Chapter Text
The path to the castle is strewn with beasts. Monsters litter the woods and the plains that surround the kingdom, strangely docile, wandering the grass like water streaming through loam. Techno cuts down the occasional hostile one, making quick work of the grisly creatures that jump out from the brush. They come like trickles of rain, slow and sparse, low groans and clanking of bones echoing in the quiet.
A nightwalker drops dead by his feet, dismembered jaw leaking ink onto the soil. The voices call out to him directions, messy but almost uniform as they warn him of any incoming attacks. Left, left, left, they howl, and then just as quickly, shit, fuck, behind you.
He’s missed this, he realizes. There’s a simplicity to killing beasts. No chess games or broken deals.
Most just watch from the shadows, however. Amber eyes follow them as he trudges through the withered weeds. The kingdom rises up before him like smoke, the green of the pastures make way for ashy ground, dry branches bent over and sprawled among the dirt. The air feels thicker, here, gusts of wind blowing dust through his hair.
Techno slows his horse to a trot, pensively eyeing the sky, watching for the dark shape that dips in and out of the clouds. Phil flies overhead, high enough that the only thing that gives him away is the little wisps of clouds that break away when he soars through them.
Techno drives his sword deep into the socket of a skeleton, taking one of its fallen bones and throwing it at a creeper, knocking it into a ditch before it can start hissing and lighting up. Carl knickers nervously behind him and he runs a hand through its mane, humming.
“It’s strange, Carl.” Techno mutters, swinging his blade wide and decapitating another walker. “I know we’ve been killing monsters all day, but this isn’t even the bulk of it. I can feel hundreds of eyes staring at me.”
Carl does not respond, but Techno isn’t really looking for answers from a horse.
He leaves Carl by the gate, loosely tied to its swinging hinges. If anything were to come after the horse, with enough strength it would be able to pull free. He pushes past the creaking bars, wincing as the rust screeches out a wail that echoes for miles.
He follows an overgrown stone path that’s been cracked over, weeds and wilting plants working through the holes. Around him are abandoned stalls and shops, tattered cloth hanging from the gables, glass shards scattered on the pavement. He passes by an inn, its sign hanging on by a dented corner.
He feels the eyes follow him, leering out from the stall fronts and the windows, watching as he walks up to an empty fountain, clouded over with dust. His fingers brush its interior. They come away black.
Up ahead and to the right, he finds a ruined theatre. It’s fallen apart, walls crumbled and seats broken. The stage has a gaping hole in the center of it, the edges of its wood charred with fire. Something crunches underfoot and he steps back, the sole of his shoe revealing a tattered poster for a musical performance. The dancers on the paper wear porcelain masks, and through the dust and grit he can see the way gold lines their faces, not unlike the mask Dream had worn. Painted gods and legends.
This kingdom is dead, not even a memory to live its legacy. He continues walking, walking through wooden beams and burnt out oil wicked lamps to leave the town square. He walks past rows of houses, all either broken, burned, or ajar, inviting him into empty homes.
Something skitters across the stone. It might be a rat or a monster. Techno watches it from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t break his stride.
Up ahead is the drawbridge to the castle. It’s pockmarked with holes and rotting wood, but there are two narrow beams of oak overlaid on top of it, polished and stained. It’s fairly new. He’s expected, then.
Drawing his sheathed blade, he steps carefully onto the makeshift bridge, crossing over the dried up moat. The castle gates have already been swung wide open, and he walks up the marble steps, each footstep echoed by the quiet counting of the voices in his mind.
One. Two. Three. Four.
On the hundredth and twenty eighth step, he makes it to the entryway. Marble arches over him, cracks snaking their way through the ridges of the once pearly white walls. He walks into court, following the carpet that runs up beneath the throne. Morning light filters in through the fractures of stained glass, casting odd shadows onto the floor.
Now isn’t this a familiar sight.
On the throne, lounged a god.
Gods and their fucking thrones.
