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Chapter Text

Tommy stretched as he woke, toes curling in the cold. One sleepy thought connected to another, and he tumbled out of bed, halfway crawling over his father to escape and dragging a blanket with him. His blanket. Sometimes Tommy still could not believe that. The little boy stumbled to the window, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Rime crept along the pane in beautiful shapes, and Tommy drowsily sent a prayer of gratitude to the Frost goddess, thanking her for the pretty fractals. Tommy squinted out the window, waiting for the moment Dawn’s rosy fingers settled on the world outside. He shivered to be so close to the window, but the mission driving the child trumped any discomfort. Waiting patiently at the window, Tommy almost nodded off a few times, each time jolting to attention. He shivered with anticipation of the dawn, just as he had for weeks now. So far disappointment greeted him each morning, but he clasped his numb hands together and prayed with all the gravitas and fervency he could muster. First, to the rosy-fingered Hannah, that her Dawn would come swift and deliver him from the agony of waiting. Second, to every god of Winter that he could think of. Third, to the god of Wishes. Not that Technoblade had deigned to answer him as of yet, no matter how oft he whined. Finally, a quick prayer to Wilbur, just in case he was listening. Tommy promised to celebrate extra joyously should Wilbur offer him salvation from his horrid plight (waiting a few minutes). 

And then, the first ray of sunlight peaked shyly over the precipices of buildings, sliding down as it crested the edge of the world and revealed the thick blanket of pure snow draped across the land. Snow. 

SNOW!

Tommy erupted into motion, racing back to bed and throwing himself upon where Philza lay in thick dormancy. He bounced on top of the man, demanding he rise. A low groan, and then Philza’s arm swung out, catching about Tommy and pulling him into an inescapable embrace. Everything was wonderfully warm beneath the blankets, the cold nipping his toes and ears fading as he snuggled into his father. Likely Tommy would have fallen into the thrall of the god of Dream, but his vital mission burned holy bright and renewed the vigor of his squirming. “Human Dad! ‘Tis Lantern Day at last!” 

Philza’s eyes snapped open. “...is it truly?” Tommy beamed in excitement. Escaping the tangle of blankets, Philza carried Tommy to the window, peering outside. The light of it gleamed across his unshaven features, catching flashes of white in his golden hair, the fine silver scar underscoring one eye and trickling down in phantom tears. “...Ah. ‘Tis undeniably the first snow of the year.” There was something strange in his voice, strained perhaps. Tommy knew well the dangers of the cold and the prowling deaths that it heralded. As food ran scarce, starvation trickled in, picking off the weakest akin to wolves. Crueler, even, Cold a slow slayer of man. A famine that never touched their household, mind, the god of Harvest favoring them too kindly. Still. The true wrath of Winter was far off. Lantern Day was a time for hope, not despair. 

Evidently, Philza decided Lantern Day was a time for sleeping, and to Tommy’s chagrin he trudged back to their bed. Alas, he was no match for Tommy’s vibrating excitement, and so plunged into the fray, risking the nip of the chill so he might brew some tea. Tommy settled into his lap, buzzing with excitement as he imagined what wish he might write upon his lantern before gently pushing it into the first flutter of snowflakes to grace the Winter. 

Philza wrapped his arms around Tommy for warmth as he happily debated what wish he would to ask for. Tommy was only going to get the one for the year, so he had to make it count. Should he release a myriad, the gods would surely know there was greed staining his heart. But there weren’t any rules about talking to others about wish candidates, and if he were lucky his dads might personally get it for him. Or might, were Philza not dozing off, face nuzzled in Tommy’s fluffy hair. For a single moment, he basked in the warmth of love. Never could he have imagined this last Lantern Day, when cold isolation devoured him whole. But then Tommy’s wish was granted, albeit in the twisty, unexpected way that the gods had. He had to make this one count, then. It had to be just as good as getting his dads. 

In roughly scarred palms, Human Dad reverently clutched the warm tea to him. As he began to sip it, he became more properly invested in the serious matter of Tommy’s wish lantern. Yet, a distraction lingered in his eyes, his attention caught upon some other matter Tommy for which held neither regard nor kindness given how it split his father’s focus. Tommy could not fathom any priority more important than a festival in supplication to the gods and told Philza as much in a pious voice learned from some of the more insufferable people Tommy had the misfortune of encountering. 

Philza was a man who had forced the gods to listen to him and didn’t imagine the lanterns were the key to a reversal in fortune. He knew deeply the true purpose of the floating beacons. But the cold anticipation in his chest eased in the face of Tommy’s bright childish belief. And for a boy so beloved by the gods, why shouldn’t he hold faith in the traditions he was raised in? Humans had practiced Lantern Day for centuries, the myth twisted until the truth was erased. None else knew of its true origins. 

They had all tried to tell Tommy what was coming several times, but none could bear it. Useless gods, Philza thought bitterly. Were they really the ones that once brought nations to their knees? 

It was unfair to weigh Technoblade and Wilbur’s actions so. Life was change, and none were more affected than the gods themselves. Change was fast approaching, monstrous in its visage. Inescapable. They’d tried for centuries, and the outcome was always the same. The seasons shifted, the celestial bodies crawled across the firmament, the gods changed. And yet it was all the same. Immutable facets of reality. The cruel cyclical nature of the tapestry the Fates wove.

The heat of the fire pressed against his face, though cold crept along his backside. Philza hugged Tommy a little tighter as the youth happily rambled about wishes. As it was, Philza couldn’t possibly imagine what more he could want in the world. None that would not defy the Fates, at least. He had spent his entire life yearning for this. What bliss to hold a child in his arms and know they were his. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, but it was a distant sort, driven away by Tommy. For now, it was enough. 

“...but what do you think, Human Dad?”

Philza hummed, the vibration deep in his chest. “I’m thinking I love you in ways you can not even begin to fathom.” Tommy squawked in indignation, only causing Philza to chuckle and press a soft kiss to his forehead. Then he apologized to the child, asking him to reiterate.

“I must find the best wish in the whole world!” His eyes glowed with determination. “Do you think I could ask for a baby brother?”

Philza snorted into his tea. “I shouldn’t think so,” he mused, thinking of the years bent in supplication, pleading to any god who would listen that he may have a child. “But may the gods be willing.” As sometimes, ever so rarely, they were. 

A blink, and a man was in the doorway, leaning casually against it. He glowed at the edges, brighter than Tommy had ever seen before. The ancient crown nestled in his long dark curls gleamed so bright it hurt to behold, a sun in its own right. Tommy’s skin prickled in the presence of divinity, though it was a familiar sensation, welcomed. Wilbur’s grin, as oft it was, fell lopsided across his sculpted visage. “What is this I find? Two humans rising alongside the dawn? Technoblade would decry you as lazy for sleeping in so.” 

Tommy squirmed from Philza’s grasp and flung himself at the god in warm salutation. “Play Dad! There’s a holiday today!” 

Wilbur swung him up and around, grinning broadly as he set the mortal safely on the ground once more. “Verily? I had not a single clue,” said the god of Festivals. “Celebrating some king’s birth? The demise of some nation? Some cosmic happenstance?” 

“It’s one of Technoblade’s festivals!” 

“Some battle, I wager?” Tommy hummed a confused note. Wasn’t Technoblade a Harvest god? A god of Harvest, and Wishes, and, uh…Arduous Labor…? Gods had so many aspects it was hard to keep them all straight. “Ah, against the weeds and the blights and the like. Powerful foes to contend with, Tommy. Powerful indeed.” 

“No!” Tommy chirped. “It’s his best one! It’s Lantern Day, Wilbur!” Something flashed in the god’s eyes at the joyous tiddings, and he jerked sharply, rushing to the window. He leaned closer and closer, till he phased through the glass, reaching out and collecting drifting snow in his phantasmal palm. He appeared deaf to Tommy’s happy chattering, not deigning to notice him as Tommy reached his hands up, wanting to be scooped up. And yet Wilbur remained frozen, watching the soft snow embracing the town. A few early lanterns floated through the gently falling flakes. The hopes and dreams of mortals softly glowed in the sky, though soon they would be innumerable once more awoke. 

Philza wrapped his arms around the god, holding him close. “I need no comfort from a mortal,” Wilbur sibilated lower than Tommy could hear it.

“Yes, you do,” Philza replied gently. The god’s back was rigid, but the pride wavered, and he sunk into the embrace. “I know it’s hard, son.” 

“I presumed there would be more time this year,” Wilbur said in a very small voice. 

“You shall have eternity together.”

“But you shan’t.” 

“Nor was I ever destined to. Come now, Tommy is merry.”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Wilbur remarked sullenly, only for Philza to hush him lest Tommy grow upset. At Tommy’s insistent inquiries, Wilbur bent in twain and gave him a smile. His voice was sugar-sweet, rippling with magic that soothed the boy’s unease. “Lantern Day is strange in our household, pay us no heed.” Though not oft someone evoked his intrusion into their family, Tommy felt it sharply every time. Scarcely a year -a magical, wonderous year- but that was nothing in the seemingly endless lifespan of an adult or the truly endless lifespan of a god. 

Wilbur seemed to catch the hurt bleeding into his features. The god’s hands glowed with divine radiance, weaving strands of light into a lantern that he pressed into the boy’s hands. Tommy accepted it with awe. It was the most beautiful lantern Tommy had ever seen, all creamy alabaster sides and fine trimmings of gold twisting pretty patterns through. There was a soft warm glow despite being yet unlit. It was perfect, even if Tommy still didn’t know what he wanted to write on it. But that could wait till everyone in the house arose. 

Tommy wanted to frolic in the snow, yet was firmly shepherded inside with the promise that he could do so in the next storm. They failed to understand the significance, the magic held in the purity of the first snow of the year, the worship found in the laughter of children’s play. But Tommy held his tongue, especially as breakfast began. Instead of being held at the fireplace, they piled into the bed of the gods. Technoblade still slumbered within, which perplexed Tommy. A god of Harvest, he was up with the farmers long before dawn settled upon the land. To him, the grumble of early rising and the sigh of joints popping before launching at once into work. A god of Labor, he called himself, not a god of Relaxing. Not like Wilbur was. 

His long pig snout crinkled as the warm scent of breakfast wafted towards him. The large god stirred, bleary eyes cracking open. His smile peeled back to his tusks. “...’tis Lantern Day so soon?” 

