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“Only one horse today, your imperial majesties?” the stablehand says. He’s young, barely more than a boy bundled up in layers of blue and silver and white in an attempt to stave off the chill.
In his hands are a set of reins, and towering over his shoulder is the largest horse in the stables. Taller than most and strong enough to crush a man beneath his hooves without a second thought, Carl huffs out a cloud of hot mist as he leans forwards. Despite how intimidating he is, he’s really just a big softie.
“Yeah, just one,” Technoblade replies, taking the reins. Carl is already snuffling at his hands looking for treats. “He’s ridin’ with me.” Techno says, gesturing over at Philza behind him.
‘Riding with’ is a little bit of an oversimplification, but if this kid has been around long enough, he’ll know what the leather glove and pauldron on Techno’s arm and shoulder are for. He’ll know how the emperors tend to hunt.
“Have a fantastic time, your imperial majesties,” the stablehand says, bowing his head as he excuses himself.
“Is he new?” Phil asks once they’re alone.
“No clue.” Techno’s checking over Carl’s tack himself, just in case. Old habits die hard, and all that. Deeming it all appropriately donned—though straightening the jewel-blue blanket just a little so the embroidered crest sits straighter—he hooks a boot into a stirrup, and hauls himself up onto the horse.
Testament to his strength, Carl doesn’t even stumble.
“Alright, you good to head out, or have you realised you’ve forgotten somethin’ again?” Techno asks, nudging Carl to start moving, and guiding him out of the stables.
“Man, c’mon!” Phil complains, hopping along beside the horse. “That was like, one time, dude.”
“Mmm…” Techno hums, raising an eyebrow.
“Okay, fine. A few more than one,” Phil concedes. “Can I get up now, or are you going to knock me into the top of the gatehouse again?”
“Bruh,” Techno protests. “That really was one time!”
Phil cackles as he takes to the air, great wings only narrowly avoiding Techno’s head as he ducks. Phil soars upwards, a blur of black and blue and blond, looping overhead in the pale light of the Antarctic sun, shining like all the riches in the world wished they could. Techno has to squint just to make out his shape.
“Brace yourself!” he hears from above, the only warning he gets before a weight crashes onto his shoulder, wicked talons gripping well worn leather. Phil is still laughing, breathless and mirthful, shifting to best balance on Techno’s arm and shoulder.
“Show off,” Techno teases, spurring Carl onwards much faster.
“Show off yourself,” Phil retorts, leaning down and kissing him through his smile.
They reach the gatehouse together—Phil’s head mercifully un-knocked into the unforgiving stone—passing up yet more offers for guards and hunting companions, and then they’re out of the city and into the vastness of the Antarctic Empire’s wilderness.
Out here, Techno lets Carl run as fast as he wants, leaning down as much as he can with Phil on his shoulder, feeling the wind whip through his mane and bite at his snout, the snow churn under Carl’s hooves, and the chill brush over whatever exposed fur it can. For as barren as the Antarctic Empire is seen to be, it really is a thing of deadly beauty.
“I’m off!” Phil calls into the wind, and all of a sudden, the weight lifts from Techno’s shoulder.
A shadow appears in the sky, keeping pace with Carl with absolutely no problem whatsoever. As if just to mock them, Phil speeds up, cutting through the air as little more than a blur, twisting and turning and soaring as he does. He even loops Techno and Carl, diving low and skimming fresh powder with a wingtip, before shooting up to the clouds with that cackle of his.
This is what the Empire is for, Technoblade thinks. Not the politics, not the power. Not the jewels or the palace or the people waiting on their every beck and call and then some, not anything material that anyone has given them.
No, the Empire is for the expression on Phil’s face, the redness to his cheeks and nose and the wind between his feathers. It is for the laugh that echoes across snowplains, the smile warmer than any sunbeam down here at the bottom of the world, the years of stress and fear and pain that Phil sheds and leaves behind him in the banks of ice.
And sure, perhaps somewhere warmer would be nice. Somewhere with greener grass—or any grass at all—where the food they eat is a luxury, not a necessity, where the nights don’t stretch into days and the sun is something more than a white glow in the sky. But that’s all it would be. Nice. This is all they need, Techno thinks, to be truly happy. Each other, and the freedom the Empire offers them.
