Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For a boar hybrid, Techno is strangely obsessed with gold. 

He can’t help it. Any time he sees a glint of it, his brain fuzzes out and he comes back to consciousness with the offending piece of metal in his hands. He’s been run out of more than a few places for attacking a traveling merchant, the only ones rich enough to have gold coins and who also visit the tiny, outlying villages that Techno frequents. 

It’s lucky that he’s never met any minor lord or lady passing on the roads. He’s heard that they adorn themselves in all sorts of valuable trinkets and jewelry, and the higher their status, the shinier they are. But they were also accompanied by guards, and it would be hard to explain away attacking a noble. That is, if he was even alive enough to explain. 

People in power are cruel. Techno knows this well. 

People in general are cruel, especially to those who don’t fit the mold of society. Those who are “othered”—exiles, criminals, vagabonds. 

Hybrids.

Ironically, most of Techno’s physical traits are the easiest to hide. He just puts a hat on, tucks his tail in, and makes sure not to smile or talk too much so he doesn’t show his tusks. It’s the mental part, the instincts, which trip him up. 

Boars are weird. 

Aside from the gold obsession, Techno gets really tired in winter. He once slept through a few days, he thinks, although he couldn’t really keep track of how long it was. When the cold comes, it’s like his body shuts down. There’s nothing more he wants to do than hunker down with as many blankets as possible, right next to the crackling fireplace, and sleep until spring. 

However, he is also aware that is not normal human behavior, so he pushes through the sluggishness with the sheer willpower of wanting to stay alive. None of his neighbors will pick up the slack, much less hide the fact that he’s a hybrid.

Winter might be a slower season but there’s still no shortage of tasks: hunting, logging, weaving, and planning for the spring. It’s only Techno’s second winter in this village. The first one went… relatively well, so maybe he can… indulge a little bit. Sneak in a few extra-long naps between his occasional visits to the main square to make sure people know he hasn’t, y’know, secretly died in a ditch somewhere. 

If people think his place is free to ransack, they’ll start snooping around. He hasn’t settled down here for thieves to come as they will, and he knows perfectly well that villagers are no less criminals than highwaymen. The only difference between them is the pretense of friendliness.

At least criminals make it clear when they don’t like him.

But, well—no honor among thieves, as they say, and Techno had gotten tired of restless nights of half-sleep to make sure nobody stabbed him in the back. This is a much less stressful kind of existence. 

Despite his best efforts, the villagers have long since rumored things about him being magical, fey-touched, inhuman—actually, they’re right about that one. But he’s not some dumb animal, like a lot of hybrid-fearing humans believe. Techno is brilliant . He is a master tactician. He is a pig blending in with the sheep, nothing but a modest, introverted farmer who just hates being with people, talking to people, seeing people, and doing anything at all involving other people.

Simple.

Even out in his own fields, Techno doesn’t take any risks. He puts a hat on and tucks his tail into his pants. There’s no one out here to talk to. Still, he knows what happens to hybrids who are found. So he is scrupulous with his routine, hiding away any hint that he is anything but human. 

When he’s done with his chores, it’s almost midday. He went to the market only a few days ago, so there’s no need to go again. Today is another day for exploring.

Despite the village’s warnings to not wander too far into the forest, Techno has never been in danger from it. Maybe he’s poisoned himself a few times by misidentifying plants, but that’s just how foraging goes. Late spring is the right time of year for a variety of edible and medicinal plants. 

Last year, he found a patch of morels—he’s harvested a few this season, he should check again—and in the undergrowth are hidden gems, plants that he’s found a way to make useful. Stinging nettle leaves and dandelion flowers can be dried to make a mild tea, perfect for relaxing after a long day. The dry winter used up most of the yarrow salve, so he’ll need more of that. 

For the most part, he stays on the path. It’s a beaten, worn-down thing, a thin strip of dirt that can barely be considered a path. And yeah, maybe he strays off it sometimes, but he always finds his way back. It’s a good land marker to have. 

