passerine
blujamas, thcscus (blujamas)
Summary:
"I understand. You heard the place you loved was in trouble, so you came back, but I don't—I just—why didn't you take me?" Here it was, at last. Catharsis, or something close to it. "I would have hunted them down with you, Philza, the people who did that to your town. I would have given you your vengeance on a silver platter. I would have given you the world."
Philza didn't look guilty. He just looked tired. "I didn't hunt them down, though."
//
Or, that fic where Techno and Phil are old immortals, and Tommy and Wilbur are decidedly... not.
Notes:
Technoblade and Philza are immortals. Tommy and Wilbur are... not. Angst ensues.
(See the end of the work for more notes.)
Chapter 1: like a fox to a burrow (like an eagle to an aerie)
Summary:
The voices led him to kingdoms and shires and towns—it didn't matter what they offered him in return; the voices didn't demand coin, they demanded blood. He fought for bold men and stupid men, greedy kings and starry-eyed rebels. He fought for armies doomed to fail and dragged them into the light of glory. He had lost count of how many allies he'd fought beside—after a time, their names and faces had faded into the recesses of his hazy memory.
And then there was the Angel of Death.
//
Or, eternity, empires and the emperors that rule them
Chapter Text
He must have had a life before this. A mother, a father, a home. Maybe sisters, or brothers. But it had been so long—too long—and now all he knew was this bloody game. His hands knew no other shape than fists curled tightly around a sword, swinging eternally, finding its mark through skin and bone.
They all tried to run, of course. They built walls and cowered in corners, but he always found them. Sometimes, they begged. Sometimes, they chose to jump from cliffs rather than face his reckoning. And sometimes, they stared back at him with eyes as empty as his own and welcomed death with open arms. Those were the ones he envied the most.
Technoblade never dies, they whispered around campfires and funeral pyres.
He prayed that that wasn't true.
The voices led him to kingdoms and shires and towns—it didn't matter what they offered him in return; the voices didn't demand coin, they demanded blood. He fought for bold men and stupid men, greedy kings and starry-eyed rebels. He fought for armies doomed to fail and dragged them into the light of glory. He had lost count of how many allies he'd fought beside—after a time, their names and faces had faded into the recesses of his hazy memory.
And then there was the Angel of Death.
He was one of the very few people with a reputation that matched Technoblade's. He'd heard of the angel through whispered stories and snatches of tavern gossip. I heard he has obsidian wings, one patron would say to another over a cup of ale. I heard he once massacred an entire army, all by himself. He makes even the Green God afraid.
Technoblade had begun to imagine a ruthless man—an immortal butcher with the same wretched grin as his. But Philza was not an avenging angel. He was just Philza.
They'd met by coincidence, in a land of ice and snow. It was barren, but they'd made quick work of it, together—first as allies and then as friends. Through it all, Philza had smiled instead of grinned, laughed instead of cackled. On calmer days, they'd wile away time with tea and chess, and silent meditations that quieted the screaming in Techno's head, if only for a little while.
