Chapter Text
It began with headaches.
A thumping pain would hammer at Technoblade’s skull, making him wince. He would rub his temples and stretch his neck, and wave off any concern from Philza. Headaches happen.
Then, a day or so later, came fatigue. His eyes would refuse to focus on words before him and his thoughts were sluggish. Again, he dismissed Philza’s worries. Maybe he’d just slept poorly, maybe he was just tired from work.
Finally, he woke up one morning drenched in sweat, head full of cotton and limbs leaden. Technoblade had to admit it: he was sick.
He could faintly hear Philza padding around the room. Technoblade should get up too. He had things to do. It wouldn’t be the first time he had powered through an illness.
But his mouth was dry and eyelids heavy and body aching, and when he got up he would have duties and tasks and decisions awaiting for him, and the bed was soft and warm and safe.
Technoblade pried his eyes open, scrunching up his face as light intruded his sleep-dark sight. He sat up in bed, fighting against his muscles that protested the movement.
He just needed to get up. He just needed to get going.
He was tired.
Philza was already dressed. He was sitting on the other side of the bed, fingers carding through his wings, neatening the feathers.
“Mornin’”, Technoblade mumbled hoarsely.
“Morning”, Philza answered. “How are you feeling?”
“...I’m fine”, Technoblade muttered, throwing his legs off the bed. He just needed to get up. He just needed to get going.
“Mmmm. No, I don’t think so”, Philza said, reaching for a water bottle on the nightstand. “Your face is flushed and you were groaning all night. You have a fever.”
“I do not”, Technoblade defended. He tried to stand up, wobbled in place for a beat, then plopped back on the bed.
“Told you.” Philza handed him the water bottle.
Technoblade took a sip. “Just stood up too fast.”
Philza crawled over the bed, settling beside Technoblade. He placed his hand on Technoblade’s head, and, before Technoblade could get his sluggish self to react, pressed their foreheads together.
It was a gentle touch, a lingering touch. Philza’s eyes were closed, like he was concentrating. Technoblade held his breath.
“You’re burning up, mate”, Philza finally said, pulling away. “You’re definitely sick.”
Technoblade glared at him. “I don’t get sick.”
“You do now.”
“No. You don’t get it”, Technoblade groaned. “I can’t get sick. I’m the king.”
Sick kings were weak kings. Sick kings were unreliable kings. Sick kings were disposed.
Philza regarded Technoblade for a moment. Technoblade tried to look sturdy, in control. He relaxed his scrunched up face and squared his shoulders. He could do this. He just needed to get up. He just needed to get going.
“Do you not trust your people?”
Technoblade furrowed his brow. “What...?”
“Do you not trust your advisors to keep things running?” Philza demanded, hands on his hips. “Will the kingdom implode without you? Because that's a pretty cocky take.”
“No, but- It’s my job”, Technoblade argued. “Not theirs.”
“Well, if you want to get back to your job-” Philza pushed Techoblade back onto the bed, “-you better rest.”
“But-”
There was a knock at the door.
“That’ll be the breakfast trolley”, Philza said, swinging his legs off the bed.
Technoblade laid limply as Philza sauntered away, snatched his collar off the doorside hook, and clamped it on.
<Good morning>, Philza greeted cheerfully. His body was blocking the doorway, making it impossible for Technoblade to see what was going on outside and equally impossible for anyone outside to see in.
<The food looks great! Oh, before you go, there is a message you need to deliver>, Philza said. <I need you to find one of the king’s advisors and inform them that his highness will be taking the day off.>
<...What?> The servant asked, audibly confused.
<His highness won't be available to perform his usual duties today. Possibly for a few days. General Thornwhip is in charge.>
<All of a sudden? Why?> The servant’s voice was suspicious. <May I speak with his highness about this-?>
<You may not! He isn’t decent at the moment.> Philza blocked the doorway with an arm.
