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"You're beautiful."
Two simple words, whispered softly against the hum of heat. They hung in the air, weaving through the tumult like delicate threads. They reached you, cutting through the clatter of your mind, freezing you in your tracks amidst the crimson-stained ground.
Moments before, you had been engulfed in the frenzy of combat in the realm above, where your kind clashed with frail-bodied humans, tearing through their ranks with primal ferocity. You had left a trail of destruction: buildings reduced to smoldering rubble, once verdant hills transformed into desolate mounds of charred soil, and the once-clear skies obscured by billowing smoke.
There were no fatalities among your kin, but that didn't meant everyone emerged from the conflict unscathed. Humans, relentless in their advancement, continually refine their weaponry to be sharper, more lethal.
Among the casualties were some of your younger siblings, bearing the wounds of battle: limbs lost, scales shredded, horns broken. You, too, bore the marks of the skirmish, your body drenched in a mixture of your own blood and that of your adversaries.
Your flank bore long, ragged gashes, oozing crimson, while arrows protruded from various points on your body, penetrating beyond the protective barrier of your scales. As you moved, mud and ash from the Nether clung to your form like persistent parasites, while molten liquid dripped from your gaping maw.
In short, you appeared dreadful, looking like a victim of death rather than a bringer of it.
And yet, this puny mortal, clad in armor as azure as the flames of your eldest brother, deems you beautiful?
Beautiful...
It's a term that hasn't graced your ears in years. A word reserved solely for your mother's lips. But this small bundle of flesh dared to step forward, had the nerve to draw your gaze, dared to utter such a word in your presence?
It elicits a chuckle from deep within, a sound akin to gravel scraping against stone, devoid of any warmth or mirth. You cast your eyes downward to the mortal before you, a male standing several feet shorter than yourself.
His hair is a vibrant pink, cropped close to his scalp, and his fiery red eyes look, look, look at you with unwavering intensity.
He bears the unmistakable signs of a hybrid, with pig ears protruding from his head and a tusk jutting from his lip. The scent of coal and steel clings to him. Piglin. He appears to be on the younger side, likely a newly minted adult if you were to venture a guess.
A sword rests quietly at his side, yet he makes no move to draw it.
Your siblings had gone ahead, eager to share news of your triumph with the eldest siblings and revel in the rewards of their conquest, their jubilant cries echoing through the air, beckoning you to join.
But you remain fixated on the man before you. With a low hiss, you admonish him, "You are a fool for daring to confront me, even more foolish for finding beauty in my presence, and downright stupid for standing within striking distance."
You don't anticipate a response, but receive one anyway. "They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
"The beholder must be blind. I am coated in the blood of your fellow men, soaked through with the tears of slain women."
"You are," he acknowledges. "But you are beautiful. I've never seen anyone like you before."
"Do not utter another word. I have no interest in hearing your hollow praises. Leave this place immediately, while I still grant you the opportunity."
"I speak with sincerity. I recognize your strength, and I hold it in high regard. Your kin are formidable, and I am humbled to stand among such mighty beings."
His words, simple though they may be, carry weight. They ring true. This hybrid speaks from the depths of his heart.
You've slaughtered, burned, and laid waste to countless souls, more than many would dare to fathom. But he finds beauty in that.
It confuses you.
"What is your name, mortal?"
"Technoblade," he responds easily.
"What's your purpose in talking to me?"
He shrugs. "Just to talk. Nothing more."
"Why?"
"That is my reason alone."
You huff, frustration bubbling within you. He's a complete fool, and you feel the urge to end him, to impale him on a single claw, to cleave him in two with the strength of your jaws.
But you refrain.
"What are you waiting for? Do you seek death? If so, I'll give it to you."
The mortal remains still. His head tilts slightly, as though considering his next move, before nodding. He then bows deeply and respectfully, his right arm crossing his chest while his left rests across his back.
It's a gesture of respect and gratitude, an act never before witnessed from a mortal toward one of your kind.
"Thank you, for sparing my life. I will not forget your kindness."
He turns and leaves.
You observe his departure, a peculiar sensation stirring within.
The hybrid is an anomaly, one that will linger in your memory. But for the moment, you push aside the encounter and join your siblings in celebration.
Time marches on.
The conflict persists.
The rivers of blood flow unabated.
Your kin wage battles for vengeance and triumph, sacrificing themselves for these causes. Your family dwindles.