Tommy bounced even as his other fathers murmured unhappily. “Yes! Do you know what your wish is to be?” 

“Never before have I made one, little mortal.” His voice was quiet, devoid of the warm rumble that oft shook his round belly. He set up slowly, blankets pulled tight around to ward off the chill creeping through the home and snapping at their heels. 

“What? I thought you were the god of Wishes!” 

“In…in a sense. Might you show me how?” Tommy nodded gravely, then crawled onto Technoblade’s lap and began to diligently explain. The family gathered around, Philza’s arm wrapping around Tommy’s shoulders to rest his hand on Technoblade’s arm, Wilbur tucked into his fellow god’s side. As the snow piled outside, the little family nestled together, warmth and gentle smiles settling o’re the scene. 

Tommy carefully placed the lantern Wilbur had given him into Technoblade’s large calloused hands. “Do you know what your wish is yet?” 

“Perhaps you could think of one…for me…” 

“Ummm…” Tommy pondered the serious matter. What could a Harvest god possibly desire? “As a pig, you could wish for mud. How do you spell that?” Tommy frowned as Technoblade listed the letters. Alas, Tommy possessed little in the way of talent for the letter ‘m’. A true tragedy, given his name. “What of rain? No, not in Winter…can your crops drink snow? You could wish for more.” Conniving, mayhaps, but Tommy knew of no rules forbidding tricking someone else into wishing one’s own desire. 

Technoblade snorted. “‘Tis of little use to me.” 

“But snow is so wonderous! Haven’t you ever played in it?” 

“Little mortal, it has been centuries since last I did.” At once Tommy sought to rectify the tragedy, though was reminded by Human and Play Dads that he was to enjoy the next snowfall far more, when it would no doubt be heavier. Technoblade gave them a level look. “...I see no reason we shouldn’t.” 

“We have yet to finish our lanterns,” Wilbur distracted enticingly, and as expected Tommy pounced upon the thought. He rambled about all the things he debated wishing for, prodding for his dads’ opinions. His wildest dreams spilling into the air, each lovingly painted in vivid detail. A few quickly echoed by chuckles, or if Tommy was really lucky, a thoughtful hum. But as his pestering became ever more insistent, Technoblade eventually settled upon his wish for the year: 

Hurry

Tommy frowned. It was an odd wish. But the gods were queer folks, capricious and dangerous. Or rather, that’s what people told him growing up. He heard of divine wrath echoing through the halls of temples, the type that shook mountains and felled mighty kings. He heard it in the curses thrown at the sky, in the lost and the damned who had nothing left to lose and dared the gods to strike them down. He heard it in the screams, because sometimes, only sometimes, the gods would take the challenge. He heard it in the bedtime stories Technoblade and Wilbur told, heard the undertones in their soft assurances of no, no, ‘tis just a myth, little mortal. 

Enigmatic pleas held far less weight in Tommy’s world, who was far more concerned that failing to wish for more snow might doom him forever and ever. There mightn’t be another chance the rest of his life! And if for some unfathomable reason Human Dad and Fun Dad set their hearts against it, Tommy’s supplication must then fall upon an unlikely hero: Technoblade. “I beseech you in my hour of need! I MUST play in the snow! I beg! I fall in suppliplation! Prithee and all that! Pleaaaaaase Work Dad???” Technoblade’s snout crooked into a smile at the moniker. Tommy thought it a strange title, but Technoblade picked it himself and wore it like a badge of pride, like a king does fine garments or a soldier does bloodied ones. 

Despite covert protest from Wilbur and Philza, Technoblade bent his head in acquiescence and then faded from existence. Rudely, he took the blankets with him. Tommy shrieked at the sudden bite of cold air but was soon coaxed into warm clothing. He burst outside, racing up to where Technoblade sat on the porch in a mound of blankets. Try as he might, no temptation of his could lure the god into antics. Any snowball he threw was mysteriously diverted by sudden gusts of wind away from Technoblade. Tommy stuck out his tongue at the cheater. Wilbur likewise deterred attacks, but Philza was a fair target. Or rather, he was, till Human Dad took his revenge, scooping an armful of snow and upending it over Tommy’s crown. With no respite from the superior foe’s onslaught, Tommy scampered for safety, tucking in the folds of the ancient king’s robe adorning Technoblade. “Shh! Daren’t tell him where I am!” Tommy whispered urgently. “I invoke you as a god of protection! I’ll– I’ll sacrifice extra of my dinner vegetables in offering if you heed my plea.” 

Technoblade cracked an eye open, then shifted, burrowing Tommy further in crimson fabric. Tommy pressed to the heat of his body, gently rocked by his slowing breathing. Outside, he could hear Philza stamping closer. “Oh mighty gods, I fall in supplication upon my knees! My poor son has gone missing. I fear nefarious Winter gods have stolen him. They shall be sorely disappointed. He is useless in his chores.” 

A considerate hum rumbled Technoblade’s large belly. The response was slow, fully pondered before an answer was forthcoming. “...I fear for him. The gods of snow are…cruel. Quite cruel indeed.” 

The silence that followed was thick and choking. “...tr-truly,” Philza eventually managed. “I…tremble to imagine their tortures. They may freeze off his little toes one by one, or bite off his nose and ears in wicked maws.” Tommy belatedly realized how terror-stricken Human Dad must be with his vanishing. Ye gods! He had no omniscience to soothe his fright! Tommy gasped with horror, popping his head out of the cloak in balm to Philza’s grief. 

Tommy’s loving and merciful reunion was graciously welcomed with a face full of snow. Technoblade’s bark of laughter was crisp, ringing through the world. Betrayal stung crisply. Tommy set upon constructing a fortress with endless buttresses of snow against his wretched enemies. He hardened his heart against Philza’s pleas for sanctuary, refusing his entry. Soon the walls enclosed Tommy and his divine fathers, unassailable from the wicked ways of the outside world. 

Wilbur’s guitar appeared in his hands. Sweet, poignant notes trickled out of the instrument, undulled by the muffling quality of snow. Each one was crisp and striking and inescapable in their grief. “Come now, Lantern Day is no time for a lament,” Technoblade rebuked gently, quietly. Wilbur’s smile was fragile. “Play something joyous? …for me?” A hitch, but soon an upbeat tempo filled the crisp air, followed shortly by the laughter of children that somehow always fell in tempo. Strange, that, and difficult to tell if the god simply molded the song to suit the uproar or if the children fell into his thrall. 

For all the gaiety of Wilbur’s hymns, Technoblade nodded off, lulled into warm comfort. Perhaps it was the kindest Lantern Day ever offered to him. The ring of Tommy’s laughter seeped into things perplexed as to whether they were dreams or memories. Cool ivory filled with warm ambrosia and dark gardens beckoned his return. Technoblade pushed himself just a little further. Just a little longer. Please. Heart, don’t break, not now. Not like this. He would pray, if that’s what it took, pray just like the mortals did. He would beg for just a little longer. That is all anyone can ever do. 

“Are you tired from granting wishes?” came Tommy’s youthful voice. The god of Harvest jolted, eyes flashing open as he woke. 

“That is not…no. I do not grant wishes…prayers, at times. But not wishes.” Tommy grew bewildered, flummoxed why Lantern Day would be dedicated to him elsewise. Though…Technoblade was not made for holidays, not in the way Wilbur was. In the months Tommy knew him, the god was always dedicated nearly exclusively to tending the fields. The success of a job well done, the ache pressed into limbs after a hard day; these were the things laid at the feet of Technoblade. Tommy was at a loss, having never known the god to rest. He seemed of boundless vigor, so why then was he weary? Technoblade smiled weekly at Tommy. “I…I am a god of Harvest. There no role for me…in Winter’s reign.”

Tommy blinked at the tired god, head canted to the side. He laughed, as he knew not what else to do. “What riddles you gods speak in!” 

Technoblade cupped his cheeks gently, drinking in his golden hair as bountiful as a ripe field of grain, his azure eyes as bright as a summer sky that found only adoration for him, the sweet heart of the boy’s face that always turned to him as the sunflower chased after the god of Sun. The god bowed, pressing their foreheads together. His voice came out slow and faint as if each word was fought for. 

“It means, my little mortal…that I am dying.”

Chapter Text

Technoblade was the god of Harvest. Or, so he was initially. His worship was found in fingers buried in rich soil, his ichor in the sweat trickling down one’s brow. A god of dedication, day after day of slow progress. In him, the reward of a job well done. For those in his favor, the magnification of their wealth tenfold and the roundness of their stomachs. For those not, simply the reaping of what they’d sown. A fair god, beloved god. 

It was at a harvest festival that he first met Wilbur. Drawn in by the tithes offered to him, watching with glowing pride as the backs once bent in dedicated labor now stood tall. The mortals felt almost weightless, unbound for the night. The bonfire was bright as they danced, whirling skirts and stamping feet and laughter as the humans celebrated their harvest. 

Technoblade was distinctly not a god of dance, shaped instead in the form of a creature dedicated to Sisyphean tasks. Years rolled together, always a next harvest, and the next. But it was in the pause between work that the humans thought they worshiped him, and so they played music as if his hymns were not found in the swish of the scythe and the trod of the oxen. 

Yet in that music, something was created. 

Technoblade heard the music long before he saw the ethereal youth. Dark hair and glittering eyes, his voice crystal clear as it spread through the festival. The god of Harvest picked his way over, head canted as he listened to the vibrant song. The mortals seemed to gather to the god as moths to a flame. Technoblade waited till the song was over, then bent to peer at the god. A new one, by the looks of it, nebulous at the edges. “And what are you a god of?”

“I have not decided as of yet.” 

Technoblade took in the godling. The way his nimble fingers rippled over instrument strings, causing all around to fall into mirthful dance. The way the light of the bonfire seemed brighter around him, the laughs a little louder, the world joyous and rich. “You are not a god of work,” he dismissed. 

“What is the purpose of labor if success is not rejoiced?” 

“Survival,” Technoblade replied succinctly as if that were not abundantly obvious. 

“There is joy to be found there, is there not? Relief, at the very least.” The young god had a lopsided smile, and Technoblade found he mirrored it. 