<Listen here, trinket, if you don’t get out of my way-> the servant growled.
<His highness. Is not. Decent . At the moment. And frankly I should be getting back to him.> Philza leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. <He’s been feeling a little… frustrated lately, so it is my duty as the royal concubine to help him relax .>
The servant sputtered. Technoblade went bright red.
<Kindly do not bother us for today, and yes, it will be taking the whole day. The king made it very clear that if anyone tries to barge in the room, they will not leave with eyes>, Philza said gleefully. <Oh, and lunch should be something light, like soup. Just leave the trolley by the door after knocking.>
<Yes- Of course. I’ll, I’ll inform the kitchen. And general Thornwhip.> The servant was talking fast now, awkward and stumbling. <Will, will that be all?>
<Yes!> Philza grabbed the food trolley, and pulled it inside with one hand, shutting the door with the other in one fluid motion.
Technoblade was sitting on the bed, staring at Philza, appalled .
“Was… was that the only lie you could come up with?” he demanded, voice rising in pitch.
Philza grinned. “They won’t be bothering us now, will they?” He pushed the breakfast trolley to the bedside. “What would you like?”
“For you to stop implying things about my intimate life to other people.”
“You brought this on yourself when you called me a concubine.” Philza sat on the bed, using the trolley itself as a table. “Coffee? Bread?”
“...Just mushroom stew, please.”
Together they ate, Philza chittering about whatever came to mind while Technoblade sluggishly ladeled stew into his mouth. He had little appetite, but Philza bullied him into finishing the bowl.
“Do you want to try to go back to sleep?” Philza asked once they were finished.
“...Yeah.” Technoblade shuffled back under the covers and closed his eyes. “G’night.”
“G’night”, Philza said gently.
Technoblade let himself go slack, his breathing slow. There was a voice in the back of his head, complaining that he was a liar, that this was risky, that he’d get caught and challenged. But it was shushed by the soothing presence quietly padding around the room, the creaking of the couch, the shuffling of pages turning. Philza was there. Philza was clever and capable and unyielding. If there was something, anything, Philza would take care of it.
The day was a hazy mixture of sleep and wakefulness. Technoblade had short bouts of energy that he spent reading. Other times he simply ended up staring at the ceiling, waiting for his headache to ease up. The one constant in this waltz of vague miseries was Philza: always within earshot, always there to bring him water, to make him eat something, to place a damp towel on his fever-flushed forehead.
It was nice to be fussed over.
He sits atop his throne, gazing at the crowd gathered before him. His cape tents over him, flowing to the floor like spilled blood. His crown slips, falling from his brow over his eyes. He raises a hand to push it back up, and the tips of his hair brush against his fingers.
He swings his legs. They’re too short to reach the floor.
<My prince.>
He looks up. Standing right of the throne is a piglin woman. Her name is Dragonclaws. He might be her ward, but she will never be his mother.
<You’ve been brought a gift>, she says. <You’ll need to be grateful.>
He nods. It's better if he stays quiet.
Dragonclaws raises a hand imperiously, and beckons. The crowd parts. Something is pushed forth, something large. It towers over him, a looming presence.
It's a bird cage.
It gleams in the torchlight: crafted of solid gold. Intricate metal flowers twist around the bars, delicate in appearance, unyielding to the touch. Inside the cage sits a boy, as small as himself, hands in his lap, head bowed. Dark wings frame his form, half-open. A black blindfold covers his eyes.
<It is a pet for you, my prince>, Dragonclaws says proudly.
He pushes himself off the throne. His crown slips onto his face again. It’s his own fault it doesn’t fit well. He’s too small.
The red cape trails after him as he approaches the cage. <Why is he blindfolded?> he asks.
<It keeps birds calm. What it can’t see won't distress it>, Dragonclaws explains, like it is obvious.
That doesn’t make sense , he wants to say. The boy will know what’s happening even if he can’t see it. The boy will hear, will think, will realise. Will suffer.
