Chapter Text
The journey through the Nether wastes was quiet. The portal had been set up further from any civilization, it seemed. Smart. The piglin king had left about half of his soldiers and a few generals to get the spoils of the raid into the Nether, and sent some rider on a small hoglin ahead with orders Philza didn't understand. Then a small convoy consisting of the rest of the army, hoglins loaded with crates, the piglin king, and Philza himself set off. Technoblade rode a large hoglin, a well-cared-for steed by Philza’s estimate. He had fully expected the piglin king to make him walk while he himself rode, but as the two of them came to the hoglin, Technoblade simply picked Philza up with the ease a child would pick up a toy, and placed him side-saddle on his steed. He then got on as well, sitting in front of Philza, and clicked his tongue to get the animal to move.
The slow sway of the hoglin was soothing, even if Philza didn’t particularly enjoy having his arm pressed against the back of his captor’s armour. He did his best to relax, to get the most he could out of this small rest. Philza tried to memorise the path and the landmarks as they travelled. He would have to find his way back to the portal if he wanted to escape.
The bleeding on his side had stopped at some point. Philza ruffled his wings, just a little, and the angry aching flared into screeching pain that made him wince. Flying on an already injured wing had taken its toll. He should not agitate it any further. He was fairly sure no bones had broken, but he would still be grounded for over a week, probably two, while it healed.
Two weeks to learn his way around the piglin king’s castle, map out poorly guarded spots, get a flint and steel as Technoblade would be smart enough to break the portal once they were done with looting. Rations, water? He might have to hide, but it was unlikely. He’d just fly to the portal, light it, and break it once he was on the other side.
His thoughts wandered. How many days for Wilbur, Tommy, and Tubbo to get back to the safety of the Capital? How many days until the heads of the nation gave up on Philza and picked a new emperor? Wilbur was still much too young to be crowned (one of the few laws Philza had dictatorially instituted was that nobody under twenty-one could be made ruler of the nation). The empire would have to survive with a regent for a while. The royal family was still a figurehead, so Wilbur was likely to end up with a lot of public speaking, but he wouldn't be burneded with true rulership. Besides, Philza had hand-picked his council. They were all smart, capable people. His nation would be fine without him-
...He should stop thinking like he wasn’t going to return. He would. Maybe not in two weeks, but he’d return. He’d be damned if he couldn't be there to see his sons grow.
After a while, Philza began to see signs of civilization. Mostly what looked like guard posts, small lookout towers manned with archers, and eventually the red netherrack switched to a road paved with basalt. The road led towards a huge blackstone building that loomed over what Philza realised was a castle town. He could see some kind of market, and a lot of piglins who didn’t look like soldiers. He even spotted a few kids running around.
“Is that your castle?” he asked.
“Mmh. I suppose so. Though I’ve always called it a bastion. It’s not exactly what an overworlder would describe as a palace”, Technoblade answered. “It’s defendable rather than pretty.”
People were starting to gather as the convoy appreached. The piglin king gave his generals a few orders (Philza was able to recognize the tone even if he didn't understand the language), then spurred the hoglin to a trot. Philza was quietly happy about the faster pace; people were staring but at least they didn't have the chance to do it for long.
They rode through a gate, the castle town separated from a larger, empty area with a bit of land and a stone wall. A handful of people were milling around, mostly soldiers. Philza noticed some training dummies that had been shoved to the side, along with weapon shacks and a rudimentary blacksmiths. The courtyard was probably some sort of training area, or for some other military purpose. Right now, there was a wooden stage by the wall of the bastion, and a closed-off tent.
Technoblade rode to the tent, and dismounted his hoglin. “Down”, he ordered, and Philza slid off the saddle as well. The piglin king gave the reins of the steed to some young-looking soldier with a short command, and led Philza into the tent by the rope that still tied his wrists together. Inside were a few chairs and a table with a bag on it, and a couple piglins who looked high-ranking ushered to greet their king with bows. One of them handed him a paper.
Technoblade sighed, rolling his shoulders.
“There is a ceremony we have to do. It’s going to be… unpleasant.” He untied the rope from Philza’s hands. “Take off your armour, sheathe, boots, socks, and coats. And the hat.”