Wilbur was the god of Festival. Or, so he was initially. His worship was found in the clapping of hands to a beat, his ichor in the sour-sweet of wine. A god of blurring exhilaration, of the glowing joy of celebration, of the now, now, now. In him, the reward of a job well done. The end to Technoblade’s beginning. A community drawing together, the sharing of feast and success. His the song of laughter. A free god, beloved god. 

And when the tyrant placed unbearable taxes upon the land and stole the Harvest from the hands his fellow god had rightfully given it to…

Well. Wilbur became a god of Revolution. 

When there was no wealth enough left for Festivals, Wilbur’s new song was the murmur of dissent in the community. He was the eloquence of figures rallying their fellow man, the gathering of the wronged. He was the bitterness of stolen joy, and his worship was found in chanting protests and war cries. Patron to all who fought for freedom. 

Technoblade was uneasy. He was a god of work, and yet people abandoned him, taking up arms. A fair god, yes, he bristled as his Harvest went to those who had done nothing to earn it. But he became a god of bent heads and lowered eyes, of people just trying to scrape together enough to appease tyrants. Wilbur sewed dissent and the rewards fell to him, abandoned fields and hungry mouths. 

But the armies ravaged the land, and soon his dominion was reduced to razed tillage and salted earth. His wrath burned. Technoblade became the eruption of the pressure Wilbur built, the end to Wilbur’s beginning. 

Thus, their songs turned to war cries, their plowshares beaten to swords, the pair became gods of Revolution. The spirit and means of rebellion, Wilbur and Technoblade became patrons of the war to come. 

The tyrant’s hands shook. The food clutched in his hands withered in sweeping blotches of rot. For weeks any food within his presence decayed, stolen just as he’d stolen so many harvests from the hands of those who raised it. In the throes of starvation he’d doomed so many to, the tyrant resorted to devouring the withering sustenance. To those who heard him, he spoke in tongues, delirious babbling that disorientated anyone who heard it. The tyrant grew furious that none could obey even the simplest of commands. Singing to himself at all hours of the night, lunging at any scrap of bread he could find and feasting on naught but blight– Mad. Certainly, that must be what the tyrant was, particularly with the pair that seemed to haunt the corners of his eyes. To the god of endless abundance and silver-tongues, he prayed and offered mountains of offerings, but those gods were no more thanks to him. 

By the time the revolt was at his doorstep, the tyrant was an enervated fool. A husk of the cruel despot he’d been, snarling about curses as his rule came to a bloody end. 

Technoblade threw the tyrant’s robes over his shoulders mockingly, Wilbur twirling the crown on his finger. “You are soon to be called upon,” Technoblade said, affectionately bumping shoulders with the younger god. “The mortals shall be celebrating in the streets.” 

Wilbur hummed as the crown settled in his dark curls. “A god of victory? Now there’s a thought. I do believe I favor the ring of it.” 

In a sense, they were both so young for all that they walked the world for centuries. Young gods, fearless and naive. They did not realize violence to be a vile poison impossible to stop once unleashed. And even as Wilbur danced through the humans, dissent trailed behind him just as much as jubilee did. 

The next regime set up was as cruel as the last. Naturally, the gods crushed it as they had the one before. And the next, and the next, and the next. There was no rest to be had, the gods of Revolution running amok amongst the mortals and spurring them further and further into anarchy. There were no festivals to be enjoyed, dissent whispering through and causing neighbors to fear one another. There was no harvest to be reaped, the fields growing feral from neglect. The gods did not mind, so much. They’d found new facets of themselves to explore. All gods discard past versions of themselves like worn snake skin, molding into new incarnations. Technoblade and Wilbur were no different. They settled into novel violent roles, soon forgetting their dead past selves. 

But the mortals didn’t. 

And as war swept through the land, famine followed in its wake, claiming young and old alike in her skeletal claws. The farmers either abandoned their fields or were slaughtered in them, blood soaking into the fecund ground and birthing only further feuds. The once god of Harvest forgot his people, but his people did not forget him. There was nothing left to give as offering save for bitter laments. Soon, they turned to resentment, to hatred, to vengeance. The humans found the god that abandoned them and were exactly as merciful as his neglect had been. They forged chains of their dark resentment, the suffering of humans so keen as to be unbreakable to a god. They planned to make a slave of the god of Harvest so that he could never abandon them again. They would yoked him to his plow, forever to till the fields in their favor. 

Technoblade slaughtered them. But of course he did, he was long since molded in the ways of battle. He swept through their ranks with his war scythe, unrelenting in his onslaught. Even as the hordes poured over him, he stood his ground, cutting through the ranks with ease. 

But Wilbur was not a god of war. He was of Revolution, yes, resentment and unrest and defiance, but he was not of action. He stumbled back from the seething masses. They cared not for him, sole upon their intent to destroy the god of Famine and soon Wilbur came to fear that Technoblade would be overwhelmed. 

Madness whispered through the ranks of men, the revolt fracturing upon fault lines sealed only by a shared loathing. Wilbur knew intimately the friction of revolts, the chaotic opposition of goals and motives and ideologies. So easy did unification dissolve into infighting. Wilbur poured his power into his words, planting dissent in the hearts of all who dared oppose the will of the gods. 

The mortals fell upon each other, friend against friend and brother against brother. Indiscriminate in their wrath, and it was that which would prove the gods’ undoing. Wilbur was not exempt, caught up in the maelstrom where before they cared not for his demise. Wilbur’s ichor soiled the ground, corrupting in its bitter composition. The god’s scream rang over the sound of carnage. At once Technoblade plunged towards him, uncaring of the blows ripped into him. It mattered little if Wilbur was in the throes of danger. The crowd descended upon him with glee, their revenge even still unsatiated as his ichor stained the world. It burned through their fragile mortal bodies, but they cared not, ripping into Technoblade with their bare hands, crazed and animalistic in their bloodlust. Where once they sought to control the god of Harvest, now they sought annihilation, the fire of their furies stoked by Wilbur’s bewitching spell. 

Technoblade cared not. His gaze was set only upon Wilbur, who cowered from the violence, incapable of truly defending himself from the onslaught. Nothing would stop him from protecting his other. Nothing. 

The cold cursed chain snapped about his throat. It tightened with the cruel hand of his new masters, tighter the more he resisted, the greater their loathing. Caught at the center of an inescapable web of chains, each one binding him in service by their abhorrence and greed. And yet Technoblade grit his tusks and pushed through, fighting as they dragged him by the yoke around his throat. No. He refused. With each pained cry torn out of Wilbur’s throat his determination burned brighter. Technoblade dug his hooves into the ground and crawled to his friend, the chains only growing tighter with each struggle. But the countless masses weighing upon him were no match for a determined god.  

Wilbur scrambled away from the fighting. Strange, how once it so deeply delighted him, only now to fill him with harrowing fear. Wilbur scarcely knew pain in all the centuries he had lived, and yet now his body shook with it, wounds torn into his being by mortal means. Hypocrite that he was, Wilbur never dreamed of revolution rising against himself. 

The masses were unrelenting, stabbing into him from every direction. Wilbur fled, only for a spear to slam into his shoulder. Weapons seemed to appear out of nowhere, all soon coated in divine ichor. They melted beneath the radiance, but the sea of mortals was unending. They would not, could not kill a god, not like this, but Wilbur knew the cruelty of man innately. Surely that was worse a fate to befall him. 

The sword slashed in a wicked arc, falling cruelly to cut Wilbur’s skull in twain. A hoof shot out and caught it, the metal fracturing into fragments in Technoblade’s grip. The god’s eyes blazed with fury, his war scythe sweeping through the humans descending upon Wilbur. His reckoning was swift and brutal, razing any that dared lay a hand upon his friend. The mortals may have bound him, but in truth they only succeeded in chaining a wicked demon to themselves, and in that sealed their doom when they sealed the yoke. Technoblade knew well the hands wrapped around the end of his chains, and so knew exactly who to slaughter. The ring about his neck wrung tighter and tighter the more he defied the mortals that indentured him, but they could defend themselves not from the beast they’d so foolishly sought to chain. The earth became saturated with blood, the rivers stained with sanguine that flowed out to the sea. A massacre unfolded as Technoblade committed an act of wrath that would shake the world to come. 

The last of the uprising was quelled in irrevocable violence. Technoblade staggered over to Wilbur, ripping the spear out of his shoulder and snapping it unceremoniously. A hoof held out, and he helped Wilbur to his feet. His grin dripped with viscera. “I dare say they shan’t rise against us evermore.” 

Wilbur observed the bodies bestrewn as far as the eye could see. What disgusting drivel the detritus of men made. “What a useless endeavor. Whatever for? We are gods, and yet the ungrateful scoundrels would demand even more from us. Death shall punish them well indeed for their insurgency. What think you?”

“The chaff endeavored to chain me,” Technoblade growled, prying at the yoke upon his throat. The vice constricted further, tighter and tighter until each breath was strained. But there were no more mortals to pull at the chains, the slack full as he slaughtered each one. Technoblade summoned his war scythe, slipping it twixt collar and jugular. No matter the strength he poured into the blow, not even a spark came of it. The gap only shrunk till his own godly weapon nearly slit his throat. It vanished, only for the yoke to sharply close the gap it once maintained, choking him. Wilbur rushed to him, clawing at the unholy shackle. The resistance only worsened the restriction, cruel against their rebellion. He shoved his friend away, quelling the defiance, and the pressure weakened. “Cease your recalcitrance, it tightens tenfold. No, I fear fighting makes the curse stronger. I cannot disobey, though I have no masters to speak of…” It contracted even now, more gradually than prior, but ever as inescapable. “I– I am shackled to their souls.” The epiphany was horrific. “They shall drag me to the underworld, Wilbur.” 

Fear blossomed in his chest, choking him even moreso than the wretched chains. No. No, he could not. Surely ‘twould be inane, a god could not be killed in such a fashion. And as his very soul cried out in terror, every ounce of the survivalist instinct burning in a heart that had never once known of mortal terror, the yoke seized upon him, a vice inescapable. Technoblade drew his very last breath, lungs crying out for a deliverance that would never come. There were to be no miracles for a cruel god such as he, his fate sealed with the millions he doomed in his careless abandonment. 

“Promise me you shall return,” Wilbur begged, his hot tears shed into Technoblade’s shoulder. His hands clawed into his friend’s back as if his desperate embrace could cage Technoblade’s errant soul in his body. “Give unto me your oath.” 