A little ways off the path, he steps into a small clearing. He freezes.

Standing in the shade of the largest oak tree he’s ever seen is an enormous winged person.

Or, as Techno squints, a—statue? A statue of a person? It’s poised like a soldier. Both of its hands wrap around the hilt of a sword pointing straight down, planted into the ground. 

The closer he gets to it, the harder it is to walk. A feeling of unease grows, lighting up his hindbrain and urging him to retreat. Luckily for him, he’s had plenty of practice ignoring his baser instincts. 

There’s a word engraved on the pedestal. Techno kneels down and squints at it.

Reading isn’t a useful skill to most around here. But Techno’s always liked stories. More than once, he’s traded an unfair amount of supplies just to get his hands on another one from a traveling merchant. He’s fully aware he’s being scammed. He also doesn’t care. 

He traces each letter, mapping them with his fingers. “Phil-za,” Techno sounds out. “Weird name. Who left you here, huh?” Below the engraving, there are odd indents in the stone, probably more words that are far too worn down to read. Glancing around yields no other hints as to who it is, or who sculpted this statue and left it here. 

The glade is worse than overgrown, more overrun with nature. The grass and weeds grow past his ankles. Vines creep up the statue itself, curling around its stone leg. Interestingly enough, while the base and the sword are chipped and cracked, the person itself, while dull and unpolished, is completely unblemished.

Clearly, this place has been undiscovered for a long, long time. 

“You were forgotten,” Techno murmurs. 

A crow flies down from somewhere, landing on the grass beside the pedestal. It hops towards Techno a few times and puffs up. 

“Hey, little guy."

Caw!

Making sure to project his movements, Techno very slowly stoops down and plucks a fuzzy dandelion. It’s at that stage where the seeds still cling stubbornly to the middle, so very few of the puffs blow away as he moves. He holds it out to the crow. 

The crow tilts its head. It stares at him for a full minute. Techno feels like it may be judging him. 

“Look, I don’t care if you take it or not. Just stop lookin’ at me like that.” 

The crow croaks again, then hops forward and snatches the whole flower out of Techno’s hand. He jerks back just in time to avoid the crow’s wing smacking him in the face as it flies away. 

“Okay,” he mutters. 

Hopefully he’s not going to get haunted or anything. 

Techno doesn’t visit the statue every day, but it’s close enough. He finds himself enjoying spending time here, in this peaceful little hideaway. Maybe it’s pathetic that he prefers the company of a literal statue over anyone else, you know, living, but he’s never claimed to not be pathetic. So there.

That is not the argument he thinks it is. He elects to ignore it.

“Hey, Phil,” he greets. He’d shortened it a few days in because Philza was too much of a mouthful. If the statue had a problem with it, it could come to life and tell it to his face. 

Ha.

He was hilarious. 

There’s no apparent sign of life in the glade besides him, but that’s just an illusion. His eyes rove over the tree branches. Like always, he can’t spot anything in their depths, but he knows he’s being watched. “Hey, guys,” he calls. “Who’s hungry?”

The moment he shakes a bag of seeds, the silence is interrupted by dozens of flapping wings. Crows descend upon him like a bear on a particularly tasty fish, a storm of croaking, clacking feathered bodies. Techno laughs. 

More than a few times, the bag is nearly tugged out of his hands by over-enthusiastic crows. His skin is nipped only a little in the crossfire, and nothing draws blood. The crows are only after the seeds. 

After the bag is empty, most of them fly away, but a few have come to stick around. They hop around on their stubby bird legs, sometimes starting fights with each other. One of them, the biggest of them all and who Techno is pretty sure was the first one he saw, takes its chosen seat by the statue. As Techno approaches, it watches him with beady, intelligent eyes. 

Techno reaches out a finger and scratches it under the chin. The crow rattles and wiggles its body. Privately, he can admit to himself that it’s kind of adorable. 

The rest of the day is spent in the clearing, talking to the statue and playing with the crows.

Chapter Text

“Huh.”