Philza didn’t argue. He only had chainmail - anything more was too heavy to fly with - and his sword he’d dropped in the snowy field when he’d surrendered. He shrugged off his overcoat, which was quite torn and dirty, and his long sleeve that had not fared much better. The two piglin attendants took his items as soon as he took them off, snatching them from his hands. He was left with a short-sleeved shirt and trousers. The many layers necessary in the cold had been getting unpleasant in the dry heat of the Nether, but amidst enemies, being thoroughly covered had felt comforting.
While Philza shed his gear, Technoblade studied the paper he’d been given intently, muttering words under his breath over and over.
“Don’t freak out, but I do have a knife in both my boots”, Philza admitted.
Technoblade perked up. Philza couldn’t see the other’s face, but the tone of voice was incredulous. “You’ve had a knife this whole time?”
“Two knives”, Philza corrected cheerfully, pulling them both out and handing them, handle first, to Technoblade. The attendants began to chatter furiously in Piglin, until Technoblade snapped something at them. One attendant stepped forth and patted Philza down, glaring at him the whole time.
“I’m not dumb enough to try and stab a king surrounded by his army, but you didn’t have anyone search me either”, Philza said, holding back a grin as he sat down and took off his boots. “Why do I need to be barefoot?”
“It’s more demeaning”, the piglin king said evenly. He sighed as Philza stopped to stare at him. “The ceremony is supposed to be humiliating. The whole point is to show off that I was able to... claim you.”
Prisoner, slave, and personal servant, echoed in Philza’s mind.
“This ceremony- What am I supposed to do?” he asked hesitantly.
“As you’re told”, came the blunt answer. “Just stay quiet and try to bear with it.”
Technoblade turned to the bag on the table. While he wasn't looking, Philza tried to quickly sneak his hat into his shirt, but one of the attendants yanked it from his hands.
“Oh come on. My hat? Really? ”
The attendant paid him no mind. Philza grit his teeth, but stayed quiet. Maybe it was silly to be attached to a hat of all things, but it had been a gift from his children.
The noise coming from outside the tent had gotten louder, Philza noticed. More voices talking over each other, more grunts and snorts. A growing crowd.
“Hands behind your back”, Technoblade commanded. He’d pulled out golden chains: handcuffs that connected to a collar.
Philza pursed his lips together, but didn’t say anything. He turned his back and let Technoblade cuff him, and put the collar around his neck. His hands were held a little too high to be comfortable, and he could feel the metal links pressing along his back, trailing between his wings.
“...I hadn’t realised how long your hair is”, Technoblade said quietly. Philza’s braid went just past his shoulder blades; he had noticed Technoblade manoeuvring around it so that Philza’s hair didn’t get caught in the chains.
“A shame, really.”
Philza didn’t have the chance to ask Technoblade what he meant before a young soldier opened the tent flap, saying something in Piglin.
“Time to go”, Technoblade said, and took Philza by the arm, pulling him along, out of the tent.
The light felt bright, and the crowd erupted into rowdy cheers as the piglin king roughly dragged him onto the stage. The mass of people filling the courtyard was mostly soldiers and commanders, with some finely dressed piglins near the front. Nobles, Philza assumed.
Technoblade raised his arms as he shouted a cheerful greeting, earning more loud jubilations.
“Kneel.” Technoblade’s voice was so quiet Philza almost missed it. Philza carefully lowered himself onto the hard wood, legs folded under himself, head down, wings tucked close to his back. He heard some derisive hollering and whistling among the noise of the crowd.
Philza drew a deep breath through his nose, held it for a moment, and let the air blow out his mouth. He tried to tune out the hot stinging of shame on his cheeks at being put on display like a trophy, and ignore the voices from the audience. Instead, he focused on observing Technoblade from the corner of his eye.
Technoblade raised his hand, balled into a fist, and the crowd quieted. He began to speak. Philza couldn't understand the words, but he was fairly certain this was the usual ‘we won, good job everybody’ military speech. He’d heard many, hell, he’d given more than a few of his own. You all fought so well, how strong and brave you are, then a sombre dip in honour of the lives lost followed by something happier in hopes the soldiers wouldn't wallow on their fallen comrades too much, pause for cheers.
Then, the tone changed. Technoblade began to speak like he was weaving a story, gesturing his hands with an animated voice, and the spectators stood in rapt attention. He drew his sword, pointing it almost lazily at Philza. Peeking from under the skull mask, Philza could see a wicked grin fitting any apex predator. As the piglin king stalked towards him, Philza was suddenly reminded that the man next to him was called the Blood God .