The dying god smiled. The last of his breath hissed out in a final vow: “Always, Wilbur. As long as you call for me, I shall come home.” 

The declaration was an act of rebellion far too great. The dark chains pulverized at once, snapping the god’s neck. Wilbur howled. 

Everything fell silent. There was to be no music, no laughter, no joy. It all lay dormant in Wilbur’s chest, frozen in the moment his other half died cradled in his arms. The ichor spilled in his lap lost its warmth, the glow of its splendor dimming until at last fading to nothing. Ichor seeped into the earth, a curse stained upon it for the sin committed against the world. The grass withered, rot spreading out until it stretched from horizon to horizon. Generations would pass and yet never again would it bear harvest as its god was murdered. The land became barren. There was no wind. There was no bird song. There could be no sound, voices stolen from any who dared approach. Should one catch but one look of the grieving god they fell into despondency, crumpling to their knees. They succumbed to his grief, capable of naught but weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth. In a broken radius lay the victims of his thrall, too overcome with despair to escape, to eat, to drink, to breathe. They wasted away in a ring of corpses. 

And at the epicenter, the god of Loneliness clutched the husk of his fellow god to his chest. Within his breast, his heart was quiet, half of it having died the moment Technoblade did. The sun and moon blurred into one another as time raced past, leaving Wilbur motionless, locked in the moment Technoblade was torn from him. Arms left cradling the temple of his friend, as if the god hadn’t long since abandoned the vessel of his body. He did not decay, Wilbur would not allow it. Could not. To lose the corpse would be to lose the last of his friend, and so he held it tight to him as if that would prevent their separation. 

Days became indistinguishable from one another. Weeks rolled into months, and soon Winter fell upon them. Snow draped itself over the motionless gods, and yet Wilbur remained still. Bitter cold seized him, but the empty ice in his heart was tenfold more cruel. Winter raged on though he could scarcely notice. And then, by and by, it ebbed, slinking away with its tail between its legs. The snow thawed, revealing an unchanged pair. Spring was tentative in her approach, though dared not come to Wilbur. In distant lands, gentle green settled once more upon the world. But not a drop of life threatened the land stained with the ichor of the god of Harvest. The Summer was a harsh one, the sun bearing upon bent necks and drawing the sweat of mankind’s brow. 

There was no harvest. In his neglect, Technoblade’s blessings were fickle. But in his death it became final. For all that he may toil in the field, mankind was destined to never reap the fruits of his labor. Voices cried out to a dead god, pleading for a mercy he himself was not afforded. 

Winter once more, and so on and so forth. There was to be no harvest the next year, or the next, or ever. The people cried out for answers to their prayers. Legends spread, and many sought Technoblade, happening upon the pair of gods only to succumb to the well of Wilbur’s grief. A graveyard circled the horizon, and yet he could not care. It stretched beyond, to the world stricken by the loss of the god of Harvest. Famine culled all it could. Bitter wars raged over scraps, once mighty nations collapsed to their knees. Plows lay abandoned in fallow fields as the earth no longer yielded its once great bounty. Humanity fell to scavenging, civilization heaving her last beleaguered breath before succumbing. As temples lay barren and altars forgotten, the gods cried out, outraged that their worship would go neglected. But what festivals could be held? The last of the music was trapped in Wilbur’s long-silenced throat. 

The gods besought that he would cease, yet their voices were stolen the moment they grew too close, Wilbur blind to all suffering save his own. The gods turned to Death, pleading that she return the slain god, and yet she turned away. But why should she care? Her kingdom grew vast with the culling of mankind. 

As years became decades became centuries, the world forgot what it once was. Only whispers of civilization and the gods remained, mankind consumed with survival. Man’s number dwindled to a pale ghost of what it once was. The gods of Hunger had their way. 

Wilbur cared not. He sat akin to a statue. And yet, he was no statue, cursed to feel no matter how ardently, bitterly he wished that his heart would turn to stone. His dark hair grew long and unruly, the tyrant’s crown corroding beneath its gilding. His nails grew to talons. The glow of divinity dimmed as he became lifeless. And yet, he was no mortal, cursed to live when Technoblade did not.

Chapter Text

Technoblade did not cease merely because his body did. For all that he was throttled, no longer did he breathe. He snarled as he was dragged to the underworld, vengeful shades heaving and straining as the army pulled him to the depths of Death’s domain. Through the underworld he cut a warpath the likes of which had never before been beheld. Technoblade was unceasing in his task, relentless and untiring. Never once did he falter, nor did he rest. Time passed, though perhaps it did not, an eternity spent in turmoil. The dead only ever increased in rank, swarming upon him in their orders to contain him. Death ran amok in the world above, hunger befalling all as the world lay barren in his absence. With each emancipated curse against the god who had forsaken them, with each dying rattle of breath that hissed out vengence upon him, the shackle of the yoke bore even more upon him, crushing as surely as the weight of the world. But he could not die a second time. 

Technoblade was a god of Rebellion, and it was that which doomed him. The more he struggled, the crueler the hands about his throat. The greater his determination burned the more ravenous the swallowing sea of the slain. It was his own strength that betrayed him, in the end, that for every step forward he was dragged only further back. 

And yet he refused to be so cruelly taken from his other half. 

So through the ages, he clawed his way up from the depths of the underworld, relentless in his pursuit. If he had to drag the culled alongside him he would, unleashing a plague of undeath upon the earth if only it meant he would see Wilbur once more. At last he stood before the threshold, throttled and chained and so, so close to being alive. 

A small figure stood before the light beyond, encloaked in shadows that fell o’re her as a veil the impenetrable infinity of the night’s heavens. Dust swirled through the air, suffocating were he not shackled so, both by his masters and by his demise. ‘Twas the ash all life succumbed to, the inevitable rot that claimed all. Technoblade towered above Death, head held high despite the yoke burdening his shoulders. The weariness of his endless war ached his every bone, and yet he would not, could not falter before her now. 

“You are a god of Harvest are you not?” The voice of Death was soft for all that it was haunting. 

“I was, but no longer.” It was a bitter resignation, to his own ears. It was the failure he was slain for, and in his absence, the world only grew more dire. Technoblade knew well the face of starvation. For decades the ranks of the dead had swelled with emancipated forms clawed into shape by cruel esurience. Brittle foes to be sure, but wave after wave of them had torn into Technoblade, hollow eyes sparked with malice towards the god who murdered them. The famine culling the world above only served to further ensure his capture. He was no god of Harvest, not anymore. The mantle of Famine weighed upon his shoulders heavily, the hands of the countless he’d failed dug tight into his throat. 

Her dark mouth curled into a smile, mistaking his words for hubris. “A god of Revolution, true, but that is not all. Your thoughts are shaped in temporal terms. Then again, Harvest gods are so bound by the seasons. Maybe it is no surprise you would be chained to time.” A gravitas he could not yet comprehend laced her voice. “We have no use for time in this land. The old versions of yourself are merely buried inside you, and I think you shall find all are free in the underworld. Those who forgo their roots are destined to wither, though I am certain you learned that lesson quite bitterly indeed.” 

“Then I am a Revolution god,” Technoblade insisted acerbically. “I will not hesitate to topple your reign. Death is the cruelest tyrant of all.”

“You say as if for years you haven’t made of me a tool,” she rebuked sharply. Then her voice smoothed to honey. “But by all means, little god. Beauty is found in the struggle for life.” Death stepped out of the way, an arm waved out as if to beckon him to the anathema of her domain. Technoblade’s eyes widened, and he lunged for freedom. 

The chains suddenly tightened unbearably, seizing him back into the embrace of the wrathful dead. He could taste the scent of fresh air, so poignant and sweet tears brimmed in his eyes. The light of the sun just out of reach, its warmth unfathomable after the chill of the grave. Yearning strangled the god in equal measure as the yoke upon him as he collapsed upon his knee, forced to kneel before the goddess of Loss, of Stolen Years and Final Grief. “Come forth! Care you not for the world you abandoned?” she teased. 

Technoblade bore his tusks and dug his hooves into the soul soil, desperately clawing his way forward. On his belly he crawled for freedom, narrowly grasping for the world of the living, for the world of his other. Wilbur. ‘Twas all he wanted, to hear the music of his laugh once more. Technoblade knew not how long he fought, but if it took centuries then still he would war against the forces of the underworld. If it took eons, he would not falter. If they met in the last gasp of eternity as time itself shuddered and died, then all would have been worth it. 

The tips of his hooves filled with warmth as he brushed the hem of sunlight’s skirts. And then Technoblade was dragged back into the frigid entropy of cessation. The dead dug wicked claws into his hide in swift retribution for his failed rebellion. 

Looming over his desperate struggle, Death laughed cruelly. “O! You thought ‘twas I you fought all this time?” 

The epiphany was sharp and bitter. “You– you never chained me at all.” 

She hummed mysteriously. “Now when did I claim that? What an umbrage you think my binds so crude as the ones forged by mortals.” 

Never would he be free of the vendetta of the esurient, the gaunt, the hollow. Horror filled the god as he finally accepted that his masters would always have their sway. There was no salvation to be found in escape even should it be possible, elusive and ephemeral as it slipped through his hooves. Every drop of rebellion in his determined soul was matched in kind. Should he never reach the surface there would never be another harvest. The livid dead would only grow in their cries for vengeance upon his head, and so be doomed to further famine. Civilization destined its own demise. 

“...you said I am yet the god of Harvest. For all that I was unfaithful to mankind, that shade of myself was revived in your land.” The pressure upon his throat weakened, the hands of his masters -his people- hesitating in their grip about dark chains. 

Her veil shifted as her head canted, considering his plight. “O obdurate god, you think the hand of change goes but one way? You could have revitalized yourself at any time, it was none but you who refused to attend your earthly duties, you wayward god of Work.” He flinched at the mantle he once -still, always- claimed. “‘Twas you who doomed so many to my embrace long before their time. And yet you would call me the cruel tyrant. All I did was confront you with the past you fled. Or rather, they confronted you themselves.” 

“I am done running.” Finally, he accepted his role to serve. Not in the role of a bitter slave, but that of a benevolent provider. No more would humanity be plagued with famine. 

