Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

hello?

“Hello.”

…

“You don’t need to be afraid.”

who are you?

“All in good time, little one. ”

who are you?

“Patience.”

what are you?

“Now there’s a question.”

why won’t you answer me?

“Because you already know.”

i don’t!

“You will.”

but i want to know now.

“Patience, little one.”

who are you?

“Oh, I like you. You have fight.”

what does that mean?

“You’re not like the others, little one, are you?”

i… no, i’m not.

“Don’t worry, being different isn’t a bad thing.”

but my M-

“She’s wrong.”

how did you know what i was going to say?

“I just did.”

are you evil?

“No.”

who are you?

“I’m part of you, little one, that’s who I am.”

Chapter Text

“Run.”

The sand beneath Phil’s feet is scorching, even though the sun is low and the dark is beginning to arrive. It’s hot though the thin soles of his sandals, it shifts as he steps, making him stumble as he runs, and his movements throw it up, the sticky breeze catching the coarse grains and throwing them in his face.

He doesn’t let any of that stop him, though.

He hasn’t done this much exercise in- in probably forever, so it feels like every muscle is on fire, legs beating and arms pumping and lungs heaving in the hot desert air as he pants for breath. 

This, at least, is a strain his body can take. This, at least, is self induced. This, at least, is natural.

The toe of his sandal digs into the sand, and he falls, a frantic mess of limbs and loose hair, his sweat ensuring that once he stands up again, he’s coated in a layer of sand.

Again, he doesn’t let any of that stop him.

Phil keeps running.

He keeps running until he physically cannot run any longer, and then he scrambles, half walking, half jogging, falling more often than not.

What a sight he must look, alone, desperately scuffling through the uninhabited desert, covered in sand and grit, hair wild since he lost his ribbon half a glass ago. He’s shoddy, he’s unbecoming, he’s a mess.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t let any of that stop him.

Even when his sandal ties come undone, slipping slowly down his leg, even when they fly loose and trip him up, even when the shoe falls off his foot and lies—golden and glittering and far more battered than anyone thought it would ever be—in the sand behind him, Phil doesn’t stop. 

“Leave it, you must keep going.”

Phil doesn’t even pause to get it, he just keeps moving.

There is one thought and one thought only in his mind, and that is to put as much distance between himself and the Cobalt Oasis as possible. 

He can barely see its shape anymore, he can’t make out the buildings and the trees and he certainly can’t make out the people, but its shadow still looms on the watery horizon, always hounds his back no matter how hard he tries to run from it.

The sun has sunk further now, the sky is darkening and while the sand is still hot, the air is beginning to chill. The desert is dangerous at dark, everyone always says. Phil hopes it will be kind to him, though with his luck—with his condition, really—he knows it won’t. 

And still, he keeps moving.

Perhaps if Phil was even a little better at, well, everything, he would be a little better at this. At running, at navigating the desert, at planning in advance and not being so naïve, so stupid, so hopeless. Perhaps he wouldn’t be shivering because he didn’t know the desert got this cold when the sun went down— foolish boy, he should know that , he lives in the desert! It really must be testament to how much of an imbecile and an idiot he is, that he doesn’t even know anything about the very place he inhabits.

He wishes he knew how to start a fire, even little kids know how to do that, but he has never been able to make the sparks light under his fingers as they should. He wishes he knew how to locate food, because he hasn’t eaten since lunchtime, and he’s gone longer without food before, yes, but his lunch was barely anything and he had slept through breakfast.

He wishes he knew a lot of things, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and it’s usually his own fault for not trying hard enough.

That’s why he’s here in the first place, really, because if he wasn’t wishing all these things, then he would be able to do them! He wouldn’t be stuck out in the sand with nothing but the clothes on his back and the sand in his hair and the ache in his muscles.

But at least he’s here, though, at least he’s alive and kicking and really, that’s what matters, isn’t it?

Yet Phil’s facing a problem he hadn’t really thought of before he ran. He has nothing.

No coins, no food, no shelter, but that should be fine, right? There isn’t much in the desert, and the winds aren’t due to race. He should be fine on the shelter side, but it’s getting a little chilly. He’ll be fine, right? It’s the desert, it doesn’t get cold cold. At least, not properly.

The coins are what’s worrying him most. He doesn’t have any, and everyone knows that coins are how you get everything else. Coins will solve his food problem, and his water problem, and his missing-a-sandal problem. 

He should probably do something about his messy hair problem too, because he’s sure it looks awful. He’s still got his shirt, though, which is good. It fixes the other problem, at least temporarily. And his pants too, he supposes. And one shoe is better than none, even if it is all scuffed from running so far.

Phil’s trying to come up with a plan, plodding along because he’s far enough away that he doesn’t need to run, and he’s too tired to anyways. The adrenaline is wearing off, and now all the little scrapes on his face and arms and all the cuts and bruises he’d reopened or re-aggravated are starting to sting. 

At first he thinks it’s a trick of the desert—the desert likes its tricks, everyone knows that, everyone’s warned of that the moment they start walking on their own. The desert is full of cruel tricks and crueller fates, you should never fall for any of them.

He thinks it’s a trick of the desert, but it’s not. Phil knows what desert tricks look like, they’re wavy and hazy and always just slightly too far away to see properly. This one isn’t.

It’s a little glow of light, a campfire, Phil thinks. Like the ones he’s supposed to be able to learn to light back home, but this one is actually flickering in the breeze, not perpetually dark.

“Go on,” 

The voice urges sweetly, and Phil agrees. He should go on.

A campfire means someone’s there, and someone probably needs coins. He needs coins, more than this someone.

But Phil’s not stupid, he’s not going to just waltz into this little camp—it’s definitely a little camp, there are dark shapes near the fire, one of them looks vaguely person-shaped—and ask for coins, even he knows that won’t go down well. He’s going to have to steal it.

That’s fine with him, it’s not the worst thing he’s done this light. Phil’s small, he’s quick, he can be quiet. Small and quick and quiet enough that he managed to get this far away from the oasis without getting caught, at least.

“Closer.”

Phil edges closer to the camp, trying to hide in the shadow of one of the small dunes that scatter this part of the desert.

There’s a person in the camp, Phil was right. They’re big, they’re not dressed in clothes Phil recognises—their shirt isn’t tight or black, it’s white, and their pants are too tight, they’ve got it all round backwards—and they’re turned away, doing- something. Phil’s not sure, it doesn’t matter.

There’s a tent, too. Phil knows what tents look like, of course he does. It’s not very big, and it’s got something glowing softly blue inside of it. A lantern, probably, which would mean-

Something huffs, startling Phil, and he tumbles backwards, squeaking in alarm while he tries to keep quiet.

It’s a horse. Phil thinks. He’s not entirely sure, because he’s never seen one before, but he’s seen illustrations. It’s a horse, and it’s so much bigger than Phil thought a horse would be.

It has bags on its side, and a saddle, and it’s tied up to a stick in the ground by the- the- the reins. That’s what they’re called, right?

It shakes its head, sending its mane flying about, and huffs again, moving about on the spot, big hooves stomping down in the sand. Very carefully, Phil tries to edge away, tries not to alert the beast, because it has so much muscle under its dark hide, and Phil is scared of how much it could probably hurt him if it tried.

Phil, however, is unsuccessful in his endeavour to escape unseen. The horse looks at him, and for a moment, they simply stare at each other. Phil silently begs it not to do anything, and the horse blinks at him.

And then it whinnies, it rears up and Phil doesn’t try to be slow or quiet right now, he picks himself up and he runs. Again. Not very far, just far enough that the horse isn’t going to be able to hurt him, around the back of the tent to hide.

“Woah, Carl, easy,” the person says—Phil assumes it’s the person, because he’s fairly certain horses can’t speak. Their voice is deep, soothing, and weirdly accented. Phil doesn’t recognise from where. “Easy, yer okay, you oaf.”

Peering around the side of the tent, Phil can see what’s going on in the camp a little better.

The person is now beside the horse—Carl—patting its mane, murmuring. Phil can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but he can see them more clearly than before.

They’ve got long hair, it’s all pinkish and kind of curly, and it’s tied back with a ribbon. See, Phil really should try and get his ribbon back, even people like this who wear backwards clothes and speak strangely have hair ribbons, even if it’s not as nice and silky as Phil’s was.

“What’s spooked you, hm?” the person asks, peering around the horse to where Phil had just been. “‘Nother snake, was it Carl?”

Phil looks around the rest of the camp now that he’s so close and its one inhabitant is distracted. There’s the fire, the tent he’s beside, and some sort of red blanket thing laid out over the sand with a bag next to it.

And next to that bag? A coin pouch. Phil can tell it’s a coin pouch, he knows what they look like even if he’s never had one himself yet. Everyone has them, all the traders and their camels who stop by the oasis, all the people who buy their wares, and now this person too.

Phil will have a coin pouch soon, he decides. Very soon.

He looks back over to the person, who’s thoroughly distracted by what’s probably far too much displaced sand to be just a snake, and Phil reckons his best—and probably only—chance is now.

He dashes out from the side of the tent, beelines for the red thing, and scoops the coin pouch up as he passes. The red thing isn’t a blanket, though, because it has a big bunch of fabric and a clasp, and Phil didn’t factor that into his split grain plan, because he catches his toes on it and stumbles, and the coin pouch clinks as he almost drops it.

“”Hey!” the person shouts, and Phil regains his footing to run. He’s done rather a lot of running this light.

“Oi, kid!” the person yells, but Phil doesn’t answer him, that would be stupid. He doesn’t even turn around to see if he’s being chased, he just clutches the coin pouch close and tries to run. 

“Oh c’mon,” the person says, and Phil can barely hear it now, because they’re not shouting and Phil is getting further away. 

He can’t help but smile a little bit, because that means he’s not being chased, and he’s got a whole coin pouch! He stole something, and he succeeded!

Except...

There’s a familiar soft whoosh sound behind him, something glowing a very pale blue and Phil can’t look over his shoulder fast enough, because it hits him square in the back with a flash and he goes down with an oof, something wrapping around his legs and his back and one of his arms so he can’t run or really move much anymore.

The coin pouch has been knocked from his hands, lying in the sand just a beetle’s length too far away for him to reach.

Panicking, Phil tries to flip himself over, tries to kick off the bindings around his ankles and wriggle to free his trapped arm. They don’t budge, glowing the same blue as the spell that hit him in the back, and through their light, Phil can see a dark shape approaching him. He cranes his neck, he squiggles around in the sand, but he’s trapped, and the person from the camp comes up right beside him. 

They sigh and crouch down beside Phil, shaking their head. Phil cowers, tenses because surely something’s going to go even more wrong, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Kid,” is all the person says, and they sound- they sound disappointed. Phil shouldn’t be surprised, really.

They rise again, and Phil lifts his head from where his cheek was momentarily resting on the sand, watching them.

“I’ll be takin’ this back,” they say, plucking the coin pouch from the floor and pocketing it. There goes Phil’s plan to obtain coins.

They stand over Phil again, though, looking down at his bound body, brows furrowed. They don’t say anything for a long time, and neither does Phil. He tries to look up defiantly, but he can’t hold this person’s gaze for more than a few grains at a time, and he’s still scared. He’s been caught, and nothing has happened except the wind knocked from his lungs for a moment. 

“Go on, kid, get outta here,” they say finally, waving a hand to dispel the bindings. They disintegrate, their light fading, and Phil gives his limbs a few experimental twitches.

Shakily, he gets his feet under him, kneels in the sand to try and assess the situation, because the person is still standing over him, still watching him.

“Oi, kid, leave,” they say.

“Stay.”

Phil shakes his head, trying to ignore the voice. It’s pretty clear this person doesn’t want him to stay.

So he stands, and he bolts again. Off into the desert dark, but not as fast as he knows he could run. He looks back over his shoulder to see the person watching him, making sure he actually does leave.

Phil doesn’t plan on going far.

Chapter Text

There’s something off about the kid.

Technoblade isn’t one for children, so pardon him that he doesn’t have much experience with them, but he still knows enough to know there’s something wrong.

He has his coin pouch back now, tucked away inside his pocket because spirits know he’s not letting it out of his sight again.

“Just because I know doesn’t mean any others do .”

‘Shut up’, Technoblade thinks back, and Chat silences. Mercifully.

Carl’s calmed down now too, has laid down in the sand to sleep, ears occasionally flicking at some bug or stray piece of dust. Techno still needs to properly thank him for warning him of the thief, even if he’s fairly certain he would have caught the kid regardless.

He wasn’t exactly being subtle, grabbing his coins and running off in the open like he had.

That in and of itself isn’t that weird. The kid is a kid, barely looks older than ten suns, maybe twelve at a push. Of course he doesn’t have much experience stealing, if he did, Techno wouldn’t have noticed.

And Techno notices a lot.

He’s been on his own—well, on his own with Chat and Carl, but he thinks that still counts as being on his own.

“I don’t.”

‘I said shut up, Chat.’

Technoblade’s been on his own long enough to be able to keep track of all his belongings and their whereabouts, thank you very much. The kid would have to be a very good thief to get past Techno, and an even better caster to escape his tracking spells.

But Techno hadn’t needed to pull out those particular spells, because the kid is an awful thief, and all Techno had needed to do was throw a binding spell at his back and he’d gone down like a sack of dates.

Techno pulls his cloak over his shoulders now that the moon is high, now that the desert has cooled drastically and now that the winds are just that touch more biting. As hot as it gets in the light, Techno is certainly no stranger to how cold it gets at dark, and just how little shelter the barren landscape provides.

He’s trying not to think about the kid.

He’s really trying not to think about the kid.

Part of him, though, hopes the kid is okay. He wasn’t dressed for the desert darks at all, even if his clothes were… off. Techno recognises the style—it’s typical clear caster garb, void, it’s typical caster garb, regardless of form—but it’s still off. It hasn’t been that long since Techno was around other clear casters—the socially acceptable ones, that is—so he knows the fashion hasn’t changed much.

But the kid…

He had sleeves. Short ones, yeah, but he still had sleeves.

Technoblade would wholly recommend sleeves for a life in the desert, they’re very good at protecting his arms from the sand tossed up by the winds, and at keeping him warm in the dark. 

But the kid had sleeves , with traditional clear caster style. It makes no sense , casters like to wear as little as possible, loose pants and tight sleeveless shirts, tied up hair and sandals. 

The kid had loose pants, check. A tight shirt, check. One sandal, so… half a check. But his hair was untied and his shirt had voiddamned sleeves. 

Techno really shouldn’t be worrying this much over sleeves on a random kid’s shirt, but it’s late and he’s staying up a little longer than usual to make sure said kid doesn’t try to rob him again.

“What if he has sleeves be-”

‘For the love of the sun, Chat, shut up.’ Technoblade sighs, pulling his cloak further around himself. It’s thick and red and the fire is crackling still, helping keep him warm. 

It’s very easy to get lost in his own thoughts, thank you very much Chat.

The sleeves on the kid’s shirt aren’t the only thing that Techno’s confused about.

It’s very clear the kid was a caster, almost definitely a clear caster. He had the right outfit, bar a few inconsistencies, and Techno knows there’s an oasis relatively near.

What’s confusing is the kid’s lack of magical retaliation, or just… magic in general.

Sure, Techno had bound one hand to his side when he’d felled him, and most adults struggle to do spells one-handed, let alone scrawny kids like that one is. But there had been plenty of other opportunities to throw a spell at Techno, at Carl, void, to throw one anywhere.

The kid could have concealed himself, that wasn’t a high level spell, right? He could have thrown down a shield to deflect Techno’s binding spell, he could have blasted Techno to try and have more time to escape.

And he didn’t. He didn’t even try. 

At no point did Techno see the telltale blue glow of clear magic, at no point did he see the kid put his hands in front of him, at no point did he see him trace circles into the air. 

“Did you see anythin’ Carl?” Techno asks, and the horse snorts at him. It’s pointless, Carl is a horse, but Techno has to entertain himself somehow 

“‘Course not.” Techno shakes his head. “Weird kid…”

Sleeves, and no magic. An odd combination, one that’s perplexing Technoblade quite thoroughly. 

And then there’s the matter of the crime.

A scrawny kid, alone in the desert, wholly not prepared for the conditions it brings. Half barefoot and bare armed, presumably no shelter, no food, no water. All the things you need to survive, the kid was severely lacking.

He could have taken anything. Techno’s cloak, his water skin, a handful of dates, void, the whole bag of dates, it had been sitting out in the open. And yet the kid took his coin pouch.

Coins.

Inedible, decidedly not water, unable to provide warmth or shelter. Utterly useless in the middle of the desert. Techno only has them because sometimes, he is not in the middle of the desert, and he’s an honest man, thank you very much. He isn’t going to stoop so low as theft, not when he can earn his coins just as well as anyone else.

And the kid had tried to steal them. 

There are dots, Techno knows that. All these little things that bother him—probably some other things too, ones he hasn’t picked up on in the few shifts of being in the kid’s vicinity—they’re the dots. And Techno is sure that they connect, somehow, that they join up to reveal a bigger picture.

He just… can’t connect them. Not yet.

No matter how much he’s trying, it doesn’t make sense. A caster who doesn’t default to magic to defend himself. A kid more interested in coins than his own survival. An outfit so similar yet so foreign from the tradition of one of the most tradition based communities to exist.

Technoblade sits, staring at the flames, staring at the embers, trying to puzzle it out. 

He doesn’t like not knowing, especially when there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that this is important, somehow.

“Kid’s special.”

‘Yeah, obviously, Chat. Congrats, you identified the obvious.’ Techno rolls his eyes, and stretches, his hands above his head and his back popping satisfyingly. It’s late, he needs to head to bed, especially if he wants to be up and moving tomorrow before the heat sets in.

Making sure he has all his valuables on him—he still doesn’t trust that the kid won’t come back, and while he’s certain he’ll be able to catch him relatively easily again, he would rather not go through the hassle—Techno stands, tracing a quick spell in the air in front of him, flicking the symbols at the fire.

A soft blue dome settles over it, a small hole in the top for smoke to waft out, but enclosed enough that it’ll keep burning dimly throughout the dark. It’s a spell of Techno’s own creation, a modified shield that’s become second nature now.

With that done, he turns towards his tent. It’s lit from the inside, a lantern of light hanging in the air, blue again. Techno can’t do anything about the colour, he’s a clear caster, and nothing can change that.

“I could’ve.”

Technoblade ignores chat. Resolutely.

He doesn’t even get to take a full step towards his tent before there’s an alarmed squeak, a scuffle, and a disturbance of the fabric.

It seems Techno was right not to trust the kid.

“Oi,” he calls, because it’s pretty clear he’s not alone anymore. “Come out, kid.”

The kid does not come out. Techno wasn’t sure what he expected, really.

“Fine, I’ll come get you myself.” 

There’s another scuffle, still right beside the tent. With a sigh, Techno strides around, and lo and behold, the kid is there.

He’s crouched, trying to hide in a shadow, but once he sees Technoblade, he bolts, seemingly blindly back into the desert.

He doesn’t get very far.

Technoblade’s hand shoots out as the kid turns, grabbing him by the scruff, and lifting him easily. Suns, he weighs nothing. 

The kid shrieks, and starts kicking. Techno takes one to the stomach before he decides to hold him at arm's length, studying him.

“Put me down!” the kid yells, and he sounds panicked. “Put me down! Please, please!”

He’s already begging. It’s only been a few grains, and the kid is begging. He really is a crap thief. That, or he’s trying to play into his childishness, hoping to garner some sympathy. Given his dismal attempt at taking Techno’s coin pouch earlier, though, Technoblade doesn’t quite think that’s the case.

“Calm down, kid,” he says, still holding him out. The kid hasn’t attempted a single spell yet.

“No, no! Put me down! I’ll go away! I promise!” The kid’s not kicking anymore, but he’s still squirming wildly, twisting this way and that, trying to free himself from Techno’s hold.

“Mhm,” Techno hums, raising an eyebrow. “Now tell me why I don’ exactly believe that, kid.”

“I promise, I promise I’ll be good! I’m sorry!” Techno is already tired of this.

“No can do, kid. It’s late, you shouldn’t be out here.”

“Yes I should!”

Technoblade looks down at the kid’s feet, one of them bare, the ties of the other sandal already beginning to come undone. He looks back up at the kid’s face. 

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes!” The kid is determined, he’ll give him that. Even with his hair coated in sand and falling around his face, even missing a shoe, even with literally nothing on him to help him survive, he’s persistent. It’s annoying. It’s a waste of Techno’s time.

“Kid, no. You’ll freeze t’ death in that. By the looks of it you don’t have any food or water, either. I’ll take you home tomorrow mornin’, ‘s too late now, Carl’s already asleep.”

The kid begins kicking and squirming again, more than he was before. 

He lashes out with his arms, clawing at Techno’s shirt, yelling wordlessly. His bare foot lands square in Techno’s side, making him grunt.

“Right, that’s it. Kid, if yer not gonna cooperate, I’ll put you to sleep.” Techno raises a hand in warning.

“No, no!” The kid doesn’t stop. “You can’t take me home! Please! Please!” He’s crying too, Techno can see his tears catching the light. What a waste of precious moisture. “You can’t, you can’t! Please! I can’t go home!”

“Sorry, kid. Yer parents are probably worried. I’ll see you in the morning.” Techno starts to trace a sleeping spell in the air, it’s a little hard with one hand—given it’s supposed to be a two handed spell, of course it is—but he manages.

The kid pauses his struggles for a moment, watching.

“You- you’re- you’re not supposed to be able to do that?” he says, and Techno just cocks his head at him.

“I do a lot of things people like you say I’m not supposed to,” he replies, adding the finishing touches to the sigil. He takes the circular spell in his palm, it’s about the same size, checking it a moment for mistakes.

“No,” the kid says again, and he’s not struggling this time. Tears are flowing down his face, his eyes are wide, and his breathing is fast. “No! No, no, no, no-”

The kid falls silent and limp in Technoblade’s grasp, and Techno takes his palm from his forehead.

“C’mon,” he mutters, hefting the child into his arms, close to his chest. It’s easier to carry him that way. His chest rises and falls with his breaths, thankfully. He’s a very small child, Techno was a little worried he’d make the spell too strong and accidentally kill him. Sure, the kid’s annoying—and confusing—but Techno doesn’t want to kill anyone. He never has, despite what others may claim.

The embers still burn in their dome, and Techno stoops, shouldering through the flaps to his tent. There… isn’t much room inside. A single bedroll, a couple of blankets, a small cushion for his head.

With a sigh, Techno kicks the blankets aside, laying the kid down on the bedroll. He removes his remaining sandal, putting it near the front of the tent, and makes sure the kid won’t suffocate in his sleep. 

He looks somehow even younger now, lashes dark against his pale skin, a few freckles across his nose, baby fat still not entirely gone from his cheeks. He’s a gangly thing, though, arms thin as palm fronds, legs barely much better. He doesn’t look like he’s eaten in a while, which makes his lack of trying to procure more food ever more perplexing.

Techno lays one of the blankets over him, before kicking his own boots off and settling down for a dark on the unprotected floor.

He’ll get his bed back tomorrow, when the kid’s safe at home.

Chapter Text

Technoblade wakes first. Unsurprisingly. It’s still dark when he sticks his head outside, but the sun seems to be starting to think about rising. He’ll let the kid sleep a little longer, then they’ll be off no later than a glass from now.

It’s a strange morning, Techno isn’t usually trying to be quiet while he goes about his morning tasks. The dome over the fire dissipates at a touch of his fingers, and he relights the embers with a quick sparking sigil. He doesn’t even need to think to do so.

Carl is waking too, tossing his head to shake his mane out, sand flying everywhere. Techno scoffs at him, but pulls his feed out of one of the saddlebags nonetheless. They both need to eat, and so will the kid.

Technoblade himself takes a handful of dates, unable to stomach much more right now. That’s fine, he has time. He packs most of his things up, cloak around his shoulders again, until all that’s left is the tent, the blankets, the bedroll, and, of course, the kid.

The sun is up now, burning the horizon with its rays. It’s starting to get warm now, Carl’s starting to get annoyed, so Techno figures it’s probably time to wake the kid up, given he still seems to be fast asleep. Perhaps the spell was a little stronger than necessary, then.

He’s not trying to be quiet anymore, so Techno pushes through the flaps of the tent, letting the light spill in and the fabric rustle.

The kid doesn’t move, bar the rise and fall of his chest. Techno would almost be fooled that he hadn’t woken up, but Techno knows what it’s like to pretend to sleep. 

“Oi,” he says, seeing if the kid reacts.

And he does. Barely. A tiny flinch, and his whole body is held tense.

“Kid, we gotta go. The oasis isn’t far, you can eat on the way.”

Still no response. At least, none that Techno is supposed to be able to pick up on. So he steps closer and crouches down, shaking the kid’s shoulder gently. “C’mon.”

The kid jolts from his grasp, curling in on himself, his shoulders up by his ears and his eyes squeezed closed. Definitely awake.

“Kid? ‘M not gonna hurt you, jus’ need you up so I can pack the things before we go.”

“Are you sure?” the kid asks, and his voice is just as small as he is. Just as scared as he seems to be.

“Yeah, ‘m sure.” Techno shrugs, then decides to give the kid his space. Stranger danger and all that, right? Last time the kid saw Techno, he forcefully put him to sleep while restraining him, of course he’s scared.

It takes several grains, but the kid starts to uncurl his limbs. Slowly, first his legs, then his arms, and his shoulders, and then he sits up. Somehow, his hair looks even worse than it did last dark. 

It seems to bother the kid, he combs through it with his fingers hastily, pulls it back off his face and up, like it’s probably supposed to be. It falls, though, when he lets go, because he’s got nothing to tie it up with.

“Kid, outta the tent,” Techno prompts, and the kid snaps to attention. Again, it takes a couple of grains for Techno’s words to process, it seems, but then the kid’s bolting from the tent as if he were on fire, grabbing his lone sandal on the way.

“There’s food an’ water by the horse!” Techno yells, starting to bundle up his bedding, extinguishing the lantern as he leaves. He half expects the kid to have left by now—he doesn’t really care if that’s the case, it’s one less thing for him to worry about—but he hasn’t. He’s crouched halfway across the meagre camp, having found the bag of dates to stuff his face with.

“Calm down, kid, they’re not goin’ anywhere. Don’ make yerself sick,” Techno warns, sparing him a glance as he stuffs his things into another of Carl’s saddlebags. “You had any water yet?”

The kid looks up, cheeks building with sweet flesh, a pile of stones at his feet. He shakes his head, unable to hold Techno’s gaze. Weird kid.

“Here,” Techno says, unhooking his water skin from his belt and tossing it over. “Don’t spill it, that stuff’s not easy to come by.” He supposes if the kid does spill it, they’re headed to an oasis anyways, he can just refill it there.

The kid stays where he is as Techno pulls down the tent, folding the fabric and strings as small as he can, hanging the square from one of the many leather straps criss-crossing Carl’s body. 

“Right,” he says, kicking sand over the remains of the fire. It’s warm enough that he doesn't need it now, and besides, he has his cloak. “Kid, imma need those dates back.”

The kid looks up from where he’s still eating, his eyes wide and strikingly blue. The clear casters must love him.

Techno, however, finds him annoying. And strange. And a hassle. And a lot of other things that he probably shouldn’t voice, because he is a child. And yet the kid’s annoyingness is not enough to stop Techno from caving to those wide, blue eyes.

“Fine, you can keep the dates, just don’ drop ‘em ‘cause we’re not goin’ back for them,” he warns. “Bring 'em over here with the water,” he says, beckoning the kid over.

“Technosoft. Gross.”

The kid just grips the bag tighter, and shrinks back in on himself.

“Carl’s not gonna hurt you, are you?” Techno assures, and Carl huffs. He’s probably impatient, it’s later than they’re usually off by, he’s probably getting hot standing so still.

“I don’t wanna go home,” the kid admits, and Techno almost misses his words.

“I’m sure you don’t, but you gotta,” Techno says, sighing. “C’mon, we need to leave.” He’s getting annoyed now, or, more annoyed than he was. Annoyed enough that it’s showing through. “I’ll help you up, an’ I’ll sit behind you t’ make sure you don’t fall off.”

The kid seems to contemplate for a moment, glancing behind himself at the empty desert, then at the dates in his hands, then at Techno and Carl, both waiting impatiently.

“It’s okay, kid, yer safe,” Techno says, letting his voice drop into something more comforting. 

That seems to do the trick, and the kid stands, shuffling over. Again, Techno picks him up, this time under the armpits. He’s still alarmingly light, and alarmingly skinny, but that just means they’ll both fit on the saddle better.

The kid grips the leather tightly as Techno unties Carl from his stake, and he’s brushing sporadically at his hair again with a hand.

There’s a lot of space behind him on the saddle, as Techno had predicted, and finally, finally, they’re off.

“Oh. Oh, okay then. Huh.”

Chat, as always, is being cryptic. Technoblade doesn’t bother asking what in the void they mean, because he knows he won’t get a straight answer. He just ignores them, because that’s the best—and only—way he’s found to deal with them.

Carl is steady across the sand, even as it shifts below his hooves. They’re making a beeline for the oasis, since that’s where Techno assumes the kid is from. He doubts he’s from anywhere further away, because he would not have survived this long if he was. Techno isn’t even guessing on that front, he knows. 

There’s not much to do now, except sit and wait until they reach their destination. Techno is very used to these long lights spent on the back of Carl, rocking gently side to side until the sun is so high neither of them can bear to continue in the heat, taking a break until things subside a little.   

What Techno isn’t used to, though, is having someone else’s weight at his chest. He’s not used to having someone else nestled on the saddle with him, he’s not used to having to reach around them to hold the reins, he’s not used to steadying him with his elbows every time Carl rocks just a little too much. The kid hasn’t found his balance yet, it seems.

He squeaks every time, it’s almost cute. Squeaks, and grabs onto whatever’s nearest with his free hand. The front of the saddle, the reins, even Techno’s arm. He let go of that one very quickly.

But they settle into a rhythm, Techno and Carl and the kid. It’s calm, it’s peaceful, the desert is laid out before them, and the oasis shimmers on the horizon. They should make it by sun’s peak, at the latest. Techno and Carl can rest after they’ve returned the kid home, can restock before setting off again. He already knows he’s not welcome in whatever oasis this is, so he won’t push their luck any further than he has to.

The kid shifts between Techno’s legs, leaning back against his chest properly, reaching up to yet again mess with his hair. He’s pulling it back off his face, again and again and again, and it seems to be annoying him. 

Technoblade reaches up behind his own head, using one hand to untie his own red ribbon. Doesn’t exactly match the kid’s colour scheme, but it’s better than nothing.

“Here,” he says, holding it in front of the kid. 

He takes it wordlessly, tying his hair out of his face and leaning forwards again. Just in time too, because Carl stumbles, lilting to the side. 

Instinctively, Techno lets go of the reins with one hand, grabbing the kid and holding him steady to stop him falling off. Neither of them mention it.

“Woah boy,” Techno says, patting Carl’s side. “You step on a burrow or somethin’?” 

Carl huffs, continuing forwards, though with a bit more of a limp than usual. Techno really hopes he hasn’t sprained anything, because he doesn’t really want to be staying in a caster oasis longer than absolutely necessary. He’ll look when they arrive, if Carl hasn’t stopped, he’ll be fine to keep going. Technoblade is very familiar with how Carl acts when he’s genuinely hurt, the horse will sit himself down if he doesn’t feel like he can carry him any further. Annoying, but important, given that Carl is Techno’s only mode of transport through the desert besides himself.

It’s nearing sun’s peak by the time they arrive at the oasis, thanks to Carl’s now slowed pace. The kid tenses in his seat, Techno can feel it, what with how he’s pressing himself against his chest again. They’re barely on the outskirts, but the kid seems very… nervous. He’s completely stilled himself, both hands gripping the saddle with white knuckles.

The oasis isn’t anything remarkable, at least, not for clear casters. There are palms providing a little shade, scattered this far out. Sandstone houses carved with various patterns, several with cloth canopies out the front or back or sides. 

A few have camels leashed to a post, some have people sitting outside, giving Techno and the kid strange looks, and some have other children running about, practising spells, or being pulled back inside by their parents, who again, give Techno and the kid strange looks. 

The kid curls even closer. 

Further into the oasis, the trees become more frequent, string with strings of lanterns or other decorations. Magic hums from every direction, familiar to Techno.

The houses are improving too, they’re bigger, better built, tidier and packed closer together. There are more people, and it’s getting a little hard for Techno to navigate on Carl’s back. So he directs the horse over to a relatively clear space, and they stop. 

Techno’s quick to dismount, but he leaves the kid on Carl. It’s not because he doesn’t trust the kid, it’s… yeah, it’s because he doesn’t trust the kid. 

“Hey, kid,” he asks, winding Carl’s reins around his hand so he can lead him. “Where’s yer house?”

The kid shakes his head. Lips pursed and eyes downcast. 

“Alright, if you won’t tell me, I’ll ask someone else,” Techno says. Oases aren’t all that large, and a kid like this one is probably fairly well known for his looks alone. “Hey!” Techno calls, trying to wave over a passerby. They all speed up. “‘Scuse me!”

“No!” the kid says frantically, shaking his head when Techno looks over. “Don’t- don’t ask them. I’ll tell you,” he says.

“Alright. Lead on, kid.” Techno shrugs. He was perfectly fine asking someone else, but he’s not gonna complain if the kid’s gonna direct him. 

“That way,” the kid points, and it’s straight into the heart of the oasis.

“That way?” Techno asks, raising an eyebrow. “You sure?” 

The kid nods.

“If you say so.”

As they move through the busy oasis, the… calibre of people changes. Outfits get neater, appearances get tidier, looks get snider. No longer are these people regular casters going about their daily chores, but they’re the nobility. The heart of the oasis is reserved for only the best of the best, the high mage and their family, and the council members. The kid doesn’t correct Techno’s path, save for a couple of turns here and there.

The houses are no longer simply sandstone and palm planks. Ornate wooden doors held open to reveal colourful glazed terracotta floors, carved friezes along walls, marble pillars holding rooves up. It’s absurdly fancy.

“Here.” The kid’s voice is barely more than a whisper, and Techno almost walks right past the house he’s indicated is his own.

It’s not the house of the high mage—thank the sun—but it’s definitely that of at least one council member. The doors of this house aren’t propped open, but Technoblade doesn’t doubt that it’s just as ornate inside as it is outside.

So Techno backtracks, and brings Carl to a stop in front of the steps that lead up to the front door. He lets go of the reins and steps up to the door. It’s carved with all sorts of sigils and patterns, and it’s frankly ostentatious. Who needs a door this big let alone this… pompous?

Techno glances back at the kid before he knocks, just to make sure. The kid nods, barely perceptible, but still.

So Techno knocks. 

“Hello?” he calls. “I have your kid. I think. Found him last dark.”

Techno steps back from the door, waiting for someone to answer. He gets his answer, but it’s less a some one, more a some thing.

The doors swing open with a rush of warm air, and two figures stand in the entranceway.

“Uhh…” Techno says, not expecting such a grand welcome. Is it a welcome? He’s not sure. “Hello?”

The figures don’t pay any attention to him, stepping right past to look at the kid on the horse.

Techno can see the resemblance. The woman—the kid’s mother, he assumes—has the same blonde hair beneath her blue headscarf, and the kid’s father has his eyes.

The kid, though, hasn’t made any attempt to move.

“Thank you,” the woman says, finally turning to Technoblade. Her long skirt jingles lightly as she does, gold bells sewn along the hem of the sheer blue fabric. So much blue, this family must be very high up in the council.

“Eh, ‘s no problem,” Techno says, shrugging. He descends the stairs, coming up beside Carl again. “C’mon kid, yer home now. No need to be scared.” 

Weirdly enough, the kid doesn't react. He just… sits, hanging his head. Even when Techno lifts him off Carl and puts him back on solid ground, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make towards his parents.

“C’mon,” Techno prompts, giving him a nudge.

The father sighs, shaking his head. “Philza, come here,” he says, but it sounds like he’s commanding him.

The kid moves all of a sudden. Doesn’t raise his eyes, and his mother grips his arm once he’s close enough for her to reach.

“Thank you so much, sir,” the mother says, still gripping the kid’s arm. She pays no attention to her own child, who in turn barely moves. “We were worried sick since we misplaced him, thank you for returning him.”

“Like I said, no problem. Found ‘im out in the desert, trying to steal my stuff. Figured he’d be from somewhere around here.”

“No, bad.”

This time, Techno doesn’t tell Chat to shut up. They sound sincere.

“Stealing? Philza, you were stealing?” his mother scolds, and the kid shrinks in on himself. “And look at you! Scruffy, sandy, and missing a sandal! Stupid boy.” She claps him round the head, and Techno takes that as his cue to leave. 

“Righ, uh, now you’ve been reunited, I should… probably get going,” he says, rather uncomfortable in this situation. The kid doesn’t seem to be much better, but these are his parents. He’s safe now, he’s at home. 

“No, no, wait a grain more,” the mother insists. “We’ll compensate you, for his… safe return.”

“Really, it’s fine, I don’t need-”

“We insist.” The father disappears back into the house, leaving the mother and the kid and Techno staring awkwardly at each other. Well, bar the kid, who is still staring at the ground.

“I hope our Philza didn’t cause you too much trouble,” the mother says, and Techno shakes his head in response.

“Nah, caught him pretty easy ‘n put him to sleep.”

“So you’re a caster?” the mother asks, seemingly far more interested in Technoblade than her previously missing son. Weird family.

“Yeah, clear. Kinda do my own thing though. No offence.” Techno has his reasons for ‘doing his own thing’, but to mention them is to get driven out of the oasis never to return again, and while Techno doesn’t have any particular reason to come back here specifically, he doesn’t want the hassle right now.

“None taken. I’m glad you were able to sort the situation out, suns know this one likes to cause as much trouble as he can. He’s so much more than a handful, he's such an ordeal. Can’t take him anywhere, stupid thing doesn’t know how to behave himself!” The mother laughs, as if she’s said something funny. Technoblade doesn’t join her.

Chat’s right, this feels… bad. He would really like to leave, thanks.

But before he can, the father reappears, rushing down the steps and pressing an overly embroidered coin pouch into Techno’s hand. 

“Thank you, kind sir. We’re sorry for the trouble,” he says, and Technoblade nods curtly. He’s getting increasingly uncomfortable.

It’s as he’s leading Carl away that he hears it.

“No!” the kid yells, and for as scared and frantic and despondent he’d sounded before, this is a cry of anguish.

Technoblade turns, just in time to see the kid reaching out, just in time to see his father hit him in the face, just in time to see his mother practically drag him inside.

It’s not his problem. It’s not his problem. 

“But what if it’s ours?”

Chapter Text

Technically, technically, the centre of any given clear caster oasis is outside the high mage’s house slash office slash base of operations. The centre is always very fancy and very well kept, just like the buildings that surround it. It’s where the water that feeds the oasis springs from, it’s where time is kept with the ever turning timeglass, it’s where important meetings are held and where young casters are tested of their skills.

It’s a sacred place.

And no one ever actually goes to the oasis centre unless they absolutely have to.

For one, it’s in a very inconvenient location, away from anything that actually matters. For two, it’s just stuffy. Techno would know, he’s spent a lot of time in oasis centres. Enough time to know they’re also not actually the literal centre of any oasis, because that’s just not how it works. 

The actual centre—the hub, many tend to call it, because council members get annoyed when you call it the centre—is far better. It’s busy, it’s bustling, there are market stalls dotted about and plenty of places for Techno and Carl to rest in the heat of the peaking sun.

Carl’s the only horse here—not surprising, most people don’t own horses—but he’s perfectly fine tied up with all the camels. Techno gives his reins a yank, making sure they’re secure, not because he doesn’t trust Carl, but because he doesn’t always quite trust the casters anymore.

Most of them are nice, but some of them…

The kid’s parents’ faces sharpen in his mind, and Techno tries to ignore it. It’s not his problem.

What is his problem, though, is making sure Carl is okay. He’d stumbled earlier, had slowed, Techno needs to work out if they need to find somewhere to stay for a few darks, or if they’re okay to keep going. 

“What’s up, boy?” he asks quietly, walking around Carl to try to find the problem. He doesn’t seem to be trying to keep his weight off any particular leg or ankle, which is a promising sign, but he’s still lilting to one side.

“Somethin’ too heavy for you?” Techno asks, checking the saddlebags. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in there, but that’s not the only possible cause of whatever’s going wrong.

No, the contents isn’t the issue, it’s the copper coloured embroidery that is. Techno runs a finger over the sigils lining each of the bags, checking them. They’re fine, still intact and still gleaming as they should. Well, mostly.

“Ah, damn,” Techno says, his finger coming to a gap, and to the frayed ends of reddish thread. “Charm’s come undone, sorry ‘bout that, Carl.” With a sigil incomplete, the weightlessness charm embroidered into the bag is rendered entirely useless. Carl will feel all the weight of everything in the bag, so no wonder he stumbled.

“We’ll head to The Mesa an’ I’ll get Sophie to fix it up. Yer jus’ gonna have t’ cope ‘til then, sorry.”

Techno does what he can, though, by emptying and repacking his bags entirely, trying to limit the amount of weight in the broken one as much as possible. It’s still decently heavy, but it’s… better. 

And by the time he’s done, the sun is past peak, and they can set off again.

Good, because Technoblade does not want to be here for much longer. The casters of whatever oasis this is are giving him strange looks for his strange appearance, he assumes, and they’re giving him a wide berth. Not the first time, not the last time, but never comfortable. It doesn’t matter that technically, Techno’s one of them, because he doesn’t look it, act it, or care about it at all.

But he could probably best their high mage in a duel within grains, he’s willing to bet.

Having Carl’s whole saddle to himself again is nice, and Techno nudges the horse onwards, back out the way they came in. Back past the houses of lessening quality, back past the scruffy kids and grumpy elderly, back past the diminishing shade and back out into the desert.

He hasn’t liked caster oases for a long time.

So why is he looking back?

“The kid.”

‘It’s not the kid, Chat, shut up.’ Techno thinks back. Typical Chat, getting attached to something Technoblade cannot stand.

“But it is the kid.”

‘It’s not the kid.’

“It is.”

Technoblade, unfortunately, relents.

It is the kid. He knows it’s the kid. He’s known it’s the kid since he dropped him off back home. 

Part of Techno can’t stop thinking about him. Can’t stop thinking about all the odd little things he did or didn’t do, and what little sense they make. His sleeves, his lack of magic, his being out in the desert alone at dark.

“Go back for him.”

Chat suggests. Techno looks over his shoulder. They’re not too far from the oasis, yet, he can still make out each individual person.

“I can’t, Chat, he needs t’ stay with his parents,” Techno says out loud, because there’s no one around to tell him he’s acting crazy.

But even then, the argument doesn’t sit right in Techno’s stomach. The kid is young, he should be with his parents, in his own home, safe and protected from the elements.

So why does the thought make Techno’s insides turn?

“You know why.”

Chat, again, is being cryptic.

“No I’m not, I’m making you think for yourself for once.”

Fine. Techno will think for himself. And it’s not for once , he thinks for himself plenty!

And right now, he thinks… he thinks he should stop Carl. So he pulls the reins, just a gentle tug, and turns the horse so they’re facing the oasis again.

The kid was young. The kid was in danger. The kid was feisty. The kid was… the kid was scared.

The kid kept asking not to be taken home.

“Not quite.”

The kid kept begging not to be taken home.

And Techno had taken him home anyway. It was what was best for him! Kids needed someone to provide for them, and void knows Techno can’t provide anything but danger, loneliness, and long lights in the sweltering heat. His life is not one suited to a child. 

Techno did the right thing, he knows this. And yet he’s still thinking about the spirits-damned kid. 

He’s still thinking about the way he stole his coins, not his food, because he’s the son of council members, and it wouldn’t’ve occurred to him that money would be useless. He’s still thinking about the way he tore through those dates, because he’s the son of council members, and he shouldn’t have been quite that hungry. He’s still thinking about the way he didn’t even attempt any magic, because he’s the son of council members, and council members take pride in their power.

He’s still thinking about the way the kid cried out as Techno left.

“You feel guilty.”

‘No I don’t. I did what was right.’ He thinks. 

No, he knows. He did do what was right, because apparently this kid is a handful and never behaves, and he could have seriously hurt himself if he had stayed out in the desert.

Techno wheels Carl around again, oasis to their backs and clear sand in front of them, and that’s the end of that,

“You feel guilty.”

Or perhaps not, it seems. 

Techno grits his teeth, and tries to ignore Chat. He spurs Carl on, faster, to put as much space between them and the oasis as possible. 

He did the right thing. It’s not his problem.

“You.

Feel.

Guilty .”

“No I don’t!” Technoblade yells into the desert, and it startles Carl, because he whinnies and rears up.

“Chat, no,” Techno says, breathing heavily once all four of Carl’s hooves are back on sandy ground. “I don’t feel guilty. It’s not my problem! He’s a kid, he’s a kid! He needs his parents!”

“You feel guilty.”

“Shut up. Shut up!” Techno’s yelling again now, and he’s very glad they’re as far away from the oasis as they are. Everyone would think him mad, if they didn’t already.

“He’s fine. He’s fine! He just- you heard his mother, he’s a handful! That’s it, that’s it, Chat, shut up.”

“You feel guilty.”

Techno yells wordlessly, and again, it spooks Carl. Technoblade takes that as his cue to dismount, to tether Carl to a stake and to pace back and forth and kick the sand and spit when it inevitably flies into his mouth.

It doesn’t help that his hair’s flying around his face, either, because he’d given the kid his ribbon and he hasn’t dug another one up from his bags yet.

“Please, Chat, stop,” he begs, digging the toe of one boot into the sand. “Just- just drop it.”

“You feel guilty.”

“And so what if I do!” Techno shouts, throwing his arms up. “So what if I do? His parents are council members, Chat! They’re powerful!”

“You feel guilty.”

“So what if they hit him a few times! He ran away! He’s a troublemaker! He only wasn’t like that with me because he didn't know me!”

“You feel guilty.”

“So what if something ’s wrong? So what if I’m second guessing it! So what if the kid looked terrified! There’s nothing I can do, Chat, I can’t just go back and take him! That’s kidnapping!”

Techno’s getting fed up with this now. He’s getting fed up with Chat, with their endless repetition, with the way they’re never damn wrong. 

He does feel guilty.

He really, really does.

The kid was running for a reason, and Technoblade has an awful feeling in the pit of his belly that he took the kid right back to the heart of that reason.

The way his parents didn’t care about him, only that he was missing. The way his mother was holding him so tightly it would surely bruise. The way he became almost entirely unresponsive when they reached his home.

The way he looked at Techno as he left.

The way he had reached out to an almost complete stranger.

The way his voice had broken around the single word he had cried.

“You feel guilty.”

“But there’s nothing I can do,” Techno says, finally stopping his pacing and scuffing and general grumping. “Chat, there’s nothing we can do.”

And that, at least, is the truth. Even if Techno wants to, he can’t just go and take the kid back. He can’t go and magically fix everything, because that’s not how magic works, and the kid’s parents will probably stop him before he can finish.

“He just… he just has to stick it out.” Awful advice, Techno knows that, but it’s all he can come up with right now.

“Are you sure about that?”

“No, Chat, you know I’m not sure about that,” Techno says, yanking Carl’s stake from the ground and stowing it again. “You know everything about me, Chat, we both know this.”

“And yet you tried to tell me otherwise.”

“Shut up,” Technoblade grumbles, swinging a leg over Carl and only looking back at the oasis for a few grains before spurring the horse on with a click of his tongue.

Technoblade feels guilty. He’s done what he thought was right, but now he’s not entirely sure it was. If he could, he would do something about it, but he can’t. What’s done is done and there is no magic that can go back and change the past.

This is what Techno repeats over and over to himself as he sets up camp for the dark.

He’s not very far from where he was last dark, but that’s just the nature of these sorts of times. He had to take a detour, and that detour took almost a whole light, so little progress can be made. 

From here, it’ll be a couple of lights to The Mesa, assuming nothing else happens. Hopefully nothing else happens, because Technoblade has had his fair share of something else for the rest of the moon. 

It’s second nature to set up camp, now, to unfurl the tent and the pegs and the ropes that hold it taught, to pull out some firewood that burns twice as slow and twice as warm, thanks to a little magical help. Carl is relieved of most of the weight on his back, is fed and watered and settles down in the light of the setting sun, and Techno does the same.

His cloak is spread across the sand for him to sit on and take inventory, to sort the wares he’d bought at the oasis into their correct places and make sure he still has everything he needs, wants, and should have.

Carl huffs, and Technoblade’s head jerks up.

It’s nothing. 

Techno looks back down, and something sinks in his stomach.

The sun gives way to the moon, and the chill sets in enough for Techno to pull his cloak over his shoulders and his hood over his hair—now braided back with a fresh ribbon, this one green—and he warms his hands by the fire.

Really, he should be in bed. He gets his own bed this dark, thank the sun. His own bed, his own blankets, all to himself, as it should be.

He should be in bed, but he’s… not. He’s still up, stoking the fire every now and then, just… sitting. Waiting.

No one comes to steal his coin pouch, even though he’s left it out in the open. Accidentally. Not by any conscious choice. It just happens to be in his blind spot, it’s not a big deal.

But Techno can’t stay awake all dark, he’s only human, he has to sleep.

“Not only human.”

He is only human, he still has to sleep. Especially if he wants to be off before light, because the journey to The Mesa isn’t going to magically get any shorter. That’s still not how magic works.

So Techno reluctantly packs his things up, covers the fire, and sleeps.

It’s restless.

His mind is plagued by blue eyes, wide and watery and bright, pleading, begging, desperate and afraid and finally, void of any hope. 

There’s not only eyes in his dream, no, there’s wings. Beating at the air, feathers flying everywhere. Bound, straining against the magic that keeps them down. Black and brown and white and iridescent and patterned and all sorts of wings, and Techno can feel the pain, he can feel it in his back and his bones and his being.

The wings of such carrion creatures have never been anything but a bad omen.

Then come the memories. His own childhood, back when his shirts were tight and black and his pants loose and blue, when he was like the kid, except his parents weren’t council members, except Techno never ran, except he was happy and content.

Until he wasn’t, until no one was, until there was sand beneath his feet and sweat on his brow and air heaving in his lungs. Until he was throwing spells in every direction without thinking, until he was leaving blood behind him as he ran, until his life was thrown on its head and shattered like the delicate glass it always had been.

Technoblade wakes in a cold sweat. He aches, and his head pounds, and he can still see the eyes in his mind.

There’s no point going back to sleep, it’s close enough to his usual waking time that he should probably just get up and busy himself. He doesn’t want any more bad dreams, either.

So he pulls on his boots, his cloak, he shoulders out of the tent and finds himself breakfast and water and he tries not to think about anything except getting Carl’s saddlebag fixed as soon as he can.

Chat is eerily quiet, and remains eerily quiet. They say nothing as Techno pulls down his camp, they say nothing as he packs his bags, they say nothing and he gazes over at the oasis for far longer than he really needs to.

