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Maybe he should’ve seen this coming. Maybe it was all a fever-dream that things hadn’t come to a head sooner.
It was hard to let go of a day when you showed something private and intimate to a friend, not knowing if that friend will break the implicit vow of secrecy or not. And if that friend slowly wanders down a path you can’t follow, that day becomes all the more dangerous. Some days, Techno could ignore what Wilbur knows. Some days, he could hardly think about anything else.
L’manberg explodes, he is betrayed and betrays, Wilbur dies, and it seems like it’s all coming to a head… but it doesn’t. Even dead, Wilbur – Ghostbur, keeps his silence.
He tries to let it go. Tries not to listen to voices telling him there’s one surefire way to permanent silence. Tries not to listen to voices telling him that there’s one surefire way to control how a secret comes out.
Some days are still harder than others.
Today had not been a hard day. He had tended to his crops, his animals, his home. A cold wind was lashing around him, a warning of the storm that was surely coming. The edge of his cape was heavy with soft snowfall, and the chimney was puffing out its steady stream of smoke. He wasn’t worried about the storm. Philza may have to spend a day or two longer away, but the man knew how to maneuver bad weather better than Techno, he’d be fine.
He was set to have a quiet evening indoors, relaxing with a book, until a figure appeared in the distance.
He didn’t get visitors. He just didn’t.
But the figure grew bigger, and it was undeniable that it was not only getting closer, but moving towards him.
After what happened the last time someone visited, no-one could blame him for holding a hand on the handle of his axe.
It was Ghostbur.
Yellow sweater and gray skin.
The hand stayed on his weapon.
Even the snow seemed to tense up, its lazy drifting shifting ever so quietly to a more steady fall.
“Ghostbur.” His voice carried, but he didn’t yell. There was no need to scare him.
Ghostbur just kept moving forward, hands in his pockets. “Techno!”
He was close enough now that Techno could see how he squinted his eyes, how the snow had melted on the cuff of his pants. “What… are you doing here?” Last time, he had trailed executioners. Last time he had brought death, unknowingly, but all the same.
“Visiting a friend?” His smile was earnest, even though his shoulders were also hunched. “We’re friends, right, Techno?”
“Yes…” He drawled, “we are friends.” Ghostbur was a lot more open with the word than Techno was, but even by Techno’s tight definitions, they were friends.
“Good… good.” He wasn’t looking at Techno anymore, false cheer shed. “Friends help each other, right?”
And wasn’t that a shift in the conversation. “What…” what could I ever do to help you? What could you ever need that you’d turn to me for? What does that even mean, anymore, after what happened last time you asked for my help?
“I can’t… Techno, I tried, but I can’t, not anymore-” He was closer, his fingers reaching out and clutching onto the fur of Techno’s cape. “Techno, please-”
“What…” He couldn’t help it, but something inside him clicked, and his hands wrapped around Ghostbur’s. He was cold, from death, the snow, or both. “How can I help?” He didn’t say the final words. Ghostbur was not of his faith. This wasn’t like that. It wasn’t.
“I’ve been trying, and it’s been working, but some days it doesn’t work, and Techno, Techno, no matter what I try, the song, it’s been stuck, I can’t, I can’t erase it-”
So maybe it was like that, in some odd way that probably only made sense to the ghost’s mind. “Ghostbur…” He wanted to say the words, do this properly, do this how his instincts dictated it ought to be done. But Ghostbur was not of his faith. Still, blood was blood, and people were people. Briefly, Techno wondered if Ghostbur even had any proper blood. “How can I help?” Physical blood or not, Ghostbur was a person, so he must have proper blood.
He crowded closer still, his entire frame emitting cold even in the tundra Techno called his home. “Please…”
“Ghostbur…” He needed something to work with. Anything at all. “Tell me what bothers you.” The sentence wasn’t the proper one, none of this was even in the proper language, but it would have to do.
“I’ve been trying, Techno, so hard, I want to be good, I don’t want to be like him, and most days it works! Most days I’m me, and it’s great, but some days, Techno, some days I lie.” He put his head on Techno’s shoulder. “Some days I can remember. I can remember it all.”