The burden of his yoke fell away, and Technoblade rubbed his haggard throat, marveling at how freely breath filled his chest when he need not struggle for every gasp. A queer feeling fluttered in his breast, a consistent thrum, the pound of a worker’s feet, the pulse of an ever-steady river. He pressed his hooves against the struggling heart nestled within the barrel of his great ribcage. Technoblade lifted his bent head slowly, having long forgotten what tender life felt of. 

A softness hung about her, Lady Death far gentler than she had any right to be. “I am so, so proud of you. And truly you would offer salvation to those who would be your doom?”

“I was a fair god, once.”

Her smile was poignant as she offered her hand and uplifted him from the dirt. A tender hand rest at the small of his back, nudging him into the world of the living. “Alas, I am not. My chains are not so escapable. You shall be seeing me again, little god of Life.” 

Technoblade wandered the world for years, a mere phantom roaming existence in search of the body that once hosted it. Before his eyes was a mist dark and impenetrable, life still at arm's length. Within the fog he traveled blindly, only able to catch the dim glow of the living and what few fires they kindled. He found a world in tatters. The fields were long gone, dissolving into unbridled wilderness. So many he found emancipated and struggling, and yet he passed through them as a cloud of smoke, unable to alleviate their suffering. And on he trekked, unknowing if he would ever find his body again. 

What few words he caught were of languages unfamiliar. The land was unrecognizable, what few glimpses through the impermeable dark revealed naught but ruins. But Technoblade had fought for centuries by then, and he would not falter. Undaunted, he stumbled through the unceasing night, guided by the dimmest glow of souls and the murmur of the living. 

After a decade of relentless hunting, Technoblade plunged into into true void. Silence seized the world, swallowing all. Darkness was total in his cruel reign, the land utterly barren of life. Abandoned by all. No creature of the land or sky dared approach. Not even the faintest of dim flickering from the souls of plants encroached upon the territory. The soil lay barren, not stirring as his ghostly foot tread upon it. 

Were there air in his formless lungs, surely it would have been pulverized, a heavy presence collapsing upon him. It was suffocating, crushing his spirit. How…how long had he been searching? And yet his endeavor was impossible. The world was vast and his determination so, so small. Was his destiny that of a wayfarer? 

And for the first time in centuries, the god of Work fell victim to stillness. Never once had he slowed in his relentless drive forward. He had no body to be worn, and yet exhaustion gripped his soul. How weary he was of this all. Never before had Technoblade known rest, and yet it beckoned him now. Would it not be a kindness to at last allow himself peace? It was he alone that trapped himself as a restless, unsatisfied spirit. 

He’d come so, so far. How much farther could there possibly be?

However long it took until he found Wilbur once more. Technoblade allowed himself but a second of hesitation, the respite slipping out from betwixt his hooves. And then he trudged on. 

The black hole devoured him whole, swept in a wicked whirlpool. One exhausted step after the other, as he had for centuries, as he would for eternity. Technoblade plunged into the heart of the void, swallowed by the silent penumbra. 

At the epicenter, the quietest of glows, fainter even than that of plants. A distant figure knelt in the heart of the abyss. Technoblade drew ever closer, guided to the fading, flickering beacon. Impossible that they should breathe still. Surely the most meek of mortals must be a nova in comparison to the soul before him. A fellow spirit, no more, just as lost as he. He could do nothing for them. 

And yet Technoblade knelt before the ghost, pressing a palm to their forehead, as had become his custom. “May the Fates set what we seek in each of our paths, my brother in hopeless yearning,” he rumbled quietly, knowing none would hear his prayer. There was little left of Technoblade save hope, and still he shared what little he had, as befit the vestiges of a god of endless blessings. “We may one day find peace yet.” 

The ghost persisted in their dormancy, deaf to his words. An indistinct form, mere silhouette. Their visage was lost to the consuming dark. And yet Technoblade imagined grief in the slump of their shoulders, echoing his own. They desperately clutched a form draped in shadows as if it was the only thing still binding them to the mortal coil, just as Technoblade persisted only through his dedication to his quest. What was it that held together the fragments of a soul? He peered through the pitch-black, at the barest scrap of illumination that spread from the ghost’s hands to their one lifeline. Technoblade blindly reached through the abyss, pressing his palm to the broad chest of the long slain. And then the rush of vortex devouring him whole. And then the spindling threads of smoke and light that composed him unraveled in the tapestry of the universe. And then…and then……

And then…color. Radiant and incomprehensible, divine fire dancing in his eyes. Painful to behold, and yet Technoblade greedily devoured each drop of existence, ravenous as the world blossomed before him. The perfect azure of the sky, brilliant and awe-striking in its vastness. Clouds swept above, nymphs ushering them in rolling gales. Upon the horizon a fleet of majestic nimbus, streaks of slates and slivers reminding him how many lovely shades painted the living world. O! But he had forgotten how vibrant existence had been. Lightning flickered violently in their dark depths, distant sheets of life-giving rain pouring upon the world to flourish its startling ripple of endless viridians. The beauty of existence blurred and burned as Technoblade began to weep for the world he thought he’d lost. 

And above him the most beautiful sight of all. Wilbur. Framed in wild unkempt curls that spilled upon the soil, a face gaunt and unfilled of the joy that oft overflowed from the heart of the god of Festivals. Now, but a husk of that, a cold and lonely man. His friend had loyally waited for him all this time, steadfast in his endurance. Technoblade took in a shaking inhale, the air crisp on his tongue. With the first breath of life, his truant heart shuddered and began once more its infinite march, diligently counting the rest of eternity. 

Technoblade reached for his other half, pressing his hand to Wilbur’s cheek. Wilbur remained unto a statue, unseeing, unfeeling. And Technoblade called out to him, saying, “I have kept my oath unto you. Awake, Wilbur, the nightmare is no more. Dawn has risen after endless midnight.” 

Some strange light flickered in his dull eyes. Epiphany fell upon Wilbur as he, too, revived. The two fell into one another, their embrace tight, desperate, inseparable. Their forms blurred into one, auras bursting into brilliance in the glow of their divine joy. What wonder, that he should feel once more, that his arms be true that they may hold and be held. 

To Technoblade’s consternation, Wilbur fell to weeping. “What troubles you?”

“Nothing,” Wilbur croaked, voice ragged after countless years of silence. “Nothing now that you are mine once more.” Technoblade hummed a strange note, the parting words of Death haunting him. And yet it mattered so little, now that his long beleaguered soul was complete once more. 

The first day, they were silent, purely basking in the embrace of the other. Each the salve for the other’s wounds. A soul complete once more, never to separate again. Night fell swift in his conquest, and the two were at peace in each other’s arms. 

The second day, in hoarse, haggard tones, they spoke to one another of all that they had endured. A weary, worn lament that began in the throat of one and ended in the throat of the other, their pain indistinguishable. Wilbur bled for each cut Technoblade endured. Night fell swift in his conquest, and the two were at peace in each other’s arms. 

The third day, Technoblade rose at the gentle nudge of rosy-fingered dawn. A deep inhale, holding within him the wild jubilee of the wind. And then once more he took his scythe into his hands. Wilbur mistook it for wrath. His dark eyes flickered as vengeance struck his heart black. Yet Technoblade rested a restraining hand upon the god’s shoulder, bridling his fury. “At ease. I quarrel not with mankind, but the fields that would rebuke his toils.” 

“Wherefore should you care for the mortals!?” His form flickered with anger, the world draining of color. He pressed his hands to the scars noosed about Technoblade’s long bent neck. “They were the ones to fell you! Where is your wrath? Should we not reap every last of the mankind for their cruelty?”

Technoblade cupped his hands around Wilbur’s. “We should not. They have suffered, as have their sons, and their sons’ sons. Mankind doomed itself when it killed me.” His hands swept out to encompass the land. “Behold! Where are the great towers they once raised? Where are the cities? From the gates of the underworld I have journeyed, wandering through the dark mist of the spirit world as I sought my body. Perhaps you have been unto a statue for all this time, but I walked the land and beheld the state of man. My heart breaks for them. The people are scattered amongst the wilds as sands are in the wind. They live as nomads in the lands of their forefathers.”

“That they roam the earth at all is too great a mercy.” 

Technoblade’s eyes softened. “I am steadfast in this, and no word of yours would change my mind. ‘Tis my duty, and one I choose with joy.”

“Then they chain you still.”

His sigh was fathoms deep. “If you seek a god of Revolt in me, I am afraid he died. I have been reborn, Wilbur, and I care not to waste this opportunity on recreating the conditions that brought me to the grave. You look upon a fair god. No more shall I leave mankind to suffer Famine’s cruelty.”  

Spring

The earth remembered not his hand upon it. The land bucked and rebuked him at every turn, and yet Technoblade plunged his hoe into it, taming the world once more with each row he tilled. 

‘Twas not long before he drew the curiosity of the mortals. They lingered at the edges of the trees, wary and ready to bolt. What strange remnants of civilization they made for, too young to remember the famines that fell in the wake of his death, the terrible wars raged as desperate men sought to steal what they could no longer earn. These lost ancestors knew only the husks of ruins. 

They had stories, though. They knew of the monsters men became when the god of Harvest died. 

Technoblade spoke to the humans frankly. He promised them that as agriculture swept over the land, so would they. Populations unfathomable to them now, societies where people dedicated themselves to things beyond sustenance. The greatness mortals could aspire to with the security of a next meal, art and literature and science, all off the backs of those who labored in the fields. Technoblade spoke to them of the empires that would seep across the land in an expanding inkblot, desperate for more territory so that they might feed their growing populations, growing ambitions. The wars that would spawn as civilizations pushed into one another. Amassing resources, power, more, always more, always growing. 

He spoke to them of dangers they could not fathom, and yet too of safety they could but dream of. The dangers of hunts forgotten, and alongside them the cruel whims of luck to fill their stomachs. The assurance of a next meal in the depths of Winter. The permanence of a home, the land filled with the labor of their ancestors. Technoblade spoke of the weals and woes of agriculture to any human who would listen, carefully working all the while. 

And when the first held out cupped palms to him, Technoblade pressed seeds into them. 

Summer

Vibrant viridian spilled across the fields, carefully nurtured by god and mortals alike. Farmers bent in the fields, ripping out the weeds that would choke their efforts. Technoblade sat in the dirt, displaying his godly scythe. Their earthly mimics were crude, forged of sharpened stones and branches. In time, they would discover the ways of forges and iron, but that ‘twas not his gift to bestow upon humanity. 