The sky is red as Technoblade and Carl begin their journey.

It’s early, light has barely begun, but that’s how Techno likes it. The red matches his cloak, it matches- no, it doesn’t match his ribbon anymore, actually. His ribbon is green now, because he gave the other one to the kid.

He needs to stop thinking about the kid.

Chat’s not saying anything to distract him—or even to try make him think about the kid—but Techno’s fairly certain they’re just… recovering from the dream. He’s never alone in his thoughts, for better or for worse for either party.

Chat being silent and Techno trying to distract himself from thinking too much has him paying far more attention to his surroundings than he usually would. He’s seeing every print made by every animal, he’s seeing every beetle skitter out the way of Carl’s hooves, he’s seeing every dip and every mound of sand, every tiny plant trying to survive, every piece of red ribbon half buried in the dunes.

“Carl, stop,” Techno says suddenly, tugging the reins and dismounting before Carl’s even stopped moving.

The ribbon is lying in the sand, fluttering slightly in the breeze and the movement of Techno crouching down beside it. Only one end is buried, and he pulls it out easily.

It’s red, it’s a little frayed, it’s one of the few things Techno will indulge in these lights.

It’s his.

“Kid?” Techno calls, standing up straight, ribbon clutched in his hand. “Kid, where are you?” 

It’s the middle of the desert, there isn’t anywhere to hide. It’s the middle of the desert, there isn’t anyone else around. It’s the middle of the desert, and it’s barely light.

“Kid?” Techno’s jogging now, eyes scanning the waist height dunes for anything, anything out of the ordinary. 

And- there. A lump, still in the shadow. Passable as an oddly shaped dune from afar, and Technoblade runs.

He’s covered in sand. It looks like he’s fallen, all signs of his tracks erased by the dark’s winds. One arm is reaching out, the other is tucked close to his body. His hair is untied and strewn about him, and his eyes-

His eyes are closed.

Chapter Text

It’s cold.

Phil’s cold. 

He doesn’t know where he is, it’s dark and it’s cold and it’s not the desert. At least, he doesn’t think so.

He runs.

He’s done a lot of running, recently.

He runs, and his bare feet slap against smooth, solid ground. It’s not the desert. It’s definitely not the desert, but that doesn’t mean Phil knows where he is.

He runs, until there’s a sharp pain at his back, and he falls with a cry. The sound bounces off- off something, and he kneels with his bare forearms pressed to the cool floor and his head hanging as the pain continues.

“Oh, little one, I’m sorry.”

Phil can almost feel a hand on his back, fingers gracing the spaces between the points of pain. It’s a gentle touch, far more gentle than any touch in suns.

It draws his attention to his lack of a shirt, and that’s enough to make him push past the pain to sit up, to frantically look around for something, anything to cover his back up with.

He’s met not with clothing, not with the endless dark he had been running through before, but he’s surrounded with glass polished to the point it reflects his own image back at him time upon time upon time again.

Everywhere he turns, he can see himself, he can see all of himself.

He was right, he’s not wearing a shirt. He’s still got his pants—and his dignity, thank the sun—but his back is bare and he tries to reach behind himself to cover it up.

The images in the glass do the same.

But no matter how hard he tries, Phil’s efforts are forever in vain. He has no hope of covering the ink dark lines traced onto his skin.

They still hurt, but hurt is familiar to Phil, he knows how to ignore it. There are enough scars on his body and enough bruises faded to nothing that he can control himself, that he can pretend he feels nothing and convince everyone else that he feels nothing.

As Phil stands, his hands falling to his sides, the images around him change. They’re still him, they’re still him as he is now but they’re turning, they’re facing away, they’re showing him his own back.

Phil is no stranger to the sight there. The freckles, the scars, and, most importantly, the wings.

The wings that start at his shoulder blades, the wings that barely stop before his waistband, the wings of a carrion crow. They’re only tattoos, but the stories say that’s not how they remain. They’re only tattoos, for now.

His reflections don’t move, and no matter how much Phil spins on the spot, all he can see are the wings, it’s just the wings, it’s all the wings.

He screams, and hits the glass with a fist, trying to get rid of it, to get rid of himself, to get rid of the wings. 

The glass shatters, all of it, deafening and glinting purple as if there were light shining on it, falling to the floor in a perfect ring around him. At least, it would have formed a perfect ring, if it had fallen at all.

Phil is standing in the entrance hall of his own home, back in the Cobalt Oasis. The patterned terracotta is cool under his feet, and the trees in the courtyard sway gently. It’s idyllic. It’s terrifying.

Again, Phil runs. He turns on his heel and makes for the door, but it closes in his face with an echoing bang , and he’s trapped in his own house. He runs through the rooms, the corridors, and it’s endless, it’s endless, he can’t escape, he can’t escape please he has to escape they’ll see they’ll all see him, they’ll see the wings the marks they’ll see it all they’ll-

Phil wakes with a start.

He doesn’t know where he is.

His back hurts.

His legs hurt, his head hurts, his lungs hurt.

His back hurts.

The last thing he remembers… the last thing he remembers was the desert. This isn’t the desert.

The last thing he remembers is the dark covering the dunes, the last thing he remembers is the cold, the last thing he remembers is falling over, is being unable to get back up. 

The last thing he remembers is losing consciousness, completely alone, trying, trying to get to somewhere, anywhere that can protect him. If such a place even exists.

This is not the desert.

But it’s… familiar.

There’s a lantern above him, flickering and blue. It hovers in the air, like most magical lanterns do, illuminating his surroundings.

The tent isn’t very big, the bedroll he’s on takes up half of the space. There are blankets over his legs, he didn’t have shoes this time so they’re not by the door, and even- even though the ribbon he’d been given had fallen out, Phil’s hair is braided back off his face.

Hurriedly, he checks for his shirt. 

It’s still there, he’s still wearing it, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

He’s safe. From that issue. For now.

“You’re safe.”

The voice echoes, and it—she—sounds sweet. She sounds soft. She sounds nothing like she’s supposed to sound, because Phil’s parents have always told him she’s evil, she’s bad, she’s not to be trusted or listened to.

They call her an ‘it’, though. Phil did too.

Still aching, still hurting, Phil pushes the blankets off his legs. There’s a lot of them, they’re heavier than he thought they would be. He wiggles his toes just to check he can—the sand was very hot when he was running over it—and he puts his feet on the floor and stands.

His legs, however, have other ideas, and he tumbles down immediately, arms pinwheeling and sand going all in his mouth as he faceplants with an ‘oof ’.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows just in time for the tent flaps to be yanked apart, just in time for a shadow to fall over him.

“Kid,” the person says, and they had always sounded so annoyed at Phil when they said that before, but they don’t now. They don’t sound annoyed, they just sound-

“Kid, careful. Here, let me help.”

The person kneels down beside Phil, and helps lift his body into a sitting position. Their hands are gentle too, rough and big and kind of covered in sand, but that doesn’t mean they’re not gentle.

One of them rests on Phil’s back, and he cries out, lurching forwards instinctively, but the person catches him with his other hand.

“Woah, okay. Steady there, kid. ‘M not gonna touch yer back, that sounded like it hurt.”

Phil nods, and the person’s hand in front of him opens, palm up, and Phil holds it. He grips tight to it and there’s something stroking over his knuckles and it’s the person’s thumb, and it’s gentle, and they’re not touching his back because that hurts and they don’t want to make Phil hurt more.

Phil doesn’t realise he’s crying until he can’t see properly anymore, and he sniffles.

“Awh, kid,” the person says softly, giving his hand a squeeze. “Let’s get you back into bed, yeah?” they suggest, and Phil just cries a little bit more.

He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know why the person is being so nice to him, when they had taken him home last light and left him there and didn’t come back. He doesn’t know if this is going to last, he doesn’t know how to process it, he doesn’t know what it means.

The person gives him a gentle tug, pulling their hand out of Phil’s grip, and slipping it under his legs.

Their other arm goes around his shoulders, and they lift him easily. It’s not very far to the bed—it takes up half the tent—but they carry him there, and they lie him down gently, only jostling him a little bit.

And then- and then they stay.

“Rest, kid. You need it. And- spirits, here, water. You need that too.”

They hand him a leather skin of water, the same one they handed him last light. Was it last light? Phil’s not actually sure.

But he takes the water, and he gulps it down greedily, only now realising how parched he is. He wants to give the skin back before he’s done, because he feels bad for drinking all this person’s water, but they give him a nod and he keeps going.

Maybe they have more somewhere. Probably they have more somewhere.

When Phil finally finishes, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gives the half empty skin back.

“Man, you really needed that, huh?” the person chuckles, but it’s not harsh. It’s just… an observation.

Phil figures now is as good of a time to speak as ever.

“Please don’t take me home again,” he asks, gripping the edge of the blankets as hard as he can, even if it hurts a little bit. “I don’t want to go home.”

He’s crying again, it’s making his head all achy and his eyes all stinging, and he can’t see well so he drives the heels of his palms into his eyes, letting go of the blanket for a moment to do so.

“Kid, hey,” the person says, all calm and quiet and there’s a weight on Phil’s knee and he stops trying to stop himself from crying to look, and the person has a hand on his leg.

“I’m not gonna take you home,” they say, giving Phil’s knee a little squeeze. “I’m sorry I did, I shoulda listened the first time.”

“I don’t want to go home,” Phil says again, and his voice is all wobbly. He tries to make it not wobbly, but he can’t, just like he can’t stop himself from crying. He can never stop himself from crying, even when he should be able to. He hates it.

“You don’t have to,” the person assures, rubbing Phil’s knee now. “I promise, okay kid? I’m not takin’ you home, I’m not takin’ you back to yer parents.”

And if that isn’t the kindest thing Phil’s heard someone say to him in suns. He cries harder, and the person keeps rubbing his leg, and everything hurts.

“You can stay with me while you heal up, yeah?” the person asks. Asks. They ask Phil if that’s what he wants to do, they don’t tell him he has to do it. Not like last time. “You can stay an’ rest, an’ I’ll look after you. The desert isn’t kind to kids like you, huh?”

Phil shakes his head, because everything hurts, and he’s hungry, and he doesn’t know what’s happening, and he hiccups and it startles him and- and-

“It’s okay, kid, yer safe,” the person murmurs, and something inside Phil feels like it’s breaking. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

“Phil,” he manages to stammer out between sobs and hiccups. “M- my name is Phil.” The person keeps calling him kid, probably because he doesn’t know his name.

“I know, kid.” Oh. Okay then. “Jus’ wanted you to tell me first. I’m Technoblade,” he says, and Phil just nods.

“Take yer time,” Technoblade prompts, still just as calm and gentle and his voice is nice, it’s all rough and deep and it sounds nothing like home and that’s a good thing, because Phil never wants to go home again. “We’re not goin’ anywhere any time soon, not ‘til yer up to travellin’.”

If he could find the words, Phil would say he is up to travelling, but he can’t and he knows he’s not, really. He just doesn’t want to be an inconvenience. He hates being an inconvenience, he’s been one for a while, now. Well, really, he’s been one for his whole life, but he’s been more of one in the past few suns.

It takes a while, but Phil manages to calm down. His head feels all stuffy by the time he’s stopped crying, like someone’s filled it with sand. His throat feels like it’s got sand in it too, and he drinks even more of Technoblade’s water, and finally manages to eat something. It’s the first food he’s had since he ate Technoblade’s dates, and he’s not sure how long that’s been.

He’s calmed down, and it’s getting dark outside now. Technoblade is still sitting with him, except he leaves a couple of times to make sure everything outside of the tent is okay. He doesn’t let Phil get up and try to help him, he tells him to stay in bed because he can do it himself and it’s okay and Phil needs to rest.

“You were out cold for almost the whole light, kid,” he says, cutting up some dried meat with a small knife for them to share. “Kept tossin’ an’ turnin’, you have bad dreams?”

Phil nods, and takes his share of the meat in both hands, nibbling at the end. It’s nothing like what he’s used to, but it’s not bad, actually. All herb-y, and he eats his way through it a lot quicker than he thought he would, even though it’s rather tough.

“How long were you runnin’ for?” Technoblade asks, and Phil shrugs. A few glasses, probably. Enough that he couldn’t keep going.

“How you feelin’?” It’s something Technoblade has asked several times already, but Phil hasn’t given him much of an answer yet. He’s fairly sure it’s pretty obvious that he’s not feeling great—he fell over last time he tried to stand up—but Technoblade seems to want to know more than just that.

“Everything hurts,” Phil admits, pulling a blanket up around his shoulders. It’s getting cold again, like last dark, when he was shivering so badly his teeth rattled in his head.

“What type of hurt?” Technoblade asks, before shaking his head and muttering. “Shut up, Chat.”

“Chat?” Phil asks. He doesn’t understand what Technoblade means.

“Nothin’. Don’t worry, just… just a me thing,” Technoblade says, and that makes just about as much sense as his strange statement.

“Um…” Phil begins, trying to answer the question Technoblade asked him, because he can tell Technoblade is just going to keep asking until he gets an answer. “My legs hurt. I tried to stand up and I fell over. My head is all sore, and my back was hurting really bad before.” It hurts less now, though.

“Lemme take a look,” Technoblade says, leaning forwards and reaching out, and Phil, for all his aching parts, scrambles back, away from his reach.

“No!” he says, shaking his head furiously. “No, you- you can’t look.” He can’t let Technoblade look at his back. He can’t let him see his wings, he can’t he can’t he can’t. He’s been so caught up in the kindness Technoblade’s giving him that he’s almost forgotten about why he’s even here in the first place.

“Alright, it’s okay, Phil, I won’t look,” Technoblade says, and he sits back and puts his hands in front of him.

Phil eyes him warily, but he shuffles back to where he was sitting.

“Promise?” he asks quietly.

“Promise,” Technoblade says, almost immediately.

Somehow, Phil believes him.

Chapter Text

If Technoblade has to guess, he reckons he’s only made a glass’ progress in the past two lights. It’s a dismally small amount of distance for the time that’s passed, but the desert is tricky, and anything can happen.

Like finding a kid come moonrise and returning him home, like regretting doing so, like finding him again the next sunrise.

Like setting up camp glasses before sun’s peak because the kid hasn’t woken up yet, and he needs somewhere safer than the open desert, like sitting around and waiting because Techno can’t just leave him, like pacing back and forth because spirits knows how he’s going to deal with this, like rushing into the tent because there was a noise, and that means the kid is awake.

By now, the moon is rising again, the dark is arriving. It’s not yet difficult to see, but Technoblade knows the desert and knows its skies. It will be.

The kid is back in bed, and for all his efforts to try and get back out again, he’s staying mercifully put. He’s injured, probably in more ways than one, but he’s- he’s persevering.

There’s a cut on his cheek, it’s not bleeding and it hasn’t bled since Techno brushed the sand off his face, but it wasn’t there last time Techno saw Phil. There’s scratches on his arms, they don’t look new, but Technoblade’s only noticing them now. And there’s bruises, five of them, the sizes of fingertips around Phil’s bicep. Exactly where his mother was holding him when Techno returned him home.

Like void is Techno going to take him anywhere near that oasis ever again. He’s made his mistake once, he has no desire to repeat it.

The kid doesn’t tell him much, but he answers his questions as best he can.

His name’s Phil, which Techno had picked up on earlier, but like he’d said, he was waiting for Phil to say it himself. He didn’t want to intrude.

He’s from the Cobalt Oasis, both of his parents are on the council. He’s thirteen suns old, but he really doesn’t look it. He’s never been further from the Oasis than this, and he doesn’t want to go home ever again.

Technoblade promises him that he won’t take him home—he promises him a lot of things, and perhaps he’ll come to regret that one light—and the kid breaks. A sliver of kindness, and he shatters before Techno, and he has to work out how to deal with… this.

“Can you stay?” Phil suddenly whispers, and Technoblade looks over at him.

He still looks rather a mess, but they can fix that later. He needs to rest first, because Technoblade is well acquainted with the effects the desert can have on your body, especially if you’re not prepared for them.

Phil’s bundled up in almost all the blankets, he’s got them pulled right up to his ears and his cheek squishes against the cushion. He’s blinking up at Techno with those big blue eyes, and Techno can’t help but wonder how anyone could ever say no to such a face. He knows he certainly can’t. 

“Please?” Phil asks, and Techno nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, kid,” he says, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair gently.

Phil smiles, just a tiny bit, before he’s overtaken by a yawn, betraying just how tired he must be, even though he’s spent more than half the light unconscious, and the rest in bed.

Again, Techno is familiar with the desert’s tricks, and this is one of the… less pleasant ones.

“Sleep, Phil, I’m right here,” Techno says, shifting so he’s a little closer. He still wants to give the kid his space—they barely know each other, really—but it’s clear Phil wants Techno nearby. It’s quite a change from two darks ago, where Phil was trying to hide, to run away, and Techno was encouraging him to.

It’s quiet in the tent for several shifts, but it’s a nice quiet. A content quiet, if a little nervous.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Phil asks, voice even smaller. Techno looks over to him, and Phil won’t meet his eyes, apparently too interested in the hem of one of the blankets.

“What?”

“Why are you-”

“No, I- I heard you the first time,” Techno interrupts, shaking his head.

“Oh, sorry,” Phil says, shrinking in on himself.

“Kid, hey,” Techno says, internally scolding himself. Chat helps. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What did you mean it like?” Phil uncurls a little, but not very much.

“I meant it… I meant it like- I was confused, because why wouldn’t I be nice to you?”

The kid doesn’t answer his question, but the way he shifts under the blankets and looks down again tells Techno that there is an answer, he just doesn’t want to say it. He won’t press, as much as he really, really wants to know.

“You’re a kid, Phil, an’ a pretty scared one at that. I’m not just gonna let you die in the desert, that’s not who I am,” Technoblade continues. “I’m bein’ nice to you because that’s what you deserve.”

Phil mutters something, and Techno doesn’t quite catch it, but Phil clams up when he asks him to repeat himself. Probably not anything good, then. Again, he’s not going to press. Too hard. Yet. He still wants to know.

“Stop worryin’, Phil, I’m not goin’ anywhere just yet,” Techno assures, and Phil nods, and no more words are exchanged, because the kid falls asleep almost alarmingly quickly.

Technoblade sits with him a few shifts more, just… watching.

He’s always so guarded when he’s awake. He’s always at least a little curled in on himself, his eyes are always darting around to try see everything at once, he’s always very quiet, very subdued, very nervous.

At least, that’s the impression Technoblade’s got so far. He hasn’t exactly known the kid for very long, has he?

But like this, he looks so much more peaceful. His eyebrows aren’t knitted together, his shoulders aren’t tensed, he’s not trying to hide himself away.

Technoblade reaches out, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind Phil’s ear, sighing.

“What am I gonna do with you, kid?” he asks softly, watching the gentle shifting of the blankets as Phil sleeps, hopefully eliminating the pure exhaustion from his body.

Technoblade doesn’t have much experience with kids. People used to always ask him to tutor theirs, but he quickly found he wasn’t very good at it, and people stopped asking him. And then he left, so people really stopped asking him if he could help with their kids.

He doesn’t have much experience, and even if he did, this would be way out of his depth. He’s not just helping teach a kid, or looking after them for a few glasses, he’s- he’s protecting him. He’s keeping him safe. He’s keeping him alive, and trying to work out what in the void to do next.

How does he look after a kid? How does he raise one? Is he even raising Phil? What counts as raising a kid, versus just taking care of them? Is there even a difference? Does this make Technoblade a dad?

“Ha, dadnoblade.”

“Now’s not the time, Chat,” Techno hisses, checking and double checking that Phil’s still asleep before leaving the tent again.

There’s not much light left in the sky now, and Technoblade pulls his cloak on to combat the growing chill, and starts taking inventory. He supposes that’s a good thing to do, right? To work out what he has and what he needs, now that there’s another mouth to feed and water, and another body to transport and provide with a bed. 

They’re headed to the Mesa already—since Carl’s saddlebag still needs fixing and Techno’s lost an entire light of travel time—so there’s no need to course correct, and no fear that they’re going to run out of provisions. They’ll just… have to buy a little bit more than Techno had expected. He hopes he has enough coins.

“Suns, Chat, what have I gotten myself into?” Techno mutters, securing the buckle of the bag he’d been rooting through.

“The right thing.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I know how to do- this,” Techno argues, sitting down next to the fire and poking it with a stick, watching the sparks dance through the air for the few grains they burn bright.

He doesn’t know how to do this. Technoblade’s always been a ‘loner’, according to some, he’s always preferred his own company over anyone else’s.

“What about mine? Do you not like mine?”

“Whether or not I like your company is irrelevant, Chat,” Technoblade says, rolling his eyes. “I’m stuck with you whether I like it or not.”

“I think you mean I’m stuck with you, actually.”

“An’ who’s fault is that, now?”

“Yours.”

“Oh it is not!” Technoblade exclaims, before quickly lowering his volume for fear of waking Phil. “It it not my fault,” he hisses, giving the fire another aggressive poke.

“Is too.”

“Is not!” Technoblade hisses back again.

“Is too!”

“Can we please stay on topic, Chat?” Technoblade asks, poking the stick into the ground and tipping his head back to look at the stars. They shimmer in the sky, like stray grains of sand brushed across a void dark backdrop. They look almost blue in the light of the fire, burning orange before Technoblade.

“Fine. Still your fault.”

“Whatever you say, Chat,” he says, admitting defeat. There’s no winning in an argument against Chat, unfortunately.

“What in the void do I do?” Technoblade asks, because even though Chat doesn’t have all the answers—despite their claims of such—Technoblade really, really does not know what to do, actually.

“You work it out.”

Helpful.

Technoblade sighs again, dropping his head down to rest on his knees.

He’s responsible for a kid, now. One who’s been stuck in an awful situation for spirits know-

“I don’t kn-”

“Again, not the time, Chat.”

One who’s been stuck in an awful situation for spirits know how long, who can’t take care of himself, and one who Techno knows next to nothing at all about. One who has far too many scars for a kid his age, one who has far too skittish of a demeanour for a kid his age, one who has nowhere near enough joy for a kid his age.

Techno doesn’t know what to do, but he does know what not to do.

And that’s taking the kid back home.

Technoblade wakes to sand battering the side of the tent, and the kid curled tightly in a ball beneath almost every blanket and covering in Techno’s possession.

“Phil?” Techno asks, and he can hear how rough his voice is from sleep. “You in there kid?”

He puts a hand on the blanket bundle, giving it a small shake. It whimpers back at him.

“It’s just the wind, kid, ‘s not gonna hurt you,” Techno assures. He supposes the kid probably isn’t used to how quickly the winds rush over the dunes, given council houses are pretty well protected in oases. 

With a yawn, Techno sits up, lighting the lantern above him with a touch, and rubbing his eyes. Phil stays where he is, and all Techno can see of him is the end of the braid Techno did in his hair last light sticking out the side. He chuckles, giving the blanket another small shake, trying to reassure the kid.

It’s not the worst wind Techno’s been in, to be honest. He stands still for a moment once he’s outside the tent, surveying the situation. It’s a little harsh, but it’s not too bad. It doesn’t warrant staking the tent more securely and sealing the flaps, it’s just rather annoying. It’ll pass, it always does.

“You think yer up t’ movin’ this light?” Technoblade asks, sticking his head back into the tent.

Phil pokes out of the blankets, hair rather scruffy and eyes squinting in the light.

“We should probably try an’ make at least a bit of progress, I only got so much food,” Techno points out. If Phil really isn’t up to it, they can stay put for another light, but Techno hates doing that, and he has a nagging feeling that it’s… probably not the best idea right now. Not with Phil.

“Do I have to walk?” Phil asks, and Technoblade has to remind himself that he’s not allowed to tease, because how would Phil know they’ll both be riding Carl, he’s never done this before.

At least, not when Techno’s not taking him back to the very place he was trying to escape.

“Nah, Carl can take both of us. Only gotta walk a few steps to him.”

Phil considers for a moment, before nodding.

Excellent.

It’s a little harder to pack up camp in the wind, but Technoblade manages, and he once more leaves Phil with food and water so he can stay out of the way. The wind hasn’t relented by the time they’re ready to leave—Technoblade didn’t really expect it too, honestly—and Phil doesn’t… he doesn’t seem to be enjoying it that much.

He’s not dressed for the weather, and it becomes more apparent the longer Techno leaves it. His arms are entirely unprotected, so is his face. He’s hugging his limbs close, and trying to protect his eyes from the grains of sand constantly assaulting everything they can reach.

As much as Techno knows they need to get a move on, they can’t go anywhere like this. With a sigh, Technoblade makes a decision. He’s gone plenty of times in the desert winds, and his shirt sleeves are protection enough. He can bear a light or two as he is, until they get to the Mesa.

He unclasps his cloak from around his neck, bundles it up in his arms, and kneels beside Phil.

It’s big on him—of course it is, he’s tiny, and Technoblade… isn’t—but that just means there’s more fabric to protect him from the elements. Techno does the clasp up for him, and flicks the hood up over his hair, trying not to make it droop into his eyes.

“Here, kid,” he says, adjusting the fabric over his arms. “This’ll help.”

Chapter Text

Whenever the winds raced back in the oasis, classes would either go inside or stop for the light, depending on how bad it was. Whenever the winds raced back in the oasis, Phil would go inside before it got really bad. Everyone did, because no one liked the winds when they raced.

They would catch you off guard between the buildings, they would shake the palm trees and pile the sand up at the foots of pillars and doors and blow it in through the gaps in the windows sometimes.

But it was never like this.

There’s no houses or trees or doors or pillars to block the wind out in the open desert. There’s no inside to shelter in, there’s no walls to keep the sand from flying into Phil’s face.

And it hurts. Phil didn’t know sand could hurt like this.

Again, it’s not the worst hurt he’s had, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. It’s like hundreds of tiny knives on his arms and his face and his feet because he doesn’t have any shoes because he left them back in the oasis and he didn’t have time to grab them before he ran.

The wind is so much worse, too, it doesn’t stop. 

Technoblade’s cloak helps, though.

It’s warm, and Phil didn’t think he’d be grateful for that in the middle of the desert at sun’s peak, but he is, because the wind is not warm. He doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t want to ask because he’s pretty sure he should know why and he doesn’t want Technoblade to think he’s stupid.

The cloak is thick and soft and so warm , and it stops the sand from hurting him and Phil pulls it tight around him, and tries to tuck his feet up.

He wobbles, lilting dangerously to the side, but Technoblade catches him with his arm before he can fall off Carl.

“Careful, kid,” Technoblade says, and Phil puts his feet back down because even if it hurts a little bit, he doesn’t want to fall off the horse. Carl might step on him accidentally and that would probably really hurt.

“How you doin’?” Technoblade asks, and Phil shrugs. He doesn’t really know. “How’s the cloak?”

“‘S good,” Phil says, gripping the hems with one hand, and the saddle with the other. He’s not taking any risks again right now.

“That’s good.” Technoblade doesn’t say anything more, and the ride falls back into silence. Well, silence bar the whistling of the wind across the shifting dunes.

Thankfully, they’re not riding directly into it, because then Phil would be worried about his face. They’re riding per-pen-dic-u-lar to it, so it’s only battering his side.

Phil feels a little bad for Technoblade, because he doesn’t have a cloak anymore, but Technoblade doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t say anything if he does, and in Phil’s experience, people do tend to say things if he’s doing something wrong.

They say lots of things, all the time.

Technoblade hasn’t said any of those things yet, and part of Phil is tensing for the moment he does.

Because he will at some point, Phil’s sure of it. He’s bound to find out about who Phil really is, what he really is, because everyone finds out and everyone hates it, and Phil can’t do most things right already but he especially can’t do this right, and surely it’s only so long before Technoblade realises and kicks him out and at least it’s better than his parents.

Anything is better than his parents, actually, Phil decides. Lying alone in the desert when his legs wouldn’t let him run anymore was better than his parents. Being put to sleep by Technoblade was better than his parents. The cold wind and sharp sand is better than his parents.

The thought calms him, even if just a little.

“Here looks about as good a place as any, what d’you think, Phil?” Technoblade asks, pulling Carl to a stop.

It’s not getting dark yet, but Carl’s been walking all light, and according to Technoblade, usually he doesn’t do that. Usually they have a break at sun’s peak because it gets too hot, but it didn’t get too hot this light because of the wind and Technoblade wanted to keep going for as long as possible.

Phil’s not sure where they’re going, but it’s away from the Cobalt Oasis, so wherever it is, that’s fine with him. It’s away from his parents, and it’s so far away from his parents that he can’t even see a speck of the oasis anymore. He’s safe, finally.

Phil shrugs again in response to Technoblade’s question, because he doesn’t really know what Technoblade is looking for. ‘Here’ seems arbitrary, because it’s just another bit of desert that looks the same as all the other bits of desert.

It’s relatively flat, the winds aren’t quite as strong, but it’s still just sand and nothing else.

“Not one for talkin’ much, are you?” Technoblade asks, and Phil’s pretty sure that’s one of those questions he’s not supposed to answer. His Mother liked asking those types of questions.

Technoblade apparently decides that this place is ‘as good a place as any’, because he gets off the horse and lifts Phil down too. His hands are so big and so rough but they’re so gentle, still, and they ruffle the top of his hood, probably just to get the sand to fall off. The hem of the cloak is dragging in the sand, though, so it’s going to be covered in it regardless.

Phil watches as Technoblade goes about- whatever he’s doing, opening and closing Carl's bags, pulling out things and putting them down, and passing something to Phil. It’s a bag of nuts, and with a look from Technoblade, Phil starts nibbling at them.

After handing him the nuts, Technoblade makes a fire, sparking it just like Phil thought he would, with magic, just like Phil’s supposed to be able to do. While Technoblade does that, Phil stops eating the nuts, and tries to draw the sparking sigil in the air.

All it produces is a waft of smoke that the wind blows away mere grains before Technoblade turns around. Phil quickly puts his hands and eyes down, because he doesn’t want Technoblade to ask questions because he doesn’t want to answer them.

“Scoot a bit closer, kid,” Technoblade says instead, and Phil obliges. He looks up, and Technoblade is drawing something massive, the circle is half as tall as he is and the marks inside of it are familiar, but not quite familiar enough that Phil can tell what it is.

It turns out, it's a shield. A dome that Technoblade puts over them, the fire, and Carl, and it’s got a hole in the top for the smoke to escape and it keeps the wind from blowing the fire out. 

“There we go, much better,” Technoblade says, settling down next to Phil and taking a handful of nuts and a swig of water.

Phil agrees with a nod.

“‘S not worth puttin’ up camp yet,” Technoblade continues, even though Phil didn’t ask. “Shield's only gonna last so long, an’ we’re not wantin’ to sleep just yet. We’ll put it up later, just rest for now.”

That seems doable. Just… resting. Though Phil thinks Carl’s probably the only one who needs to rest, really, since he was doing all the walking.

Phil’s still a little scared of Carl. He’s big and he’s strong and Phil hasn’t seen a horse before he saw Carl, and he doesn’t quite trust him yet, even though the worst thing Carl has done is get spooked and surprise him.

So Phil keeps his distance as much as he can, and Technoblade doesn’t question it, thankfully. Again, Phil doesn’t want to answer, he shouldn’t be scared of Carl, he knows that.

“We’ve made good progress this light,” Technoblade says, like he’s trying to fill the silence. “An’ I’m glad yer feelin’ a bit better, kid,” he says, and he nudges Phil’s shoulder.

“Thank you for the cloak,” Phil says in return, because it’s rude not to thank someone when they do something for you. Phil learnt that the hard way.

“Ah, ‘s no problem. You needed it more than me,” Technoblade says, shrugging.

“You can have it back now,” Phil says, reaching up to unclasp the fabric, but Technoblade’s hand on his stops him.

“Keep it. Until we get you somethin’ more yer own size. Like I said, you need it more ‘n me.”

“Oh,” is all Phil manages to say, because that’s kind. Again. Technoblade is still kind even though Phil is taking his things and not giving anything in return.

The shield around them glows brighter for a moment, staining the sand blue despite the warm glow of the fire. Phil looks up, curious. He didn’t know shields could do that, but then again, he’s never seen a shield quite like this one before.

Technoblade looks up too, but he seems less curious more… concerned. Phil’s not sure why.

“You do that, kid?” Technoblade asks, still studying the shield.

“No.”

Technoblade doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t move, either. The shield glows again, a bit brighter this time. Phil looks at it, and he can just about see something outside of its walls, something thin and glowing, like a snake made of magic. It’s winding its way up the dome, writhing about and flickering.

“Curses,” Technoblade mutters, standing all in a hurry and tracing another sigil in the air. It’s another shield, Phil can tell that because this one’s not special or big, but the magic snake thing is at the top of the big shield now, and it’s found the smoke hole.

“Void!” Technoblade yells as it drops into their protected space, and Phil can’t see it properly now. He can only see the bits that are touching the shield—the big one, that is.

Until something in his chest pulls , and the rest of the snake materialises out of thin air.

It’s anchored itself to him, right over his heart, and it goes all the way out over the sand dunes and into the steadily darkening desert.

“Kid,” Technoblade drops down to his knees, his eyes wide. He doesn’t try to remove the snake, so Phil tries, but his hands pass right through it.

He tries again, but he can’t grab it, he can’t grab it, how is he supposed to get rid of it? He doesn’t want it on him! He wants it gone!

“Kid!” Technoblade says, grabbing Phil’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Phil. You’re okay, it’s not going to hurt you.”

Technoblade looks back over his shoulder for a moment, and so does Phil, but he can’t see anything but the snake and the sand.

“What is it?” Phil asks, still trying to grab the magic and pull it off himself. “I don’t like it!”

“It’s a trackin’ spell,” Technoblade says, drawing something with one hand and throwing it sideways at the snake. It hits it and sparks, bright and blue with a zap, but nothing else happens. “Void. It’s a strong one. It’s okay Phil, it’s okay.”

It doesn’t sound okay. Phil knows what tracking spells are, but he’s never actually seen one before.

“Get it off!” he cries, clawing at his chest, but Technoblade just shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Phil, I don’t have time.”

Phil’s about to ask why, but something comes crashing into the side of their shield, and it explodes into a hundred bits of light, like the shattered glass from Phil’s dream last light. 

The shield also breaks, cracking and fading and the wind is back, and so is the sand, and the fire quickly blows out but Technoblade doesn’t try to relight it.

Instead, he throws something back into the desert, from where the thing came from, and he’s drawing sigils so fast and throwing them down that Phil can’t tell what is what.

Another snake joins his on the dunes all of a sudden, but it’s not attached to Phil’s chest like the other one. It stops in Technoblade’s hand, like he’s holding a rope, and he tugs it and it goes all taut.

“Phil, I know yer a caster,” Technoblade says, not looking at him. “Put a shield around yerself, now .” It’s not a question, it’s a command. Phil knows what a command is like.

And he knows the sigil for a shield, he knows he does, but he’s- he’s never been very good at it.

Another bolt of magic comes flying at them, and Technoblade deflects it with something, Phil’s too busy trying to make a shield to see. He does, though, flinch when it lands somewhere to his side, exploding again. His flinch makes him mess up the shield spell, and now he has to start all over again.

“Kid!” Technoblade yells, letting go of the second magic snake rope thingy and letting it fade.

Phil whimpers, trying again and again to make a shield, but his circles are too wobbly and his marks aren’t the right shapes.

He screams, though, when something hits him in the shoulder and knocks him face first into the sand. It hurts, all crackly and zappy and it stings and aches all at the same time.

“Phil!” Technoblade yells again, dropping to his side.

Something bright explodes behind them, and Phil doesn’t turn around to see, still curled up in the sand.

“Phil, you need to make a shield, okay?”

“I can’t!” Phil wails, pulling the hood of the cloak over his head tightly, trying to block out the noises. 

“What do you-” Technoblade stops half way through his question, letting go of Phil and deflecting another bolt, and throwing three in the direction it came from. Phil doesn’t know how he does three at the same time.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Technoblade asks, resting a hand on Phil again.

“I can’t make a shield! I can’t make a fire or wind and I can’t do spells that even babies do!” Phil cries, because Technoblade was going to find out at some point, and it just so seems that this point is now. “I’m rubbish at magic! I can’t do all the spell drawings! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, because this is where it’s going to go wrong. No one likes a caster who can’t do magic, let alone one like Phil. He’s supposed to be good at magic, but he’s not. Technoblade won’t like that.

Technoblade yells, and Phil curls up even tighter, but nothing happens. Nothing, until he opens his eyes, and Technoblade has pulled up just a little circle of shield, and he’s pressing it against a bolt of magic that just won’t deflect.

“Phil, run towards Carl!” Technoblade yells, and it’s strained. Phil doesn’t think twice, and he only trips on the cloak once.

He screams again when Technoblade lets go of the ball of magic he’s trying to hold back, but it doesn’t hit him. What it does hit is the tracking spell snake, and even though Technoblade had tried to break it and failed, this time it works.

The glowing rope snaps, and very quickly dims, all the way to Phil and all the way over the dunes in both directions.

There’s hands under Phil’s armpits all of a sudden, and he shrieks until he realises it’s just Technoblade, who’s lifting him up and onto Carl and yelling at him to “Hold on!”

Phil does, and suddenly Carl takes off, faster than Phil had known he was able to go.

“Technoblade!” Phil yells, because he can still see bolts of magic being shot at him and one of them hits him, because he doesn’t have a shield up, because he’s shooting his own back and dodging and there are lots of magical explosions and Phil can still hear them, and he can’t see Technoblade because it’s getting too dark, and he’s still screaming his name because Carl’s getting further and further and further away and Technoblade is being left behind and there are people trying to hurt him and they might accidentally kill him and Phil’s not there and Technoblade’s not here and Phil doesn’t know what to do he doesn’t know what to do what does he do?

“Breathe.”

Phil tries, he really does. His breaths are all uneven and fast, and Carl’s stopped now and he’s lying down and Phil is curled up against him because it’s dark and Carl’s warm and it’s still windy and Phil doesn’t know where Technoblade is.

“Just breathe, little one, you’re safe.”

Phil cries a bit harder, because that’s what Technoblade kept telling him, all the time. He kept saying he was safe and he promised him he wouldn’t take him back to his parents or the oasis and he said he was sorry that he did the first time and he told Phil that he was safe .

“You’re okay, just breathe. It’s going to be okay.”

Carl huffs, and his nose is all soft where it pokes at Phil’s side.

Phil sniffles, trying to breathe, but he keeps hiccupping. He thinks he’s doing so well and then he hiccups again and it makes him cry harder which makes him hiccup more.

“Oh, little one…”

Eventually, Phil manages to stop hiccupping. He manages to stop crying, maybe because he doesn’t have any more tears left. That’s what it feels like.

He breathes, just like she tells him to. It’s shaky and it’s more of a whimper, sometimes, but he breathes.

It’s getting cold now, and Phil still doesn’t know where Technoblade is. He pulls the cloak around him, and tries to make a sparking sigil again.

The wind just steals the smoke away into the dark.

Chapter Text

Phil doesn’t manage to sleep. How can he? How can he sleep when he’s so alone, when Technoblade isn’t here, how can he sleep when he doesn’t know what’s happened to the one person to show him kindness?

And Phil isn’t entirely stupid, either. He may not be able to do magic, but that doesn’t mean he can’t think for himself.

He knows whatever happened back there—back with the shield and the snake and the magic bolts—is his fault. The tracking spell was tracking him, it was anchored on his chest, not Technoblade’s. Whoever it was—Phil never saw anyone but him and Technoblade—wanted him, not Technoblade.

And he’d escaped.

Technoblade had put him onto Carl and he had run off into the dark and Phil’s here now, he doesn’t know where or why or when it is, only that he’s here, and Technoblade is not.

The casters wanted him, but all they got was Technoblade.

Phil hopes they didn’t hurt him, Phil hopes Technoblade managed to escape, Phil hopes he’s okay and he’s coming and he’s going to appear any moment. He doesn’t.

The dark sets in, the moon rises, the air chills and Phil pulls the big red cloak around him as tight as he possibly can, and for as scared of Carl as he is—as he was—he curls close to the horse. Carl is warm, and he’s sheltering Phil from the wind.

But still, Phil can’t sleep.

He’s hurt someone. Maybe even- maybe- what if he’s-

“Breathe.”

Phil takes a shuddering breath, trying not to spiral into sobbing again. He doesn’t like it when he does that.

But Technoblade isn’t here, and he could be dead.

And it’s Phil’s fault, and he knows that. He knows that.

He’s hurt someone, even if not directly, and Phil didn’t want to do that! He didn’t mean to hurt Technoblade! What if he never forgives him? What if Technoblade doesn’t come back because he doesn’t want to see Phil again? What if he does come back but he leaves him behind because he’s a hassle and trouble and dangerous, just like his Mother and Father always used to say?

“Little one, it’s okay.”

The voice is nice, but she’s not Technoblade. She’s not here, she’s not able to comfort him properly, she’s not anything but a voice.

“Not yet, little one, not yet. But one light.”

That doesn’t make any sense. Phil doesn’t know what she means. What’s not yet? What’s one light? What’s going to happen?

The voice says nothing more though, and Phil is left to dwell on his own thoughts in the very, very empty desert. 

He turns his head a little, out from where he’d tucked his face away into Carl’s belly so he can see out across the dunes, and everything… everything looks silvery.

The moon is so big in the sky, and Phil can actually see in the dark, he can see the dunes and he can see his feet and he can see Carl’s eyes watching him. Maybe Carl’s eyes watching him would have scared him, but after Carl helped save him… Phil’s not as scared of the horse as he was, anymore. Carl hasn’t hurt him, he’s helped him, and he’s still helping him.

Phil reaches out a hand and strokes Carl’s nose, and he huffs, warm air fluttering the fabric of Phil’s pants where they peek out at the edge of Technoblade’s cloak.

At least he isn’t properly alone, this time. At least Phil has Carl and Carl has Phil, because last time Phil was alone in the desert at dark, he got kind of sick and Technoblade had to look after him for a whole light.

Once more, Phil looks out at the desert. He looks at the stars, trying to find the constellations in them. He can remember a lot of the patterns, and he traces them with his finger, imagining he was drawing lines in the sky to connect the dots of light. Once he runs out of real constellations, he starts making his own up. This one’s a sword, and that one is Carl, but he’s a bit wonky.

Phil’s so preoccupied with filling the sky with drawings that he doesn’t notice the blue glow on the horizon until it gets a lot closer.

It catches the corner of his eye when he’s trying to find the right group of stars to make into a tent, and Phil stops looking up.

It’s bobbing along, and it’s slowly getting brighter as Phil watches. He squints as it nears, trying to make out whatever’s producing the light. It’s the same blue as lanterns are, and behind it there’s- there’s-

“Technoblade!” Phil yells, scrambling to his feet and running, the cloak flying out behind him as he crests the small dunes, not stopping until he slams into Technoblade’s larger figure.

An arm snakes around Phil’s back, pressing him close, and he squeezes in return. All worry that Technoblade will hate him has been forgotten in the moment, because Technoblade is alive and okay and he’s here. 

“Hey, kid,” Technoblade says, but he sounds so tired. “Glad to see you made it out.”

Technoblade pulls back from where Phil’s hugging him, and takes one of Phil’s hands in his own, leading them back towards Carl.

Once they’re there, Technoblade almost falls into the sand, sitting in a heap where Phil had been, leaning against Carl. He hangs the lantern in the air, and Phil can see why Technoblade looks and sounds tired.

His shirt’s all torn up over his shoulder and his chest, where it should be white it’s all black and pink, and Technoblade’s skin is all covered in blood too. It looks like it really hurts, and Phil feels really bad. Again. Technoblade got hurt because of him.

“I’m sorry,” Phil says, looking down, still standing because Technoblade took his spot which is okay! He needs it more, Phil’s just… not sure where to sit anymore.

“Shut up, kid,” Technoblade says, and Phil takes a step back. Oh. So he is mad at him. “Void, no I- I’m sorry Phil, I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Technoblade says, and even though he’s tired, he sounds… he sounds like he actually means it.

“You don’t need to be sorry, you didn’t do anythin’,” Technoblade continues, and Phil can hear shuffling about. He looks up, and Technoblade is rooting through one of Carl’s bags, looking for something.

“I got you hurt though?” Phil says, sitting down where he is, even though there’s a lot of space between him and Technoblade and Carl.

“Last time I checked,” Technoblade says, pulling out a roll of bandages. “You couldn’t even do a simple shield spell, let alone somethin’ like this,” he says, and for once, it doesn’t sound like an insult. “Kid, I need you t’ look away for a shift. Just while I fix this up.”

Phil obliges, because he really, really doesn’t want to mess anything up right now, because Technoblade might be pretending or still making up his mind or something like that because surely he’s not actually okay with this? Phil hurt him!

“You gut hurt because of me, though,” Phil points out, because he can’t stand not knowing what’s going to happen. He can’t stand the anticipation, his body is all shaky and tense.

“Yeah, ‘cause I didn’t want you t’ get hurt,” Technoblade says simply. “I was protectin’ you, kid, so what if I got a scratch or two?”

It doesn’t look like a scratch if you ask Phil, but no one does, so he doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t know why you were bein’ tracked, but it’s probably not for a good reason, yeah? I said you’re safe, so I’m gonna keep you safe.”

Technoblade talks as if this is common knowledge, as if Phil should know this already. And- and Phil knows Technoblade’s only saying things he’s said before—or things with the same meanings—but he didn’t think he actually meant them. Not truly, not talking about him.

“You can turn back ‘round now, kid,” Technoblade says, and Phil can see in the light of the lantern that Technoblade’s bandaged his shoulder up, and he’s got a new shirt. Phil doesn’t know where the old one went, but it’s probably just in one of the bags.

“An’ come here,” Technoblade says, holding his hand out, beckoning him closer. “‘S too late t’ put up camp, let’s try get some rest before light.”

Phil doesn’t really understand what he means until he takes Technoblade’s hand and he pulls him closer until they’re both leaning against Carl, and Technoblade puts a shield around them again, and it’s warm and quiet and finally, Phil sleeps.

It doesn’t take very long for them to start travelling again once the light arrives. After all, there’s no tent and bedroll and blankets to pack up, and Phil’s pressed against Technoblade’s side so much that he barely realises he’s being picked up until he’s in the air, until Technoblade manages to get on Carl while holding Phil, until they’re actually moving and Carl’s rhythm almost makes Phil fall back asleep again.

He doesn’t, though, because he accidentally leans against Technoblade’s bad shoulder, and Technoblade grunts, which means it hurt.

Phil doesn’t want to hurt him any more, even if Technoblade says it’s not his fault. It feels like his fault.

Where are we going?” Phil asks when Technoblade hands him some of his dried meat.

“You ever heard of the Mesa?” Technoblade asks, and Phil shakes his head.

“Is it an oasis?”

“Nah,” Technoblade says, and Phil’s confused. Everyone knows the only way you can survive in the desert is with an oasis, even if you just visit a few times when you need to. Oases have water and food and other people, and you need at least two of those to survive.

“Well, it’s not an oasis like you’re used to,” Technoblade clarifies, and that just makes Phil even more confused. He must be pulling a funny face, because Technoblade chuckles.

“The Mesa is a place for people like me ‘n you, who don’t want to go back to their home, or don’t have a home to go back to.” Phil didn’t realise Technoblade didn’t have a home, but that… makes sense. “It’s not a caster oasis, so there’s all sorts there, comin’ an’ goin’ as they please.”

“Like wandering traders?” Phil asks, because the traders and their caravans are the only people who come and go from the Cobalt Oasis on a regular basis.

“Yeah, kinda. But we don’t all sell stuff, we’re all just goin’ about our lives however we want. Some people stay in the Mesa all the time, an’ some—like me—don’t.”

“What’s it like?” Phil asks. Technoblade’s right, it doesn’t sound like anything he knows.

“Well,” Technoblade begins, taking a deep breath. “It’s busy. Lots of people, lots of animals. It’s all… mismatched, everythin’ looks different from everythin’ else. It’s more of a town, really, an’ there’s a spring, and trees, but it doesn’t look like your oasis.”

“Why are we going there?” Phil asks, because this place sounds very cool, but he doesn’t understand what they might need there. They just came form an oasis, wouldn’t Technoblade have been able to get everything from there? He has lots of food and water and bandages for his shoulder, what else do they need?

“For a bunch of reasons,” Technoblade says. “One of Carl’s saddlebags is broken, so I need to get someone to fix that, because I can’t do it myself. I need a new shirt now, because the trackers ruined my other one.” Phil has to agree with that, Technoblade’s other shirt looks like nothing would be able to fix it. “An’ you need some new clothes too.”

“These ones are fine, though,” Phil says quickly. He’s supposed to be a clear caster, he needs to wear the right clothes. And they’re not ruined like Technoblade’s shirt is, he doesn’t need new clothes.

“Yeah, but they’re not good for the desert unless yer stayin’ put in one place all the time, an’ currently, that’s not what yer doin’, is it?” Technoblade asks, and as ever, he has a point. “But uh…” he continues, suddenly sounding a lot less sure. “If you like the Mesa you can- you can stay there. There’s a lotta good people there, they’ll be able to take care of you. If you don’t like movin’ about all the time, you don’t have to. I just- I just wanted to get you away from yer family, y’know?”

Phil doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure if he does know or not.

“But yeah, you should probably get some new clothes, a cloak that actually fits you, at the very least.” That’s actually a good idea. That means Technoblade can have his own cloak back, and he won’t have to be in the wind all the time.

“We’re also goin’ to the Mesa ‘cause I need borin’ things, like food an’ water,” Technoblade continues. “Didn’t expect t’ have to feed another mouth, so we’re not gonna run out, but I don’t wanna risk it. Better to be safe than sorry.”

Phil doesn’t ask many more questions after this, partially because he doesn’t really have anymore, and partially because… he’s thinking.

He’s thinking about what Technoblade said, that if he wants to, he can stay in the Mesa. He can stay in a new oasis that isn’t like the other oases and isn’t like his old home, and where the people are nice and like him.

But Phil’s not sure if they really will be nice or like him, not really. If they found out about his wings they would surely hate him, just like everyone else. Phil doesn’t want people to hate him.

And if he was staying in the Mesa… would he ever see Technoblade again? Would Technoblade and Carl stay with him, or would they leave again? Would they leave him? Phil has a bad feeling that they would, and he… he’s not sure if he wants that.

He doesn’t know Technoblade very well, he knows that. Technoblade doesn’t know him very well either, but right now, Technoblade and Carl are the only things Phil has. He doesn’t have a home or a family or magic that actually does anything, and if he was alone, he would probably die.

He’s not sure if he wants other things besides Technoblade and Carl. He likes these things he already has, and he doesn’t want them to go away.

“Phil, look,” Technoblade says, much later in the light. They’ve been travelling all light, and Phil hasn’t been paying much attention to their surroundings, because they all look pretty much the same.

He does look, though, when Technoblade tells him to. 

What he sees is decidedly not the vast, empty desert, actually.