—————
Philza slips in through the top window. It’s some sort of hanging garden, the balcony dotted with various pots, all either broken or empty. He steps lightly over the spilled dirt and heads down the stairwell, vanishing his wings away to keep from accidentally knocking over some lamp or polearm. He thinks that maybe if he strains his ears, he could hear murmurs from the throne room, maybe some sort of argument or challenge or something. Of course, it’s just his imagination. The castle is too big for sound to travel this far, and he thinks, Techno isn’t much of a conversationalist when he fights.
The hem of his cloak trails over the dusty steps, surely dirtying whatever remaining spot unaffected by his travels. He’ll have to look into getting a new one made, if he makes it out of this mission alive. His shoulders brush against hung portrait frames and sigils, most of the glass clouded over. In some, he can make out maybe a wisp of blond hair, or the edge of a jawline. In another, there are the outlines of three, maybe four people, crowded together in a way that looks to be friendly, however uncomfortable.
He turns his eyes away and nudges open a dark wood door, squinting as firelight momentarily blinds him. Lamps are sporadically lit in the left wing, lighting up the old halls. He follows the red trail of the carpet, walking past bedrooms with their doors torn open or left ajar. These are the guest rooms, perhaps, judging by the quite lavish but identical interiors. The end of the hallway leads to a locked door, and Philza cocks his head for a moment, listening to the wind, before he kicks it down, sawdust spraying into the open air.
It curves down into a spiral, leading Philza into the kitchen. The shelves are empty, and the storage and crates are either broken or barren. A barrel of rice has been tossed open and left to rot, maggots burrowed into its shape. The pantry doesn’t fare much better, any remaining food either having rotted years ago, or raided by any pillager that came this way.
He steps over indiscernible mulch and climbs back up the stairwell.
The right wing is much more extravagant, even the paint lining it’s walls as richer, the etchings on the pillars and frames precise. Philza wipes away the grime coating the wall, and in two finger pressed dashes on the wall, he’s able to see hints of the deep green that underbellies all this dirt and dust. Even with all the filth the paint shines through.
He steps into the first bedroom.
It’s a warrior’s room.
Weapons of various degrees of lethality hang on the walls, some even over the bed board, as if it’s owner either wished to temp death or saw themself beyond it. Spears and swords and bows like sun rays. The walls are painted orange and burgundy, an armor stand sits by the window, armor noticeably lacking from its hold. The warrior wore it to their death, then.
—————
“Technoblade,” Dream crows, visibly delighted, looking every bit the same as he did in his dream, “Welcome to the world’s edge.”
“Did you come up with that?”
“Yeah, I thought it rather fitting, don’t you?”
He thinks it’s rather tacky. Techno half shrugs, “I’ve heard worse.”
“You’re boring, Technoblade,” Dream complains, crossing and uncrossing his legs, “Make conversation with me. Tell me about yourself. How was the travel?”
“I didn’t come here to talk, Dream.”
“I know, I know.” Dream sighs, leaning back to let his legs dangle over the armrests. His hand toys the edge of his mask, the blunt edge of his nails stretching over the smooth edge of porcelain. “You’ve come here to kill me, permanently, you hoped.”
“I’m hoping to make it a reality, actually.” Techno says, shifting his sword hand higher. Light glints off the metal, and Dream tilts his head to it, humming. His tone is deceptively light, as he says,
“You don’t want to wait for the angel to join us?”
And Technoblade lies. “He isn’t here. Told me to go in first. He’s planning on coming in when either you or I die, pick off the remaining one when he’s weak from the fight.”
“Hmm.” Dream sounds disappointed. “Nice try, but we both know Philza’s a better man than that. He should be nearing my bedchambers, if he’s in any hurry. I’ll admit, he’s masked himself well, I can barely track him.”
“Maybe he’s already gone,” Techno shrugs, “Halfway across the plains by now.”
“Silly mortal,” The god laughs, “He wouldn’t leave you.”
