Archive of Our Own ^beta

“He’s just like…”

“Seriously, don’t you ever think they’re similar?”

“It’s a crazy stretch, but it’s really like he came back.”

“The bloodthirsty thing…”

“He’s an animal!”

It’s all inherent. Every blow, every calculation. It’s all an instinct that lived in Wemmbu before he was even alive, and he knows this poem well.

It’s an etching of competence that allows him to survive in a world that doesn’t care who lives or dies. He gets to live because he is a capable person. He is allowed to keep going because he has this… fire. This blaze.

He fights and he takes and he loves from backstage. Nobody stays with him, because they fear the haunting drone of his name. He runs circles around people, orbits them, spinning faster and faster and faster, hoping to collide with something solid and real, but there’s only the endless plane of space and his crowded mind that never seems to be able to fill it.

People run and Wemmbu chases. That’s how it’s meant to be.

He comes back to Egg one night with new bruises and renewed remorse for something he can’t identify. Guilt for finishing another fight? A sadness for the fact that he always manages to invite one? He hates people but he can’t help but feel happy when someone fills the silence. But these paradoxes are what he wakes up and falls asleep to every day, and he doesn’t truly care about what others think of him. Not really. The only thing that matters is power, and by connection, image, and he wants it all.

He keeps his bandages tucked away in a secret nook because he knows that if he doesn’t, Egg will offer help, ointment, and worse things. He wears long sleeves because if he doesn’t, people will start counting his wounds. He keeps his face uncovered and nothing else because he wants them to believe what he says, always what he says, and never anything else. When Wemmbu sharpens his sword, he sharpens his teeth, too, and insists they’ve always been that way.

But really, he does feel scared. He doesn’t have anything, but he feels like he’s going to lose everything anyway.

“Why can’t we just run?” asks Egg after another particularly nasty battle. Wemmbu’s skin is painted red and he can barely breathe. “You don’t have to constantly prove yourself to the people you know you’re going to beat. You need to think about surviving instead of just making stupid decisions.”

“They have to know,” Wemmbu replies.

“Know what?”

His chest is tight, and he’s already replaying each one of his mistakes. He should’ve parried here instead of tanking the hit. He should’ve taken that opportunity.

“That I mean everything I said.”

Wemmbu is a fighter and Egg sees everything. He tells Wemmbu to take care of himself and to remember that power isn’t how many people you’ve destroyed with a mace, but how you wield yourself against those who do, or something like that, but in reply, Wemmbu says that if he can just silence his doubts with killing blows, then he’ll have a place to belong. He needs wood to burn the fire inside him. He needs to be told he’s allowed to keep going.

“You’re about to fall over.”

“I’m not five. I know how to walk, and I don’t need help.”

But he likes the way Egg walks ahead of him anyway, scanning their surroundings for anyone else who might jump out and try to get their hit in. He likes the way Egg’s hand hovers over his shoulder because it never makes contact, and he likes the chase. He liked Mane laughing and pushing him down into a seat to have dinner with him across the table, he liked Rejoice’s stupid little gifted flower, and he liked District 13, even though that entire thing was a nightmare he never wants to experience again.

He likes almost having things, because it assures him that as long as he doesn’t actually have them, there’s no chance of him losing them in the future.

They settle down for a while. Egg maintains a small flower in a pot. He tells Wemmbu to water it when he isn’t around, but Wemmbu doesn’t want to. Egg asks him why. Wemmbu says flowers are stupid. He stares Egg in the eye, because maybe then, Egg won’t notice the way his hands are shaking.

“I don’t want to touch your crap,” Wemmbu insists.

“Okay.”

And the chase starts again. Wemmbu occupies himself with target practice and day hunts. Egg stays at their base, occupying himself in alternative, more introverted ways. Wemmbu finds people, and gives them the certainty of loss. Egg finds books, and reads them. Wemmbu finds Parrot with nothing on his back, walking through a rainforest, failing to spook him.

“Oh.”

Wemmbu lands, his elytra on the verge of breaking again. He’s jealous of Parrot sometimes. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Parrot looks around, stupidly unconcerned with himself. “No?”

“You’re walking around alone,” Wemmbu argues. “You don’t even have a sword. You’re acting like an idiot. Where’s Wifies?”

Parrot doesn’t answer. He debates with himself over whether to just walk away from this or not, evident from the twitch in his nose and the imperceptible flap of his wings, but eventually decides to humor the question.

“Shut up.”

Something grazes Wemmbu’s chest. “What? You can’t just tell me to shut up. Just answer, and I’ll leave you alone to die, since clearly you don’t care for your own life.”

“I said stop.”

“Just say it. It’s just words.”

He keeps instigating, until finally—

“He’s gone, Wemmbu.”

Wemmbu cocks his head, and gives Parrot an impossible look. Those two are inseparable. He’s heard that when one comes, the other follows, never a distance between them. Parrot would destroy worlds if it meant Wifies would stick around, and Wifies is even worse.

“Ha?”

Parrot can’t take it anymore. “He’s dead. Is that what you wanted to hear? Do you get satisfaction from hearing people admit things that you shouldn’t even care about? You have no business with me. You don’t get it.” Wemmbu swallows and pivots his foot into a ready stance. Adrenaline bubbles up his throat. “You act all high and mighty, thinking you deserve to know everything, but you don’t, so just drop it and leave me alone.”

This was meant to be a normal conversation. “What’s your problem?!”

“My problem?” Parrot mocks. Wemmbu’s gaze darts down to his hands, to his chest, and at the way they shake. “My problem is that I’m so, so tired! Not everybody is you, Wemmbu. Not everybody gets—gets to be feared the way you do. There’s no reputation to protect us. We don’t get a shield. And I hate being trapped against my will, but at least it meant I could hide from everything that tried to kill us! I just want somewhere to exist without—”

“—fearing that I might hurt someone else,” Egg reads off from a journal with a enderpearl painted on the front. The dye is fading and nearly gone. “I think that if I’m not careful, I’ll destroy someone else I love, and I can’t stand the idea. I don’t want to have a part—”

“—destruction! I don’t know about you, but I’ve always hated fighting. I’m not built for it. I do it to protect myself, but you… You crave it like it means something. Like it’ll solve everything. And you might think you’re right, but you’re still wrong—”

“—in thinking that being powerful will save them.”

Egg closes the journal, and glances at Wemmbu. His eyes immediately fall to slits once he realizes that Wemmbu has been staring out the window for the past eight minutes, twirling a knife around his fingers, cheek in the other palm and completely zoned out.

“Seriously?”

Wemmbu blinks. “Huh? Sorry. I was just, uh, thinking. What were you saying?”

“I just read like, three entries and you were staring into space the entire time. You weren’t even listening.”

“Bite me.”

Egg sighs, and stands from his desk. “You’re impossible,” he says, and Wemmbu laughs it off.

“Why do you like that stuff anyway?”

“History is interesting. I picked that journal up when we went through that snowy forest. Where… What's their names? The dad and his son. Quacken and Becky.”

“Don’t remember.”