It’s houses. It’s buildings and trees and they’re all different, like Technoblade said. They’re made of wood and terracotta and sandstone and cloth and they’re colourful, they’re sometimes a little wonky, they’re so different.

They get closer, and there are people too. They all wear different clothes, some of them have pants like Technoblade, some of them have long swishy skirts, some of them have shawls or tight shirts, and they all look so different. Everyone in the Cobalt Oasis looked almost the same.

Phil can’t look at everything fast enough. The horses at a water trough, the dancer performing on a raised stage for coins, the people who smile and wave and call out Technoblade’s name.

“This,” Technoblade says, “This is the Mesa, Phil.”

Chapter Text

As ever, the Mesa is busy, bustling with life and liveliness, with colour and culture and crass language that Technoblade probably should have thought about before bringing a sheltered thirteen suns kid into the midst of it all.

Oh well, they’re here now, no turning back.

Techno recognises most of the faces they pass. They recognise him too—unfortunately, he has a bit of a reputation that precedes him—and wave. He mostly ignores them.

Phil is very quiet in front of Techno, and he hopes he isn’t too overwhelmed by the sheer difference of the Mesa to what Phil’s used to. There’s very little order here, very little structure. Half of everyone they pass is only here temporarily, and the other half have made a life for themselves in amongst the mixing pot of people and cultures and everything.

Yeah, Phil’s probably overwhelmed. This is probably a lot for him, especially after what he’s been through. It’s unfamiliar, it’s strange, and even if it is just about the furthest thing from Phil’s home oasis and home… situation that’s possible to get, such unfamiliarity probably isn’t the best thing right now.

But again, oh well. There’s no turning back now, because they need things here, things Technoblade can’t easily get anywhere else.

Carl is familiar with the Mesa, though, practically leading himself by this point. It’s busy, but people give way to his form, and he’s not the only horse on the well trodden paths.

Eventually, Carl stops himself outside one of the taller buildings in the Mesa. It’s painted mostly whiteish, some red and yellow accents here and there, and an only slightly wonky sign hanging between the second storey windows reads ‘Las Nevadas’ in big letters.

People are coming and going from its doors regularly, and Technoblade ties Carl to a convenient fencepost—there’s a lot of them around here—and helps Phil down. He still hasn’t said a word since they got here, but that’s okay. He hasn’t said much in general.

“We’ll be stayin’ here,” Technoblade says, beckoning Phil to follow him inside the building. “‘S a tavern, an’ an inn. Quackity’s an old friend, I’m sure he has room.”

Phil still says nothing, pulling the cloak around himself tightly. Well, as tightly as something so oversized can be, really. 

Inside Las Nevadas is… well, there’s no other place like it. Lanterns are hung as if they were strung up with strings, blue and orange and purplish black and even one or two yellow ones—a much coveted secret Quackity refuses to share with anyone—making patterns in the room. Tables and chairs and countertops and stools are strewn about, there’s people at at least half of them, and they’re all talking, the noise overlapping into a pleasant hubbub of life. You don’t get anything like this in caster oases.

“Technoblade!” someone shouts over the buzz, and Techno looks around. A man is waving him down from the counter near the front, grinning widely. “Weren’t you here like, seven lights ago or void?”

The guy has a dark blue cloak over one shoulder, and his black shirt makes him blend into the shadows rather easily. The glint in his eye, though, does not.

Technoblade weaves through the room, making sure Phil’s behind him at every step. He doesn’t want to lose the kid this quickly.

“Sneegsnag, always a pleasure,” he says, leaning against the counter. Phil presses close to his side, and he can feel a hand grabbing at his shirt. He says nothing.

“Who’s kid is that?” Sneeg says, ever so sensitive, and downs his drink.

“Sneeg,” Techno warns, raising an eyebrow.

It takes Sneeg a moment, but he puts two and two together.

“No…” he says, craning his neck and slamming his glass down. “Techno! I never took you for a ladies man, if you get my gist.”

Techno draws up a quick sparking symbol, adding a few marks to make it… interesting , and flicks it at Sneeg’s face. It collides, and starts popping rapidly, bright and blue and Sneeg sputters, waving his hands around to try and get rid of it. Techno chuckles, and even Phil just about smiles.

“Aw, c’mon man,” Sneeg says once he’s rid himself of the spell. “I’m teasing.”

“‘S Not very funny,” Techno says, pulling over a stool to sit on and beckoning Phil to do the same. They might be here a while.

“Still, never thought the Blade would be travelling with a kid. Where’d you find him?” Sneeg asks.

“Not my story to tell,” Technoblade says, shifting his stool so Phil can sit close to him. There’s a lot of people around.

“Killjoy,” Sneeg comments, pouting. Still, Technoblade is not going to be freely telling people about just why Phil’s travelling with him, Phil probably doesn’t want that information shared. It’s… pretty personal, and even so, most of the things Technoblade’s telling himself are actually just guesses. Informed ones, yes, but still guesses.

“Hey, kid,” Sneeg says, turning to Phil. “What’s your name?”

Phil doesn’t say anything for a long grain, but eventually he speaks up.

“Phil,” he says quietly. Nothing more, nothing less, and he shrinks back.

“Nice to meet you, Phil,” Sneeg says, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “Why’re you travelling with Mr. Self-Enforced Exile over here, huh? Why’d he let you come along?”

“Don’t push it, Sneeg,” Technoblade warns, and Sneeg leans back.

“I’m just asking! No harm in that!” he says, hands up in front of him innocently. 

“Sure,” Technoblade says, and his disbelief is very evident in his voice.”You seen Quackity around? We need a room.”

“Big Q?” Sneeg says, shrugging. “Yeah, he was here a shift ago, ran off like two grains before you guys came in. Pity, I could do with a refill.” Sneeg waves his empty glass around above the countertop. 

“Busy light?” Technoblade asks.

“Busy moon,” Sneeg replies, sighing. “I told you last time, absolute void of a time trying to track down the right caster to enchant my trident.”

“Sophie can’t do it?”

“Sophie can’t do it,” Sneeg confirms, lying across the countertop dejectedly.

“What’s a trident?” Phil asks in a hushed tone, tapping Techno on the arm.

“‘S like a giant fork,” Sneeg says before Techno can answer. “Good for throwing and stabbing. I can’t do magic like literally everyone else can, you dung-eaters got it lucky. Need some sort of weapon to defend myself, picked the trident up from a weird traveller a few moons ago.”

“You can’t do magic?” Phil asks tentatively, and Technoblade has to suppress a sigh. He knows why Phil’s asking, but he’s not going to like the answer.

“Nah, none of my family can. Never could, either. We’re just voiddamned normal,” Sneeg says with a shrug.

“Oh,” is all Phil responds with.

“Anyways yeah, can’t find a spiritsdamned enchanter anywhere. Sophie’s given some tips but suns is it so much hassle.”

“Copper casters are just like that,” Technoblade says. There’s not much he can do, really. The type of enchantment Sneeg wants sounds highly specialised—especially considering he’s having to hunt for a copper caster to do it, meaning no one in the Mesa can.

“Wish they weren’t, though, would make things so much easier.”

“Hey, at least yer not lookin’ for an ochre caster,” Technoblade says, nudging Sneeg’s side.

“Suns, yeah,” Sneeg says, chuckling. “Can’t believe you did that, madman. Can’t believe you were successful too.”

“What did you do?” Phil asks, curious.

“Went to get a voiddamned ochre caster to bind h-”

“Drop it,” Technoblade interrupts. “Sneeg, not now. I needed somethin’ from an ochre caster, kid, that’s all. ‘S not important.” Some topics… won’t do any good to bring up right now. Or ever, really.

“Are you sure about that?”

No, Techno’s not sure about that, and Chat knows all too well. He’s sure that he doesn’t want particular topics coming up, but he’s also sure that some things just can’t be hidden forever. He’s still going to try, though, because damn him to the void he’s not known for his stubbornness for nothing.

“Techno?” Sneeg asks, eyebrows raised. “You haven’t-”

“No, Sneeg. I haven’t. Drop it.”

Again, Sneeg puts his hands in front of him, this time leaning back and avoiding Techno’s gaze.

“I mean, I dunno, personal opinion here, but I just thought it was, y’know, the type of thing you should, like, probably te-”

“I said drop it, Sneeg!” Technoblade says, trying not to yell. He doesn’t want to draw unwanted attention to what’s happening.

“Eyyyy, gentlemen, gentlemen,” a smooth voice says, and a figure slides between Sneeg and Techno on the other side of the bar. “No fighting in Las Nevadas without telling me! I gotta organise bets! This place don’t run itself!”

Technoblade doesn’t even need to look over to see who it is. It’s Quackity, perfectly timed as well, because Techno really, really needed Sneeg to drop his subject.

“Oh, Technoblade! You’re back early. Something happen?” This time, Technoblade does look over, since he’s being directly addressed. And also because he needs an out of his current conversation.

Quackity looks just about the same as last time Techno saw him, which considering how little time has passed, is apt. Same slightly sandy white shirt, same mostly undone tie, same scruffy black hair, same scarred face and same void black eye.

And the same mottled brown wings of a golden eagle stealing most of the light and casting the little group in relative shadow.

“Of a sorts,” Techno replies, shrugging. He glances over at Phil, because Quackity is another new person, and he’s- void. Techno should probably have warned Phil about this.

Phil is cowering. There’s no other apt way to put it. He’s tucking himself behind Techno, he’s pulling the hood of the cloak over his head, and he’s shaking. Techno thinks he might be trying to stop himself from crying.

“Kid, hey,” Techno says, ignoring Quackity for a moment. “Phil, look at me.”

Techno slides off the stool, and crouches down—wincing only a little as he bumps his injured shoulder on a stool—letting Phil curl in on himself as he so clearly wants to do.

“Phil, it’s okay,” he assures, hands hovering awkwardly in front of him because he’s still not sure what to do in this sort of situation. “Quackity’s fine, okay? He’s not gonna hurt you. If he does, I’ll give him another scar.”

“But-” Phil manages to get out, and oh spirits, his voice is shaking like a palm in a high wind. He’s from a highly ranked caster family, of course he’s terrified. “But he’s- he’s-”

“He’s got the carrion curse, yeah?” Techno asks, trying to confirm that that’s why Phil’s so scared. “It’s okay. I know what they all say about the curse, trust me. I… I was like you, once. They all say it’s bad, makes you want t’ kill people, yeah? Makes you evil, an’ all that. People where I was from said it was contagious too, that you’d get it just from bein’ near someone cursed.”

Phil sniffles, and nods, and he’s holding the cloak a little looser now. Good.

“It’s not like that. I promise. It’s not contagious, an’ Quackity doesn’t want t’ kill anyone.” That’s a bit of an oversimplification, but now’s not the time to delve into the specifics. “You’ll be okay.”

Phil nods again, and Techno nods with him. He reaches out for a moment, and decides to put his hand on Phil’s shoulder and squeeze a little bit. That feels like it’s the right thing to do, he thinks. He hopes.

“Hey, Quackity?” Techno asks once he’s actually level with the man again. Well, as level as they can be, given Techno is rather tall and Quackity is rather… not. “Can you put them away? Yer scarin’ the kid.”

Quackity rolls his eyes—or the one that actually has a discernable iris and pupil—and groans. “C’mon, Techno, you know Schlatt gets pissy when I do that!”

Techno just gives him a look. It’s similar to the ones he gave Sneeg, who’s had his drink refilled and watches with barely concealed intrigue.

“Please, Quackity. He’s not used to… this,” Techno asks again, and thankfully, Quackity obliges. His wings dissolve almost instantly, transforming into thin black ribbons that recede into his back, and from the front, he looks like a mostly normal person now.

Phil peeks his head up, before slowly sliding back onto his stool. He’s still very close to Techno, and he’s still trying to hide himself away, keeping the cloak firmly around himself. It’s… an improvement. Even if it’s just a small one.

“Hey kid! Sorry ‘bout the wings, you must be Phil?” Quackity says, and Phil nods. He doesn’t move, though.

“Welcome to the Mesa!” Quackity says, throwing his arms wide. “And more importantly, welcome to Las Nevadas! Only the best place to stay if you’re passing through! Glad to have you, Phil. Schlatt says hi as well.”

Again, Phil just nods.

“Now, a little… custom we have here at Las Nevadas,” Quackity says, now leaning forwards, grinning. He flicks his hand, and a card appears between his fingers. Not magic, just very good sleight of hand.

Technoblade sighs. “Really, Quackity? Now?”

“You bet,” Quackity replies, pulling a whole deck out of seemingly nowhere and shuffling them as he speaks. To his credit, Phil does lean forwards to watch.

“Now, Phil,” Quackity says, and Technoblade can only sit back and watch with Sneeg. “I don’t let just anyone stay at Las Nevadas. No, I want to know who you are, first. Not just where you come from and what you can do, who you really are.”

With a sweep of an arm, Quackity lays the cards out across the countertop in a neat arc. The backs are well worn after so many suns of use, the patterns rubbed off in places, but the red and yellow designs still show through for the most part.

“Pick a card, Phil. Whichever one speaks to you.”

“Kid, you-” Technoblade leans forwards, but he’s pushed back by an arm. He hisses as Quackity accidentally presses against his wounds.

“Shhhh,” Quackity shushes him, paying him no attention and moving back to his cards.

Phil leans over, looking at the array in front of him. He certainly takes his time, his hand hovering over multiple cards before he finally decides on one, and slides it out.

“This one,” he says, and Quackity’s grin brightens as he scoops the rest of the deck up in his hands, and shuffles again. 

“Perfect, perfect, keep that card safe,” he says, flicking the pack card by card from one hand to another, before halving it and passing the halves over each other with just his fingers. It’s still not magic, but it’s very mesmerising, Techno has to admit. He’d got the same treatment the first time he’d shown up to Las Nevadas, although he may not have spent quite as much time admiring the cards as he had starting a rather large fight.

At least Quackity’s face had healed, even if his eye wasn’t salvageable.

Quackity finally stops shuffling the cards, and deals two face down. One from the top, and one from the bottom.

“Now, let’s see what card you’ve got,” he says, setting the pack aside. “Turn it over.”

Phil does, and Quackity sucks in a breath.

The card is intricately patterned, hand drawn and hand inked with meticulous care. Again, it’s a little faded and the corners are a little crumpled, but it’s still recognisable.

“Seven of wings, the carrion crow,” Quackity says, and Phil shrinks back in on himself. Carrion birds have never had good connotations, especially talking to someone cursed with the likeness of such.

“My dear friend Phil,” Quackity says, flipping the seven of wings between his fingers and handing it to Phil again. “This is who you are now. An omen, or perhaps a warning. A secret. Interpret that as you will. No, Schaltt, I was meaning Phil should interpret it, not you.”

Technoblade scoffs.

“And this is who you were.” Quackity flips over the first card of his own, the one from the bottom of the pack. 

“One of wings, the turtledove. Interesting. The wings sure do favour you,” Quackity says, and it’s clearly meant to be a joke, but Phil’s knuckles are white around his card. 

“Perhaps this sounds familiar,” Quackity continues. “You were caged, in a way. Unable to exist to your full potential. Undervalued, under utilised. But! That might change, no? Because this is who you will be.” 

Quackity turns over the last card with a flourish, and pushes it towards Phil.

“The one of torches!” he announces, grinning. “You’re going to carve your own path, to make a name for yourself and become great! Doesn’t that sound awesome?” he asks, probably expecting Phil to be excited.

Phil is not excited, he’s still gripping the seven of wings.

“Aw, c’mon, Phil! Show a little cheer!”

Phil does not show a little cheer.

“Hey, kid,” Techno says, giving him a nudge. ‘S okay, they’re just cards.”

“Well, thank you anyway for letting me see who you are, Phil,” Quackity says, gathering up the cards. When he picks up the one of torches, though, another card flutters to the countertop. Techno raises an eyebrow, and Quackity winces.

“Yer form’s off,” Techno remarks, smirking.

“Shut up!” Quackity retaliates, glaring at him. “The card must’ve been sticky, not my fault it stuck to the back of the other one!”

Phil peers at the fallen card curiously, frowning. “What’s this one?” he asks.

“Oh, that’s the life of bones,” Quackity says, picking it up and shuffling it back into the pack. “Literally, it means death, or like, what happens after death. Pretty dark card, doesn’t usually come up, but when it does it just means loss, not like, actually dying. We didn’t draw it for you, though, so don’t worry about it!”

Chapter Text

Quackity had wings.

Quackity had wings.

He had wings and they were carrion wings and he just- no one cared! No one except Phil cared, not Quackity or Technoblade or Sneeg or anyone else in Las Nevadas cared. He’s carrion cursed! That’s not a good thing, Phil knows that!

It’s bad. It’s so bad. It’s an omen of death and it makes you evil and- and- and there’s no cure there’s no way to get rid of it and it only gets stronger the longer you have it and there’s no way to stop it there’s no way to pause it until your body isn’t your own and the void claims you entirely.

Phil’s breathing speeds up again, he hugs his knees to his chest and pulls his cloak around himself as tight as he can. He’s in a room now, a little one high up in the building and Technoblade left for a moment to go and get something from Carl and Phil’s left all alone with his thoughts again and his thoughts are bad, they’re full of wings and crows and bad omens and evil voices and arcane magiks and-

“Breathe, it’s okay.”

Phil doesn’t listen to the voice. He cries out, a strange little wordless warble into the empty room and he pushes himself as far back against the wall as he can but he can’t escape, he can’t leave, there’s nowhere to go there’s nowhere to run because the voice is always with him, the voice is always part of him the voice is him the wings are him the curse is him it’s all him he’s wrong he’s broken he’s evil he’s scared he’s-

The door opens and Phil whimpers again, and he can’t tell who it is he can’t focus on anything right now it might be Quackity with his wings why were they so big why were they so ignored why was everyone so okay that wasn’t okay! It’s called the carrion curse for a reason!

Suddenly there’s a hand on his cheek and Phil tries to pull away but he’s pressed into a corner and there’s nowhere to go and the grip isn’t tight right now but it will be he knows it will be it always is the grip tightens and then someone yells at him and then sometimes they hit him or push a spell onto him because he’s wrong and he’s broken and he’s cursed and he shouldn’t be cursed and he shouldn’t be alive if he’s cursed and-

“Phil!” a voice yells and Phil feels like he’s underwater because he can’t hear properly through the rushing and ringing in his ears and the frantic drumming of his heart and the way his lungs are heaving for breath like he’s just run through the desert again but he hasn’t.

“Phil, it’s okay, yer okay,” the voice says again and the grip hasn’t tightened it’s still just… there, and it tilts Phil’s head up a little bit until his eyes meet a warm brown pair all crinkled at the edges and all worried.

It’s Technoblade. 

He’s worried.

About Phil.

“It’s just me, yeah?” Technoblade says and he lets go of Phil’s face but he doesn’t take his gaze away and it’s still just as worried and Phil still can’t hear properly and he’s still gulping for air and his eyes sting and his cheeks feel wet and he didn’t notice that before.

“Okay, kid, you- suns, breathe.”

Phil cries out again, because that’s what the voice said, and the voice isn’t good it’s bad and it’s quiet right now but Phil knows it’s there and it’ll never go away why won’t it go away please he just wants it to go away!

“Curses, okay, uh- Phil?” Technoblade says, and he looks away from a moment until Phil whines and he looks back. “Can you see my hand?” 

He holds up a hand and Phil nods.

“Great. Right, Phil jus’ listen to me, okay? I need you t’ breathe in nice an’ deep for four grains, alright? An’ then hold for four, an’ out for four, an’ hold for four, an’ do it all over again. D’you think you can do that for me?”

Phil doesn’t really know how to give him an answer. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know!

“Alright. Let’s just go for it. In,” Technoblade prompts, and he breathes in while he puts up four fingers. Phil tries to follow, but he stutters halfway through.

“Hey, ‘s okay, we’ll try as many times as you need,” Technoblade assures immediately, before putting all his fingers down and starting again.

It takes three more tries for Phil to be able to breathe like Technoblade wants him to, and even then, Technoblade makes him do it several more times.

“There we go,” he murmurs eventually, putting his hand down and sighing, shaking his head a little bit. “Shouldn’t’a bought you here so soon,” he mutters, and Phil’s not sure if he was supposed to hear that.

He doesn’t have a reply, though, but his thoughts have stopped racing and he can hear again now.

“Can I sit with you?” Technoblade asks, looking up from the floor. 

The question catches Phil completely off guard. He’s not expecting Technoblade to- to care this much. Not only did he try and help him when he was getting all riled up and teary and annoying, he’s staying with him now, he’s not leaving Phil alone to clean up and stop snivelling and put himself back together and try to be good and right again, and he- he’s asking if he’s allowed to be close.

Phil gives the tiniest nod, and Technoblade kicks his boots off and sits beside him with his legs crossed. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Can I touch you, or is that gonna make you feel bad again?” he asks, and again, Phil’s not expecting that. Why is he doing this? Why is he going to such efforts to be around Phil when he knows he’s not being good?

Still, Phil nods.

Slowly, Technoblade starts rubbing his back through the cloak. His hand is warm and solid and Phil leans into it, before deciding to test just how far he can push this kindness and leans against Technoblade’s side, careful of his bad shoulder.

Technoblade doesn’t say anything. And he keeps rubbing his back. And Phil sniffles.

“That was a bad one, yeah?” Technoblade says quietly, looking down at him. 

Phil nods, and sniffles again, trying to scrub at his eyes with a fist.

“Too many people?” Technoblade asks, and Phil shakes his head. That wasn’t the problem, even if all the people did look kind of weird and different.

“Too much noise? Or was Sneeg givin’ you trouble?” Technoblade asks, and again Phil shakes his head. None of those.

“Void, no, ‘course not. Quackity, yeah?”

Phil nods, and curls closer. Technoblade’s hand stops rubbing his back, and his arm settles across his shoulders to hold him. Sort of. It’s like a hug but not quite.

“He had wings,” Phil whispers, voice hoarse. “He’s got the curse.”

“Yeah, he does,” Techno says, sighing again. “Is that why you panicked? ‘Cause of Quackity’s wings?”

Phil nods, but it’s not all of why he panicked. Quackity had wings, and then he gave Phil a card with carrion crows on it and told him that’s who he was. Surely that meant he knew. Surely that meant something was wrong. Surely that meant Phil was wrong because he knows he’s wrong he knows he knows he knowsheknows he’s wrong he’s so very wrong he’s wrong he’s always been wrong that’s why he’s cursed he’s cursedhe’scursedhe-

“Woah, kid, it’s okay,” Technoblade says, snapping Phil out of his thoughts. His arm is tighter around him, and he reaches under Phil’s legs and lifts him, just a little bit, before he puts him down again.

It takes Phil a moment to realise where Technoblade has put him, until he hears the steady thump of his heart where he leans his head against Technoblade’s chest. It’s a proper hug this time, Technoblade wraps his arms around Phil and holds him tight and warm and solid.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, and Phil manages not to cry like before.

“Quackity said I was like crows,” Phil manages to say, and it’s not the whole truth, because Technoblade can’t know the whole truth. Then he’ll know Phil’s all wrong and Phil’s cursed and Phil’s bad.

“Quackity was talkin’ camel dung,” Technoblade says. “They’re just playin’ cards Phil, they don’t actually mean anythin’, I promise. He told me once that I’d have a kid in the future, an’ I’m not the most… knowledgeable guy when it comes to anatomy an’ stuff, but I’m pretty sure that’s not possible.”

Phil manages to almost smile at Technoblade’s words, because he’s right, it’s not possible. 

“An’ even if they did mean anythin’,” Techbolade continues, and Phil starts to relax in his arms. He can hear the way Technoblade’s voice vibrates in his chest, he can hear his heart too, and it’s calming. No one’s ever stayed with Phil after he’s got all riled up like this, let alone held him.

“Even if they did mean anythin’, they’re not literal. Like that one Quackity showed you at the end, the life of bones. If you pick it, it doesn’t mean yer actually gonna die, it just means yer gonna lose somethin’. The crows don’t mean yer actually a crow, or a bad omen or anythin’, they just… it’s just an idea. Yer a little mystery, that’s all.”

Phil nods, and that- that makes more sense. The cards weren’t magic, and magic can’t do mind reading like that. At least, not that Phil knows. It’s not literal, it’s just… a game. It’s a game of cards and Phil just didn’t know the rules. Now Technoblade has explained them, he does know the rules, and it makes more sense and it’s less scary and confusing.

Technoblade holds Phil for a long while, he doesn’t say anything much at all but he also doesn’t tell Phil to get off or to go away or anything like that. He holds him close and at one point he starts running his hand over Phil’s hair and he reties the ribbon to make sure it doesn’t fall out.

“You feelin’ better now, kid?” Technoblade asks, looking down at him. Phil expected him to be annoyed by now, or tired of looking after him, or any other of a million different things he’s so used to, but he’s… not. He’s kind. Still.

“Yeah,” Phil says, nodding. He curls up tighter, though, because he doesn’t want Technoblade to let go. He likes it here, pressed close against him and protected from the rest of the world. He feels safe here, he feels warm here, he feels cared for here. He almost, almost feels loved here. It’s such a foreign feeling that he’s not entirely sure if it’s actually there or not, or if he can even remember what it feels like, or if he’s making it up entirely.

“That’s good,” Technoblade says, and he doesn’t let go. “Panic attacks are never fun, but you listened to me really well. You did good, kid,” Technoblade continues.

He did good? Phil did good? 

“Are you sure?” Phil asks, because that’s such a ludicrous statement that he struggles to believe it at all. He doesn’t do good, no matter how hard he tries.

“Yeah, wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t,” Technoblade says, and he doesn't sound like he’s lying, or teasing Phil, or anything like that. “You did really good, followin’ my breathin’, an’ calmin’ yerself down. I know it’s really hard sometimes, an’ I’m- I’m proud of you.”

There’s something strange in Phil’s chest. He looks down to check there’s not another unfamiliar spell anchored there, and there isn’t. But his chest is all tight and it feels like it’s burning, it’s making his head all funny too and he feels like he should know what this feeling is, but he doesn’t, he’s forgotten, and he’s left confused and silent and trying to work this all out until someone knocks on the door.

“Who is it?” Technoblade calls, and it’s a good distraction from Phil’s chest.

“Quackity,” comes the response, and Phil tenses a little bit.

Technoblade squeezes him gently, though, looks down to make sure he’s okay, too.

“Can it wait?” he calls back to the door, sounding annoyed. Not at Phil, though.

“No, it’s- it’s actually really urgent, man, we need to talk to you like, right now.”

Quackity sounds different to how he did earlier. He sounds less like a performer and more like a normal person. He doesn’t sound as scary, actually, and Phil can’t see him or his wings so it’s- it’s okay. He’s okay. 

Technoblade sighs and curses quietly. “Alright, kid,” he says to Phil, and sits up a bit straighter. “I need to talk to Quackity, I won’t be long. Yell if you need me, yeah? I know he said it’s urgent, but yer more important than he is.”

“I can hear you!” Quackity yells.

“Do I sound like I care?” Technoblade calls back, and then he lifts Phil again, and puts him down on the bed they’re sitting on.

When he leaves, he turns around to give Phil a smile before closing the door. And Phil’s alone again, but this time he’s not quite so scared. Technoblade explained things to him, and he can hear him just on the other side of the door. He’s right there if Phil needs him.

He can hear that Technoblade and Quackity are talking, but he can’t quite make out what they’re saying. It’s just murmurs on this side of the door, so carefully, Phil creeps closer, until he’s got his ear pressed against the wood. He’s very good at being quiet.

“-you sure? You’ve seen them?” he hears Technoblade say.

“Well, not me , but… others have. Everyone was talking about it earlier, a bunch of people came in for drinks, you know, word spreads.”

“An’ what were they sayin’ exactly?”

“Techno I already told you what-”

“What were they sayin’, Quackity. If it really is a coven then we need t’ be prepared.” Technoblade sounds serious. Really serious. Like the first dark when he caught Phil trying to steal from him.

“They were saying there’s a bunch of clear casters nearby, not actually hanging around the fringes, but pretty voiddamned close. Proper casters, not ones like us. They all had packs, apparently, and hoods up to obscure their faces.”

“Curses.” Technoblade really doesn’t sound happy. “Why would a coven be hangin’ around?”

“I dunno man, your guess is as good as mine. Maybe someone got themself a bounty or something? Still, we- you’re the best caster in the Mesa, Techno, void, you’re the best clear caster anywhere, we need your help.”

Quackity also sounds serious, and also not very happy. Phil doesn’t quite know what’s going on, but it doesn’t sound good, he doesn’t think.

“Quackity,” Technoblade says, and Phil can imagine him right now, he’s probably closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I have t’ look after Phil. I can’t just leave him, he’s- he’s my responsibility right now, an’ he’s just had a spiritsdamned panic attack ‘cause of this place. I can’t leave him.”

“Please, Techno, we won’t be able to do this without you.”

There’s silence for a long time. Phil starts to get worried that Technoblade is going to come back into the room and catch him eavesdropping. But that doesn’t happen.

“The coven hasn’t made a move yet, right?” Technoblade asks finally.

“No, not yet.”

“An’ we don’t know if they’re even gonna come here, right?”

“...No we don’t.”

“So if, if, they come here, and make a move, then I’ll help. Send up a flare, an’ I’ll drop whatever I’m doin’. But only then. I got a kid to look after, Quackity, an’ I’m sure as the void not gonna mess this up. He’s been through enough already.”

It sounds like the conversation is over, or at least the interesting parts are, so Phil goes back to his spot on the bed, and tries to pretend he was there the whole time.

He doesn’t know exactly what Technoblade and Quackity were talking about, but he knows it’s serious, and he knows it’s bad. 

Hopefully, though, whatever it is won’t happen.

Chapter Text

The first thing Phil notices when he wakes up is that the bed he’s in is really comfortable, even if the blanket is kind of scratchy and the mattress is lumpy.

The second thing he notices when he wakes up is that he’s alone in the room, even though Technoblade’s bed looks clearly slept in.

The third thing he notices comes when he sits bolt upright, and it’s that his back hurts. He cries out in pain before he can stifle himself, and flops back down on the bed, lying on his front.

His back aches, dull and throbbing and persistent, and he’s felt this before, but not this bad. Or maybe this bad, but there were usually other things going on that distracted his mind from the pain.

It hurts, and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know how to make it stop, either.

By the time Technoblade returns, Phil is curled up, hugging the cushion his head was supposed to be on, the blanket tangled around his bare feet. He tries to neaten himself up when he hears the door, to kick the blanket away and let go of the pillow and sit up properly because he shouldn’t be in bed still, but Technoblade just puts the blanket back over him.

“Mornin’, kid,” he says, sitting on the edge of his own bed. Phil didn’t notice before, but he brought food with him. Different food to what Technoblade usually provides, and that’s enough to entice Phil to look a little closer.

It’s some sort of broth, with vegetables and possibly meat floating in it, and it doesn’t look very fancy, but it smells great. There’s two bowls, two spoons, and Phil looks up at Technoblade to confirm that he can have some.

Technoblade nods, and Phil pulls himself up to sit properly, and eats as fast as his body will allow him to.

He doesn’t mind the nuts and fruits and dried meats and all the rest of the food that Technoblade has, but- but this is better. The bowl is empty in a matter of shifts, and Technoblade is laughing a little bit.

“Suns, kid, you coulda said you were hungry, I woulda got you more,” he says as Phil sets down his bowl.

“It’s okay,” Phil says, shrugging. The broth helped take his mind off his back for a few moments, but the ache is back now. “I don’t need more.”

“Phil…” Technoblade sighs. “Yer allowed to want things.”

That doesn’t seem right. Phil is living with Technoblade now, and he knows Technoblade isn’t rich and doesn’t have a lot of things, and Phil’s just a child who’s wrong, he shouldn’t be taking any more than he absolutely has to. He’s taken so much already—Technoblade’s water, his food, his cloak even—he shouldn’t be asking for more. He doesn’t need more, it’s okay. He’s okay. He really is, this is already so much better than anything ever was before.

“It’s okay,” Phil says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “I’m not hungry anymore.” He’s not! It’s the truth, his stomach isn’t clawing at itself like it does when he’s hungry. He’s been given more food than he gets in a light sometimes, and he knows Technoblade will give him more later. He doesn’t need more now.

“If you say so,” Technoblade says, and goes back to eating his own broth.

Phil sits in silence until Technoblade finishes, fiddling with the corner of the blanket. His back still hurts, but he can keep that a secret. If he tells Technoblade he’ll want to look, and then he’ll see his wings. He can’t let him see his wings.

Technoblade won’t like him if he knows he has wings. Right? That’s how it’s supposed to work. He won’t like him, and then he’ll leave him, and Phil will be alone again. And even if he says he will like him, Phil knows how the curse works. One light, he won’t be him anymore, and then Technoblade will leave him all alone because he’ll be bad and evil and trying to hurt people and no one will want to be near him and he’ll be alone except for-

“Phil, you there kid?” Technoblade says, crouched down. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

Ashamed, Phil shakes his head. He didn’t even realise Technoblade was talking.

“That’s okay, I can say it again,” Technoblade says. “We got a few things to do now we’re here, an’ I think it’s gonna be best if you come with me. D’you feel like yer up to that?”

Phil blinks up at him. “Will Quackity be there?”

“Nah. Well, we might walk past him on the way out, but he’s not gonna be there. I need t’ go to my friend Sophie, she’s the one who’s gonna fix Carl’s bags for us. She’s real nice, you’ll like her. Then we gotta stop off at the apothecary t’ get somethin’ for my shoulder. We’ll get you more clothes too, how’s that sound?”

Phil considers this. The Mesa is a strange place full of strange people, and Phil’s not sure if he likes that or not. Sneeg was okay, even if he was loud and said a lot of things Technoblade didn’t like. Quackity was bad, though, Phil didn’t like him or his wings. Will there be more people with wings? He hopes not.

“You can stay here if you want, kid, I jus’ thought it might be a bit borin’,” Technoblade says, shrugging.

He makes a good point, Phil’s not sure what he’d do all light if he did stay here. And… part of him is a little bit curious to see what else the Mesa has to offer. 

“I’ll come,” Phil says, and Technoblade smiles.

The winds have calmed down now, so Phil doesn’t need Technoblade’s cloak anymore. He’s fine in just his old clothes, even though they must be really dirty by now, and he doesn’t have any shoes. He doesn’t mention it, though, because it’s okay, he doesn’t need shoes right now. The wooden boards of the floor in Las Nevadas are smooth under his feet, and the sand is hot but not too hot.

Technoblade’s right, they do pass Quackity when they leave. He has his wings out again, and Phil flinches away, closer to Technoblade. He knows Technoblade said Quackity is fine, but that doesn’t mean Phil believes him. Not entirely, at least. 

Once they’re outside, though, Phil forgets all about Quackity. Things are busy now, like they were last light when they arrived. There’s people everywhere, or at least, that’s what it feels like. Phil hasn’t spent much time out in the streets in the past few suns, and even so, the roads around his old house were always very empty.

Horses pull wagons of things, some with riders and some without, people are carrying jars and bundles and one even has a baby, and they don’t all stare at Phil like he’s something gross or something terrifying like he’s used to. They just look at him and wave, and sometimes they try to talk to Technoblade. Some seem a bit worried when they do, but Technoblade just pushes past them and leads Phil down a maze of streets. He’s carrying all sorts of things too, all bundled up in his arms, and a small bag over his shoulder that Phil hasn’t seen before.

Las Nevadas is soon hidden by all the other buildings, and Phil can’t help but notice they seem to have left the part of the Mesa behind where people stay, and now the buildings look more like shops.

Some have canopies out the front, with various things strung up. Dried plants, dried meats, trinkets and utensils and other shiny things. One just has rolls upon rolls of ribbons of all sorts of colours and sizes, and Phil dithers a little to look. He’s never seen so many colours in one place at the same time before.

His eyes land on a roll of green ribbon, with strands of gold making a dashed pattern at the edges, and it all sparkles beautifully in the sun.

“That’s a nice one isn’t it?” someone unfamiliar says, and Phil jumps, letting go of the end of the ribbon. 

“Phil?” a more familiar voice says, and Technoblade comes up beside him. “There you are, thought I’d lost you for a grain there. What’re you lookin’ at?”

Tentatively, Phil edges closer to the ribbon again, picking up the end and letting it run through his fingers. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need the ribbon, he doesn’t need any ribbon, let alone one so nice! He shouldn’t be looking at it, because they’re not here for ribbons, they’re only supposed to be passing by so they can see someone called Sophie to get Technoblade’s bags fixed. 

But then Phil hears the familiar clink of coins, and the shopkeeper smiles, and cuts off a measured length of ribbon with a pair of scissors that seem far too large for what they’re doing.

“Here you go, kiddo,” the shopkeep says, handing the ribbon over. “Extra long, just for you.” They wink, and Phil just looks at the ribbon in their hand. It takes him several grains to realise they’re serious, and even still, Phil expects them to snatch the ribbon away once he reaches for it.

They don’t. Phil’s fingers close around it, and he stares at it as Technoblade leads him away.

He’s still staring at the ribbon when they stop again, and he’s so engrossed in it that he runs square into the back of Technoblade with an 'oof'.

They’ve stopped outside of another shop, but this one doesn’t have a canopy outside. Instead, its face is entirely covered in all sorts of painted patterns, shimmering orange in the sunlight against a much darker background. They look kind of like the symbols Phil’s supposed to be able to draw correctly, but not quite. He doesn’t recognise any of them, and they’re not painted on in a circular pattern.

He doesn’t get much time to study them, though, because Technoblade is pushing the door open and walking inside, and Phil should probably follow him.

Inside, the shop is- it’s like nothing Phil’s ever seen before. He gets the feeling most of the Mesa will be like that. The same coppery runes are painted on almost every piece of furniture, and there are all sorts of things hanging from hooks and lying on tables, and they too have the runes on them.

Phil wanders over to one of the tables, seeing something he does actually recognise. It’s a bag like one of the ones hanging off Carl, except it looks to be in far better condition. The leather isn’t all worn and scratched, but it’s not soft, either. It has more runes around the edges, stitched in copper coloured thread. They’re familiar to Phil, not because he knows what they do or say, but because they’re the same as what he’s seen before, even if not this close up.

“Sophie?” Technoblade calls from somewhere else in the room, and even though it’s not directed at him, Phil drops the bag he was looking at and spins around, worried he’s doing something wrong.

Technoblade isn’t even looking at him, though, leaning over a countertop with a pile of leather on it, looking into the back of the store.

“Techno?” a feminine voice calls back, before what Phil thought was just a wall starts to ripple, fading away into coppery sparks. A figure emerges from the space now revealed, and it’s the person who spoke just moments ago.

She’s got bright red hair, and a lot of it. It almost matches all the runes in her shop, and it’s held back with a strip of fabric that also looks like it keeps it out of her eyes. It should probably be tied back properly, like Phil’s is, except- except they’re in the Mesa now, and Phil’s not sure if there is a ‘properly’ anymore.

“Oh my suns, Techno! What are you doing back?” the woman says, stuffing something into the pocket of the apron she’s wearing over her billowing shirt, before leaning over the counter and giving Technoblade a hug. Phil can see him wince, but Technoblade doesn’t say anything.

“Good t’ see you too, Sophie,” Technoblade says, as Sophie picks through the things that Phil now recognises are Carl’s actual saddlebags. He wasn’t paying enough attention before, clearly, and he hopes Technoblade didn’t notice. “Few things brought me back. Food, water, the likes. Also,” he turns, and his eyes land on Phil.

With a tilt of his head, Technoblade beckons him closer to the counter, and Sophie lifts her head and her hands from what she’s doing.

“Phil, this is Sophie. She’s an old friend. Sophie, this is Phil, I’m lookin’ after him for the while,” Technoblade introduces.

“Hi Phil!” Sophie says, coming around the counter in front of him. She sounds- she sounds a lot kinder than Sneeg did when he said his name. “Like Techno said, I’m Sophie. Me ‘n him go way back, ever since I got here, really. I’m a copper caster, I do enchantments, mostly. Just little things, but the folks here appreciate it. My oasis didn’t really like that I was helping other casters, so I came here so they’d stop getting bothered by it.”

“Hi,” Phil says in response, and compared to Sophie’s introduction, it’s… lacking. But he’s not really sure what else to say. “I’m Phil. Technoblade… found me in the desert.” Half true, so not entirely a lie. “I’m a clear caster, but… but I’m not very good.”

Sophie chuckles a little, and flicks her hair from her face with a toss of her head. “Well, I’m sure Techno can help with that. He’s a voiddamned good caster, he could teach you,” she suggests.

Phil considers that. He knew Technoblade was good at casting—he saw it when the tracking spell happened, and Quackity called him the ‘the best clear caster anywhere’—but he hadn’t considered that Technoblade could help him get better at casting.

“Sophie, you know I suck at teachin’ people” Technoblade complains, but he’s still smiling, which makes Phil a little confused. He sounds annoyed, but he doesn’t look it.

“That sounds like a skill issue to me,” Sophie retaliates, and they both laugh. “Now, something happened with Carl, I assume?” she says, back to business. Phil lets his eyes wander around the store again, but he pays attention to the conversation.

“I think a thread snapped or somethin’, charm gave out while- while we were ridin’. Tried to pack it as light as possible, but I’d prefer it fixed,” Technoblade says. Phil can’t help but note the way he doesn’t mention where they were riding when whatever charm ‘gave out’.

There’s silence, bar the rustle of well worn leather, and Phil looks back. Sophie’s peering close at the runes, tracing them with a finger and muttering.

“If you’re all good to leave these here for a light, I can take a closer look and fix them up for you. If a thread has snapped, I’ll need to redo the whole line it’s in, so it might take a bit.”

“That’s fine, we’re not in any rush,” Technoblade says, shrugging. “How much?”

“Whatever you can spare,” Sophie says, pulling the saddlebags off the table and transferring them to another one through the doorway she came through.

Technoblade hands her a small pile of coins when she reappears, but she counts them and hands almost half of them back with a grin, putting the rest in her apron pocket.

“Bruh,” Technoblade drawls, looking at the remaining coins. “I’m jus’ tryin’ to pay you for yer services.”

“Friend discount,” Sophie says, cocking her head and grinning wider. “Buy Phil something nice, if you really can’t live with the extra coins.”

“I already did!” Technoblade calls as she retreats once more.

“Buy him another thing!” Sophie yells back, and Technoblade laughs and shakes his head.

“C’mon, Phil,” he says, holding out a hand. “Let’s leave Soph to her work. You still got yer ribbon?”

Phil takes Technoblade’s hand, and opens his other to show the ribbon curled in his palm. He doesn’t have anywhere to put it, right now, so he’s holding on to it to make sure he doesn’t lose it.

It’s probably his favourite thing he’s ever owned.

Chapter Text

There are many apothecaries in the Mesa, most specialising in different things. Some of them deal only in magically charmed or enchanted concoctions, some only in herbs, some in spirits know what else.

Techno doesn’t need anything specialised right now, though, just some cream for his burns and a couple of rolls of new bandages. These ones are definitely going to need to be cleaned after he’s changed them.

It’s not the worst injury he’s had from a duel before—in comparison it’s practically just a scratch—but that doesn’t mean it isn’t as annoying as void. It’ll heal into a scar, yeah, but that’s going to take time. Speeding up healing with magic is a difficult and finicky process, and it’s very difficult to get right. Techno’s fine waiting.

He’s not as familiar with this apothecary as he is with others, but it’s on their route back, so it’s as good as any. The apothecary themself puttering about in one corner of the store when Technoblade and Phil enter, Phil still holding tight to Techno’s hand.

They look up when the bell over the door rings, eyes wide. They’ve got some sort of head wrap on in various shades of red and yellow, and it’s the only colour in their otherwise simple black outfit.

“Technoblade!” they say, and Techno waves a little. He’d reply, but he’s not solid on who this person actually is, so he doesn’t.

“Go look around, Phil,” Techno prompts, seeing Phil’s eyes already darting about the shelves. “I jus’ need t’ grab a couple things, we shouldn’t be too long,” he assures.

Phil’s fingers slowly slip from his, and the kid starts to wander, still clutching his ribbon tight in his fist. Techno smiles at the sight of him, because even though he is thirteen suns, the way he acts… it speaks volumes.

“Kid never got to be a kid.”

‘Chat you don’t need to point out the obvious every time, I swear to the void,’ Technoblade thinks back, sighing. There goes his warm moment.

It’s not difficult to find some burn salve, and it’s even less difficult to find bandages. Technoblade picks up as much as he needs, though he does hesitate, eyeing up the different salves and creams. He’s not a medical expert himself, but he wants to at least know what he’s putting on or in himself.

Phil’s poking about a lower shelf of more experimental medicines, and Technoblade leaves him to it. He’ll get him when they’re leaving.

Technoblade makes it to the counter before the apothecary does, but they’re quick to follow, brushing a stray white curl back under their head wrap as they do.

“Technoblade, what can I do for you this light, my friend?” they ask.

Again, it’s… awkward. Technoblade doesn’t have a name to the face, so hopefully he can keep this interaction as short as possible, thank you very much.

“Just these, then we’ll be on our way. Thanks,” he says, passing the bandages and salve across the countertop.

Thankfully, the apothecary doesn’t ask too many questions, so Techno doesn’t have to give too many answers, and he excuses himself once the change has been counted to find Phil again. At least he knows Phil’s name, even if that’s one of the only things he does actually know about the kid.

“Y’know, you could just ask?”

Again, Technoblade sighs.

‘You’ve seen the state of him, chat. He’ll tell me when he’s ready,’ he thinks back. He’s not going to answer aloud, because while the people in the Mesa probably won’t bat an eye, Phil definitely will, and this is not a topic Technoblade wants to have to explain right now. Especially not after Phil's panic attack last dark.

“I never said ask him.”

Techno ignores Chat. Not only can he not be bothered, whatever Chat knows is not information that’s actually been shared, and therefore not information Techno wants to hear from anyone except Phil himself. End of story.

“Hey, kid,” Techno says, calling Phil over. He can see it takes him a moment to work out where Technoblade is, but he comes scurrying back to his side, and they leave together.

Technoblade’s wishing he bought a bigger bag with him now, because he has to carry this all, and sure, it’s not much, but it’s annoying. He almost drop one of the rolls of bandages, but fumbles to catch it in time, before deciding it’s probably easier to try and shove as much as he can in the bag he’s already got.

He’s so preoccupied doing so that he doesn’t notice they’re being approached until he can feel Phil is almost entirely behind him, and there’s a shadow on the sand in front.

“Technoblade?” someone says, and Techno’s head snaps up. “Oh my suns! Techno! I didn’t think I was going to get to see you for another moon at least!”

It’s been a while since Techno saw Niki, so long that her dark roots have grown out, and their once matching pink hair doesn’t quite match anymore. What’s left of hers is a lot more sun bleached, half tied up off her face.

She looks like she’s just arrived back, still with her travelling gear on. Her knife’s strapped to her thigh, and her brown poncho style cloak has rather a lot of sand still on it.

“Niki!” Techno says, holding out the one free arm he has right now and pulling her close. She’s a lot shorter than he is—closer to Phil’s height, though still slightly taller than him—but she tucks herself against his chest for a moment and hugs him tightly.

Like Sophie, Techno’s known Niki for a long time. They were friends even before Technoblade left their oasis, and when Niki followed a few suns later? They were practically all each other had.

“It’s good to see you,” she says, pulling back, and Techno can’t help but notice her eyes flick to Phil.

“Phil, ‘s okay,” Techno says, trying to nudge the kid out from where he’s hiding. “This is Niki, she’s another old friend. I knew her in my oasis, when I was your age. An’ Niki, this is Phil. Picked him up a few lights ago, ‘s a long story.”

“Hi Phil,” Niki says, waving. “I’m sure Techno’s taking good care of you.”

Predictably, Phil doesn’t say anything, but he does relax from his incredibly tense stance.

“Sorry I missed you last moon,” Techno says, returning to his conversation with Niki. “Got caught up helpin’ a couple traders, one of their camels got bitten by a snake, me ‘n Carl helped ‘em carry their stuff to an oasis.”

“Aw, it’s okay,” Niki says. “I’m getting to see you now, so, it makes up, right?”

“Yeah, it does. How’s… everythin’ goin’? Didn’t you have a lead last time we spoke?”

“It fell through.” Niki’s voice drops low all of a sudden, now that the topic has switched from something light hearted to something a lot more personal. “But I haven’t given up. I won’t. I know he’s out there, I know he’s okay. I just… need to find him.”

“Find who?” Phil asks, shrinking back.

“My sibling,” Niki says, with a grim almost-smile. “They’re about your age, probably, a clear caster like me, but they caught the carrion curse, and… then he disappeared one dark. No one cared, but I couldn’t just pretend Ranboo never existed. I don’t care if he’s cursed, I’m going to find him again.”

While Technoblade knew Niki in the oasis, he didn’t get to know Ranboo that much. The kid was still very young by the time Techno left, but he knows how much Ranboo has always meant to Niki. And, well, casters don’t take kindly to those who are cursed, nor do they appreciate those who actively seek them out.

Hence, why Niki now calls the Mesa her home, and Technoblade her family.

“But wouldn’t he be… dangerous?” Phil asks, sounding very confused.

“No, I don’t think they will be. I know my sibling, they wouldn’t want to hurt anyone,” Niki says confidently, and it’s the same thing she’s been saying for all the suns she’s been searching.

“But the curse-” Phil begins, but Technoblade gives his shoulder a quick squeeze. Phil is still very much caught up in a typical caster mindset of the curse, and it seems like it’s going to take a while to shake that. They’ll keep trying, though, keep having these discussions to make sure he knows that the curse isn’t as malicious as the casters think it is.

“Anyways, Niki, we gotta go now, but talk later? We’re stayin’ at Las Nevadas, just ask Quackity which room,” Technoblade says, trying to deflect the conversation away from the carrion curse. He doesn’t want Phil panicking in the middle of the road.

“Oh, of course! I can come over this dark, I need to catch up with everyone,” Niki says, smiling brightly. “I’ll see you then!”

She waves as they leave, and Technoblade waves back. Even Phil manages to lift his hand and flutter his fingers a little in her direction. That’s probably one of the most positive reactions he’s had to anyone here yet.

They walk in silence for several shifts, Phil trailing behind a little, fiddling intently with his ribbon and almost walking into Technoblade several times. He’s clearly lost in thought, with how little attention he’s paying to his surroundings.

“Hey, kid, what’s on yer mind?” Techno asks, slowing down so Phil can catch up.

Again, Phil is quiet for several long grains, but then he looks up.

“What’s a coven?” he asks, and it takes Technoblade by surprise. He hasn’t spoken about covens with any- no, Quackity mentioned them last dark, but Technoblade didn’t think Phil heard that. He hadn’t wanted him to hear that, but it seems he did.

“Uh, okay,” Techno starts, trying to collect his thoughts beyond his initial surprise. “A coven is… it’s kind of like a council, I guess. Like the council from yer oasis.”

“The one my- the one Mother and Father were in?” Phil asks, looking down at his feet as they walk. 