Once, there were legions of scaled creatures, bristling with teeth and claws, but now only a fraction remains. They are gaunt and weary, their numbers reduced to mere hundreds, drained and enfeebled by ceaseless strife.
You slay relentlessly, your talons claiming lives without discrimination. Men, women, children—all succumb to your merciless onslaught. Their homes crumble under your relentless assault, their towns and cities reduced to ruins.
You are a relentless force of devastation.
You are a weapon of mass destruction.
You are a bearer of chaos.
Yet, there is no satisfaction in your actions, no delight in your victories.
Your siblings delight in it, finding pleasure in the anguish and torment they inflict upon those who oppose them. They boast proudly of their deeds.
But you do not share in their pride.
Still, you press forward, driven by duty to your mother and the irreparable loss you've suffered, knowing that her return would come at a steep cost. One none of your kind can bring themselves to bear.
Your siblings are blind to it all.
They fail to notice the way your claws scrape, lacking the sharpness to cut through the very air around you. They remain oblivious to the sounds of your suffering in the dead of night, the stifled cries that should only echo across the battlefield.
Your family cannot grasp your emotions, and you lack the words to convey them.
You are weary, bone-deep exhaustion settling in.
Tired of the unending conflict, the never-ending cycle of bloodshed, the perpetual haze of ash and dust.
Tired of being a warrior.
You yearn for a past when freedom was yours, a time before you became just another tally in a vast horde of your kind. You reminisce about the days when you could wander the lands unfettered, venturing into burning forests alive with strange creatures, diving into rivers of molten rock, and soaring through the skies to any destination your heart desired.
You ache for a bygone era of joy, a time when your mother's presence filled your days with warmth, and your siblings were pure creatures brimming with love.
However, such blissful memories are now out of reach, lost to the ever-changing tides of the world.
War does not wait for happiness.
And so you fight.
You fight, and fight, and fight.
Dreaming of a time when you might once again bask in the warmth of a pile of scales, surrounded by hearts pulsating with boundless affection.
⚔
Years later, Technoblade finds you once more.
You are in the overworld, a rare moment of solitude engulfing you. Night has fallen, veiling the stars behind clouds. The atmosphere is heavy, the air thick and humid, causing your scales to prickle uncomfortably.
You're lying low, not actively seeking to hide, but not engaging in battle either. You're just... being.
Your siblings have ventured off to sow chaos elsewhere. You lack the enthusiasm to join them.
You've fulfilled all your obligations, engaged in battles, set fires, wrought destruction. But now, all you crave is to lie down. To rest. It's been months, perhaps even years, since you've had the chance.
Your scales no longer shimmer like polished obsidian as they once did. Now, they're worn and dulled, like wisps of smoke. Scars crisscross nearly every inch of your skin, leaving no part untouched.
Your wings, once majestic and breathtaking, now bear gaping holes that rob you of flight. Despite their vast span, they're rendered useless, a cruel reminder of past glory.
The once proud tips of your horns now bear the marks of shame, broken and jagged.
Your claws, once sharp and formidable, have become dull and weathered.
You have lost much.
Technoblade finds you atop a hill, the emerald grass gently swaying in the cool night air.
Your wings stretch wide, soaking up the soft moonlight filtering through a gap in the clouds. His approach is heralded by the scent of dirt, coal, and metal, long before he ascends to the hill’s crest, his armor emitting a faint clinking sound.
You remain motionless, not even a hint of movement in your claws. The hybrid comes to a stop beside you, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon.
Neither of you utters a word.
Then, after some time, Technoblade breaks the silence.
"Hello again."
"You're still alive," you respond, your voice as coarse as ever.
"I am."
"You're a fool to come so close."
He chuckles. "It's been years. So many years. And yet, you are still the same."
"You are different. Your scent isn't as strong."
"I no longer live in the nether."
You snort. "Weakling."
"I'd disagree. During my absence, I've have allies, have made friends."
"Your allies are fools. Friends are a burden," you growl, your claws digging into the earth momentarily before you relax your grip.
"They're not," he counters. "They're some of the finest individuals I've met."
"Idiots, every last one of them."
"If you say so."
"I do. Now leave. You're disturbing my rest." Your words are intended to carry authority, but they falter, lacking strength.
"Would you kill me if I stayed?" He questions, not a lick of fear in his voice.