Egg shrugs. “Anyway, I got them, but I didn’t get a chance to read anything until recently. I really should’ve done it sooner… These journals are super old, but they’re really engaging.”

“Mm,” Wemmbu says. He starts twirling the blade again. The rain pours outside. He needs to focus on the present and the future. “Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

“I do.”

“Huh.” How strange.

“Will you listen if I read more?”

“I don’t know,” Wemmbu replies, lying.

But he remembers how bright the netherite armor in that basement shone, and wishes he had taken it for himself.

He can’t stop thinking about that conversation with Parrot. That outburst. How different Parrot sounded when he started to snap. Those were things Wemmbu had never seen in a person before, and it’s probably just the fact that they were alone together, but hearing every word that came out of Parrot’s mouth hurt. It felt personal in some crazy way, like they were meant for Wemmbu, but that was impossible. Just like those journals, they couldn’t mean anything. It was just a coincidence that they felt so similar. It was safer to think they just happened to match up. It was scary to think anything otherwise, and that’s why Wemmbu is trying to tune Egg out as he opens another journal and begins to read.

It’s something or other. He doesn’t care. A human who kissed the void and nearly drowned in it, but when he was saved, he came back different. His skin was inky, and his eyes glowed. He looked like he belonged there. But they brought him back to the overworld, and they told him he was human. He didn’t remember much before that, but what he did know is that he wanted to be alive, and so he lived and recorded everything he saw.

They call them half-endermen. Not because they were born between species, but because they almost became one. The void’s call, or something stupid. Wemmbu doesn’t understand the concept.

Anyway, this enderman lived in a warm place for a while. Then war broke out, and cyclical conflict. He fought, fought some more, was led on, and then died.

”Why did they have three lives when we only have one?” Wemmbu complains.

”Inflation?” Egg replies, and Wemmbu rolls his eyes.

The half-enderman was revived, and then left. Lived in the snow with some others. Tubbo. Foolish. Michael. These names were names of strangers, and Wemmbu didn’t understand why Egg placed so much emphasis on their syllables. But he’s told that each name belonged to a person, and as obvious as that seemed to be, it was still important that the stories of every nobody were told.

The Syndicate was formed. Its members agreed to fight against the things that threatened to control them. They were powerful.

“How powerful?” Wemmbu asks.

“They had Technoblade.”

He perks up. “Oh, you actually know who that is?”

“What… does that mean?”

“Because I don’t,” Wemmbu says, unaffected.

“You are the dumbest person ever,” Egg replies, entirely unamused.

“Thanks. Real helpful.”

Wemmbu goes to bed cold, beneath a blanket that is not enough. He reminisces on everything. Flame. Spoke. How that snowy forest has probably never seen summer. Apparently it’s too far north. Then the stasis room, and the maze that came before it. Parrot’s tears. His anger. His fears. His own fears. Wemmbu’s fears.

He cuts it short there. Why can’t he have anything? At what point is he allowed to admit he wants more? Not even more, but just something. He’s ruining himself. He doesn’t care. He knows Egg’s favorite color. He hates everyone because they hated him first. He still knows that song Zam used to hum. He’s scared of everybody. They return the favor. It’s all his fault. It’s their fault first for running away when all he wants is someone to listen to him talk.

He ignores these feelings for a week. Then another. He makes a game out of it, to see how far he can push himself. How much blood can he wash off his clothes before he realizes the wounds really do sting? How many wounds can he bear before he realizes that it’s actually him who’s inflicting them?

Things could be simple if he would just let them.

He gets out of bed before the sun rises and tries to avoid it all. Whatever Egg wants done around the base, sure, Wemmbu can do it. Cleaning, fixing. Around noon, they sit in the same room and mind their own business. Wemmbu reorganizes his enderchest for the twentieth time. Egg waters that flower. They orbit. Wemmbu can’t take it anymore. He feels that name on the tip of his tongue again, that sword, but bites down before it can float into the air. Curiosity gets people killed. He needs to live.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care about it anymore,” Parrot says. “How did you even find me? I’m literally in the middle of nowhere.”

Wemmbu shrugs. Nondescript bases at far-out coordinates sounded like a Parrot thing to do, so he decided to spin the wheel and try finding him. Surprisingly, it worked. Or maybe he just put an adequate amount of effort into it. ”I asked around.”

“That’s a lie.”

“No,” Wemmbu says, because that’s exactly what he does best, and he wields it well. “Anyway, just… I didn’t mean to come off like that. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine. Nobody did.”

”Did you actually mean all that stuff, though?”

Parrot’s wings twitch. “About what?”

“That I’m feared, and that people are scared of me. Is that what you really think?”

He doesn’t know whether a positive answer is what he wants or not.

Parrot pauses for a moment, struck into silence at how left-field Wemmbu is being. “I mean, yeah,” he says, still very much unsure about where this could be going. “You’re good at fighting, you took a lot of the mafia down when we were doing that District 13 scheme, and even now I still hear things about what you’re doing and where you are. A lot of people are scared of you.”

Wemmbu just hums in response. He kicks the dirt beneath his boot, and thinks for a second.

“You really do have a reputation, you know. It keeps you safe in the way where you can back yourself up if you need to. Does it make you feel strong?”

”Yeah,” Wemmbu replies automatically. “People know not to mess with me.”

Parrot shakes his head. ”Does it make you feel strong, though? Like, is there purpose? I genuinely want to know. A part of me…” He hesitates, then pushes onward. “…wants to know what it feels like. I hate always running away, sometimes. Something different might be nice.”

Wemmbu stares around his face, darting to every spot except his eyes. Does it?

”I don’t know,” he admits. “I just do it. I don’t think about it.”

”Oh.”

”You could try, though.”

”Maybe,” Parrot muses.

Wemmbu crosses his arms. “You’ve used a mace before.”

”A couple times.”

”That’s a start. You’ll probably be fine. Just try not to kill yourself with it, you know? It’d suck to give someone advice only for them to screw it all up five seconds later. A real waste.”

Parrot huffs. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be super careful. I know how a mace works.”

”Just making sure.”

”Since you have two, do you want to spare me one?”

”No,” Wemmbu replies. It’s all he’s got. “Go find your own.”

”You’re not going to help me?”

”No.”

”Why not?”

”I don’t want to get involved with any of you.”

Strangely, Parrot perceives it as truth.

After Ranboo, Wemmbu learns about Tommy. The first person he thinks of comparing him to is Spoke, because they’re both scrawny teenagers getting up to much more trouble than what they’re meant for. Tommy irritates him the same way Spoke does, and that realization draws his curiosity a bit closer to the past. It unites him with Egg just a little more, and Wemmbu is secretly pleased to find something they could have in common, but at the same time, it makes him nervous to know that he’s finding pieces of history bleeding into the present.

He learns about the exile. He learns about Pandora’s Vault. He draws conclusions and creates parallels, and asks questions. Why did they kick him out? Why did he insist on fighting when it obviously wouldn’t be enough? Why did he keep trying when he knew it wouldn’t work? He can’t stop seeing Spoke, and sure, their images begin to fray the more he learns about what kind of person Tommy was, but there’s still a mutual origin point that can’t be forgotten.