Techno’s not one to pray for miracles. He believes in honest, hard work, not stuffy old deities in the sky. Yeah, he said it—if that was a sin then they could strike him down themselves. 

But a field of crops growing in just under a month? 

It’s not quite enough to make him believe in an act of god, but it’s close. 

Techno squints. Shakes his head. Closes his eyes, counts to ten, and opens them. The field remains the same. 

For growing in way less time than they should have, this is the freshest, most bountiful harvest he’d ever had. Sprawling across his farm are tall golden stalks of wheat, leafy carrot stems, and unbelievably enormous heads of lettuce, still damp with morning dew. He doesn’t even remember planting lettuce. But he must have at some point because they’re there.

Techno kneels down next to one of the green, leafy carrot stems, secures a grip by the base, and yanks. Out comes the largest carrot he’s ever seen. 

He brushes off the dirt with his shirt and turns it in his hands. If something could be described as too orange, it would be this carrot right here. It’s perfect. There are no other words to describe it. This is the ideal specimen, a role model for carrots worldwide. 

It’s definitely magic. Techno takes a tentative nibble from the end and his eyes widen. 

It’s sweet. 

Sweeter than fruit. Sweeter than candy. Sweeter than… something else sweet. The magic vegetable is devoured within a minute. Who cares if it’s witchcraft? He could live, breathe, and die in these carrots. He’s sure of that. 

It takes the better part of the morning to finish the harvest. By the time Techno stops, the sun is almost in the middle of the sky. He takes in his haul: several barrels of carrots, grains, and lettuce. 

It takes another half an hour to get everything into his old cart. When the last barrel is heaved in, the wood creaks. Techno waits, but when the cart holds, he sighs and pats it consolingly. “Good cart,” he mumbles. Carl whinnies and paws at the ground from where he’s attached to the front. “I’m comin’, Carl, hold on.” 

Luckily, the ride to town is smooth. The little bumps and rocks he normally feels when he’s riding there seem to have disappeared. Again, weird, but Techno’s not going to complain. 

He gets some looks when setting up his stall, and a few whispers, though he tries not to pay attention. He gets it—it’s not the right time for any of these crops, but it’s way too much for him to eat alone and if he doesn’t sell ‘em they’ll go bad. So, market time it is. His first customer comes while he’s lugging out the last barrel of carrots. 

“Now that’s some of the best-lookin’ wheat I’ve seen,” the woman says. Techno spares her a glance. She’s from one of the local bakeries—Mira, was that her name? Mia? 

“Yep,” he drawls. “Got a good harvest today.” 

“I can see.” She peers over the rest of the produce, sifting through the barrels. “How’d you grow these?”

“...In the dirt?”

The woman just huffs, and dang, now he remembers why he doesn’t speak to people. She’s fishing for some kind of information. Unfortunately for her, Techno is just as clueless as she is. 

“Most farmers ‘round here’ve been havin’ trouble. Droughts, animal attacks, blights, the like.” She waves her hand. She still refuses to meet Techno’s eyes. “Nothing of the sort for you, eh?”

“Not that I recall,” he answers warily.

“Figures,” the woman mutters. Techno doesn’t think he’s supposed to hear it. 

Now that he’s looking around, he sees it: there’s less people than usual walking around today. The few produce stalls that are open display small, sickly-looking fruits and vegetables. More than one of the sellers is eyeing Techno’s haul with open envy. 

“Guess I’m lucky,” he grunts out. The woman lets out a nervous laugh, eyes darting to the sky, then picks out her goods. They haggle down to a lower price than Techno would normally accept, but these crops aren’t technically his. He didn’t do the hard work. It makes him feel a little bit like a fraud, but not enough to refuse money.

The rest of the day goes about the same. A few stilted conversations, like always, although the townsfolk are noticeably jumpier than usual. Still, tough situations open people’s wallets, and the supposed drought (even though he hasn’t noticed anything) certainly counts as one. He’s sold out well before evening.

