely have,” Technoblade offered as a condolence. “Listen, I don’t know where Tommy is, alright? But if I did you’d be the second to know. Because I’d probably tell Phil first. Have you actually even met Tommy’s dad? Great guy, works for Lady Kristin.” And the way his birch body went immediately rigid made Technoblade suspect Dream knew exactly who the Goddess of Death was. Interesting. “I hear he’s in town these days? So he’d be the first to know, and then you. Sorry, it’s just my priorities.” Which, speaking of, he should definitely shoot Philza a crow over all of the everything Technoblade had royally screwed up. 

He wasn’t sure exactly what it was that had Dream finally meandering towards the door, be it the threats he’d been sprinkling the whole time, frustration from the derision, simple impatience, or something else. But the puppet drew up to the door, a shadow twisting the brass knob and throwing it open to the blinding white world beyond. Dream didn’t even turn back to deliver his final remark, the wooden puppet trudging out even as the emerald shadow lingered. “Well. If you happen to see him, I just want him to know that no matter what he does I still love him.”

It was hard to feel his stomach tying itself up in knots when Tommy didn’t have one. Good thing, too, since Tommy was sure he’d be tasting bile at the sight of Dream if he’d had any. The last few days had been too easy, letting him shove everything away and ignore it all. Because for every ounce of him that recoiled and cowered away from Dream, there was still that part that longed for his friend. 

Sure, Dream hated him, but who didn’t? Sure Dream hurt him, but he probably did something to deserve it. Dream had come back for him even when no one else had, and that was all that mattered. 

Hard to wring his hands as well, when they didn’t exist. Not that the whole of the awful feeling inside him went away, but it helped somewhat to not be real at the moment. Fear was such a physical emotion, and it felt strange to be free of it to any degree. A lot of it was that he didn’t have to worry about Dream’s attention upon him. It was easier to just be a passive observer. A layer of cloud between everything, gray mist that could never hurt again. Was this what Ghostbur felt like? Tommy wouldn’t ever change his mind about his decision on the tower, but that didn’t mean he was a thick headed dunce who couldn’t see some obvious benefits to being dead. 

It wasn’t that he ever stopped being on edge, but as the conversation moved away from him it wasn’t so bad. But then Dream said he was worried about him. And didn’t he have every right to be? Tommy had probably nearly frozen to death, any friend would be concerned. Because Dream was right, who else did he have? Not some father who had left years ago, not a brother who blew himself up and everything else along with it, not a best friend who drove him away from civilization. Technoblade was an alliance at best, the boar had made it clear. Tommy shifted away from the hole in the wood, pressing against the wall. Fragments of the anarchist’s robe spilled around the curve of a spine, pieces of him raveling back out of wisps of smoke as he found need of them. Tommy wrapped his arms around himself tight as Dream’s words slipped into his head like poisoned honey. Technoblade’s interruptions were some solace, at least. Dream couldn’t get too far into his speech, but really he didn’t need to, familiarity filling in the half complete sentiments. 

This was a mistake. Perhaps Dream hadn’t found him yet, but if he went back willingly he might be merciful. That last parting phrase echoed in his ears, that Dream still loved him. Despite it all, that was the one guarantee he had. Tommy would be a fool not to take it. Really, what other options did he have? Tommy couldn’t be picky. He already didn’t deserve Dream’s love, and to spit in his face like this? Ungrateful brat. 

But still he stayed. It was cowardice and fear, even if it wasn’t sure what it was directed at. He was terrified of Dream, wanted to run from him, to run to him. But at the same time Technoblade insisted he’d poisoned himself somehow. He just knew how Dream would react to that, sighing about how he just couldn’t help destroying himself, before gathering him in thin wooden arms and trying to save him. But logically, Technoblade had to know more about it. Surely it wouldn’t be too bad to stay the week he promised? To clear his head and make sure he was safe before returning to Dream’s side? 

Tommy made up his mind then, even if materialized claws dug into smoke limbs. Even as it made the heart in his nonexistent chest sink. Wooden footsteps slowly crossed the threshold, the door thumping close. Tommy looked up dully, resolve set in stone even if it felt like an anchor dragging him to the sea floor. 

And then smoke twisted into spiraling cords and muscles that raced up his throat to where shards of bones jutted into a jaw that just as soon as appeared was clamped close as Tommy slammed claws over his mouth to stop from screaming. The nails dug in sharply to the newly formed cheeks, tearing in till blood was drawn, but Tommy couldn’t stop, choking down on the horror trying to rip out of his chest. That’s all there was to him, writhing vocal cords and desperate claws and a terror that engulfed him so utterly as he stared at the emerald smile scrawled inside his hiding spot. 

It vanished just as quickly, shadows fading from green to black, but Tommy knew dead certain the Dreamon knew exactly where he’d been the whole time. Fear drove out everything inside him, and in an instant Tommy was lunging out of his hiding place and scrambling towards the door.

Technoblade had about a second to realize what was happening between the fog sweeping through his house and the flash of claws against the floor, but while he wasn’t sure what was happening instinct saved the both of them. He frantically swung a hand through the mist, connecting hard to the body that appeared on contact. Limbs lashed out in frantic streaks that tore through mist, and it felt like Tommy was nearly made out of nothing but elbows jamming into his gut. With no idea where the kid really was, he scrambled for a grip upon the smoke, fabric bunching up in his grasp as the pair struggled. Tommy squirmed out of the grasp, invisible once more and leaving him with the discarded royal red robe. Technoblade threw it to the side and pressed forward, swearing as the door was reached and Tommy began scrambling for the knob. Technoblade seized the wrist and wrenched the boy away. Light as air, it wasn’t so hard to drag him away even if phalanges tried to dig into the ground. 

“What are you doing?” Technoblade hissed. Phantom limbs struggled away from him, Tommy real only in the places he was held in place. The hand caught in his vice grip thrashed wildly, fingers fading to mist at the edges but undeniable in how bad they were shaking. 

Smoke condensed into flesh, a trembling mouth forming. “He saw me. Dream knew I was here, I need to go back, I have to–” Tommy lunged for the door uselessly. 

“Tommy, he had no idea–”

“The Dreamon looked at me! He stared right at my soul, he knows, that was his way of telling me I need to apologize I have to he’s going to be mad–” Technoblade was struck by a number of imprintable thoughts. The kind replaced with fun swirling characters, like at-symbols and exclamation points. If the Dreamon’s shadow could intentionally reveal bonds, of course he would find Tommy, invisibility potion or no. He shouldn’t have let Tommy hide in the same room for a number of reasons, but most of all because it had left him exposed to the puppet’s manipulation. It wasn’t his fault all right?! He didn’t know Dream would be a negging creep the whole time! 

He gripped the kid’s shoulders tightly, trying to anchor him to reality. No doubt if the kid had lungs at the moment he’d be hyperventilating. Technoblade thought he might bolt again at any moment, which would ruin quite a lot of plans. Deliberately, he pushed Tommy down till as best he could tell the invisible boy was sitting. Technoblade knelt beside him, grip still firm, ready to launch the moment Tommy made another move. “Ok Tommy. Think. He knew you were here the whole time, right?”

“Yes!” 

“But he didn’t act on that knowledge. Alright? Something stopped him. What stopped him, Tommy?”

“He’s messing with me, getting in my head. He wanted me to know he knew I’m going to be in trouble I need to–”

“What stopped him, Tommy?” He kept his voice level. Er, well, not that it didn’t already tend to be a gravely monotone. 

“Nothing! Nothing stops him, he always gets what he wants!” Tommy cried out, fangs flashing. Parts of him were spreading a little as the potion wore off, rebuilding in inconsistent patches that spread out from what was in use. Beneath Technoblade’s hands the beginning of a skeleton formed, shoulder blades and ribs and a hammering heart that’s jolting would rival a rabbit’s. Cheeks stretching around the disembodied jaw speaking to him, littered with scars he didn’t remember, hollowed from hunger. 

“He wants you, clearly, gods know why.” He knew his own reasons, mixed as they were, but Dream was an enigmatic fellow. “But he doesn’t have you. What. Stopped. Him?”

“I don’t– I don’t know. He knew you were hiding me from the start.” 

“Bingo. He knew I was hiding you, lying to him. So that means..?”

Tommy came to the realization slowly, hesitantly. “He…he thinks you’re protecting me. He’s… scared of you?”

“Dream knows I put up a mean fight. I wager he was testing the waters of how much I meant it and decided it wasn’t worth it.”

The dark shadow of a raccoon’s mask spilled out like ink. “And would you?”

“Huh?”

There were those large blue eyes now, irises too enormous to really be human, swallowing the whites. They caught the light of the fire too brightly, the mark of a nocturnal beast. There was this intense need in them Technoblade didn’t know what to do with, hungry and hopeful and apprehensive. “Would you fight for me?”

Was this how the kid led so many to war? Not a warcry and a brash plunge into the fray, but a quiet moment of need? It was a part of Tommy he’d never seen before, and it made his fur prickle. Tommy always came out swinging from fights, bristling when backed into a corner. This small, scared child was a new entity altogether from the loud firecracker he knew, though maybe if he’d been around more that wouldn’t be the case. 

There were never these parts in the stories. The parts where the villain left the hero shaking so badly they could hardly stand long after they were gone. It was just…messy. And ugly. And realistic. He’d never seen the full picture before, only catching the highs and the lows. It was different when it wasn’t just a few scenes, the launching, the soaring, the plummeting. It was different when you saw the normal days. When you saw them learning to walk for the first time. Saw them making a mess of their plate at dinner for a few years, always shoving the carrots into the trash afterwards. 

Harder to see it all as a story when there was a real person sitting in front of him barely stopping themself from crying. 

It was a rare moment of clarity, realizing Tommy was an actual human being, or had been at some point. Not some flavor for a backstory, or a sidekick, or a Theseus, or a destined ghost with a pre-marked grave inside Technoblade’s skull. That he wasn’t some grand hero, just an overwhelmed child barely holding on. Who knew what Technoblade would be thinking in even a few hours' time, when his brain twisted it all up again? When the voices painted their own narrative over it all so thick he couldn’t make out the outline from before?

But for now, all he wanted was to protect this kid. 

“Yes. I’ll fight for you. Always, Tommy. Always.”

“Really? But you heard what he said, I’m not useful-”

“Hey, that’s the crap Dream was saying. That guy’s a wack job, you shouldn’t listen to the blockhead that has ‘villain’ written all over him. Absolute creep.” 

“Then…why?” Tommy sounded absolutely lost. 