It’s all they’ll ever need.
Too distracted by his own thoughts, Techno misses the warning he presumes Phil gives. Then again, this is Phil, so the chances there was no warning whatsoever are just as high as Techno being oblivious to it.
Nevertheless, something thumps into the snow beside him, and a tug on the reins gets Carl to slow and turn back.
Perfect white has been marred by brilliant red, fresh and gleaming from a set of perfect puncture wounds. The poor hare probably never even saw him coming. A second one falls next to it, bouncing once, this time with an arrow through its eye socket.
“Leave some for me!” Techno calls into the sky, and Phil laughs down at him.
“Gotta be quicker than that!” he replies.
Techno rolls his eyes as he dismounts, scooping up the hares to stow in one of Carl’s catch-bags, tied to the saddle. He’s not really that annoyed at Phil, he’s a lot better at hunting, to be honest. Techno’s better with a larger quarry, something he can nail with a crossbow, or bury a sword in. Hares tend to end up in lots of little pieces if he tries that with them.
With the hares stowed and the arrow waiting for Phil to collect it, Techno starts to set his sights on his own target. He slows Carl, scanning the plains for any signs of something larger. There’s a small woodland off to the east, he’ll probably have more luck over there if he’s looking for anything substantial.
“Phil!” he calls. “‘M headin’ over there!” He gestures with his crossbow, vaguely in the direction of the snow-covered trees. Less ideal for Phil’s style of hunting, but he can stay back here if he wants, Techno doesn’t mind. Gods know they can both take care of themselves if something happens.
Techno allows Carl to move a little faster, given that there’s nothing out here that interests him, hooves beating down into the snow and ploughing through it with ease. All the noblemen’s horses would freeze out here, their spindle-like legs would snap at the merest hint of resistance from the ice and snow. The thought pleases Techno greatly.
An arrow goes whistling past all of a sudden, and something small cries out as it strikes, and Techno cheers for Phil. He can pick that one up himself, actually, Techno has places to be. He has hunting to do himself, thank you very much.
He pushes Carl on, the thicket of woodland fast approaching, bare bushes laden with snow, thick, stubborn grasses with ice on their blades, smooth snowplain quickly giving way to rough, frosted underbrush.
Too quickly.
Too late.
Techno doesn’t realise just why the snowplain is so smooth, so unmarred, so flat until it’s much too late. Why there is such a steep snowbank leading to the woods. Why there is no foliage. Why distraction can be so dangerous in such a climate, in such a place.
Ice cracks with the sound of thunder, sharp and clear and piercing across the empty land. Carl’s hooves pierce through to the waters, the horse stumbling as his foot sinks, already several strides into the pond, panicking at the frigid temperatures.
Technoblade doesn’t blame him.
With Carl stumbling and thrashing as he is, Techno is only given moments from the first gunshot-like crack of ice to when weightlessness sets in. He’s thrown from Carl, wrenched from the stirrups and the ice is already fragile as he lands on it, punching through with little protest.
The pond, thankfully, is just a pond. Techno lands square on his ass in frost-ridden mud, ice water not even up to his chest. Yet it still seeps into his clothes, soaking layer upon layer, and there’s only so much the embroidered enchantments can do.
“Techno!” Phil calls, and that black blur in the sky aims itself for him. “Fuck, mate, you okay?” he asks, landing on the still intact ice, significantly lighter than either Techno or Carl.
“Gods,” Techno mutters, the shock stubbornly refusing to give up control of his mind. “Yeah, yeah, ‘m okay,” he manages, trying to get his feet under him. “C’n you- fuck, it’s cold. Can you g-get Carl out?”
“You sure?” Phil asks, but he’s already moving towards the horse, trying to calm him and lead him back to solid ground. All the sloshing of the water isn’t really helping Techno stand up again.
It could be worse, Techno reminds himself. It’s just a pond, by the time he stands, the water’s only just lapping at his knees. If it were a lake, he would be sinking, and he’s never been all that good at swimming. It’s just a pond. He’s okay.