The next day is met with the same befuddling, miraculous explosion of perfectly ripe crops across his fields. He hadn’t harvested everything, since he planned to leave some plants behind to propagate, but it certainly wasn’t enough to end up with—this. In only a day. 

Techno tentatively classifies it as another blessing and goes about his day. Just the same as before, he spends the morning harvesting and the afternoon selling in town. The villagers eye him with a little more suspicion this time. 

They’re right. Whenever Techno goes into town, it’s a sure bet that he won’t be seen again for the next month. But here he is, with two subsequent hauls of crops that aren’t in season yet. Techno fends off several pointed questions by nodding and shrugging. 

He stays home the next couple of days, waking up to a new bounty each time. His cellar is packed, his drying racks are full, and every fermentation jar is filled with something or another. He’s stopped going to the market and started trying to figure out ways to store all the extra food, but no one man can handle harvests of this magnitude.

On the fifth day of this, Techno decides that he’s had enough of this nonsense, and goes to visit the statue. 

Only it’s not there.

Techno backtracks. Same result. He knows this path by heart, and this is the same glade. The oak tree towers above him, and everything looks exactly as it had last week, except for the missing statue. Upon closer inspection, Techno can see where the statue was— a round patch of bare dirt, with new grass just barely beginning to sprout. 

It doesn’t make sense. 

If someone had moved it, surely there would be signs. A path of flattened grass where the statue had been dragged, leftover tools, bits of crumbled stone because there’s no way to move  such an old statue without damaging it further. Yet nothing remains to indicate that a statue was even once there, except for the patch of dirt. 

“Hello?”

The trees don’t rustle. There’s no cacophony of shrieking caws and flapping wings that come down to greet him. 

And so, Techno is forced to accept the fact that the statue is gone, and with it, maybe his bird friends. They were wild animals, he reassures himself. They weren’t obligated to stay—for, what some guy who feeds them seeds sometimes? 

He returns home with a mostly-empty bag of half-heartedly foraged plants.

On the sixth day, he wakes up to blooming fields.

Chapter Text

“Technoblade!” the merchant greets. “Just the man I wanted to see.” 

Now Techno knows that’s a lie. Even the many, many coins he spends (not really, he doesn’t have much) won’t endear him to the village. “Uh. Good to see you… Jeremy…?”

“Jerry.”

“Ah.”

Jerry smiles in a very unfriendly way. Techno’s instincts are stirring, saying that something about the atmosphere of the town is off, something is wrong. He subtly scans the area, but there’s nothing unusual. He brushes the slight unease away. 

There’s not a huge selection of fruit at the stand, but that’s expected. Most trees and bushes start fruiting in the middle of summer. For now, there’s just cherries and plums, not that he’s complaining. Cherries, in his humble opinion, are one of the best fruits. But there’s a fine line between a good cherry and a bad cherry that requires careful inspection. 

While he’s browsing, Jerry apparently decides to strike up a conversation.

“The Hesters took ill last night,” he says. “Terrible tragedy. The eldest son and mother have passed, and the rest are soon to go, I hear.”

“Oh,” says Techno, not really sure why someone is talking to him, “That’s really sad.”

“The Whitlocks and Underwoods are doing poorly as well. The adults have all taken violently ill, quite suddenly. At the same time.” Techno doesn’t answer, just hums, and picks out another basket of cherries. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, Technoblade?”

The man’s tone as well as the use of Techno’s full name makes the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Uh,” he says. “I’m gonna be honest, I’ve got no clue.” 

“Really,” Jerry says, and oh boy, he does not sound happy. Techno doesn’t know what’s got the guy’s blood up today, but he’s got nothing to do with it. 

“Really,” he echoes back. “Look, I’m just here to buy your cherries, man. Supporting local businesses, y’know?” 

“Well, Technoblade.” Jerry says his name like a curse. “I think you’re lying.” 

“Bruh. Look, it’s tragic, I get it, but I don’t even know those guys! There is absolutely no reason for me to lie here. Do you understand?” 