You’re Philza’s kid, he might’ve said. You're the tragic hero, he might’ve said. “You’re my ally. And trust me, Tommy, I don’t break my word.” 

And Tommy lunged for him, Technoblade lurching away from the attack only to be grappled. The voices screeched at him for letting his guard down, and a second more and he would’ve retaliated swift and brutally, but in the moment between attack and response he noticed a vital piece of information. Yes, claws curled tight around his sides, posed perfectly to dig into his entrails. Yes, sharp raccoon teeth were mere inches from his jugular. But the claws tore only into fabric, desperate but not deadly. The fangs murmured only words so soft a sigh no human would have picked them up, even if Technoblade caught the faint, heartfelt thank you that Tommy breathed out.
It was then the actual panic set in. Technoblade could handle combat of any flavor of brutality, could handle assassination attempts. What made adrenaline shoot through him and made his heart palpitate in wild, worried convulsions was the fact a kid was hugging him. His arms froze uselessly at his sides, hooves contorted in odd, pointless gesticulations. Tommy didn’t seem to notice he was just about embracing a statue, fingers curling unknowingly along the gouges he’d carved into Technoblade last night. 

“I’m. I mean. Tommy, that's a well documented fact,” he spluttered. “Why do you think I came to L’Manburg at all? I came to help you fight. I like fighting, I'll do it for any reason at all really…” But his protests did not save him, Tommy simply holding on tighter. Ah. Ahhh. This was not in the plans at all. 

In retrospect, trying to plan anything at all around Tommy was a mistake. He’d predicted the teen would be chaotic and given flexibility in his schemes accordingly, and yet all his expectations were blown out of the water. If someone had told him a day ago he’d be sitting at the fireplace with Tommy tucked into his side and a raccoon tail curled around him, grandly reliving the story of the time he wiped the floor with Dream and won a lot of money just to see the kid laugh, Technoblade probably would’ve said they were crazy, shortly after demanding how they got in his house because he didn’t yet know Tommy had been in his floorboards for days. 

Still. He couldn’t say he entirely minded having Tommy next to him again. 

The form rose up in billowing ashen clouds, wisps of limbs too nebulous to condense into flesh and blood. Technoblade might’ve mistaken it for a monster borrowing the haze of reality for the tantalizing possibility of ripping enough experience out of the living to become real, but it was very blatantly day, and brightly lit at his dining room table. He sat down his utensils, though Tommy didn’t really care, still nomming on a handful of meal that wasn’t really meant to be finger food since it was, you know, mushroom stew. 

There wasn’t much one could do about ghosts, given they’re notoriously dead and decently intangible. The impression of a person flitted about the room like a shadow without source, echoes of their voice oo-ing and aww-ing at his stuff. Stony fingers lifted up his crown, the spirit trying it on in a way that made the voices bristle. Technoblade pushed his seat back. “Knock it off, that’s not yours.” 

The crown clattered back onto the crafting table, the spirit losing greater definition. The haze advanced towards the living pair, sharpening at the edges with intent, a cold corpse hand reaching out for Tommy. Technoblade was about three seconds from attacking when he recognized the gesture, gray fingers carding fondly through the boy’s hair. “Hey Ghostbur,” Tommy greeted through a mouthful of soup he’d scooped in with his little gremlin raccoon paws. 

At the utterance of his name the figure crystalized, imbued with recognition of who it was supposed to resemble. A lopsided smile, scruffy dark hair, the tall lanky once-man leaning against the back of Tommy’s chair. Three shattered hearts lay beating in his chest, a dull crimson that had long forgotten how vibrant a soul was meant to be, the last slice through in a gaping wound plunged through his chest, still gurgling trickles of feigned blood that seeped into his nice sweater. Wilbur’s vitality was long gone, and now he was nothing but a few frayed teathers of bonds and borrowed smoke. 

Technically, he’d known Wilbur had died, but Technoblade hadn’t known that was his last chance. The boar went cold. Oh. Oh gods, what must Philza be feeling? A horrible fate, for an immortal to love a human. His only hope would be that Lady Death would be kind to Her poor angel. Technoblade didn’t know how long the ghost would last. Wilbur had always been a determined sort of fellow, obviously had to be to have so much force of will as to convince the universe to give him vestiges of a form even post mortem. But he was running on dregs. Only a matter of time before he was all spent out. 

“What are you doing here, Wilbur?”

“Nope! Not Wilbur. He’s a very bad man, you know. I’m Ghostbur.” Erm, alright. That probably meant Ghostbur wouldn’t last too long, if he was rejecting the ties to his old self. Technoblade waved his hand to reiterate the inquiry. Ghostbur brightened, then stopped short. “I’ve forgotten. But it can’t be important if I’ve forgotten it. Hello Tommy! You no longer live in Logchestire.”

“I’m rooming with Techno now.” 

He acquired a dreamy expression. “Oh, just like we used to all live together. One happy family. Me and you and him and Dad.”

Tommy swirled a claw in his soup. “I was too young, I don’t really remember.”

“I mean, you’re still pretty young now,” Technoblade reasoned. “Grew a few inches maybe, but it can’t have been that long can it?”

“It’s been a decade,” Tommy replied shortly.

“Oh, that’s nothing. Maybe to you, you’re a kid, time is faster when you’re older.”

“Yeah? You remember when you were five, too, big man?”

“Erm. Fair enough. Wait, how old are you?”

Tommy gave him an utterly incredulous look. “How do you not know-?! Even Philza managed to get me birthday cards!” Technoblade wrinkled his nose at the ‘even’ part. “Or, well, allegedly.”

“That’s a big word for you, good job Tommy. Also, what’s that mean?”

Tommy sniffed at him. “It means ‘supposedly’ moron. Don’t ask for a definition after calling me stupid.”

“I wanted to know your intentions behind the statement, I know what allegedly means.”

“Oh. Well I meant the letters might not be written by Phil,” Tommy shrugged turning to Ghostbur. “Were those actually real by the way?” Ghostbur tilted his head in confusion. “Right, you probably wouldn’t remember that. I bought it when I was a kid, but I mean, an adventurer for a Dad? Awfully convenient excuse. Dream pointed it out, and it was obvious in retrospect. Figured it was like how Wilbur explained Sally’s death to Fundy.” Technoblade’s gut plummeted at the thought of Sally. Oh how deeply he wished it was a story. Dreadfully weak woman, the voices disapproved. She wasn’t meant to survive. “Except I was old enough I wouldn’t buy an obvious fairy tale so Wilbur wrote little letters for me. I mean, messages delivered by crow? Kinda stupid.” 

It was awful in a number of ways Technoblade wasn’t sure how to unravel. He could’ve sworn he recalled talking to Tommy about Phil before all the wars and betrayal and other unimportant nonsense. Some night spent in the depths of Pogtopia, watching the smoke of their campfire rise up into the dark ravine above. Not a hint of such a sentiment mere weeks ago. But the fact Tommy thought his own father was a myth..? Although he wasn’t entirely wrong. Unintentional that they’d given him a tragic backstory, but rather poetic if so– stop. “No. No, uh, he really does send crows.”

Tommy rolled his eyes in his dark raccoon mask. To Tommy, Philza was just the first data point in a long consistent trend of people abandoning him. The fantasy had died pretty brutally once he was all alone. Ghostbur was far more enthusisastic on the matter. “I’ve been talking to his murder recently, they’re very nice! And Philza is lovely to talk to.” 

“Wait, Phil’s back???” He hadn’t gotten any word of it, though he supposed Lady Kristin must’ve told him and sent him racing back far too late to save his son. Also, shouldn’t Philza have visited him by now? He missed his friend. 

Tommy jabbed a thumb at the spirit. “According to him.”

Ghostbur beamed. “Yes! The great Philza is back. He slayed the evil dragon, and everyone loves him for that.” Technoblade squinted, unsure what the phantom –eh, poor choice of words given what actual phantoms were memories of– knew about ender dragons. 

“He killed you,” Tommy snapped.

“I know! Isn’t it great?” The smoke had little idea what entity it should be. It was impossible to ever be the body of Wilbur ever again, but so imbued with intent and emotion it was forced into existence beyond the clouds that composed the universe. Tears spilled out over his still smiling face, half phasing through the phantom’s skin as it became tangible. They carve through smoke, blue dripping down and collecting at Ghostbur’s chin. A drop of bright cerulean fell down, a solid thump as it landed on the table. Lapis lazuli made about as much sense as any other item it could’ve been. Too strong to be a ghost, but not enough to be living. Ghostbur rolled the uneven gemstone in his hands, delighted by the weight of it sinking through his palms. He offered it excitedly to Tommy. “Look, blue! You can stop feeling sad now,” the spirit beamed. 

Tommy sighed. “Thanks, Ghostbur.” 

“Wh– that cannot be true, Philza wouldn’t kill Wilbur.” No. No, that couldn’t be right. He still remembered the tears streaking down the angel’s face as he cradled his firstborn, remembered toddler hands grabbing fistfuls of feathers for support as he tried to walk, remembered Philza’s careful and acute gaze as Technoblade guided the kid through mock duels. Philza would never hurt Wilbur. That’s why they’d left Wilbur and Tommy’s lives in the first place, so that something like that would never happen. Had it been a bout of madness? But Philza was so much better at controlling it than he was. When had Philza even arrived? It made no sense from top to bottom. 

“You can’t argue with him about it,” Tommy said, not even bothering to keep his voice down. Odds were the patchwork pieces of soul wouldn’t retain the memory anyway. “He insists it was Phil. No one else was there, though, and Phil hasn’t been seen in a decade.” 

He could suddenly see it now. How it was easier to think Philza was long gone, had only been stories and fake letters Wilbur made up, if only so that this last story of filicide was a lie as well. Better a father gone forever than one who slaughtered his children. 

But Technoblade had encountered many ghosts over the centuries. They didn’t lie too well, since they didn’t tend to remember anything but a few sparse truths that they clung to for existence. “Ghostbur, are you sure–”

The spirit’s attention was drawn out the frosted window. “Oh, the company is almost here. That’s what I came to tell you about! I’m so happy I remembered.”

“What type of visitor?”

“A friend.”

“It’s his pet,” Tommy explained. “You should go check on them, Ghostbur, the cold isn’t good for sheep.” The spector nodded, drifting into the air and tousling Tommy’s hair until his hand dissolved. Ghostbur walked into the wall, splattering into billowing smoke and fading away. 

Technoblade hesitated. “Just wondering, what do you think about Philza?” He didn’t want to poke too much, not so recently after Tommy had shattered, but something in him needed to know. 

“Honestly? I don’t.” But then, somewhat inconsistently: “Why did you guys leave us?”