Why, when you know a country is going to fall, do you still fight for it?

Egg says he doesn’t know either, and his gaze lingers on Wemmbu for a second too long.

Wemmbu makes all the wrong things simple, and asks questions that force Egg to stray away from the things that burn too close to his skin. Why is Tommy so important? Why didn’t Tommy just give up? He ruins everything by getting involved. Everything was fine before he got involved. Just stay out of the way and let others figure it out. Who would be stupid enough to try to interfere with how things were always going to play out? The reason everything started falling apart is because he stuck his foot in the door, so really, it’s his fault that—

The tower Tommy attempts suicide on is one hundred and fifty eight blocks tall.

This time, Parrot is waiting for him.

“I’ve heard fighting gives you a high. Adrenaline, that is. You can’t really think straight while you’re in a battle; you’re either fighting perfectly or you’re two seconds away from committing a fatal mistake. This is obviously true, but how literal is it? Is it all instinctual?”

Wemmbu formulates an answer. “To me, yeah. Like I said, I don’t really think about it. I just know.”

“Where did you learn?”

“I taught myself.”

“Nobody gave you any pointers?”

Wemmbu shakes his head. He’s toeing the edge, and if he isn’t careful, he’s going to fall into the void and come back something different. “I learned everything the hard way.”

Parrot rolls that over. “It’s no wonder everyone thinks of him when they see you.”

“Who?”

“Technoblade.”

“I really don’t know who that is.”

Parrot stares at him like he’s grown a third eye. “You’re serious.”

Wemmbu sneers. “I’m not old like you.”

“Yeah, because apparently, you were born yesterday.”

Wemmbu groans, and insists Parrot just explain who he is as straightforwardly as possible.

Power. Security. A fire with no risk of going out.

An ideal.

Wemmbu becomes obsessed. He stays with Parrot for another two hours, asking question after question and getting answer after answer. Technoblade was unstoppable. He took down nations. He built a settlement that couldn’t be toppled. He had security, so much of it that it makes Wemmbu froth with jealousy three hundred years later, and no matter how much Parrot tells him, he needs more.

Technoblade didn’t need to worry about material things, because he only trusted himself. He didn’t worry about other people, because he only trusted himself. He was completely and perfectly objective in everything he did, and he fought for justice, for a place to be without needing to give, and he scared enemies off with nothing more than the whisper of his name passing through a summer wind.

He had morals, and he stuck to them. Security. Security. Security.

The name Wemmbu hears others correlate and compare to his own is finally made tangible.

He comes back the next day with a mace and a hunger. As he stands on the ground with a shield and a totem, Parrot in the air above, haloed to blindness by the white sun, wings outstretched and ready to strike, he rests assured knowing that after this, he’ll get to hear more about the warrior of old that everybody today apparently sees in him.

Wemmbu walks back into the base with a satisfied smile, and Egg raises a brow.

“Where have you been?”

“Talking to Parrot. You reading again?”

“I—What? You’re actually asking? I didn’t know you cared.”

“Eh, it’s cool. Is it Ranboo’s stuff again?”

“Yeah, I’m just trying to piece some things together. This journal completely contradicts this other one, so I’m trying to make sense of it all. I’m confused right now.”

“You’ll get it.”

Wemmbu drops himself by the windowsill and stares at the world outside. They go a few minutes like that in comfortable, strangely amiable silence, before he decides to break it.

“Did Tommy kill himself?”

Egg doesn’t look up. “Nah.”

“Oh, really?”

“He realized he could go find Technoblade, so he went looking.”

Wemmbu blinks. “Did he find him?”

“Yeah. And when Technoblade realized he was there, he eventually decided not to kick him out. Surprising, right? They teamed up after that.”

“To fight?”

“Yeah.”

Wemmbu considers that. “I like this Technoblade,” he decides.

Egg smiles. “Me too. He’s really vivid to me. I’ve got to do more research about him. I could tell you more sometime, if you want.”

“Sure. That’d be cool.”

“Is he what you talk about when you hang out with Parrot?”

“How’d you know?”

“You’re way more interested in this stuff than you were before. I’m starting to think that someone besides me is getting you to like it.”

Wemmbu turns the other way, and avoids the reflection of his eyes.

A week later, after more practice sessions with Parrot and Egg telling him to wait a while longer until he can put together enough information about Technoblade, Wemmbu wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of a flower vase crashing to the floor. His eyes snap open and he’s immediately on alert, even in the middle of the night, and he reaches for the sword he keeps on the floor right below his bed.

There’s shifting in the hall. Faint footsteps. Multiple people. The rhythm of their walking reeks of threat, and Wemmbu knows that song well.

He slowly gets up, the sound of metal slicing the air as he unsheathes his weapon. He doesn’t engage them right away, hoping to gather some reconnaissance first; who could he possibly have pissed off enough within the last month that pushed them to track him back to his base? It’s a stupid question—it could be any of them, really—but any identifier helps if it’ll give him an upper hand. There’s at least two people, he thinks.

But before he can compare the weight of the footsteps up to the ones he’s stored in his mental log, another door gets shattered in half, and yelling fills the air.

Wemmbu rushes out with only one thought.

He takes out the first guy in less than a second, but freezes when he sees where the second is.

The blade presses against Egg’s throat, and two hooded eyes stare Wemmbu down like he’s nothing.

“You took something from me,” the stranger says.

“I take things from everybody,” Wemmbu retorts, lifting his bleeding blade again. The roof is too low. Egg is in danger. If I can just get them outside… Not going to work. Make do. Egg is in danger. There’s no window. If I screw this up, Egg is dead. I’m blocking the only exit out of this room. Egg. Egg. Egg. “You might want to be a little more specific.”

“Don’t play games! You know exactly what I’m talking about. I want my best friend’s shield back, Wemmbu. It’s important, and I’m not leaving until you give it to me.”

Wemmbu racks his memory.

“Yeah, no. Genuinely don’t remember. Sorry. I mean, I doubt I even have it; I cycle through gear and leave whatever I don’t need behind.”

That was probably the worst thing he could’ve said, because the stranger presses the blade closer to Egg in response.

“Okay, chill out! What am I supposed to do if I don’t have it?! You can’t blame me for something I didn’t do!”

It doesn’t convince them.

“Even if you didn’t take the shield, you still killed her,” the stranger says, low and dangerous, and right, there’s that fact too. Egg begins to say something, but he’s cut off. “You’re a blood-thirsty maniac! You kill people for fun! You don’t care about anything, do you?!”

Wemmbu feels like he’s going to throw up.

“Just let him go,” he warns.

The stranger is quickly losing their composure. In this moment, they look exactly like Parrot on that day in the rainforest, voice cracking and body screaming instability, only this time it really is personal, because Egg is staring Wemmbu right in the eye, genuinely fearing for his life, and Wemmbu knows, he knows, and he’s scared too because he’s never been caught off guard like this and he doesn’t know what to do or where to start or whether any of this is even real but what he does know is Egg is going to die if he doesn’t make a decision now—

“I said let him go!”