“I understand completely.” 

Something sharp pokes against his back, and he freezes. Slowly, without moving his body, he cranes his neck to look behind himself.

There’s a person. Holding a pitchfork. 

Two people.

Ten. 

As Techno’s eyes dart around, more and more people, most of whom he recognizes and had bartered with at some point, emerge. Some of them hold weapons and torches. All of them look angry. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he wheedles. “We don’t need to do that. Maybe, uh, point the dangerous weapon away from me?” 

The woman jabs the pitchfork forward. Techno dodges it by stumbling back, but he trips and falls through the table holding Jerry’s stupid wares. His small, distressed squeal is muffled by the crash of the table splintering under his weight and the thump of his body hitting the ground.

He’s too distracted by a different problem to worry if anyone heard, though.

As if in slow motion, he feels his hat slip loose. It falls slowly, dramatically, carrying his entire life with it. A few of the people’s eyes dart to the hat then to his head. His ears flatten, vulnerable to the open air and hostile glares of the humans. 

A silence falls. It’s quickly overcome with a rushing tide of murmurs and disgust, people eyeing him with equal fear and hate. 

“Hybrid.”

The word is spit with enough vitriol to level a small country. Techno scoots back, ignoring the splinters embedding themselves into his skin, watching the crowd of people warily. He raises his hands in a feeble sort of surrender. “Wait—” 

They’re on him before he can start pleading.

Techno has spent almost two years in this place. He’s walked over the stones and bought goods from these merchants dozens of times. That doesn’t stop them from tying a rope around his wrists and dragging him along. His skin scrapes over the ground as he tries to fight, but his struggles are swiftly ended by someone kicking his stomach, making him wheeze and go limp.

When they stop, Techno lifts his head up. At first, he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at. 

A wooden pole has been erected in the center of town. It’s a wide, thick trunk lashed down to a slightly raised platform. Bundles of twigs and brush are tied together at its foot, like— like—

“No,” he whispers. Although his throat is sore from screaming, his flesh aching and bruised, the sight shoots a bolt of adrenaline back into him. He strains against the rope. “No, don’t, don’t!”

Even the subsequent kicks don’t silence him this time. Now that he knows what they plan, and that they don’t intend for him to come out of this alive, he struggles with new might. A blow to his head leaves his vision blinking in and out. While he’s dazed, a piece of cloth is shoved into his mouth. “Mmph!”

“Tie him up!” 

“Let him burn!” 

“Make him pay!” 

The villagers start shouting variants of kill him and die. All of them sound very unfriendly to his continued state of existence. 

Techno kicks blindly as he’s pulled up onto the stand. Through his blurry vision, he sees someone grab the rope tied to his wrists and raise it high. It’s tacked down, and then someone holds his ankles as they’re lashed to the pole. Is how livestock feel right before being slaughtered? 

If he gets out of this alive, he swears he’ll never eat meat again.

When he can’t fight anymore, the villagers step back. One of them, and Techno would make fun of them if he wasn’t the one they were complaining about, starts monologuing.

“We have let this hybrid live within our village for almost two years,” the woman with the pitchfork declares. “We have been kind. We have been merciful. And it has repaid us with nothing but misfortune!” 

Help, Techno thinks. Please, anyone, help me.

“Today we right our wrongs. We will burn the hybrid, and our village will be free from its curse!” 

The declaration is followed by a wave of cheers. Everyone, everyone, is celebrating. No one is protesting or saying, hey, maybe we shouldn’t burn a guy alive, that just seems inhumane. They want him dead.

All of them. 

Gods, have mercy! Help!

Half-unconscious and strung up by his hands, Techno only processes some of what happens next. Blinding light— blistering heat— screaming—

And nothing. 

Techno wakes up to a foreign feeling. 

Something touches him. A cool hand, almost icy against his bare neck. The most he can do is twitch and mentally brace himself for pain. 