“Wilbur asked us to. It was decided we were…bad influences.” 

Tommy cracked into bitter laughter, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s– oh, that is so rich, coming from him,” Tommy hissed out acerbically. “After what he became. Must’ve slipped his mind to tell me that part.” 

“Uh. I wanna clarify something about our relationship.”

Tommy went rigid like someone bracing to get hit. “Yeah sure, what is it?”

“I’m not, like, a mentor figure, okay? I don’t wanna die, man, and you know the mentors are like the first to go.” Tommy relaxed at the humor in his tone. Well, he phrased it as a joke, but Technoblade took his narratives with deadly seriousness. Once you recognized the world moved in cycles, you learned rather quickly to position yourself correctly or get destroyed by the narrative. 

“But Technoblade never dies?”

“Yeah, exactly, so I’m not messing with archetypes like that alright? We’re allies got it? Friends, maybe, but don’t you dare make me a role model of some kind alright? Alright?”

Tommy pulled a face. “Like I’d want to copy you! You’re a bad guy!”

Good. Good, a villain, he could work with that archetype. “Okay, good, just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting any ideas. 

Tommy patted the top of his hair. “No worries big man, no thoughts head empty. In fact, I want to make sure I’m second in command. I’m not a minion, got it?”

“You’re the last person I’d use for cannon fodder,” Technoblade promised solemnly as Tommy quirked a grin. “The world won’t be ready for the dastardly duo–” He was interrupted by a tap at the window. Technoblade approached cautiously, drawing back the curtains. Behind the frosted pane perched a crow, rapping at the glass with their dark beak. Technoblade looked puzzled, opening the window. The bird hopped in, perching upon his shoulder. Upon their leg was tied a short scroll of parchment.

“Ooo a letter from Phil,” Technoblade hummed, relieving the crow of their burden and scratching under their chin with a phalanx. They soared back out, cawing happily while their letter was read. “See? Told you Phil sends letters.” 

Tommy’s jaw dropped as the boar unrolled a parchment. “No. Wait, no, how? Seriously? SERIOUSLY?!”

Technoblade chuckled. “Phil’s a man of many, uh, shall we say interesting associations…” his light tone dropped as he read the first line. The anarchist immediately paled, head jerking up to stare back out into the Arctic landscape. Technoblade tossed the note into the fireplace, darting down to the basement. Tommy scaled after him to find the boar rifling through an enderchest and dawning fine armor, tightening latches with a speed that spoke of experience. Technoblade darted from chest to chest, strapping strings of potions to his belt. 

“What’s going on?” Tommy demanded. But Technoblade only continued preparing, grappling ender pearls and a gleaming trident. Ignoring Tommy. The teen glowered, and latched onto his arm, pulling him away from the portal chest. “We’re partners now, you have to tell me.”

“Not now, Tommy, this is important,” Technoblade dismissed sternly, waving him away. “Go hide in a nook, you’re good at that.”

Tommy spluttered in outrage. “No! I’m not gonna sit back!”

“Ghostbur mistook foes for friends. Unless you want to taste L’Manburg’s hatred a second time, I suggest you do just that.” His protests faltered. Technoblade returned to rummaging in his enderchest. Casting a furtive glance at Tommy, weighing something. Ambivalence finally gave way to action, and he withdrew a glimmering golden apple from the hissing portal. Tommy’s eyes widened, the world shrinking to just a beautiful gilded point. It was more gorgeous than diamonds or netherite, a gleaming beacon radiant with magic. He drew closer instinctively, divinity singing to him. 

“Snap out of it. Go find somewhere to hide,” Technoblade ordered. He crossed to the door, drawing the Axe of Peace from the hook on the wall. It glinted wickedly in the torchlight. “If they’ve dared to hurt him…” he muttered dangerously, wrath hanging in the syllables. Words inlaid with violence. Even lacking comprehension, Tommy’s instincts would’ve known the intention of the universal language. The anarchist threw open the doors to the almost blinding snow beyond, disappearing into the cold.

Tommy ignored the various shouts and horse squeals outside, preferring to focus on the enderchest. He dipped his hand in and out of the portal, claws swiping through mist as if desire alone would connect him to Technoblade’s inventory. Logically, he knew it wouldn’t work, enderportals were connected to souls after all. That was just basic knowledge. Still, it wasn’t, like, exactly occurring to him at the moment? Like he knew it wouldn’t work, but he still found himself knelt over to the storage unit, cursing. 

He jerked back his claws, finding that they’d been trying to dig into the obsidian sides, which was painful. His tail was lashing, too, and he suddenly found the lack of control worrying. He felt he had so little mastery over his new body. Tommy decided it was in order for him to rectify that at once. 

A series of things Tommy discovered, in order: 

1: Technoblade owned no normal shoes. None. They were all specially designed for hooves and therefore useless. It was not appreciated, since Tommy had been recently reminded how terrible trying to move barefoot in the snow was. If he didn’t have shoes, running away would be far more difficult. Ok, so, maybe he’d just made the alliance, but Tommy wasn’t stupid. Far from it. He was actually incredibly smart, which is why he wanted a way out fast if things broke bad. He was also incredibly resourceful, which is why he dumped out the apples from their netting into the trade chest and filled the bag with as many ender pearls as he could find. Sometimes summoning things just took too long. He snatched some of the rotten flesh, too, since he wasn’t going to let a pig tell him what he couldn’t eat. Man was an anarchist, trying to force rules on someone else was probably illegal. 

Rummaging through the trading supplies prompted his next discovery. If he was digging through a chest full of things for trade, reason suggested a chest full of things from trade. After more searching and looting, he found a little barrel tucked behind others with a few handfuls of emeralds. He presumed Technoblade had far more elsewhere and had set these aside and forgotten them. Hopefully it would be enough for his needs. Tommy slunk into the villager area, appeasing the guard dogs with the rotting flesh he’d filched. He ran a hand through their thick fluff appreciatively. Their tails wagged, and he reciprocated, albeit not of his own volition. Tommy frowned at the limb, mentally ordering it to stop. It didn’t seem inclined, though he found with concentration he could sorta figure out how to move it, even if it made his brain hurt to think about. A whole new region of nerves existed where they hadn’t yesterday, and his mind couldn’t really wrap around the fact. Tommy elected to ignore it.

Asking around, he eventually found a leather worker. Tommy’s grasp of the villager language was spotty at best and limited mostly to a few currency buzzwords and swears. Through some haggling that left both parties frustrated, he managed to buy some shoes. He handed over more emeralds than he really should’ve, gestured rudely, and returned up the ladder with his purchase. Apparently claws and boots made for an incredibly uncomfortable combination, but it would do in a pinch. Still, he’d pretty solidly ensured himself an escape option. His tail swished, promptly knocking over a handful of tools scattered in a crafting table. Tommy decided the mess was not a problem for him, but the tail thing was, because that was getting kinda annoying. Wait, Technoblade had one. Of course it was a lot smaller since Tommy’s was better, but he might have tips for controlling it. 

He glanced out the window expecting to be blinded, but the glare of radiant white was gone. 

2: Apparently he didn’t have to deal with snow blindness anymore. That seemed useful. He’d actually wandered for a very long time to find Technoblade’s house, vision blurred by stabbing rays of light. It had burned. Beforehand, he hadn’t realized how much snow burned until his eyes were crying from it and his foot was swollen and bleeding, his lips blistered and his hands rigid. Stumbling through it for days, praying no emerald shadow haunted his footsteps. He knew of no other faction powerful enough to protect him from Dream; well, none that would have him. But then the blizzard wrapped around his bones, and he couldn’t see at all, simply walking into the cold winterness in the hopes he’d manage to find the anarchist’s refuge again. 

And then, the longer it took to find Technoblade’s house, Tommy had slowly realized that he was going to die. It didn’t matter if he’d changed his mind about it, the cruel Arctic would take him either way, and he’d respawn in Logchestire. Dream would laugh, and call him weak, and call him a friend, and Tommy would stay like he was supposed to. He didn’t think he’d build up the conviction to escape a second time. 

He couldn’t even begin to describe the feeling when he’d first spotted the glow of torches through the flurries. The promise of heat and warmth and safety and freedom and heat, did he mention the heat? It wasn’t that he’d expected to be working with the anarchist, or for Technoblade to even know he was there leeching resources. As long as the threat of The Blood God’s disciple warded off the Dreamon, it would be enough for him. But hey, this had all worked out far better for Tommy than he had expected, even if his supposed ally had run off at the moment. He was warm now. 

Maybe Technoblade had freaked out about the changes to his body, but Tommy at least counted the fact he was immune to snow blindness now as a pretty solid win. No doubt he wouldn’t have nearly gotten himself killed wandering around in circles in the anarchist’s Arctic if he’d actually been able to see. Though, he might be overthinking all these body changes. Could just be tinted glass, instead of whatever weird furry puberty he was dealing with. Tommy unlatched the window, pushing it open. The cold bit at him immediately, and he scanned the scene for hints of Technoblade. Luckily, his first guess was right, and the snow wasn’t blinding anymore. 

3: It also wasn’t pristine white anymore. Bright crimson splotches were smeared into it, footprints outlining the history of a skirmish dragged through the field of white. Uh. That probably wasn’t good. Tommy scanned the tree line where a myriad of trails disappeared into. Checking the stable revealed the horse had vanished, Technoblade presumably along with them. The combatants were long gone, and Tommy wondered if anyone had died. Well, ok, that wasn’t too rare an occurrence. It would be more correct to say Tommy wondered if anyone’s soul had been slain, since that was a far more important event. Depends, he supposed, if people were serious. Deaths sucked, sure, but there was a real degree of magnitude over what deserved being killed a little bit and what deserved getting a life taken. He remembered Technoblade mentioning something about L’Manburg. Maybe, in teaming with the anarchist, he’d made himself the enemy of his once home. Tommy wasn’t sure if he liked that. He wasn’t sure what he thought about the situation, other than ambivalent. 

Regardless, seeing the trees reminded of something he wanted to test out, though he would need to be prepared before he ventured outside. 

4: Technoblade’s fashion had taken a very odd turn. Tommy was familiar with seeing him in a fairly practical white button up, though it was usually covered by armor. He also never went anywhere without that ruby royal robe, but if Tommy was wearing it, that obviously couldn’t be the case. Apparently, weird blue tunics were in fashion at the moment. Still stupidly pretentious, but markedly different from what the pig had used to wear. Part of that might just be the biome switch. He supposed they offered a nice layer to put over whatever else you had on, but when you didn’t really have something on beneath the split sides and draping weren’t appreciated. Eventually he snatched some copper buttoned number to throw on beneath. The tunic was too long, and he had to fold it oddly into his belt. It still swept past his knees, but the gaps gave him easy access to his ender pearls and sword, which was likely the point. He threw the ruby robe over the ensemble, just because he could, before plunging into the bitter cold.