“Why should I?!” the stranger shrieks. “Why should you get to have the exact thing you stole from me?! This could’ve been simple if you just gave me the shield—”

“I don't have your shield!”

“Then he’s going to die! Tell me one,” —the stranger’s voice breaks— “reason why I shouldn’t kill him! Just give me one reason.”

He’s not yours to do what you want with.

What you’re doing isn’t retribution, it’s greed.

You’re jealous.

You’re jealous that I have someone, and you don’t.

You’re mad because I’m the cause of your pain.

You want me to feel it too.

But you can’t.

You just can’t…!

Wemmbu’s throat stiffens. Egg’s expression shifts, and it doesn’t take a genius for Wemmbu to realize that he took that brief silence as a hesitation; a faltering. He quickly tries to find something to say.

“I…”

“What?!”

I need someone to tell me I’m allowed to be here! If you take him, I’ll be alone. I’ll have nothing. My fighting skills won’t even matter. You can’t do this to me. You’re not allowed. I’m so much stronger than you. So why doesn’t it feel like it?!

They’re at a standstill. The stranger is practically begging him to answer, but Wemmbu doesn’t know how to use his words anymore. He feels five years old, like he never progressed to maturity, and it feels so stupid to admit to himself that he’s doing all of this for Egg, but the truth is that he is.

“I’ll kill you,” he seethes.

The stranger lifts their chin. “Come and try.”

So Wemmbu charges them. He grabs their wrist and creates distance for Egg to escape before they even realize he’s moving, then shoves them toward the other side of the room. The stranger kicks him in the knee and darts away, creating a gap between them that’s large enough to raise both their weapons in.

Wemmbu grips his sword tighter. He immediately goes in, and they start dancing, parrying each other’s attempts and gritting their teeth with the effort. The stranger comes up a second too late and he secures a scrape on their sleeve, but it’s not enough. He thinks he hears himself scream at Egg to get out of here, but that figure in the corner of his vision refuses to move. Wemmbu screams again, irritated this time, but then he hears that Egg isn’t going to leave him behind.

It’s cyclical, because of course it is. Only the stubborn stay.

Wemmbu’s fully awake now as he fights grief personified. It isn’t his fault this person’s best friend is dead. It’s not his fault they got in the way.

It’s not his fault.

Mane left because he hated Wemmbu, right?

Rejoice died because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, right?

Zam turned on him because he was just that kind of person, right?

Wemmbu didn’t do anything. He had no hand in it. He is perfect. He is untouchable. He has so much power, and everyone is scared of him, and because of that he’ll be fine, everything will be fine, stars, I hate fighting, I hate it so much.

He feels another presence behind him right before a second blade comes crashing down. In his idiotic moment of weakness and private admittance, he failed to realize the other person who must’ve been waiting behind the door. Fine! He’ll take them both on. It’s nothing new. They don’t seem to care about killing Egg anymore. They just want revenge on him. Good. It’s nothing new, it’s nothing new. He can do this.

He’s so tired.

His fighting becomes frantic. Wemmbu just wants this to be over. He wants to run away like Technoblade did, to say screw it and start again in a place nobody will bother him and Egg, and just live a life of peace without the constant fear that it could all come crashing down.

But would Egg want to stay with him if he keeps getting into so much trouble? Wemmbu can protect them both, but for how long? When will Egg realize he’s lying about being strong, about being fearless, about everything? When will he realize that Wemmbu is a fraud who doesn’t deserve anything?

The second stranger suddenly drops to the ground and Wemmbu instinctively knows to jump and avoid the swing meant for his ankles. He follows it up with a stab meant for their thigh, but is forced to retract from it at the last second as he realizes he’s left the first stranger a clear angle of his back. He spins on his heel to block that downward swing, then focuses his attack on them, pushing them backward, backward, until he has to turn around again to fend the other one off.

It shakes him. He actually hates fighting. He didn’t realize how exhausted he was until now. Egg finally runs after Wemmbu screams for the seventh time, which is good because now it means he can let go.

Eventually, he stabs the second stranger through the chest and they topple, but he doesn’t even get a chance to breathe before the first stranger takes advantage of the opening and slices his waist open, right below his hip.

And he thinks, faintly, about one thing that Parrot should know when it comes to fighting, and it’s that adrenaline doesn’t keep you from feeling things.

Wemmbu’s frame shudders, and he drops to his knees.

He looks up at them, wincing and trying not to show any more vulnerability. The stranger points the tip of their blade at the space between Wemmbu’s eyes.

“I said you’d pay for what you did, and now you will.”

Wemmbu’s fingers are shaking against the wet gap in his side. It’s not cold in here, but he can feel his hot breath anyway. He swallows for air, trying to buy time to figure out what to say, but he’s at a total loss. Door behind them. I’m trapped. I took two of them down. I’ll be the third. Okay. Okay. Okay.

“Don’t you get it?” the stranger asks. They too are out of breath from the struggle. “You’re nothing. You’re not above any of us. You’re killable!”

“Not everybody gets to be feared the way you do.”

What would he have done if Egg really did die here? Would he ever forgive himself?

“You’re just one person, just like everyone else. We all have friends. We want to protect them. I… wanted to protect mine. But you took her away from me, and— And…!”

“You have no business with me. You don’t get it.”

Wemmbu weakly mumbles something under his breath.

The stranger grows more impatient. “Speak up, you coward.”

“M’sorry,” he whispers. His fingers can’t keep still. His vision is getting blurry so quickly. It’s never been like that before. “I… I know. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” the stranger chokes, “sorry.”

“I am.”

“You liar!”

“Yeah,” Wemmbu croaks. He laughs bitterly, but it just comes out as a wince. “That too.”

His strength gives up on him, and he barely manages to catch himself on his free arm. Blood is pooling beneath him, and he’s thankful he can’t see his reflection in this darkness, because they were right. He is stupid. He was born yesterday. He has no idea what he’s doing. But what he does know is that he cares about his friend so, so much, and to allow any harm to come to Egg is like giving up on life itself.

But Egg is gone now.

That’s good.

It’s the certainty of knowing.

“I’m going to kill you,” the stranger says.

Wemmbu nods.

He can see the blade still, glinting in the midnight, and for a second it looks like the moon itself.

Egg isn’t coming back. That’s what Wemmbu wants. The certainty of knowing is better than the chance of hoping, and since Egg listened, it means he’s safe now, and Wemmbu doesn’t want to think anymore.

The blade rises.

“Don’t you have any last words?”

Even if he did, the pain is too great for him to say them out loud. The blood is ebbing. It always has been. He’s never been able to stop it. He’s only been able to pretend like it didn’t bother him.

Wemmbu is burning in a pit he himself set fire to, and now the smell of flesh is finally making him sick.

He doesn’t want to close his eyes.

The blade lifts—

—and another protrudes through the stranger’s chest.