Across the hill scattered the beginning of permanent houses, reinforced improvements upon their previous nomadic abodes. Across the land word spread of the god of Harvest, and many had come, enticed by his strange promise. Though little more could be planted, other roles began to blossom. Hunters still ventured to provide food for the community, the crafty sort began puzzling out new tools, or discovering how to construct sturdier homes. Many were yet restless, unused to lingering in one place for so long. But Technoblade had wandered the earth for countless years, and knew well the tired relief of finally standing still. 

Fall

The harvest. The first of many. O but did Technoblade miss the weight of it! The bone deep ache of bones and the promise of rest, even if brief. Warm pride stirred in his breast as the bounty poured out from him. The humans were in awe of it, running hands through fat grains and sturdy vegetables. As they often did, the heads of his followers turned to him as the sunflowers did to the radiance of the celestials. Their mortal frames worn ragged from a full day of labor, and yet they looked to the god of Work, expectant of their next task. 

Technoblade threw his arms open wide. “And now you feast upon the fruits of your labor.” There was work to be done tomorrow, pressing the forgotten knowledge of their ancestors back into their hands once more, teaching them how to preserve the food they earned. 

And yet in this the mortals seemed to be at a loss, turning to Technoblade as if he should grant the knowledge they sought. Their stories were not enough to salvage the traditions they once cherished. And so Technoblade turned to Wilbur, beckoning him to show the humans how to celebrate. 

“No more am I a god of Festivals,” Wilbur said quietly. “I know not what I am now. A god of Silence, perhaps, nothing more.” 

Technoblade sat his hand upon the shoulder of his other half, his smile gentle. “Nonsense. Be not set in your ways. Though that past form may be but embers now, you can always rekindle him. Have I not conquered death? Surely by such a miracle you may find it within yourself to revive the shade of your past.” 

Slowly but surely he coaxed music once more out of Wilbur’s lips. It was crisp in the air, so sweet he shuddered with it. How he had missed that sound. As was only right, Wilbur retaught the mortals the rituals of celebration. Pushing past half-hearted declarations that it was unbecoming a god of Work, Wilbur pulled Technoblade into a dance, wild and jubilant. It mattered not his stumbling clumsiness, merely the mirth of movement, linked in kind with the mortals that formed a ring about the fire. The community joined hand in hand with the exuberance of the first harvest in centuries. The twin gods glowed far brighter than the light of the bonfire, their laughter ringing long into the dark night. 

Winter

The work did not stop after the harvest. No, after the countless he had failed, Technoblade did not intend for this to be the end of his boon. There would be no end to their bounty beneath him. He pushed himself further than ever before, calling produce out of the dormant plants. The earth continued to yield at his determined persistence, and even into the depths of Winter the humans still reaped plenty, never to go hungry again. Though the cold was bitter, the humans were happy to stay by their fires, no longer desperately scavenging for food amongst the frost. Technoblade gather wood for their fires, wondering what old recipes he might remind mankind of. Or perhaps he might simply let their spark of creativity carry them on with the bounty of their work. For all that Technoblade had guided them this past year, humanity brought their own vigor and innovation to it. 

The sky was dark overhead, murmuring bitter winds that nipped at his extremities. Technoblade minded little. He missed so much of the living world that he could never hate the fullness of it. The sharp bite of cold only made him feel more alive, present in a way the numb nothing of death could never be. The sting of each breath in his chest, the delighted smile as he realized it was beginning to snow; these were the wonders of existence he had ached for. Technoblade’s surprised laugh hung in the air unto a ghost, reminding him of how far he had come. Were they soothed? Had his wrathful spirits at last found peace? He found himself praying to Death at times, that each one had found sanctity in their eternal rest, assured their children would not face the unceasing famine they once suffered. Never again would Technoblade abandon this world he so loved. 

Technoblade tilted his head to the heavens as soft snow drifted down. Perhaps Wilbur would remember some festival for Winter. Where once he remained tucked to Technoblade’s side, over the year he had grown more comfortable, at times venturing amongst the mortals and reminding them of the holidays they once celebrated. Once he got home, Technoblade would ask. He was ready for another festival. Technoblade wanted the whole of life, not the fragments of it he once claimed. He wanted to ache with dancing as much as he did tilling. 

A single snowflake drifted down, landing on the edge of his snout. At once a wave of exhaustion seeped through his body. Technoblade stumbled with it. A creeping numbness came o’er him. Instantly, Technoblade recognized the consuming nothingness of the death that had claimed him for so long. How bitter its taste, unforgettable no matter the honey-sweet of life. 

No. He could feel the vile vine of death planted in the small of his back blossom and grow. It slithered up his spine, coiling about his heart in cruel tendrils and strangling it. No. The fire wood in his arms clattered to the ground. Technoblade burst into a run, tearing towards where their home crested the horizon. Each stride was slower than the last, and some cold instinct inside him knew he shan’t make it. No no no–

The inescapable phantom of Death’s parting words echoed in his head as unnatural cold seized him. Technoblade dissolved into light, throwing his soul desperately to their home. He crashed into existence once more, outside the house though he had intended to appear at their hearth. Upon using his godly powers, horrible exhaustion clawed into him, vision blurring with the flurries of snow that fell faster and faster. Stumbling to the door, Technoblade pawed at the door, too enervated to even open it. He nearly collapsed at the threshold, utterly drained, yet barely held himself upright as he rapped upon its wood. 

“...Wil…bur……”

His weak plea was unheard. There was no response. No rustling within their home. Wilbur was gone. The fear that Technoblade would be taken from him the moment he glanced away had eased. It should not have. Technoblade slumped into the wood of their door and slid to the ground, too weak to escape the cold. Darkness swept in, but he clung to life ardently, refusing to let his weary eyes drift shut. 

Hours passed in a blur, snow falling o’re his shoulders in a cloak, dusting his heavy lashes. He gathered every last ember of energy he had for the nigh impossible task of continuing to breathe. Each took a little more effort than the last. The fog of his exhales waned as the life inside him cooled. 

“--noblade? TECHNOBLADE!” The cry pierced through the consuming numbness. Technoblade pushed past his lethal lethargy, blearily catching a smear running for him. Wilbur had found him. That was okay, then. His vigilance waned, knowing he was safe. Frantic cries blurred into sounds as meaningless as the howl of the bitter wind. Technoblade relaxed into Wilbur’s arms, finally allowing himself to close his eyes. 

Technoblade stood before the throne of Death. ‘Twas…far more comfortable than he expected such a structure of infamy and legend to be, a comfortable rocking chair that overflowth with cushions and quilts. A thick layer of dust coated the arms, the room composed of barren soil. Each step stirred up clouds of ash. It was a lonely room, devoid of the grandiosity he expected of such a goddess. But hers was the motes of decay and the dust all life aspired to. Truly he should have expected nothing less of the throne room for the dead. 

Slowly, Technoblade knelt before the homely throne, showing the deference Death was owed in her domain. In supplication he rested a hand upon her knee, her chin, desperate for clemency. “My– my Lady. They shall starve without me.” 

Death cupped his face gently, tilting it heavenwards, watching the brimming tears in his dark eyes. “My sorrow is great for you, little god, but you are still mine. You fought the mortals valiantly, and yet they slew you. Fate cannot be so deterred in its course. Neither man nor godkind can but succumb to destiny.” Death did not wipe the tears as they rolled o’er her hands. “We are two halves, you and I,” she murmured. 

“Nay. Wilbur–”

“Wilbur is likewise your original half. I suppose it is more apt to claim I am your quartile, and as such will claim that portion of you. We complete one another, do we not?” 

“We are anathema.” 

“We are cyclical, little god. We, who are annihilation and genesis. There is no life without I, nor death without you.” Her hand swept out, encompassing the buds of spring green beginning to poke fragile heads through the soil of the dead. “I cannot unbridle you, that you run amok amongst the mortals. What bounty you would bless them with! But so sweet a gift would surely doom them, little god. Can you fathom the devastation, should man be unchecked? You know well their vices. Would you have them conquer the earth whole? Would that appease your insatiable guilt? No, I am far too merciful to let you be free. With the first kiss of every Winter, you shall be mine once more.” Her soft hands stroked through his fur, gentle and kind as she cursed him to never again see the beauty of Winter, no more the crispness of frigid air in his lungs or the swirl of snow dancing joyously in flurries. No more the laughter of Wilbur sharp through the muffled air, the curve of his smile upon a steaming drink, the rose of his cheeks in the cold. Technoblade wept bitterly into her lap as Death spelled out his destiny, that of a cursed cycle of death and war and wretched struggle. Never to end. Never to find peace. At his keening cry, she shushed him softly. “No, no, little god, not eternity. I would not ask that of you. You need not fight, should you find no just cause, should you grow weary. Our garden shall forevermore be your sanctuary. ‘Tis the one reparation I can offer as solace for your suffering. Only the restless find my domain toilsome. The underworld offers tranquil eternity, for those that choose it.”

“I am a god of Work,” Technoblade retorted miserably. “There is no rest for me. Would you have me abandon my people? My Wilbur?” 

In consolation, Death bent and pressed a kiss to his temple. He found it a paltry offering. “I mourn for you, my child, but I can only ever grant the gift of struggling for life. You are no exception, no matter how ardently I wish you were. And in truth, I shan’t lie: I ached for your return. The underworld is barren in your absence.” 

The ashes of life blossomed beneath him, unfurling jewel colors in the saturated depths of the land of the dead. Slowly a garden spread from the god of Harvest, only cementing Death’s words. Beside them, a comfortable table and a pair of chairs appeared, steaming tea awaiting him as if he could feign an amicable catch-up in such a plight. “O cruel goddess! O wicked, wicked goddess. You know not what you have stolen from me.” 

“I know not. But you have all eternity to speak to me of the earth I shall never walk.” 

Technoblade had lamented how dark it was. Wilbur had no idea how long he wandered the earth, unable to find his body. Would he find it again this time? Would he be forever lost to the dark mist? Never to find his way home? 