“Yeah, kinda. But a coven is… ‘s not a permanent thing. Yer parents an’ everyone else on the council, sure they may not always be on the council, but someone will be, right? The council always exists, regardless of who’s on it,” Technoblade explains.

Phil nods, but he doesn’t look up. Techno supposes it’s hard for him to talk about his parents.

“A coven only exists sometimes. ‘S always got the same people on it, else it’s not the same coven. They’re not usually that big, maybe like six to ten people? Depends on a few things, but I’d say that’s pretty average.” Technoblade shrugs. He’s encountered his fair share of covens before, but he’s never exactly stopped to say hi, or had friendly conversation with them before. There isn’t much time to ask about the intricacies of their organisations when those organisations are actively trying to hurt you or someone you care about.

“They’re a group of casters, usually hired by someone to do something. They’ve got a job to do, so the coven’s gonna exist either until they finish that job, or their patron decides t’ stop payin’ them.”

“What do they do?” Phil asks, and on one hand, Techno’s pretty sure he should know this already, coming from a council family, but on the other, he’s… slightly glad he doesn’t. It hopefully means nothing too bad has happened that he’s heard of, thus he’s never really heard of covens before.

“Usually they do more dangerous stuff,” Technoblade explains. “Yer not gonna hire a coven to come do yer gardenin’ for you, but you would hire one to… I dunno, deliver a really important message that could be bad if someone else reads it. Coven members are usually pretty strong casters, an’ very smart. They’re good at gettin’ things done.”

“Are covens bad?” Phil asks, and yeah, he definitely heard Techno and Quackity last dark. He’s clearly trying to pretend he didn’t, but he wouldn’t be asking that if he hadn’t.

“Depends.” It’s a difficult answer to give, and Techno doesn’t want to scare Phil. The Mesa is supposed to be somewhere safe for them both, he doesn’t want to break the trust in what he’d told the kid.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that sometimes, yeah, they can be bad. Not always, but sometimes. Sometimes covens are hired to catch people—criminals usually, or, people who oases think are criminals—or to hurt them. So if yer one of those people, or someone who doesn’t think one of those people should be hurt, the coven is gonna be bad.”

Phil doesn’t say anything, but his knuckles go white around the piece of ribbon and he stops in his tracks, and Techno can hear his breaths hitch. 

“Phil?” Techno asks, concerned. 

Again, Phil says nothing, he just- quietly whimpers.

“Kid, it’s okay,” Techno says softly, scooping him up in his arms and trying not to think too much about it. Phil’s light but gangly, his limbs are all bone and his joints are all pointy, but Technoblade holds him against his chest and takes them both off to a secluded corner.

“Breathe for me, yeah?” Techno says, sitting down with his back against the wall. “Jus’ like last dark, can you do that for me?”

Phil nods, and Technoblade murmurs the numbers until some of the tension eases from Phil’s small frame.

“There we go. Yer okay, see?”

Phil nods again, and Techno can see how hard he’s trying.

“The coven isn’t after you, Phil, there’s a hundred people in the Mesa who’ve done way worse things that run away from home. Besides, they’re not even in the Mesa, so who knows? Maybe they’re just passin’ by.”

Phil tenses again as Technoblade speaks, but Techno rests a hand on the side of his head, thumbing his hair. He knows Phil heard him, and he’s okay with that. Curiosity is to be expected, he should have been more careful.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, meeting Phil’s eyes. “Even if they were comin’ for you, it’s not gonna be my first time dealin’ with a coven. Sophie had one after her for almost a whole sun when she left. Copper casters don’t like their magic bein’ used to help others, so they wanted to take Sophie back to her oasis an’ never let her leave. I helped her get rid of the coven, an’ they haven’t come back since.”

If, for some reason, a coven comes for Phil, Technoblade will protect him, just like he has already. He doesn’t think they will, though, because why would an oasis care so much about a single escaped child? The tracker who injured Techno’s shoulder was working alone, even though Techno never saw them. They had been working alone, and nearby their oasis, so there isn’t anything to worry about.

“Are you sure?” Phil asks, leaning into Techno’s hand.

“Yeah,” Techno replies almost instantly. “Yeah, I am sure. I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.”

Chapter Text

Chromia is… well, it lives up to the name.

Scott’s painted the front of his shop in just about every colour of paint he can get his hands on, and yet somehow, it works. It’s a swirling mess that assaults the eyes, yeah, but it’s a swirling mess that assaults the eyes and looks good.

Inside is worse, there’s colour everywhere, bolts of all sorts of fabric stacked on various shelves or just strewn over tables, bags of dyes lined up or just thrown into a large basket, clothing on display wherever there’s room. Nothing matches but nothing’s out of place, including the llama tied up outside the window.

Technoblade watches as Phil’s jaw positively drops, and he looks around at it all. Techno lets go of his hand, letting him take a few careful steps in whatever direction he pleases, head whipping around as he spots more things that interest him.

He leaves him to it, especially when seemingly out of nowhere, a cheerful man with bright blue hair and a coat that definitely blends in with the shop appears.

“Hiya Technooooh my suns, a child! Hi!” Scott says, immediately distracted. “I’m Scott Major, or Smajor, or just Scott! You must be new, I haven’t seen you here before,” he says, and Techno rolls his eyes. He didn’t even get to say hello.

“Is this your shop?” Phil asks, only focusing on Scott for a handful of grains.

“Yeah, d’you like it?”

“It’s amazing,” Phil says, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Awww, thanks buddy,” Scott says, laughing. “I do try.”

“Where did you get everything from?” Phil asks, still looking around.

“Well, I make a lot of it,” Scott says, seemingly perfectly content answering the kid’s questions. “All of the clothes, the decorations, and the dyes. I do a lot of the fabric too, but I don’t make the actual material often, I just make it look pretty. That’s what I do, I make things look pretty. Mostly people.”

“You make this?” Phil asks, baffled.

“Sure do! C’mere, I’ll show you.” Scott waves his hand beckoning for them both to follow him. Techno glances at Phil first, just to make sure everything’s okay. It seems to be, and he’s already scurrying off between the shelves and racks to follow Scott.

They end up at a table with several things on it. Fabric, lethal looking scissors, hundreds of pins, all sorts of other little bits and bobs that Techno recognises, but couldn’t name off the top of his head. It’s not his first time inside Chromia, but it is Phil’s, so he indulges the demonstration.

“My friend Oli wants new clothes,” Scott starts. “Mostly a new shirt, since he tore his old one up.” Techno winces, because that’s partially why they’re here too. “So he came here and asked us for new clothes.”

“Us?” Phil asks, because so far, they’ve only met Scott.

“Oh yes, me an’ Katherine run this place. She’s not here this light, so it’s just me.”

Techno breathes an internal sigh of relief, because as nice as Katerine is, her kestrel wings won’t do any good for Phil’s already fragile mental state.

“Katherine usually designs the clothes we make, and then I put them together. This is her sketch,” Scott continues, pulling a piece of paper off a stack and showing Phil. “She drew what she wanted, and then she drew out all the pieces and told me what piece needs to be what colour. Then I take those instructions, and I make all the pieces in the right colours.” 

Scott pulls over a pile of fabric, showing Phil how it’s all cut to a specific measurement, and how they all fit together.

“And then I sew them together, and tada! New clothes!” Scott says, finishing with a flourish. 

Phil just looks up at him, awestruck. 

“So, what can I do for you two this light?” Scott asks, and that’s when both Phil and Scott look over to Techno.

“A few things,” he says, shrugging. “I need a new shirt, kinda… tore a hole in the other one, an’ Phil here needs somethin’ proper to wear. Can’t have him runnin’ about in clear caster garb if he’s gonna be stayin’ with me much longer.”

“Oh, Techno, you need to take better care of your clothes,” Scott scolds, but he’s off again. “What sort of shirt are you looking for?” he calls, already lost in the maze that is Chromia. 

“Same as usual!” Techno calls back, and he can hear Scott’s scoff from here. That’s probably deliberate, actually.

“You’re so borin’, Techno! Get some colour in there, spice it up a little!”

“I do have colour!” Techno protests, even if he’s not exactly wearing his cloak right now. But hey, his hair is colourful! It’s bright pink!

“Get more colour, then!” Scott yells back, but he reappears with a plain white shirt, just like Techno likes. “I’ll give you this if you tell me what happened to your other one,” he says, grinning.

Techno scoffs, and tries to grab for the shirt, but Scott just pulls it out of the way. With another scoff, Techno starts tracing one of his popping spark sigils to distract Scott, but a sharp gust of wind blows the markings away almost as soon as he starts.

“Ah ah ah,” Scott warns, wiggling a finger at him. “No fire in Chromia, you know this,” he says, but he’s still teasing. “Phil, do you know what happened?” he asks.

“Hey!” Techno protests, spinning to look at both Scott and Phil at once.

Phil—the little traitor—nods, smiling. Actually smiling. It stuns Techno to complete silence to see it, because he’s fairly certain this is the first time he’s seen Phil smile.

“Look at him.”

Chat says, sounding just as entranced as Techno is.

‘I am,’ he thinks back, and he doesn’t dare interrupt the moment, even if Phil is probably about to mildly embarrass him.

“Technoblade got hit in the shoulder,” Phil says, glancing at him for a moment, his smile wavering. Techno says nothing, just gives him a tiny nod. It’s okay. He can keep talking.

Phil’s smile grows, and Techno takes a step back to lean on a shelf.

“There was- there was someone shooting magic at us, and Technoblade didn’t put a shield up fast enough and he got hit in the shoulder. It was really bad, and his shirt is all red and burned now,” Phil says, whispering the last bit like it’s some big secret.

Scott plays along—because he’s Scott, and theatrics are practically his middle name—gasping when Phil finishes, and shooting Techno a mock-deadly look.

“Techno!” he exclaims, pressing a hand to his chest. “You would ruin one of my shirts like that?”

Phil nods again, and his smile twitches. “He didn’t even try to fix it,” he hisses, leaning in closer to Scott.

“You didn’t even try to fix it!” Scott repeats, pretending to be in anguish. “Oh, the hurt! Oh, the agony! Oh, the disrespect !”

He presses a hand to his forehead and swoons, deftly avoiding stumbling backwards into a rack of pants. 

And Phil- and Phil laughs. 

Phil honest to the void laughs.

It’s not very loud—it’s not very long, either—but he giggles, before quickly clamping his mouth shut and sparing a nervous glance at Techno.

Techno can only stare in amazement. Only a glass ago Phil was struggling through his umpteenth panic attack of the past few lights, and now he’s not only smiling, but laughing. Techno’s never seen anything quite so miraculous, quite so incredible, quite so… beautiful.

It’s only when Scott presses the fabric into his hands that Technoblade blinks himself back to the present moment, instead of replaying those precious few grains of Phil’s laugh over and over again in his head.

“Here, try not to wreck any more shirts,” Scott says, still grinning. He grins a lot. 

“No promises,” Techno manages to reply, folding the garment up and stuffing it into his bag. 

“Now, Phil, what can I do for you?” Scott says, turning back to the kid.

Phil’s smile fades, and he shrinks into himself again. Techno silently steps up next to him, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“I was thinkin’ just basic travellin’ clothes, and a cloak that actually fits him. An’ some shoes, if you’ve got anythin’ his size,” he says, easily filling the gap in the conversation. It’s clear that unlike teasing Technoblade, this is something Phil’s a lot less confident in.

“Alright then, let’s go look at what we’ve got,” Scott says, beckoning them both forwards. “There’s pants here, lets see…” he pauses suddenly and Techno almost runs into his back as he rifles quickly through a rack.

He pulls out a pair of trousers and holds them up for a moment, before shaking his head and muttering something, and putting them back. He does this a few more times, before settling on a sturdy looking dark brown pair. They’re not all dissimilar to Techno’s, actually, just with less pockets and a higher waist. 

“What do you think?” Scott says, turning the pants towards Phil. “Might be a little big, but nothing we can’t fix. You’re not exactly built like Techno over here,” he says.

Phil just… shrugs. He’s pressed against Techno’s side again, trying to half hide behind him. 

“They look good, Scott,” Techno says, and Phil doesn’t make any sound or movement of disagreement, and Techno’s pretty sure that’s as good as they’re going to get right now.

“Perfect!” Scott slings the pants over his shoulder, and leads them further into the shop. Well, further through its racks. “Now a shirt, hmmm…”

Once more, Scott stops abruptly in front of a shelf, tapping his lips with a finger and flicking his eyes from place to place.

“Size is probably going to be a little difficult,” he murmurs. “We don’t usually get kids as small as you here,” Scott says, glancing at Phil. 

Phil shrinks back into Technoblade’s side, and Techno puts a hand on his shoulder again. He doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t need to, he can feel Phil relax a little at his touch.

“Oh, what about- no, no that won’t work,” Scott suddenly says, leaning forwards and pulling something out, then putting it straight back. “Or maybe… I think I have one in the right size. Does this style look okay, Phil?” He pulls a simple tunic shirt from the shelf, unfolding it and holding it up. “This one’s definitely too big, but I’m fairly certain I’ve got one that’ll fit somewhere.”

Again, Phil only shrugs. It’s Techno who nods, and Scott nods back, folding the shirt back up and then disappearing again, telling the pair to ‘wait here’.

Once he’s gone, Techno looks down.

“What’s up, kid?” he asks softly. “You an’ Scott sounded like you were gettin’ along so well, did somethin’ happen?” 

Phil tenses again and looks down. Techno’s come to learn that this means he doesn’t want to answer his question, because he’s scared of the answer, usually. Or, maybe, scared of what Techno will supposedly do when hearing the answer.

“It’s okay, Phil, I promise. I jus’ wanna know,” Techno assures, remaining as patient as he possibly can. With so many suns of dealing with chat, he’s remarkably composed.

“I don’t need new clothes,” Phil says, still looking down. “I- I don’t need them, these ones are okay. Honestly. You- you don’t- I can’t give you anything in return.”

Techno just- blinks, because of all the things that could have caused Phil to clam up again, it’s getting new clothes?

“Phil, kid, you don’t have t’ give me anythin’. You never do.”

“But- but that’s how it’s supposed to happen. If you do something nice for me I have to do something nice for you. I can’t- I have to earn it.”

“You don’t have to earn anythin’, kid,” Techno says, kneeling down so he can hug him. “I’m gettin’ you new clothes because I want to, ‘cause these ones aren’t any good anymore. I have the coins, I’ll even have some spare. You don’t have to do anythin’, ‘cept tell me if you don’t like ‘em.”

“But-”

“Phil,” Techno interrupts, looking him in the eye. “These clothes are a gift, like the ribbon.” He gestures to the strip of ribbon still poking out of Phil’s fingers. “They’re yours, to keep. You don’t have to earn ‘em, you don’t have to repay me. That’s not how I work, not now. I just… I want you t’ be comfortable, Phil. That’s it.”

Phil doesn’t say anything else, but he breaks Technoblade’s gaze, looking around frantically and clutching the ribbon close to his chest. He opens his mouth, and he looks like he’s about to say something, but Scott returns, brandishing a much smaller shirt, and a pair of brown leather boots with several round, brassy buttons up the side.

“Found it!” he says, waving the shirt about. “And this is the last pair of boots we’ve got this small, hopefully they fit.”

“They look great, Scott,” Techno says, standing again. “Thanks so much.”

“Aww, it’s no problem. Now, did you want a cloak too? Or was I making that up?”

“Nah, yer not. Somethin’ basic, mine’s just a little big on him,” Techno says.

“Perfect, What colour would you like Phil? We’ve got just about every colour you can think of!” Scott says, trying to lighten the mood even when Phil is very clearly not very enthusiastic about the situation.

It takes several grains for him to reply, and when he does, it’s just a mumbled “I don’t mind.” Techno isn’t quite so sure on that statement.

“Hm, well, let’s go take a look, see if anything suits your fancy,” Scott says. Seems he doesn’t believe the kid either. 

The cloaks are all lined up in a satisfying gradient, or, several satisfying gradients of different saturations. There’s… a lot of them. Techno even takes a moment to run his fingers along the rows of thick fabric, admiring the craftsmanship. There’s a reason Chromia is one of the most successful clothing shops in the Mesa.

Phil’s hesitant to look, keeping his hands close, but Techno can see his eyes flicking from side to side. He says nothing about it, though, letting the kid take his time. He’ll find something he likes, Techno’s sure of it. 

And he does. Phil probably doesn’t intend to voice his opinion—he says nothing—but a hand reaches out to brush over an emerald green cloak for just a moment. Techno picks up on it, and is quick to pick the cloak up after Phil’s passed it. 

With a whole new outfit selected, Scott leads them both over to the back corner of the shop, where several small cubicles are curtained off with very brightly patterned swaths of material.

“I’m gonna get you to change into your new stuff,” Scott says, pulling one of the curtains aside and putting the clothes inside. “Just need to check if I need to make any alterations, then you’ll be free to go!”

Phil’s reluctant to step inside, but with a little encouragement from Techno, he does.

“Sleeves?” Scott asks once Phil’s pulled the curtain closed again.

“Yeah,” Techno replies, shrugging. “I’m as confused as you are.”

“That’s really weird, there’s gotta be a reason for it.”

“If there is, he hasn’t said anythin’. And Scott?” Techno says.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” It’s sincere.

“Techno, I’m a tailor, giving people clothes is literally my job. You don’t need to thank me,” Scott says, smiling. 

“No, not- not for that. I’ve… never seen Phil smile before,” Techno admits quietly. “So thank you.”

This wipes the smile off Scott’s face, and silences him completely. “Really?”

“Yeah. Haven’t known him long, but… he’s been through a lot. There’s a reason he’s with me, not back home. I don’t think he’s smiled like that in a very long time.”

“I… you’re welcome. Suns, that’s…”

Scott doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Phil opens the curtain again. The clothes actually fit surprisingly well, though the pants are a little long. That’s fine, they can roll them up. And he actually looks good. Not that he didn’t before, but he looks… more comfortable.

“Oh, perfect!” Scott says, straight back into his cheery self, though Techno can tell he’s a bit shaken. “My sizing is spot on, let me just check-”

“No!” Phil yells the moment Scott moves to adjust his shirt. “Don’t- please.”

Scott draws his hands away like he’s been burned, and steps back away from Phil immediately, glancing at Technoblade. “Sorry, I won’t touch you, I didn’t know,” he says, looking back at Phil. “Your shirt’s a little big, though, would you be able to take it off so I can fix that?”

“No!” Phil yells again, backing away and wrapping his arms tightly around himself. “Please, no, please , I can’t, I can’t.”

Once more, Techno hurries to Phil’s side and crouches down. 

“Kid, it’s okay. We’re not gonna make you do anythin’, it’s okay. Keep yer shirt on, we’ll just have to make sure to keep it tucked in, yeah?”

Phil nods, still hugging himself tightly, shying away even from Technoblade’s hand. 

But they’ve got him clothes now, ones that are much better suited for travel, and ones that actually fit him. Well, mostly. It’s not going to be much of an issue, really, it’s nothing unfixable.

Chapter Text

The new clothes are… nice.

They’re really nice.

They’re kind of weird, but it’s not a bad weird. Half the time, Phil feels like he isn’t wearing any shirt at all, and he panics, until he feels the soft fabric move against his back or his arms or his chest. It’s so different to everything he’s used to, but that’s good. He doesn’t like everything he’s used to, actually.

And the shirt has proper sleeves, not the short little ones his old shirt did. There’s no worry about whether or not it covers his wings, because there’s no way anyone could see his wings accidentally. Plus, Technoblade says the sleeves are going to help protect him from the sand when it gets windy.

The pants are different too. They’re not tight, but they’re tighter than what Phil’s used to. And heavier. And they have shiny gold buttons on the front, and pockets he can put things in, like his new ribbon.

The boots are probably the weirdest part, though. Phil’s not used to any shoes but sandals, and these are very, very different. He can’t wiggle his toes properly, because the leather gets in the way. The sand doesn’t work its way between his toes or under his foot, and there’s no ties to do up, just more buttons. His feet feel almost trapped, but it’s… nice to have something to protect them. They were starting to hurt after so long with no shoes. Not that he was going to tell anyone, but still.

And the cloak. Technoblade and Scott had asked what cloak he’d like, and he hadn’t answered because that didn’t matter, not when it wasn’t his choice to make. Technoblade was the one buying him things, he was supposed to choose. 

But his cloak is green. It’s green, like his ribbon, and there’s a darker green pattern around the edges, circles and swirls and Phil runs his finger along it, tracing the darker colour. He wonders if Technoblade somehow knows that this was the cloak he wanted, that this was his favourite one, or if it’s just a coincidence. It’s probably a coincidence, but Phil isn’t going to complain.

“You ready, kid?” Technoblade says, sticking his head around the door.

Phil jumps, pulled suddenly from his thoughts, and hastily pulls his new cloak around his shoulders. It fits a lot better than Technoblade’s did.

“The winds are slow, you don’t need yer cloak this light,” Techno says once Phil is at his side. 

Phil just rubs his thumb against the hem, holding the fabric tightly. He doesn’t want to take it off, what if Technoblade changes his mind and takes it away?

“I’m not sayin’ you need t’ get rid of it, you can wear it if you want,” Technoblade says after a moment, and Phil lets go of his breath. That’s good. He still doesn’t want to take it off.

“Quackity!” Technoblade suddenly yells, stepping in front of Phil and blocking his view. “ Away . Schlatt be damned, he can suck it up for a couple of grains so we can pay.”

Phil was almost going to peek out to see what’s happening, but he decides not to, because Quackity has wings and Quackity is cursed and the curse is bad.

“Little one-”

‘No.’ Phil cuts the voice off. He doesn’t want to hear it right now. 

By the time he’s silenced it, Quackity looks like a normal person again, and Technoblade has a coin pouch that Phil recognises, but knows isn’t his out, and he’s paying Quackity with several coins.

It doesn’t take very long, and soon they’re off, Technoblade is leading Phil around the side of the building, around the back, and Phil didn’t realise there was a fenced off area here. There are several horses, but Phil recognises Carl, even without all his saddlebags, or even his saddle.

Turns out, his saddle is hanging up on the wall, along with his bags, and Phil sits on the fence while Technoblade puts it on Carl. 

“You think you can hop on yerself from there?” Technoblade asks, leading the horse over to where Phil’s swinging his legs.

It doesn’t look too far to the saddle, but Phil’s not entirely sure. He shrugs.

“I reckon you can, give it a try,” Technoblade says, leading Carl a little closer. “And you,” he continues, addressing the horse. “No funny business, alright?”

Carl whinnies, and Technoblade raises an eyebrow, and Phil smiles a little bit. It’s like Technoblade is telling Carl off, even though Carl is a horse.

“So, Phil, if you stand up on the fence, then try an’ get one foot in the stirrup, and the other- hmm, yer a little short for my stirrups actually. Just uh.. Just give it a go, yeah?”

It’s hard to stand on the fence, but Phil manages with only a little wobbling, and looks up to Carl. This is… it doesn’t look very easy. He tries to do as Technoblade told him to, to put one foot in the stirrup, but he puts the wrong one in and he’s all backwards, so he takes it out and tries again, but he can’t get his leg over and he’s leaning too far backwards and there’s nothing to hold on to and he’s falling and he’s-

And he hits something warm and solid, Technoblade’s arms catching him deftly.

“Not quite,” Technoblade says lightly, hefting him up and making sure he’s properly on Carl before letting go. He doesn’t join Phil on the horse, but leads him and Carl out of the pen. 

“Sophie dropped Carl’s saddlebags off jus’ after sunrise,” Technoblade says, and Carl stops, and Technoblade is a lot better at getting on the horse than Phil is. “We just gotta make one quick stop before we leave, alright Phil?”

“Okay,” Phil says, shuffling forwards so Technoblade has enough room.

“Gonna grab some more food, just so you don’ go hungry,” Technoblade says, and they’re moving again. “Squid’s on our way out, so it’s perfect.”

Phil isn’t really paying much attention—he hopes Technoblade doesn’t notice, but he’s starting to think that even if he did, it wouldn’t be too awful—instead, he’s watching everything around them as Carl takes them back through the Mesa.

There’s a herd of cattle, and with them there’s someone with hair that looks like fire, Phil’s not sure how they did that. They’re next to someone with- with wings, and Phil looks away quickly.

On the other side, there’s a couple of stalls. They don’t sell ribbons, and from here, Phil’s not entirely sure what they do sell. One has a lot of bottles, so maybe drinks? 

He doesn’t recognise this part of the Mesa—he doesn’t recognise most of the Mesa, really, unless it’s Sophie’s shop or Scott’s shop or Las Nevadas—so there’s lots to look at.

There’s a woman with half brown hair and half white hair, and she’s talking to someone Phil feels like he knows.

“Techno!” Niki calls, waving. “I’ll see you in a few moons!” 

“See you then!” Technoblade calls back. “And hey Puffy!”

The woman with two toned hair waves back. “Hey Techno!”

Soon enough, Carl’s stopping. The Mesa doesn’t look like it goes on much further, at least, the buildings don’t. There’s plants, though, so the water must still be near.

“Alright, here we are,” Technoblade says, lifting Phil down from Carl, and tying the horse up so he doesn’t wander off. “Now I just gotta find the guy,” he mutters, and beckons for Phil to follow him.

Phil does, keeping close, staying behind, because he doesn’t know what sort of person they’re meeting. It could be someone else with wings, or it could be someone who won’t like him, he’s not sure.

It turns out, ‘the guy’ is a man with dark blue hair all twisted into fancy braids under a big woven hat.

“Techno!” he calls, jogging over from where he’d been tending to some plants. Phil notices that his shirt has dirt on it. He’s messy, that’s not a good thing. “Who’s this bozo?”

“Squid, this is Phil, Phil, this is Squid. An’ don’t call him a bozo, he’s just a kid,” Technoblade says, sighing.

“Kids can still be bozos,” Squid says, shrugging. “You here for the usual then, Techno?”

“Yeah, but… double it.”

Squid nods, turns around, and takes a single step before he’s looking back at Technoblade.

“Double it? Nah, no way Carl can carry that much. Not with all the other stuff you got,” he says, scoffing. “Plus a kid, unless you’re making him walk.”

“I am not making Phil walk,” Technoblade says, resting a hand on Phil’s shoulder and squeezing gently. He didn’t even look at him to do that. “But you have a point. Same but… add half. That should do us for a while.”

“Whatever you say, bozo,” Squid says, shrugging and turning back around.

There’s a house, Phil notices, he didn’t see it before, he was too distracted by the plants and the emptiness of this part of the Mesa. It’s not a very big house, not compared to some of the other buildings, but it’s not tiny, either. It’s well built, with grey stone and a wooden floor and some sort of dried grasses bundled up for a roof.

Inside, though, it doesn’t look like a house at all. There’s only one big room, and it’s full of so much . Barrels with little beans in them, sacks that probably used to have words on them but don’t really anymore, crates of various different types of food.

Squid grabs a bag, and goes around the storage, putting things in it until it’s full, and he does that a few more times, with a few different bags.

He’s putting all sorts of things in the bags. Dates, nuts, things wrapped in parchment, and he even holds up a melon.

“How do you wanna do this?” he asks, looking back at Technoblade. “The half is gonna get real sticky real quick.”

“Just one. They don’t keep for ages anyways,” Technoblade responds, pulling out the strange coin pouch again.

Looking a bit closer—Phil’s still at Technoblade’s side, there’s not nearly as much here to go and look at—Phil finds that actually, the coin pouch isn’t that strange. He recognises it.

He recognises the silky blue material it’s made out of, he recognises the rich greens and turquoises of the embroidery thread, he recognises the gold accents and the swirling patterns on the small thing.

It’s his parents’. He remembers, now, that his Father had given Technoblade coins when he returned Phil. He remembers now, that Technoblade tried to say no. He remembers now, that his Father wasn’t having it and made him take the coins.

Even here, even in the Mesa with Technoblade who promised he wouldn’t take him home, who promised he would keep him safe—he promised—Phil can’t escape the reminders of where he came from. His clothes might be different now, his food and his house and his shoes might all be different, but still, there is no escape.

His Parents are following him everywhere. Even if they themselves aren’t here, their things are, reminding Phil who he is and what he is and what they’ve done and will do to him.

A coin pouch, a reward for returning lost goods. Not caring about Phil, just caring that he was captured and brought home again. A reward, to keep Technoblade silent and not tell anyone about Phil, about what he might know—but he doesn’t know, he can’t know, he can’t—a reward so it doesn’t take so long next time. An incentive.

But Phil’s here. He’s not with his parents he’s here with Technoblade and Technoblade has his parents’ coin purse and Phil doesn’t know what to think. He hates it, but Technoblade hasn’t seemed to notice, and he always notices everything. 

He knows it’s stupid. It’s stupid for such a small thing to make Phil this agitated. It shouldn’t matter! It doesn’t matter! But it feels like it does, and Phil wants it to stop mattering because it shouldn’t! It really really shouldn’t!

“Kid?” Technoblade says, and Phil blinks. There’s a hand on his shoulder and it’s squeezing and when did that get there?

Phil looks up at Technoblade, and he looks a little bit worried.

“There you are,” he says, and Phil frowns. He didn’t go anywhere. “Thanks, Squid,” Technoblade continues, looking at Squid and away from Phil, but he keeps his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you round.”

Squid doesn’t have the bags for food anymore, Technoblade does, and Phil can’t see the coin pouch anymore. Good. He doesn’t want to see it again.

“C’mon, Phil, Carl’s probably gettin’ impatient,” Technoblade says, his hand slipping from Phil’s shoulder. He holds it out, though, and Phil carefully takes it, slipping his fingers into Technoblade’s grasp.

“Bye guys! Have fun out there!” Squid calls as they leave, and Technoblade laughs.

“See ya, Squid!” he calls back, and Phil just glances over his shoulder.

They reach Carl, and Technoblade lets go of Phil’s hand, so he can load the food into Carl’s saddlebags. Phil didn’t think they’d be able to fit that much more into the bags, but it turns out he was wrong. Technoblade manages to get almost all of it in, keeping one little bag out. He tosses it to Phil, who catches it deftly, and looks up at Technoblade questioningly.

“Go on,” Technoblade prompts, smiling.

Phil does go on, opening the bag and finding it full of dates. He immediately starts eating, and these dates are huge . He can’t fit a whole one in his mouth at once, so he bites one end off and pulls out the stone and eats the other, and they taste so good. He thinks dates might be his favourite.

“Right, that’s us done,” Technoblade says, stepping back from Carl. “What d’you say we head off again? Go explorin’ a while?”

Phil pauses halfway through his date, looking up at him. He just shrugs. He doesn’t really mind.

“If you want t’ stay here, Phil, you can. Half the voiddamned Mesa’s already offered to take you in, you’ll have people lookin’ after you,” Technoblade says, crouching down in front of where Phil’s sitting.

“Will you be there?” Phil asks, because that’s what he cares about. The Mesa people were nice, mostly, but theyre not Technoblade and Carl.

“Sometimes. Not always, but I’ll keep comin’ back,” Technoblade says.

“No,” Phil decides immediately, shaking his head. “I want to go with you.” 

“Are you sure, kid?” Technoblade asks, looking deep into his eyes.

Phil meets his gaze, and doesn’t look away.

“Yes.” He is sure. 

He doesn’t want to leave Technoblade, not yet, not now, not ever. Technoblade is nice to him, Technoblade cares about him. He doesn’t yell at him, he never hits him or hurts him, he protects him and holds him and makes sure he’s okay when Phil knows he should be but isn’t. Technoblade bought him new clothes and a new ribbon and sweet dates, he helped him breathe when breathing right was hard, he fought a caster because Phil was scared and couldn’t do magic, he promised he would never ever take him home because home is bad and home hurts and home isn’t home anymore.

Home is right here, now. Home is with Technoblade and Carl. Home isn’t a house, and that’s okay. It’s a tent and a saddle and warm brown eyes that crinkle when Technoblade smiles, and strong, steady arms that hold him so gently, and a deep, rumbling voice that never shouts.

Home is good.

Chapter Text

“Technoblade?” Phil asks.

They’ve been travelling on Carl all light, away from the Mesa and in a direction Phil is almost certain is away from the Cobalt oasis as well. His new clothes are really good, there’s significantly less sand in places it shouldn’t be, and his ribbon looks nice in his hair. Technoblade braided it for him, he was gentle and careful and brushed all the sand out with his fingers first.

“Yeah, kid?” Technoblade says, looking up from where he’s laying a fire for them. It’s not dark yet, but it’s never dark when they stop, it’s always at least a little bit light.

“Could you-” Phil begins, squeezing his hands in his lap and looking intently at them. “Could you teach me magic?”

Phil doesn’t look up, he keeps staring at his hands and then he squeezes his eyes closed because he can hear that Technoblade’s moving, he’s stopped laying the fire he’s standing he’s coming closer he’s- he’s kneeling in front of him. He’s just sitting there. He’s speaking.

“I can try,” he says, and when Phil peeks out from under his lashes, Technoblade is smiling a bit. “Like Soph said, I’m not very good at teachin’, but I- I can try. If that’s what you want.”

Phil nods. This is what he wants. He wants to know magic, he wants to be able to do actual spells and draw actual sigils, he wants to be useful, because what use is a caster who can’t do anything? What use is a caster who’s cursed? What use is Phil?

“I do want it,” he says, just to make sure Technoblade knows. Really knows, because even though Phil hates talking back, he doesn’t want Technoblade to forget. If he reminds him, then he’s less likely to forget, and maybe he won’t even get that mad.

“Well, kid, I’ll do my best,” Technoblade says, standing again, and returning to the fire.

Phil pushes himself up after him, and follows Technoblade back, kneeling at his side. He’s ready to start.

It takes Technoblade a couple of grains, but he looks over. “You okay kid?” he asks, grabbing a bigger piece of wood for the fire.

Phil nods again. “I’m ready.”

The log falls with a bit of a clatter, and Technoblade hastily reaches to adjust it.

“Suns, Phil, I didn’t think you meant now,” he says, resting back on his heels and throwing his hair over his shoulder.

“Oh,” Phil says, looking down again. He grabs his own hands in his lap and holds them. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Technoblade says immediately, voice all soft and warm. “We can start now, I just- I misunderstood. ‘S my fault, not yours,” he continues.

It’s Technoblade’s fault? Surely not. It’s Phil’s fault, he asked, he never specified, he knew Technoblade isn’t good at teaching but he still asked , so it’s his fault. Not Technoblade’s.

But Technoblade says otherwise. And Technoblade has never been wrong. So maybe… maybe it’s not Phil’s fault. Maybe it’s not even anyone’s fault. He hadn’t thought of that before.

“Jus’ let me finish up here, an’ we can get started. What d’you wanna do first?” Technoblade asks, fixing where the neatly laid fire had got all messed up from dropping the log.

“Can we start from the beginning?” Phil’s voice is quiet, and he can’t meet Technoblade’s eyes. “I… I want to start from the beginning.” Technoblade said he was allowed to want things. Maybe he’s even allowed to want this.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, we can- we can start from the beginnin’, no problem,” Technoblade says, but it sounds like a little bit of a problem. He doesn’t say anything more, though, so Phil sits in silence and waits for him to be done.

It doesn’t take long. Technoblade’s dusting his hands off, and turning properly to Phil, sitting in the sand instead of kneeling. Phil follows his lead, and it’s much more comfortable. It doesn’t get in his clothes like it used to, either, which is very nice.

“Right,” Technoblade says, “The beginnin’.”

Phil nods. He hasn’t been to class for a very long time, and even then, he wasn’t very good at class, so he really doesn’t know very much at all. Mostly he just got scolded for not listening or not trying when he really was listening and he really was trying.

“I guess… we’ll start with what magic is, yeah?” Technoblade asks, and Phil nods. The very beginning.

“You probably know this already,” Technoblade begins, but Phil doesn’t say anything. He’s too focused on listening and learning, because this is important. “But humans weren’t always born with magic. Some still aren’t, like Sneeg and Squid and their families.”

Phil didn’t realise Squid wasn’t a caster. He supposes it makes sense, there were no lanterns in his building, and he never did any spells.

“But lots of people—like you ‘n me—are. Suns, how do I explain this? Uh… humans didn’t used to be able to do magic. I said that already. But yeah, magic was what spirits did. Spirits used to live on a… a separate plane of existence, yeah, we’ll go with that. So if this is us,” Technoblade says, holding out one hand flat, palm facing the sand. “Then this is where spirits are from,” he says, putting the other hand a little bit above the first one.

Phil cocks his head. This isn’t entirely new information, but he's not sure if he actually remembers all of it. There have been… other things going on in the past few suns, he hasn’t had much chance to study magic.

“Spirits were able to manipulate our world from their own, ‘cause their world has slightly different rules. They could… join the worlds for a bit, to put their rules in our world.”

“How did humans get magic?” Phil asks, because while this is interesting, he’s not sure how it makes sense with what he asked Technoblade to teach him about.

“I was just about to get to that, kid,” Technoblade says, but there’s no malice in his tone. “Spirits couldn’t do this on their own, they needed a human to help them. Basically, the human acted as an anchor to the human plane, and the spirit as an anchor to the spirit plane. That way, the worlds could join.”

“But the spirits don’t exist anymore?” Phil asks. He’s certain about that. They don’t exist because magic is done just through magic , not because of spirits. That’s not how it works anymore.

“Not that magic.”

“Well…” Technoblade says, tilting his head and squinting. “No, they don’t exist like that anymore,” he says. “The spirits an’ the humans spent so much time together that they kinda… joined. Humans all have a little bit of spirit inside ‘em now, and the spirits have stopped existin’. So you’ve got a bit of clear spirit inside you, kid,” Technoblade says, reaching forwards and giving Phil’s chest a gentle poke.

Phil looks down, as if he would be able to see anything different. He can’t, it’s just his chest and his new shirt, there’s nothing new there.

“So that’s how humans got magic. It’s passed down through yer parents, if yer mum was a caster then you’ll probably be a caster too, and if yer dad was also a caster, you’ll definitely be a caster.”

The mention of his parents makes Phil flinch, even though he knows they’re very very far away and he’s safe. He still hunches his shoulders and holds his breath and looks down, and it’s not until Technoblade rests a hand on his shoulder that he relaxes. Technoblade is going to protect him, he promised he would.

“D’you know about the different types of spirits?” Technoblade asks, and again, his eyes are all warm and kind and concerned. For Phil.

“I’m not sure.” Phil knows there’s different types of magic, but he didn’t know there were different types of spirits. Is that why there’s different types of magic?

“Well, there’s three spirits, one for each of the three magics.”

“There’s one for each magic, but there are more spirits.”

The voice is confusing. She’s saying things that aren’t what Technoblade is saying, and it doesn’t make sense. Phil tries to ignore her. He didn’t ask her for the teaching, he asked Technoblade.

“There’s clear spirits,” Technoblade says, leaning over and drawing a circle in the sand. “They’re the ones like you ‘n me. We do magic with circles, because that’s how the clear spirits worked. They’re kinda blue, as I’m sure you know.”

Phil nods, he does know that. He knows that his magic is supposed to be blue, if he could do it.

“There’s more clear casters than there are any other type of caster combined,” Technoblade continues. “Then there’s copper casters, like Sophie.” He draws a line straight through the circle. “They do magic with lines, and they’re orangeish. There’s a decent few copper casters, but they hate using their magic to help other types of casters, so they always hide ‘emselves away. They’re hard t’ find, usually, but it can be done.”

Phil nods again, even if he didn’t know this. It makes sense.

“An’ then there’s ochre casters,” Technoblade says, drawing a square around both the circle and the line. “They’re the rarest. Impossible to find, but they have really powerful magic if you do find ‘em. Their magic is yellow.”

“But you found an ochre caster?” Phil asks, because he’s certain Sneeg mentioned that. Technoblade found an ochre caster and apparently you can’t do that, but he did.

“Yeah, I did. It was a while ago, though, an’ I only needed one thing from them. Anyways, back to magic.

“So these are the three magics. Clear,” Technoblade retraces the circle on the symbol between them. “Copper,” he retraces the line, “an’ ochre.” He draws the square again, and Phil sits, looking at the combined symbol.

It… makes sense. They all fit together, all the different types of magic, but Phil still cocks his head and studies it a little bit more. It feels…

“It feels empty,” Phil says, leaning forwards, and putting his hand in the middle. “Here. It feels empty here.” There’s not nearly enough lines, it feels all hollow, and hollow things aren’t usually good.

“Yeah?” Techno asks, and Phil takes his hand away. There’s a print there now, and it feels less empty.

“Yeah,” Phil says, nodding.

“Well,” Technoblade begins, messing up the symbol and Phil’s handprint. “There’s only three types of magic, so I guess it’s gonna stay empty. Sorry kid,” he says.

They leave it there for the dark. They haven’t started on the actual magic part of learning magic yet, but that’s okay. Phil asked to start at the beginning, and so they have. He wants to know everything , because he doesn’t, and maybe that’s where he’s going wrong. He needs to know more, he needs to not be stupid, he needs to listen and learn and then he’ll stop being useless and an imbecile and he’ll start being good and useful and all of that. 

“What’s the difference?” Phil asks the next light.

They’re atop Carl, it’s already been sun’s peak, they’ve already stopped for food and water and rest, and they’re travelling again. Technoblade says they’re just wandering, so they’re not actually going anywhere specific. Technoblade says they’re going ‘wherever the sands take them’, but Phil’s pretty sure the sands can’t actually take them anywhere.

“What’s the difference between what?” Technoblade asks back, shifting a little behind Phil. Phil’s leaning right up against him now, he’s not scared to do that. He knows Technoblade is okay with it, and it means that if Carl leans a little bit too much to one side, Phil’s not going to fall off, because Technoblade’s arms are right beside him.

“The magics. The clear and the copper and the ochre, why are they all different? Why aren’t they the same?” Why are they different colours? Why do they have different shapes? Classes never taught Phil that much about the other two types of magic, they just mentioned it existed and never talked about it again. The Cobalt Oasis is a clear oasis, they didn’t need to talk about other magics.

“Well they’re- they’re from different spirits,” Technoblade says. “Remember the spirits from last dark?”

Phil nods. “The ones that are inside us?” he says, just to check.

“Yeah, those ones. There were three different types of ‘em.”

“Not quite.”

“An’ because there were three different types, there’s three different types of magic now.”

“But why doesn’t all magic do the same things?” Phil asks. Because if it did, surely it would all be the same magic, and it isn’t. “Why are they different?”

“They kinda can do the same things,” Technoblade says, but that doesn’t make sense. “Well, similar. All magics can do a shield, but the shields are different.”

“Why?”

Technoblade sighs, and Phil moves a bit, because he’s against his chest.

“Okay, lemme try explain this better. Y’know clear magic? ‘Course you do, yer a clear caster. Clear magic doesn’t last very long, right? It’s good for fightin’, good for temporary stuff. It goes away after a few shifts or a few glasses, dependin’ on how hard the spell is.”

Phil nods again, because he does know that. He might not be able to do much magic himself, but he’s seen others do it. Technoblade’s shields, he always has to redo them after a while. And the sparking sigil, it’s only there for a little bit before it disappears.

“Copper magic lasts longer. That’s why Sophie does what she does. She can do spells that last moons an’ suns before she has t’ redo them. An’ Ochre magic is permanent. They do things that never go away, unless they do another spell to take it away. That’s why they’re different, ‘cause they last longer.”

Phil never knew that. The only copper caster he’s met is Sophie, and she didn’t really explain her magic that much. And he’s never met an ochre caster, because Technoblade and Sneeg said they were really really hard to find. No one back in the oasis said anything about any of this either, they didn’t seem to care.

They just cared about their own magic, and how to do cool spells. They didn’t care about other magic, or spirits or anything like this. Phil’s glad he asked Technoblade, because even though he says he’s bad at teaching, Phil’s already learned so much.

Chapter Text

“Okay, so, ‘m sure you know the sparking sigil, right?” Technoblade asks, beginning to draw it out on the sand between them. The fire is unlit, but that’s deliberate. Phil’s asked to learn about magic, they’ve covered most of the important history and theory by now, so it’s time to actually teach him magic.

Part of Phil’s problem is that he just doesn’t seem to be very good at remembering the exact shapes and details of the spells. His lines aren't straight enough, his shapes are a little off, sometimes he gets a mark backwards, and it breaks the whole thing.

That, and he just has really weak magic. Technoblade doesn’t even need to think to invoke his own, but it seems to take Phil a lot of concentration to even just bring it up to the forefront of his mind. 

And it’s not his fault. It’s most certainly not Phil’s fault, actually, there’s nothing he’s done wrong at all, and Technoblade hates those who’ve made him feel like he has and it is. Sometimes, people just have weaker magic. That’s all there is to it, and with the right teaching and the right time and the right patience, Techno is certain Phil’s magic will improve.

He just needs someone willing to stick it out with him, someone willing to help him.

Technoblade hopes he can be that someone. He really wants to.

“My mother said even babies could do a sparking sigil, and I couldn’t,” Phil says, and Technoblade looks up from his drawing.

“Yer mother was wrong, actually,” he says. “Babies can’t do any magic, an’ I know plenty of people who’ve struggled with the sparking sigil. Now, here. I drew it upside down so it’s right fer you. Just trace this a few times in the sand, yeah? Don’t worry about the magic part, just worry about the shape.”

It’s not a massively complicated spell, it really isn’t. It’s one of the few that most competent casters risk doing one handed. Technoblade, of course, doesn’t actually care about how risky or difficult it is to do spells with only one hand, he just does them anyway.

Phil, however, is thirteen, and very bad at magic, and thus is using both hands.

He traces the inner circle first, slowly, making sure it’s the right shape.

“Hey, here’s a tip,” Techno says, leaning forwards, careful not to mess up the marks. “Go faster when yer doin’ the circles. It won’t be a proper circle the first few times—an’ that’s okay, I promise—but it means after that, you’ll find it much easier. Yer lines’ll be smoother, instead of all wobbly.”

He demonstrates to Phil, using both hands to draw a swooping circle beside the sparking sigil. 

Phil nods, and retries the central circle of the sigil again. As predicted, it’s not exactly circle shaped, and he tries again. Technoblade goes to interrupt him to tell him he can just leave it and practise the other bits, but-

“No,” Phil says, not even looking up. He must’ve heard Techno shift. “I’m gonna get this right.”

And he does. It takes many shifts, but Phil does get the circle right. He does it a few times more just to check, and Technoblade smiles at him. Phil almost smiles back, before he puts his head down again and concentrates on the rest of the sigil.

The sparking sigil—at least this basic version—is mirrored, making the movements easy for both of Phil’s hands to follow at once. He gets a bit confused and messes up some of the marks, but Techno fixes them for him, and he doesn’t move until he’s sure he’s got it right.

Not exactly Techno’s method of learning—no, his involved more of just going with it if it was wrong and seeing what happened—but it seems to be working for Phil.

He’s taking it at his own pace, he’s doing it in his own way, and Techno’s starting to see why he would have had such a hard time in caster classes. It’s taking him this long and this much effort just to get the shape of the spell down, let alone the magic component of it, let alone actually casting the spell.

But that’s okay. They have all the time in the desert out here, there’s no one to interrupt them and Phil can spend as many glasses as he wants on exactly the same thing, because Technoblade is certainly not going to stop him.

“I did it!” Phil says, pulling his hands back. “I did the sigil!”

“That’s great!” Techno says, looking down at the sand. It’s… pretty good, actually. There’s a couple of wobbles in the lines, but it’s nothing that would send the spell off kilter just yet. It’s nothing that would stop it working, either. “D’you wanna do it again, then we can try doing it with magic?”

Phil nods, quickly putting his head down again and tracing the sigil, and Techno’s fairly certain he can see the corner of Phil’s tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrates. It’s very sweet.

“Done!” Phil says again, this time a lot faster than before. It only took a couple of shifts. “Can we do it with magic now?”

“Yeah, go ahead. I reckon you’ve got this, kid,” Technoblade encourages, gesturing to the fire he’s laid.

He’s not going to mess up the drawing between them just yet, Phil will probably find it useful as a reference.

And indeed he seems to, glancing back at it a few times. His face scrunches up as he concentrates, drawing the first circle, nice and fast like Techno told him to. His eyebrows furrow even further when he attempts the additional markings, and he deflates when he gets one of them wrong. Without his hands actively drawing the sigil, its light fades quickly.

“Hey,” Techno says, reaching out with the intention of putting a hand on Phil’s shoulder, but he flinches, so he decides against it. “It’s okay, Phil. I promise. I wasn’t perfect first try either.”

“But it’s not my first try!” Phil says, his voice wavering. “I’ve tried so many times and it’s never right, it should be right!”

“It’s okay to make mistakes,” Technoblade says, but Phil doesn’t seem to be listening, He’s hugging himself, head down, and his shoulders are shaking.

He’s a very quiet crier, and the realisation only saddens Technoblade.

He says nothing as he moves closer, standing up and coming to sit right beside Phil, moving slowly and smoothly, trying not to startle him. He still tenses as Techno picks him up, still hides his face and curls in on himself, but that’s okay.

Techno lets him rest in his lap, holding him against his chest. He still says nothing, just sitting there, running his thumb up and down Phil’s shoulder. 

He needs to know that Techno’s not gonna hurt him when he gets things wrong. He needs to know that Techno’s not gonna hurt him ever, actually, not if he can help it. The kid has wormed his way into Techno’s heart, and it’s going to be very, very hard to change that.

Finally, Phil turns his head to face Techno, and there are tear tracks on his cheeks, and more tears in his eyes.

“Hey, kid,” Techno murmurs, reaching up and brushing Phil’s tears away. “It’s okay.”

Phil looks down again, but he doesn’t shy away this time, he buries his face into Techno’s chest, he curls up close and grips his shirt in one hand, and Technoblade shifts to accommodate him. He’s still not very big at all.

“It’s okay,” Techno repeats, running a hand up Phil’s back.

That, however, elicits a response. Phil cries out, lurching away from Techno’s hand, his breathing quickening.

“Suns, sorry,” Techno says, quickly removing any contact he has with Phil’s back. It’s not the first time this has happened, but… it’s been a while since they left the oasis, and Phil’s family. What did they do to him that it still hurts, all this time later? Was that why he refused to take his shirt off in front of Scott and Techno? “I didn’t mean t’ hurt you, I won’t do it again.”

Phil just nods, and goes back to burying his face into Techno’s shirt. This time, Techno doesn’t touch his back.

Once Phil seems to have stabilised, once he’s turned his face out again and once his tears have subsided to sniffling, Techno looks down again.

“What d’you say we try again? I can help, and it’s okay if you get it wrong,” he proposes, looking down at him.

Phil considers for a moment, but nods.

“Great. Let’s just move you about here a bit,” Techno says, shifting Phil so he’s sitting in his lap and facing outwards at the fire they’re trying to light. “D’you wanna try on yer own again?” Techno asks.

“Can you help?” Phil says in a very small voice. His hands are clenched in his lap, and he doesn’t look back at Techno.