Something gurgles in their throat, and they drop when the sword is yanked back out. Standing in the moonlight is the silhouette of his winged savior, someone who by all means has zero reason to be here.

Parrot sinks to his knees beside Wemmbu. Egg is behind him. They’re talking to him, frantically asking him if he’s okay, but Wemmbu feels like he’s swinging his legs over the edge of an end island, ready to kiss whatever’s below, accepting the fact that this is it. Someone pries his hand away from his wound and he doesn’t even care. It hurts, but everything does anyway, and he can’t find the strength to protest against whatever they’re doing.

“Wemmbu? Wemmbu!”

Wemmbu can’t answer.

All he can think of is Tommy on top of that tower, watching the sun sink below the horizon.

It’s just dark. Wemmbu doesn’t dream of anything.

He doesn’t know anything about his surroundings when he wakes up dizzy and dehydrated. The ceiling above him has exposed rafters, and the room smells distinctly of wood and sharp air, but the one thing he does confidently recognize as familiar is the figure sleeping in a chair by his cot, arms crossed comfortably.

Wemmbu blinks a few times. Egg doesn’t usually take his suit jacket off unless they’re somewhere they’ve deemed safe, since they’re both used to snagging whatever they can as fast as possible in case of an emergency, but Wemmbu still can’t place where they are. He tries to prop himself up to see more, but the instant strike of lightning on his side reminds him that he is, in fact, injured.

And alive.

…That’s impossible.

But then he makes sense of it.

This is a sick joke. It’ll all be ripped from him in a second. This is the only good thing Wemmbu will ever get to experience before the next person comes along and rightfully robs him of what he doesn’t deserve.

Maybe this is what dread feels like.

Parrot walks in a few minutes later with something in his hand.

“Good morning,” he says quietly. Softly, if Wemmbu allows himself to dream enough. “Or, well, afternoon.”

Parrot is here to kill him.

Parrot comes up to his bedside and places a bowl of something on the stand. It’s steaming, and it smells delicious.

Parrot is going to finish the job and kill him.

Parrot looks over Wemmbu like he’s actually a person. Wemmbu tries to hold himself proud, but it’s hard to do that when you’re lying down in a cot, obviously injured, in a place you don’t recognize.

“It was hard to fly back without having you bleed out on the way, but Egg helped me make some temporary bandages with his jacket. The cut was really deep. You seriously could’ve died there.”

Wemmbu can’t say anything.

“To be honest, a lot of the medical attention was from him, so you should probably talk to him once he wakes up. The only thing I did was give him proper gauze. We’ll check on the bandages later, so for now you should just try to eat if you can. That bowl has some stew in it, but don’t worry about choking on it. I mean—That sounds insane, but what I mean is that it’s not too thin that you risk choking. You’ll be fine eating it laying down. Maybe. If you aren’t stupid about it.”

Wemmbu’s throat is stuck.

“Anyway. Are you feeling okay?”

How does anyone even begin to answer something like that?

Parrot freezes when he realizes why Wemmbu is tense. “Oh, shoot. Did you pull it? What hurts? I’ll wake Egg, just try not to—”

“It’s not that,” Wemmbu chokes out.

Parrot stops fussing. “Then what?”

He can’t hide his face fast enough. He’s clenching his jaw as hard as he can, trying not to inhale sharply, trying not to shake, trying not to cry. Parrot doesn’t move, unsure what to do. But that doesn’t matter.

It’s all over.

“I’m exhausted,” Wemmbu weeps, and there’s no coming back from this. It all floods out, and the forearm resting atop his eyes isn’t going to save him now. “I… was so okay with letting it happen. I was ready. I was ready to die. And I’m scared of myself, because…” He chokes on his own tears. “I actually wanted to.”

He takes a second, failing to calm himself.

“I wanted all of this to end. I needed it to stop. It’s endless, every day I wake up and I have to do it all again, over and over and over, just keep fighting and proving to everybody that I’m worth something, but it seems like no matter how much I try to convince them, they won’t believe me. So I keep pushing myself to fight and pass the tests they set up, but they keep running away. And I’m so tired, Parrot, I can’t do this anymore!”

Egg stirs, and Wemmbu decides to commit to something.

“I want him to live. I don’t care about myself as long as he gets to make it through. He—I—He’s the only one who’s ever come back to me, did you know that? But I’m dragging him down. I was thinking, if I had just died there, he’d finally get to do what he wanted without having me in the way.”

Another breath.

“I’m holding him back, Parrot. You shouldn’t have saved me.”

Nobody says anything. His admissions are so powerful that they overwhelm even himself. Egg gets up from his chair and, after realizing Wemmbu and Parrot are already in the middle of a loaded conversation, says nothing.

“Wemmbu,” Parrot says a whole minute later, deadpan and scolding. “You are the stupidest, most idiotic, crackbrained, witless moron I have ever met in my entire life. Did you not hear a single thing I said when I came in here?”

Wemmbu opens his mouth, but finds himself cowering from how stern Parrot is right now. He shakes his head very faintly.

“I just told you that Egg saved your life. He tore his jacket apart to make the bandages that kept you from bleeding to death. And after we got here, he worked for hours to make sure nothing was going to get infected. In what world does that sound like a person who wants to get away from you?”

“…But I—”

“And don’t tell me things like, oh, you shouldn’t have saved my life. Wemmbu, I…” Parrot scoffs, at a total loss of what to say. He throws his hands to his sides. “I’m not just going to leave you out to die! I mean, who do you think I am? A maniac? A psychopath? And even if I was, guess who would’ve gone after me!”

Parrot throws a thumb over his shoulder, straight toward Egg, who is nodding. Wemmbu stares back and forth between the two of them, shocked and stunned and quite frankly, touched in a vulnerable way he’s slowly beginning to not repress, and he asks them if they’re serious.

Parrot’s eyes turn to slits. “I’m leaving. You better finish that before I get back.”

He points to the bowl and promptly spins on his heel. After the door shuts behind him, Egg speaks for the first time.

“Does anything hurt? I tried my best when it came to dressing it, but books can only tell me so much about what to do in situations like these.”

“It’s fine,” Wemmbu says after a moment of checking. “I’m a little concerned about how you just volunteered to do all that without having any experience, though.”

“Hey. Would you rather I have done nothing?” A pause. “Don’t answer that.”

Wemmbu laughs weakly. “Are we in…”

“Parrot’s cabin.”

“Figured. The door felt familiar. I’ve only ever been in the living room, so I don’t really know what the rest of the place looks like…”

“You were out for over a day, so I can’t blame you.”

The sun outside casts light onto Wemmbu’s lap. He moves his hands into the space, and feels them slowly begin to warm up.

“Did you really mean all of that?” Wemmbu asks carefully. “I mean, you didn’t say anything specific, but… the not going away part. Is Parrot right when he says you don’t want to go away? That you want to stay?”

Egg immediately flicks him on the forehead.

“Ow!”

“Yes, obviously,” Egg says, assured of himself and so, so light. “You’re like, the biggest troublemaker ever. If I wanted to leave, I would’ve done it already.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t really mind the running and fighting. It’s kind of adventurous.”