—————
The second room is painted in blue, with shades lighter than day and shades darker than night, a galaxy’s array of painted tones. The room is a mess, ransacked, papers lying on the table and floor, books thrown open and pages torn from its spine. The wardrobe is lined with extravagant outfits, clothing fit for royalty. In a box on the desk, dozens, if not hundreds, of necklaces and bracelets and rings, golden and silver.
There is a vial on the floor, beside the bed, uncorked and slightly fractured from its fall. The bed itself neatly kept, with no sign of struggle or fight, a blanket drawn over a shape.
Philza draws near it. Could it be Wilbur? Tommy? A trap?
He pulls the quilt back, a patchwork of red and white spots, and several objects clatter to the ground. They are dry, yellow with age, about the length of his finger. He looks back at the rest of what remained on the bed, a mess of bones, sternum and pelvis and spine. On it, rests a human skull.
This one died in his sleep.
—————
Wilbur knows something’s wrong. He knows it in the way Tommy clutches his hand, in the way the green god leads him around, in the way his head grows foggy if he even thinks of leaving. The world around him dances in color, music filling the air in vibrant notes. He knows something is wrong.
He knows.
But it’s a battle and half to focus, to not get swept away by the culture around him, to not laugh with the townsfolk, drink mead from their tankards, clap along to the actors dancing. The days go by in a blur, feeling like routine, but routine has never been this exhilarating. Back at the farm, every day felt like a chore, like he could be more, could see more, if only his father hadn’t been so obsessed with keeping them safe. Here, his feet are calloused from dancing on cobbled stone, and his cheeks are red from wine. Here, he feels as if he belongs.
(Something is wrong.)
He wakes up to the crow of a rooster, sunlight filtering in the jammed window. He needs to talk with the innkeeper about that, it took all his strength to bust it open. He turns to his side, almost coos at a sleeping tommy, curled up and hugging Wilbur’s pillow, drool leaking out the corner of his mouth.
Wilbur takes a second to breathe in the scent, feeling the morning air brush his skin. Then his stomach rumbles, and he’s reminded of the human weakness that is hunger. He scribbled out a note, leaving it pinned on the table before he quietly left the room, feeling out the coins in his pocket to make sure he had enough for two servings of meat.
The shopkeep doesn’t even haggle, instead offering him a discount as a service to their guide. He packs the warm jerky with cloth, marveling at how well loved Dream seems to be to the townsfolk. He’s heard nothing but goodwill for the man his entire stay here.
The smell of grease makes him hungrier still, and he hurries back to his room, intent on devouring his piece and only barely keeping from devouring Tommy’s as well. He might have to wake his brother if he isn’t up by now. It’s almost midday, and he agreed to meet Dream at the square before the sun halves the sky.
He pushes the door open, and finds Tommy staring down at his note as if the paper caught on flame. There are bags under his eyes.
(Something is wrong.)
“Woke up on the wrong side there, Tommy?” Wilbur teases, setting down his package on top of the note. Tommy blinks out of his stupor, smiling weakly up at his brother.
It must be the hunger, Wilbur decides. Tommy had never been that much of a morning person. He slides breakfast over to Tommy, yelling at him as he pushes open the window to get changed. Tommy grunts back an affirmation. He sounds more awake already.
When they arrive, Dream is pacing by the fountain. He’s a bit aggravated, not that one is able to tell behind the mask and the cloak, but Wilbur manages. His shoulders loosen, however, when he spots the two, waving them over with a gloved hand. He’s jovial, friendly as he claps Wilbur on the back and squeezes Tommy’s shoulder.
“Right on time! There’s this play I’d love for you to watch, it’s to—“
“Die for?” Tommy mutters, eyes boring into Dream’s mask a second too long before he glances away.
“Exactly.” Dream says, and his hand on Tommy’s shoulder tightens, “You guys should catch it, it starts in ten.”