“‘Course I can,” Techno says, reaching down and taking Phil’s hands in his own. “I want you t’ try do the sigil, but I’m right here if anythin’ goes wrong, yeah? We’ll do it together.”

Phil nods again, and lifts his hands. Techno moves with him, but he lets Phil guide what they’re doing. He believes in this kid, he just needs Phil to believe in himself.

It’s a little shaky to start, but Phil fixes his mistakes, and completes the sigil. Techno keeps his hands on the backs of Phil’s the entire time, but he doesn’t actually do anything. The sigil is all Phil’s doing, and Techno can’t help but grin.

“Look at that, Phil,” he says, the spell glowing where it sits in the air. “Now, just flick it at the fire, an’ I’m sure it’s gonna work.”

Phil flicks it and as soon as it hits the wood it sparks, and Techno cheers.

“It worked,” Phil says, before he turns completely around in Techno’s lap. “It worked!”

“It worked!” Techno repeats, grinning down at him. “You did that all by yerself, Phil!”

“I can’t believe it worked!” Phil says, and he starts to smile again, bouncing up and down. “Techno! I did magic!” He shuts himself up very quickly, but Techno just laughs.

“Yeah, you did! You did real magic, Phil!” he says, and Phil’s smile begins to return.

For an extra measure, Techno wraps his arms around Phil, careful to avoid his back, and picks him up as he stands. He spins, still holding Phil, and Phil starts to laugh. He giggles and it sputters and it makes Techno laugh too, the sky darkening but the fire bright and warm beside them, because Phil did magic and now he’s smiling and laughing and cheering, and Techno slows down, makes sure Phil’s comfortable being held, and pulls him close.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says softly, looking into Phil’s eyes.

Phil’s smile drops again, but he doesn’t look scared or sad this time, he just looks… like he’s in disbelief.

Oh, right. Phil’s parents.

“I really am, Phil, I’m so…” There’s a flicker of movement. Techno trails off, squinting out over Phil’s head and into the growing darkness. 

There it is again, and another.

“Phil, get behind me,” Techno says, putting him down. “Now, Phil.”

Techno’s hands are already up, he’s already pulling up the biggest shield he can around the two of them. Carl is just going to have to look after himself, he’ll be okay. 

And not a moment too late.

Something comes slamming into the shield, making it toll with a resounding boom that shakes the very sand they stand upon. Phil screams, and Techno grits his teeth. This isn’t going to be easy, but that doesn’t mean it has to be hard, either.

Another bolt of magic hits the shield and Phil screams again.

“Technoblade!” he shrieks, terrified. “Technoblade what’s happening?”

“It’s going to be okay!” Techno replies, already lining up as many hits as he can. “Stay close to the ground, and stay behind me, okay?”

He doesn’t look back to check that Phil’s doing as he asks, because the shield finally gives out to the third blast, and the moment it falls, Technoblade fires off every spell he’s stacked in his palms.

One is a flare, it shoots up into the sky and lights the whole area blue for a moment. It serves two purposes; one, to call for aid, if any is nearby. It’s a long way to the Mesa, but there’s always a chance. The second is to illuminate the battlefield, to see what he’s dealing with.

There’s six of them, with hoods pulled over their faces and individual shields up around themselves. That’s fine, they’re breakable. Everything is, eventually.

Another set of spells are the same blasts the coven is sending at Phil and Techno. They’re blunt but powerful, streaking across the dunes and colliding. One makes a lucky hit, a weaker shield that does very little to protect its caster. They go down instantly. Perfect.

The rest are less lucky, but that’s okay.

Techno wastes no time to pull up a circle of shield anchored on his wrist. It’s manoeuvrable this way, easier to sustain. Smaller, yes, but that doesn’t matter, it deflects the flaming spell thrown at him just as well as a bigger shield would do.

“Kill them, kill them all, spill their blood, spill it, SPILL IT!”

Chat is a familiar force in Techno’s head as the fight escalates, as he fashions a blade out of magic and throws , the near impossibly sharp point piercing a shield and lodging in one of the coven members’ shoulders.

There’s something on the ground now, slivers of magic slithering across the dunes at speed, baring their fangs as they approach Techno and Phil. Techno scatters a spell at them, sending shards into the snakes’ heads. One latches onto his ankle and bites, though, and Techno grunts. It’s a numbing pain, so cold it's hot as it seeps into his veins, and he stomps on the snake to make it disappear and shifts his weight to his other foot.

They’re playing dirty, then. He really shouldn’t expect much else, this is a clear caster coven, what else are they going to do?

He sends his own version of their snakes back at them, but he doesn’t expect it to work. Lifting his shield to protect himself from the onslaught of what look to be flaming coals from above, Techno sends another volley of bolts at the coven.

Again, they’re crude, but effective. Those that don’t hit shields or bodies make impact with the ground, searing the sand. With the heat they’re playing with, Techno’s not going to be surprised if they end up with shards of glass littered about.

He’s so preoccupied with constantly firing off bolts, though, that Techno doesn’t notice the streaks of magic in the air above him, not until they solidify, several binding spells dropping from above.

They’re not aimed at Techno.

Phil screams again, and he’s crying, loudly this time. He’s crying and he’s calling out and Techno spares one glance back at him, only to be hit in the back with a bludgeoning spell, knocking him over.

“I’m coming, Phil!” he calls, trying to scramble to his feet. The magical snake venom, however, has made it all the way up his calf, and Techno falls over as soon as he puts weight on it, grunting again. He can take this pain, he knows he can.

But Phil can’t. Phil’s sobbing and bound and relying wholly on Techno, and he needs to help him.

It takes Techno two hands to construct the spell he wants. It’s a wind spell, but it’s more powerful than any wind spell he’s ever tried to cast before. This is a fairly unique situation in his life so far, and this is Techno’s fastest and safest option.  

He throws the spell with all this might, spinning it low across the sand so it gathers momentum—and sand. The spell works quickly, whipping up a sandstorm of unnatural power, headed straight towards the coven. There’s nothing they can do, really, but run. There’s too much sand in the air for them to see where Techno and Phil are, there’s far too much sand to see where the anchor of the spell is, and the winds will definitely be strong enough to lift them off their feet and throw them around a bit.

“It’s okay, Phil, it’s gonna be okay,” Techno says, shuffling closer. Something drips onto the sand in front of him, staining it red. He reaches a hand to his nose, and it comes away wet with blood. A good bludgeon will do that to someone.

Phil’s still writing, and there’s so many more bindings than the first time Techno met him. They’re around both his arms, his legs, they’re around his torso and his neck and almost every part of him, and they look far too tight. 

The first thing Technoblade does is pull up a shield around them both, the strongest one he can muster right now. It keeps the wind out, and it’ll keep the first couple of spells out. The next thing he does is form himself a blade from his magic, just a small one. 

“Phil, I need you to be still, alright?” he says, reaching out his free hand and placing it gently on Phil’s shoulder. “I’m gonna get you out, but I don’t wanna hurt you, okay? It’s okay, yer okay.”

Thankfully, Phil stills his squirming. His chest is still rising and falling alarmingly quickly, and his eyes are still darting around, but he’s a lot stiller than he was.

Techno starts at the bottom, easing the blade underneath the bindings and pulling it up. It’s not regular rope, and it’s not a regular blade, it’s magic. It only takes the right amount and the right type of pressure, and the bindings snap one by one, fading into nothing.

By the time Techno gets to the one around Phil’s neck, things are a lot more peaceful. The sandstorm has continued its trajectory and the coven seems to be gone, because no more spells have come at the shield. Phil’s breathing is evening out, and the adrenaline is easing from Techno’s system now.

His leg burns, and his back is starting to ache, as well as his head, and focusing is getting a little bit harder now, but he does his best.

The binding around Phil’s throat snaps, and Techno immediately lets go of the blade, sagging and pulling Phil close.

He’s shaking like a palm tree in a high wind, and Techno curls his body over him, another layer of protection beneath the shield.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Phil’s hair. They’re okay now, but this was exactly what Techno told Phil he wouldn’t let happen.

The fire is no more, so Techno calls Carl over. He responds, thankfully, unharmed in the battle that just happened.

Leaning against Carl’s side, Techno pulls his cloak over himself and Phil, refusing to let go of the boy. It’s going to be a long dark.

Chapter Text

It’s a very long dark. Phil falls asleep after what Techno reckons is two glasses, spending that time shaking and sniffling, clinging to him with a vice-like grip. Technoblade shushes him whenever he seems to get more scared, tucking his head under his chin, running his thumb over his knuckles, murmuring quiet reassurances to him.

The coven doesn’t return, and it’s all Technoblade can do not to thank long dead gods for that. He’s not sure what he would do if they did come back, he’s pretty sure he can’t support his own weight right now.

But Phil finally falls asleep, and that leaves Techno alone with his thoughts.

Even chat is quiet. Even they know how bad this was.

With nothing to distract him, Technoblade’s leg is near agonising.

It burns, still, from his toes to his thigh. It burns constantly, like his very muscles are on fire, and there’s nothing he can do to put it out. Every time the fabric of his pants brushes against his skin, it sends a new wave of fire along the limb, and he has to stifle his grunts and gasps, lest he wake Phil.

The kid needs sleep, Techno can tough it out for now. He’ll be okay, at least he hasn’t had his shoulder torn up this time. It’s just… internal pain.

Speaking of internal pain, Technoblade is pretty certain he’s got a concussion. His vision is blurry, each star seems to have a double. Focusing on something that isn’t the pain takes too much effort to sustain for more than a few grains, and his head pounds. If the coven came back, his spells… they might not be good enough to protect them both. They barely were this time.

The moon wanders through the sky, and Technoblade watches it. He sleeps fitfully, waking when he rolls and puts just a little too much pressure on his bad leg, or waking when Phil shifts in his arms, or waking for seemingly no reason at all, exhausted yet unable to sleep for more than a glass or two at a time.

He’s awake when the sun comes up. He wishes he wasn’t, because fatigue is setting heavily into his bones now, but he is, and there seems to be very little he can do about it.

The pain in his leg, at least, has subsided a little. Not entirely, but it isn’t excruciating anymore.

Well, he doesn’t really want to lie here, barely protected and barely comfortable, not when the sun is rising and the coven hasn’t shown a soul or spirit all dark.

Easing Phil off his lap—he’s still asleep, thank the spirits—Techno tucks his cloak around the kid’s small form, and tries to stand.

His leg tries to give out, but he catches himself before he can fall, and gently puts the pressure back on. It hurts, yes, but it’s doable. He can get around like this, provided he’s not trying to go very far.

And he isn’t. He just wants to relight a fire, set up a tent, find some food and water and comfort, because they’re not going to be going anywhere this light.

“You realise how stupid that is, right?”

Chat asks, and Technoblade sighs.

“Yes,” he mutters, unfolding the fabric of the tent. “But it’s not like we have much choice. I don’t think I can manage a light on Carl, not with my leg like this.”

Just the thought of the constant motion makes Techno grimace. If it were his arm, perhaps, it would be okay. But it’s not, it’s his leg, and his legs tend to get jostled as he rides, which is not an option he wants to consider right now.

So he isn’t. He’s staying put with Phil, because even if the coven knows exactly where this is, perhaps they’ll think they left. The desert is big, and tracks do not last very long. A light of rest will do them all good, and there’s no harm in that.

The tent is erected quickly, and Techno works to fill it, laying out his old bedroll, and the new one he picked up back at the Mesa. It feels like moons ago that they were in the Mesa, but it was only a few lights. 

Once the blankets are down too, Technoblade moves back to Phil.

The kid is still asleep. Good, he needs it. It’s been a busy few lights, and he hadn’t gotten to sleep until very late. Techno’s not going to wake him.

What he does plan on doing, though, is moving him.

Currently, he’s lying in the sand, covered only by Techno’s red cloak, and leaning a little against Carl’s side. It’s not the most comfortable of positions, Techno knows from experience, so he wants to fix that. The tent is big enough for the two of them, what with how small Phil is.

So Techno crouches down and very carefully slips his arms under Phil’s sleeping form. He still doesn’t weigh very much, but it’s more than he used to. He’s been eating well, he’s not going to snap at the slightest amount of pressure anymore.

Again, Techno’s leg protests, and he threatens to drop Phil, but he doesn’t, sucking in a sharp breath at the pain that stabs into him. 

He takes the cloak too, still bundled around the sleeping child. It’s going to get warmer, but it hasn’t yet, and Phil seems so comfortable. He’s holding onto the edge of the fabric with one hand anyway, so Techno’s not entirely sure he’d be able to take it back even if he wanted to.

Setting Phil down is a relief. He might not be heavy, but any weight is a lot of weight right now, when his leg is aching and trying its best to not do its job. But he’s okay, Phil’s lying in the blankets now, and he’s still asleep. He must really need it.

“Let’s get you tucked in properly,” Techno mutters, sinking down too, kneeling beside him and rearranging the blankets. He has to move Phil about a little more to get some out from underneath him, and the cloak is still proving to be a bit of an issue. 

Half way through, Techno remembers last dark, before the coven started causing trouble. He remembers holding Phil in his arms, he remembers touching his back, he remembers the pain it caused him. Surely lying on his back is going to hurt, so carefully, Techno flips him over so he’s resting on his front.

There, much better.

“Look.”

“No, Chat, he’ll tell me when he’s ready,” Techno hisses back, carefully taking his cloak from Phil’s grasp. The buckle can’t be comfortable to lay on.

“Look.”

“No,” Techno repeats, bundling the fabric up in his arms and sitting back on his heels. “It’s not my business, and it’s not yours, either.” It’s not. Phil is clearly not telling him something, but that’s okay. He’s allowed to have his secrets, suns know Techno has plenty of his own.

“You know you want to.”

“Yes, I do want to,” Techno replies, standing again and moving out of the tent. He’ll put his cloak away somewhere, get some distance from Phil, because Chat is being annoying. “But I’m not going to.”

“Look.”

“For the void’s sake, Chat, I’m not going to look!” Techno says, a little louder than he intended. Carl’s ears twitch, and he huffs, moving his head.

“Sorry boy,” Techno says, crouching down and patting the horse between the ears. “Didn’t mean t’ disturb you. Thanks for keepin’ yerself safe last dark, don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Carl huffs again, trying to nose into Techno’s palm.

“Fine, fine, you greedy guts,” Techno says, joking. “I’ll get yer feed.”

He takes the bag of it from Carl’s saddlebags, and lays some of it out for the horse. A lot of it, really. He deserves it for everything he’s done over the past while. Carrying two people, protecting Phil, protecting them both, keeping himself safe, sticking by Techno’s side.

Technoblade sits down for a moment, rubbing Carl’s flank and watching the sun crest the dunes, finally. Watching the air ripple around it, distorting the landscape.

It’s magical, almost. Techno imagines that’s what it looks like when two planes of reality intersect, when two realms cross by each other and cross through each other. A warping of reality, and he has that power at his very fingertips.

There’s a small sound from the tent though, and it abruptly pulls Techno back to the present and back to reality. It doesn’t sound like Phil’s woken, but he still made a sound, and Techno wants to check he’s okay.

He doesn’t rush—he can’t, and besides, if Phil is still asleep, he doesn’t want to wake him. And Phil is still asleep. He’s tossed about a bit, though, throwing off one of the blankets Techno had placed over him. Techno can’t see his face, so he steps closer, kneeling down beside the boy once again.

“Oh, kid,” he mutters, seeing how Phil’s face is scrunched, even as he sleeps. Techno rests a hand on his cheek, trying to smooth the creases on his forehead.

“Look.”

Technoblade doesn’t reply out loud. Chat knows his answer, and it’s not going to change. As he’s already said, Phil will tell him when he’s ready. Whether that be this light, or next, or in a moon or a sun or perhaps even never. Techno isn’t going to pry.

What he is going to do is to put the blankets back over Phil, make sure he’s comfortable. He moves around to the other side of Phil, picking up the fabric that he’s thrown off in his distress. Perhaps he’s having a bad dream, Techno can sympathise with that.

He’s about to throw the blanket over Phil when he sees it.

The edge of Phil’s shirt has come untucked from the back of his pants, and because it’s slightly too large, it’s riding up.

Techno can see Phil’s back.

“Look closer.”

Chat urges. And Technoblade wants to. He really, really wants to. But he can’t. He can’t. He throws the blanket over Phil and leaves the tent very quickly. He can’t give in to Chat’s demands like that, he can’t break Phil’s privacy or his trust like that.

“Why didn’t you look!”

Chat is screaming , furious with Technoblade.

“Because it’s not right,” Techno scolds, leaving the tent and putting distance between him and Phil again. Maybe it’ll stop chat from being so tempted.

“Who cares! You know you want to! Just look!”

“I’m not looking, Chat, give up,” Techno replies, sinking down beside Carl again. “It’s not right, I don’t want to hurt Phil, and- and it’s just not right. So drop it.”

Chat drops it. Momentarily. Techno’s pretty sure they’re going to pick it back up again the moment they see an opportunity, but at least for now, they’ve quietened in his mind.

On one hand, that’s good. On the other, it’s… less good. It means Techno’s thoughts are running wild. What have Phil’s parents done to him? What might he find if he did look?

Slashed up skin, and half healed wounds, maybe? Cauterised gashes to staunch the blood before it can even begin flowing? Mottled bruises painting his back in shades of purple and brown and green? Magical lacerations? Something else?

What ‘else’ even is there? What things could they have done to him that even Techno can’t think of them? It’s got to be something visible, otherwise Phil wouldn’t be trying to hide it so much.

Maybe that’s why he had sleeves on his old shirt, his parents were trying to hide what they’d done to him. That would… would it make sense? Why sleeves if it’s his back that hurts? No, it doesn’t make sense, not unless the sleeves went all the way down his arms. They didn’t, they stopped just below his shoulders. 

Curses, that doesn’t help. None of this does.

Techno’s worrying, and it’s only making his curiosity worse, which is only making Chat crowd his thoughts further. If the concussion weren’t enough, he’s got an impatient spirit pushing at his thoughts, and it’s giving him a whole other type of headache.

What it doesn’t do, though—what Chat doesn’t do—is block out the sound of Phil crying out again.

And of course, Techno rushes to the tent, bad leg be damned. 

Again, Phil is still asleep. Again, he’s tangled up in his covers. Again, he looks like he’s in pain or distress.

It’s not a sight Techno wants to see, but it’s one he’s faced with. It’s one he can do very little about. Waking Phil… he feels like that’s not going to be a good idea. He’s not sure why, but it does, and so he doesn’t. He just kneels, again, and brushes Phil’s hair from his face.

His ribbon’s come untied, his hair is falling out of its braid, so Techno gathers it up and braids it back neatly again, taking care to be gentle, taking care to comb out any tangles with his fingers, taking care not to disturb the boy.

He finishes, ties it off with Phil’s new ribbon—the kid hasn’t let the thing out of his sight since he bought it for him, he really likes the simple strip of fabric—and sits back again to adjust his blankets.

They’re wrapped around one of Phil’s legs, tight against him, pinning him down. It can’t be comfortable, and Techno works the blanket free.

Phil’s shirt has ridden up again. It’s no longer just one corner that’s come free, the whole thing has pulled from where it was so neatly tucked in.

Techno tries not to look. He really does.

But he can’t. He can’t, not for his own curiosity, not even for Chat’s. He can’t because it’s right there.

Phil’s back is not unmarred, but Techno didn’t expect it to be.

But he didn’t expect this.

Black lines snake around his skin, and Technoblade can’t see all of their shape, but he knows. He knows what burdens Phil’s back.

Wings.

Phil is carrion cursed.

“I tried to tell you.”

Technoblade pushes Chat to the back of his mind, and tucks Phil’s shirt back in hurriedly. No wonder Phil’s been acting the way he has, no wonder he’s been so scared. Everything is falling into place at dizzying speeds, and it’s all Techno can do to throw the blanket over Phil and stumble out of the tent before everything comes crashing down.

The sleeves. The way everyone looked at Phil in his oasis. The way his parents had been treating him. 

His reaction to Quackity. His panic over the curse. His back hurting, the visceral reaction whenever someone had gotten just a little too close to seeing.

Phil is carrion cursed.

And Techno isn’t supposed to know.

Chapter Text

Phil can’t stop thinking about the dream he’d had last dark. It wasn’t a good one, and it’s still sticking with him, even now, even a whole light later.

It had been back in that place, that vast, empty place with the smooth ground, and the dark skies, and it’s still not the desert there.

Phil could see himself in the reflection on the floor. There weren’t any mirrors like last time, but that didn’t seem to matter. The environment reflected him back to himself perfectly well enough.

But yet again, it wasn’t the same him that looked back. This one stood where he stood, moved as he moved, ran as he ran and fell as he fell, but he did not look where Phil looked. He looked straight into his eyes without fail.

And his reflection’s eyes were black.

So were the wings on his back.

Not wings like Phil’s, no, far worse. Wings like Quackity’s, big and bulky and real, rustling feathers and rippling muscles, and Phil had had to run his hand along his back too many times to check they weren’t truly there.

His reflection had followed him wherever he’d run, until he could run no more. He’d collapsed, not dissimilar to that dark in the desert when he thought he’d surely perish, alone and in the sand with nothing and no one, but this time there was no sand, there was no Technoblade, there was no anything but himself, and his reflection.

The wings from his reflection had lifted—or perhaps sunk, really—through the floor, had come up and enveloped Phil’s prone body, and it had taken no effort on their behalf. They were so big, and Phil felt so small beneath them.

So trapped, as well.

They were strong, and though there seemed to be no light within this dreamlike plane he’d found himself on, it was only beneath his reflection’s wings that it became truly, utterly dark.

He’d panicked. Of course he had, he was wrapped in carrion wings, and he’d been unable to move them, unable to part them, unable to escape. That meant nothing but death, surely.

He’d pushed and struggled and shouted and called out for Technoblade, but nothing had worked even in the slightest.

Nothing, that was, until he had lain still, resigned himself to his fate—the seven of wings, the carrion crow, doomed and demonic and death marked. The wings had rustled one last time, and presumably had sunk—or risen, it was his reflection after all—back into the floor. Phil wasn’t entirely sure, he’d had his eyes closed.

What he was sure of, though, was the hand on his back. It was like his last dream he’d had, but so much more real. There was a hand on his back, simultaneously pulling both pricks of pain from deep in his muscles, and soothing him, and it graced along his arms and his hair as well.

“Little one,”

A familiar voice had spoken to him. Phil had opened his eyes then, but all he’d seen was a shadow.

“You have nothing to fear, you will be taken care of.”

Phil didn’t know what she meant, but by the time he’d worked out what she’d said, by the time he’d sat up and opened his eyes and his mouth to ask what she meant , the shadow was no longer standing over him.

She’d receded, and it was now that Phil could truly look at her. She had no features, none that he could see. She was simply a dark patch in a dark place, but she looked like a woman. She looked like a woman with a large hat on, and a flowing dress. And Phil swore that when he looked at her reflection, it was made of stars.

He’d woken up after that, shaken and confused and with his back aching like it’d never ached before. It felt like someone was pushing dull knives out from under his skin, under his muscle, under his bones, even. He tried not to cry out, but Technoblade had heard and had come running. 

Apparently he’d been sleeping for almost half the light already. He’d apologised, and Technoblade had… barely paid attention to it. To him.

The light has been strange. Perhaps it’s just because Phil can’t stop thinking about his dream. But it still feels strange.

Technoblade isn’t one for talking a lot, Phil knows that, but he was very quiet all light. He doesn’t say anything more than he had to, especially not to Phil.

“Have I done something wrong?” Phil asks, finally, once they’re both settled at their new camp for the next dark. Phil’s got his knees to his chest and his cloak around his shoulders, because while it’s still quite warm, it’s going to get very cold soon.

Technoblade looks up from his dinner—a stew. Phil’s bowl is already scraped clean and beside him—with furrowed brows.

“Kid- no, no never, what makes you think that?” he says, and it’s the first thing he’s said all light that sounds like, well, himself.

Phil shrugs, pulling his knees even closer to himself. 

“Phil, talk t’ me, I wanna know what I did wrong,” Technoblade says, putting his own half eaten bowl down and leaning forwards. He doesn’t move closer, though, like he usually would. 

Has he grown tired of Phil? Has he grown tired of looking after someone who can’t offer anything in return? Has he grown tired of taking care of someone who’s only ever hurt him and cost him coins? That’s probably it. Phil was stupid to think this could last, stupid to think he could have a nice life with Technoblade, stupid to think anything different than what his parents always told him.

Phil doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say, really. Technoblade hasn’t done anything, and that’s… that’s the whole point. He hasn’t done anything but usually he would. Usually he would joke around when Phil goes quiet, usually he would try and make conversation with him, usually he would try and teach him magic or tell him a story or hum a tune.

Usually he would hold Phil when he got upset, usually he would murmur reassurances to him, usually he would be right there regardless of if Phil asked him to or needed him to or not.

Phil wants Technoblade to hold him. He wants Technoblade to come to the other side of the fire and pick him up and put him in his lap so he can listen to his heart and the way his words bounce around his ribs and vibrate in his chest as he talks. He wants Technoblade to run his hand over his hair and his hands in a steady rhythm that Phil can focus on, he wants… he wants things to be good again.

But they’re not bad, not right now. They’re very, very far from bad, and Phil should be grateful. He should be grateful Technoblade isn’t shouting at him, or hitting him, or throwing sigils at him. He should be grateful he has food and water and shelter and company, he should be grateful he has protection and clothing and shoes and everything he really needs for the desert. Why isn’t he grateful.

“C’mon, kid, it’s okay. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. ‘M sorry I’ve made you feel like you’ve done somethin’ wrong, because you haven’t. Just talk to me Phil, yeah? Tell me what it is so I don’ do it again.”

“It’s okay,” Phil says softly, watching as Technoblade reaches a hand out across the space between them, and Phil hates how something in his stupid, ungrateful little heart lurches, he hates how part of him wants to lean towards it, wants to move towards it, towards Technoblade, to curl up in his arms where it had always felt like the world couldn’t hurt him and he was loved.

Had he really made all that up?

Perhaps he had, if the way Technoblade’s hand falters before it reaches Phil, if the way his fingers flex then curl, if the way he takes his arm back and looks away is anything to go by.

Phil’s very good at not crying. Even so, a tear manages to slip past his notice, falling onto his trousers and making a small, dark circle. Phil ignores it.

It’s very quiet around the fire.

Technoblade keeps eating, and Phil… he pushes his fingers in and out of the sand, watching the grains fall, trying not to let himself think about anything for too long at once. He doesn’t know what to do right now.

Another wave of pain ripples across his back, though, and he tries not to cry out. He thinks he does pretty successfully, because Technoblade doesn’t notice. At least, if he has noticed, he doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t even look up.

“Can I go to bed?” Phil asks, taking his hand from the sand and holding it tight in his other. 

“Hm?” Technoblade says, looking up at Phil, silent for a moment. “Oh, yeah, ‘course you can, kid. You don’t need t’ ask me.”

Phil feels like he does, right now. And part of him- part of him- he just wants Technoblade to say something. Anything. He wants him to shout, to tell Phil he’s sick of him and he wishes he’d left him in the desert all alone, or back at the Mesa where he wouldn't have to see him more than once a moon, if that. He wants him to yell, to call him stupid and lazy and a burden, he wants him to spit at him, to sneer at him, to tell him he wants nothing to do with him ever again.

Phil knows it’s coming, he just doesn’t know why it’s taking so long. He hopes sleeping will make that time seem like less. He just wants to get it over with, the wait is far more painful than the words will be, he’s sure.

So he takes himself to bed, he leaves his boots by the flaps of the tent just like Technoblade taught him to do, he climbs into his own bed of blankets and bedroll, and he tries to sleep.

He really does.

Every time he closes his eyes, though, it feels like he’s back in that dream plane again. His mind conjures up different images, though, and Phil knows it’s not a real dream, because he’s not asleep.

Technoblade, shouting at him. Technoblade, taking him back to his parents. The Mesa, not letting him buy anything or stay anywhere, the woman from his dream, trapping him. The coven and their nets, restraining him, casting spells on him, hurting him. 

And if his mind giving him these images wasn’t enough, there’s fire in his back. It laces down the muscles and skin in fine lines, searing and fresh, aching and stinging at the same time. Phil can’t help but whimper, his face pressed into a pillow.

He ends up kicking his blankets off. They hurt too much, and if he dared he’d take his shirt off too. He can’t, though, because Technoblade might come in any grain, and then he’d see- he’d see Phil’s wings. Technoblade can’t see Phil’s wings because then he’ll…

He already hates him. At least, that’s what it feels like. Technoblade already doesn’t like Phil anymore, but if he sees his wings, then he’ll know he’s cursed, and he might hurt him. Phil doubts it’ll be any worse than the pain he’s in right now, but still, he doesn’t want Technoblade to hurt him.

All thoughts of Technoblade, though, are quickly replaced in his mind.

Phil’s been in pain before, many, many times. He’s been in all sorts of different types of pain, but this one is a new pain entirely.

New, and yet somehow familiar. All the pangs he’s been feeling over the last moon, it’s like that, but so much more. So, so much more. 

And so much worse.

Phil balls his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms to try and distract himself. They cause little pinpricks of pain, but that only lasts a moment, whereas his back seems to be never ending.

His breathing comes and goes all uneven, and he doesn’t feel like he can get enough air into his lungs, no matter how hard he gasps. His back seizes, and he pulls his knees up underneath himself, curling up into as tight a ball as possible.

There’s no hope in trying to stop the tears anymore, Phil’s found. They’re flowing steadily, salty when they catch on his lips, though with his forehead pressed against the pillow, few do.

He’s not sure what they’re for, anymore. He’s not sure how many of them are for the life he could have had with Technoblade—the one he thought he did—and he’s not sure how many of them are for the pain.

He quietens his sobs, though. He feels them hitch in his chest and they make his ribs ache and his throat sting, but neither of those can hold a spark to the fire tracing patterns into the flesh of his back.

Is this the coven’s doing? Did one of their spells hit and lie dormant for this long? Can magic even do something this painful, this sustained without its caster nearby? Phil remembers what Technoblade had said about the different types of magic—clear is quick, it only lasts a few glasses. Copper is slower, it can last lights and moons, and ochre is slowest. It lasts forever. Phil hopes this isn’t ochre magic, he doesn’t want this to last forever. He knows it isn’t clear, because clear magic doesn’t work like this. Unless Technoblade was doing this, but Phil hasn’t seen him cast a single spell since the coven, apart from the sparking sigils, and Phil knows they were all normal ones.

But he didn’t see any copper casters with the coven, he knows he didn’t. Everything had been so hectic, so fast and so dangerous, but he hadn’t seen any orangeish light, only pale blue. 

So what’s happening?

And why is it happening to him?

Another wave of pain hits, like the endless, shifting dunes of the desert. But unlike all the other waves of pain, this one is worse. This one feels- it feels so much worse.

Phil scrabbles to take his shirt off, because even that’s too much, and Technoblade hasn’t come in yet, perhaps he won’t come in the tent for a while. It’s barely dark outside yet.

The pain comes again, and Phil cries out, and it feels like something tears. Not his shirt, not his clothes, but something inside him.

It feels like something is pushing its way out from inside of him. Something ripping through muscles, shattering bones, splitting his skin. It feels like a hundred points of a hundred knives twisting and pushing, it feels like fire eating at his very soul, it feels like something heavy pushing down on his back and pinning him to the bed.

Even though there’s a clear lantern hanging in the tent, everything goes dark, the light dimmed and almost resembling that of the place Phil went to in his dreams, dusky and purplish, but that isn't what Phil’s focusing on right now.

The pain isn’t as acute in the moment, but he feels trapped again, like the net is spread over him, but he can’t see any ropes, magical or otherwise. There’s something of great weight on his back, and he doesn’t know what, or how to move it.

He tries to push himself up onto one elbow, and he succeeds, but the weight doesn’t disappear, it only unbalances him, and he tips sideways. 

Something strange happens, then.

He doesn’t fall. Something steadies him, and it isn’t the hands of Technoblade. It isn’t his own hands, either, nor is it the walls of the tent, or the poles keeping it up at either end. It’s the thing on his back, beating haphazardly against the air and the fabric, and for as well as it's balancing him, Phil topples over anew.

Through the haze of spent tears in his eyes, Phil dares look over his shoulder.

He already knows what he’s going to find, but he has to see it for himself.

He has to see them for himself. 

His wings.

They’re his wings.

The weight is his wings, and Phil can feel his breath speeding up in his chest.

He has wings. Not the tattooed wings of his past, nothing but a suggestion, nothing he couldn’t hide with small sleeves or a shirt he refused to take off, no, these… these are… they’re real.

Just like Quackity.

Just like his dream.

They’re big and they’re black all over, and the feathers are all fluffy, and sticking out at different angles, and as Phil watches, one of the wings gives a little sort of almost flap, and it’s him, it’s him it had to be him he knows it was him but he doesn’t know what he’s doing he doesn’t know what to do he doesn’t know!

Phil scrambles across the tent, as if that will let him put any distance between himself and his wings, as if they aren’t attached to his back, to his body, to his being because he’s cursed he’s cursed he’s cursed he has wings and they’re real they’re so real and so heavy and he doesn’t know how to deal with this, he doesn’t know how to deal with anything!

Phil shrieks, he cries out as he loses his balance again, as his wings flap uselessly and out of his control, he tries to push himself up again but he can’t, he can’t and he tries and it hurts, and he yells again, wordless and pained and terrified, because he has wings now, and there’s nothing in the world that’s worse than wings.

It had been bad enough with the little tattoos, but oh, oh what Phil would give to have those back! What he would do, what he would endure because then it was bearable, then it was possible to live with and then it was okay. Now it’s not, now it’s painful and obvious and scary, and Phil’s stuck in a tent with wings on his back and surely, surely Technoblade’s going to come in any moment.

Phil tries to quiet himself, but he’s sobbing, he can’t see through his tears and his fear, there’s too many feathers and too much weight and too much residual pain, and he can barely hear himself cry out again and again, he doesn’t know what he’s saying only that it’s something, only that noise is happening and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“Little one!”

The voice in his head practically yells, and Phil thinks this isn’t the first thing she’s tried to say to him right now.

“You have to calm down, okay?”

She says, but Phil tries to back away again, even though the wings are on his back and the voice is in his head, even though there’s nothing he can do and he can’t breathe and he can't see and he can’t think and everything’s wrong, everything’s gone wrong and he’s wrong, he’s so, so wrong because he has wings and they’re real and they hurt and he doesn’t know what to do and-

And there’s light coming into the tent, and there’s a shadow holding a ball of blue, and Phil still can’t see properly but he knows it’s Technoblade, and he sobs all over again.

“No!” he shouts, managing to sit up, managing to pull himself away from him, but it’s barely any space, he’s barely any further away and the harm has already been done.

“No!” he cries, bringing his hands up in front of him, because Technoblade knows everything now, and it’s only so long until something happens. “Please!” Phil says, his voice breaking in his chest and he can’t even find the spare energy to stop it from doing that.

Technoblade’s saying something, but Phil can’t hear what, he can only hear his own erratic breathing and panicked heartbeat, pounding in his chest and his ears and there’s a hand on Phil and he screams, he moves back because Technoblade’s going to hurt him, he’s going to hurt him and he’s going to hate him and he’s going to leave him and Phil knew it was going to happen eventually because his parents were right they were always right he’s cursed he’s a burden he’s an omen of death but it’s not the death of the people around him it’s his own death and it’s only a matter of time until that omen isn’t an omen anymore it’s-

“Phil!” Technoblade calls, and somehow, it gets through. Somehow, it breaks the cocoon of fear Phil’s built around himself, and it shatters it, leaving shards all around him, so that wherever Phil moves, whenever he moves, it cuts into him in a way he’s never felt before.

He cries, he sobs, he tries to hide and Technoblade keeps trying to touch him and it keeps hurting, it keeps hurting, his wings are still there and he can’t control them and he doesn’t know what to do and the voice is trying to talk to him but he can’t hear what she’s saying and everything hurts and he doesn’t know how to make it stop hurting it feels like its never going to stop hurting.

“Phil, please!” Technoblade says, and he’s stopped trying to touch him now. Phil’s huddled in the back corner of the tent, and Technoblade’s down at the front, and he looks- Phil can’t work out what he looks like.

“Please, Phil,” he repeats, and he’s breathing all heavy, like he’s been running. He hasn’t been running. “It’s okay,” he says, and Phil knows he’s lying.

“No it’s not!” Phil shouts back, shaking his head and sobbing. “It’s not okay! Don’t lie to me!” 

“Phil, listen!” Technoblade shouts, and Phil whimpers, trying to curl in on himself even more, but his wings dig into his back and they’re uncomfortable, and he wants them gone. “It is okay! Yer gonna be okay! I know it’s scary, I kn-”

“No you don’t!” Phil says, and the words tear at his throat. “No you don’t! I’m cursed! I’ve got the carrion curse and I had it the whole time and it hurts and I don’t know how to get rid of it and it’s bad and- and- and-” he breaks off into sobs, his entire body shaking, and all his limbs feel so heavy. He’s tired, he’s so, so tired, but he has wings and he’s cursed and there’s nothing left anymore.

“Phil,” Technoblade says, and when there’s a hand on his knee, Phil yells, even though he’s tired and everything hurts.

“Don’t hurt me!” he says, he pleads, because even though he knows what’s coming he can wish he could postpone it even just by a few grains. “Please! Please! I- you can’t hurt me, you can’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You can’t- you- please- I- I don’t- don’t hurt me, please-”

“Phil, stop!” Technoblade shouts at him, and Phil shuts up. “It’s okay, Phil, I’m not gonna hurt you!”

“But you are! Everyone does! I’m-” Phil breath hitches, and he coughs, and like everything else, it hurts. “I’m cursed, I’m- the carrion curse, it’s an omen, I’m- you- it’s the death curse, I’m going to kill you, I’m- you’re going to kill me so I don’t kill you because I- please, no, you- no- no no n-” Phil can’t breathe. He can’t breathe right it’s going too fast his breathing is too fast he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe help he can’t breathe he-

“I’m not gonna kill you! I’m not even gonna hurt you!” Technoblade shouts, and Phil still can’t breathe.

“Y- yes you are!” he manages to choke out, though, and it doesn’t help him breathe any better. “Yes you are, b- because I’m c-cursed and- and- and that’s what you do when someone’s cursed and-”

“I’m cursed too!” Technoblade roars, ripping his shirt off and turning around. Phil shuts up immediately.  “I’m cursed too, Phil!” Technoblade says, a little quieter. “Okay? Look, I’m not gonna hurt you, I’m not gonna kill you, I want t’ help you.”

Phil does look.

Because there are wings on Technoblade’s back.

They’re not the same as his own, but they’re similar enough. Lines of void from his shoulders to his waist, unbroken, except- except for a band around the middle. That’s different.

“I’m cursed too, Phil, it’s okay. I’m cursed too.”

Chapter Text

Curses.

Literally.

This is… not good.

Technoblade’s standing shirtless in the mouth of his tent, having now turned around to look at Phil, who’s still cowering in the corner. His wings are pulled up haphazardly around him, looking like they have far too many joints for the way they’re positioned.

Phil’s wings.

Techno is aware he should probably be acting more surprised, but there are… bigger things going on right now.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, breathing heavily. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins is subsiding now, and his shoulders and chest heave for lost breath in the shouting match that came to such an abrupt halt.

“Yer okay, Phil. I’m not lyin’, I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?”

Techno has to be the calm one right now. He has to be steady. For Phil. He has to keep himself together for Phil. Spirits know the only other option is Carl, and he’s a horse.

Speaking of Phil, the kid is still crying. Technoblade… sympathises. He remembers when his own wings came in, and he grimaces in sympathy. It’s not a comfortable ordeal.

Slowly, Techno sits down. He doesn’t approach Phil, not now, not yet, not anymore. The kid doesn’t trust anyone, and he won’t for at least a few shifts, probably closer to a glass. Not with his upbringing.

It’s quiet in the tent, except for Phil’s sobs. They sound like they hurt, and for as much as Techno wants to comfort him, he can’t. It’s too dangerous.

Phil’s wings have popped out, and the curse will only grow more powerful from here.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Techno says, searching through everything on the floor to try and find his shirt again.

Phil says nothing. Techno doesn’t expect him to reply.

“It’ll subside. I know that means nothin’ right now, but it will,” he continues. He finds one white shirt, but holding it up, it’s very clearly not his own. At least Phil didn’t tear through his new clothes, then.

“Yer not alone, kid.”

Phil whimpers, a strangled sound in his throat that makes him sound like a cornered animal, not a person.

“Void, I- I didn’ mean it like that, Phil. Sorry.” Techno finds his shirt, pulling it over his head and pulling his hair from the collar. “The pain. Yer not alone in the pain. I’ve felt it, Quackity’s felt it, everyone like us has felt it.”

Techno’s not exactly sure where he’s going with this, but it’s… something, right? He doesn’t want to sit in silence, because then Phil will panic again. He needs to know he’s safe and okay, even if he doesn’t exactly believe it yet.

“Y’know, wings aren’t all that bad,” Techno says, making himself comfortable. He’s got a feeling he’s going to be here for a long time.

“If they’re not that bad, why’d you-”

“I know you don’t like Quackity,” Techno continues, cutting Chat off and ignoring them. “But he’s no different t’ you ‘n me. He’s pretty outta practice, but he flies a bit. I heard there was this one guy, can’t remember his name, some ochre caster who got cursed, everyone said he was the best flyer the desert had ever seen. Dunno if he’s still around—dunno if he ever actually existed, to be fair—but… yeah. Wings can be cool.”

Phil shifts a little in his corner, his wings stuttering in their movements, he looks like he’s trying to get as far away from the things literally protruding from his own back, and subconsciously drawing them closer every time he tries to retreat. Techno would chuckle, if he wasn’t certain it would upset the kid.

There’s something almost endearing about him, amongst the fear and the panic. His wings are covered in down, and it sticks up in all sorts of strange angles, desperately in need of a preen.

There’s little bits of black fluff all over Phil, as well. It’s in his hair, a stark contrast against his natural blond, shining with a bluish tint in the light of the lantern. There’s down on his blankets, there’s a trail of it across the tent to where he’s huddled, and Techno can already tell they’re going to be picking feathers out of absolutely everything for lights to come.

But Phil’s calming down now. He seems to be, he’s not screaming and he’s not scrabbling against the floor anymore. He’s still shaking, he’s still breathing quickly and Technoblade would bet coins on the fact his hands are clenched to the point of being white knuckled in an effort to stop the tremors. 

It’s barely been any time since Techno picked Phil up and decided to take him with him, but already he’s starting to know how he thinks, how he acts, how he re acts. Already he’s starting to put his needs and wants above his own.

“It’s okay, Phil,” Techno repeats, simply to fill the silence. He doesn’t want Phil to get lost in his own head right now, because there’s far too much bad stuff in there, and he’ll only end up hurting himself more than he has already.

“We’ll get through this together, alright? You ‘n me, just like always. I told you I’m gonna take care of you, an’ you know me, Phil, I don’t like breakin’ my promises.”

Again, it’s just words. Technoblade is speaking simply for the sake of speaking, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t mean everything he’s saying. He does want to help Phil, he does want to be there for him, he does want to protect him and comfort him and make sure he’s okay. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.

Phil shifts again, and cries out, falling forwards. His wings flap, or, one of them does. It’s jerky and uncontrolled—Techno knows Phil’s not deliberately doing it, it’s his instincts, the ones he’s fighting against at this very moment—and the other wing is pinned beneath Phil’s small frame.

Technoblade leans over to try to help, but his presence only makes Phil cry out, and he quickly withdraws his hand.

Not yet.

Not now.

He has to be patient.

Phil finally frees himself, pushing to a sitting position and trying to control his new appendages. 

“When am I going to die?” he asks in a small voice.

He’s so quiet that Technoblade all but misses the question. He’s so quiet and so timid, and it’s so different to the yelling of earlier.

“Yer not gonna die Phil, it’s okay,” Technoblade quickly reassures. Yes, Phil will eventually die one light, because such is the nature of life, but that’s not what he means. It’s not called the carrion curse for nothing. 

“Yes I am!” Phil’s shouting again, very suddenly and very jarringly. Technoblade winces at the shock, but tries to remain calm. The time for shouting back has long passed. “I am going to die! That’s how it works! Either- either you’re going to kill me before I kill you, or the curse will kill me!”

“That’s not how it works, kid,” Technoblade says in a steady, level tone. No wonder Phil had been so scared of Quackity. “I’m not gonna kill you, yer not gonna kill me, and the curse isn’t gonna kill anyone.”

“Stop lying!” Phil screams , and there is nothing but anguish in his voice. Nothing but desperation. It almost… it almost sounds like he wants it to be true. “Stop lying to me!”

“I’m still not lyin’,” Technoblade says, and doesn’t elaborate beyond that.

“Yes you are!” Phil shouts back, and Technoblade readies himself for a barrage. Phil needs to get it all out of his system, he needs to see that Technoblade isn’t going to hurt him, no matter how much he pokes and prods and-

Oh.

Phil’s waiting for the fallout. He’s waiting to be punished. He’s trying to speed the process up, because Technoblade knows that waiting is almost always worse than what comes afterwards.

“You’re lying to me! The curse is bad! It’s bad and I’m cursed and I’m bad! I’m- the- the- the curse- it’s-” Phil’s voice is thick with tears again, his words catching in his throat and stuttering out. Technoblade listens to every one. 

“It’s bad! I’m going to kill you! I’m dangerous and bad and an- an omen, and- and I’m going to die and you’re going to die and I’m going to hurt you!”

Even Techno can tell that Phil’s running out of things to say. He’s repeated himself many times already, parroting back everything casters tell their children about the horrors of the carrion curse. 

“Why aren’t you saying anything!” Phil shouts, and Technoblade meets his eyes. They’re already red and puffy, and he wants nothing but to smooth his tears away, but Techno stays where he is and lets Phil work himself out.

“Just say something!”

Techno sighs. “I’m not going to hurt you, Phil. I made you a promise.”

“Liar!” Phil shouts. “Liar! You’re a liar! You are going to hurt me! That’s what happens! That’s what always happens! You- you’re- you’re going to hurt me!”

How long had Phil’s parents been treating him like that? How long had the abuse lasted that Phil believes it’s the norm? Technoblade isn’t sure he wants to know the answer, actually.

“You’re going to- to hit me, or- or kick me or throw spells at me just like my parents! Because- I’m cursed and that’s bad! I’m bad ! Please, Technoblade! I don’t- don’t hurt me!”

“I’m not going to,” Techno reiterates, in that same calm voice. He needs Phil to understand. He needs him to. “You don’t need to be afraid, Phil, I promise. I’m not yer parents, I’m not anyone from yer oasis. I’m Technoblade, and I’m cursed too.”

Phil doesn’t shout back, at least not immediately, which is a definite improvement. 

“You’re lying!” he does eventually yell, but his voice wavers just a tiny bit, and Techno doesn’t think he entirely believes himself. “You’re lying!”

“I’m not,” Technoblade says. “See?” And he holds out a hand.

Phil’s feathers ruffle, puffing up in defence, trying to make him look bigger. All they do is make him look fluffier, and a few flutter to the ground, ink dark against the blankets. His feathers ruffle and his wings mantle and his eyes widen and he tenses, arms going up to protect his face, eyes squeezed closed.

Techno doesn’t move. Phil will come to him, when he’s ready. When he’s trusting. 

It takes a while. It takes more tears, more steady accusations of dishonesty on Techno’s behalf, more assurances he’s being truly honest, but Phil opens his eyes. He lets his arms down. His shoulder drop and so do his wings, already moving naturally with him and his emotions and gestures. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Technoblade says, holding Phil’s gaze. 

There’s a gentle weight in his palm, then, small, tentative, flinching and disappearing at the slightest sign of movement.

And then it settles. Phil’s hand is resting in Techno’s palm, and just like he predicted, it’s shaking uncontrollably.

Slowly, carefully, Techno wraps his fingers around Phil’s. He holds his hand, a steady grip to stop the tremors, to ground him, to show him that Techno is not Phil’s parents, that he’s not going to hurt him, that he’s not lying.

Phil starts crying again. He bows his head and shudders with his sobs, voice tearing through his tiny body, and Technoblade reaches out with his other arm, movements slow and fluid. 

He starts by putting his hand on Phil’s knee. It’s a familiar gesture, but it’s the least intrusive one he can think of right now. He doesn’t want to go straight for Phil’s face, or straight to a hug, because Phil has quite literally told him he’s waiting for Techno to hurt him. He doesn’t want to scare Phil more than he’s already been hurt by this dark alone.

When Phil doesn’t immediately reject Techno’s touch, he moves it. He makes sure Phil’s relaxed under his fingers, and he gently shifts to his shoulder. Again, it’s not as intrusive as it could be, but it’s hopefully something a bit more assuring than just a hand on his knee.

This time, Phil flinches when Techno makes contact. He ducks away, but he doesn’t break contact, and Techno doesn’t dare move. He has to regain Phil’s trust, otherwise this is going to be very difficult for the both of them moving forwards. He can’t let this kid live his life constantly terrified. 

And again, Phil relaxes. The tension sloughs from his body, and his head hangs low, sobs slowed to sniffles and hiccups. He’s still got one hand in Techno’s.

“Yer okay,” Technoblade whispers, and ever so slowly, ever so gently, he starts to move his hand up Phil’s shoulder, until eventually, he’s holding his face. 

And that’s when Techno knows he’s succeeded.

Phil slumps sideways, resting almost entirely against Techno’s single hand, eyes squeezed shut and fight completely drained from his form. His wings droop and lie across the floor, his free arm bends limp in his lap, and his crying completely silences.

“Oh, Phil,” Technoblade murmurs, letting Phil’s hand slip from his own. He needs both arms to pick him up, to gently pull him into his lap and tuck him against his chest.

Phil doesn’t even try to protest, and if he had, Techno would let go within an instant. But he doesn’t, and Technoblade holds him, one arm pressing their bodies close, the other hand combing through Phil’s hair the way Techno knows he likes.

“You’re okay, Phil, I promise. You’re okay, I’m okay, no one’s gonna hurt you ever again.” A steep promise to make, but Technoblade finds he doesn’t actually mind.

Phil sniffles, and turns his head into Techno’s chest.

“I don’t want to die,” he mumbles. “Please, I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t,” Technoblade replies immediately, shifting as Phil’s wings adjust to their new position. “The curse isn’t gonna kill you, that’s not how it works.”

It’s never been how it works. Techno’s not sure how that superstition started, but he has… a few theories.

“Are you sure?” Phil asks in that same timid voice, peeking up at Techno from where he’s being held.

“Well, I’m not dead yet, am I?” Techno says. “An’ I’ve had the curse a lot longer than you have, so you’d think if it was gonna kill me, it’d’ve done it by now.”

Phil doesn’t respond, not with words. He turns his head back into Techno’s chest, and Techno feels him take a deep, shuddering breath.