5: Fluffy ears still got nipped by the Arctic winds. Same fact applied to furry hands. And apparently having like a solid foot of hair between the elements and the tail wasn’t enough. To be fair, it was far warmer than he’d expected such a feature to be, but it was a new way to be cold and so he didn’t like it on principle.

6: His hunch was right. Climbing was far easier, even when he kept his shoes on. The tall pines were no match for him anymore. Tommy’s thoughts ran wild with the possibilities. The escape it offered alone was invaluable. He could snipe people from the trees, swipe down and crit them from overhead. He found his tail naturally adjusted his balance, though it faltered whenever he thought about it. He grew reckless, finding he could leap from tree to tree with little danger. The limbs grew thin but his bravery did not, even as the tops of the evergreens swayed beneath the winter winds and his weight. Tommy laughed, breath hanging in the air as clouds around his head. 

He noticed some blur in the distance, a lone horseman racing at a gallop worn by distance. Tommy slipped down with ease, nearly flying through the forest. By luck, the rider was on a path to pass beneath him, and Tommy was completely unnoticed in the canopy. He smirked, patient, timing it perfectly before letting the bark slip from his grasp.

“Incoming!” he shouted through his snickers. Tommy fell through the air, landing roughly on the back of the horse. Technoblade startled, wildly swinging a bloodied pickaxe at him. Given the proximity, this mostly led to an elbow sweeping him to the side. Tommy, naturally, latched into any hand hold he could find, which happened to be the very surprised pig. Likely, this would’ve merely resulted in some odd shuffling, save for the stallion apparently being terrified out of their wits by his sudden hitchhiking and reared up, producing the most awful screaming noise. The riders went flying, tumbling into the snow and each other. Once he regained the air in his lungs, Tommy burst into howls of laughter. The just utter shock on Technoblade’s face had been priceless. 

The boar slowly sat up, dusting the snow from his clothing. Where he’d skid left sanguine streaks, and his breathing was oddly labored. While some of the blood, Tommy supposed, came from other people, chiefly the stuff on his knuckles and weapon (which was very noticeably neither axe nor blade), but a concerning amount seemed to be his own. Tommy figured that made sense, given head wounds tended to bleed a lot. Considering nearly half the swine’s skull was caved in, Technoblade was honestly in amazing shape. There wasn’t any bone or muscle visible, his skin knit over it too tightly. Half his ear looked torn off, and when his mouth opened roughly a quarter of his teeth were really messed up. The eye on the damaged side refused to open, and Tommy wondered if he even still had it. Technoblade was likely running on pure magic, a theory supported by his emerald eye and the fact little stars of gold and green trailed after him, just shy of looking like experience. 

Probably…probably not the optimal time for pranks, but it had also been the most fun Tommy had made in about a week. Like the rest of his entertainment, it was conflicted. 

“You look like hell,” Tommy offered as an apology. 

“Probably ‘cause that’s what it feels like. You cannot imagine how terribly this day has gone for me.” He motioned for the horse to return to him, but apparently they were traumatized in general and by Tommy in particular and didn’t want to obey orders. Technoblade sighed, and began to trudge to his house. Tommy chatted a bit about what he’d been up to, though it seemed the anarchist wasn’t particularly paying attention. Technoblade leaned on him, probably using Tommy to prop up more of his weight than he meant to. The horse raced about, but with the snow their movements could be easily tracked later. 

They used the stable entrance. At least, that had been the attempt. Technoblade immediately slipped inside and slammed the wooden door in Tommy’s face. Outrage set in, and Tommy banged at the door and complained. “I’ll unlock it in five minutes, I just need to do one thing first.” Shouting a few invectives at the pig made him feel a little better, but not warmer. It was cold. Tommy didn’t like the cold. Especially when he was trapped in it. Tommy stuck his tongue out at the door (not that it made any difference) and changed plans. Multiple doors existed, and Tommy skipped up the stairs, flinging open the front entrance. Below came the sound of rummaging and some crunching noise, and Tommy poked his head down the ladder. Technoblade appeared to be slumped on the ground, hunched over an enderchest, probably half way inside it. A golden light burst from the portal, casting strange light in the storage room. Desire crept over Tommy, unearthly and strong. If Technoblade was so bad off, logic suggested he’d be healing, right? So, if Tommy got his hands on whatever it was, he’d be powerful. Untouchable. Cool. Silently, he slipped down the ladder, creeping towards the anarchist. His feet were light as air, his ears perked for the slightest hint Technoblade was aware of his presence. But he seemed entirely consumed with whatever he was doing. The ruby light of healing burst through his skull, hiding the injury in radiance. Bubbles trailed up, popping on the ceiling. A sheen of light ran across him, just shy of the gleam of enchantment. Protection of one sort or another, though Tommy wasn’t attacking. Or, he didn’t plan to; if Technoblade wanted to be difficult about it he might. 

As he drew silently near, Tommy could see over the boar’s shoulder to the portal beyond. It swirled darkly, void hedged by the dark green of ender pearls or pine. At the center, almost like a star, a golden beacon half emerged from it, half smoke from being partially summoned, fading in Technoblade’s hoofed hand. Want overwhelmed him. Oh, but it was beautiful. It was like staring into the sun, but instead of burning his eyes it soothed them. His mouth watered at the sight. Slowly, carefully, Tommy crept over as close as he could, preparing to lunge for it. Technoblade was distracted anyway, more concerned with eating the godly fruit. It wasn’t fair that he got it and Tommy didn’t. It was nearly half eaten, Technoblade scarfing it down. He was greedy. He was stealing what Tommy deserved. Technoblade was focused entirely on the meal, gold eyes locked on it and pouring out light. Exactly how Tommy wanted him to be.

The second before he lunged, a leg suddenly sweeped out, and Tommy fell upon the ground in a heap. His skull collided sharply with the stone floor, sending sparks through his brain. For a minute he just lay in a daze. The second his head was cleared, Tommy was scrabbling for the golden apple, only to find Technoblade had already choked down the last of it. Quite literally. His chest was heaving, and he couldn’t quite breath, spluttering wetly. A powerful cough and the chunks dislodged from his throat, spilling onto the floor. The swine immediately scooped them up and crammed them back into his maw. 

It was gone. Core and all. Technoblade swiped away the golden juices staining his mouth with a hand, licking the remnants from his palm as his breathing slowed. Amber droplets dotted his knuckles. The gold in his vision faded, though one eye still shone bright. It was the one on the damaged half of his face, though the descriptor wasn’t so apt anymore. His skull no longer caved in, though the skin that had regrown to fit the new dimensions was oddly discolored, a rough ugly line stitching the old and new flesh together at the perimeter. The fur was patchy and pulled in a direction that felt wrong. Still, it was healed. What blood remained was coagulating into a dark disgusting gunk, no new crimson chasing after it. The injured eye lost its glow, leaving the typical mixture of obsidian flecked gold in the boar’s irises and a bitter shame. Technoblade winced, then sighed deeply.

“Are you alright? Your head got introduced to the ground in a pretty bad way.” Tommy rubbed at his hair. Already the ache faded, though a little faster than he expected it to. Still nothing compared to whatever had smashed through Technoblade’s skull. He wondered what had managed that kind of blunt force trauma even after two serious bouts of healing. 

Tommy snatched a water bucket since cleaning up seemed a good next step. As he handed it over to Technoblade, their fingers brushed. Quietly, purposefully, Tommy scooped up the small golden droplets that had remained on the knuckles where skin faded to hoof. He curled his hand, hiding the precious theft. Waiting felt like agony. Tommy watched warily until he was assured Technoblade was busy with washing out the mess of half dried blood in his face, both hands occupied. Then, he snuck his prize to his mouth.

A hand seized his wrist, wrenching it away. Tommy paused, tongue poking out between sharpened teeth. Glowering at Technoblade didn’t change his situation, but he still wanted the boar to know his displeasure. He’d been too perceptive, ruining Tommy’s plan. It wasn’t fair, Tommy had been wonderfully crafty and sneaky. The ambrosia should’ve been his. 

“Don’t,” Technoblade ordered shortly. Tommy’s hand was swiftly plunged into the bitterly cold bloody water. Golden nectar distilled into the liquid. Unfortunately, the fur trapped the water, refusing to dry and stinging with cold. Cleaning up proceeded with no more interruptions after that. 

Eventually, Technoblade decided to start talking. Not about the past, not really, he didn’t seem inclined to explain the events that had transpired in the rough hour he’d been gone. No, the anarchist’s discussion turned completely to the future, particularly upon the subject of their alliance and what it would mean for others.

“Right. How do you feel about L’Manburg?” Technoblade began. 

7: Minor terrorism sounded delightfully entertaining.

Thus concludes Tommy’s discoveries for the day.

Technically, they were holding Conner ransom, although Tommy didn’t really remember Technoblade’s demands. Really he was just here for the fun of it. It felt…odd to be back in L’Manburg. Just over the next ridge lay a giant crater, and Tommy was doing a pretty good job not thinking about it. Or letting his head turn instinctively to the stairs burrowed into a mountain that led to his little cobbled together home. It was an awful house, a mound of stone and dirt just large enough to stash a pile of chests and a bed, but Tommy had made it himself, which automatically made it the best home ever. Which was why he was perfectly fine with holding Conner hostage, because the idiot had decided to steal Tommy’s house. Stealing was wrong, hadn’t anyone ever taught him that? Obviously he deserved to be kidnapped and slightly tortured. 

Tommy had taken to poking him with a stick. It wasn’t, like, a sharp stick, though. He crouched next to the little makeshift prison they’d thrown together, tail swishing happily as he thought about all the things they could demand for Conner. His thoughts didn’t dare say a pardon, but they definitely danced around it, not pausing to even ask if Tommy was entirely sure he wanted one. Footsteps padded over, and Tommy perked up immediately, recognizing the gait before they even crested the hill. 