He was shaking, hands tight and nearly vibrating in Techno’s grip. Techno wondered how long he had tried. How long he had beaten himself up for not being able to magically turn into a wholly different person. “Oh child…” It was familiar to say. The common thing to say, to someone so deeply torn up, so deeply in need of tender care and attention. It felt odd, off-beat, to start this dance with his friend.
In a way, it felt inevitable, too.
“Techno…” His shoulders were still tense, but there was a sense of ending to the tenseness, a sense that Techno would help and make his suffering end.
The snow drifted heavily, wind turning what lay on the ground into small tornadoes. It clung to Techno’s cape, his hair. It clung to Ghostbur, too. Clung to his hair and sweater, and sunk in, staining the man blue.
“Come inside.” There was no way to talk in a snowstorm, especially not when one was weak to water. “Let’s talk this out inside.” Where there was warmth and safety.
“I can’t, I’ll impose, Techno-” The frantic words were spoken into the warm enclosure of Techno’s shoulder nonetheless.
He stepped back, kept Ghostbur’s hand tight in his, so he could look his friend in the eyes. “The storm is only getting stronger. Listen to me,” it was a command, genuine as any other command he had given in this station, “come inside.”
He blinked, dislodging snowflakes stuck in his eyelashes. “Oh.” His cheeks were already dark from the cold. “Okay.”
Techno bolted the door behind him. The wind would tear it open otherwise. “Sit.” He said and pointed to a spot right in front of the fire. “I’m going to latch the shutters.” If the storm broke a window, it would hardly help them have a fruitful conversation. He was aware of Ghostbur’s presence by the fire as he moved around his house. The only other people that had been around had been Philza and Ranboo.
The wind pulled on the last shutter, up in his bedroom, before he could properly close it. The storm had come and settled. He let his hand lay on the cold wood for a moment. Let himself feel the weight of what he was about to do.
It was familiar and it was not. It was everything he was and nothing like he was.
It was, as he had both feared and anticipated, the inevitable consequence of what he had shown Wilbur, now Ghostbur.
Then he latched that shutter down and put aside his worries.
As he climbed down, the storm fully set on the house. Ghostbur was still sat before the fire, less pale than he had been outside. There was still no color to him, but that was simply how he was, now. Techno tried not to think about the sliding scale of sacrilege and where this would fall.
Persons had blood, proper blood, and Ghostbur was a person. Thus, he must have proper blood. The type that the Blood God called for, just not the type that healers bothered with.
And well… who could cast him out? The faith was dwindling, and he was the highest leader. It was something that often saddened him, but just this once, it comforted him too.
Explanation clear in his head, Techno took his heavy cloak off and sat down across from Ghostbur. “Tell me,” Ghostbur’s hands were cold in his, “what way can I aid you?” The words were wrong, the whole language was wrong, but it would have to do.
“I, I-” tears were still drying on his cheeks, eyes so large and open, “I don’t like lying, and, and, I don’t… I can’t be…”
Techno held his gaze and hands. This wasn’t as straightforward as the support Wilbur once saw him give and the tangled relationship between Techno and Wilbur, Wilbur and Ghostbur, and Techno and Ghostbur, heaped on the complications.
As expected, Ghostbur filled the space Techno gave him, “I don’t want to be him, I swear, and I try, I do! There’s just, it’s just… it’s so much sometimes, you know? Do… do you know?”
He took a breath and let the words sink in. “It’s a lot to change who you… how your past has shaped you, is that what you mean?”
“No, well but yes, I mean…” Ghostbur dropped his gaze, “yes, but also that… people look at you,” ironically, Ghostbur was looking at his feet and not Techno, “and they see, well, so much, and some of it is really you but also some of it isn’t! And some is who you were or who they think you were, but you don’t want to be, but then they, they do want you to be, or, or, that…”
“The weight of perception,” Techno tilted his head, letting some of the bells on his ears trill out, “of history and perception, bias and memory?”
“Yeah… and then… I can… it’s harder then, to be me, instead of him.”
“And it’s important not to be him.”