The hand in Phil’s hair slips downwards, following the ridges of Phil’s knobbly spine. Techno’s careful to avoid the bases of his wings, because he knows how tender and easily aggravated they will be right now. He wants to soothe, not to hurt, even if accidentally.

And he rubs Phil’s back. Slow, repetitive circles between his feathers, and Phil’s breathing evens out, until eventually, he falls asleep.

Technoblade doesn’t move for a long, long time.

And when he does, it’s barely anywhere at all. He simply lies down, Phil still cradled against him. He pulls a blanket over them both, even if Phil’s wings are somewhat in the way, and he doesn’t let go of the kid for the rest of the dark.

Chapter Text

If there’s anything good about… all of this, it’s that Phil’s back doesn’t hurt anymore. Not in the same way.

It still kind of aches, but it’s… superficial. He doesn’t feel like his bones are too big for his skin, he doesn’t feel like there’s blades nestled between his muscles, he doesn’t feel like there’s something tugging at his soul.

Everything else, however… could be going better.

There’s so much to take in, and Phil doesn’t know where to start. Last dark, he fell asleep in Technoblade’s arms after spending the better part of the glass screaming at him, and this morning, he woke in Technoblade’s arms, a blanket pulled over them both.

It doesn’t make sense.

His wings are still here. Phil doesn’t know what to do with them, he doesn’t know how to control them, how to make them do what he wants them to. Sometimes they flap and knock him in the head, sometimes they fold all weird, sometimes they spring out and knock things over. Technoblade said it was okay when he took out one of the tent poles and the whole thing fell over, but Phil still feels bad.

And his cloak doesn’t fit anymore. Neither does his shirt. The soft, loose shirt Technoblade had bought him, and the beautiful, warm cloak he treasures so much. They don’t fit. Phil doesn’t even try to put his shirt on, he knows that’s not going to work, but he does put the cloak around his shoulders. That part fits, but the rest doesn’t. It doesn’t cover his back like it’s supposed to, because he has wings. They make the fabric bunch up all in the middle and that’s not how it’s supposed to work, and every time Phil tries to make it work properly it doesn’t, and he just ends up crying.

“Phil, hey, what’s the matter?” Technoblade says, dropping down next to Phil, putting a hand on his knee. 

“My cloak doesn’t fit,” Phil sniffles, his throat raw from how much shouting and crying he’s done recently. “It doesn’t fit on my back anymore be- because of my wings.”

Technoblade doesn’t reply immediately. He doesn’t reply for a long time, actually. 

“We’ll work somethin’ out, don’t worry,” he says, and then he stands again, and moves away, leaving Phil and his wings and his cloak that doesn’t work to sit in the sand.

Phil undoes his cloak, pulling it off with a huff. He doesn’t want to have to get rid of this cloak, he likes it. He wants to keep this one, not a different one! This one’s his cloak, it’s his!

He balls it up and hugs it to his chest and cries, because everything is so different now, and nothing’s right, and he doesn’t know what’s happening.

He thought he did. He thought he knew what was going to happen because it always happened the same, so why would it be different this time?

Technoblade found out about his curse. He found out about it in the worst way possible, because Phil has actual wings now, and that’s really not good.

Technoblade found out about his curse, and Phil yelled at him, and that’s bad. It’s so, so bad, and Phil knows what happens when he does bad things. At least, he thought he did.

Technoblade was supposed to hurt him. He was supposed to punish him, because boys like Phil should always try to be good, even if there’s no possible way they can be good because they’re cursed. Technoblade was supposed to hurt Phil, and he didn’t. 

Phil thought he was dragging it out, he thought he was waiting to see just how bad he was going to be, just how disobedient and reckless and awful he really was, and then he’d punish him.

But he didn’t.

Phil kept expecting him to, he’s pretty sure part of him still expects Technoblade to do something. But he doesn’t. Technoblade hasn’t done anything except sit down and talk.

He never hit Phil, he never did magic on him, he never yelled at him except for that one time because Phil wasn’t listening. He sat down and he talked slow and steady and he didn’t stop even when Phil yelled at him more, trying to make him do something. That was what was supposed to happen! He was supposed to do something!

And he did. He put his hand out. Finally he had put his hand out but that was it. That was it! 

And then he had held Phil’s hand, he’d held Phil, even though he has wings.

“Oh, Phil,” Techoblade says, and Phil can hear him crouching down in front of him. “Hey, ‘s okay, look,” he continues, and Phil sniffles, looking over the ball of his own cloak.

Technoblade has something red in his hands, soft and familiar. It’s not Phil’s own cloak, but it’s… it’s the next best thing.

“This might cover you a bit better, yeah?” Technoblade says, holding his cloak out. “Here, can I put it over you?”

Phil nods, and uncurls a little bit where he’s sitting. The weight of the fabric is nice, like a hug, and it’s warm. Technoblade adjusts it over his wings, and this time, it works. It doesn’t slip and fall like Phil’s cloak does, even if it does feel a little awkward.

“There we go,” Technoblade says, sitting back down in front of Phil. “‘S that better?”

Again, Phil nods. He doesn’t want to talk right now.

He still doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen.

He thought he was supposed to be hated. Even after going to the Mesa, he still thought Technoblade would hate him for his curse. Just because Technoblade doesn’t hate Quacktiy didn’t mean he wouldn’t hate Phil! Phil is living with Technoblade and Quackity isn’t, it’s different!

But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Because Technoblade is cursed too.

Technoblade has wings too, but they’re a lot bigger than Phil’s. They looked different too, when Phil saw them. They weren’t crow wings, they were something else. He’s not sure what. 

Technoblade’s cursed too.

Technoblade is cursed too.

What’s Phil supposed to do with that information? Technoblade is just like him except he’s not, because he’s not sitting in the sand with no shirt and someone else’s cloak and actual real wings with feathers. But he is like him because he has wings and he’s cursed and does he have a voice too? Does he have weird, scary dreams too? Are they part of the curse or are they just things Phil has?

Should he tell Technoblade about the voice and the dreams?

“Technoblade?” Phil asks in a small voice, rubbing at his eyes as he looks up.

Technoblade is still there.

“Yeah?” he says, tilting his head. “What’s up?”

“Do you-” Phil sniffs. “Is there a voice in your head, too?”

Technoblade nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you got one too, huh? I call mine Chat, an’ they’re a real nuisance sometimes.”

“Mine doesn’t have a name,” Phil says, twisting his own cloak in his hands. He thinks he remembers Technoblade mentioning Chat, once. It was lights and lights ago, when Technoblade had found Phil and not taken him home again.

“I’m sure if you ask, your voice’ll tell you their name,” Technoblade says. “D’you wanna ask?”

Phil shakes his head quickly. He doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to talk to his voice right now. He didn’t know he could.

“That’s okay, that’s okay,” Technoblade says. “You don’t have to. Not until yer comfortable.”

Phil nods this time, sniffing again.

“Why is there a voice in my head?” he asks, because no one ever really told him. He knows the voice has something to do with the curse, but his parents said it was like a demon, and he’s pretty sure demons don’t exist.

“They don’t.”

The voice says. She startles Phil, and he jumps a little bit.

Technoblade sighs in answer to Phil’s question and moves about a bit.

“D’you remember when we were talkin’ about where magic comes from?” Technoblade says, looking at Phil.

“With the spirits, and the colours?” Phil asks. He does remember that, it was only a couple of lights ago. 

“Yeah, then. I… I lied, Phil.”

Phil’s face falls. Technoblade lied? What did he lie about? Why did he lie?

“I didn’t want ‘t scare you. I knew you… you didn’t like the curse. I didn’t know why, obviously, an’… it wasn’t super important at the time,” Technoblade says, and his eyes keep flicking away. 

“What did you lie about?” Phil asks, scared of the answer.

“Magic. I lied about magic. I told you there’s three different types, but… that’s not true. There’s clear,” he draws a circle in the sand, “copper,” he draws a line, “and ochre,” he draws a square, and then Technoblade looks up at Phil.

“It’s empty,” Phil says, looking down at the drawing. He said it was empty last time, too.

“It’s empty,” Technoblade agrees. “Because it’s missing the last type of magic, ebony magic.” He draws a triangle in the middle of the drawing, pointing down. It crosses over the line from copper magic, and it fills the space up just right.

“Ebony magic?” Phil asks, looking down at the drawing, pulling his knees in close to his chest. It feels right now. It doesn’t feel empty.

“Yeah, ebony magic. It’s the fourth type of magic, but it… it doesn’t work like the rest of the magics.”

“Why not?” Phil’s never heard of ebony magic before. He’s never heard of any ebony casters, either. Are there any ebony casters? Why is Technoblade telling him all this?

“Remember what I said about spirits, how magic used to be when spirits and humans… joined, for a bit, and then the rules of the spirit plane got put into the human plane?”

Phil nods, he remembers that too. “But that’s not how magic works anymore, the spirits are inside of us,” he says, because that’s what Technoblade told him.

“That’s not how clear and copper and ochre magic works, no,” Technoblade says. “But that’s still how ebony magic works. Ebony spirits never joined with humans, they still exist. Chat is an ebony spirit, so is your voice. They live in the ebony plane, an’ they’ve joined with us to do magic.”

“Why?” 

Technoblade blinks. And takes a deep breath. And blinks again. “I… I don’t actually know. Chat, do you know?”

Technoblade is quiet for a moment.

“Because we have to. Just like you have to breathe, we have to do what you call magic.”

It’s the voice. She’s answering Phil’s question for him.

“Because they have to,” Phil says.

“Because they have to,” Technoblade says at the same time. “Your voice told you that too?” he says afterwards.

Phil nods. “Does this mean I can do… the other magic?”

“Ebony magic,” Technoblade supplies. “And… theoretically, yes. I… don’t know how to do ebony magic. I used to know a very little bit, but I don’t- I don’t anymore.”

“Is it like clear magic?” Phil asks, because all the other magics are kind of like clear magic, but they’re also different to ebony magic. Maybe ebony magic is completely different.

“Yeah, pretty much. The shape is a triangle, see?” Technoblade says, retracing the triangle with his finger on the drawing between them. “An’ the difference between ebony and all the other magics is—you know how they all last for a different time?”

“Yeah, copper lasts longer, and ochre lasts longest. How can- how can something last longer than forever?” Phil asks, because that’s surely what ebony magic does. But it doesn’t make sense.

“It doesn’t, don’t worry, kid. Ebony magic doesn’t last at all, it happens instantly. There’s no time between castin’ the spell, an’ it bein’ over. There’s no way t’ see what’s gonna happen until it’s already happened.”

“Oh.” That’s… not what Phil’s expecting. He thought clear magic was the fastest, but it’s not. “Can you teach me?”

“I… I don’t know the runes. I only ever really learnt how to do one thing, I didn’t- I didn’t want to learn ebony magic, so I… I can’t really teach you this, sorry kid,” Technoblade says, shaking his head.

“What thing did you learn how to do? Can you teach me that?” Phil asks, leaning forwards. He leans a little bit too far forwards, actually, because he now has much more weight on his back, which he’s very much not used to, and his wings flap about as he loses his balance and sticks an arm out to break his fall.

Technoblade chuckles, and helps him back up.

“They’re annoyin’, huh?” he says, readjusting the cloak over Phil’s back. “And yours are just little, you’ve got baby wings, ‘s why they’re all fluffy.”

“They’re going to get bigger?” Phil asks, eyes wide. He doesn’t want them to get bigger! He wants them to go away! 

“Not any time soon,” Technoblade says, but that’s still not a good thing! Phil doesn’t want it to happen ever, not just a long time away!

“I don’t- I don’t want them to get bigger!” Phil says, craning his neck and trying to look over his back.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. They’ll only get bigger as you get bigger, don’ worry. They grow like you grow, an’  you’ll fledge once you get a bit older. D’you know what that means?”

Phil shakes his head, still trying too look over his own shoulder. “I don’t wanna!”

“I can’t do anythin’, Phil. Jus’ listen to me. Fledging means you’ll loose all yer fluffy baby feathers, an’ get big, strong ones for flyin’. But! Phil, hey, it’s okay. Listen to me, kid. I can teach you how to put yer wings away, like I got Quackity t’ do, yeah? D’you want me to teach you that?”

This time, Phil nods. He doesn’t want wings. They’re- they’re big, they’re unfamiliar, he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Okay, Phil, I need you t’ calm down a bit, alright? It’s okay, we’ll sort this out together. Yer not gonna get hurt.”

Technoblade takes Phil’s hands in his own, and squeezes gently. Phil squeezes back, hard, trying his best to calm down. He doesn’t like his wings. He wants them to go away.

“There we go,” Technoblade murmurs, letting go of one of Phil’s hands and brushing his hair out of his eyes, his fingers warm against Phil’s cheek.

“Now,” Technoblade starts. “You don’ actually need t’ draw anythin’ for this bit of magic. The wings are the sigil, so you just gotta do the magic bit.”

“How do I do that?” Phil asks. He remembers doing the sparking sigil a few lights ago, is it like that?

“It’s like the sparking sigil.” Oh, so it is like that. “You gotta concentrate yer ebony magic this time into the lines—yer wings—and the sigil will do the rest for you. It’s okay if it takes a few tries, okay? It’s okay if you can’t do it yet, either, this’ll probably take a lot of practice.”

Phil nods, and takes a breath. He just- he has to put all the ebony magic into his wings. He can do that.

Everything around him dims for a moment, and a weight lifts off his shoulders all of a sudden, the cloak falling against his bare skin.

“Did it work?” he asks. He feels like it should have been harder. Isn’t magic supposed to be hard?

“Y- yeah. Yeah, it did, kid. It worked.”

Chapter Text

He’s supposed to hate his wings.

Phil knows this. He’s supposed to hate his wings, because they’re part of the curse. He’s supposed to despise the tattoos and shun the limbs, he’s supposed to want to do anything to get rid of them.

And he did. He really, truly did. They hurt, even now, but they hurt more before. They hurt so much , and he hated that. Then they came out, and he hated that too. They were strange and unfamiliar and he is cursed, and he hated that.

But…

Phil doesn’t want to think about this. He knows what he’s supposed to think, how he’s supposed to feel. It doesn’t make sense for him to feel anything else. He knows how this is supposed to go, so it should go like that.

And he still doesn’t like that he’s cursed. He really, really doesn’t like that. He hates it.

Being cursed is bad, even if Technoblade says otherwise. There’s a spirit inside of him who isn’t like the spirit that’s supposed to be inside of him, and that’s bad. There’s more magic that he isn’t supposed to be able to do because he’s supposed to be able to do normal clear magic, not strange ebony magic, and that’s bad. He’s cursed and he can’t do anything about that and that’s bad.

He knows how this is supposed to go. He knows what’s supposed to happen.

He knows that the curse gets stronger. It already has. First it was the tattooed wings, now it’s real wings. The voice speaks more, she says more and more things in Phil’s head now, too. Phil knows it’s supposed to get stronger. It’s supposed to- to consume him. It’s supposed to get stronger and stronger until there’s no Phil left, only the curse. It’s supposed to kill him, and kill the people around him, because it’s carrion and he’s carrion and that’s what’s supposed to happen.

People say the voice is a demon—but Phil now knows she’s a spirit—and that the demon takes over your body completely until you’re a demon too, or you’re just part of that demon. That’s how they get powerful. That’s how it’s supposed to happen.

And Phil’s scared of that. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to turn into a demon, or a spirit. He just wants to be Phil! He wants to be Phil, and travel the desert with Technoblade and Carl, and eat dates and buy ribbons.

He doesn’t want Technoblade to turn into a demon either, he doesn’t want him to be bad and hurt him. Phil doesn’t want Technoblade to hurt him, even though that’s how it’s supposed to happen.

Phil is supposed to hate his wings, because they’ve shown him that what’s supposed to happen does happen, but… he doesn’t.

Not in the way he’s supposed to.

He’s been spending most of the light making them appear and disappear. Technoblade let them both sleep late this morning, and they didn’t leave for a while, because Technoblade said his head still hurts from the fight with the coven.

“But clear magic isn’t supposed to last?” Phil had pointed out, confused when Technoblade told him that.

“Yer right, it doesn’t. But this isn’t clear magic, kid, this is just normal injuries. Hit my head hard when they shot me with a spell, need t’ give it time to heal properly,” Technoblade explained. Phil didn’t even realise that had happened, it must have been when he was stuck in the net.

It feels like moons ago that that happened, but it’s not, it’s only a couple of lights.

The light has been slow so far, they left their camp much later than usual, when the sun was already very high in the sky, and Carl moved very slowly too. They haven’t gone very far at all, but Technoblade said it’s important to get away from where the fight happens. They don’t want the coven to find them again so easily.

Phil had been told not to play with his wings while on Carl, though, because there isn’t enough room for him to make them appear and disappear without always knocking Technoblade. Technoblade told him he has to either have them out, or put them away, he can’t have both.

“What if I put one out, and one away?” Phil asked, twisting around in the saddle to look up at Technoblade. 

Technoblade had chuckled, squeezing Phil gently. “‘S not possible, kid, but I’d love t’ see you try.”

Phil had started trying, but Technoblade had then told him off, so he stopped.

But now he’s trying again. They’re not on Carl anymore, they’re in a new camp, with a fire and the tent and Phil’s sitting by the former, staring at the flames but not really seeing them.

He’s trying to make one wing go, and one wing stay. Technoblade says it’s not possible, but Phil wants to try and prove him wrong.

Because… this is easy. Phil’s not sure if it’s supposed to be easy.

Doing the magic to make his wings appear and disappear is easy . It’s as easy as breathing, it’s as easy as blinking, it’s as easy as sifting sand through his fingers. Phil thought magic was supposed to be hard, but it’s not.

He barely has to think to change the state of his wings. He doesn’t have to sit and concentrate like he does with clear magic, and he knows it’s working, even if he can’t see his wings. Everything around him dims when it works, like all the light is being sucked out of the world. It only lasts a grain, though, before it comes back.

Phil sits by the fire for a while, trying to make only one wing appear. This is harder than both at the same time, but that’s okay. Phil’s almost certain he’ll get it, even though Technoblade told him it’s not possible.

“What’re you doin’, kid?” Technoblade asks, handing him a rough hewn bowl of food. Phil takes it gratefully, but sets it aside for later. He’s concentrating right now.

“Trying to put only one wing out,” he says, furrowing his brows and trying again. Both wings pop into existence, and he wrinkles his nose. Not quite, but it felt like one took a little bit longer to appear than the other.

Technoblade chuckles again, eating his own food. “That was glasses ago, you’re still at it?” he asks.

Phil nods, seeing if it’s easier to make only one disappear, as opposed to only one appear.

“You don’t need t’ keep tryin’, it’s okay,” Technoblade says. “I wasn’t meanin’-”

“I want to,” Phil says, cutting him off. “I want to try. I know you said I can’t do it, but I want to try.”

Technoblade blinks. “If you say so, kid. Good luck.”

It turns out it is easier to try and hide only one wing, instead of showing only one. It takes several attempts, but Phil can tell he’s done it when the weight on his left shoulder suddenly disappears, but the one on his right stays.

“Technoblade!” he shouts, twisting his head so quickly his braid almost hits him in the face. He gives his one wing an experimental almost-flap, since he’s still not very good at controlling the thing. It just tends to do what it wants, really. “Look! Look! I did it!”

“Heh, nice. You work out how to fold ‘em then?” Technoblade says, and he doesn’t sound nearly as surprised as he should be.

“No!” Phil protests, turning back around. “Look! Only one wing!” 

This time, Technoblade does look. He looks up from his dinner and frowns a little bit, putting the bowl down and coming over to Phil, behind him, a hand on his bare shoulder. It’s warm.

There’s a gentle touch along Phil’s back, tracing the lines of the tattoo where his left wing should be, but isn’t. Phil shivers, because the only other person who’s ever touched his back is the person from his dream, and he’s not sure if he likes that person or not.

“You did it,” Technoblade says softly. “You actually did it.”

“Yeah!” Phil says, still grinning. “See! I told you I could!”

Technoblade is very quiet, and his hand disappears from Phil’s back. Has Phil done something wrong?

“Quackity was right, yer a real mystery, Phil,” Technoblade says. “You actually… an’ I thought I was doin’ impossible magic.”

“What does that mean?” Phil asks, because it doesn’t make sense. 

“Nothin’, nothin’. Yer wing’s a mess, though,” Technoblade says. “Do you know about preenin’?”

“Preening?” Phil hasn’t heard that word before. 

“No, ‘course you don’t,” Technoblade says, and he sounds more like himself now, less like he’s all surprised and confused. “Preenin’ just means cleanin’ yer wings. Makin’ all the feathers sit right, gettin’ the sand out. You probably can’t see it, but you should probably preen soon, ‘cause yer feathers are pointin’ in all the wrong directions.”

That doesn’t sound good. But Phil doesn’t know how to preen, he just found out what the word means!

“I don’t know how to,” Phil says, shrugging. 

“That’s okay, I do,” Technoblade says, which surprises Phil. He realises quickly that it probably shouldn’t surprise him, because Technoblade is carrion cursed too, and that means he must have wings. But Phil’s never seen them, does Technoblade keep them hidden all the time? He’d never even seen the tattoos until a light ago, and his tattoos look different to Phil’s. Does that mean his wings look different too? Quackity’s are different from Phil’s. Are all the wings different?

“Can I see your wings?” Phil asks, even though they were just talking about preening. He scoots around where he’s sitting in the sand, facing Technoblade. “You’ve seen my wings, can I see yours?”

Technoblade blinks a little bit, then he sighs. “Yeah, ‘course you can, kid. No use in hidin’ ‘em from you anymore, is there?”

Phil shakes his head as Technoblade pulls his shirt off and turns around so Phil can see.

And he’s right, Technoblade’s tattoos are different to Phil’s. They’re still wings, but they’re… not as round. They’re thinner, longer, the feathers at the ends of the wings look like fingers, almost.

They’re bigger, too. Of course they are, Technoblade is way bigger than Phil, and he said the wings get bigger when someone gets bigger themself. And there’s a band around them. It’s a different colour, not black like the tattoos. It’s yellow, and it’s got runes on it. Phil doesn’t know what that means.

“Can I see your actual wings?” he asks, because he wants to see what they really truly look like, not just the tattoos. Technoblade must be able to hide and reveal his wings, since he taught Phil how to do it.

But- “No,” Technoblade says. “‘M sorry kid, I can’t do that.”

“Oh,” Phil says. So Technoblade has seen his wings, but he’s not allowed to see Technoblade’s. That’s okay, Phil just wishes he knew that before he asked. “Sorry.”

“Phil, hey, it’s not like that,” Technoblade says, turning around and resting a hand on Phil’s knee. “I want t’ show you, but I can’t.” He turns around again, so Phil can see his back. “See here?”  he asks, and Phil looks up. “The line across the tattoos. It’s ochre magic. A bindin’ spell, specifically.”

Phil reaches up, running a finger along the runes. They shine ever so slightly gold, rippling under his touch. “What for?” he asks.

“For the curse,” Technoblade replies. “They’re bindin’ the curse.”

He turns back around, and Phil lets his hand fall into his lap. Why would Technoblade bind the curse like that? What does it do? How does it work? Is this what Sneeg was meaning when he said Technoblade found an ochre caster?

“Heh, you look confused, kid,” Technoblade says, chuckling. He ruffles Phil’s hair, and Phil wrinkles his nose at him. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna explain, just wanted t’ put my shirt back on. I don’t have wings to keep me warm like you. Well, wing, since you’ve done the impossible.”

Phil tries to flap his wing again happily, and it just about works. He thinks. Technoblade said one light he’ll be able to fly, Phil doesn’t quite believe that yet.

“C’mere, kid,” Technoblade says, holding his arms out. Phil quickly shuffles back until he’s in Techno’s embrace, letting his wing lie across the sand and letting Technoblade put his arms around him. 

“Why did you bind the curse?” Phil asks, because he knows Technoblade said he’d explain, but Phil doesn’t want him to forget.

“Because I was like you,” Technoblade replies, and Phil can feel his chest rise and fall with each breath he can take. “I grew up in an oasis like you did, an’ that’s where I was when I got the curse. Everyone thought I was dangerous, ‘cause I already had really strong magic. They found out, an’ they…” Technoblade pauses.

“They hurt you?” Phil supplies, because that’s what happened to him, even if he’s not very good at clear magic.

“Yeah, let’s go with that. They wanted to hurt me real bad, but I didn’t let them. I ran away, an’ started livin’ by myself. Sorry, by myself with Chat. But I was just like you, I was scared of the curse. I didn’t like it, I didn’t like my wings, I was scared of it controllin’ me. That part isn’t a lie, Phil, ebony spirits can possess people, I’ve seen it happen before.”

“You have?” Phil asks, and suddenly he feels a lot less good about his newfound wings and magic. He doesn’t want to be possessed.

“Only once. Apparently, it’s very rare, but Schlatt took control of Quackity when we got into a fight, once, stopped me from accidentally killin’ him.”

“Who’s Schlatt?” Phil remembers Quackity, but he doesn’t remember meeting anyone called Schlatt.

“He’s Quackity’s spirit. Like I have chat, and you have your spirit. But anyways, I was scared of that, like I’m sure you are. Someone told me that there was a way to stop that from happenin’, a way to stop the curse from progressin’, but it came with its own… complications.”

Technoblade shifts, and Phil moves with him, burrowing into the crook of his arm.

“They told me I needed to find an ochre caster, which everyone knows is next to impossible. They told me they could bind the curse, if I was willin’ to pay the price.”

“What’s the price?”

“The curse will never leave.”

That doesn’t sound like a price to Phil, because the curse doesn’t leave, even if you’re not bound! That’s not how it works.

“When would the curse go away?” Phil asks, very confused.

“There’s a couple of ways it can go away,” Technoblade explains. “If yer spirit dies, then your tie to their plane ceases, and yer not cursed anymore. If you die, yer spirit has no connection to our plane, and then yer not cursed. An’ people say that if the time is right, if the person and the spirit are right, then sometimes, it just… goes away. There’s a chance the curse goes, but it’s never guaranteed.”

“A chance is better than nothing, though,” Phil says. He never knew there was a chance.

“But there’s a chance it doesn’t go away, an’ there’s a chance you get possessed, which scared me,” Technoblade counters. “By gettin’ my curse bound, that would never happen. I would always be myself, I would always be in control of my own body. I’d never be able to do ebony magic—therefore never be able to get my wings out again—but Chat would never be able to hurt me. It contains the curse, freezes it in time.”

“That… makes sense.” It makes a lot of sense. Phil’s scared about dying, about being not himself, he doesn’t want that to happen. His wings aren’t as bad as he thought they would be, but it would be nice to not be so scared all of the time.

“So I found an ochre caster. It took me a few suns, but I found one who was willin’ to bind my curse. The only thing they told me that I didn’t already know was that if my spirit died, I would also die, and vice versa. Chat an’ I are bound together for the rest of our lives, we can’t get rid of each other without gettin’ rid of ourselves.”

Phil thinks about that. He thinks about it a lot. He could freeze his curse. Technoblade did it, he bound his and it works , he can’t get his wings out and Chat can’t hurt him, and it’s okay, it’s good . Phil didn’t even know Technoblade was cursed until he told him, and that would mean Phil would be the same! No one would know he was cursed unless they told him.

“Do you think-” Phil begins, looking up at Technoblade. “Do you think I could get my curse bound?”

Technoblade blinks down at him, but then he nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, we can do that. If that’s what you want t’ do. I’ve found an ochre caster before, what’s one more time?”

Phil smiles, burrowing down into Technoblade’s hold. He can get his curse bound! He doesn’t have to be scared anymore! His wings will go away and so will all the bad things in the curse and he’ll be safe and happy and it’ll be perfect.

“Now c’mon,” Technoblade says, interrupting Phil’s train of thought. “Preenin’ time, yer feathers are a mess , an’ I was pickin’ ‘em out of our things all light. Get yer other wing out, an’ I’ll teach you how t’ preen.”

Technoblade pushes Phil up to a sitting position, and scoots him off of his lap. Phil lets himself be moved, and brings out his left wing once he stops moving. It’s easy, just like always.

Then there’s a warm pressure on his wings, and Phil jumps a little. That’s new.

“Tell me if anythin’ hurts, aright?” Technoblade says. Phil nods.

And then he melts. Technoblade’s hands smooth themselves along his feathers, and Phil can feel his shoulders droop, he can feel the tension seeping from his limbs already. It’s so nice .

“Now, when yer preenin,” Technoblade begins, but his fingers are properly in Phil’s feathers now, and it’s so nice , it’s gentle and warm and he’s doing something and Phil didn’t realise how much his wings itched until now, how wrong everything felt until Technoblade moves it all back into place. 

Technoblade is still talking, and his voice is nice. It’s deep and rough and steady, and Phil knows he should be listening, but he can’t find the energy right now. It’s getting harder to keep his eyes open, harder to stay upright, harder to stay awake. 

And so he doesn’t. Phil slumps back into Technoblade, and falls asleep. He’s never been more comfortable.

Chapter Text

Technoblade says they’ve changed course. He says they’re heading towards an ochre caster oasis now, not in the direction they were going before. 

Honestly, Phil can’t tell the difference. The desert looks basically the same everywhere, so he’s just going to trust Technoblade.

He’s going to trust him when he says they’re going to get Phil’s curse bound.

“Is there any way to hide the tattoos?” Phil asks, looking up from where he sits on Carl, trying to see Technoblade behind him.

“Not with the bindin’, if that’s what yer askin’,” Technoblade says. “You saw mine, they’re still there.”

“Mmm, yeah, but- but is there any other way? So I can wear whatever clothes I want and people won’t know I’m cursed?” Phil’s excited about the prospect. He’s excited at the idea that hopefully soon, he’ll be as good as cured. Well, cured of something with no cure, that is.

“You must not be afraid, little one.”

The voice says. She’s been saying similar things over the past few lights, ever since Phil’s wings popped out. Apparently that’s what it’s called, ‘popping out’. Phil thinks that’s a stupid name, because they didn’t pop, they tore, and it hurt.

“Technoblade?”

“Yeah?”

“The voice is telling me to not be afraid again,” Phil complains. Now he knows the voice is a normal thing for someone who’s carrion cursed, he’s started telling Technoblade what she says. Only sometimes, though. And Technoblade has started talking about Chat more too.

“Well, are you afraid?” Technoblade asks, nudging Phil with his elbow and looking down at him.

“No!” Phil says, bouncing a little. “I’m excited. I’m going to have my curse bound and it’s not gonna hurt me and it’s all gonna be great!”

Technoblade chuckles, and looks back out across the desert.

“I think what you need to not do is be impatient, actually,” he says, giving Phil another nudge. “It’s not easy findin’ an ochre caster, it’s gonna take a while.”

“Like a few more lights?” Phil asks. A few lights seems like a while.

“Longer,” Technoblade replies.

“A few moons?” That’s very long, actually. Phil hopes it’s faster than that.

Technoblade is quiet for a moment before he replies. “Yeah, let’s go with that. A few moons. Several of them, really.”

Several moons… Phil can wait that long. He’s had the curse for a few suns already, surely it’s not going to get worse that quickly.

“Can I get my wings out?” Phil asks, swivelling around to look at Technoblade. He’s not sure why he wants to get his wings out, but he’s bored and it’s something to do. He’s been trying to learn how to move them properly, and it’s working! He’s not very good at it yet, but he can flap them and fold them and of course, he can make them appear and disappear.

“Not on the horse, kid, we’ve been over this,” Technoblade says. 

“Awww,” Phil pouts.

“Sorry Phil, but they’re heavy, we don’t want Carl gettin’ tired, then we’ll have t’ walk ourselves. Plus, last time you got them out, you knocked me off.”

Phil giggles, remembering what happened. It was last light, in the morning, Phil wasn’t thinking very much and he forgot to warn Technoblade he was getting his wings out. He was trying to do it as fast as he could, and they came bursting from his back, pushing Technoblade backwards and sideways off of Carl, and he fell in the sand.

Phil had been scared Technoblade was going to be angry at him, and even though he wasn’t super happy at first, he started laughing. That made it okay. Technoblade’s laugh isn’t a mean laugh, it’s a nice one. Phil likes it a lot.

Without being able to make his wings appear, Phil… doesn’t have much else to do. He’s spent a lot of long lights on Carl’s back with Technoblade, and he likes them, he really does! But sometimes they’re… boring. The desert looks so similar and it takes so many glasses until they stop and do something. 

Sometimes Phil sleeps on these rides, but he’s not tired right now. He used to spend the whole time trying not to fall off, but he doesn’t need to do that anymore. He’s used to riding Carl, Technoblade says he has good balance. Plus, he’s not so scared of Technoblade anymore, he’s not scared to lean back against his chest and let his arms stabilise him. It’s comfortable when he does that.

“Technoblade?” Phil asks, looking up again.

“Yer talkative this light, kid,” Technoblade replies.

“Can you tell me a story?”

“A story?”

“Yeah,” Phil repeats, resting back against Technoblade. “A story.”

“Suns, uh… yeah. Yeah, I can tell you a story,” Technoblade says, and Phil smiles.

“Thank you.”

“‘S no problem, kid. Now, have I ever told you about why I ended up wanderin’ the desert?” Technoblade asks.

Phil shakes his head. He can guess, now, but he doesn’t know the whole story.

“Right. So- When I was your age, I lived in a clear caster oasis. I… wasn’t really s’pposed t’ be there. My parents were traders, I think they just decided it was too hard t’ keep a baby alive in the desert by themselves. I never knew ‘em, just knew the stories.”

Phil’s heard of that happening. Traders or wanderers leaving children in oases, never returning for them. Sometimes, it’s okay for the babies, they get taken in and adopted and raised. Sometimes it’s not, because the desert is harsh, and sometimes, its people are harsher.

“Our high mage, they didn’ like outsiders overstayin’ their welcomes. Sounded like a copper caster, though I didn’t know what those were until much later. A family took me in, raised me like their own kid. Never thought of them as my parents, though, they didn’t quite care enough for that.”

Phil knows what it’s like to have parents that don’t care about you. But even Technoblade’s not-parent-parents sound better than Phil’s parents.

“We pretended I was part of their family. I… used t’ look a bit different, had different hair, an’ a different name. I was always worried someone would find out where I was from, an’ I’d be kicked out,” Technoblade continues.

“I learned magic, an’ as it turns out, I’m really good at it. I stopped worryin’ quite so much then, because people were carin’ more about my spells than they were me. I was good at somethin’, and that meant I belonged.”

Phil never had that. Phil was never good at magic, he never belonged. He’s still not good at clear magic, and he still doesn’t belong in his old oasis, but he doesn’t care quite so much about that second one anymore.

“I was top of my class, people wanted me to be the next high mage. I wasn’t so interested, though, jus’ wanted t’ do my own thing.

“I was about eighteen suns when it happened. Can’t quite remember how I noticed it, but I remember seein’ the starts of the tattoos on my back. I tried to magic them away, but it didn’t work. As I’m sure you know.”

Phil does know. He knows very, very well, and he nods, curling closer. It hurts when people try to magic his wings away.

“I hid it, covered it up as much as I could for as long as I could. But it kept growin’, an’ I was a lot bigger than you are now, so my wings were bigger. Somehow, I managed t’ keep it a secret for a few moons. By that time there was no denyin’ it, I was cursed. I didn’t tell anyone, not even my… parents. I’ll call ‘em my parents for the sakes of this story. I didn’t tell anyone, but someone found out.”

“Who?” Phil asks, looking up.

“All of 'em. Must've started somewhere but it spread so fast that didn't matter. Even if I wanted t' know, I didn’t have time before the whole voiddamned oasis was after me. Like Niki mentioned, I used to tutor kids, people said I was trainin’ ‘em in demonic magic, that I was cursin’ them all. Word got out about how I wasn’t from the oasis either, and… an’ I had t’ run. Didn’t get t’ say goodbye to anyone—not that anyone but Niki would’ve listened to me—just had t’ book it into the desert.”

“Like me,” Phil says. That’s what he did, he ran into the desert without saying goodbye to anyone or anything. He didn’t have time to do anything else.

“Yeah, jus’ like you, kid. The oasis chased me for a bit, but none of ‘em were ever good enough t’ beat me with magic, not when I could throw spells at them twice as fast as they could draw ‘em. They’ve left me alone since, an’ I’ve been out here the whole time. Changed my name, changed my appearance, bound my curse… found you.”

“So you had to leave because of your curse too?” Phil asks. He’d never met anyone else cursed before Technoblade found him, so he doesn’t really know what’s normal or not.

“Yeah. Most of us do. Me, Quackity, Katherine, Ranboo, the lot. If you don’t…”

“What happens if you don’t?” 

Technoblade sighs, and it’s so deep that Phil moves slightly where he’s sitting.

“Then… then you don’t get to leave at all,” Technoblade says. That doesn’t make sense, and he won’t meet Phil’s eyes. “But that’s enough of that, we’ve got a long journey ahead of us to the ochre casters.”

Phil’s still turning Technoblade’s story over in his mind when they eventually come to a slow, and a halt. How Technoblade got cursed, how he hid it, how it was found and he was punished. How he escaped, how he stayed alive and how he survived. 

It’s very similar to Phil’s story. Technoblade was older than Phil is now, and better at magic, but that’s okay. It’s still similar. Phil… he likes that it’s similar. He likes that Technoblade is like him, that he knows what it’s like even if it’s a bit different.

When Phil’s wings had popped out, Phil told Technoblade he was lying. He really truly thought he had been lying, surely there was no way Technoblade knew what it was like to be cursed and hated for it.

But he does. 

Phil watches as Technoblade chooses a spot for camp, as he reaches up and lifts Phil from Carl, as he grins when Phil does because that means he’s allowed to get his wings out now. 

“Hey kid,” Technoblade says, and Phil looks over from where he’s concentrating, trying to move his wings properly. “Catch.”

Something red comes flying at Phil, and he doesn’t catch it in time, so Technoblade’s cloak hits him in the face and drapes all over him.

Phil can hear Technoblade chuckling as he finds his way out of the heavy red fabric, and bunches it all up in his hands. It’s not cold enough yet, and he’s still trying to learn how to use his wings!

“For later,” Techonblade says, like he’s just read Phil’s mind. 

Phil grins at him, and chooses a spot on the sand next to where Technoblade’s marked out a space for the fire. There’s no fire yet, but there is wood, so Phil decides he’s going to give his wings a break, and he’s going to try to light the fire.

Technoblade taught him how to do the sparking sigil, and a lot has happened since then, but Phil’s pretty certain he remembers how.

He takes a deep breath, and holds his hands out in front of him. The first time, he gets the sigil wrong and it doesn’t quite work, but the second time, he concentrates harder, and it does. 

He flicks the sigil at the wood, and it pops and crackles and starts smoking, and Phil cheers. 

“Technoblade!” he calls, hurrying to his feet. “Technoblade look what I did!” 

Technoblade’s behind the tent, putting up the strings, Phil saw him go around there, and he can’t see him anywhere else. So Phil runs around the side of the tent, lifting one wing so he doesn’t knock it against the fabric and make it fall over.

His efforts are futile, though, because both his wings snap out in alarm, catching the breeze and stalling him in the spot when he sees behind the tent.

It looks like there’s a shield around Technoblade. It looks like a shield but Technoblade is clearly yelling something, his eyes go wide when Phil appears and his mouth opens but Phil can’t hear him! Technoblade is banging against the shield with one of his arms, and he’s gesturing at Phil with the other.

Turn around. Run away. Go.

Phil scrambles in the sand once again, because there’s someone else behind Technoblade, and Phil recognises them. It’s the coven.

The sand shifts beneath Phil’s feet as he runs, but he’s not sure where to go because Technoblade is stuck and there’s no one else to protect him and Carl is just a horse and Phil can’t do magic and he can’t fly and he can’t do anything and the coven is here and-

And there’s a flash of light from behind Phil, a crack like something shattering, and Technoblade is yelling.

“Phil!” he shouts, and then “Leave him alone !”

Phil looks back for a grain, and that was a mistake. The rest of the coven is here now, and even though there’s less of them than there were last time, there’s still enough that Phil’s scared.

He’s very very scared, actually.

One of the coven people is chasing after him, and Phil keeps running, around to the other side of the fire, and winding all about like a snake. He doesn’t want to be caught!

Technoblade’s still yelling behind him, telling the coven to leave him alone, and there are more flashes, and Phil feels something brush past his arm and it just so barely missed his wings that he doesn’t even think before pulling them back into his body so they’re not a target because he doesn’t like being a target he doesn’t want to be a target he wants to be safe and okay and protected but Technoblade is over there and Phil is over here and that’s not how it’s supposed to be because Phil is small and Phil is scared and Phil doesn’t know how to do magic and Phil-

And Phil is falling face first into the sand because there’s something on his ankle and he screams because it’s tight and it hurts , and he looks and there’s a binding but it’s connected to the coven person and they’re pulling, and Phil doesn’t know how to break it! He doesn’t know what to do!

There’s an orange light from behind the tent this time, a massive flame in the dark sky and Phil hopes that it came from Technoblade. It gives him an idea, though.

The sparking sigil. It’s not much but it’s all the magic he can do, so he has to do it. He has to, he doesn’t have another option right now.

His hands are shaky as he draws the sigil and it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work , he draws it again and again and-

“Aw, is the little demon having trouble with magic?” the oven person coos, her long hair falling out from her hood. Phil doesn’t recognise her that much, but he’s pretty sure she’s from his old oasis. 

“Let go!” Phil shouts, kicking out, digging his feet into the sand and launching it at her, and it goes all in her face and she shrieks and sputters and lets go of the binding and it disappears, and Phil gets to his feet again and runs, because he’s small and he’s quick and he has to get away from here he has to escape he has to he has to he has to he-

Technoblade roars, and Phil looks over to him for another moment.

There are three coven people around him, all of them holding the same magical ropes the woman chasing Phil had, except these ropes look a lot thicker and they’re around Technoblade’s leg and his arm and his neck.

Technoblade’s holding something that looks kind of like a sword, but it’s made of magic and he’s trying to slash at the coven members with it, but they have little shields up, like Technoblade did last time the coven came. They keep deflecting his blade and pulling Technoblade in different directions so he can’t escape.

Something glows bright for a moment, and Phil sees that there’s another person near Technoblade, standing further back and throwing bolts at him. They’re big ones, Technoblade manages to deflect the one Phil sees, but it doesn’t look like he’s been able to do that with them all.

“Phil!” he shouts again, and Phil meets his eyes. 

Technoblade looks scared.

Technoblade never looks scared.

He’s Technoblade.

Another bolt comes, but Technoblade is looking at Phil for just a moment too long and it hits him, it knocks him over a bit and the coven people with the ropes cheer and Technoblade roars and Phil runs because the woman is still after him and Technoblade can’t help him and Phil doesn’t know how to do magic he can’t protect himself he doesn’t know what to do the coven is after him they want to hurt him and take him home he doesn’t want to go home he doesn’t want to go home he can’t go home he can’t he can’t he can’t!

“Technoblade!” Phil shouts, because he doesn’t know what else to do. It’s getting dark now and he can’t see well and the woman is almost as fast as him and he’s scared, this wasn’t supposed to happen Technoblade said this wasn’t supposed to happen he told Phil he knew how to deal with covens he told Phil he would be safe he isn’t safe he’s supposed to be safe this isn’t safe he’s scared and Technoblade’s scared and there’s a woman after him and he doesn’t know how to do magic and something catches Phil’s foot but he’s wearing his boot so he doesn’t properly feel it but he still falls over and there’s sand everywhere and in the sand there’s a snake.

There’s a snake and it’s made of magic and Phil thinks he’s seen this sort of snake before but it bit Technoblade and it’s in Phil’s boot on the thick bit at the bottom and so Phil stamps on it and it disappears, but there’s another one and it’s not on the thick bit, it jumps up at bit and it hurts, Phil screams because it hurts.

His foot feels like it’s on fire, but it also feels like it did that first dark out in the desert all alone, when it got so cold Phil couldn’t stay awake. It hurts , and Phil starts crying, and he tries to stand up but it doesn’t work, so he tries again and it really, really hurts, but he’s been hurt before, he knows what to do so he runs, and he trips a few times because he can’t feel his toes or his foot anymore but that’s okay he can still run, the lady is still behind him he has to run he has to-

Phil falls again, but this time, he can’t get up. Not fast enough. His whole leg is hurting, and it’s not doing what it’s supposed to do, and he screams again when the lady grabs him.

It’s her who grabs him this time, not any magical rope. She grabs Phil’s ankle with her hand and she pulls him, and Phil kicks her hand but it doesn’t work .

“Let go!” he shouts, still kicking her.

“Not in a million suns, demonspawn,” she hisses, pulling Phil’s legs together so he can’t kick anymore. “We’ve been tracking you two for lights and lights, after what the big one did to us last time. Oh, but we don’t care about him,” she snarls, and Phil’s hitting her now, but she takes it.

“Technoblade!” Phil yells, because the woman has one of his hands now so he can’t do magic even if he knew how, which he doesn’t but he knows one spell and he can’t do it with one hand he’s not good enough he doesn’t have enough time.

“Phil!” Technoblade yells back, looking over at him again. “Let go!” 

“Never!” the woman shouts, laughing. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she says, spitting in Phil’s face. “I’ve never caught a demon before, and your bounty is oh so high. We’ll be rich.”

“Technoblade!” Phil yells again, because he can’t do anything.

“Shut up,” the woman says, gritting her teeth and glaring at Phil. “You know, your parents asked for you to be returned alive.”

“No! No! You can’t take me home!” Phil shouts, wriggling about as best he can in the woman’s hold.

“Oh yes I can. They requested you be alive, but the bounty’s the same for your body.”

“Technoblade!” Phil screams. “Technoblade!”

“I’m comin’ Phil!” 

“I know which I prefer, little demon,” the woman says. “Now come, show me that black magic of yours, I know you have it.”

Phil doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to but she’s given him an idea, because Phil was able to push Technoblade off Carl when he got his wings out so maybe- maybe if he gets them out now he could-

The woman shouts as Phil’s wings explode from his back, ripping him out of her grip. He falls to the ground and pulls his feet under him but one of them still isn’t working and he falls over again and the woman grabs him and she pulls him close again and-

“Enough,” she hisses, and she sounds so, so angry. Phil knows what happens when people get angry at him. They hurt him.

Phil’s wings beat, but he’s stuck on his back, so they’re stuck under him, and the woman is over him and he’s trapped he’s trapped he’s trapped he’s-

“Stay still,” the woman hisses again, and she draws something above him in the air, and long blades of magic appear in her hand. “Or I will make you.”

Phil’s wings only beat harder, and he yells, wordless and terrified.

Pain explodes in his right wing. It’s sharp and burning and he screams, his wings beat but that only makes it hurt more , it feels like his right wing is pinned to the ground and he looks over and it is.

“Technoblade!” he screams.

“Phil!” Technoblade roars back, and there’s a flash and the woman yells and she disappears from Phil’s sight, but Phil still can’t move he still can’t get up his wing is still pinned and it hurts it hurts it hurtsithurtsithurts.

“Bastard!” The woman shouts, and Phil can see her again. There’s something on one of her hands and that’s good! It means she can’t do magic so she can’t hurt him she can’t hurt him anymore he’s okay he’s okay it’s going to be okay it’s going to be okay.

“No matter,” the woman snarls, pressing Phil’s wing to the ground with her cast hand. It’s not as painful as the other one, but it still hurts. “I brought backup.”

Something glints in the firelight and the glow of the magic, and Phil’s eyes widen.

This isn’t a magical blade.

“For all their tricks, casters forget people can be just as easily hurt by metal as they can by magic,” she snarls.

“Technoblade!” Phil screams again, but nothing happens.

“Bye bye, little birdy,” the woman says.

“Techno!”

She raises her arm.

“Dad!”

For all he’s been through, Phil has never felt pain like this.

It blooms in his chest, slowly at first, until it is all he can think about.

There’s ringing in his ears, and a rushing sound, like the water in the oasis rivers back home. Like the wind when it races across empty desert dunes.

There’s voices. Phil can’t make them out.

There’s someone screaming. It might be him.

Everything hurts so much that it doesn’t, and he can’t breathe anymore.

Everything is still.

Chapter Text

They’re waiting for him.

Behind the tent, appearing from the shadows, and Techno curses, because if he were just paying a fraction more attention, he would’ve been able to see the shimmer of concealment spells.

But he didn’t, and the coven has clearly learnt from their last fight.

There’s no time to do anything at all before a shield encircles him, and Technoblade shouts.

“Leave us alone!” he snarls, but even he can hear how his voice bounces off the shield walls and around the dome he’s found himself under. 

“Phil!” he tries. It’s the same thing. “Phil! Run!” No one can hear him but himself.

The members of the coven look… a little worse for the wear, now, robes and hoods dirtied and torn, and they’re down a member. Technoblade remembers how easily his bolt obliterated their shield and knocked them out, presumably for good.

But he doubts this one is going to be quite as simple. Three of the five people in front of him have their hands out, and circular sigils lined up along their forearms, drawn and ready for casting at barely a moment’s notice.

They’re prepared.

Technoblade isn’t.

He bangs on the side of the shield with a fist, before shooting a bolt at the same spot. It fizzles, the shield wobbles a bit, and one of the coven members grit their teeth. No wonder it’s so strong, they’re actively maintaining it.

“Let me out!” Technoblade roars, but he knows it’s futile.

Then he sees it, a movement from the corner of his eye. Small, golden, a little wobbly on his feet with the new weight of his wings on his back.

“Phil!” Technoblade shouts, trying to shoo him away. “Run! You have to go! Phil!” 

Time seems to slow in that moment. 

Phil comes to a stumbling halt, his face falling from an elated smile to nothing but fear, and Technoblade looks over at the coven. They exchange nasty grins, and one of the members separates herself from the group.

Everything speeds up again as she takes off, pursuing Phil. The kid’s fast, Techno knows that, he can only hope he’s fast enough . He knows the desert, the coven doesn’t, that should be enough of an edge to keep him safe until Techno’s out of this voiddamned cage.

“You have to help him.”

Chat supplies, ever helpful. 

Technoblade ignores them, and lines up as many bolts as he can on one arm, before firing them all at the same spot on the shield in quick succession. If he can weaken one area, the whole thing’ll come crumbling down.

And it does, the camp lights up with a flash, and the shield cracks and splinters.

“Phil!” Technoblade shouts, pivoting on the spot and trying to find any sign of the kid. There, being chased by the woman. “Leave him alone!”

The coven starts shooting spells at Techno, and he has to look back. A small shield easily deflects the first two, but then one of the members manages to fasten a binding around Techno’s leg, pulling it taut.

Techno fires a bolt at it, but it doesn’t break, so he fires at the person holding onto the other end of the binding, making them jump out of the way and drop their rope. The remaining coven is surrounding him, now, the three that had been maintaining the shield seemingly trying to block him off from helping Phil, a fourth standing back behind them.

“Don’t hurt him!” Technoblade shouts, fashioning himself a long blade from magic and gripping it tightly in one hand. “Leave the kid alone! He’s done nothin’ wrong!”