In desperation, Wilbur spun a candle out of pure light. He fashioned candle after candle, bathing the scene in warm glow. But wicked Winter was cruel in her hold of his other half, mercilessly dousing the light meant to guide Technoblade home. And so he made a lantern. Never could he have fathomed the effects to ripple out from his actions. No, Wilbur thought only of his friend, terrified that Technoblade would be doomed to roam, never again to rest in Wilbur’s embrace. He sat them out, tending each, and waiting for their reunification. 

Years began to pass once more, the world lost to unceasing Winter. Soon Wilbur grew to worry, knowing his island of illumination only reached so far, the world so vast. And so he designed a lantern the likes of which humanity did not know. Gently he lifted it to the heavens, watching the lantern spiral upward, lifted by the warmth of its hope. He summoned a soft wind to send it out, fervently wishing it might lead Technoblade back to him. Soon he began to write directions upon them so that the journey might be easier. 

As his loneliness grew, Wilbur began to write other things as well. Pleading for Technoblade to hurry, and longing laments, and bitter lines, and wrathful tirades against the cruel Fates for tearing them apart. And slowly…that faded. Instead, inked upon the lanterns were encouragements to continue, and little stories about how his day went, and snippets of songs he might write once they were together once more. All the things he wished for poured into the world.

The gently glowing hope was eventually answered. Upon seeing him once more, Wilbur’s smile glowed as brightly as the radiance he set into the world.

Before long, the humans began to light their own lanterns. Wilbur blessed each one to burn long and bright, and with the illumination spread across the land Technoblade found his way back quicker and quicker, till Winter lasted but months compared to the nigh endless of famine that gripped the world after Technoblade’s first death. The journey was still arduous, but Technoblade could not help but beam when he caught sight of that first lantern. He read each one he found, searching through hundreds of mortal wishes until he discovered familiar handwriting. Every single year he relentlessly fought to make his way back home. 

And soon, Technoblade was not the only one guided to refuge by Wilbur’s beacons. 

Chapter Text

Philza’s prayers fell upon deaf ears. But alas, Philza was a man unwilling to simply allow the Fates to have his way with him, and so as his pleas were ignored he took matters into his own hands. As the oracles and soothsayers all proclaimed his desire impossible by mortal means, Philza took his petition directly to the gods, placing it upon their altars and staring them in the eye. 

They always looked away first. 

He took his plea to every god he could think of and then some, and yet it was for naught. But Philza was a man with more determination than sense, and so he set his teeth and refused to accept no for an answer. He lay at their feet the finest of offerings, prayers falling from his desperate tongue that would cause even the most callous to weep. And yet the gods of his land hardened their hearts to his plight.

So he took up what earthly possessions he might carry upon his back and set his sight on foreign lands. He journeyed far and wide, picking up scraps of languages and strange currencies that rolled uncomfortably in his palms. He learned of their pantheons and besought them for aid. All turned away. Anger grew in his heart, but Philza above all was a patient man. 

And so when told the ‘easiest’ way to draw the attention of the god of Wishes was to toil within a field from planting to harvest, he simply grit his teeth and bore it. A farmer he was not, but neither was he a hero, or a wiseman, and yet the gods often required feats of greatness for the chance of them even listening to his pleas. Philza had become many things in his desperation, and so he gathered what money he had and bought a field, which he tilled. Blood, sweat, and tears were poured into his work. With each seed sewn, Philza planted his wild hopes, praying they would flourish. 

Philza knew not the ways of the land, could not speak the language of it. He raised and he tended and the crops withered beneath unskilled hands. A lifetime spent yearning to nurture only for the world to rebuke him at every turn. Philza had yet to give up, but the year was a long one, left alone to his thoughts as he worked the recalcitrant field. He’d searched the world whole in his quest, and had run out of options. Fate’s laughter rung in his ears as he broke his back bent in the field. 

But Philza poured his soul into it, for he knew not what else he could do. 

The harvest was meager. Perhaps he had done it too early, or late, though the truth of it was a coin flip to Philza. He gathered the sparse, half blighted crops and piled them upon the altar to Technoblade he constructed in the midst of his field. A pathetic comparison to the overflowing abundance he’d imagined himself laying at the god’s feet. His knees ached as they dropped to the dirt, Philza kneeling roughly. His body ached with the labor he’d wrung out of it. Head bent in deference just as much as it was exhaustion, Philza prayed. 

There was no answer. 

But for such a sorry offering, could he have truly expected one? Pitiful compared to the piles of gold and great slain beasts he once offered to the gods. His wealth was spent now, his body growing old. Philza did not know what to make of himself now, his life wasted chasing his impossible wish. Too tired to stand, he simply slumped against the altar to an uncaring god, stirring only to shake his fist at the crows that would take what little harvest he had. The sun poured into the horizon in streaks of liquid gold, and Philza simply closed his eyes as the night set in, finally accepting the life he dedicated working himself to the bone was for naught. 

“What an amusing little mortal,” Technoblade mused, curiously eyeing the man who lay slumbering at the foot of an altar. The god idly selected a sacrifice, examining a scrawny potato that clearly had the mold cut off. “Wherefore do they think I would take of their harvest? What use have I for food?”

Wilbur was visibly suffering an intolerable curse of boredom, yet would follow Technoblade to the ends of the earth. Dubiously, he poked at a limp carrot. “What pitiful offerings do not befit you. Care to smite him for such an umbrage?”

Technoblade grunted. “I think I’ll hear him out.” 

Shrugging, Wilbur dropped the veil. He spread his hands out grandly, allowing the mortal to bask in his presence. “Behold! Be not afraid, for you have been blessed indeed that divinity should grace your pathetic mortal life.” 

Instead of screaming, or falling to his knees and grovelling, or weeping in the aura of their godliness, the mortal rubbed his sleepy eyes and muttered, “Took you long enough.”

Technoblade snorted, appreciating the humor even if Wilbur scowled. “Why is it you offer such supplication to my altar?” 

“I am destined to go without a family. I refuse to abide by this.”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhh. I mourn the tragedy that has befallen you, but I fail to see why this plight should fall at my feet of all the gods.”

“You are the god of wishes.”

“Haeh??”

“You’re— you’re supposed to be the god of hope. Aren’t the lanterns yours?” 

A gentle strumming. Philza turned to the god languishing in the bough of a tree, absently plucking at the guitar in his hands. A beardless youth, with a despondent look about him. “No, I suppose that would be me you’re looking for. I am a god of bitter hope, of waiting, of songs no one hears. I am a god of loneliness. It is not me you seek, mortal.”

Philza swallowed roughly. He was wasting his time. In truth, he’d been wasting his time for years. But he could not give in yet. He turned upon Technoblade. “You are a god of protection.”

“I don’t believe I am-”

“You are,” Philza insisted. “You are fighting no matter the cost, no matter the risk, for the sake of another. Surely your domain falls over the protection of a parent.”

“You have the theology of a desperate man.”

“You’ve been a desperate man before. Weren’t you a god of Harvest, once? You know the starvation of Winter. Even now it culls you still. And you know how to raise, to guide. You sheltered and nurtured the land you provided so that the people would not go hungry. You provided. Is that not what a parent does?”

“That does not mean-”

“You protect someone. With everything you have. Is that not love?” The man’s voice cracked, tears brimming in his eyes. 

“I— I cannot protect him always.” Technoblade paused. “...could you prove that you would be able to protect a child? Say…if you were to best me in a duel.” 

“I’ll fight you. Whatever it takes to prove myself.”

“You would fight a god of battle for a child he cannot give you?”

“I’d do anything for them. Surely you’d know that.”

Wilbur’s protests were cut over by his fellow god. “You would deny me a warrior’s death?” Technoblade murmured to Wilbur. The god shrunk. 

[Technoblade and Philza began to duel. Technoblade was already weakened due to approaching winter. Very suddenly it began to snow. (Too suddenly, Lady Death was tampering with fate to draw Technoblade back sooner. Possibly foreshadowing of LD’s interest in Philza, that wasn’t a solid plot point. At the very least, she wanted to help Philza bc she knew it would put some of Technoblade’s worries at ease). Philza was able to draw a single wound, which Technoblade took as good enough. 

Technoblade gave Wilbur’s guardianship to Philza. Both were extremely taken aback at the decision, and Wilbur was incensed at being handed off to a mortal. But Philza was a determined git who refused to be stopped.]

—

[Scene about Wilbur and Philza slowly bonding. Philza saw how unhealthy Wilbur’s coping mechanism for when Technoblade was dead was, as Wilbur mostly just sits where he died and does nothing for several months. Wilbur was angry about getting forcefully adopted by a mortal who is barely in the 45 range. The first year, he was invisible bc he didn’t want to deal with Philza, who stayed anyway. Wilbur’s aura really negatively impacted Philza, until he realized it wasn’t him being depressed. The realization that the god really did need someone to take care of him hardened Philza’s resolve. 

Philza deeply pitied Wilbur, which rankled the god. Wilbur resented Philza leaving to do things like eating or erecting shelter or needing a break from Wilbur’s awful aura, because to him that was not suffering like Technoblade was. They didn’t interact the first year. But when Technoblade came back, he seemed really hopeful about Wilbur having someone else to be with when he was gone, so they both pretended to have bonded. But next Winter, Wilbur fully tried to go back to pretending Philza didn’t exist. Some years alternating between that, but eventually Philza grew on him. 

Philza started helping Wilbur cope with winter in healthier ways, though he was still super depressed. But Philza cared very, very deeply for his new son. And reluctantly, Wilbur also came to love Philza.]

—

[During winter, a rebellion rose up against the gods for. While there wasn’t a firm reason yet, but there are lots of options: blaming Techno for no harvest in the winter, or not fulfilling wishes, or Wilbur for sucking hope/joy/festivals/music out of the world for a few months every year, or the gods of revolution no longer aiding them against tyranny. There was a clash, and Wilbur got brutally injured from a weapon designed to hurt gods. Philza drove them off with pure Dad Rage, and then knelt by the dying Wilbur.]

From the wound, dark corruption withered across Wilbur’s flesh as the cursed arrow seeped out godly poison. The shaft of the arrow snapped in Philza’s hands, leaving the cursed head buried deep in Wilbur’s side. A sharp invective, then Philza seized his dagger and slipped it into the wound, trying to pry it out. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Philza said over and over, until the mantra fell in rhythm with Wilbur’s racing heart. Philza poured pressure into the wound no matter how the ichor burned his mortal body. Not a single note of pain escaped his lips even as his palms were seared with radiance. 