“Yes! He hurt people! He hurt you!”
Techno breathed. There were tears in Ghostbur’s eyes. The wind was whining through the cracks of the shutters. The fire snapped. He ached for his God, needed insight that he didn’t have on his own. “He did,” was all that Techno settled on, “and I hurt him.”
“Yeah, but, well, that’s, that’s different.” Heavy tears were rolling down Ghostbur’s cheeks again, “you’re different.”
“We all are different.” It was stock phrases, but Techno was desperately trying to hear. The Overworld could be so loud, with all those useless sounds. He needed a prayer, and a big one.
“Please.”
Nothing to do for it but try. “Come,” Techno stood up and tried to pull up Ghostbur with him, “we shall take…” he snorted in frustration - Common simply didn’t have the right words for this, “you… Wilbur saw, do you recall?”
He only nodded, still sat with his round eyes wide.
“It will take more for the same, here, and more for your questions too.”
“The music?” He leaned forward, childlike wonder in his every fiber, “the bells?”
“The… yes.” Techno pulled on his hands again and Ghostbur stood this time. “But more.”
He was close, nearly nose-to-nose, but didn’t move back. There was only wondrous confusion in his being – no discomfort in having The Blade in his personal space.
“Come, help me clear some space.”
Together they shifted the couch further back, put the coffee table on top of the dining one. It was still a fairly small space, compared to how much Techno would ideally have, but it would have to do.
It would all simply have to do.
Techno stood in the space, let the noises fall away until he could just faintly hear the tolling bells of Blood. It was so quiet here, in this loud dimension. It would have to do.
He started to move, small twitches to find the rhythm, find the melody.
Ghostbur didn’t pull away completely, but he pulled back. Techno couldn’t read his face well enough to know if it was wonder or terror that caused his movement. The music told him enough – the movement was wrong.
“Come,” a push on one side, a pull on another. A stumbling step, but it was better, and his face clearly set into terror now.
“But,” Techno did the same but opposite and Ghostbur fell into the other step with more ease, “can -”
“You must.” His voice was commanding, harsh, this was not a child of Blood, he knew nothing of it, but he would have to learn. Now. “The melody must have your movement.”
Tears gathered in Ghostbur’s eyes again. “Oh.”
Techno let his body move as it found more of the melody of this moment. He let go of his gaze, let go of his scent, but held onto his touch and Ghostbur’s hands.
It was harder to move with someone that clearly couldn’t hear – perhaps later Techno would wonder if Overworld folks could be trained to hear, if there was a future of his faith in this cold and noisy dimension. In that moment he just felt the strain of his tight grip and how he moved Ghostbur.
For his credit, he clearly tried to move with Techno. His body was quiet, though. He held none of the usual bells of Techno’s faith, and his entire being was… quieter.
Techno continued to move, continued to listen, and let Blood sink into him. Let Blood fill his mouth, fill his nose, fill his soul.
Ghostbur said something, but it was just pressure to Techno.
In the red were strands of gold, and Techno danced them into a weave. Let them show themselves to him before sinking under the Blood again, before taking their place in the whole.
The difficulty of moving slacked some and Techno faintly recalled that Ghostbur was a musician, even a melody he could hardly hear would eventually show its rhythm to him.
Ghostbur stumbled as Techno froze. Silver strands were there, thin as a whisper but present. The melody shimmered on, Techno so deep into the Blood that there was hardly any chance of stopping it now.
Blood was sliding from Techno’s mouth into his throat as he remained still. He could drown like this – drown without a drop of fluid in his lungs. The shock was fighting with that knowledge.
A hand on his face pulled him out of his frozen place. His claw drew the blood of the patron and his other of his own.
He opened his eyes and saw as Blood. “Child,” he started in Piglish, “small one, your blood is your own. None can shift it,” his tongue twisted around the odd shape of Common, “none but your own heart can push it.”
Ghostbur’s eyes were wide and wet. Fear was fighting with worship on his face.
The Blood knew that gaze well. Techno knew that gaze well. He drew the blade and drew the blood. Ghostbur shivered as Techno pressed his hand against Techno’s bloody wet wrist. He clung to it, though, and Techno’s grip was tight on Ghostbur’s wrist in return.