Once again, the tip of the netherite sword was brought to rest under his chin and tilt his head up as the Blood God spoke to him. Insults and derision, Philza knew for sure, as their audience began to jeer. Philza grit his teeth and breathed through his nose. His throat was exposed to the crowd, and he hated it.
The piglin king leaned closer, and spoke in a whisper. “When you hear your name in a moment, bow .”
Without waiting for a response, he began to speak, and the crowd went perfectly silent. He was clearly reciting something, four sentences spoken rhythmically and clearly. At the midpoint of the last of the lines, Philza picked out his name among the grunted pigling language. With slow and deliberate movement, he tucked his chin against his chest and lowered himself to a bow.
He could feel the eyes of the onlookers on him, each of them silent, in rapt attention. He wished he knew what the piglin king had said. It had to be something formal, the tone making Philza think of funeral rites, or wedding vows.
Without warning, the Blood God grabbed him by the hair, just below the base of his braid, and yanked . Philza cried out, the pull nearly enough to lift him up. A loud snikt , and his weight dropped back onto the harsh wood of the stage. Loose strands of blond hair spilled into his field of vision, tickling his face. The crowd erupted into thunderous cheers; The Blood God stood beside him, sword in one hand, Philza’s severed braid in the other, triumphantly lifting the blond hair skywards.
His hair.
Philza squeezed his eyes shut. Breathe . In and out, in and out. It was just hair. Just hair.
When he opened his eyes, the Blood God was gesturing with the braid in his hand, taunting him. He stroked the hair gently, like one would a soft silk scarf, as he asked something in a condescending tone. Philza swallowed down a primal urge to snarl . Finally, the braid was discarded, tossed to one of the attendants off to the side with some remark.
Someone from the crowd shouted something, and whatever it was, it was met with loud support, others calling out the same words. The Blood God raised his hand balled into a fist again, and the crowd calmed down. He stepped behind Philza, and leaned down.
“Spread your wings.” The voice by his ear was so, so quiet.
“ What? No-” Philza didn’t dare raise his voice above a breath.
A hand gripped his hair, the harsh pull a clear threat. “If you won’t, I will.”
Philza swallowed. He balled his hands into fists, hard enough for his nails to bite into his skin, and fixed his eyes on the wood beneath him. Reluctantly, with slow, deliberate movements, he unfolded his wings. One he could spread to full wing-span, the injured one he held only mostly open.
The crowd went wild, screaming and cheering. Someone called out, and began a chant. It quickly grew raucous as others joined in, rhythmic words shouted over and over.
Clicking of boots against the wood, a hand on his wing gripping around the bone, another digging into his feathers, and Philza froze .
He couldn't move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn't see couldn't hear couldn’t think, there was touch, foreign unwanted dangerous touch, on his wings, his wings , his most sacred, and he was chained and frozen and couldn't move couldn't stop it he was helpless helpless helpless-
A harsh kick hit his side and he slammed into the wood, air knocked out of his lungs, the piglins laughing as he crumpled on the stage. He jerked his wings shut and pinned them against his back. The Blood God could threaten him all he wanted but Philza would not expose his wings again.
Some in the crowd were calling out, disappointed. The piglin king tutted and scolded them in a sing-song voice. Philza struggled back upright, into a position on his knees. The Blood God continued in the same darkly lighthearted tone as he leered at Philza, and whatever he said made the crowd snicker, drawing out a few hollers. He crouched down to Philza, touching his cheek with the back of his hand in a facsimile of a caress, cooing at him mockingly.
“Get your hands off me”, Philza hissed. The Blood God patted his cheek as he said something patronising. Then he finally stood up and stepped back.
The pigling king spoke some more in that light, joking manner. Philza was trying to settle a little more comfortably on the stage, when a single word mid-sentence caught his attention. The piglin language was gruff and guttural, consisting of short grunts and snorts, but the word he’d picked up on was lengthy and toneful, and more than anything, familiar . Philza was sure it was a loanword from the overworld tongue, it sounded like-
Philza suddenly felt like an icy hand was constricting his throat. The snickering, the cooing, the touch on his face-
The Blood God had just called him a concubine.
Philza could feel panic starting to rise. Prisoner, slave, and personal servant . He wasn't sure what he’d been expecting, but he’d never imagined the Blood God would want- That he’d be forced to-
He needed to escape. Not in two weeks. Now .
The Blood God finished his speech to the sounds of rowdy cheers and applause, and Philza was again grabbed by the arm and dragged away, off the stage and into the dark maw of the bastion.