Wemmbu doesn’t find that funny. “You were literally held at sword point less than forty eight hours ago.”

“Eh, I knew you had my back.”

Something in Wemmbu flutters, but he quickly shuts it down. This might all be a dream. But… there’s a slim chance of it being reality.

“Keep talking,” he mutters.

“You’ve got good intentions, Wemmbu. I have literally never thought once that you might be trying to put us in danger on purpose. I mean, that whole mafia thing? You agreed to help, didn’t you? You fought the bad guys. By all definitions, that makes you a good guy.”

Parrot might not be here to kill him.

Egg keeps going. “And I know you mean well when you say to leave while you’re fighting, but you’re actually dumb if you think I’m just going to leave you behind. Why would I ditch you? You’re my best friend. I trust you with my life. So stop being a jerk by constantly thinking I might leave.”

Wemmbu slowly regains his strength. It takes a long time, but by the end of the week, he’s convincingly walking on his own without looking like he’s in significant pain, which is enough for Egg to allot him permission to wander around without nearby supervision.

The dawn mist is still coating the ground when Wemmbu steps out onto the porch, but he wants to enjoy the peace before the sun starts beaming right onto his face.

Parrot must’ve had the same idea because he’s outside too, chopping wood.

Wemmbu sits on the steps and watches.

“Nice form.”

“Wish you’d tell me that when I was working on getting better with the mace,” Parrot retorts, and swings his axe down on another short log. It splinters near perfectly in half.

“I’ll say it when you actually start having it,” Wemmbu replies easily. He observes Parrot go through some more logs, using this time to formulate his sentiment before translating it into a question easy enough for the early morning. “Why were you there that night, anyway?”

Another log split and tossed to the side.

“I’d been tracking those three for a while. Thought they might have some information about BAT, but I’m pretty sure I was just tricked into doing their bidding. Gave them something in exchange for what they knew, got ghosted, got mad, then decided to follow them. I guess they had a vendetta against you too.”

“Going after two people in one night is some pretty ambitious work.”

“You can say that again.”

Parrot picks up another log and sets it on the stump. But instead of raising his axe, he turns to Wemmbu to better hold their conversation.

“There’s some things I am curious about, though.”

“Yeah?”

“From what I hear and know, you can keep up really well during fights. So how did that guy manage to wound you so bad?”

Wemmbu swallows, and looks at his knees. Thoughts race through his mind, the sum of everything that had been simmering for a month.

“I guess my thoughts just kind of hit me at the same time,” he says, before glancing back up at Parrot. “I was caught off guard.”

Parrot accepts it. He goes back to chopping wood. Wemmbu goes back to sorting through his brain, organizing and filing and judging all of it with a detached, yet delicate sense of sentiment.

“I don’t want to see anybody else die,” Parrot says all of a sudden, shocking Wemmbu out of his reminiscing. “You hadn’t done anything wrong. Okay, well, you did some things horribly in the past—” Wemmbu scoffs. “—but that night was not one of those times.”

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to insult me or not.”

“Up to interpretation.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Thank me by trying not to be so suicidal.”

“…I’ll give it a shot.”

“Jeez,” Wemmbu says.

“Wow,” Parrot tacks on, equally stunned at the mess of papers sprawled out on his dining table. “This is honestly impressive.”

“I worked hard on compiling all of this,” Egg defends.

Wemmbu pulls a chair out and sits himself down. “We can tell. What is it, anyway?”

Egg is clearly pleased to explain. “All the information I could gather about the Syndicate. Some of it is centric to people like Ranboo and Niki since they were a part of it, but the majority is about Phil and Technoblade since they were the first two members. And actually, I know a lot more about them now than I did before. Sure, I had to recall a lot of my old progress from memory since I wasn’t able to bring all of my notes from the old base, but this is most of it.”

Parrot, who remains standing, peers over one of the pages closest to him. “And this one?”

“One of the journals I found in the snowy forest. Not relevant right now.”

“Ranboo’s?” Wemmbu asks. He glances at it too. It’s around the same thickness as the ones he’s seen before, but there’s no enderpearl on the front, and the leather cover isn’t as worn out.

“No. Technoblade’s.”

Wemmbu’s eyes widen at that, and he fails to devote his full attention to Egg during the duration of his rundown. He understands the conflict between the Syndicate and the Eggpire after having it explained, of course, as well as their prison break plan, but every so often, his eyes will drift back to Technoblade’s journal.

Thankfully, Parrot can carry most of the conversation for the both of them. He asks engaging questions about how the prison break plan worked, as well as the logistics, all the nerdy stuff that Wemmbu can’t keep up with. But Egg looks delighted to share his thoughts with someone who can, and if Egg is happy, Wemmbu is too.

He learns that Phil and Technoblade were close friends. Technoblade had left the world he knew in order to start again in the wilderness, away from the past, and trusted Phil enough to ask him for help in transporting his things, which Phil happily did. Emeralds were exchanged. A compass gifted. An oath of pacifism taken.

Wemmbu doesn’t think it’s possible to do something like that in an era like this. In a period of time freshly freed from the shackles of a reigning group of military, it’s hard for pirates and highwaymen to not take advantage of their sudden free will, and if anybody knows that fact well, it’s the one who always finds himself at threat of being robbed whilst minding his own business.

But he understands wanting to rest.

“He couldn’t keep that oath for long, though,” Parrot corrects. “Tommy dragged him back into conflict a short while later.”

Egg nods, and Wemmbu looks at him next, trying not to yawn. He’s still recovering—of course he’s going to be sleepy much more. “Also true.”

“Cyclical,” Wemmbu says through the yawn. Parrot cocks his head. “The whole conflict thing. Leaving only to come back because you have to.”

“Where’s you learn that word?” Egg asks.

“You taught me it.”

After Wemmbu yawns a second time, they go back to the original topic of conversation.

“It’s also interesting to note why Technoblade was so adamant on anarchy. If you study it closely—” Egg points at a few different pages. “—you’ll see that there’s a pattern as to why he fights. It’s about going against control, yes, but a lot of his passion comes from his drive to protect people. The only reason he went with Tommy to the Green Festival was to help him get his… discs back...”

Wemmbu sputters. “Why do you suddenly sound so annoyed?”

“I’ve never heard about the discs,” Parrot says thoughtfully.

Egg deflates, and purses his lips. “Please don’t make me talk about the discs. They are the bane of my existence and I cannot escape them. I just want to talk about Technoblade.”

Having not expected that level of blunt honesty, Wemmbu bursts out laughing. Even Parrot looks down as he smiles and taps his foot against the floor.

“Moving on, you can tell that Technoblade cared a lot about his people. He fought for them. He was willing to go back to his old ways just to keep them safe. I mean, he literally cared for Phil more than he did himself. And he never really hated Tommy, either, even after Tommy betrayed him.”

Wemmbu hums his assent.

“So it’d just be plain wrong to call Technoblade a monster. Scary, definitely, but not heartless either. And that’s where this little gem comes into play.”