He stabs a magical snake in the head, and slices the other three in half before they can get to him, and he blasts a hole through the wall of magic coming at him from the other side.

Chat’s chanting in his head, there’s blood rushing in his ears, Technoblade knows he’s yelling wordlessly as a constant barrage of spells comes at him from every direction.

He takes a hit to the thigh, hissing at the stabbing pain there, but not letting it take him down.

Looking over, Technoblade sees the fire is lit. He doesn’t remember lighting it so that must mean… no wonder the kid had been so excited when he’d come to find him. There’s no time to yell out any congratulations to Phil now, though, and Technoblade reaches out, tracing a complex spell in the direction of the fire, pulling the flames into his palm. 

They’re warm, but they don’t burn him, and combined with a powerful sparking sigil, they explode into a bonfire as he throws it to the ground at the feet of two of the coven members.

It should take them out. It should take at least one out, but they’ve got shields up, and only one goes down, crying out as he stands up again. His feet and shins are very clearly burnt, but he’s still pushing on. How important is this?

Technoblade makes a mistake, then. He hesitates. Only for a grain, but a grain is all it takes at a time like this. There’s a binding around his leg again, pulling in one direction. There’s another around his wrist, pulling in the other direction, limiting his ability to cast severely. 

And then there’s one around his throat. It’s tight, almost too tight, making his breathing shallow and it’s tugging him backwards.

Smart. They’ve restrained him, made him unable to move much in any one direction. This is going to be… hard.

It turns out it’s going to be hard er when a bolt collides with Technoblade’s back, and his arm feels like it’s being wrenched from its socket as he lurches forwards from the momentum. Another one hits his bicep before he can regain his balance, and Technoblade cries out. He wasn’t prepared for this, neither of them were. There was no warning, not even a grain of time to react to anything.

Phil cries out from somewhere on the other side of the camp, and Technoblade looks over. The woman is close behind him, and Technoblade starts slashing at the coven members near him, trying to escape. He needs to help Phil, the kid looks terrified. 

“Phil!” he shouts, trying to reach him.

Another bolt comes for Techno, but he manages to deflect it off his blade, and looks back up to Phil. He doesn’t know what to do. He needs to escape, but it’s taking too long. It’s taking too long. Phil’s alone, he can’t defend himself, what if they take him away? What if they take him home? Phil can’t go home, not with his wings out. He can’t go home ever , it’ll surely break him. Technoblade needs to help him.

Technoblade is wrenched to the side by the rope around his neck, and he loses sight of Phil. He hears the kid call his name, but he can’t look, not right now.

He uses his momentum to lash out at the coven member with their rope around his neck, managing to slice into their side, but they don’t let go. They shriek, but the rope is still taut and Techno’s being pulled back out of range of anyone, and there’s more magic coming at him.

It’s strange. None of the magic they’re shooting at him is lethal. It’s not even enough to severely debilitate him. It’s just enough to keep him occupied, make sure he can’t take his eyes off the fight for too long.

Oh.

They’re distracting him.

He’s not the target here.

Part of him knows this, part of him has always known this. But the confirmation that they’re here for Phil is… bone chilling. What do they want with him? Is it simply because he’s cursed?

“Technoblade!” Phil shouts again, and Technoblade can’t help but look over.

Phil’s in the woman’s arms, being restrained as he tries to struggle.

“Phil!” Techno replies, then glares at the woman. “Let go!”

This time it’s her who replies, a snarled “Never!” before she turns back to Phil, and starts talking too lowly for Techno to hear. 

Phil, however, is yelling and screaming, so Techno can follow the gist of what’s going on perfectly well.

One of the coven members snickers, however, and Techno turns to look at them. It’s the one who’d been standing back, sending bolts at him.

“So you really do care about the demon,” they say, raising an eyebrow and toying with a bolt sigil in their hands. “He would’ve killed you, you know. That’s why we’re here, can’t have one of them running about loose in the desert.”

Technoblade snarls, and looks back at Phil, right as he screams his name.

“I’m comin’, Phil!” he shouts back, struggling anew.

“His parents have put out such a high bounty, he’s very important to them, you know,” the coven member continues. 

Techno lurches at them, swinging his blade. It misses, he’s still too far away, and he gets knocked back even further with another bolt to the chest.

“Ah ah ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you,” the coven member warns, tracing another bolt in the air. “We’re not here for you, if you stop struggling, this whole process will be so much easier. All we need to do is capture the demon and dispose of him, we can’t risk the entire desert getting infected now, can we?”

“That’s not how it works,” Technoblade snarls, but the coven member only snickers.

Phil cries out, a sound of anguish and pain , and Technoblade looks over. The woman is crouching over Phil’s body, the glow of a magical blade illuminating one of his wings. She’s stabbed him through the wing. She’s stabbed him through the wing.

“Phil!”

Techno makes a split grain decision, and he stops struggling. He drops his sword, letting it dissolve before it even hits the sand, and he traces a hurried spell in the air, and throws it. He can only hope it hits its target.

It does, and the woman yelps. One of her hands is encased in a crystalline cast, preventing her from casting nearly as much as she would otherwise have been able to. That should give Techno enough time to free himself, and to free Phil.

“Bastard!” the woman shouts back, and Techno smiles. Finally, he’s done something right.

Now he just has to free himself. A task much harder in practice than in theory, it seems.

He turns back to his own predicament, and uses his now free arm to grab the binding around his wrist, and to pull . It works. Mostly. The coven member on the other end of the rope stumbles, and it slackens, and he can move his arm more now.

“Technoblade!” he can hear Phil scream, and something is very wrong.

The rope around Techno’s wrist tugs, but Technoblade tugs back, fighting for his mobility.

“Techno!” Phil’s never called him that before.

And then finally-

“Dad!”

Phil screams, and it’s unlike anything Technoblade’s ever heard before.

It splits the air like a knife, rings across the desert in waves and waves of pure agony, tearing from the throat of such a small child. There is so much pain in the sound, a thousand times more than there was when his wings popped out. 

It’s so agonising that it rings in Techno’s head, grating and shrill and unnatural, a wordless cry of anger and fear and despair.

Something is very wrong.

“Phil!” Technoblade shouts, because something is wrong and he doesn’t know what and Phil is over there and Techno is over here.

“No… no, they- they can’t.”

Chat falls silent. Eerily so.

Something is very wrong.

Phil doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t even call out, and his scream has stopped.

“Phil! Answer me!” Technoblade shouts, trying to find him amidst everything that’s happening.

He does. His golden hair is splayed across the sand, one of his wings is still pinned and the other lies limp. Phil doesn’t move.

Phil doesn’t move.

Something is very wrong.

Adrenaline bursts into Technoblade’s system, and he roars.

It’s enough to rip his limbs from their bindings, and he doesn’t even think as he draws himself a new blade, this one an axe that cleaves one of the coven members almost in two. Their blood splatters, but Technoblade doesn’t care.

Phil still hasn’t moved.

Something is very wrong.

Technoblade continues to yell as he takes down the rest of the coven. He takes hit after hit himself, but he feels none of them. Another coven member goes down with a crack from their chest and blood leaking from their nose, another is burnt almost beyond recognition, and the last from around Technoblade tries to run, but doesn’t get far at all.

Sleep spells are dangerous when they’re too strong, the caster knows this. He struggles as Technoblade approaches, the sigil pulsing in his palm with far too much magic. They cannot resist, and they’ll never wake up.

That leaves only the woman left, the one who had been chasing Phil.

She’s picked herself up now, she too has tried to run.

She can run all she likes, she won’t escape. 

As Technoblade passes the fire, he picks up another handful of flame with a sigil, and holds it aloft. He knows where she is, he doesn’t need the light.

“Please!” she cries as he approaches, having fallen in the sand, entangled in her own robes. “Please, spare me! I didn’t I never meant to hurt you!”

“And yet you did anyway,” Technoblade hisses. “Even if you had never laid a finger on me, you hurt my child.”

He brings the handful of fire down letting it hang at his side, axe over his shoulders.

“Please, I- he was a demon, a demon! You- you must have seen it, he was going to kill you, he was going to kill us all! I saved you!”

“How many times,” Technoblade snarls, “do I have to tell you that that’s not how it works? You hurt my son , and you. Will. Pay.”

The woman’s eyes go wide as he lifts his hand again, full of flame. It collides with her chest, and her robes take immediately.

It’s not a quick death, but Technoblade doesn’t care. Her screams will fade soon enough.

There’s something more pressing at hand now that the coven lies dead around the camp.

Phil.

He still hasn’t moved.

The coven told Techno there was a bounty on Phil, they must have subdued him to take him home. He’s always been a fighter, it makes sense.

The sky is darker now, the shadows are deeper. Technoblade conjures a lantern to follow him as he walks, as he runs to Phil. He needs to work out how to wake him up, he needs to dress the wound in his wing lest it fester and infect.

Phil’s lying splayed on the ground right where Technoblade last saw him. But- but something is very, very wrong.

The sand around his body is dark. Darker than it should be. The magical knife in his wing is no more, having faded with its caster. 

But there’s another knife.

One with a handle of bone and a blade of steel.

“No,” Technoblade breathes, falling to his knees. “No, Phil!” 

His eyes are still open, and they reflect the dark sky, the stars and the constellations shining in his pupils.

“Phil!” Technoblade cries, holding his hands out, over the kid, the child, his child, his son, unsure what to do. “Answer me!” 

The knife is hilt-deep in his chest. Blood is staining his skin, his hair, his feathers. 

“Phil!” The word rips from Technoblade’s throat, raw and ragged and anguished. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Technoblade’s body begins to shake as he sobs, because there is nothing in the world that can hold back these emotions. Phil is dead.

Phil is dead.

“I’m sorry,” Technoblade repeats, head bowing until it’s resting on Phil’s lifeless body. “Phil, I’m so sorry. I was- I was supposed to protect you- you- you trusted me, I- I failed you I wasn’t fast enough I- I put you in danger and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I love you. I love you Phil and I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The moon rises, and everything is still but the crackling of two fires, and the heaving of Technoblade’s lungs.

Even Chat has nothing to say.

Eventually, Technoblade’s tears run dry. Eventually, he hauls himself up, and assesses what’s before him. 

Phil is dead. There is a knife in his chest and he has not moved in far too long, and there is nothing Technoblade can do about that.

Gently, Techno reaches out, and closes Phil’s eyes. He deserves respect, after everything he’s been through. Techno wanted to give him a good life, one where he didn’t have to fear everything and everyone, one where he could smile and laugh and be free.

He hopes Phil knows how hard he tried. 

He hopes Phil knows how much he was loved.

Technoblade burns the knife with artificial blue flame until it’s nothing but ash and a melted lump of metal in his palm. He throws it as far as he can. It will deal no more damage to anyone, not on his watch. 

Phil’s body is still limp when Technoblade picks it up, and old blood stains his fingers. Nevertheless, Techno tucks Phil into his chest, just the way he always liked. He could almost be asleep now, if it weren’t for the fact he’s entirely still.

“I’m sorry,” Technoblade murmurs again, standing, careful not to jostle Phil. 

They need to leave. Technoblade cannot bear to stay here a moment longer. Carl is woken and the tent is pulled down and nothing is packed neatly but it doesn’t matter. Carl noses Phil’s head when Technoblade approaches, huffing when Phil doesn’t respond.

“He’s gone, I’m sorry, Carl,” Technoblade says, the words sticking in his throat like syrup.

The last thing left is Techno’s cloak. It lies on the sand where Phil left it, where Technoblade left him. For the last time.

Techno picks it up, and wraps it around Phil. He deserves to be comfortable. He deserves to be warm.

The ride passes in a blur. Everything does, everything has, Technoblade can no longer separate one moment from the next nor the previous, everything is one and none at the same time. Phil is dead and Technoblade failed and there is blood on his hands that he doesn’t even try to wash off.

A new camp is set up. Carl is tired, even if Technoblade knows he himself cannot sleep no matter how much he tries. Phil is dead. Technoblade failed.

He sets up the tent anyway, he lights a fire. He lays Phil on the bedrolls with the blankets beside the tent because he doesn’t know what else to do, because Phil is dead, because Technoblade failed.

Everything is numb.

Phil is dead.

Chapter Text

Phil recognises this place. He recognises the smooth floor underfoot, he recognises the empty sky, he recognises the darkness that surrounds him, yet does not impede his vision.

He recognises the purplish nebulae in the sky, he recognises his reflection beneath him, he recognises the chill that sweeps over him.

Is he dreaming?

He’s not sure, but… but this is the place from his dreams. He must be dreaming.

Hesitantly, he takes a step forward. His reflection moves with him, looks down as he does and tilts its head when he tilts his.

There are no mirrors this time, either, and Phil continues walking.

It’s not until he looks down a second time that he realises his wings are out. He’s only had them a few lights, he should have noticed that sooner. But this is a dream, this isn’t real. Nothing has to make sense.

He keeps walking.

Nothing changes.

Everything is the same and everything is empty and Phil is alone.

“Technoblade!” he calls, even though he knows this is a dream and he’s not here. When he wakes up, Technoblade will be there, though. This is just a dream.

Phil’s running now, faster and faster and faster and his wings flap behind him, but he doesn’t take to the empty sky, not now, not yet. He runs and he runs and he runs because he knows this is a dream and he knows something is going to happen, something bad, he just doesn’t know what.

His heart is hammering against his ribs and he’s breathing heavily but he still runs, and fear is building because nothing has happened something is supposed to happen why isn’t anything happening?

There’s a sound behind him, a deep sort of whooshing rumble, unlike anything he’s ever heard before. Phil stops abruptly, using his wings to pull him to a halt.

He spins around, because that’s where the noise came from, but there’s nothing there. There’s nothing and no one, and Phil checks his reflection again. It checks him in return.

Nothing has happened.

“Hello?” Phil calls out into the darkness, the emptiness. “Hello?”

He’s scared. Surely he’s not alone, surely something is going to happen, someone will come or something will, like the mirrors or his reflection or the woman from last time.

But nothing answers him. Not even the sound from before.

Phil whips around again, checking for any movement, any shapes, anything at all because there has to be something he cannot be the only person here he cannot be the only thing here.

His heart is still beating hard, loud in his ears and he can’t control his breathing, he wishes Technoblade was here to hold his hands and count slowly so he can breathe properly again but he’s not he’s alone he’s alone he’s alone but this is a dream it’s just a dream Phil knows this is a dream.

He holds his own hands. He grips them so tightly it hurts and he grips them tighter. He counts.

“In, two, three, four,” he mutters, voice shaking, hands shaking, spinning in frantic circles. “Hold, two, three, f-” 

He shouts when the sound comes back, longer and louder and more rumbling this time. He doesn’t like it.

When he looks up, the sky is shifting. The purple clouds are rolling, barely discernible against their dark background, but Phil can see them. His wings wrap around his body, and Phil takes a few steps backwards. He doesn’t know why, but it feels like the right thing to do, even though he’s alone in the middle of a vast, empty, seemingly endless plane.

“It’s okay,” he says, he whispers to himself, gripping his hands and trying to pretend it’s Technoblade talking to him, it’s Technoblade holding his hands.

It’s cold.

Phil wants his cloak, or Technoblade’s cloak. He’s very cold.

“In, two, three, four,” he repeats, closing his eyes, even though he really, really doesn’t want to.

“Hold, two, three, four.” He squeezes his eyes tighter when the rumble starts again, and tries to ignore how quickly his heart is beating.

“Out, two, three, four.” The rumble grows quieter as Phil breathes, until it disappears entirely and Phil opens his eyes again.

He’s still alone. Nothing has happened. He’s still on edge.

He doesn’t know what to do. This is a dream but nothing is happening and things are supposed to happen in dreams, otherwise what’s the point of them? Something is supposed to happen, but nothing has and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Hello?” he calls again, peering into the darkness. He thinks he can see a shape there now. A small one, one he thought was just part of the sky, but the sky moved and the shape didn’t so maybe it’s not.

It doesn’t answer him. Maybe it can’t, maybe it’s not a person.

Phil starts walking towards it, and it still doesn’t move. He starts to run, because nothing has happened and the waiting is always the worst part and he’s sick of waiting he knows this is a dream and it’s not real even if it feels real and he doesn’t want to wait anymore he just wants it to be over already he needs to get it over with even if it’s going to hurt.

The shape gets bigger and bigger and bigger as Phil runs towards it, and he can start to see what it is.

The woman.

The one from his dream.

She’s kneeling, she’s looking down at the ground and her hair is falling all around her face and Phil stops, because she hasn’t seen him yet and he can hear her and she’s- it sounds like she’s crying. Is she crying? Why is she crying?

Phil peers around, trying to see what’s happening. The woman is crying and she’s bowed over something in her lap and he can’t quite see what, so he takes a step forwards, craning his neck. 

His wings spread as he leans, keeping him balanced where he would usually fall over, and moving them has become so much easier now. But this is a dream, so it’s probably not easier when he wakes up. Usually the dreams don’t last this long, so Phil’s starting to get a little confused about that. Nothing much has happened except he’s found a crying lady and there was a rumbling sound, but he’s still dreaming.

Phil’s straining so hard to try and see what’s happening or what’s happened that he doesn’t realise he’s about to fall over until he does, tumbling to the cool, smooth floor, a pile of limbs and feathers and an alarmed squawk 

He can hear the woman startle.

Her breathing hitches and she sniffles, and Phil squeezes his eyes shut, because this is when something’s going to happen, he knows it.

The rumble starts up again, quiet and low, but it gets louder and louder as Phil squeezes his eyes, as he curls into himself, waiting for what’s going to happen.

It takes him a long moment to realise nothing has. Nothing will. 

“Little one?” the woman asks, and Phil knows her voice. He knows her, she’s been speaking to him for the past three suns.

He cracks open his eyes, pulls his wing down off his face where he’d been trying to hide under it. The woman is sitting up more properly now, Phil watches as she brushes her hair over her shoulder. She doesn’t move towards him, and Phil realises he can see what she was crying over, now.

He scrambles to his knees, to rise up and look, because there’s something softly glowing purplish in her lap and he wants to know what it is, so he shuffles a little bit closer and spreads his wings so he can lean forwards and–

It’s him.

The thing in the woman’s lap, it’s him.

He’s made of stars and light, he’s shimmering ever so slightly, but it’s Phil. 

One of his wings is folded against her body, the dark feathers blending into the fabric of her dress. The other is splayed across the floor, and for as black as the feathers are, there’s a dark spot in the middle. He doesn’t remember that.

And his body-

He looks like he’s asleep. His eyes are closed and his head lolls a little, he’s lying in her lap and he doesn’t have his shirt on because he has his wings out and Technoblade said he wasn’t allowed to get his wings out while wearing his shirt because it would rip the material.

There’s a dark spot on his chest too. It’s like the blackness between the points of the moon, and it runs rivulets down his skin, stains his chest and his side and his stomach and there’s some of it on his hair too.

“My little one,” the woman breathes, reaching out. “You’re here, you’re here. I thought- when you didn’t come, I- I thought I’d lost you.”

Phil doesn’t know what she means.

He’s still looking at himself, trying to work out what it means.

Trying to remember why he might look like that.

“Is he- is he okay?” Phil asks, pointing to his own body in her lap.

“Oh, little one,” the woman says, and she sounds so sad. What happened? “You don’t remember.”

Phil doesn’t remember. He takes a step closer, trying to see closer, to see what the dark spots are because they’re new and he doesn’t know how they work or what they are but he thinks maybe he should.

He gets closer, he sees better.

There’s a hole in his wing, there’s a hole in his chest.

It all comes rushing back to him.

The desert. The fire, the shield, the coven. Technoblade, trapped. Phil, restrained. The blade in his wing and the blade in his chest and he screams, he remembers the fear and the helplessness and the pain, he can feel the pain he remembers he remembers he remembers.

“Little one!” the woman cries and Phil falls to the floor and clutches his heart because it hurts, because he remembers, because this isn’t a dream.

It burns, it burns in his chest and in his wing and he knows he knows he knows, this isn’t a dream, that’s his body that’s his blood he’s dead he died and it hurts.

“Be strong, my little one, they’re only memories,” the woman says, and there’s a hand on Phil’s shoulder and it’s not rough like Technoblade’s, it’s soft and warm and just as gentle and Phil curls up where he lies and he cries, he cries because he’s dead and that’s his body and it hurts.

He cries because he never got to say goodbye to Technoblade. He cries because he never got to tell him thank you. Thank you for not taking him home, thank you for helping him, thank you for trying. He cries because he never got to have a proper family, but he was so close. He cries because he never got to stop being scared, but he was so close. He cries because there was so much he wanted to do, but he cannot, not anymore.

He cries because he’s never going to see Technoblade again.

“My angel,” the woman says, and her voice is so calm, so soft, so kind. “Oh my sweet angel, come here.”

Phil lets her pick him up, he lets her arms cradle him, he lets her draw him close to her chest. It’s not the same as when Techno does it, she’s much softer, he feels so much smaller in her arms, but it’s still… nice.

He doesn’t know where his other body—the one made of stars, the one with the blood—has gone, but he rests in her lap and her arms and the fabric of her dress is soft and smooth against his skin, a deep purple that matches the sky.

Phil opens his eyes, blinks back the tears to look at her. He’s never seen her face before.

The underside of her hat glitters, twinkles with the light of a thousand and one stars. Her hair is dark, and her face is round and kind, and her eyes meet his and Phil can see how worried she is.

How much she cares.

Her eyes are just like Technoblade’s.

Phil misses him already. He wants him back. 

“I want my dad,” he says, voice small and scared and he curls into her dress, into the crook of her arm and she doesn’t have a heartbeat to listen to like Technoblade does.

“I know, little one, I know,” she says, and she runs a hand down his hair, her fingers scratching gently at his scalp. It feels… nice. 

Phil sniffles, drawing his wings close. One of them is a little stuck because of the way he’s being held, but it’s okay. 

“He really does love you,” the woman says. “Chat’s told me he’s… not the best at showing it, but he cares about you more than anything else.”

“You know Chat?” Phil asks. How does this lady know Chat? Chat’s in Technoblade’s head, not his.

“We’ve spoken. It took a lot of convincing for them to keep your secret from Technoblade, and even then they kept trying to push him to find out.”

“How do you know Chat?”

“We’re spirits, when we’re close, we can communicate. Chat’s told me how much Technoblade cares for you many, many times,” the woman says.

“Really?” Phil hopes what she’s saying is true. He really wants Technoblade to care about him. Or, well, to have cared. Phil’s dead now.

“Really.” The woman takes her hand from Phil’s hair and strokes her knuckle down Phil’s cheek. “Technoblade isn’t one for caring for people, but he will do anything for you, little angel. It annoyed Chat quite a lot, actually, but they’re happy for you. I’m happy for you.”

“He cared about me?” Phil’s going to start crying. He didn’t realise. He didn’t realise Technoblade actually, truly cared about him, more than just looking after him. He thought it must be too good to be true, that he was making it up, that it was all going to fall apart and Technoblade wouldn’t care about him anymore.

“More than he cares about anything else. And I care about you too, little one. I always have. Even when you hated me, even when you feared me, I’ve cared about you.”

“What’s your name?” Phil asks. He remembers Technoblade told him he could ask the spirit’s name, but he never did. Not until now. He was too scared.

“Kristin,” she says. “My name is Kristin, little angel.”

Chapter Text

His wings drag through the dunes as he walks, they have been for lights. The sand between his feathers is rubbing his skin raw, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He hasn’t had time.

The desert isn’t a fun place to be alone, especially not with a giant pair of wings on your back.

“C’mon, it’s been like a sun, just admit you’re not alone.”

He growls. There’s no one around to notice, there hasn’t been for a while.

All he has is what he left with. His clothes, a handful of coins, a once half full water skin. He’d managed to run into a caravan of traders, exchanged everything he could spare for some food to keep him going.

The desert isn’t a fun place to be alone.

But the traders told him of somewhere he could go. They were wary of his wings, but not quite as repulsed as the oasis had been.

Not quite as repulsed as his parents had been.

So he’s been following their directions, as vague as they are. Walking light in, light out, sleeping only when he can’t stand any longer. The darks are horrifically cold and sun’s peak is horrifically hot, and there’s only so much a wind spell can do that isn’t coat him in sweat soaked sand.

He doesn’t have wood for a sustained fire, or fabric for any semblance of a blanket. He really hopes the traders were being honest with him, he’s going to- to- he doesn’t know. He just wants to rest. Just wants to eat. Just wants to stop looking over his shoulder, even though he knows the oasis isn’t following him. He made sure of that.

His wings shift on his back, their ashy brown feathers absorbing the heat, as well as itching awfully. He doesn’t really know what to do about the… appendages. They’re massive, and they hurt coming through. They’re the source of everything that’s gone wrong. If they didn’t rip through his back in broad sunlight, then he’d be fine! He’d still be at his oasis, still be with his family, still be learning magic. Sure, not the most exciting of lives, but it was simple. Peaceful.

Now he’s here, with wings almost as big as he is, burns and bruises and cuts along his arms, his back, his face, sand in everything it can possibly get in, and no home.

Nothing, except a voice in his head that won’t shut up.

He thinks he might be imagining it when he first sees it. He thinks he might be delirious from the heat, from the lack of water, from the lack of literally everything he needs, but the shapes don’t go away. They’re there, on the horizon, rippling with the heat, but otherwise steady.

He speeds up. This has to be where the traders were telling him to come, it looks nothing like any oasis he’s ever seen. They’ll have food. They’ll have water, they’ll have shelter. They’ll have answers.

Buildings come into focus as he gets nearer, mismatched and a bit shabby, cobbled together from what looks like random bits and pieces. They cluster together in groups, and it looks like if you remove one, the entire group will come crashing down.

The Mesa. This is the Mesa.

There are a few trees here and there, but not many. It’s enough, though, to tell him that there’s water here. A source unclaimed by any caster oasis, allegedly a safe haven for anyone who needs it.

He wonders how they’re going to feel about his wings. 

People stare as he walks into the town. He tries to hold his head high, to roll his shoulders back and walk with purpose, even if his vision swims as he does. He can’t let anyone see weakness in him, he’s seen how that turned out.

They stare at him, but it’s at him. Not at his wings. 

It’s strange, they don’t seem to care about the curse. It’s… unnerving. He glances to the side, trying to work out what sort of situation he’s getting himself into.

He can’t tell who these people are. He can’t tell if they’re casters or not, they wear such different things. They match their surroundings, really, pieced together from scraps. It’s… better than nothing.

Now that he’s here, though, he doesn’t know what to do. He needs food, water, shelter. He needs rest.

He needs everyone to stop looking at him. They’re staring, it’s making him uncomfortable.

“I could help.”

He can’t reply out loud here. People are watching. But his answer is the same; like void is he going to let that thing help. He can deal with this on his own.

He makes eye contact with one of the people looking at him. They don’t look away, and neither does he. But he knows he can win this, he pushes all of his fire into his eyes, all of his energy, his power, his anger, and they shirk away. Success.

His wings shift on his back, and he can feel the long feathers lift off the sand, the appendages mantling around him, making him look bigger, more intimidating. More powerful. He could take this entire place down if he wanted to, he’s sure of that. An entire caster oasis couldn’t beat him, what’s a few stragglers like these people?

And he wants them to know that. He wants them to know not to mess with him, not to try anything. Not to ask questions, not to expect answers, because the best they’ll get is a sigil to the face, if he’s feeling nice. He’s seen what happens when people pry into his past, he’s not going to let it happen again.

But for as powerful as he’s trying to make himself look, he cannot deny that he will collapse on the ground if he doesn’t find what he needs.

So he keeps moving. He pushes forwards and shoots his fiery gaze at anyone who dares look his way, and carves a path through the busy streets.

Eventually, he comes to something that looks like an inn. Vaguely. It’s not very big, nor is it very well put together, but there are enough people coming and going and milling about that it seems better than the very few alternatives he’s passed.

Again, the crowds part around him, making room for his wings. They’ve started staring at those too, now. He’s seen a few with wings around, but none as big as his. They’re all falcons and eagles, he’s yet to see another with the telltale finger-feathers of a vulture.

Let alone someone as dwarfed as he is, his cinereous wings casting him in shadow. 

He pushes the doors of the inn open, and the babble comes to an abrupt halt. 

People stare. Again. He just… stands there.

Whoever runs this place is clearly a caster. There’s lanterns strung up between bare rafters, casting the entire place in a colourful glow. Numerous tables and chairs dot the floor, and there’s a bar with a handful of patrons at the other end of the room. The person behind it has wings of his own, their feathers puffed up. 

He recognises the sign. They’re wary. Trying to be intimidating. He just holds his head high and walks through the room, making his way to the bar and sitting down.

“You’re new,” a voice says, and a glass slides across the wood to him. Water. He takes it, and tries his best not to gulp it all down at once. “Not often someone’s able to shut them all up like that. I’m impressed.”

He looks over to the speaker. It’s the winged one. He’s got dark hair, hanging around his face in choppy chunks. His collared shirt seems to be tailored around his wings, and his red tie hangs undone around his neck. He doesn’t look a light older than he is.

“The name’s Quackity, owner of this fine establishment. What brings you to Las Nevadas?”

“I thought this was the Mesa,” he says, putting his glass down.

Quackity chuckles, taking the glass back. “So you’re very new here. Las Nevadas is the name of this fine establishment, run by none other than myself.”

“You said that already,” he says. “You got anythin’ to eat? Desert’s pretty unforgivin’.”

“I’ll bet,” Quackity replies, grinning lazily. “We’ve got anything you want, my guy, but you are gonna have to pay.”

He takes out what few coins he has, and slaps them down on the table. “What can this get me.” It’s not a question.

Quackity reaches for them, but he snatches them back before the guy’s fingers can touch them, giving him a warning look. 

“Geez, I was just trying to count, man! Uh, I could probably do you a meal and a room for that? You look like camel dung, how long you been travelling?”

“A while,” is all he answers. Quackity doesn’t need to know the details. Also he’s kind of lost track. 

“I’ll say. So you want that room or nah?”

“I’ll take it.” It’s the best he’s got at the moment, he could take time to try find somewhere cheaper, but he’s dead on his feet and he’s not sure he’s going to be conscious long enough for that.

“Sweet!” Quackity says as he hands over the payment. At least he had some coins left after the traders. “Now, before I can get you the room, we’ve got a little… tradition here at Las Nevadas.”

Suddenly, instead of coins, he’s holding a full pack of cards. They’re black, with intricate red and gold designs on their backs, in surprisingly good condition. They flick past his face at high speed as Quackity shuffles them.

It’s mesmerising, how well he handles the cards. He makes it look easy, like some sort of fluid flowing from one hand to another, cutting the pack and passing the pieces over and around each other while maintaining eye contact.

With a flourish, Quackity fans the cards out across the benchtop in front of him, and he leans forwards, elbows on the wood and easy grin on his face.

“Now, kind sir, may I ask your name?”

He just looks at him.

“No.”

Quackity blinks. “Alright then. Uh… okay. Right. Now, pick a card,” he says, after regaining his composure. “Any of them, but just one, and don’t look at it yet.

He looks at the fan, then back at Quackity with an eyebrow raised. “Really?”

“Yeah man! I wanna know who you are! What makes you tick, where you came from, all that! This is the easiest way to do it. No cards, no room, it’s the Las Nevadas rule.”

He grunts. This seems stupid, so he just picks a card at random.

“This one,” he says, pointing to it. 

“Perfect, perfect.” Quackity slides it out and leaves it on the bench as he picks up the rest of the cards, and shuffles again. He deals another card each side, one from the top of the deck, and one from the bottom. They line up neatly between them both, and he looks down sceptically.

“You sure this is necessary? They’re just playin’ cards.”

“Yes, I am sure, actually. So shut up,” Quackity snaps back. “So, mysterious traveller, let’s see who you are.”

Quackity flips the first card over, and studies its picture for a moment. “The life of the wanderer, interesting!” he says.

“An’ what does that mean?” he asks. “That I’ve been wanderin ’? Never would’ve guessed.”

“Ah ah ah, don’t be so hasty, my friend! This is your past, who you were, who you used to be. Not necessarily a wanderer, but someone… who didn’t fit in. Someone foreign, wherever they were, no matter how similar.”

He tenses. They’re just playing cards, they shouldn’t actually mean anything. They don’t mean anything. He’d spent so long trying to blend in, to pretend that had been his home, that he belonged, and Quackity’s able to see through the eighteen suns of lies just like that? He’s never met the guy before!

“An’ what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, brows beginning to furrow, leaning in towards Quackity. He can feel his wings rise behind him, he can feel his feathers prickle, and the voice in his head is hissing at him, goading him forwards.

“He knows too much.”

“Calm down! It just means you felt like an outcast, never truly found your place. But that’s the past dude! Let it go!” Quackity responds, raising his hands in front of him defensively. 

He doesn’t back down, even when Quackity shirks away.

“Anyways, that aside, let’s look at the card you picked,” Quackity says, trying to push him a little further away by encroaching on his personal space. He doesn’t relent. 

“This is who you are now, not who you were, not who you will be, but who you are ,” Quackity says, and he flips the middle card over. He doesn’t miss the sharp intake of breath from Quackity as he sees the picture there.

“What is it?” he asks, looking down at the card. It’s got some sort of collection of birds on it, and in the short space of time before Quackity takes the card to look at closer, he thinks he might see the familiar feathers of a vulture.

“Thirteen beware the devil himself,” Quackity mutters. “Thirteen of wings, the vulture. Death, danger, destru-”

Quackity doesn’t get to finish his sentence before he’s knocked to the floor.

“You say that one more time,” he growls at the innkeeper, already tracing a spell in the air, one that’ll cause enough force to crack Quackity’s ribs at this close of a range. “You say that one more time.”

“Th-thirteen beware the- beware the dev-”

He yells, wordless and guttural, and draws his arm back to slam the spell into Quackity’s chest, but he’s stopped before he can do anything.

“Get off him!” someone yells, and there’s hands around his arm, tugging at his shirt, his bicep, his wrist, pulling him off of Quackity. “Leave him alone!”

He yells again, and snaps his wings out, throwing everyone who had been holding him back away. Quackity called him a devil, a bringer of death and destruction, and he is not going to let him get away with it. Not after everything he’s been through.

Quackity’s still on the floor behind the bar, but he’s pulling a shield up around himself, glowing blue with clear magic. So he is a caster then.

He doesn’t care, shields are usually fairly easy to break when they’re not reinforced. This one isn’t, and a few blasts take it down quickly.

People are yelling, magic is being thrown around, blue streaks flying past him, some colliding, but they’re nothing compared to what his oasis tried to do. They barely even tickle, but some will probably bruise.

Someone runs at him, though, no sign of magic, and tackles him around the middle, and he yells, ripping them off and throwing them aside, sending a bolt at them for good measure. 

Quackity is still by the bar, having stumbled to his feet now, leaning against the countertop and muttering, rubbing his head, hair falling in his eyes.

“You,” he snarls at the innkeeper, trying to reach him.

Someone throws a binding spell at him as he shoulders past, catching one of his arms and tugging it back. He tugs in return, and they stumble, and that’s all it takes to throw them completely off balance with a sparking sigil, tweaked just a little to cause less of a spark, more of a flame. 

Las Nevadas is made out of wood, after all.

The fire draws people’s attention, which leaves him free to hunt Quackity. The man tries to run, skittering around stools and tables, but he follows, tracking him easily. Quackity is panicking, and for good reason too.

He has spells lined up along his arms, a trick one of the council taught him when he was young, unafflicted, unbothered. It means he doesn’t have to waste time drawing them all, he has them ready to throw wherever he wants. He knows exactly where he wants to put these ones.

The first is aimed at Quackity’s head. He ducks, narrowly avoiding the bolt, which leaves a charred mark in the wall behind him.

“Not cool!” Quackity yells, trying to pull another shield up around himself.

He doesn’t get far, because the second bolt shatters it almost instantly after it appears.

“Dude, calm down! It’s not that bad!” Quackity tries, but his words fall on deaf ears.

He doesn’t care. Quackity knows too much, like the voice said, and he can’t have someone knowing too much. It’s dangerous, he can’t let anyone see his past ever again, it’s never going to be worth it.

All too soon, he’s on top of Quackity again. His wings are blocking out the light, the only illumination comes from the blue glow from his last spell, which he takes into his palm. A blade forms, and Quackity’s face falls. There isn’t really much escape from here.

Quackity starts drawing a spell, but he pins the innkeeper’s hand against the floor with his own, and Quackity doesn’t look good enough to cast with only one hand free.

Pity. He would’ve liked to ask some questions about the curse.

“Schlatt! Help!” Quackity yells, but no one comes. They’re alone.

He raises the blade, trying to decide where best to hit. A slash across the neck, perhaps, as an example. Or straight through the heart, pinning him to the floor of his own inn, which he seems to care about so much.

His arm is coming down when it happens.

Despite the shadow they’re both in, all the light momentarily disappears, as if sucked from the very air around them. Quackity’s body starts to ripple with something dark, and his pinned fingers blacken, the darkness quickly spreading up his arms. His eyes are no longer that of a person, replaced instead with void, and when he moves, it’s with a strength entirely unnatural.

“Hello , little vulture,” Quackity spits after throwing him off and standing. “My my, look at you. Look at those wings.” He doesn’t sound like he did mere grains ago.

“What’s happening,” he asks, crouching low, drawing his blade close, ready to strike. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Schlatt, vulture. And I’m here to tell you that no one, and I mean no one gets to hurt Quackity like that.”

“What are you?” he asks, because Quackity’s fingers are still black and his eyes are still void, and his feathers are practically upright, and the voice in his head is eerily quiet.

“Oh I think you know.” 

Quackity-Schlatt flicks his hand, and something slams into his chest as the spirit does so, knocking him backwards and stealing his breath. He couldn’t even see it coming.

“Careful, vulture,” Quackity-Schlatt cackles, and flicks his fingers again.

This time, it goes over his head, rustling the feathers in his wings. He’s had enough of this, he’s had enough of the spirit and of Quackity and of this fight, he needs to win. There isn’t another choice.

With a wordless cry, he throws himself at the innkeeper, slashing out blindly at his face with his blade. He doesn’t expect it to hit.

But it does. There’s a two toned scream, one echoing inside his head, and another outside, one from Quackity and the other from Schlatt. It’s piercing, and he stops his attack, retreats back and lets the blood drip down his blade and onto his hand.

Quackity looks normal now. His hands are no longer black, he’s no longer rippling with strange magic, and he’s still screaming. He’s still clutching his face.

“Medic!” he shouts, stumbling back into a chair. “Someone get a voiddamned medic! Curses!”

There’s blood streaming down Quackity’s face, and he takes that as his cue to leave.

He’s sitting on the steps of Las Nevadas that moonrise next time he sees Quackity.

The innkeeper doesn't look great, actually, he feels a little guilty. There are bandages swathed around half of his head, and his wings drag behind him, even though they’re small enough to lift out of the sand. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Quackity does.

“Hey, man,” he says. He doesn’t sound nearly as energetic as he did earlier. “What’re you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

“Don’t really have anywhere to go,” he replies, shrugging. “Won’t be my first dark in the desert.”

Quackity just stares at him, a tired droop to his posture. “You paid for a room, why aren’t you in there?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replies, rolling his eyes and huffing. “Maybe because I tried t’ kill you? Didn’t think you’d want me around after that.”

And Quackity just laughs.

“Oh man,” he says once he eventually stops. “I forgot how new you are around here. If I didn’t do business with people who’ve tried to kill me I’d have no business to do. C’mon, I could use a hand. Can’t tell where I’m going with this bandage.”

So he takes Quackity’s arm. He leads him inside, into the mess of a room that they’d both left. Half of it’s charred, the other half lies in pieces across the ground. He can’t afford to pay to help with repairs.

But Quackity directs him away, up a set of stairs and there’s a hallway with rooms, numbers painted on the doors.

“Door five, that’s yours,” Quackity says. “As long as you need it, it’s on me.”

“Really?” he asks.

“Yeah man, go on in, I’ll bring your food in a shift. You paid for that too.”

So he does. He opens the door to room five, and peers around. 

There’s two beds, each with a pillow and a blanket, and they look so soft, so much better than the rough sand. A window looks out onto the land behind Las Nevadas, a dresser underneath with a small pot of dried flowers and leaves. It’s nice. It’s cosy. He’s not sure he deserves this after what he did to Quackity.

But there’s a knock at the door before he can progress that thought any further. 

Speak of the man, it’s Quackity, with a tray in his hands.

“Here,” he says, handing it over. “May I sit?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, taking the tray and sitting down himself, looking over at Quackity. He’s doing surprisingly well for someone with a half bandaged face.

“Sorry if I scared you with the cards, man. But I- I get it.”

He uncovers the bowl of food, a waft of steam greeting him, and his stomach growls in appreciation.

“You do?” he asks.

“Yeah. Being cursed sucks lizard nuts sometimes. I know what people say about- about us. I can see you do too. I’d say it’s been what, two, three lights since you left your oasis? You’re still alive, just, but you’re wearing their clothes.”

He doesn’t say anything. Quackity’s right.

“Anyways, I wanted to give you a couple things,” Quackity continues. “Here,” he holds his hands out.

He reaches out in return, palms upturned beneath Quackity’s, and he’s surprised when most—if not all—of his coins clatter back into his possession.

“Are you sure?” he asks, looking up in disbelief.

“Yeah. It’s all on me. People like us, we gotta support each other. Won’t be anyone left if we don’t.”

He makes a good point.

“And this, too,” Quackity says, holding out one of the playing cards.

He eyes it warily, but takes it from Quackity’s hand tentatively, leaving it face down.

“You can look, if you want to. It’s your last card, your future. I thought you might… want to know. Closure and all that.”

He does look. He turns it over, and actually studies the design on the other side.

It’s two pairs of hands, each cupping a glowing star. The larger pair comes down from the top of the card, and the smaller reaches up from the bottom. The inscription reads ‘Two of Stars’.

“What does it mean?” he asks. 

“Guiding light,” Quackity replies softly. “The two of stars means you’re going to become someone others look up to. Someone who can help guide people, put them on the right track. A teacher, a mentor, a parent.”

A mentor. A parent, even. He’s… not sure how he feels about that.

“Things will get better for you, I promise,” Quackity says. “Just like the cards say they will.”

Chapter Text

“Where am I?” Phil asks. He’s still in Kristin’s arms, he’s still sniffling a bit. Kristin had held him when he cried and she’s not Technoblade but she’s really nice.

She held him and stroked his hair and she didn’t say anything but that’s okay. 

“This is the Ebony plane,” Kristin says, and Phil peers around a bit. It’s very empty. It’s been very empty every time he’s come here. He wonders if it’s supposed to be this empty.

“Is that-” he says, remembering what Technoblade taught him about magic. “Is it like the other magic planes? Where the other spirits used to live?”

Kristin smiles, but it’s sad. She sighs, and her eyes flick away, and Phil thinks he might have asked the wrong question. He wishes he could take it back.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, this is like the other planes used to be.”

“Used to be?” Why used to? What happened to them?

“Yes, angel. Used to be. The other planes… Clear and Copper and Ochre, they…” She sighs. This was the wrong question. “They don’t exist anymore. Not really. There’s nothing in them now, no way in nor out, nothing for them to do. The Ebony plane is alone now.”

“Is it because the spirits went into humans? Like me?” Phil asks. That’s how people got magic, that’s what Technoblade told him. Humans can do magic, because they have bits of spirits inside of them, and that lets them do things that aren’t possible on one plane, but are on another.

“The spirits didn’t ‘go into’ humans, my little one,” Kristin says. She shifts Phil in her lap, and she sighs again. Why is she sighing so much? What happened?

“There used to be so many of us,” she continues, and Phil’s resting against her chest, but she doesn’t have a heartbeat. He can’t hear anything. “This place used to be bright and colourful and full, all our planes were separate, yes, but they intersected. We could talk to each other, touch each other, help each other. There was life here, once.”

“Why isn’t there anymore? Everything’s empty, things aren’t supposed to be empty,” Phil says. It sounds so nice, everything being full. It sounds kind of like the Mesa, actually, where nothing matches but that’s okay, because it all works together and no one cares that it doesn’t always look good. 

“Because it’s just us. The rest of the spirits, they… they made a deal, little angel. A deal with the humans. None of us knew what would happen, this had never been done before. We couldn’t know that binding a spirit and a human together in such the way it was done would be catastrophic.”

“Why?” Phil didn’t know about this. Did Technoblade lie to him again? He hopes not, and he… he doesn’t think so. Technoblade would have told him if he’d lied. Perhaps even he doesn’t know.

“Spirits used to be humans. I used to be human. Many, many suns ago, far before you were born, far before even your grandparents were born. Spirits and humans join and the process of magic is one of transformation. That’s now new spirits are made, when humans transform.

“But the humans bound us. We didn’t know it would stop the transformation. New spirits were few and far between, and then… they stopped coming. Us Ebony spirits refused the agreement in the first place, that’s why we’re still here. But we’re the only ones, and there are very few new spirits these times. I can only recall one in the past ten suns, he goes by Xelqua. And I fear soon there will be none of us left at all.”

That sounds… scary. Phil doesn’t want there to be no spirits. Even though- even though he hated being cursed when he was alive, he… he doesn’t want all the spirits to die. That’s not right . So many have died already and that’s wrong!

“Are you going to turn me into a spirit?” he asks. He’s not sure he wants that, even if he doesn’t want all the spirits to go away. Being a spirit sounds… strange. He’s not sure he’ll be able to do it right.

Kristin smiles, and it’s a bit happier this time.

“Only if you want me to,” she says. “I was worried I wouldn’t even get a choice—that you wouldn’t even get a choice. When you died, you… well, you showed up, but it took you some time. You didn’t appear with me, I was worried I’d stifled the bond too much and you would be completely lost.”

“Stifled the bond?” Kristin is saying a lot of things Phil doesn’t understand.

“Our bond,” Kristin says. “What lets you do ebony magic, what gives you your wings, what lets me speak to you. Your connection to this plane and my connection to yours. I had to change it, many times.”

“Why? Why did you change it? What did you do?”

“I wanted to keep you safe. I saw… I knew your parents, they were hurting you. I couldn’t take back what had already been done, but I could stop what was going to happen. Your wings were supposed to come through suns ago, but I knew it would only put you in more danger. And I’m sorry, angel, I’m sorry I didn’t act sooner. I could have saved you so much pain, and yet I didn’t care enough to look.”

Kristin hugs him, it’s tight and warm and Phil hugs her back.

“It’s okay,” he says, curling up. “You did care. I forgive you.” She really did care. Now that Phil knows what was supposed to happen, he can tell that. He can tell that she did care a lot, more than anyone else had until Technoblade found him. 

But… but Phil still has a question. There is so much more to the curse than he ever could have imagined, there is so much more to magic than he ever knew, and there’s one more thing he wants to know.

One more thing he needs to know. 

“Why me?” he asks. Kristin didn’t have to choose him, she could have chosen anyone, but she chose… him. She chose Phil. The son of two council members, a kid, one without good magic and one without a good home. 

Why him?

“Because you have the bravest soul I have ever seen,” Kristin says. She looks down at him, the stars in her hat twinkling like her eyes. And she’s smiling, softly, fondly, proudly.

“The bonds we create are sustained by… by emotion,” she continues, running a hand over Phil’s hair. “Each magic has its own emotion, its own state of mind that it requires before any spells can be cast.”

“Even clear magic? And copper and ochre?” 

“Even them. Ochre thrives from determination, always pushing forwards no matter how hard it gets. If you don’t have determination, ochre magic won’t work well. It’s the same for the others, just different emotions. Copper is passion, clear is calmness, and ebony is courage.”

“Clear is… is being calm?” Phil asks. “So if- if I’m not calm, I can’t do clear magic?” Phil can’t remember the last time he was calm in his oasis. He’s not sure he ever was, actually. He was always so bad at magic, and that made people mad at him, and that made him nervous, and not calm, and then he was still bad at magic, and people got even madder, and it just kept happening.

“That’s right, angel. You need to be calm to do clear magic, just like you need to be brave to do ebony.”

Phil has never been calm. Until he met Technoblade, even he has started to see that he has been on edge for his entire life. How was he supposed to know that was why he couldn’t do magic? 

Everything feels like it’s warping around him. The sky is getting higher and the floor is getting lower and every single thing Phil thought he knew was wrong, and there are so many more things that Kristin’s told him, and his entire life—is it his life anymore? Is it still his life when he’s dead?—has been turned entirely upside down and back to front.

He’s having trouble breathing again, he can’t quite fill his lungs all the way up and everything is still expanding and warping and it’s making him dizzy and he squeezes his eyes closed but that just makes it worse and nothing is the same anymore everything is different it’s so different and he doesn’t know what to do about that he doesn’t know what to do now that nothing is the same anymore.

And Technoblade isn’t here, nothing is the same and Technoblade isn’t here and that makes his breathing speed up and he tries to remember the breathing that Technoblade told him but it’s hard it’s so hard everything is different and the curse isn’t a curse and the spirits didn’t join with the humans they were trapped and he isn’t bad at magic and Kristin chose him because he’s brave but he’s never been calm and he’s never been able to do magic and that’s why and Technoblade isn’t here.

He hiccups, and it’s then that he realises he’s been crying, he’s been staring into the distance but he hasn’t been seeing anything and he’s still breathing all wrong and there are tears on his cheeks and Kristin’s eyes are wide and there’s a ringing in his ears and nothing makes sense but everything does and he doesn’t know what to do and Technoblade isn’t here.

Breathe. He has to breathe. Nothing makes sense but he has to breathe so he gulps in a lungful of air, and another, and another, and it’s not pretty and it’s not controlled and it’s desperate but he needs to breathe and this is the best he can do right now because Kristin is not Technoblade and he’s not even sure she can breathe. 

It works. Mostly. Phil can breathe again and everything isn’t spinning quite so fast and he’s not quite so dizzy, and his eyes are stinging but he can hear again. 

“-tle one? Angel? Are you okay? What happened?” Kristin asks, and Phil looks up at her. He doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he… he curls close. Kristin is not Technoblade but she is Kristin, and that’s almost as good. 

Kristin is not Technoblade and she doesn’t know what’s wrong—Phil doesn’t really know what’s wrong either—but she still tries, she still holds him close and she doesn’t have a heartbeat for him to listen to but her hand runs down his back, steady and rhythmic and that works too, that helps ground him and Phil tries to breathe and to stop crying and he squeezes his eyes so tightly he sees false stars.

He sees real ones when he opens his eyes, the ones under Kristin’s hat. They’re still twinkling, and he simply… looks. He watches them. They don’t move when Kristin does, it’s like her hat is a window into the universe. Perhaps it is, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything much at all about ebony spirits or the ebony plane.

He thinks he wants to learn, though. Since he’s- since he’s- since he’s here. He wants to learn about as much as he can because almost nothing is the same as he thought it was. Almost nothing is the same as he was told it was. There is so much to learn, and Kristin said he’s the bravest person she’s ever seen, and that makes him good at ebony magic. He wants to be good at something, finally. Even if Kristin is the only person who’ll be able to see it.