Tubbo’s mouth made the most perfect O shape, utter shock faltering his approach. Disbelieving confusion gripped him, slowly stolen over by a relieved smile that grew to elation. “Tommy? Is it really you?” A strange wonder inflected it, though Tommy had little time to mull it over before they were racing over to him, gripping tightly onto his shoulders as if unsure he was real. To be fair, Tommy had recently had many such responses to other Tubbos who were far less warm and solid, so he didn’t wave off the clinginess like he would’ve normally. With Tubbo in his arms, what could he do but seize him in close? His claws dug in greedily, tighter and tighter till their souls were nearly pressed together. His bones creaked from the strength of the embrace, but what did it matter? His Tubbo was back, pressed into his side right where he belonged. Happiness poured out uncontrollably, rumbling deep in his throat and vibrating in both of their chests as Tommy purred. 

For a time that’s all the boys could do, press into one another like perfectly matched puzzle pieces. Tommy thought his heart might burst from it all, but Tubbo’s grasp was almost as desperate to know he was real as Tommy’s was. “What are you doing here?” Tubbo gasped.

It wasn’t an accusation, but that’s all Tommy heard. At once he stiffened, straightening. Pulling away, because in truth they were separate in a way that could never be recovered. Right. There was a reason this was a reunion. Tubbo had abandoned him, cast him aside and let Dream do— well. Everything. Tommy’s jaw set, and Tubbo faltered at his unfriendly gaze. “I’m sneaking into your country. For crime purposes. Since you exiled me.”

Tubbo huffed an airy laugh, but it was more a stress response than any mirth. “I don’t care about that. Not anymore. How are you alive?”

The confusion shifted him away from defense. “What are you talking about?”

Fear trickled into Tubbo’s scarred gaze. His gloved fingers pressed painfully tight into Tommy’s shoulders, stiff and cold. “Tommy, I saw the tower.”

A second. A single second before it clicked, before he realized. And then the whole of it slammed into Tommy’s chest, a weight so heavy he thought he’d buckle. The last few days planning schemes with Technoblade had been so different, light and free, that he’d thought of exile week only as a nightmare to be forgotten, locked away in a dark recess of his mind. 

But if someone else remember, if someone else knew what he’d tried—

The terror set in first, an overwhelming instinct to run so crushing he couldn’t even move. The guilt nearly strangled him, the shame of it, the fact Tubbo of all people knew. Any one but that and he would’ve been fine. Technoblade would think him weak, but he already did. Dream would think the same and have the pride of knowing he’d broken him. Philza would not think anything at all, he’d never cared in the first place. The same for Ghostbur, who wouldn’t even remember long enough for it to be a problem. 

And Tubbo would think— 

Tommy didn’t know. Tommy didn’t know what Tubbo thought at all, and he couldn’t even see him since the would had dissolved into colored blurs, and he couldn’t hear him since all his thoughts were roaring in his head like the rush off wind as he plummeted down, down, down, and he failed or succeeded depending on how you looked at it, ocean swirling above his head as all the emotions from exile flooded over and tried to drown him. He’d splattered on impact, of course, viscera burning with saltwater, but he’d come back, he chose to come back, no one had to know and yet– Tubbo did, Tubbo knew what he’d done. All of it pressed down on Tommy, until his breathing was shallow, until his breathing was gone as the memory of the sea and shame poured down his throat and swallowed him whole. 

A large hoofed hand clamped down on his shoulder. Technoblade shifted forward, angling Tommy to be partially behind, pulling the teens apart. A sturdy, unwavering smile split his snout, projecting an aura of calm control that warded off Tubbo, who startled away from his executioner. “Actually we’re the terrorists here, thank you very much. So if you could stop terrorizing my ally here, that’d be appreciated.” He stood fast between them, though a quick glance at Tommy belied his uncertain concern. 

Tubbo, now that he had distance, noticed the signs. Hunched, shaking shoulders, clenched fists, dilated eyes. And there was that, sure, symptoms of a panic attack, and that was concerning, but more so were the other details. The dilated eyes were darkly ringed, the clenched fists composed of ebony claws that tore into the fabric of his cargo pants, the shoulders hunched because Tommy was bristling, hackles raised, ears flatten, tail puffed. Tubbo looked between Tommy and the anarchist, eyes widening. “…what?” It wasn’t even a whisper, merely an exhale. 

Technoblade’s grin sharpened as he threw up a barrier between the two. “Don’t like the consequences of your actions?” Was this– was this…revenge? Had Technoblade poisoned Tommy because of the anarchist’s trial? Was this Tubbo’s fault? “You’ve made a real disaster of your presidency haven’t you? Executing me, exiling him. Course, half of it’s the position, but you’ve made a real special type of mess of things.”

Tubbo hadn’t been expecting the attack, and the diversion caught him off guard enough to work. The silence was brief, but he fired back quickly enough. “Oh yeah mister Arctic Empire? You’d know about presidency, wouldn’t you?”

Technoblade paused as Tubbo proved to know far more than he should’ve. “How—?”

“Sorry, were you even president? Or was it that you were a king? An emperor? Supreme dictator? Well that’s in the past because now you’re only a hypocrite.” 

“No.” Technoblade said it firmly, snorting slightly. “No. You got it all wrong, see, this isn’t hypocrisy. It’s being well informed on the subject. See, I know all the pitfalls of government, the corruption, the madness of every stripe from paranoia to power to possessiveness. I saw it, I did it, and I’m putting a stop to it.”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that not everyone is as corrupt as you?”

“I’ve yet to see it. None of you are old enough to remember how many kingdoms crashed and burned. You can’t even recall your own torrid history long enough to avoid repeating it, let alone theirs. Sue me for making sure no one repeats my mistakes.”

Tubbo huffed his disbelief. “You can’t lie to my face when your actions are for the whole world to see. The effects of golden apples are stamped all over Tommy. I'm not blind no matter how many rockets you exploded in my eyes.”

“Haeh?” Technoblade, for a second time, was caught off guard with how much Tubbo knew. “One, it’s not my fault, two, how do you even know what those are?”

Tubbo ignored the response, staring coldly up at the boar, vitriol dancing in his scarred eyes. “You’re just like Dream,” he accused quietly. It was a sentencing and dismissal in one, and he turned to Tommy, considering him with a regretfully disappointed expression. “What happened Tommy?”

Tommy was endlessly grateful for Technoblade’s diversion. He felt about one blow away from crumpling, and lashing out would have only protected him for so long against Tubbo’s onslaught. Tommy collected himself, hardening. He shoved the memories back down right where they belonged. Whatever. He didn’t actually care what Tubbo thought. Tubbo had lost the right for his opinion to matter. “Stop pretending to care, Tubbo. You made it pretty clear you didn’t long ago. Leave me alone, I know you want to.”

He wanted to hate Tommy for that. For falling for the same bid for control that Dream had tried. It was surely revenge on Technoblade’s end. His way of punishing Tubbo for failing to kill him. He’d warn Tommy if he weren’t so angry. Later. Later. When he finally spoke, the words were as soft and level as before, mouth twisted in bitter resignation. “To be honest, I shouldn’t be surprised you ended up teaming with Technoblade, given your pathological need to incite chaos. Haven’t you recognized the pattern? You’re at the center of every war in one way or another. That’s the problem with you, Tommy. You never learn so you can never change. I took steps to never be JSchlatt, but here you are. Terrorizing people. Looking like Technoblade’s second coming. The exact same man I exiled.”

“You’re wrong, Tubbo,” he argued. “I’ve changed so much you can’t even imagine. All for the worse, and all your fault.”

But instead of looking at his eyes, Tubbo’s gaze was dropped to the hands of a beast. “Maybe you’re right. I’m sorry it’s come to this. Sorry I didn’t visit sooner. Sorry you felt the need to build a tower.” His eyes flicked up, and in them lay a deep and harrowing guilt. That had been the initial conversational driver, and that’s what this could have been. The reunification of two broken boys shattered for and because of one another. But somewhere along the way their jagged edges had ruined that embrace. Tommy didn’t even know who was to blame for that. If that lay on the circumstances that broke them or the people who refused to be better. “But I can’t be blamed that you turned to him. That you’re shameless about being cursed. I’ll still try to save you but god if I won’t be angry about it.”

Tubbo let the weight of the promise settle, then turned. A hesitation, and Technoblade reached out to stop him. Upon being reminded he’d been summoned for hostage negotiations, Tubbo shot Tommy a most unimpressed look. The following parley was an unhappy sort, words clipped and tense. Tommy had imagined it to be funnier than the actuality of it turned out to be. Neither party came out pleased as Tubbo bargained for his citizen’s freedom, although Connor was actually likely fairly enthused about the matter. 

Tommy and Technoblade watched as the L’Manburgians crested a hill and vanished, the anarchist drumming a tattoo into his thigh with an axeless hand. “Welp. That might’ve gone better,” he snorted awkwardly. “You, uh, good?” 

A ringing echo of truth hissed inside his skull. Dream was right. Dream was always right about everything. No one liked him. And, sure, some part of him desperately argued that it couldn’t be everyone, only Tubbo, but Tubbo was supposed to be his everything and now Tommy had no one and nothing. He’d only ever been pretending otherwise. He was just a stupid boy chasing after discs and pretending the remnants of memories attached would be enough to fill his soul. They represented victory and triumph and love, and there was a reason Tommy didn’t have them and never would. “Perfectly fine,” Tommy replied, ears flat and tone flatter. 

“Oh, good, things got a little weird back there so I was wondering if I should be worried about your tragic backstory or whatever.” Heroes tended to have them, afterall, and while Technoblade did want to watch a tragedy unfold, he was starting to feel uncomfortable with the idea of what that actually meant. 

“Nope. It’s all done and has no lasting consequences.” He was very busy bottling up all those pesky negative emotions as they spoke. Shoving down every thought indiscriminately until his head was as empty as his heart. The pair set off upon the wooden path Tommy had built with his own two hands. “I don’t think you’re like Dream at all,” Tommy offered suddenly, as a way of exchange. 

“Uh…thanks?” The comment marked the end of a meager and ineffectual bout of comfort. 

Since the last minor terrorism had gone poorly, Technoblade thought it in order to get some light burglary in to boost everyone’s mood. This was supposed to be a simple venture to prove to Tommy their alliance was a cool and fun decision as well as to get the Axe of Peace back, and obviously neither of those things had happened. Tubbo had crashed the vibe pretty harshly in a lot of ways and left Technoblade with a number of concerning questions and thoughts. Spiraling tangents tugged his mind every which way, but then again he’d always had attention problems. It was less like a train switching tracks and more like a stew of nebulous questions. 