…
"No," you reply wearily, too drained to be troubled further; that's your excuse.
"Then I won't," he responds simply.
You growl, the reverberations echoing throughout your entire frame. The hybrid, once a naive mortal, has matured, his physique now that of a robust warrior, filled out from his earlier years. He is healthy, strong, and the sight grates on your nerves.
His hair has grown longer.
"Must you be so infuriating?"
"I suppose I do not have to be."
"Then leave."
"As I said before, I have no desire to."
"I will not say it again. Leave. I am not in the mood for idle conversation."
"Then would you allow me the pleasure of your company in silence?"
You huff, "Why?"
"So sit with another. That is my reason alone."
You have no words.
Technoblade doesn't seem to mind.
Together, you sit on the hill, watching as the moon ascends, the stars twinkle, and the clouds drift by.
The quiet is... pleasant.
Neither of you exchange words, yet the presence of the other is welcomed. It's a rarity to find such tranquility in the company of others. Granted, your companions consist solely of your siblings, whose primary objective seems to be incessantly bothering you at every opportunity.
It's odd.
The mortal is odd.
He makes no requests. He harbors no desires. There are no demands from him, no expectations. He simply... is.
You can feel the fatigue, the deep ache in your bones, the fiery sensation in your muscles, the strain in your lungs, and the sting in your eyes.
You can feel the wounds, scars, and injuries, the lingering pains and memories of battles gone by.
Yet, as you lie on the grass, under the canopy of a dusky blue-gray sky, surrounded by silence, it feels as if you are healing.
"I'm tired," you confess softly, surprised at your own vulnerability, yet unable to halt the admission or concern yourself with it. "So horribly tired."
"Then rest," he responds. "There is no reason not to."
"I've slept plenty, but it's a feeling that lingers, etched deep into my being," you explain, the exhaustion seeping into your very soul. "I have been fighting for a very long time, longer than many dare live."
"Then why do you continue to fight?"
For my family. For revenge. For mother. "I don't have an answer."
"You could leave," he suggests.
You scoff. "Abandon my kin? Do not speak such nonsense. My siblings need me."
"Maybe. Or maybe they can learn to fend for themselves. Just like you need to learn to look after yourself."
You remain silent, and he doesn't seem to anticipate a response.
"You could live," he murmurs, his voice softer than you thought possible. "Live, not for others, but for yourself."
What a foolish notion.
Living for yourself feels impossible. It seems selfish, even heartless. It would mean forsaking your family.
But... the words cling to your thoughts like skin to bone.
Technoblade falls quiet. He appears at peace just standing there, bathed in the eerie glow of moonlight that casts a peculiar sheen over his pink hair and crimson eyes.
Gradually, the sun rises. The stars dim and the sky transitions from a deep navy to a dusty orange, then a soft yellow.
It's a sight you've never fully witnessed before, a sunrise. It's captivating, the sun's beams creating intricate shadows on the landscape and painting the sky with hues of crimson and gold.
Technoblade leaves as the sun reaches its halfway point above the horizon, turning towards you and offering a respectful bow, just as he had done the first time.
"Until we meet again."
He leaves, and you are left alone though it's different somehow.
Your mind, typically consumed by thoughts of conflict and fury, is occupied by something unfamiliar.
Your heart, usually burdened by animosity and sorrow, feels light.
You lay on the hillside for an long while, lost in thought.
Contemplating your existence, pondering its current state and potential paths.
Your siblings, both brothers and sisters, occupy your mind.
Your family, the ongoing conflict, and the tragedies you've endured occupy your thoughts.
You reflect on the past, speculate about the future, and consider the present.
You simply think.
And for once, the future is uncertain.
You rise to your feet.
The wind dances through your scales, causing your wings to flutter.
Flight is no longer an option, but walking is.
So, that's precisely what you do. You tread the path back, retracing your steps, heading home. Back to the small mound of scales—a place tinged with anguish and anxiety, where care for one another and shared hardship reside.
Your siblings lie entwined, slumbering peacefully, their forms nestled together in a comforting heap.
You join the pile, their soft snores breaking the quiet.
Some stir, blinking drowsily at your presence, before settling back into their slumber.
You settle amidst them.
This is home.
Yet, it's not as it once was. You are different, changed.
The world is shifting. Your family is evolving.