He knows better than to argue. <Open the cage>, he says instead.
<Why?> asks Dragonclaws. <Can’t you see how beautiful the cage is? How peacefully it sits? The bars protect it. No one can harm it. It wants for nothing. It is happiest in the cage.>
<Open the cage>, he repeats, straining to project his tiny voice. <I command it.>
<Very well, my prince.> Her tone is amused.
The golden lock falls away. He reaches forth, opens the cage door, and reaches inside. He takes the boy by the hand, pulls him to his feet, gently guiding him out of the cage. Throughout the movements of the boy are limp and mechanical, like he is nothing but a marionette.
It must be because he can’t see , he thinks. He raises his hands, fingers brushing against wheat blond hair as he grasps the blindfold. He pulls the cloth away, revealing two sky blue buttons.
He screams . In his hands is a little doll made of cloth, with yellow yarn hair and a stitched-on smile, two empty button eyes staring at him as the head lolls limply to the side.
No, no, no- He turns his head, seeking help from the people in the crowd, from anyone. His eyes well up as he clutches the doll, willing it to turn back.
<Oh Technoblade. Look at what you’ve done.> She is beside him, looking at him disappointed. <You ruined it.>
No- I didn’t mean to-
The doll is in her hands now. She’s grown impossibly tall, out of reach.
Give him back!
<I’m going to put this away now. You clearly can’t be trusted with it.>
Tears roll down his cheeks. He stretches out towards the doll as he sobs, but it's no use. He’s just too small.
<Stop that!> she snaps. <Why do you do that!? What’s wrong with you? It’s no use, so stop it.>
But he can’t. He just can’t stop crying.
Technoblade jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest as he desperately swallowed air, face wet. “Phil-”
He pawed at the bedsheets, but the mattress beside him was cold, empty.
“Phil-!”
Philza was gone. Philza was supposed to be there, laying next to him, close enough to touch, close enough to pull into the safety of his arms, but the bed was empty and Technoblade was alone, all alone.
“...Techno?”
He snapped to attention. A weak, hoarse voice had sounded from the couch. In the dim glow from the window, Technoblade could see a head peeking over the backrest, blond hair messy, eyes unfocused.
“Is everything okay?” Philza asked sleepily, rubbing his face.
“Phil”, Technoblade sobbed with relief. He scrambled across the mattress and nearly fell off the bed. With wobbly steps, he made his way to the couch and picked up Philza in his arms. Philza yelped as he was carried off and deposited on his rightful place on the bed.
“Techno?”
Technoblade didn’t answer. He crawled back beneath the covers, pulled Philza close, and buried his face in the other’s chest.
“I shouldn’t be in the bed with you. You still have a fever”, Philza said. He made no move to push away.
Technoblade shook his head.
Philza sighed. Technoblade could feel the warm form in his arms relax.
Philza brought a hand to gently stroke Technoblade’s hair. “Did you have a nightmare?”
Technoblade nodded, forehead rubbing against Philza’s shirt. “They took you.” He drew a shaky breath, screwed his eyes shut, and held Philza closer. “They’re coming to take you.”
Fingers carded through pink hair, combing the sleep-mussed strands. “Nobody’s coming.”
“They are.” Technoblade heard his voice break. “They’re coming for you, they’ll take you away from me, and, and you’ll go with them, and I’ll never see you again- And I can’t stop them, how could I ever stop them? They’ll take you from me, and I’ll be alone again- I don’t want to be alone again-! ”
“Shh.” Philza tucked Technoblade’s head underneath his chin. “Shh, shh, shh. It was just a nightmare, Techno. It’s just a nightmare.”
It was a nightmare and it was the truth, but Technoblade was too selfish, too horrible to speak of it. All that he could do was trap the words inside his body, like a vice around his head and lead in his veins and burning coals in his chest. Technoblade knew he could never be strong enough to confess.