He’d sort of been thinking of Tommy’s exile as a fun teaching moment, and now he was pretty sure it actually hadn’t been a normal camping trip, between both Dream and Tubbo’s responses. His brain kept puzzling over what the tower was. Tommy was fond of building the most hideous cobblestone buildings, but that seemed too tame. Maybe a giant statue of a middle finger? That seemed up Tommy’s alley, though it didn’t seem like something Tubbo would really be so upset about. He’d ask, but the mere mention of it basically brought on a breakdown so that was ruled out. Tubbo knew something he didn’t. It was clear Tubbo knew a lot, which led to the next oddity. Technoblade and Philza had spent an awful lot of time and effort destroying any mention of golden apples, and for good reason. How in the world was Tubbo familiar? The previous president obviously knew, but what reason would he have to tell Tubbo of all people, Tubbo, who’d worked closely with him, Tubbo, who was his…predecessor. In hindsight that made sense, but then why would Tubbo be clearly unaffected as far as he could tell? By the loathing in his voice Tubbo knew fully about the curse, so why then not tell Tommy? It would have saved a lot of trouble. Technoblade wasn’t actually entirely sure how all that was going to play out given Tommy’s incomplete dose. It was honestly some fairly small changes, so it couldn’t have him completely, right? Obviously that was ignoring Tommy’s fight for the apple while he’d been healing from the execution, but he was willing to chalk that up to Tommy being a greedy brat. This looped back into thoughts about a different brat, mixed in with sprinklings of reminders about Phil being at the execution, leading to the inquiry of Tubbo’s knowledge of the Arctic Empire. The thought being only two people alive knew about it and that he was slightly annoyed at Tubbo for thinking it a gotcha moment. Technoblade knew something was up, which led him (physically this time) to the crater of L’Manburg. 

“Hey, wanna see something gross?” Tommy didn’t respond, caught in his own soupy thoughts. It mattered little since Tommy was still dutifully following him, but the kid also was a constant chatterbox desperately trying to be funny, so it was pretty out of character. Dangerous to lose your pigeonhole in the narrative, sometimes people disappeared that way, and the last thing Technoblade wanted was for Tommy to become a side character. Also, it was sorta bumming him out. 

Whatever. Time to teach Tommy how to joke about your own trauma. It was his favorite coping mechanism after all, and he was fond of it. Technoblade hopped up onto the wooden stage built to span the crater, spreading out his hands in a grandiose gesture. “I said, wanna see something gross?”

Tommy blinked at him before mechanically climbing up to join. “You mean besides your ugly mug?” It was a weak jab.

“Actually, it is my ugly mug, or at least what was left of it. See that anvil?” Apparently no one had bothered to clean it up. The iron bars were splattered with dried gore, blood and brain tissue splashed over the bottom of the anvil and running down the platform. He could see his staggering hoofprints streaked in viscera leading away from where he’d pried the cage apart with his bare hands. Further stains upon the seats, arrows littering the crowd. Public executions tended to be messy, but his was certainly a show to remember. “That’s what they used to squish in my head. Look! You can see the gray matter on the bottom of it. They decided I was too smart so they tried to bonk in my head.”

Tommy nodded appreciatively. “Did it work?”

“I’m not the least worried about drain bamage.”

“You could get memory loss like Ranboo,” he offered politely.

“Who?”

“He’s new. The guy I burned down a house with, though he didn’t get kicked out for it ‘cause I covered for him.” The sentence trailed off quietly, the reminder of exile crushing him, but Technoblade didn’t really notice, more interested in this Ranboo guy. Ooh. Arson. What a true anarchist spirit. If his first act in the country was terrorism, Technoblade wanted to meet someone that violent and dangerous. You know. For normal peaceful anarchist reasons. 

A scheme for another day. Screams and fear echoed in his mind as Technoblade carefully counted the houses from the podium where his death sentence was announced. Trying to find the exact building Philza was forced to watch from, guards dragging him back so he didn’t launch himself off the balcony. Banners with demonized reflections of Technoblade’s features stared back at him. Not bad craftsmanship actually, and Tommy had already tied one like a cape around his shoulders. 

It was nice to be wanted, even if it was by the government for ‘‘‘‘‘war crimes’’’’’ or whatever. 

L’Manburg could rebuild all it wanted. Had to practically move mountains to refill the craters left behind, the ravines scoured through by withers and the valley carved in the center of the young country through the hand of its creator. It was nearly impressive rebuilding, sturdy bridges crossing through the ravine and pretty little houses lining the plunge into destruction. But nothing they did would get rid of the prickling of darkness under the skin, the chill lingering in the air. Though the ugly amalgamations of hundreds of souls had been ripped apart, leaving behind only the condensed energy of a nether star, the fragments of agonized spirits remained adrift, and would haunt the realm for years to come. Technoblade smirked at the totality of his act of wrath. Withers hadn’t graced the world in nearly a century, and the pure terror in the eyes of his victims would fuel him for years. Perhaps it might lead to renewed investigation in the production of weapons of mass destruction, but Technoblade was confident they wouldn’t figure out anything. Really, the L’Manburgians should have been thanking him. Wasn’t it he who tore the shackles of oppression from their wrists? Wasn’t it he who gave them freedom? He wanted to revel in the horrors he’d wrought upon the world, but more so to bask in the tattered glory of the nation he’d saved. 

However, his dark work was not finished yet, and so Technoblade and Tommy were going to be searching through the new houses that had sprung up around the crater and doing some light purloining. Tommy seemed to perk up at the crime. They began to rifle through a handful of houses, picking up random bits and bobs, less so for any value and more for the action. It’s the thought that counts, right? They were having quality time together, bonding or whatever. Strolling through random peoples’ houses, making fun of the interior design, deciding which paintings to steal. Hands brushing as they reached for the same shiny potion. At some point they found a collection of trash armor and made a fashion show of it. It wasn’t particularly effective terrorism, but it certainly improved the day, and that’s all that mattered. Unfortunately, Tommy was nicking a truly concerning amount of cobblestone, and Technoblade dreaded being forced to host some of the teen’s ugly architecture. Didn’t he know such devastation would tank the property value?

Although, such things did not seem a deterrent to real estate in the area. Judging by the number of new houses that had sprung up around the wither and tnt induced pit, it might even be a selling point. Technoblade made a point of checking the new dwellings, although it wasn’t really any lure of loot that led him to this dedication. Neither was the Tommy bonding time, though that was (debatably) a bonus. No, he was looking for answers. 

The house was by far the most disorganized of all the ones they’d searched, ransacked. Hard choices, to decide what to bring when the world was falling apart and you were driven from your home. Blood and stray feathers smeared from the memory of a fight, and Technoblade had little doubt who won. Tommy dove into rummaging through stuff, just like any other house, but the swine stayed alert, ears pricked. 

A landing thump. There didn’t used to be landing thumps, someone was getting sloppy. Technoblade didn’t care though, maw split in broad smile. He scrambled up the ladder to the second floor, throwing open the doors of the balcony to where Philza had just flown in. A flash of an equally bright smile smeared in his vision as he raced for him. Technoblade gathered the avian in his arms, lifting the light man into the air. Wings flapped happily, fluffy feathers closing around the pair’s embrace. 

“Mate, you’re going to crush my ribs,” Philza wheezed. 

“Good, someone’s gotta put you in your place. Never. Never again should we part like this.”

“Agreed,” Philza laughed. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen your sorry mug. What are you doing here?”

“Robbing some old geezer. He’s got practically no security, it’s absurd.”

“Yeah, well, you aren’t allowed home protection when under house arrest I’m afraid.”

He cupped the crow’s face. Age seeped through his eternal features, painlines and a darkness underscoring his eyes. Had Philza always been so worn? “What have they done to you, Phil? We’ve beaten back armies, how could a few kids playing countries capture you? How could they force you to betray me?”

Philza sighed, spreading dark wings out wide. The tattered feathers shifted in the wither-laced breeze. “I’m…recovering from a number of things. Mostly grief. It wasn’t particularly good for me to be cooped up for so long, but strength dwindled…”

“Do you need more golden apples? I could gi–” the words caught in his throat, greed spasming in his chest. His godhood too jealously guarded. 

“It’s not that. There’s– I thought it would be different this time. I know how foolish it sounds, but I had hope there wasn’t a place for us in the world anymore. But it came back like it always does, the ambition, the corruption. We spent decades trying to rid the land of god apples and it’s been for naught.” His memory flickered to his summit meeting with Dream while Philza thought of Tubbo. “I thought Wilbur might be able to avoid the pitfalls of leadership after I raised him but…I’ve been a terrible father. I am to blame for his destruction.”

“Listen, Phil, you can’t be blamed for that, you weren’t here–”

“Exactly! I abandoned him utterly!” 

He gripped Philza’s shoulder reassuringly. “He asked you to.”

Philza buried his face in his hands. “I kept– I kept doing what he asked me to, no matter what, and I think it only ruined him. I should’ve…I don’t know, mate. I just don’t know. At least…at least Tommy wasn’t corrupted too.”

Oh. Technoblade’s breath caught like a punch to the gut. Oh, no. “Listen, about that-”

A loud crash happens from the first floor. “Oi! Guess what I found! Because I have no idea what this is!”

Both men’s heads jerked to look at where the voice emanated from beneath their feet. A weapon formed in Philza’s hand but Technoblade caught him by the wrist, lowering the weapon. “Who’s that?” he demanded.

“Chill out, that’s just Tommy.”

Trying to describe the emotions pouring through Philza’s expression would be downright impossible. Excitement, love, guilt, fear, yearning, flashing through one after the other. It settled on gratitude. “You’ve been taking care of him for me?”

“Uh I guess for a bit- oh ok.” Philza hugged him tightly again. Technoblade patted him awkwardly. “Yah man, I couldn’t let your kid just wander around in the Arctic.” 

Tommy’s head popped up from the ladder, spilling an armload of chorus fruit on the landing. The layered purple fruit clunked on the floor, unused to the heavier gravity of the overworld. Undoubtedly Tommy had never seen one, given the fully justified embargo on the End. “It’s the weirdest thing, you eat it and it works like an enderpearl kinda? It tastes like a sucky watermelon if it– huh? Who’s that?” Blinking at Philza, Tommy shoved the dragon fruit in his inventory and ducked back down so that only his eyes poke over the ledge. “Is he the guy we’re robbing? Do we beat him up?” 

“No, come up and introduce yourself. This is my best friend in the whole world.” He clapped Philza on the back. “He’s, uh…a bit overwhelmed at the moment.” 

“Oh ok!” Tommy chirped, scrambling up the ladder and hopping onto the landing. Tail swishing, he crossed over, waving. “Hi! I’m Tommy, nice to meet you.” The pair blinked at each other, and the feathers beneath Technoblade’s embrace began to raise, wings stretching out. “Uh, he’s a furry too?” 

