He Will Tear Your City Down

Poet II

Months fly past as if they are only mere seconds while in Technoblade's company, Philza has found. 

He never thought that he would ever see the all mighty Blood God with his guard down, laughing and smiling with seemingly not a care in the world. What he expected even less, however, was to see himself do the same. He feels something, an emotion that he has long forgotten the name for. An emotion that he never even imagined he would feel since the day he was torn from his place in the heavens. An emotion that had nearly startled him out of his cloak the first time he caught himself feeling it. 

He had taken Technoblade to his home, taught him how to climb his tree with patience only otherwise found in the holiest of mothers. He had showed the almighty god of war his nest, the intricate weaving of sticks and twine and leaves that he had crafted with delicate hands over the course of centuries. Technoblade was careful as he crawled into the nest, treading with a gentleness that Philza had never expected to come from such a brutal man. He respected the nest, admiring it cautiously and being sure to not leave even a single twig out of place. That was the first moment since this world had birthed that he truly felt happy. 

Philza tried not to get himself too attached to the man, knowing that someday, hopefully hundreds of millennia away, he would be swept into the heavens too. It was hard though, and he felt his heart swell at even the mere mention of the name Technoblade. A name that at one point in his life had brought him both jealousy and pity in the same heartbeat. 

Technoblade basks in the sun beside him, crown discarded a few feet beside him. It must be a burden, Philza thinks, wearing the heavy gold atop his head wherever he goes. A burden that he only ever lets himself release when in the presence of the angel, when his guard is down and he finally grants himself the chance to feel.

Technoblade says the voices are quieter when in the presence of Philza, that they are calmer, less demanding. He still needs to leave sometimes, to destroy a small civilization when they get especially pissed off. Philza always knows when he does. He seems tenser, more reserved. And then, just like that, they meet eyes, thousands of words being said without either man opening his mouth, and Technoblade is off again. He leaves for a week, maybe two. But he always comes back. And he's more relaxed, the voices are quiet again.

The knowledge that simply being with him can subside Technoblade's voices and help him truly live is nearly enough to bring tears to Philza's eyes.

Philza is louder than he once was, more energetic, more free. He spread his wings more often, truly enjoying their presence rather than seeing them as nothing more than a tool. His wings are spread in the sand on which he lays, warmed by the fleeting evening sun. In their darkness, Phil's wings seem to absorb every ounce of heat from it, and if he were to run his fingers through his feathers, he would find it nearly burned. That never stopped Technoblade from using the tip of a soft Stygian wing as a pillow underneath his head. 

Philza is more impulsive now, less reserved and quiet and calculating. He has never once considered that a bad thing, though. It only meant that he was happier, that he was comfortable enough to express himself without constantly having to worry about how every action would shape his future. 

"You know Phil," Technoblade started turning his head to the angel. "The first time I saw you, the voices saw you as weak. I had seen you draw that old man into the heavens, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. They yelled at me for it, screamed, even. When you turned around and had tears in your eyes, they had called you weak. They had ordered me to never let myself be weak like you."

"Well I'm glad you didn't let yourself get shoved around by a bunch of idiot hallucinations." Philza laughed.

Technoblade laughed with him, but it was quick to die. "That's the thing, Phil. I had let myself get shoved around by them. I let them control my life for thousands of years, and I sometimes still do. As much as being with you had helped me, I still have to leave every once in a while and kill more people. They told me not to be weak like you, but it's kind of funny. I'm much weaker than you have ever been, all because of them."

"Well I mean at least they're not bad now, right? You've been a lot better. You only have to leave once every couple of months now, as opposed to what it was before. Don't you remember that? You would never stop, it was just town after town."

"You don't have to remind me, Phil. I know, and the guilt still nearly kills me to this day." Technoblade begins to sigh quietly before catching himself, quick to readjust his posture and take on that dead look in his eyes again. He never usually does this when he's around Philza. He's uncomfortable. "But the point is, I'm still doing it. It doesn't matter if I'm doing it less than before. I'm still letting these stupid voices in my head take control of my life and I'm still killing! I'm still killing innocent people who don't deserve to die yet. They're still young, they still have so much potential in their life, Phil. They have families and friends and lovers and I end it all. And then after I'm done, I feel dirty. I feel corrupted. No matter how much I wash my hands they never feel like they're clean. All I can see is that they are still the same hands that have murdered so many people and I hate it. I hate it so much! I don't want to be a monster but that's all people see me as!"

"Techno-"

"No, shut up Philza! You don't understand. You get to prey on the old and the weak and those who are ready to die. You get to bring them peaceful deaths. You get to make them at least feel calm in their final moments of life, but I don't! I have to watch the faces of every person I kill and see the fear in their eyes, you don't know what it feels like to see someone torn from their place here, scared and in pain, and know that you're the one who caused it."

Technoblade is quieter, now barely mumbling under his breath and only hoping that Phil couldn't actually hear. "You get to be good."

Philza bites he tongue, words dying in his throat before they have the chance to reach his lips. He tries to force something out, some reassurance or comfort or advice or anything that could help Technoblade, but his tongue feels like lead. "Maybe you should go out again, it's been a while since you've done that. Maybe you just need some time to calm them, and you'll feel better." Philza doesn't dare elaborate further, fearing that any mention of death will only make things worse. 

The look on Technoblade's face is helpless, tears glassy in his eyes and lips pinched so tight they turned white. "Fine, maybe I should. Maybe, if I kill more people it'll make me feel less bad about those I've killed before. Maybe, if I let the voices control me and do everything they say I might just be able to shake the powerlessness that has been suffocating me for the thousands of years I've been alive. Or maybe it'll do the exact opposite. Maybe, I won't feel better about being a monster by becoming any worse. Maybe, my hair will only be stained darker with more blood. And maybe, just maybe, telling a guilty murderer to go murder more is about the worst idea to ever face this earth." 

Before Philza can say anything back, The Blood God turned his back and strode away, sword slung over his shoulder and the crown that Philza had never noticed he picked up again resting atop his head. 

It is long dark, and Philza's wings feel cold.