But the touch… doesn’t hurt. It ghosts over his face, up to the top of his head. It strokes over his hair, soft and reverent, brushing strands out of his face. No one has treated him this gently since he was a child. 

His eyes shoot open. 

A man with blond hair and blue eyes stares down at him. “Hey, mate. You awake yet?” 

Techno squints. The man fades in and out of focus. He blinks repeatedly, trying to get the fuzz out of his eyes. He’s never seen this man before. But he seems so familiar? As he tries to get his thoughts in order, he leans into the strange, soft touch, humming contentedly. 

Suddenly, it clicks in his head. It’s—

“Statue man,” he mumbles.

“Pardon?” 

“Am I dead?” Either that, or he’s having a fever-induced hallucination, but death seems more likely. Statues don’t just come to life. 

He’s probably dead.

That kind of sucks. 

He tries to get up but the maybe-statue-angel pushes him down—how’d he get over here so fast—and he finds himself on the bed, blinking dazedly up at him. “You have wings,” he says. 

“Yeah, yeah I do, mate.” The angel places the back of his hand on his forehead and Techno sighs at the blessed coolness of it. “Hm. That’s high even for a piglin hybrid.” 

A what? 

“I think you’re still a bit out of it.” 

The angel takes his wrist, the one he sprained earlier, and—it doesn’t hurt anymore? Techno cranes his neck, trying to see. Except there’s a glimmer in his peripheral vision that has his head snapping to the side and his attention sharpening. Gold. The angel is holding gold.

Techno’s already foggy brain fogs even more, and he snorts, a silent command. Luckily, the angel doesn’t seem inclined to keep the precious jewelry from him. He reaches forward and Techno eagerly obliges, tilting his neck to the side. An odd rumbling fills the air, vibrating his whole body. 

“There you go.” 

The necklace settles around his neck like it’s meant to be there. Like it’s a piece of him that he didn’t notice was missing until now. He rubs the pendant between two fingers, feeling every groove and ridge. It’s not a simple, roughly shaped gold nugget, but an intricately carved charm. When he pulls it away from his chest to get a better look, he notices there’s more gold on him. Bracelets and rings adorn his hands, polished and sparkling and tinged orange in the firelight. A surprised squeal escapes him and then he’s busy grabbing the gold, trying to touch all of it. 

Hands grab his shoulders, and he’s left blinking at the angel, who leans forward and bumps their foreheads together. Techno snuffles at him, breathing in the ash-iron-wood. There’s a commanding chuff from somewhere, that he instinctively knows the meaning of—calm, calm, calm—and even though there’s something a little off about it, Techno obeys. The angel chuckles. It's a nice sound.

“Get some rest, Technoblade. We have plenty to talk about when you wake up.”

Rest. That sounds nice.

“Alrigh’,” Techno mumbles. His eyelids droop. 

The hands pull away from his shoulders and for some reason, the loss of contact is devastating. He floats in the haze of half-waking, half-sleep. He wants to sleep. But it’s not right. Something’s missing from his den, and he’s not allowed to rest until it’s fixed. 

“You still awake, mate?” Techno’s head subconsciously tilts towards the voice. His fingers twitch. Yes. Yes. Keep talking. “Yeah, yeah. I should have known you’d be stubborn.” 

Through barely cracked eyelids, Techno sees a blurry figure lean over him. A shadow rises up behind the figure, blocking out the light. 

Techno’s breathing is even as he lunges. 

His arms wrap around the angel, dragging him down on top of his chest. At the angel’s yelp, a reassuring little coughing noise resonates from his chest. He turns. The angel is a quiet warmth beside him.

And everything is right in the world. 

There’s a low laugh, making the wings blanketing them shift with the movement. Techno lets out a warning rumble, not quite a growl, and shoves his head against the angel’s chest. 

“No god could ask for a more treasured worshiper than you.” A rustle of fabric, and a soft, warm hand cups the side of his face. “I swear that you will never hurt again.”

Before he goes fully under, the last thought Techno has is—

Sounder.