And the hands hugging his back suddenly turned into claws digging in. Dark fury bled from Philza’s gaze as he looked up at Technoblade. “How dare you corrupt him,” he snarled. Talons raked through his flesh in deep gouges as Technoblade reared back and kicked Philza square in the chest, throwing him off. The avian hurled invectives at him, the sharp gleam of a sword flashing into existence in his hand, curls of smoke and shimmering amethyst magic streaking across the blade. 

Technoblade’s bowstring drew back taut, enchantment flaring and causing flame to crackle to life on the tip of the arrow. “Phil, stop, it’s not what you’re thinking–”

He lunged, and Technoblade let the arrow fly. It was lost into the wings thrown up in protection, damage wasted like he knew it would be, but the magic still threw Philza back. Technoblade fired volley after volley, enchantment slamming the assailant back. The scent of singed feathers filled the room, but Philza bore upon him relentlessly. Still, punch II was brutal and Technoblade was insanely quick and accurate. Philza swore at him, then splashed a swiftness potion. Inhuman speed pushed him, limbs blurring, Technoblade scrambling to hold off the furious man. He scrambled backwards as ground was gained, but he wasn’t fast enough.  

“I can see him with my own two eyes, it’s exactly what I think it is! You’ve doomed him!” Philza screeched as he brought his sword down. Technoblade caught the blow with the upper limb of his bow, and the weapon cracked, burn marks racing across its surface. Dismissing it into his inventory, Technoblade prayed mending would take care of that. Barely did he get the orphan obliterator up in time to catch a strike. Each one came almost too quickly for him to respond to, only familiarity with Philza’s attack style saving him. There wasn’t time for Technoblade to use his own potions, not when every second was spent holding off the furious Philza. 

“Oi! You’ve picked the wrong guys to mess with!” Tommy hollered, sprinting at Philza with his weapon raised over his head for a wicked slash. Faster than either of the dastardly duo could react, Philza seized Technoblade and swung him around to catch the blow. Tommy to his credit tried to pull back at the last minute, but still scored a slice right across the boar’s back. 

“Sorry Big T!” he yelped. 

Throwing an arm out protectively, Technoblade shoved him behind. “Stay back Tommy, He’s too strong for you to fight.”

“Hey!” the kid protested. “I fight you all the time!” 

“Exactly, that’s why I know you’re only going to get your butt handed to you.” Being a scrappy protagonist aside, Tommy didn’t stand a chance in the fight between immortals. 

“Get away from him,” Philza snapped. “He’s ruining your life, Tommy.” 

Tommy snorted. “Yeah, cause I’m going to listen to a random guy over my friend.” 

The flash of pain in Philza’s eyes was quickly replaced by anger. “Just listen to me, I don’t want to hurt you-” Techno tried.

“It’s far too late for that.” The worst part was he was right. Technoblade had been so tangled up with how the development affected Tommy’s story he hadn’t thought about what it would mean to Philza. “A decade. An entire decade I’ve lost trying to prevent this, and the moment Wilbur is dead you betray the last thing he asked of us.” 

“I didn’t– this wasn’t what I wanted-”

“Yeah? You wanted power? A tool? Have you learned nothing?!”

“What’s his problem?” Tommy whispered, ears flicking. 

“Uhh that’s a pretty complicated question.” 

“I have been betrayed utterly,” Philza snarled. “Whatever justifications he’s made to himself is mere madness.” 

Technoblade winced. Philza had never thrown it in his face before. “Listen, the voices hate this just as m–” 

It was a distraction, and he should have recognized it as such, but Philza was already upon him, hurling attack after brutal attack. There was no gap in the onslaught, simply the dance of two men so intertwined that they had once been one on the battlefield. Perfectly matched in every way, strength for dexterity, cunning for wisdom. But as much as the voices screeched, Technoblade refused to hurt his friend. Philza had no such qualms, slashing away freely and lethally should Technoblade falter for even a second. A perfect duel only at first, the accruing injuries making Technoblade sluggish, the mounting fury making Philza sloppy. Technoblade swore as a sharp maneuver threw his weapon out of hand. With a shriek Philza abandoned finesse to lunge at him. Technoblade slammed roughly on the floor, barely holding off the talons tearing towards his entrails.

“STOP! STOP, YOU’RE MAKING A MISTAKE, I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING!” 

“YOU’VE MURDERED MY ONLY SON!” 

Philza’s sword plunged through his hand, driving all the way through to the floor below, pinning him in place. Fire seeped out from the wound. Technoblade’s howl intertwined with Tommy’s war cry. “Leave him alone!” the boy screamed, charging into the fray. Sweeping out, giant penumbra wings caught the blow aimed for Philza’s back, shoving Tommy back. But the kid was nothing if not determined against foes who far outclassed him, catching the brunt of a wing bash with his shield and driving an axeblade deep into Philza’s shoulder where it lodged despite Tommy’s attempt to pull it out and attack again. A crow foot snapped around his ankle like a vice, jerking to the side and causing Tommy to crash to the ground, head thunking painfully against the floor. 

Ultimately useless, but it bought him necessary time. Technoblade smashed a strength potion against the floor, cerise clouds billowing up and covering the both of them. At once Philza’s hold on him tightened, talons digging even deeper to his flesh to the point of reaching bone. Strength poured through to the point Technoblade thought Philza might snap his arm in half. A mistake to let it get on him, but Technoblade didn’t have any other choice. Imbued with magic might, Technoblade ripped his hand away from where it was pinned by Philza’s sword. Not that he had the force to move the sword plunged all the way through to the floor below, more so the hysterical strength necessary to destroy himself for the sake of freedom. His bones shattered as they ripped through the blade, tendons snapping and flesh mutilating, but it was his only free hand. 

The mistake revealed itself at once. While his hand was newly unoccupied, so was Philza’s sword, which now raised high in the air. It couldn’t miss. It would be a critical, too, while on strength, with whatever enchantments the immortal had poured into the finest crafted blade in centuries…ah. Technoblade was going to die. His ruined hand twitched, sluggishly pouring smoke and blood. Fabric’s texture faintly registered the object phasing in and out of existence, and Technoblade didn’t know if it would be complete in time. 

Philza’s sword pierced through his eye socket, skewering his brain and jutting through the back of his skull to the wooden floorboards below. His head exploded into experience and viscera and smoke. 

The totem burst in beacons of emerald and gold, ribbons of light wrapping around his body and refusing it to dissolve. Flickering between smoke and flesh, Technoblade twisted just enough that the blade only stabbed through bare inches from his skull. Philza responded swiftly, swinging to cut through his throat, though Technoblade threw up a hand to catch it. The blade was held off from slicing through his jugular only by his fingers. The enchanted sword cut ridges into his hooves, pressing deeper and deeper until Technoblade was nearly choking himself. The voices' screams were deafening. How many centuries had Phila wanted for this backstab, waiting till his guard was lowered? He must have been scheming the whole time, plotting to overthrow Technoblade from the beginning. He’d set himself up for this narratively the moment he took Tommy under his wing. 

“I let you get away with a totem at your execution out of affection,” Philza seethed. “But I will guarantee Lady Death is far less forgiving this time. She’s been waiting for your soul for too long, old friend.” Arrow scattered black wings spread overhead, shadow spilling over and promising annihilation. “I trusted you,” the Angel of Death hissed. “All these centuries we have suffered, and you poison him all the same?! How could you?!”

“I didn’t! Don’t accuse me of this, Phil. You know I’d never.” Philza pressed even further, and ink began to cloud Technoblade’s periphery, meager breaths barely managing to hiss through his tusks. 

“I know what mine own eyes see.” 

“You’re really going to kill me? After everything?” Hesitation flickered in his gold scarred eyes. If he were honest, Technoblade was deeply bitter that Philza’s love for Tommy was greater than for him. Some boy he’d known for perhaps six years, versus his greatest ally. “It’s me– it’s Technoblade. We have been souls intertwined longer than civilizations. And you would destroy me now?” 

The merciless gaze of Death’s favorite soldier hardened upon him. “I cannot have known you so well if you are the exact same fool as we were all those centuries ago.” 

“Grant me defense. At least that, for every year you were my dearest friend. Let me at least have my trial first. Or are you as much a tyrant as those that held my execution not a week prior? This isn’t the Arctic Empire anymore.” If you call me unchanged from that stupid emperor I was in my youth, certainly you are no different. 

Ever so slightly, the pressure eased. “Then speak.”

“It was an accident.”

“An accident?” he asked dangerously. 

“Yes! I wouldn’t do that to Tommy, not in a million years. I wouldn’t take his mortality from him. I’ve been retired, or thought I was. The last of the governments put to rest, my work was done. I thought it would be longer before the scourge rose again.” A jab with the weapon, and Technoblade jolted back on task. “I was at peace, what need would I have to make super soldiers? Especially of Tommy, he’s just a kid. And a terrible fighter.” 

“You’ve been stockpiling withers,” Philza accused. 

“Exactly, they’re just withers. And it was just in case. They were a present for Tommy.” 

Tommy choked. Philza glowered. “You claim you aren’t trying to shove your ambitions and power hunger onto him, and then turn around and say you were making unholy constructs for him?” 

“Those are entirely different.”

“Not from your perspective. You were going to turn my boy into a monster.” 

“I honest to Kristin didn’t know he was there. I thought he was off in exile, but apparently he broke into my house and found one. I don’t even know where he got it from, none of the others were gone.” That had certainly been a panic, tearing through his lab, paranoid that Tommy had unraveled his safety, had destroyed him utterly. He had no idea where Tommy had gotten the golden apple, but surely he would’ve taken all of them if he’d been able. 

“You have more?” Tommy asked, eyes flashing with gilded avarice. “Where? You should share with me, partners are supposed to share.” 

“Uh, I’m begging for my life here, if you could not interrupt. Actually, wait, Tommy back me up here. I didn’t give you any golden apples, did I?”

Tommy scowled. “No. You took it before I even got to finish! And you punched me when I tried to get the one you ate after you stumbled in looking half dead.”

“See! It’s tragic, sure, but it’s not my fault. Not directly at least.” 

Tommy blinked, then jolted. “Yeah! Technoblade isn’t to blame for whatever you’re mad about! It’s probably my fault!”

Philza weighed their testimonies, then peeled off Technoblade, offering him a hand up which Technoblade took immediately. “I…see. Sorry, mate.” The voices howled to never trust again, to strike now that the time was right, and Technoblade gave those suggestions the consideration they were entitled to (ie, none) and threw an arm around Philza’s shoulders. They were men of violence, such outbursts weren’t entirely unheard of, even if it got a lot closer to deadly than Technoblade preferred. Philza was far too important to him to let a silly thing like an assassination attempt get between them. 