Even if Technoblade will never know.

Even if Phil is dead and Technoblade is gone and he never got to say goodbye or thank you.

He wants to learn. It’s too late to do anything else, really.

“What happens now?” he asks, finally. He’s whispering, and he shifts his gaze over from Kristin’s hat to her face, to her eyes, and they sparkle too. They crinkle at the edges, and she looks sad, again. 

“Well,” she says softly, cupping his face in one of her hands. “That’s up to you.”

Up to him? What does that mean? He’s dead, he can’t do anything, not anymore. He’s here, that’s how it works, isn’t it? Kristin gets to decide, not him.

“Up to me?” he asks, because that doesn’t make sense.

“Yes, angel. It’s up to you. You can stay here, if you want, with me. Fully become an ebony spirit, perhaps even bond with a human one- one time. There aren’t many of us left here, it might get a little lonely.”

“Or?” Kristin said it was ‘up to him’, that means there’s a choice. That means there’s another option, and he doesn’t want to think about what it might be, because surely it won’t, and he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. That’s probably not possible, but he- no, he can’t think it is.

“Or,” Kristin continues, “you could go back.”

Oh. Oh, he can- he can go back? Really?

“There will be consequences, I will have to accelerate our bond as far as I can push it, a part of you will always remain here, but- but you can go back.”

Phil sits up. He pushes himself up and his eyes are wide because he can go back. He can go back to Technoblade and Carl and the Mesa and the desert and he can be alive and he can say thank you and he won’t have to say goodbye for a very long time because he never wants to have to say goodbye ever again.

“I can go back?” he whispers, still not quite believing it.

“Yes,” Kristin confirms, and she meets his eyes and does not look away. “You can go back, but you will never be quite the same, Phil.”

“I can see Technoblade again?” 

“You can see Technoblade again,” Kristin says, and her smile is sad. 

Her grip tightens just a little, not enough to hurt or to trap him, but just enough to pull him a little closer, just enough that she doesn't want to let go. Phil looks around. He looks at the rolling nebulae above him, the smooth floor below him, the glimmering form of himself lying to the side. 

He looks at Kristin, at her soft hands and her softer eyes and her universe window hat on her universe dark hair. 

He still wants to learn.

“And- and you’ll still… be here?” he asks. “Can I still talk to you?”

And she laughs. She laughs and it is bright and merry and she pulls him even closer and hugs him, and Phil hugs her back because actually, Kristin is not Technoblade, but she is Kristin, and that is more than just ‘good’. She is Kristin and she cares about him, she is Kristin and she cried for him, she is Kristin and she has looked after him and taught him and soothed him as best as she can.

She is Kristin and Phil doesn’t want to have to say goodbye.

“Yes,” she says when she stops laughing. “Yes, I will be here for as long as you will let me. If you go back, our bond will be stronger than it ever has been, I’m not going anywhere.”

And that’s- that’s good. Perhaps once, it was not, perhaps once the mere thought of it would have sent Phil spiralling, but it is not once, it is now, and it is good. 

“I want to go back, then,” Phil says. “I want to go back, and- and I don’t want to bind my curse. I want to learn everything, I want to learn ebony magic and about the spirits and about all the planes. I want to find out about everything I can and I want to have you and Technoblade and I want to say thank you. I don’t want to say goodbye.”

“I will teach you, little one,” Kristin says, and she is crying again. “I will teach you everything I know. You can go back, and I’ll always be with you.”

Phil hugs her tightly, and she hugs him back. 

“Now,” she says, when she lets go. “To send you back. Tell Chat hello from me.”

“I will,” Phil says, clambering out of her lap as she moves, as she stands and as- as wings unfold from her back. They’re like Phil’s wings, but also so very not . They shine and shimmer the same colours as the universe in her hat, and there’s not one, but three pairs of them. The spread around Kristin as she picks up his starlight body in her arms, and brings it closer. 

“This is your body,” she says, laying it down. “And this is your spirit,” she says, touching his forehead. “I will return you to your body, and then you’ll be back with Technoblade.”

Phil just nods. He doesn’t know what to say.

Kristin guides him down, guides him to lay next to the starlight body and he can feel it radiating beside him. 

There are whorls of darkness around Kristin’s arms, the same universe that inhabits her hat. They twist and wind but their stars do not move with them. Kristin gathers Phil up in her arms, as well at the body. He starts sinking, right into the starlight. It’s thick, and bright, and he closes his eyes because he can’t see past the light of the stars but the last thing he sees is Kristin’s face, smiling down at him.

The last thing he feels are her arms, cradling him gently.

The stars are inside of him, now.

Chapter Text

It has been glasses. Techno doesn’t know how many of them, he only knows that it has been glasses. The dark is cold and the fire is lit, but the warmth is barely reaching him. He doesn’t know what to do.

Carl has laid down to sleep, and Phil isn’t here, which leaves Technoblade entirely alone.

Even chat is silent. They’ve barely spoken a word since Phil… died.

Since Phil died.

Techno knows he didn’t know the kid for that long, really. A moon, maybe nearly two. Maybe barely one. He didn’t know him, not like he knows Niki, or Sneeg, or Quackity. But he still cared for him. Still cares for him, even if he’s… not here.

Phil had come so far. Not merely in distance, but in everything else.

In magic, in confidence, in courage, in happiness.

He had been so terrified when Techno had first found him, so quiet and so withdrawn and so desperate. It had taken a while, but he had really started coming out of his shell.

Sure, there were definitely difficult times. Phil is—was—prone to panicking, he is—was—small and young and has been—had been—sheltered for so long. 

But he didn’t shy away. He learnt how to breathe through the fear, how to control his own body, he learnt how to trust and how to love. And Techno had been there for him the whole time. Techno had held him and talked to him and taught him, had supported him and laughed with him and wiped away his tears.

Now what?

Now what is he supposed to do?

How is he supposed to return to his old life, how is he supposed to return to his old normal after this? After Phil?

It had been fine, yeah, his old life. But that was it. Just fine. Good. Not great, not bad, just good. Nothing more and nothing less.

And then Phil had appeared. And then Technoblade finally had something to do, someone to care about, someone with him. He hadn’t been alone. And-

And that’s it. 

He hadn’t been alone.

Technoblade’s always said he’s happier alone. He’s turned away everyone who tries to stay with him—Sophie, Sneeg, even Niki. He’ll travel for a few lights at their side, but that’s it. He’s never let himself get close enough to get attached. He’s never let them get close enough to get attached.

He didn’t even realise how close Phil got until he was gone.

He didn’t even realise how attached he was until Phil was gone.

And now there’s no way to get him back. No way to fill the space he’s left, no way to replace him.

Not that Techno wants to replace him. Not that he ever could. No one and nothing is like Phil, and no one and nothing will ever be like him, either. There is no replacing him, and perhaps that is what hurts most.

Techno was alone, and then he wasn’t, and now he’s alone again.

And Phil is dead.

He’ll never hear his laugh, his little giggle when he forgets to guard his own emotions. He’ll never see those sparkling blue eyes, nor his iridescent black wings, nor his freckled face stretched and squashed into a wide smile.

He’ll never be able to give him the life he deserves, the love and the laughter and the safety he never had. He was trying so hard , but it wasn’t good enough. Techno wasn’t good enough.

He failed. That’s all there is to it. Technoblade has failed.

He has failed at the one thing that matters, he has failed to protect Phil. He has failed to protect those he loves.

And perhaps he wasn’t the best father. Perhaps there were things he forgot to do, perhaps there were things he did wrong, he knows that. He’s new to this, he never expected it. He never expected to love and to lose like this. 

Perhaps he wasn’t the best father, but perhaps he was trying his hardest.

And perhaps that wasn’t good enough, because his son is dead, because his son is lying cold on the blankets only a few palm fronds from where Techno is sitting. Because Phil will never see light again.

A sob catches in Techno’s throat, one of many. It hurts, but not as much as his own mistakes hurt. He doubles over, rests his forehead on his knees and he breathes. He tries not to cry. He only succeeds because he has cried so much that there are no tears left for him to cry. 

There is nothing he can do.

But he cannot stop trying.

“Chat?” he asks. He doesn’t know if he even wants there to be an answer.

“This is a first.”

Chat replies. Technoblade just sighs. It’s clear Chat is trying to keep up appearances, trying to be light and jovial and annoying like usual. But even their jokes are falling far too flat.

“There has to be something,” Technoblade asks, pleads, because there has to. “There has to be something you can do.”

Chat is silent.

Chat is silent for a very long time.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Techno replies, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. “No, there has to! Chat, please, whatever it takes, please.”

“Technoblade, you know I can’t do anything. Even if I could… you bound me.”

“So you could?” Techno asks, looking up and into the fire. “If you weren’t bound, you could? You could do something?” Anything. He’ll do anything, just for the chance to have Phil back. He doesn’t know who to go to to get the binding reversed, spirits, he doesn’t even know if the binding can be reversed, but it’s fine. It’s fine, he’ll find a way.

“I-”

Chat begins, and for as long as Techno has been able to communicate with the spirit, he’s never heard so much hesitance, so much emotion in their voice.

“I don’t know. He’s… he’s not mine, there’s only so much I would be able to do. It’s not up to me, it’s up to…”

“To who?” Techno asks, leaning forwards, even though Chat is in his own head, even though there’s no one there, even though he’s alone.

“To Her.”

To her. To Her. 

“Her?” Technoblade asks, because he doesn’t know who her is. He doubts it’s any of the women he knows, he doubts it’s Niki, or Katherine, or Sophie, Chat would have said if he knew anyone who could help. 

“Phil’s soul is in the hands of his spirit, if anyone at all. There’s- there’s no guarantee his soul would even have shown up. There’s no guarantee he’s been found in time even if he did.”

“Then find him!” Techno cries, yelling out into the dark. “Chat, please! Find him!”

“I can’t. I can’t move, Technoblade. I can’t do anything, and you know that. You made this choice, not me. You knew what you were doing, and you did it anyways.”

It’s his fault. Again, it’s his fault. All of it, Phil’s death, the loss of his soul, Chat’s inability to do anything at all, it’s all Technoblade’s fault. It always is, it seems. He can try to run as much as he likes, but the consequences of his actions always seem to catch up with him.

Perhaps…

Perhaps it’s time to do something about it.

None of this is right.

There is a child’s blood on Techno’s hands, and a living spirit trapped with his conscience. This is not right, and there is no one to blame except himself. 

While he cannot… while he can’t bring Phil back, he can… he can free Chat. And maybe- maybe Chat won’t leave when that happens.

Maybe Techno’s head won’t be empty, maybe he won’t be truly alone.

He’ll understand if he is, though. He wouldn’t want to hang around the person who trapped him and suppressed him for far too many suns. He’s not going to force Chat to do anything anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says, resting his head in his lap again. 

He’s lost everything before, this isn’t the first time. He’ll be… he’ll be okay. He’ll survive.

“I’m going to get you unbound, Chat,” he says, making sure the spirit knows he’s genuine about this. “I’m- I never should have bound you in the first place, I was- I was scared, of you, of myself, it… it seemed like the best option. I can see it wasn’t, I’m sorry I did that to you. I’ll make it right.”

Chat says nothing.

He probably deserves that.

And now… now Techno has to pick himself up. Which sounds far easier than it’s feeling, actually. He has to accept that this happened, and he has to… move on. No matter how long it takes, he has to keep moving.

He has to make this right.

First things first, he… needs to work out what to do with Phil. With his body. He’s not taking it back to his parents, not in a million suns. They never loved him, and Phil deserves to have someone who at least tried to care about him to send him off.

He’ll take his ashes to the Mesa, Phil seemed to like it there. He can rest in the Mesa, after all, that’s what the Mesa’s for, isn’t it? He just has to… he can’t do this alone, even if he wanted to. He’ll have to turn around and head straight back, ask Niki and Sophie and Scott to help. With all of their magic combined, the fire will definitely be strong enough.

Techno looks over at the kid, still lying as lifeless as ever on the blankets. There’s still dark patches on his skin, a morbid reminder of what happened, of how Techno wasn’t fast enough.

But beside them, Phil’s skin, while still marred, seems to shimmer under the moon’s light. Just gently, like he’s sprinkled with fine stardust, instead of coarse sand.

The longer Technoblade looks, the more he seems to shine. That’s… odd.

And there’s- there’s light coming from him now. Faint, purplish, he’d miss it if he wasn’t looking close enough, but there’s definitely light coming from Phil’s body. 

Techno pulls a leg underneath himself, crouching. Something is clearly happening.

The light coming from Phil only grows in intensity, his skin only shines brighter. His eyes are still closed and he’s still lying where he is, but there is some sort of arcane magik emanating from inside of him. Perhaps….

Phil is glowing brighter, his body seems to be made of stars with how intense the light is. And he’s- he’s lifting off the ground. Gently, slowly, but Techno pulls himself to his feet and steps forwards just once, just enough to be a little closer. One of Phil's arms falls from where it had been laying on his stomach, and his fingers graze the blanket below.

As he’s lifted by some unseen, unknown force, Phil’s wings drape, their dark feathers reflecting the starlight. They’re not glowing themselves, but they are- they are shining in a thousand different shades of purple and lilac, unlike anything else Technoblade has ever seen.

Phil’s body is lifted until no part of him is touching the ground, and there is no sound in the vast desert. None at all, not a whisper of wind nor a chittering insect to be heard. It’s strange, but it’s oddly enough not uncomfortable.

Techno doesn’t dare take his eyes off Phil, not now, not when all this is happening, whatever this is.

Despite the desert’s stillness, something is glowing purple, humming gently, mystically. Wisps of it spiral up and around Phil, they glow deeper and hum louder, the song of the universe.

Technoblade doesn’t know how he knows this, only that he does.

The purple wisps are so thick and so numerous now that he can’t see, Technoblade cannot see Phil anymore, he cannot see anything but a cocoon of glowing purple ribbon, and he cannot hear anything but the very stars themselves, singing in a language never known.

So he looks. Technoblade watches because there is nothing he can do but let the universe have its way. He couldn’t interrupt even if he wanted to.

There is something inside the ribbons, the strips of galaxy that twist before him. Something bright and glowing and it’s seeping out the cracks, it’s pushing through the darkness and as Technoblade watches, he sees Phil’s body.

The bright light has not dimmed, and Technoblade has to squint as he looks at Phil, has to shield his eyes because it’s Phil who’s making the light, glowing brighter than any sun or star ever could, a triangular shape pulsing above his chest, and it is from that the ribbons emanate, spilling forth and blooming.

And he’s changing. Phil’s body is changing, Technoblade can see it happening as he watches, rooted to the spot not by some unseen force, but by his own awed will.

Phil’s fingers, his feet, the stars that make up the rest of his body are receding, leaving his limbs darkened and voidlike against the light. They are still there, and if Technoblade squints, he can see tiny pinpricks in the darkness, like looking into the universe.

Phil’s wings are the same blackened dark too, though they were never made of stars. They are void and universe fabric, and they seem to be leaking a deep purple into the light around them. The purple intensifies—that is the only way Techno can describe it, it grows and it darkens yet it is still the same rich colour—and Phil’s wings change with it. 

They grow. They extend and flare and they must be twice his height at least, no longer covered in a child’s down, but sleek and glossy like that of the finest of fliers. 

The triangle grows, the shape that has been slowly growing stronger over Phil’s body grows, it grows as big as his torso, his body, his wings, and it doesn’t stop. The ribbons do, they drift into the sky and fade to nothing, to everything, to exactly what they need to be.

And then the shape shatters.

It explodes. Light bursts from Phil’s body in every direction, beams of it lighting up the skies and the desert as far as Technoblade can see, and the shock of the detonation pushes him over backwards, steals the breath from his lungs and rings in his ears.

He manages to scramble to his feet, to stumble forwards because even if the ribbons are gone and the light is gone and he can move again, his legs are shaking. His hands are shaking. He is shaking. Because Phil was in there, Phil was in the cocoon, Phil was in the explosion. He has to know if he’s okay. He has to know if his body is still… is still here.

He runs, Technoblade runs as fast as his feet will carry him because everything is dark now but there is a shape in the sky and it is falling, it is falling and Techno lunges forwards, arms outstretched because the shape is Phil, it’s Phil and he’s okay, his body is okay.

Phil falls into Technoblade’s arms with a whump, far too much feather for his small body. His new wings are dwarfing him, and Techno runs a hand over them, trying to smooth them down, trying to tuck the limbs neatly into his arms because even though Phil cannot feel anymore, he doesn’t want him to be uncomfortable.

The wound is gone now, somehow. As is the blood. It leaves only a scar in its place, pale and puckered skin the only indication of what happened to him.

“You’re okay,” Techno mutters, even his breath shaking as he speaks. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

He moves his hand from Phil’s wing to his face, brushing his hair from his eyes. Most of it has come out of its braid, he’ll need to fix that when he’s steady enough to do so.

It’s then that Technoblade notices Phil’s arms. It looks like the kid’s been playing with charcoal, coated his hands in the stuff and smeared it up his forearms. His feet and calves are the same. They don’t twinkle like the universe any more, but they’re just as dark. 

Something shifts. One of Phil’s hands, it’s fallen from where it was resting again. Techno gently places it back, covering Phil’s hands with his own and taking a deep breath.

Something twitches. In the corner of his eye, Techno sees something move. Turns his head to look at whatever it was, and- and Phil’s face, his features, they’re…

His eyebrows are knitted together, his nose is wrinkled, his eyes are squeezed tight.

And he tosses. Phil tosses, only a little, still weak, but he tosses in Techno’s arms. 

“Phil?” Techno breathes. “Phil, are you- are-”

And then perhaps the most miraculous thing happens. Phil’s eyes crack open, still as beautiful and blue as ever.

“Dad?”

Chapter Text

Everything hurts.

Everything hurts, but it doesn’t hurt like getting stabbed hurt. It hurts like an ache, all over, all the time. Everything is sore, and Phil is struggling to find the energy to move. That’s okay, though, he doesn’t have to.

Because Technoblade is here.

There were stars when Phil first opened his eyes, twinkling in the darkness. For a moment he’d almost thought it hadn’t worked, that he was still with Kristin, looking up at the underside of her hat, being held in her arms.

But then Technoblade is here too, and his arms are warm and solid and real, and Phil is only able to choke out one word.

“Dad?” he asks, voice cracking already.

And- and Technoblade nods. He nods, and he smiles, and Phil can feel his own face crumple beneath the weight of emotions.

He tries to curl up, but his body hurts and there’s something in the way, and Phil starts to cry. He turns his face into Technoblade’s chest, he grips his shirt as tight as he can in one hand, and he doesn’t try to stop the tears that fall thick and fast and ugly.

He can’t see anything anymore, not with so much water in his eyes, not with them squeezed tightly closed, but he can feel Technoblade moving. He adjusts Phil’s body until he’s cradled close, his head nestled into the crook of his neck, and Technoblade’s arms around him, one on his back and the other holding his head.

“I’m sorry,” Technoblade is whispering, and Phil cries harder. It wasn’t his fault. It was never his fault, Technoblade didn’t do anything wrong. He doesn’t have to be sorry, but he is, and he’s repeating it over and over and over again, and Phil snakes his arms around Technoblade and he squeezes, he balls his fists because he never wants to have to say goodbye to Technoblade ever again.

Phil doesn’t know how long they sit there. He doesn’t know how long Technoblade holds him so tightly it’s almost uncomfortable but not quite. He doesn’t know how long he’s been crying, but he does know he’s not the only one.

He hasn’t seen Technoblade’s face, but Phil is so close that he can hear his quiet sobs and so close that he can feel them too.

But it’s okay. They’re happy tears. Phil is back and Technoblade is here and nothing is going to go wrong again because Phil has his dad.

“You’re back,” Technoblade finally says, pulling away just enough that he can look at Phil. “Phil, yer… how?”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” Phil answers, and he doesn’t expect his voice to catch, but it does, and he surges back into Technoblade’s embrace and refuses to let go. 

“Oh, kid,” Technoblade says, putting his arms around him again and running a hand over his hair. 

“I never got to say goodbye,” Phil continues, a little muffled. “I don’t want to ever say goodbye.”

“It’s okay,” Technoblade soothes, “yer okay, I’m not goin’ anywhere, an’ neither are you.” Technoblade’s voice is wobbly too, but it warms Phil. It warms him from the inside and out, because Technoblade still wants him. He still wants him here, and he still loves him, and he’s here . Technoblade is here and so is Phil and it’s okay . It really is okay.

“Please,” Phil asks. “Please, don’t go. Not without saying goodbye.”

“I’m not. I promise, I’m not leavin’ you kid, an’ if I ever have to, of course I’ll say goodbye.”

Technoblade promises so easily.

He promises so easily and so readily and so truthfully, because Phil knows he means every single word. It is a kindness Phil had never known, that someone would promise him things, things that he wants, and mean them, and follow up on their words and hold true to what they’ve said.

Technoblade is a kindness Phil had never known. He is sitting here with Phil, holding him in his arms, pulling him close because he loves him, not just because he has to be around him. He is letting him cry and he is crying too, and even though everything hurts, even though Phil cannot hold onto a thought for more than a moment, this is nothing but good.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Technoblade says, and he is cradling Phil. He is making him feel like something special, something precious. Perhaps he is. “I didn’t realise how much you meant to me until you were gone, I shoulda told you sooner.”

Phil knows. Kristin told him.

“I know,” he replies, and Technoblade’s face crumples. “Thank you.”

“Kid…” Technoblade murmurs, and it’s all he can seem to say before he shakes his head, and hugs Phil tightly.

“Thank you for- for not taking me home,” Phil continues, because he didn’t get to say thank you before, or goodbye, and he doesn’t want to say goodbye anymore, but he does what to say thank you.

“Thank you for helping me, even when you didn’t have to. Thank you for helping me not be scared, thank you for- for trying, thank you for being my family.”

There’s so much Phil wants to thank Technoblade for, but he can’t because the words are making his chest swell and his eyes sting, and Technoblade is holding him so tightly that all he can bring himself to do is to turn into him, is curl up as small as he can and close his eyes.

He’s home. He’s safe. He doesn’t have to go anywhere else.

Things have changed.

Phil has changed.

He knew that Kristin was going to have to do something to make him alive again, and now he’s finding out what.

“Woah, steady there,” Technoblade says when Phil tries to stand up. His wings are- they’re huge, and he grabs Technoblade’s hand so he can stand supported until he works out how to fold them at his back properly. 

He manages to stretch one out, holding it to his side so he can look at it, twisting his head. It’s still dark, the feathers are still black and it’s still a crow’s wing. It’s just- bigger. Not as fluffy. He gives it a flap, experimentally, and Phil gasps when he sees how even the pale moonlight reflects off his glossy new feathers.

Phil looks back at Technoblade, and even he can feel how wide he’s grinning. Technoblade chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corner which only makes Phil smile more.

It’s not just his wings that have changed, though. His hands are dark in Technoblade’s, and his feet are dark in the sand. It’s curious, they don’t feel any different, they just… look different.

Phil knows they won’t go away. Not unless Kristin does too. He doesn’t want Kristin to go away.

So many things have changed, and Phil looks up to the sky. There are stars there, twinkling brightly. They’re like Kristin’s hat, like her wings. Technoblade is quiet, only his breaths steadily beside Phil as he watches the stars.

He watches them for a long moment. He looks at them, and he feels… okay. The stars are watching him back, the universe has given him another chance, and he feels okay .

He remembers, now, that he, too, is the stars. He remembers his body, lying in Kristin’s lap, shining oh so brightly. He remembers sinking into it, letting the stars cover him, letting them envelop him, letting them become him. He is the stars and the stars are him.

Phil doesn’t know quite what this means, but that’s okay. He’ll find out, one light.

“It means you are loved.”

Kritsin says, and her voice is warm in Phil’s head.

“It means you are whole, and you are strong. It means you are okay .”

Phil smiles, and he looks down from the stars. He looks down, and he looks at Technoblade. 

“Thank you for loving me,” he says, because even though Technoblade never told him he did, Phil knows. He knows because Kristin told him, and he knows because the universe told him. He knows because his parents never did and Technoblade is so different from his parents.

Technoblade startles a little bit at Phil’s words, and he blinks, and looks away very quickly. But he’s smiling. It makes Phil smile too.

“Ah, ‘s no problem, kid,” Technoblade says, and Phil grins. “Now, let’s get you t’ bed, yeah? Dyin’ can’t be easy, you should rest.”

Phil nods, and he lets Technoblade lead him to the tent. Most of the blankets are outside, are where Phil woke up in Technoblade’s arms, but that’s okay, they can be brought inside. They are, and Technoblade lets Phil have them all.

“Here,” he says softly, tucking the fabric around Phil, around his wings. “Is that comfortable?”

“Yeah. Thank you,” Phil says. It is comfortable, and he’s very, very tired but- but he can’t sleep. Not now. Not yet.

“That’s good,” Technoblade murmurs, and he takes his hands away. Phil didn’t want him to take his hands away. Technoblade hasn’t gone away, he’s still kneeling right beside Phil, but his hands aren’t there anymore. Phil can’t feel him anymore.

He tries not to, but he whimpers. Very quiet and very quick, and he squeezes his eyes closed as soon as he does. Not because he’s scared Technoblade is going to hurt him—not anymore, he knows he won’t—but because he’s ashamed. His cheeks burn, and his head feels a little dizzy.

He doesn’t want Technoblade to go away.

“What’s up?” Technoblade asks, and Phil doesn’t know what to say. Not really, not properly.

Because everything is okay now. He is the stars and the stars are him and he has a second chance, he is alive and Technoblade is here and so is Kristin, and he didn’t get to say goodbye but that’s okay because he doesn’t have to say goodbye.

Everything is good now, but he doesn’t feel good.

He feels-

He feels scared.

Why is he scared?

“It’s okay to be afraid, little angel.”

Kristin says. Phil nods, and he can almost feel her soft hands holding him, his body, his wings.

“Phil, talk to me, it’s okay,” Technoblade says, and one of his hands is back, resting on Phil’s shoulder. He leans into it, ducking his head and curling his body, leaning close to Technoblade.

“Hey,” Technoblade says softly, and his other hand is there too now, around Phil. He’s holding him, gentle and warm and strong and real, and Phil can still feel Kristin holding him too. 

“It’s okay,” Technoblade continues, rubbing slow circles under Phil’s wings.”Yer okay.”

“Don’t go,” Phil says, oh so small. “Please.”

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t think he can right now. He doesn’t cry, he only lies, limp in Technoblade and Kristin’s arms. 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Technoblade repeats, and he says it so quickly after Phil is finished, so steadily. “Rest, kid, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Phil knows that. But- but-

“But what if I’m not?” he asks, peeking up at Technoblade.

Technoblade looks down at him, and he looks a little bit confused.

“What if I- what if I don’t wake up?” Phil asks again. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to lose himself again. He doesn’t want to lose Technoblade or Kristin. Sleep means darkness, and darkness is death, last time. Darkness means unconsciousness means death  and Phil doesn’t want to die again for a very long time.

Technoblade doesn’t answer him. Neither does Kristin.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared,” Phil admits. He knows he should sleep. He knows he should rest. But he is scared, and his fear is oh so powerful.

“I know.” It’s all Technoblade says right now. He knows. Phil being scared isn’t a bad thing, but that doesn’t mean it has to be a good thing. It’s an okay thing. “I know yer scared, void, I’m terrified . An’ I- I don’t know what to do about it, except trust.”

“Trust?” Phil asks.

“Yeah, trust. Trust that you really are back, trust that this really is real, trust I’m not gonna leave you an’ you’re not gonna leave me. An’ trust that Kristin really does care about you, trust that she did her job right.”

“She does,” Phil says almost immediately. “I know she does.”

“There we go,” Technoblade says. “You’re already gettin’ the hang of it. I know it’s scary. It’s probably gonna be scary for a long time. But I’m trustin’ you, Phil, an’ I’m trustin’ Kristin. I’m trustin’ myself. That it’s all gonna be okay.”

“I want it to be okay. I don’t like when it’s not okay,” Phil says, curling up.

“Neither. We can trust together, yeah? Trust each other. I’ll always have your back, an’ with those wings of yours, I bet you’re gonna have mine.”

“And Kristin?”

“I’ll be looking out for you both. ”

Kritsin says,

“Just like you look out for me.”

“She’s gonna look out for us,” Phil says. “And maybe- maybe Chat can too.”

Technoblade smiles, and he almost-laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe they can.”

Phil pulls his wings close to his body, close to him and Technoblade, and even though there is so little light in the tent already, the pocket of darkness they create is so deep Phil feels like he should be able to touch it.

“Technoblade?” he asks. “Dad?”

“I’m right here,” Technoblade says, and he is, even if Phil can’t see him.

It doesn’t take long for Phil to fall fast asleep.

Chapter Text

Seven lights ago, Phil died. Six and a half lights ago, he came back.

And he’s cried every dark since.

Sometimes it’s good crying, because Technoblade is here and so is Kristin, because Phil is alive and he is safe and he is whole again. Because he has his dad and he has Kristin and he has his life again, because he is the stars and the universe and so is everyone and everything around him.

Sometimes, though, it’s bad crying. Because he’s scared, because he doesn’t want to leave, because he still doesn’t quite know what’s happening, because he doesn’t want to say goodbye, but he knows that one light, he’s going to have to. 

But mostly… it’s both.

It’s been getting a little bit easier. Phil can control his wings again, they’re big and heavy, and his back hurts all the time, but he can make them appear and disappear and he can move them about all properly too.

Kristin has been talking to him a lot too, a lot more than she used to. Phil’s been talking to her as well, instead of just ignoring her. She’s really funny, and really kind. She likes making fun of Technoblade and Chat, just like Phil does. 

And Technoblade is here too.

Something’s- different. About him. Not a bad different, just different. Maybe even good different.

Technoblade used to- he used to be further away. Even when Phil was hugging him, even when Technoblade was hugging back, he was careful. He’s not careful anymore. He hugs Phil so completely, he looks at him and Phil can feel the warmth in his eyes always, much warmer than they used to be. 

He also looks a bit sadder. Phil’s not dead anymore, he’s back, but maybe Technoblade has realised the same things Phil has. 

He is lucky. Both of them are lucky. They cannot escape the call of the universe forever.

“Dad?” Phil asks, and that’s another thing that has changed. Technoblade is dad now, and he smiles every time Phil says it.

“What’s up, kiddo?” Technoblade says, pulling one of the buckles of one of Carl’s bags tight. They’re packing up camp, getting ready to travel again, far far away from where everything happened, even if the desert does look very much the same.

“Why are you sad?”

Technoblade goes very still. Phil pulls his cloak around himself—his green one, it’s easier for travelling in—because he’s a little bit cold, and he waits for Technoblade’s answer.

“Man, kid, you’ve got a good eye,” Technoblade says, chuckling and shaking his head. “You’ll give big Q a good run for his money one light.”

“So you are sad?”

Technoblade doesn’t say yes. But he sucks in a breath as he turns, and he nods. And he looks at Phil, and his eyes are warm and they are crinkled and they are shining with tears.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping towards Phil, sitting down and holding his arms out. “Yeah, I am.”

Phil is quick to move to Technoblade’s arms, to nestle himself in his lap and against his heartbeat.

“Why?”

Again, Technoblade takes several long grains to answer.

“When you- when you died,” he begins, and there is a thumb rubbing against Phil’s arm. “I thought about a lot of things. I realised a lot of things. I haven’t been a very kind person, in the past. Not to myself, not to- not to other people.”

“I think you’re very kind,” Phil says. Technoblade is the kindest person he has ever met, along with Kristin.

“Thanks, Phil,” Technoblade says. “I’m tryin’ to get better. To be better. I think- I wasn’t very kind to myself. I didn’t let myself have things I wanted.”

“Like what?”

“Like a family.” Technoblade looks down at Phil, with those same crinkled brown eyes. “I never let anyone get close to me, I was too scared. Too scared I’d hurt them. Too scared I’d hurt myself. I jus’ didn’t realise I was already doin’ jus’ that.” 

Phil says nothing. Neither does Techno.

“You’re my first family in a very long time. Even Niki, even Sophie ‘n Quackity ‘n Squid ‘n everyone else at the Mesa, I… Niki wanted me to come with her, help look for her siblin’. I wanted to, she wanted me to, but I said no. I’ve never really been good at lettin’ people close, lettin’ them in an’ all that. An’ then you came along.”

Phil smiles, snuggling down into Technoblade’s arms.

“You know this, but I wanted absolutely nothin’ to do with you when I found you. Couldn’t care less about some rich kid who’d gotten himself lost in the desert. You were weird, an’ I was bitter, and- and there was somethin’ scary about how you looked at me.”

“What do you mean?” Phil asks. He doesn’t think he’s very scary, quite the opposite, actually. Well, with his curse maybe he’s more scary, but Technoblade is cursed too, so surely he wouldn’t be that scared.

“You looked terrified. An’ you looked- you looked like I felt when I was a kid. Lost, afraid, hidin’ somethin’. I didn’t like that, it made everythin’ so much more complicated. I just wanted to take you home and forget about you, but I couldn’t. Chat wouldn’t let me, even if I’d been able to.

“You made me think about a lot of things, things I’d been trying to run away from for my whole life, things I’d been pretending didn’t bother me, things I didn’t want to think about. I didn’t want to care about you, I didn’t want you to care about me.”

“Why not?” Phil asks, because that doesn’t make much sense at all. Technoblade has cared about him ever since the light he woke up in his tent. He has given him food and warmth and new clothes and a ribbon and hope , he has given him a family. Phil really cares about Technoblade and he knows that Technoblade really cares about him too.

“Because I was scared. I’m scared of everythin’, Phil, but I jus’ keep pretenin’ I’m not.”

“That means you must be really good at ebony magic,” Phil says, because that’s what Kristin told him. He’s strong because even though he’s scared, he keeps going. Technoblade is strong too.

“What?” Technoblade asks, sounding confused.

“Kristin told me that I’m good at ebony magic because I’m brave. You’re brave too, because even when you’re scared you keep going. That means you would be good at ebony magic too.”

Technoblade doesn’t say anything, he just sighs. He’s very quiet, and then he sighs again.

“Chat says the same thing. I’d’ve been good at ebony spells if I hadn’t bound them.” 

He still sounds very sad. 

“But I-” Technoblade says, continuing, sounding more determined. “I was thinkin’, we were lookin’ for an ochre caster anyway-”

“I don’t wanna bind my curse,” Phil interjects quickly. He never wants to do that to Kristin, he never wants to hurt her. He likes his wings, he likes being good at something.

“I know,” Technoblade says, almost chuckling. “Made that pretty clear, haven’t you? What I was thinkin’ was maybe, we could see if I could get my curse un -bound. It’s- it’s not fair to Chat. They don’t deserve to be stuck to me forever, not like this.”

“I hope Chat stays,” Phil says, looking up. “I like Chat, they’re funny.”

Technoblade actually chuckles this time. “Of course you do. Chat likes you too, almost convinced me to go straight back for you when I took you back to yer parents that one time.

“I think- like I said, losin’ you, it… it made me realise a lot of things. I don’t have to be scared. I’m allowed to let people close, like you got, little weasel,” he teases. “I shouldn’t be hurtin’ people like Chat, like you, not if there’s anythin’ I can do about it. And maybe it’s too late, maybe the curse can’t be unbound, but I have to try.”

“I think it will work,” Phil says simply. Surely there will be a counter spell, it seems far too mean for there to not be.

“I hope so too. Like you told me, the universe gave you back to me, so I wanna give back to the universe. Start undoin’ all the bad stuff I’ve done, even if it’s just small. Who knows, maybe we’ll travel with Niki a bit, try find Ranboo. Not much I can do about big Q’s eye anymore though, but I think he and Schlatt are over that.”

It doesn’t quite feel like Technoblade is talking directly to Phil anymore, more that he’s just… talking. He’s talking and saying his words and his thoughts and his feelings aloud, because he’s not trying to ignore them anymore. And he sounds less sad. Still a bit sad, but… less sad than he was before.

Together, they sit in silence, watching the breeze pick up grains of sand and carry them across the ground, slowly but surely covering the remains of their fire. It’s peaceful.

It’s calm.

Phil traces a circle in the air in front of him, trying not to think too hard as he fills in the space with sigil marks. The spark that catches when he crushes the rune in his fist is bright, and it burns the sky for a moment, powerful for the few grains it lives.

He is calm. 

He tries a triangle next. He doesn’t know what to put into it, so he lets himself relax and he asks Kristin for help. He can feel her hand on his, even if it’s not really there, guiding him. The shapes are unlike anything he’s tried before, but they feel somehow familiar. Comfortable. Full.

It only takes the slightest touch of his fingertip to ignite the sigil. It happens instantly, just like Technoblade said it would, all those lights ago. It is instant, the way the wind is no longer a breeze, a gust powerful enough to knock both Phil and Technoblade over, were they standing up. 

Phil has seen wind spells before. Technoblade did one around them once, to get rid of the coven. It was similar, but not quite like this. The wind is like a wall, and Phil can tell that if he had tried, he would have had so much more control over it than anyone could ever have with clear magic.

He is brave.

“That’s new,” Technoblade says, shaking the sand out of his hair.

“It’s ebony magic,” Phil explains.

“I figured. How’d you know it?”

“I didn’t. Kristin showed me. I want her to teach me all the ebony magic, then I can be strong like you.”

The way Technoblade’s face crinkles up makes Phil think he might cry, but he doesn’t, he simply looks at him.

“You gotta teach me too, kid, alright? Even if I can’t do it, I wanna learn.”

Phil nods enthusiastically, and even he can feel how big he’s grinning. He’ll teach Technoblade all the ebony magic he ever learns, and Technoblade can teach him clear magic, even if Phil can’t do it either.

“C’mon now,” Technoblade continues. “Let’s get goin’. Don’t wanna keep Carl waitin’ too long.” 

The journey across the desert is not something unfamiliar to Phil, not anymore.

Even though there are few landmarks in such a place, Phil no longer thinks the entire desert looks exactly the same. The dunes are all so different, and all constantly shifting, never the same twice. There are critters that skitter across the hot grains, and plants that push through the ground to live despite how hard it is to survive in such a place.

There is something comforting in the vast emptiness of the desert too, Phil’s found. Now that he’s spent time here, not just in a house, in an oasis, trapped by his own fear and his own parents and his own society, he’s come to like the open skies and endless horizons.

With no end in sight, anything is possible. He can go anywhere, any time, and nothing can stop him. Well, many things can, but he won’t let them. 

The sway of Carl’s steps is comforting too, a gentle rocking that is home as much as Technoblade’s arms are, as much as his dad’s voice and laugh are.

The sun is hot and bright, and it will only get hotter and brighter as the light continues, until it gives way to the silver moon and the twinkling stars, which in turn will cross the skies until the sun returns. Everything keeps turning, and it will keep turning forever.

Nothing is ever still. Nothing ever remains the same. There are a thousand opportunities, a thousand chances, a thousand second chances. 

This is home. Right here, travelling the desert with Carl and Technoblade—with his dad. Phil has found his home, and he has found his family. He has been so very hurt—and sometimes it still stings—but that’s okay. He will get better. He will keep growing. He is not alone, he is not trapped.

He is free. He is loved. He is brave and he is calm and he is home.

Chapter Text

“Duck!”

Techno ducks, dropping to the sand in an instant, feeling the wind race over his back as it’s pushed about by two powerful wings. There’s a scream, one that fades quickly as Phil pulls up from his dive, elbows hooked under the arms of the coven member Techno hadn’t even realised was behind him.

It’s followed by a rather sickening crunch.

“Nice one kid!” Technoblade calls to the skies, to the dark shape that hangs there, grinning back at him.

Phil has grown into his wings now, grown into his power. He’s still fairly lean and lanky, but he’s filling out, slowly and steadily, and Technoblade knows just as well as anyone else that he doesn’t need magic to do a good deal of damage.

He’s grown into himself, too. No longer is he the scared, timid kid Techno found in the desert. He has a sharp tongue and a sharper sense of humour, he’s growing more confident by the light even now, he’s all smiles and quips and reckless enthusiasm.

Of course, there are still bad darks. For both of them. Technoblade knows what it’s like to have bad dreams, so does Phil. But they’re here for each other now, Phil has a father and Techno has a son.

A son who is currently cackling half way up to the clouds, fingers forming a triangle stretched out in the direction of what coven members remain.

“Techno!” he calls down, and Technoblade looks up at him. “For you!”

Phil pulls his fingers apart, a burst of purple light snapping between them. One hand points at the poor coven member Phil had singled out, and the other points towards Technoblade, who is more than ready to receive.

It takes not even a grain for the disoriented coven member to be thrown at Techno’s feet, unable to get their bearings fast enough before a blue blade falls. 

Chat is cheering, as per usual, but this time Techno cheers too, as does Phil. Yet their battle is not over yet.

The oases have learnt, they know that it takes more than a few casters to fare against the duo. The Mesa has started to hear whispers of a Blood God and an Angel of Death, a pair who have gained notoriety for the blood they have spilled, and the fear they have stricken into so many.

Techno has already had to threaten to take Quackity’s other eye if he doesn’t stop calling him the ‘Blood God’ every time they visit Las Nevadas.

The oases have learnt, but clearly not enough. They send more each time—one coven, two, three—but no matter how many they send, no matter how many never return, they have not given up. 

Neither have Phil or Techno.

Not in this, nor in their pursuit of an ochre caster.

There are spells on Technoblade’s forearms and he throws them, explosions of sand clouding their opponents’ views. He throws one upwards, too, towards Phil.

He catches it, not with his hands nor his wings nor any of his flesh, but with another purple-black triangle, the two spells melding together in a way they were likely never meant to.

The explosion that results slicks the dune with deadly sharp shards of glass. Phil cackles, his wings beating powerfully, his eyes glinting in the sun and his void-darked limbs already reaching for another spell. 

As Kristin—that’s her name, Phil’s spirit, Phil’s Chat—predicted, Phil is more than just good at ebony magic. He picks up on what she teaches him with alarming speed, and it seems each light that passes he has a new spell in his arsenal.

Techno is weidling the same repertoire as he has been for many suns, and it still serves him well. After all, he had plenty reputation of his own before Phil came into his life. 

The sparking sigil he draws burns bright with power, condensing into an orb of light and heat as he hurls it, colliding spectacularly with his target’s chest.

Unfortunately, Phil isn’t there this time to warn Techno of the opponent that’s managed to sneak up behind him. They make themself known by clasping a hand of ice to Technoblade’s dominant arm, quickly freezing the limb.

It’s not enough to take Techno out, it never has been. He only needs one hand to cast with. 

The coven member finds that out soon enough, a whip-like strand of magic coiling around their throat and tugging.

Another sparking sigil held smouldering in Techno’s palm is enough to return movement to his arm, and he shakes it out while surveying the scene around them.

There are bodies littering the ground, the sand stained red with triumph. What few remain alive have conceded that this is not a battle they are winning, and are trying to retreat. There is a patch of desert that glints deep purple in the sun, and a shadow that chases those too cowardly to finish what they’ve started.

Techno will let Phil have his fun, the kid deserves it for how these people treated him. Besides, the coven members are not the only ones hurt here, there is blood that has run down Technoblade’s leg and a sting to his brow. 

He’ll tend to his wounds while Phil tidies up, and they’ll continue on. Let whatever oases sent these casters come find them as they are. They’ll know what happened.

Technoblade watches proudly as he finds Carl and bandages what he can. Phil moves through the sky like a snake through sand, sleek and fast, like this is exactly what he’s made for. Techno’s long since come to realise that’s right, this is what Phil was made for.

When he returns his cheeks are pink and he’s beaming, his blue eyes sparkling with life. He lands deftly in the sand and immediately launches into a recount of the battle.

“Dad! Did you see how I lifted that guy?” His energy is palpable, and he cannot stand still for even a moment. “I think that was my highest one yet! I mean, he didn’t get up when I dropped him so even if it wasn’t, it was good enough!”

Techno chuckles, and Phil’s smile is contagious. “Eh, I dunno,” he jokes. “You let me get snuck up on, so…”

“Hey!” Phil protests, shaking out his wings. “I was busy ! Did you see how far they kept throwing stuff at me! I can’t do everything for you!” 

Technoblade laughs openly this time, reaching out to muss Phil’s hair roughly. “Don’t worry, kid,” he says. “You did great. That teleportation one’s new, Kristin teach you that?”

“Yeah! Well- I mean- kind of?”

“Yeah?”

“So like- she taught me the relocation spell—it’s relocation, not teleportation, because it doesn’t actually teleport because the subject’s form still travels the whole distance it’s just really quickly.”

As Phil speaks, Techno notices there’s a burn mark on Phil’s arm, it’s nothing awful, but it could do with some attention. He says nothing as he takes it in his hands, reaching for some water and bandages. Phil doesn’t even pause for a grain in his explanation.

“Anyways, she taught me the relocation spell, but that either brings things to you or pushes them away from you, so it’s always centred on me, right? But I thought what if I kinda like- combined the two uses? Did the base relocation but halved it and did half to me and half away from me, so that the person ended up somewhere else that wasn’t with me. And it worked!”

“Clearly,” Techno agrees, wrapping Phil’s arm neatly and securing the ends.

“I actually didn’t think it was gonna work, but I figured it was worth a shot because even if it didn’t, the person would be all the way up in the air with me, and that would be just fine.”

Phil continues to talk as they gather their things and leave, Techno atop Carl, and Phil gliding along beside them.

That dark, they sit together around the fire. Phil lit it, with a clear sparking sigil, one he’s become very adept at using in all the suns since he was properly taught it.

Dinner is nothing exciting—it rarely is when they’ve been in the desert as long as they have, but they’re due to stop at an oasis in the next few lights, they’ll stock up there and join with NIki. 

For once, Phil has his wings away. These lights, it’s a rare sight. He likes to keep them out, to be ready to take off at a moment’s notice. But not right now, not this dark. He has them away, and a deep emerald cloak over his shoulders. And he’s leaning against Techno’s side, head against his shoulder.

Techno puts an arm around him, pulling him close. Phil shuffles in too, making it easier. 

“D’you think they’ll ever stop?” Phil says softly, once they’ve both settled.

Technoblade hums. “Hopefully. Probably. Jus’ give ‘em time.”

Phil huffs, adjusting how he’s sitting. “Surely three suns is enough time. Why do they care so much?”

“‘Cause you’re special. People don’t usually come back from the dead, an’ you’ve caused plenty enough damage that people are takin’ interest. They’ll learn, eventually.”

“Why can’t they learn quicker,” Phil complains, and Techno chuckles. 

“Not everyone’s as quick as you, kid,” he says.

“Not even you.”

Chat’s right. Techno will never be as quick as Phil, and he’s okay with that. He doesn’t need to be quick, he can make up for that in plenty of other ways. Besides, too quick people wouldn’t work nearly as well in a fight as they already work together.

Phil darts from here to there, and Technoblade deals with the fallout. They’re well practised, well rehearsed, and well meshed. Techno knows Phil has his back, and he’ll always, always have Phil’s. 

Like void is he ever letting anything happen to his son again, not now, not ever. Not until the light he himself dies, and even then, Techno’s sure he can find a way to keep the kid company from whatever sort of afterlife awaits him.

“I’ll do my best.”

Chat says.

“But you gotta hold up to your side of the promise too.”

“I will,” Technoblade says, without missing a beat.

Phil looks up at him from where he’s pressed into his side. “Chat?”

“Yeah,” Techno says, “they’re jus’ makin’ sure I don’t cut ‘em short. I did promise to get them unbound, an’ I’m a man of my word.”

“Don’t worry, Chat,” Phil says, putting his hands on Techno’s face. “We’re still looking. I’m sure it’ll be soon, I can feel it.”

“You can feel it, huh?” Techno asks, smirking. “Maybe we’ll find a different inn next time we’re near the Mesa, Quackity’s a bad influence on you,” he teases.

Phil shoves him for that, but he quickly settles into his side again, curling up.

Though he’s bigger now—though he is no longer and never again will be the terrified, traumatised child Techno first came to know—Phil is still small. He is small in the way he still hugs his own chest, he is small in the way he still hesitates to ask for help, he is small in the way he slots perfectly into Techno’s arms, perfectly into his lap as he’s pulled close.

He is still a child, even if he has grown so much more than they both ever imagined.

“I’m tired,” Phil says, and Technoblade knows what he means. It sinks deep into both of their bones.

Tired not because of the light passed, but tired from much more. Tired from the fighting. Tired from the constant eye they have to keep out. Tired from the looks and tired from the prejudice, tired from the effort it takes to simply exist as someone other.

But now, at least, they are not alone.

Phil does not have to bear the brunt of magic as he did before, powerless to do anything against it, desperate enough that near certain slow death was deemed a better choice not once, but time and time again. Phil does not have to hide himself and pretend he were someone he is not simply to get people to look at him.

He has family now. He has love and warmth and comfort and open skies so boundless and free that he will never have to feel trapped again. He has a shoulder to cry into and arms to hold him, not hurt him. He has an ear to listen to his pains and a voice to soothe his mind. 

Technoblade does not have to push everyone away as he has for far too long. He does not have to keep himself strong every grain of every light, he does not have to suffer the weight of his own mistakes in silence. He does not have to be alone.

He has a purpose now, a fire burning bright in his chest, warm and radiant. He has a reason to smile, to laugh, sometimes to cry. He has stability, he has reflection, he has acceptance.

And they are not perfect. Neither of them are, nor will they ever be. There is blood under both their nails, as much as Technoblade wishes Phil never had to stain himself so permanently. They are both broken, broken in ways that will never be fixed. They have sharp edges that cut and sting, but they both help to dress the wounds they cause, to soothe the pain they bring.

They will both continue to grow, as the sun travels again and again across the desert sky. Perhaps that growth will be good, perhaps it will not be. But it is still growth. It is still something to be celebrated.

Phil is not trapped.

Technoblade is not isolated.

They are not alone.

They are family.

They are loved.

They are perfectly imperfect.

Chapter Text

he never said goodbye.

he promised he would.

i- i didn’t expect him to. it’s been so long.

goodbye. 

“Oi, kid, who’re you sayin’ goodbye to?”

you- 

“I promised I’d say goodbye, didn’t I? Told you I wouldn’t go without sayin’ it.”

you did, but- i was just a kid . now i’m older than you were then.

“A promise is a promise, an’ I’m a man of my word. Always have been, always will be.”

is Kristin okay with you… being here?

“Oh yeah she doesn’t care. Said it’s nice to finally meet me properly.”

and… Chat?

“I think they’re relieved to finally have me outta their hair. I’m sure they’ll visit, they’ve always been fond of you.”

so this… this is it, right? you, keeping your promise?

“What? Nah, not yet.”

not yet?

“Oh void no. Can’t get rid of me that easily, kid.”

i’m not a kid, haven’t been for a very long time.

“I’m yer dad, am I not? That means yer still my kid. Always have been, always will be, ain’t nothin’ that can change that.”

thanks, dad. really. thank you.