(Something is)
“We’d love to,” Wilbur smiles, as Tommy pulls away from Dream, “I’ve never seen a musical play before. The ones back home don’t sing.”
“You’re in for a treat, then,” Dream says, nudging them along, “It’s as breathtaking on its hundredth viewing as it is on its first.”
It isn’t long before they’re scooching over into their seats, a bag of nuts in hand as the stage hand scurries around to ensure everything was set. Dream isn’t with them, having waved them off with the excuse of running an errand, promising to return before the final curtain falls. Tommy leans over as music starts to play, tugging his shoulder down to whisper.
“Wilbur,” He begins, but Wilbur’s eyes catch sight of a painted lion and he shushes the younger boy, promising to listen during the intermission.
Tommy leans back sullenly, and Wilbur mentally promises to buy him extra trinkets later.
(Something)
The play is indeed gorgeous, and honestly quite heartbreaking, telling the story of a friendship broken up during war. Wilbur is honestly tearing up near the end of it, wiping at the corner of his eyes as someone takes a seat next to him.
“Enjoying the play?” Dream asks.
“Yes, I—“ Wilbur pauses, cocking his head. “Did someone call my name?”
“Unlikely. It’s your first time visiting here, isn’t it
“Yeah. Well, as I was saying, the story was lovely, and I found the musical structure to be incredible, and oh the props, the monkeys —“
(Wilbur)
Wilbur frowns. “The— What was I saying?”
“Monkeys?”
“Right, Monkeys. And the dancing, I couldn’t believe how—“
(Wilbur!)
“Is something wrong, Wilbur?” Dream asks, and Wilbur opens his mouth to respond, but everything feels funny. It’s like he’s floating, the smile on Dream’s mask lifting off the porcelain and rising up with him as the world blurs in and out.
“Yes, I, well.” His tongue weighs like lead in his mouth, and his hand that doesn’t feel like his hand lifts to grasp at Dream, and he finds that he can’t quite reach the man.
Dream sighs, “It was fun while it lasted.”
(WILBUR)
And Wilbur jerks awake, forehead knocking on something firm as his hands shoot forward, reaching out to grasp at something. They feel heavy, like they’ve fallen asleep or frozen still and just started to thaw, but that can’t be, he was just awake a second ago, and oh, there’s a hand on his head.
Strands of blonde hair blur into his vision, and he coils it around his finger as warbled words slowly stream into his consciousness. Fingers run through his hair, and he vaguely registers the dust on the sheets, or the way his hair and skin feel greasy and dirty. The walls around him are green, an emerald color, like Dream’s robes.
Phil presses a kiss to his forehead, murmuring his name like a prayer as he pulls the young man close, wrapping his arms around him and rocking him back and forth, as if he was a kid again.
“Dad?” Wilbur tries to ask, and it comes out a whisper from his dry throat.
“My son.” Phil tilts his face up and kisses his forehead again, “I’m here. I’m here.”
Wilbur’s cheek is once again pressed against his father’s collarbone, but he doesn’t fight it, too busy sitting in shock at the sight of his father’s eyes glistening with tears. Phil, who never cried, who never showed any fear or terror, now wept and held him like he’d shatter if he did not hold the pieces of his son together.
Slowly, he starts to remember, his dreams, hiding from his father the spells and runes he’s learned to cast, sneaking out with Tommy as they travelled to a meadow, falling asleep and never waking up. Never waking up.
His hands come up to grip Phil’s arms, and he buries his face into his chest, stifling back a gasp. It comes out a whisper instead.
“I’m sorry,” He says brokenly, as if any apology could atone for leaving, for putting his brother in harm’s way, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Phil hushes him, as if he was six, hiding his dirt-stained hands from his father as if it did anything to hide the shards of the shattered flower pot. Wilbur clutches at him tighter, drying his eyes on the linen of his shirt.
Phil heaves in a breath, taking in his scent once last time before getting to his feet and holding a hand out to his son. “Let’s go get your brother. Can you stand?”