Chapter Text
"the undying do not sleep, only in the siren's lament does the hurricane's eye go still."
for a few moments, time was irrelevant. there was only the vast ocean before him and the moon's pallid reflection dotting amongst the waves, stained obsidian by the sky. in that sky, there were hundreds, thousands of stars, filled with the dust of creation, dream-like and unreachable by the ones who walked the paths of this place.
far away, they were corpses, fiery deaths, dazzling and bright and momentary, countless colors swirling before receding into the darkness of that brilliant sky.
like the shore receding into the waves of the sea. like the flicker of a torch receding into the darkness of an endless cave. like the snow-colored clouds receding into the stormclouds painted and stained with ebony soot. like the shine of sanity receding into the empty gaze of a man who has nothing left to lose but himself.
before they were corpses, though, they were mere tiny lights, twinkling far, far away, forever unattainable by mortals.
the grasses around him were thin and dying. he had never been exactly exceptional at keeping things alive, save for the few farms he'd once toiled mercilessly over. even then, those ones involved death, too. small deaths, exhaustion, obsession, tension, isolation, wearing himself to a shadow merely for victory. he had won, of course. what kind of war god would he be if he had not?
there was the faint swirl of green among the grasses anyways. faint life, still fighting for a chance to survive, as he did. was he fighting? what was he fighting for?
why was he fighting?
first, it had been for the sake of rebellion had it not? war comes from rebellion, from revolution. it was something he loved to instigate, something he loved to drive forward on, filling him with renewed power, renewed strength, as mortals called upon him to give them victory, give them freedom.
then, it had been for the brothers who had, however so briefly, called him "brother", too.
with them he was subdued. only allowed to blaze like a wildfire when called for, only necessary when there was conflict to be resolved. it was always quick. he had not minded it. restraint was a necessary practice in war, though it was not one he particularly assigned himself to. under their orders, he had not been an instigator. he had not been a monster, nor a blood-driven beast.
he had been a guardian.
someone to trust, someone that could protect. something that could shield. something that was more than a blade. something worth more than a god of war, something worth more than ares confined and contained in a vase left to decay, only released when there was blood to be shed.
but now, the younger one, the one that summoned him here, had spurned him.
he had not known what to do. he knew not of bonds, not of friends, not of family. not of the fierce camaraderie holding the younger one and his dearest friend in a vice grip stronger than even the sturdiest olive tree, who's roots ran centuries long, through stone and ruin and rot. the god had tried, he had, to stall. tried to hold himself in place, tried to give a chance for escape, tried, tried, tried to let it all go without strife as dark whispers drifted to his ears, as the horns of a ram stood silhouetted in the city-lights around him, the shadows edging him on to wield the crossbow he forged, how it burned comfortingly in his hands--
but the scent of ash and gunpowder in the air was compelling, and he was never all that good at restraint.
how beautiful the firework lights were, flashing in the sky, countless nameless colors, blinding, drowning out the faint light of those far away stars, drowning out the stars in the eyes of the living, drowning out that false belief that the stars had ever been there for him.
silently, he let his cool fingertips drag down his face, ice stinging at his own touch, holding the pig's mask in his other hand.
how cold he was, he realized. the reason he so instinctively craved blood, flame, smoke... was it because those things could warm him, however briefly? was it because, as his attributes, those things always warmed him longer than mortal tranquility ever would, because he was a god?
unlucky. gods were meant to be lonely. to be a god of isolation only worsened that.
the night breeze was cold, too. a crisp autumn night, backlit by torches and campfires and the moon. his crown, adorned of shimmering gold and jewels that had no value other than that they were his, glinting from the light sources. his cape, dark scarlet, the color he was so familiar with, lined with fur that had become darker in his time here.
he lifted his hand in front of him, holding it out and stretching his fingers apart. these hands that could wield any weapon that held them, these hands that reaped flickering nightlights with vigor. the moon shone between the gaps of his fingers, light sinking into the thin divets on his hand, scars from the untold number of battles he had carved through with whatever blade was within his reach. he clenched his hand in a fist around the moon, before he released it. it had done much for him, over this eternity unknowing. it had made the ebb and flow of the sea before him, let the blood wash away in waters that could conceal all injury to anything that dared to try and claw apart his inner pieces, while the salt within it all made the wounds etched upon his form flare like an explosion.
soundlessly, he took his crown off his head for a moment and ran his hand through his hair, letting the ribbon holding it in a high ponytail come loose and tangle in his fingers, strands the color of playful hyacinths flowing in the breeze, impairing his vision.