Chapter Text

Techno opens his eyes and stares blankly at the ceiling.

He’s in his house again. Specifically in his room, tucked into bed with the softest sheets he’s ever felt. These aren’t his. But he’s in his room? He doesn’t remember getting back here. 

His brow furrows as he tries to sort through his memories. Burning— screaming— goldsounderprotectorgold—

Huh.

Techno lifts his head up and freezes. There’s a stranger in his room.

There’s a stranger in his room.

He tenses, waiting for the rise of his extremely inconvenient, horribly territorial instincts, but they do… absolutely nothing. They don’t even poke Techno to go investigate the poor fool invading his space. It’s like they’ve gone on vacation. 

Techno stares at the stranger. He’s blond. He’s wearing a green robe. He… he has great black wings that Techno initially mistook for a cloak, folded tight against his back to fit into the tiny room. 

His brain, still struggling in the fog of having just woken up, takes a good few minutes to recall his last moments before this. As it is, right now he would struggle to add two plus two, so it’s surprising when he finally dredges up a name.

“Philza,” he breathes, and the angel turns. 

“Yes?” He doesn’t sound otherworldly at all. Neither divine nor demonic, just a regular old guy. Except for his wings, and the way Techno can’t look him in the eye, and how he’s supposed to be a goddamned statue.

Techno has never seen a winged hybrid. They’d been hunted to extinction decades ago, long before he was born. The survivors of that era of hunters were largely the low-presenting, human-like hybrids who were able to blend in with the humans that wanted to kill them. After all, wings are much harder to hide than tusks, ears, and a tail. 

Techno blinks, and Philza is crouched by his bedside. Their eyes meet. Philza smiles at him like he knows exactly what thoughts are going through Techno’s head.

“Breakfast?” he offers. Techno nods mutely. He staggers a bit as he stands, but rights himself and follows the guy to the next room. In his own home. He’s following a stranger in his own home. 

He still has no clue what the hell this guy is. 

“To keep it simple, I’m a god,” Philza answers, and Techno’s head snaps up. He stares very intently at the angel-god-thing. He raises an eyebrow and looks back, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. 

Are you reading my mind? he thinks. Stop, he adds preemptively, just in case.

“You’re projecting them at me,” the god says dryly. “They’re very hard to ignore.”

Techno grumbles something like, “not cool” and then asks a more pressing question. “God of what, exactly?” 

“Spring,” the apparently-named-Philza god-of-spring answers. “And a teensy bit of death. That’s more of an acquired domain, though.”

The god of spring and death. What a wonderful, completely antithetical combination. But if this is a god, then…

Techno is rethinking all of the times he rebuked the gods before. 

“I thought it was pretty funny,” Philza says. 

“Bruh,” Techno grumbles. “At least have the decency to not make it obvious you’re reading my mind.”

Philza inclines his head but doesn’t apologize. “You can keep calling me Phil, by the way.”

“Alright. The god of death. Phil. My life is completely normal.”

“Normal people don’t usually talk to weird statues in the woods.”

Techno blinks. A horrible thought occurs to him. “Do not tell me you—”

“Remember it?” Phil sounds entirely too cheerful for someone who knows Techno’s darkest, most embarrassing moments. “I do! You’re a very good storyteller, by the way. Very engaging.” He motions to the rickety, splintering table in the middle of the room. Between one moment and the next, on top of it is a steaming plate of eggs and buttered toast. “Sit, please.” 

Techno sits.

“Do I also have to tell you to eat?”

He pokes the plate. The yolk jiggles. “Where’d it come from?”

“The universe,” the god answers, which sounds absolutely like a cop-out but could very well be true. Techno doesn’t know the inner workings of supposed long-dead gods. “Eat. You need to replenish the energy you gave me.”

“Energy?”

“Ehhh.” The god shrugs. “It has a lot of names. Belief, energy, vitality, life. Mortals offer it freely to the deities they worship.” 

