God of Blood, God of Death

Exiled

They say, that the gods know what's best. That the gods are to be revered and feared. Gods are sacred, watching over mortals and their actions, casting judgement across them as they stare down from the heavens above. That they built each mortal by hand, sculpted each star, each tree, each bird, fish, and sheep, down to the smallest blade of grass, or the bedrock at the core of the world.

Yet, as Technoblade stared up at the freckled night sky, all he could do was laugh. Laugh at the gods above. Laugh at those he once walked amongst.

They called him the "Blood God". It was meant to be a title of honour and respect, yet it felt only like a sharp stabbing pain in his gut. A reminder that he was doomed to never truly be heard. He was the god of death, of an honoured death in battle, of the peaceful passing in your sleep. He was not so prone to violence as others wished to believe.

His word, his very title, had been warped across many songs, told wrong across many tongues. People called him "the Blade", "the Blood God". They shouted "Blood for the Blood God!" during battles, in his honour. They revered only the parts they wished to see, leaving the others long forgotten.

But what did it matter anymore? Who would care about the dethroned god who wandered the mortal world, leaving behind bloody footprints?

The laughter peeled from his lips as he stared up at the heavens. As he stared up at his former home. It was sardonic, clawing its way out of his throat. It echoed through the trees, and had there been birds nearby, had the trees not been burnt to the ground around him, he knew birds would've fled just like the others.

Yet, there was no one to hear his laugh. No one who cared to look down at the god stripped of his power, standing in a war-torn forest.

"Is this what you wanted?! Is this what you planned?!" he called out to the sky, anger and defiance bubbling in his chest like magma.
"Are you happy now, Dream?!" He spat the god's name out like spoilt wine. Sour on his tongue.

He'd once spoken his friend's name with pride. Once it had tasted like the finest wine, the ripest fruit, to speak of Dream in high praise. To walk with him as his equal. Yet now, he only spoke it in the dead of night, when he was sure no mortal would be able to hear him. Only walked the war-torn lands that he knows he'd dare not look.

For Dream may be a god. He may delight in watching mortals. But Technoblade knew, he never bothered to reflect on the aftermath. He never bothered to care about the consequences of his actions.

After what felt like mere minutes to him, but was more probable to be hours, Technoblade forces his feet to start walking. He forced himself to leave before mortals witnessed his dismal appearance.

The forest of the surrounding area remained blackened and burnt for miles. It felt as if he was walking in a circle. The only indication that he was moving, were the bodies that laid at his feet. Soldiers that died in battle, decorated in dark brown with deadly badges of honour.

As he passed by, he dragged his cape over their faces. Slowly, he closed each soldier's eyes. Painstakingly, he freed their souls from their bodies. With great care for mortal life, he guided them out of their decaying, burnt flesh, and towards the heavens above.

They could not see him. They never did. He wasn't meant to be seen, not even by the dead.

At the edge of the field, he stood watching as the souls floated up towards the stars like the lanterns that each kingdom released to aid in their passing. He leant on his axe, a heavy sigh on his lips as he caught his reflection in the blade. He no longer shone with the soft white glow, his hair no longer maintained the volume it once held, his crown no longer stayed perfectly placed on his head. Instead, he kept his hair braided away, his crown woven into the strands so it did not fall, a frown on his lips replacing the lost glow.