“I’m dying, aren’t I?” Wilbur said faintly. “Release me, it is of no use. Hurt yourself not for my sake.”

“Shh, of course not,” Philza swore. His warm smile could not hide the panic in his eyes. “You shall be cured in time.”

“Do not be so cruel as to lie. I disparage this life of mine.”

“Hush, Wilbur. Dare not speak of such awful ideas. It is merely the fever corrupting your mind.”

But Wilbur smiled, eyes closing. “O, I have awaited this day for centuries, dare not ruin my relief. Let this ceaseless cycle break. We spent centuries chasing useless hopes to force his errant soul to stay, but no more. We shall find our peace together in death.”

“No, no,” Philza insisted desperately, consumed with horror. “Who would greet him then? He would never make his way back. You cannot doom him to wander the world forevermore.”

“I would have eternity to find him, and then never to be torn apart again.” 

“You selfish, selfish god. Do you not imagine the consequences of your death?”

“I am a god of nothing worthwhile, little mortal, I shan’t be missed.” 

“And when the Harvest never arrives? He only returns for you, Wilbur, and none other reason.”

“And I should care for the humans who despise us so? You are the only mortal who cares for us, and in time we shall reunite. I will wait for you, Philza, I swear it. The moment you step into the land of the dead you shall be welcomed into our open arms.” Philza quietly shook his head, too choked to protest. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and Wilbur reached a shaky hand up, brushing them away. The mortal began to weep bitterly, tears intermingling with the smears of ichor that once clung to Wilbur’s fingertips and now trickled down the mortal’s face, burning bright through his imperfect human form. And yet Philza trapped the hand to his cheek when it limply fell. “You are such a strange creature,” Wilbur mused weakly. “You would weep for a god?” 

“I weep for my son.” Wilbur held his tongue. It felt too cruel to correct the distraught human. 

“I do not deny the sorrow stirring in my chest for you. But I cannot bear to be away from him.”

“Don’t leave me. Please, Wilbur, don-“

Wilbur pressed an ichor-soaked finger to Philza’s mouth, trapping the voice in his throat. “Shh. I would never curse you to my own fate. You do not have to await reunification like I have for so many centuries. Join me, Philza, we can go down hand in hand.” The mortal’s eyes widened in fear as he realized what Wilbur was asking. Philza went breathless. “One drop of ichor, Philza,” Wilbur purred, pouring into his voice every ounce of persuasion a god of songs had. The ingrained instinct to clap to a group’s beat, that human need to be with others. The liquid silver dripping from the tongues of leaders as they stirred the hearts of hurting men to action. The desperate, poignant perfection in a swan song. He needed Philza to say yes, because in truth Wilbur was terrified of going alone. Never had Wilbur bore isolation with any grace. “One drop upon your mortal tongue and it would immolate your humanity. It shall be agony, I shall not lie to you. But I swear to hold you as you die, just as you shall hold me.” 

The world burned brightly, falling into disorientated nothing. Wilbur desperately held on to the glimpse of Philza’s face even as everything else dissolved. He could not tell when next he would see it. Were he able to, Wilbur would sacrifice Philza. There would be an eternity for forgiveness afterward. 

Never had Wilbur been a warrior. He needn’t be one. One word was all it would take, even were it a rejection. The barest gap in his lips and Wilbur’s poison would annihilate him. But Philza shook his head silently and drew back. Desperately, Wilbur reached for him, but his ichor soaked hand fell limply to the ground. Fine, he thought bitterly. He would be alone for this. Wasn’t he always?

“You will not perish. I shan’t allow it.”

“I scarcely imagine you would still the hand of fate, little mortal.”

Wilbur was a fool to dismiss the man who spent decades in a desperate bid to force the gods to change his lonesome destiny. 

[Philza was determined to keep Wilbur alive, and so he did. (And perhaps, Lady Death was behind that.) He nursed Wilbur back to life very slowly despite Wilbur’s adamant wishes. He was still recovering when Technoblade revived, and so he was forced to confront the pain in Technoblade’s eyes when he learned his other half was suicidal.] 

—-(New chapter)—-

A tiny figure huddled by a lantern, childish hands held out to warm themselves against the tiny candle flickering inside it. The first snow of the year had been brutally heavy, and it only grew worse as night settled on the land. The boy rubbed his hands together, then pulled something out of a pocket. With shaking hands the child scratched something on the side of the lantern. It was a pitiful thing, clearly scavenged. And yet the boy acted as if it were holy, reverence reflecting in his blue eyes. With a devotion Wilbur failed to find in high priests, he took the lantern and gently lifted it into the sky. Barely did it stay, and yet the boy’s beam of a smile outshone his meager beacon. 

Wilbur was ill-suited for determining the age of humans. Perhaps it was youth that made his prayers so sloppy, but perhaps it was the cold that numbed his fingers and turned his worship gestures into indistinct nothings. “...o-our sweat and blood to per-percol– get in the earth and nourish the land we tend…”

Something cracked in Wilbur’s chest as he recognized the butchered prayer. A child wasting what few sparks of heat he had on a hopeless wish to a dead god. 

Vaguely, he was aware the humans thought it a festival to Technoblade, not one for him. They petitioned a corpse to fix their stupid human problems. What a pointless festival, Wilbur thought bitterly. The hope was only ever going to be disappointed. A festering growth that spread across humanity. Wilbur wondered how many others wasted what little warmth they had on prayers to a dead god. Did it ever lead them to their deaths? Surely that was what was ensured for this little boy. An optimist. Bah. Optimists didn’t survive in this world. And what was he even wasting it on? Cynically, Wilbur twirled his finger. A slight breeze rotated the lantern so Wilbur could read the boy’s inscription. 

What he found instead was a childish drawing. A crude trio of little figures connected by what he supposed were hands. 

Wilbur sat up slowly. Come home, come home, come home. Millions of times had he written it across lanterns, pleading for Technoblade to return, only to see it reflected in the desperate prayer of a human too young to know how to write. 

[Wilbur checked the tapestry of life. Trust me very cool scene with flowery purple prose and everything. He discovered Tommy’s family was dead.]

Once, he’d been a god of Festival. He didn’t think himself one now, and yet the humans freed lights into the sky just as he had for centuries. The Day of Lanterns was his in a way he’d never recognized before. 

Patron of the isolated, of the optimist who would rather go cold than without hope. Wilbur was the god of songs no one else would hear, and yet he was listening now as this boy choked on a lullaby. Perhaps he was the only one who could. 

Wilbur hummed the lullaby the boy had been singing, filling in the gaps of the words he could not recall. At once the child looked up sharply, calling excitedly for parents who could not come. Wilbur stepped down to earth, approaching the small shivering lump. Small eyes were rapt upon him, but else wise little changed. The excitement in them dimmed but still shone with hope. Wilbur contemplated the minuscule creature and then reached for his lantern. It unraveled quickly, and the boy shouted out in the betrayal of a hope injured. Of the scraps of a plea, he wove a soft cream cloak, draping the glowing fabric over the boy. He crouched down, fastening the clasps to ensure he was warm.  

“What is your name, little human?” 

“Tommy,” the boy croaked. “What are you?”

Wilbur smiled. “A wish.” 

—

[Wilbur brought Tommy to Philza, almost like wiping his hands free of it. Tommy got a parent, Philza got a child, all was fixed. Briefly Wilbur entertained the thought that he didn’t have to be involved with those mortals anymore, but Philza quickly dismissed it. They bonded, assuring Tommy that his dead family was okay in the afterlife using stories from Technoblade about what it was like without actually revealing Technoblade died every winter. 

When Technoblade returned, it was treated like he was away on business. All three were uncomfortable with telling Tommy the truth, especially as Tommy was immediately delighted with Technoblade for fulfilling his wish. Cute bonding scene abound.

Get to the scene where the story started in media res. After Technoblade died, all three had a proper day to mourn. And then, Wilbur leaves. Philza was entirely taken aback since he’d never done so in the ~decade+ they’d known each other. Wilbur started a new tradition where the day after the lantern festival they’d go out at start actually granting wishes. Philza and Tommy joined in, and eventually the rest of humanity. It became a full festival where people try to help out each other and sow kindness and hope. Wilbur finally considered himself a god of festivals once again. 

Also, Technoblade during his time in the underworld set about trying to get Tommy’s dead family out.]

The veiled lady canted her head thoughtfully. “Why?”

“They are important.”

“No, they were far from any sort of significance.” The realization came, and her posture shifted, all tension and malice. “You would try to undermine my authority? Necromancers find little clemency in my realm.” 

“What are you going to do? Kill me?” Technoblade replied flatly.

The underworld darkened, the dead wailing and gnashing their teeth. “You know not what you reckon with. I will bring the hoards of the slain upon you till you suffocate-”

“You would flood your own realm and shatter the balance of life and death. Mankind would be obliterated. And…” he paused dramatically to deliver his ultimate threat. “I would not be able to bring you new tea recipes.”

Death crumpled at the threat. 

[Hand in hoof, Technoblade brought out the spirits of Tommy’s parents out of the underworld. It’ll only be for a brief time, and Tommy is pleased to have 3 dads and 1 mom. (Well for now eventually Lady Death would get there once Tommy died. She and Philza had discussed him much over tea after all). After this, the first day of spring became a festival when people were able to briefly encounter the peaceful dead, reuniting families and friends. It’s a day to look back at the past before preparing for the future.]

Guiding Tommy’s parents out of the underworld, Technoblade caught a glimpse of a lantern. He beckoned for it, and the lantern gently landed in his hands. He’d fallen into the habit of reading them so that he may too grant the mortal’s pleas. The more memorable encounters would be regaled when they reunited, and Technoblade was determined to match Wilbur’s numbers irrespective of his narrow time frame. A child’s handwriting decorated the lantern, shaky and hopeful. 

C Om      hO nn  e      Fe CnnO-   Te C  O dLae       Tekmo—-     

In Wilbur’s familiar handwriting, the sentence was finished thus: Technoblade. 

Well. Technoblade was happy to oblige the wish. Technoblade smiled at the beacon, his hope renewed as he realized he had almost reached them. No doubt they were waiting impatiently, and the thought spurred him on with vigor, eager to reunite with the family that was lighting lanterns to bring him home.