Phil puts his arms out as Techno stumbles towards the bank, helping him up. He might be small, but he’s certainly strong enough to help take some of Techno’s weight as he shivers.
“Fuck, man, that didn’t look fun,” Phil says, handing the reins over. “You sure you’re okay?”
“W-wasn’t,” Techno replies, leaning against Carl. He’s at least a little warmer. “‘M fine, just- jus’ a bit cold.”
He’ll be fine. He’s been through worse, it certainly won’t kill him, he’ll just be uncomfortable for a little while.
“Here, take this,” Phil says, unclasping his cloak and draping it over Techno’s shoulders without even waiting for an answer. It… kind of helps? Techno’s not really sure. He can’t- he can’t feel his feet. Or his fingers. Is his foot in a stirrup?
His foot is not in a stirrup, not properly, and he falls trying to get on Carl. There are arms around him again, and he leans heavily into Phil. Is it just him or is the woodland kind of blurry now? Or… or are the shadows just really dark?
“Techno?” a voice asks.
“Mmm,” he manages. It’s cold. His tongue won’t cooperate. Did he mention it’s cold?
“Ah, shit. Shit fuck fuck arse,” the voice curses. Techno tries to grin. He’s still really cold. “Alright, up you get.”
Something is pushing at him. He leans against it. That’s nice, maybe he’ll close his eyes for a bit.
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare, asshole,” the voice says, and something pointy jabs at his ribs.
Techno just grumbles again, and uses what little strength he has to open his eyes and be pushed onto a horse. His horse? The horse is warm. He’s cold.
Oh, right. Hibernation. That’s a thing he does, isn’t it?
“If you fall asleep and fall off the fucking horse, I will fuckin’- send you to Business Bay for a fuckin’ trade negotiation, I swear to Death,” the voice says, but something soft and warm presses to the back of his head and stays there.
Techno tries to reply, but the horse is so warm and he is so cold and if he just leans forwards a bit…
There’s a giant wad of gauze and cotton where Techno’s brain should be. At least, that’s what it feels like. There’s another slightly smaller wad where his tongue should be, and this one is really, really dry. He manages to move an arm, reaching out beside him to look for a glass of water. He finds the glass of water, except the process of finding it also means knocking it over.
Someone yelps and curses, and very belatedly, Techno opens his eyes.
Phil’s standing beside him, evidently having just evacuated his chair at speed, sleeve soaked and feathers puffed up in surprise.
“Gods below!” he grumbles, holding his dripping arm out from his body. “Couldn’t’ve come up with a slightly better way to let me know you’re awake?”
“S’rry,” Techno manages, aiming for a grin. He’s not entirely sure if he’s successful, but he doesn’t really care.
While Phil dries off, Techno lies there, under what looks and feels to be every single blanket in the entire Empire, and about half the pillows as well. It’s absurdly comfortable. Maybe he should accidentally hibernate more often.
“How long was I out?” he asks once he’s pulled himself up to a seated position, and once Phil has handed him a new glass of water.
“Couple days. Took Sneeg and two other guys just to get you all the way up here.” Phil abandons his chair, sitting on the side of the bed. It’s his bed too, Techno’s not entirely sure why he’s apparently been spending this time in a chair.
“‘N Carl?” Techno asks. Phil takes the empty glass from him and sets it down.
“Carl’s fine. Carried you back alright, the stablehands made sure he was okay. Lots of sugar cubes.” Phil picks his legs up onto the bed too, resting his head on Techno’s chest, right over his heart. For a long moment, there’s just… silence.
“Hey, ‘m okay too,” Techno says, looping an arm under Phil’s wings and resting his chin on his head.
“Oh, you better be. ‘Else I will follow through with those trade negotiations,” Phil threatens. He shifts his head though, up onto Techno’s shoulder, kissing at his temple.
“Bruh, I haven’t even been awake for half an hour, go easy on me,” Techno argues. He turns his head too, stealing a kiss from Phil.
“Mmm,” Phil hums into the space between them, an almost non-existent thing. “Maybe just this once,” he concedes, “if you insist.”