Egg points at the journal.

“This,” he says, “is all the proof you’ll need.”

“I do not trust you to do this.”

“He told me how to do it.”

“Yeah, but I don’t trust you.”

“Oh, my gosh. Just shut up so we can get this over with?”

Wemmbu groans and pulls his tunic off. Parrot waits nearby, sterilized bandages, a rag, and a bucket of warm water at the ready. Honestly, Wemmbu thinks he can go a few more hours before changing it, but doctor’s orders demand they do it now, so sure, okay. Egg knows the most about medicine out of the three of them.

Thankfully, Parrot gets to work without any attempts to make small talk to fill the silence.

Wemmbu, however, is restless.

“I don’t understand why he’d leave now, of all times.”

Parrot doesn’t bother to make eye contact as he unknots the cloth. “Perimeter checks are important…”

“Isn’t this your house? Shouldn’t you be doing that?”

“I told him to do it.”

Wemmbu gawks. “You told a guest to do chores for you?”

Now Parrot looks up. “If he stayed inside any longer staring at those notes, he was going to go blind. So yes, I did. It was for his own good.”

“You’re so rude.”

“I didn’t hear a thank you from you after we saved your life, so that makes us even.”

A sudden heat begins to climb up Wemmbu’s neck, and he squeezes his eyes shut, cursing himself for being a hypocrite. He whispers some words of gratitude, saying them quietly, yet not skipping any enunciations, but all he gets in return is Parrot’s snort.

“Okay, you punk. You just wanted to hear me say it, huh?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re the worst.”

Parrot just hums and keeps cleaning the wound. The rest of the changing process goes by a lot easier, with them chatting about things they’ll forget before the day even ends, bantering about this and that and whatever else, and before Wemmbu even realizes they’re done, well, they’re done.

“Huh. Not bad.”

Parrot turns away to collect his tools as Wemmbu puts his tunic back on. “Next time, try to believe me when I say things. I seriously do mean them.”

“Sorry, I’m really forgetful.”

He doubts Parrot is trying to kill him.

It feel weird for nothing to be happening. Wemmbu doesn’t think any of this is a dream anymore, but he is nervous about the fact that nobody has found them. Either Egg is doing very good perimeter checks or Parrot is actually dropping people who come too close, but both of those seem too insane to be true. Or, well, maybe the latter actually is happening, and Wemmbu just doesn’t know enough about him to confirm or deny it with confidence.

“Egg?”

A shifting on the floor beside his bed. Then a groan, and a mumbled, “Can this not wait until tomorrow?”

It’s been a while since he thought about that, actually. The concept of tomorrow. Sure, back then he was constantly paranoid about the next day, but it’s been two weeks since Parrot brought them to his cabin and the only thing he’s been thinking about since is Technoblade and what’s for dinner.

“Tell me more about him.”

“Now? What is this,” —Egg rolls over— “a bedtime story?”

Wemmbu groans. “Shut up. I just need something to distract me from the pain since it’s hurting like crazy. Did Technoblade ever really want to fight? Like on his own.”

“It’s been debated, I think.”

“Is that why he tried to go pacifist?”

“Probably.”

Wemmbu considers that, and then superimposes his own reflection onto that of Technoblade’s. “I think… I don’t know. I like hearing about him. I feel uncomfortable the more I learn, but in a good way, kind of.”

Egg hums a note.

Wemmbu watches the moonlight dance in his lap. It’s a stark difference to the cold light that shone behind that stranger’s back that night. Back then, it felt threatening and sharp, but now it feels like it could melt into his palm.

“Before you started telling me everything, back when people would compare me to him, I was just thinking, like, okay. This is probably someone powerful who people are scared of, right? They probably leave him alone. And I liked that idea. So I kept going because I thought that if I hit a certain point, if I got enough reputation, I’d get to have the same privilege he did, and people would stay away. Like I didn’t really understand what was going on behind the scenes.”

“Right.”

“But… I feel like I went about that… differently? I didn’t know what it meant. I just… I… Jeez, hello, can I talk?”

In his attempt to have everybody fear him, he gave them an example of how to do it by pushing them away first. He destroyed his own relationships, pretending like nothing mattered until it became reality, until people really didn’t care.

He told himself certainty was better than doubt and that’s why he avoided ever committing to something, but maybe that was the problem—maybe his cowardice and constant lying pushed others to perceive him under a light that was too controlled, too different from the version of himself that, in reality, craved everything he told them he didn’t.

And maybe he was afraid of breaking things too. He didn’t want to get involved with anyone because he didn’t want to be the reason they were hurt. But Rejoice died because he couldn’t get there in time, and he can’t even begin to think about all the other times he allowed himself to trust something would be stable, only for it to all collapse right beneath his feet.

“Whatever you’re thinking, save it for when you aren’t sleepy,” Egg warns him.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Wemmbu poorly defends.

“I know you. And I know what it looks like when you’re spiraling, even if I can’t see you. I can just feel it.”

Wemmbu has nothing to retort with. He just nods and goes back to thinking, though he does try to ruminate a little less.

“You remind me of Phil,” he tells Egg.

“I’m glad you think that. You remind me of Technoblade.”

That interests him. “In what ways?”

“Many,” Egg replies, voice muffled in his pillow. “So many. All good ones. I don’t want to get into it right now, though. I’m about to fall asleep.”

“Right, sorry. Good night.”

“Night.”

“Tell Ranboo and Niki that they’re stronger than they know.”

Wemmbu raps his fingertips against the table. Parrot cuts an apple beside him.

“Tell Tommy I hope he finds what he’s looking for, whatever that is.”

He takes the slice Parrot offers him.

“Phil, I’m glad I met you in this life.”

Crunching fills the air.

Page four fills Wemmbu’s mind.

It’s so personal. It’s overflowing with sentiment and meaning that it’s almost impossible to comprehend how much weight is implied in those simple words. They’re stronger than they know. You’re stronger than you know.

Technoblade addressed those sentences to the people he planned to leave behind, but it doesn’t feel wrong to pretend like they’re addressed to a complete stranger either as Wemmbu takes another apple slice and bites into it. It’s just… unfamiliar. Different. Refreshing in the way new things are refreshing. He’s not the type to daydream, but he can admit it’s got some value.

Parrot swallows. “I still can’t believe you found the Technoblade’s final will.”

“Honestly,” Egg agrees, closing the journal and putting it down on the table. “I know I read it out loud at least five times already, but I can’t help it. It’s just so interesting to me.”

“Completely fair.” He holds out another slice for Egg to take.

“Thanks.”

“I think what really got me is the fact that everything stays the same,” Wemmbu says, trying to ease his way into offering his opinion without destroying the flow of their afternoon chat. “Things now are really similar to how they were back then. I mean, wars, fights, exiles and the destruction of countries… it’s all one big mirror, isn’t it? Now versus then.”

“That summed it up really well,” Parrot agrees.

“And the people are alike too. I was thinking about it, ‘cause in a way, doesn’t Tommy remind you of Spoke? To me, at least.”