footsteps rustled slow in the grass behind him, his ears picking up the soft echo from the cave before it faded in the clearing on the cliff-side. he had picked up on the change of those footsteps as time went by. at first they had been noisy, rushed, excited and angry. now, they were careful, as if though walking on thin ice, afraid to set anything off; though the only thing that could be set off was the maker of those footsteps himself.
there was only one other person within this place that did not tarnish his name, had still gladly praised it so as long as it still craved chaos, despite calling him "traitor".
there was never a time he had refused chaos.
he wondered, if the other only had not refused him because he was a weapon. a weapon is only as dangerous as its wielder, after all.
he could sense it though, the weight that made the cold air run sparks along his arm. the aura of a plea on a tongue that hesitated to speak; the hesitation should have gone in those fireworks, but it seemed there were still traces.
there's a baited breath behind him, cautious to break the fragile, natural silence that so often held the god now.
"...techno."
he made no response for a moment, noting the hollow and lifeless lilt to the other's tone, before silently moving to press the mask back to his face before the other could view it, before the other could try to pry into the mind of a god. a shift of his neck, and he opened his mouth to speak against that weight in the air, sending ripples through the silence, yet not enough to shatter its atmosphere.
well, for a god of as many attributes as he was, quiet calm wasn't going to last forever. he didn't think that it ever would do that, even if it could. the world was cruel, as was he.
"...hey, wilbur."
a stare settled on the back of his head, eyeing without daring to move for a long while. he did not shift under it, though to be looked upon for so long made his palms itch.
"...your hair is down," the man murmured, more footsteps rustling through the grass as he drew closer to the god, always evaluating, always cunning, always scheming, though that trait was much easier to see in recent times. he huffed in response, stretching his neck to the side and lifting his arms to do the same, feeling the air wrap his form, icy whispers drifting around them.
"thought i'd let the wind brush at it a bit," he mused, voice rolling a bit low. ah, he hadn't spoken to anyone in awhile, "and it's a nice night out for once."
for once, the heavy scent of destruction was absent in the night.
"do gods usually care for nice nights as you do?" the other's voice was ever so slightly mocking, as he seated himself beside the god, leaning back and propping himself on the palms of his hand.
he looked over, eyes narrowed.
it was rare that a mortal looked more exhausted than he did.
wilbur was pale, skin spattered in cinders and soil, decorating along his oak-colored coat. the ends had begun to fray, splashed with old crimson from when he walked through the red-sea streets of that city, from after the god had painted it so. the bags beneath his eyes were darker, deeper than when they had met, almost the color of bruises upon him, or was that the falling ash that followed him like a haunting spirit, now? his loosely-coiled hair seemed duller in color, too, hairs strewn about and framing his wan features. he seemed more sunken, too. the god had made sure that there was always a food supply within their halls-- had the other avoided eating?
was that weariness his fault, too? that he drove all mortals around him to worn husks of what they once were in exchange for the madness to work themself to death for the ideals they desired? wasn't he the one who had gathered more storm clouds to let the other grow wild into a hurricane of a human being?
wilbur's gaze was trained on the moon's reflection over the midnight waters.
"maybe," the god remembered to respond, "it's not often a god of war gets to relax, you know," he hummed quietly, sitting up a bit straighter with the other beside him.
"you look tired," he added on, a bit softer.
he told them he was a god of war, which was not a lie. but it left out all the little specifics that had added upon each other. wilbur gave a snort, a brief flash of the cheerfulness lost in the whirlwind returning. he hadn't seen the other genuinely happy in what felt like ages, yet he knew it was shorter than the eternity he had existed alongside mankind.
"no shit, techno. i don't think 've slept well since i was, you know, exiled."
the god gave a chuckle, letting his eyes fall shut and letting his posture relax just a little. it was nice, to fall back into the calm conversations, pretending as if though their bond hadn't changed from when they first met, pretending they were brothers in arms, and not a man who believed the god he depended on had betrayed him.
"i'd tell ya to rest more," soft sigh. "but that'd sound pretty hypocritical for a god who never sleeps, huh?"
there was a pause. the winds grew stronger, the whispers a bit more noticeable.
before the other's voice was possessed by that hollow lifelessness.
"aren't all gods hypocritical?"
the glint in the other's eyes was like the glint on a polished skull. unsettling. inhuman. it was strange to see it in a mortal, so clearly, too. he took a sharp breath in silence.