“Not even I can feel your blood as you, child, not even I can command it as you. Draw it, witness it, judge it, but none feel or command it. None but you.”
It was Piglish, it had to be – but Ghostbur had some knowledge. His face was already turning confused as he tried to translate the odd sentence.
The Blood held Ghostbur’s gaze, felt the weight of the words impacting Ghostbur.
For long moments they were frozen like that, until Ghostbur nodded.
Techno returned the gesture and the weight immediately started to lessen, “good.” He took a half-step back but kept hold of Ghostbur’s wrist. “Be calmed yet bolstered, fo- child. None command your heart but you.”
Blood hit the floorboards before the moment broke. The music quieted down and slowly Techno swallowed away the taste of blood. It had been a long time since he had done a prayer like that. Too long, perhaps, despite how he kept up the small prayers. It felt good to have his heart be filled with Blood again like that.
He gazed at Ghostbur and realized that for him the experience likely was a lot more disturbing. He was staring at their clasped wrists, the blood spilling through his fingers.
“Ghostbur?” His tone was gentle, a quiet tug at the other’s attention.
It was enough though, enough to get a flicker of eyes up, to change the shallow stutter breaths into full ones.
The wind chose that moment to slam one of the shutters upstairs into the window. “Bruh-” Techno broke the grip and moved to close the damn thing – based on the snow drift below it, it likely had been open for a while longer. So noisy, this whole dimension.
He climbed back down and saw that Ghostbur had sunk down to his knees, gaze stuck to his bloody hand.
It was an odd picture, the blue ghost with bright red blood covering his palm. Techno whispered a prayer and the blood on his wrist stopped dripping.
He sat down opposite Ghostbur, who only gave a minute reaction.
They sat in relative silence for a long while, Ghostbur’s gaze stuck to his hand while Techno watched him.
“What… what was that?” His voice was small and so innocent.
“Prayer, worship, communion?” Techno moved his head as he tried to find the correct translation, and the bells in his ears shimmered out a little note. “Some would call it sacrilege,” he smiled.
“Oh!” Ghostbur’s big eyes looked at Techno, “you’re not going to be in trouble, are you?”
“No ch-.” He put a hand on Ghostbur’s knee, “no, I won’t be.”
“Is it… always like this?”
“Now you ask these things?” Techno settled back a bit, felt the mantle of teacher on him again, “no, not always. It’s… easier to hear, in the Nether. And your question was complicated, especially because it involved me as well.”
Ghostbur looked back down to his hand. He flexed his palm and Techno knew the blood would already be tacky. “How… What… I, I don’t understand.”
“That’s often part of faith, isn’t it?” He shrugged, “the most basic explanation of it is that people have blood, and the Blood God thus has people.”
Ghostbur continued to flex his palm, playing with the sticky nature of the blood on his hand. “Seems… morbid.”
“Maybe, if you think of injuries and death when you think of blood. But blood is just as much warmth and life and even sustenance.”
“Sustenance?” He looked disturbed by the word.
“Bit of blood can help a lot of plants grow.” Techno shrugged. It was common and old knowledge to him, knowledge he still applied to this day.
“Is every… priest?” Techno shrugged then nodded, “are they all like you?”
“I’m the only one living in the Overworld, that’s for sure.” He searched his memory, “most are warriors, quite a few are farmers as well. A lot are healers alongside the bells and blades.”
Ghostbur fell quiet again, his gaze back on his bloody palm.
“Sit, settle, think. I’ll make us something hot to drink.”
“Is that part of it?”
“No, it’s cold, and I’m thirsty.” Techno moved some of the furniture back. “Not everything is religious.”
The shoe Techno had been waiting on for so long had finally dropped, and he felt… at ease with it. Ghostbur was quiet in between various questions as the storm waged on, and Techno felt himself easily answer his various questions.
Well, most of his questions. Some answers were kept in the faith, or even restricted to clergy, even more restricted was Techno’s connection to the divine, and he intended to keep it that way.