You're tired of being a tool, tired of taking lives, tired of causing ruin.
You simply want to live.
But you're uncertain of what that entails, so you persist in your current path. You remain by your siblings' side, shielding them, nurturing them. But things have changed. You can't quite pinpoint the alteration, not entirely.
Your siblings pick up on it, naturally. They ask, and you insist that nothing has changed. They fret, they wonder.
You brush off their concerns, and over time, they let the matter slip from their minds.
But you don't forget.
Because now, when you engage in violence and brutality, you're haunted by a gnawing sense of remorse and apprehension, of trepidation. Yet, you press on, for it's all you've been taught.
Time passes, as it invariably does.
Then, on an ordinary day, unremarkable and insignificant, you reach your breaking point. It's a routine day, much like countless others—a day dedicated to hunting down the remaining bands of hunters, a day devoted to tracking down mortals already weakened.
But on this particular day, upon encountering a village, the inhabitants erupt into chaos—screaming, shouting, scrambling in panic.
Among them is a group—a mother, a father, and two young children. The twins, scarcely more than infants, whimper, cry, and plead, while their parents clutch them tightly, striving to shield them from harm.
And there it is, that is when it happens. You see your youngest sister mirrored in the tiny, pallid child who cries out. Your broad-snouted brother echoes in the smaller child who trembles. And in the mother who shields them with a protective embrace, you catch a glimpse of yourself.
You see a family.
And you're confronted with the grim reality of death and devastation that has visited your own kin. You're reminded of your siblings—those who've battled tirelessly for years. They've committed no wrongdoing, merely existing, much like these mortals.
You witness their fear, their agony, their bereavement, their fury, and it resonates deeply within you.
And thus, on this nondescript day, when you reached your breaking point, you refrained from attacking the village. You refrained from demolishing their homes. You refrained from causing harm to the mortals.
Instead, you tell your siblings, in the stark tongue of your kind, that you were leaving, that this was unjust. The path they've carved isn't one of retribution, isn't one of righteousness. It's paved with the blood of innocents, with the tears of children, and with injustice.
Your siblings' emotions ran wild—anger, confusion, hurt, betrayal.
They erupted into screams, shouts, and clashes. Fear gripped them, a justified fear. You've stood by their side through thick and thin, longer than anyone else. You've been there since their beginnings, since their births, since their losses.
And now, you've made the decision to depart.
It was a decision born of love, a love so immense it shattered.
You love your siblings, more than the moon loves the stars, more than the sea loves the sand. Your affection for them knows no bounds—you were prepared to do anything, to kill for them, to die for them.
But you must live for yourself for once.
On that day, when the world felt out of tune and your heart ached, you parted ways with your siblings, with the strife of war, with the searing pain and simmering anger.
Adding salt to the wound, you locked your true self away. You shed your scales, clip your claws, rid yourself of the damaged horns.
You sculpt a shape that's frail, diminutive, composed of mere flesh, hair, and blunted teeth. It's a form unable to shield itself, incapable of inflicting harm, devoid of battle prowess.
You make yourself human, stowing away all remnants of your past.
Then, once the act is complete, once the ache subsides and the astonishment wanes, you set out to find a new place to call home.
It's a slow, arduous process, requiring a favor from an old, winged ally, but eventually, you secure yourself a dwelling. A cozy cottage built in the dense foliage of the forest, concealed from prying eyes and the bustling world beyond.
As time marches forward, you encounter new faces. Among them is a figure shrouded in a white mask, an odorous ram hybrid who spouts nonsensical words, and a fox standing tall like a human.
They are not companions, far from it.
Engaged in their own petty skirmishes, they seek allies to bolster their ranks. Yet, you refuse to entertain their propositions, dismissing them outright.
They hurl threats your way, but you remain unfazed. Attempts at intimidation fall flat against your resolve.
Then, amidst your solitary musings in the Nether, you meet a stranger.
Someone who smells like ash and fire, of the earth and the air.
Someone who's hair shines a bright pink.
Someone who looks just like a warrior, a fighter through and through.
And when he speaks, his voice is as familiar as the moon is to the night. But you stubbornly choose not to acknowledge this, unwilling to delve into memories of a time when this individual bore a recognizable face.
Thus, you address him as the stranger he now appears to you. He remains unaware of your identity, just as you remain oblivious to his.
And there is a certain beauty to that.