“I gave you my life force?” Techno lifts a strand of hair, scanning it closely. He can’t see anything out of place—wait, is that a white hair? Damn, did he really just sign over a part of his life to a god? 

“You are not dying.” Philza swats at Techno’s hands until he stops checking over his hair for signs of aging. “Kind of the opposite, actually—well, that’s a talk for another time. But no, I didn’t take your—” he makes air quotes, “—‘life force’, I just… absorbed energy from your faith and it ended up setting me free.” 

“I don’t have faith,” Techno automatically replies. It’s an ingrained response to the people who have asked why he doesn’t worship any gods. Not even in myself, if apparently I’m going around waking up ancient deities.

“You talked to me,” Phil said. “You sat at my feet. You fed my crows. Is that not faith enough?

There’s no argument to be raised against the validity of the words, because he doubts a god follows any sort of natural, legal, or canon law. Techno is still fully prepared to argue the semantics of it. But a more pressing thought occurs to him: his crops. Pretty much the whole reason he’s in this mess to begin with. “Did you…”

“You prayed for a bountiful harvest.”

“People pray for things all the time. Doesn’t mean they should get them. Like, can you imagine a murderer who prays for his targets’ deaths? That would be kind of lame.” 

Techno is relieved when the god tilts his head back and laughs. What comes out of his mouth doesn’t sound like one, but the low croaks remind him of the way the crows used to laugh at him. “Everything comes at a cost,” Phil says. “A blessing of fortune on one is a misfortune on another. The world has to balance out.” 

That doesn’t explain why him.

“Because you deserve it,” Phil replies simply. Like it is a fact. 

To him, perhaps it is. 

For the first time, Techno, a man of only necessary words, is rendered speechless. Not due to the lack of desire to communicate but the lack of a suitable response. In a feeble manner so unlike himself, he attempts to argue. “I’m just a farmer.”

“Technoblade,” Phil sighs, and he really shouldn’t be surprised that the literal god knows his full name.“You are my first worshiper in millenia. You freed me from my prison. Above all—despite how you have been treated, how you have been forced to hide—you are still kind, selfless, and loyal.”

“No.”

“No?” Phil repeats. “Then you didn’t take in an abandoned fox kit and raise it until it could be freed? You don’t set aside part of your harvest for the fledgling birds in spring? You have never, not once, stayed up all night caring for a sick rabbit that you found limp and shivering in your fields?”

“No—well, yes, I did—but I’m still not anything like what you said. I’m not that. I’m a hybrid,” Techno emphasizes. Surely that will change the god’s opinion of him, cause him to view him in a sourer light. It always has. 

“Mortal labels mean nothing to me,” Phil says, which, fair. However, Techno himself is still unfailingly mortal. He’s flawed. Selfish. He let those villagers die from Phil’s wrath, and the worst part is that he’s glad. He’s happy to be alive, and that means he can’t regret the villagers’ deaths. It isn’t nearly as noble as Phil seems to think. 

The god tilts his head. It reminds Techno of a crow, cocking its head to examine a bug before hopping forward and devouring it whole. 

“Oh,” he says, almost to himself, and Techno suddenly fears what revelation he has had. “You think your life is worth less than theirs. That isn’t right. I’ll prove it to you, here, come on.”

Techno does not want to know what a god means by “proving” something. 

“Or not. You’ll learn in time.”

Phil leans forward before Techno can move. His head fuzzes again, this time not from fatigue. When he blinks again, the god is inches away, cupping Techno’s face in his hands. “Easy now.” His grip tightens when the hybrid tries to move away, pressing their foreheads together.

“So wronged by society yet so persistent,” he murmurs. “I saw it in you the first time you spoke.” 

There is a solid weight behind his gaze, backed up by power that Techno, nor any other mortal could hope to understand. Techno can’t look away. He stares, breathless, captive like a rabbit in a snare, pinned down by the promise in Philza’s eyes. In that moment, he wonders how he could ever believe something so different than his god has decreed. 

“You deserve the world, Techno. I will make it so.”