"the god of dreams and creation wrecked my own," the other spoke slowly, carefully, testing the waters of his words, his tone almost frighteningly flat, even, "then gave me the equipment necessary to destroy them permanently myself."
thankfully, he was looking over the sea still, and not at--
"...and the god of war and betrayal is my only ally."
he gripped his hand on his cape, fist clenching on the velvet fabric, keeping his vision tracked nervously on all of the other's limbs, other's digits, should he too-swiftly bring a weapon into his hand, should he move too suddenly, too sharply, too quickly. wilbur looked over at him, movement too slow and delayed to be normal, with a pair of wide eyes, abyssal like the entrance to the underworld, like the stone halls of the cavern they still resided in. the other's irises had swirled with carmine, an eerie mirror of his own.
the red gaze of a being filled with madness, but--
"wilbur--" he tried--
"techno," the other cut off, with little regard for whatever comment he would have made anyways, "didn't you mention once that you're a god of death?"
his voice died in his throat as the man lowered his head, soft brown locks covering those empty eyes, silently moving to take off the maroon-colored beanie on his head, holding it in black-gloved, shaking hands, shoulders hunched with a fragile posture.
"would you have been there to... whatever it is death gods do when someone dies, if i had... blown up with... manberg?"
there was a slight struggle in saying the name of the city that no longer belonged to him. distantly, the god heard the faint sound of ice fracturing over the sea, losing itself in the waters and being consumed by an ocean stained black and red by an endless night and the death of--
"would you have... been happy, to see a mortal like me, gone?"
the other exhaled, his breath going misty in the cold, speaking again, the soft undertone of regret had wormed its way back into the other's voice once more, of hesitation. to be truthful, the god knew not whether to be relieved or disappointed in that. it was like walking on a tightrope, and falling down either side spelled nothing but devastation.
the god merely blinked slowly.
"...don't... a-answer that," wilbur spoke again, voice quiet and brittle and so, so frail, like shards of glass scattered about the floor of a church, "please don't answer that, techno, it was... just me wording my thoughts," he repeated, a bit more firmly, again stripping the emotion out of his wavering chords, not daring to lift his head and meet the god's gaze, letting his humanity flow slow and cold. the god's chest felt tight, felt the muscles in his neck tense up as he gave the slight dip of his head as a response. on one hand, if the other had caused the explosion, the surge of absolute carnage that would follow would have only further served to let his attributes run wild. an event of that magnitude; an event of that scale, it would have been beautiful. he can almost imagine the flames running over his hands, the bright, violent sparks lighting the sky, a sun upon the earth, a dying star right there for all of them to see, and he would have relished in the warmth of it all, however fleeting, however temporary, it would have been the closest he had ever been to seeing a star's death.
on the other hand, the man beside him had held the fuse of all that dynamite, and burned his fingertips on every single one to stop it.
to stop himself from being the star that died.
silently, the god placed a hand delicately on the other's shoulder. there was a light flinch, before the other leaned into it. carefully, he reached a little more, and wilbur breathed in weary defeat as he let his head sink slowly, into the ashen-snow white furs of the cape the god wore, resting on the god's shoulder. he shifted a little, to move the fabric of crimson around the other's shoulders, gently surrounding them both in it, and the mortal's shaking hands went to grasp it and tug it around himself, taking in shaky breath after breath and letting his eyelids fall shut. they stayed like that for awhile, both cold in the fallen night, but eventually the sting of icy winds faded in the frail solace of a cape weaved in blood. this was familiar. he had thought the other had let vulnerability burn in the fires of retribution, and yet... mortal lives had always been so easy to shatter.
he was supposed to be a god of chaos, he knew, but this was... he wondered how long he could stay in the eye of the storm, rather than moving like a whiplash in its winds. the waves of the sea were volatile in nature, but for a moment, they were still.
his hand reached to take off his mask again, careful not to disturb the other on his shoulder. cautiously, he smoothed out some of the hairs on the other's face, letting his fingers catch lightly on the dark-hazel strands, training his gaze on the almost-unnatural expression of calm upon the other's face, before turning his gaze back to the last kindnesses of nature left to him. perhaps--
the weakness of insanity was family, and that was why the younger brother had clung so vividly to the concept of nebulous, ephemeral hope.
he was supposed to be a god of madness, too, but he wondered what kind, exactly.
there was only the concealing nature of the pitch-black ocean before him, and the moon still glimmering its mirror image on the waters; the stars framing its lonely travel across the sky.