Passerine

Chapter 1: like a fox to a burrow

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

Notes:

Technoblade and Philza are immortals. Tommy and Wilbur are... not. Angst ensues.

((Hey it's Those Who Write here to ask, did you skip the "you have to read this before going further"?
Please don't skip it, cause I don't like it when people say like " you copy this author's story" or something else //I delete their comments so yeah// I really like it when I see you guys cry in the chapters hehe. Enjoy the rest of Passerine!!))

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.

"You know," Techno had said during one of their sparring matches (they had to stay in shape, of course, because peacetimes never lasted as long as people hoped), "the stories never talk about this side of you."

Philza had paused, a small, amused smile on his face. "Oh?" he'd said. "What do the stories talk about, then?"

"They call you the Angel of Death." Techno dug his heels in as Philza resumed an onslaught of blows with his dulled sword. "They said you leave a path of destruction in your wake that nothing—ha!" Techno parried and went on the offensive. "—that nothing is sacred to you."