“Honestly, it’s pretty understandable. I might’ve done the same.” Especially now that he knew Tommy better. Without hesitation, Philza conjured healing potions, taking a swig of tonic before passing the glass bottle over. “Cheers.” As he chugged, the wounds glowed and knit close. “Oh, wait, let me get that for you–” with a yank he pulled the axe embedded in Philza’s shoulder out, tossing it to a rather shocked Tommy. He only removed a few of the arrows buried in his crow wings before Philza waved him away and approached Tommy, who squinted suspiciously, glancing to Technoblade for help, who held up two phalanxes for a double thumbs up gesture. 

His son tensed, guard up, wariness flashing across his mutilated features as Philza reached for him. Heart aching, Philza smiled reassuringly. “Ah, this was an error on my part. Sorry. Neither of you are in trouble, I just need to know what happened.” 

Vanishing the bloody axe in his hands, Tommy relaxed to a degree. “Yeah, sure, shoot, as long as you don’t attack him again. Can’t have you killing my servant, that would be pretty bad…” the joke trailed off from uncertainty in the face of Philza’s grave expression. 

“Who ruined you, Tommy?” he asked gently, taking dark claws in his own corrupted hands. They were far smaller, softer than his cold talons, but it was a twisted poisoning of the boy’s form all the same. 

Tommy’s eyes were wide, completely thrown. “Uh, sorry. What are you talking about?” His voice was squeezed out, hitched up a notch. Philza’s heart sank at how defensive it was. Not confusion, no, it was like Tommy knew exactly what he was asking but was desperate to pretend he didn’t. “I’m not…not ruined. It– it can get better, can’t it?”

He closed his hands over Tommy’s. “No. I’m sorry. It’ll only be worse from here, but I swear to you I’ll try to stop it.” Tommy looked utterly horrified. Good. He should be. “Now, who did this to you? Who gave you a golden apple?

Instant, palpable relief flooded the boy. The strangest premonition passed over Philza. That meant something, he just didn’t know what yet. Tommy waved a fluffy hand vaguely. “I found it in a random chest while I was nicking your stuff.”

Philza whirled upon the boar. “YOU LEFT GOD APPLES JUST LYING AROUND?!” 

“No? I don’t– I don’t think I did, that would be very irresponsible.” Technoblade’s brow furrowed. Why would there have been a random golden apple separate from the rest? “...oh my gods. I forgot about the one Dream gave me.” About all he could do was hope it wasn’t doubly poisoned. 

Irritation flashed across Philza’s features. “I’ve been hearing an awful lot about that man recently, none of it good.”

“Dream’s fantastic!” Tommy insisted. A tremor passed through where their hands interlocked. “Really, he’s super nice once you get to know him, as long as you don’t make him mad. And he has golden apples you said?” 

“Tommy, the last time we encountered Dream, you hid the whole time and nearly had a nervous breakdown,” Technoblade flatly replied. Philza’s eyes narrowed, sensing a dangerous connection. “He saved my life, but I trust him a lot less farther than I can throw him.”

A shrug greeted his valid concern. “We have our ups and downs but he’s my friend.” 

“I think I need to have a meeting with him soon,” Philza said darkly. “Especially if he’s the reason you’ve been corrupted.” 

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” the boy scoffed. “They’re delicious, and the raccoon stuff is a little weird, but I feel great. Better than ever. And anyway why does it matter to you? I don’t know you from Adam. And you attacked Techno before I even finished introducing myself, which is really unfortunate for you, since I’m actually the best person in the whole world to know and now I don’t like you all that much.” He stuck out his tongue to cement the point, and Philza wilted. 

“I– sorry. I made some assumptions unfair to Technoblade, jumped to the worst case scenario. I didn’t mean to frighten you, I’m usually much better behaved.” Honestly, that was the most furious he had ever seen Philza, and that was a testament considering just how long Technoblade had known him. 

“Nah you didn’t scare me. I could’ve taken you, if I really wanted to. I just wanted Technoblade to have a chance to fight is all. Anyway, the name’s Tommy Innit; THE Tommy Innit, I know, it’s a lot to take in. Creator of L’Manburg, champion of Pogtopia, winner of wars, hottest single in the world, and NOT a child.”

Philza had an expression that could only be described as mushy, completely taken in by the kid’s spiel. “You’re as wonderful in person as I always dreamed you’d be.”

Not expecting anyone to ever buy his crock of crap, Tommy paused then lit up. “Yep! Tommy, in the flesh! Exactly as great as advertised! And you are…?”

“Ah. Sorry. I always thought you’d recognize me…” Ouch. Technoblade patted his shoulder. Uh, not the one Tommy lodged an axe in, to clarify. 

“Are you famous too?”

“More like infamous,” Technoblade snorted. “Tommy, this is Philza.” 

Processing, Tommy just blinked. “Wait, you're really him? Like, you’re Philza Philza? You’re that guy?” The angel nodded awkwardly, then stretched his arms out wide for an embrace that didn’t come.  

Tommy frowned at him a long time, drinking in his sight. “...huh. I thought Wil was making up the bit about the wings. Cool.” 

“Could I get a hug? You know, from my son?”

“Son. I’m your…son. You’re Philza, my dad. Oh my gOD YOU’RE MY DAD?!” In a blur, Tommy threw himself at the crow, tackling both to the ground. Tommy wrapped around him completely, burying his face in Philza’s shoulder, who was fighting back tears as he closed his wings around the pair. “You’re him! You’re really him!” Tommy repeated over and over, still in disbelief. 

“I got– mfh. I’m old Tommy, careful with the bones, they’re brittle,” Philza wheezed even while refusing to do anything but hold the teen even tighter. 

“You’re real.”

“I– yes,” Philza responded quietly as the implications of the exclamation settled on him more heavily than bedrock. “Yes, I’m real. I’m here. And I’m so, so sorry I was gone for so long. Are…are you alright?”

“Fine.” But he felt the way Tommy stiffened. 

“Oh my boy,” Philza mourned, cupping Tommy’s scar speckled face in his talons. Tommy melted into the touch, a musical purr rumbling in his chest. His tail flicked in contentment from where it curled around them. “Oh my poor boy, what have they done to you?” 

Tommy shrugged, gold scratched eyes flickering to look at him. Enormous pools of lapis lazuli too wide and engulfing to be human. Oh but he son was beautiful even in his destruction. “Nobody ever wants me around for long. I’ve gotten used to it. Why…why’d you leave, Dad?”

Pain shot through Philza. “Forgive me for being an old fool. I thought I could save you, only to realize it was for naught. I grieve that you have lost your humanity.”

“Uh. What.” His head canted to the side. “Do you believe the crap they said when I got exiled? I’m a good guy, trust me.” He panicked a bit, holding onto Philza a little tighter.

“I’m afraid you’re just as much of a monster as I am now, son. Technoblade, how long has it been?”

“Couple days. I thought– I was hoping it would wear off.” It was wishful thinking, but it wasn’t like he had any other options. “Not a full dose. I sent a crow, I swear, it must’ve been delayed.” 

Fog skimmed in his hand, the sharp edge of an obsidian dagger glittering in his hand. “Now I know why She made two. Tommy, I can save you right now from the golden apples.”

“What? Why? They’re fantastic!”

“No, they’re evil. They’re influencing you to say that.”

Frowning, the slices of gold across his animalistic eyes widened, engulfing more of him. “No they aren’t. Besides, isn’t it great? Now I’m like you and Techno. I’m stronger, and faster, and heal better than ever. Why would I want to give that up?”

“Craving power always ends badly, Tommy.”

“What? So you don’t want me to be like you? I just watched you fight, you’re better than anyone I’ve ever seen. Trying to stop me from following your footsteps is hypocritical.” He looked up through his eyelashes, going for the jugular. “I just want to be like my Dad.” 

Philza took the manipulation like a gut punch. “No,” he gasped. “No. You shouldn’t want to be anything like me. Please, it’ll be over quick, just let me rip the corruption out of you.” 

“I don’t trust some guy with a weird knife.”

“I’ve done this three times, Tommy, which is more than anyone else in all of existence.”

“Wait. Three times?” Technoblade squinted. “Who? You never mentioned anyone else.”

Philza sighed. “Recent development. Extremely recent, perhaps a week or so ago. Kristin wouldn’t tell me why I needed two daggers, although I suppose the second is for Tommy. But She should have said something to me; I would have returned immediately.”

“Who was the other?” Technoblade and Tommy asked in tandem. 

“Tubbo.”

Tommy went positively rigid. “Did. Did you really only find me after Tubbo?!” 

“He needed help, I thought you were friends?”

“YOU’VE BEEN WORKING WITH TUBBO?!” Technoblade screeched. “After you WATCHED me get executed????” 

“That was before, I didn’t– listen, I couldn’t just let him go insane, especially not as the president of a country, it would have been a disaster. He’d have the position to cause so much damage in his obsession. Because that’s what this will do to you if it goes untreated, Tommy, you’ll be consumed by addiction. I can’t watch that. You’re just a child, you aren’t ready for immortality.” 

Tommy’s eyes went positively round. “I’m immortal now?” 

“No, you’re on a predestined march to a horrid death marked by madness and destruction unless you do what I say.” 

Leaning back, Tommy scoffed. “Oh that’s rich, Phil. That’s not going be how this works, actually, you don’t get to tell me what to do after barging randomly into my life, criticizing my choices, attacking my friend, and especially not after killing the brother who raised me because you couldn’t be bothered to. You don’t get to control me.”

Abruptly, he pulled away. Philza grabbed his wrist, and Tommy tried to yank away, head jerking sharply between the man holding him and the exit. Imposing wings blotted the world out, shepherding him in closer against his will. “Son, please calm down, we’re trying to save you–”

“Yeah, which you could’ve done at any point in the last TEN YEARS, PHIL. I finally don’t need your help anymore, and now you show up to mess up everything?” 

“I can’t let you make this mistake. I have a way to help, but without me your life is going to spiral.”

Tommy gave him a vitriolic rictus. “Oh, like it hasn’t already. No thanks, I’m not giving up the one good thing that happened to me since exile.” His claws shot out, fog condensing as he summoned an object. Technoblade startled, expecting a weapon, but what Tommy actually grabbed made his stomach sink far more than any display of violence would have. A flash of animal teeth and he bit into chorus fruit in his palm. Bared fangs smiled triumphantly at the pair, forbidden juice dripping down his face. “Just try to stop me.” 

And in a blink and a puff of smoke, Tommy was gone.