“Oh, man,” says Egg.

“Let’s not think about that too much,” Parrot adds. “I’m going to start making connections between things I don’t want connected. But while we’re on that topic, I relate to Ranboo in some ways. Just the record-keeping thing, but yeah. Not as insane as that comparison.”

They joke about it some more, but in the back of his mind, Wemmbu is still circulating the image he has of Technoblade. A fighter not for power, but to protect and withstand. A person who cared deeply about the people he loved. Someone who never truly hated anybody, not really. Someone who craved security. Someone who knew what power really was.

He wishes he was this self-aware back then so that he could stop it all from happening, but L’Manberg fell whether people wanted it to or not. And it's not like Wemmbu can rewind time and ask for a do-over either, so he supposes it’s alright that things turned out the way they did.

Technoblade wanted security in something. That’s why he didn’t trust human governments—he knew they were flawed. The only thing he could trust were his allies who proved themselves worthy of it, and with those allies, he became happier; more easily satisfied. Nothing in the world mattered much as long as he had the people he cared for, and he did, because they cared for him too.

Parrot quips something about the discs that makes Egg bury his face in his forearms and groan loudly, to which Wemmbu laughs again, because it really is funny how exasperated he gets over it.

And then Wemmbu smiles and listens to Egg talk some more. He doesn’t understand a single word of what’s being said, but he’s just happy to be here, alive, with someone he plans on gifting an emerald sometime soon.

A fighter not for power, but to protect and withstand.

When Egg was taken hostage, Wemmbu devoted all his energy to his fight with Flame.

When he learned why District 13 was fighting Ash, he wanted in on it.

A person who cared deeply about the people he loved.

He still hums Zam’s song.

He knows Egg’s favorite color.

Someone who never truly hated anybody, not really.

He’s not hurt that Mane left him, he’s just sad that he couldn’t talk to him one last time.

Someone who craved security.

He searches for someone who will stay with him, testing person after person to see who won’t run away.

Someone who knew what power really was.

“That one is still not definite, but I think you’re getting there,” Egg teases. They’re sitting on the porch, watching the sun set below the hills. It’s been another few days since they last talked about history and similarities, but Wemmbu was okay with that window, because it gave him time to search for an appropriately sized emerald. And as he watches Egg idly play with it, he feels his heart beam just a little.

“Hey, progress is progress.”

“Definitely.”

Wemmbu chuckles, and leans back on his palms.

Egg looks at him. “So, do you get what I mean? When I say you’re like him.”

“It’s pretty clear, yeah. Thanks for the illustration. I’m actually really glad you think we’re similar.”

“Then I’ll be your Phil.”

Wemmbu genuinely laughs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll stick around. I’m not leaving. You can’t make me.”

“Really?”

Egg grins. “Really,” he confirms.

He holds a fist out, and Wemmbu hesitates. They stare at each other, one confused and the other with newfound courage, who waits another moment before hooking Egg beneath his arm and pulls him in for a hug.

“Careful, you’re going to tear something again!”

“I don’t care,” Wemmbu says into the crook of Egg’s neck. “That’s the last thing on my mind right now.” He stops himself, then decides he’s being stupid, and that it’s better to just say it before it gets too awkward. “I know I’m such an idiot for never really appreciating any of it before, and I know I acted like you were a burden every time we got into trouble, but that’s not true at all, and I’m sorry. So thanks for sticking with me through everything, Egg.”

Egg’s hands come up around his back, returning the embrace. Wemmbu is glad they aren’t looking at each other right now, because if they were, he definitely would’ve chickened out and went back inside.

“Don’t worry about me leaving. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here for as long as you want me to be.”

“Even if that’s forever?”

Wemmbu feels Egg laugh against him.

“Yes. Even if it’s forever.”

And Wemmbu pulls away first, not because he’s scared to be the second or because he’s trying to beat the other person in leaving, but because Egg waits for him, going along with whatever he’s comfortable with.

They look at each other then, giddy and feeling stupid. So Wemmbu punches him in the shoulder to break the tension, and Egg declares he’s going to be nice by not returning the strike. They snort about how childish they’re being, but deep down Wemmbu knows neither of them mean it, because they know each other like the back of their own hand and they each understand that there’s just some things you can only communicate through a long period of devoted companionship.

In some other timeline, Technoblade and Phil are watching the same sunset they are now.

“And speaking of that, there’s something else I realized…”

The end of his sentence fades out, and Wemmbu turns to him, confused and nervous all in one. Egg is lost in thought, chin resting on the top of his fist, which means that it’s going to be a minimum of two minutes before he decides to complete his sentence out loud.

“Take your time,” Wemmbu says idly, content to watch the sunset in the meantime. He thinks he sees Parrot flying in the distance, doing his routine perimeter check. He’ll have to ask if he really does take intruders down later once he comes back, half for the joke and half in earnesty, because he really has not seen a single stranger the entire time he’s been here.

Egg clears his throat, and Wemmbu settles down to listen.

“I did more digging, and figured out from Ranboo’s journals and some of Phil’s miscellaneous accounts from when he was older that Technoblade had black sclera and pointed ears. He looked almost animalistic, according to hearsay from people he once hunted, which sure, is definitely biased, but hear me out.”

“Yep, listening.” Wemmbu wonders how far Parrot is going to go, because he’s still in the corner of his vision.

“Those traits are not traits that belong to anybody like Spoke, Mapicc, or even Parrot, but it’s not a species thing, either. Those traits are so rare. Nobody has ever really looked like Technoblade.”

“Right.”

“And what I’m trying to say is that nobody has ever really looked like you either, Wemmbu.”

Wemmbu isn’t sure he follows. Or maybe he does, but he’s too stunned to even try to comprehend it.

“What are you getting at?”

Egg gestures at him.

“There’s only a few records of people who look like that, but even those are unreliable, because people who fit the description are incredibly hard to come across. Everyone tries to play it up by saying they’ve seen it.” Egg’s voice grows with intent. “But I know what you and Technoblade look like, and even if I tried describing one of you, would you be able to tell who I was talking about? Black sclera. Pointed ears. ‘Animalistic.’”

And Egg keeps going, listing more mutual traits, but the ones that makes it real to Wemmbu are the ones he says last.

“Fighters. Lovers.”

Wemmbu’s heart starts to drown, and it bobs up into his throat for air.

“You think I’m his descendant.”

Egg nods. “I’d be shocked if you weren’t.”

The portraits superimpose again, Wemmbu’s traits over Technoblade’s, their appearances and personalities and trials and pains over one another, weaving and crossing. Something begins to settle in Wemmbu’s consciousness, and he starts to believe it. The eyes start to melt into one another. Their smiles. Their fighting styles, their desire for something real to hold onto and to leave behind.

“Wemmbu?”

The final puzzle piece slots into place.

The world is a mirror.

Everything is cyclical.

It’s all inherent. Every blow, every calculation. It’s all an instinct that lived in Wemmbu before he was even alive, and he knows this poem well.