Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You done fucked up, mate.  

The thought applied to both his captor and to himself, he realised as the gag was pulled between his bloodied teeth. 

He’d bitten the hand that had tried to tilt his head about in some display of power or mockery, a gesture he’d been privy to perhaps one too many times. Captive, then freed, then captive, then free again. Sometimes by his own hand, sometimes by allies, sometimes by sheer luck alone. 

It was getting tiresome. 

Sure, the last time he’d been trussed up and dumped in the back of a wagon or rowboat had been what, fifty? Sixty years ago? Gods had it been that long since they’d been to war? 

That must’ve been it then, he reasoned. He’d grown soft. 

Lazy. 

Inattentive. 

Cocky. 

No, scratch that, he’d always been a bit cocky. A bit too confident in himself. It was, afterall, how he’d gotten himself into these messes back in the days. Spitting in the face of authority, a mocking gesture to some slaver, a sarcastic quip to the wrong person at the right time and that was it. If he wasn’t already clapped in irons then he would be at that point, locked away in some dingy cesspit of a dungeon, or worse, a cage to be paraded around like some canary. 

But this time wasn’t from some ill timed bit of snark. 

This time wasn’t because he was being stubborn or stupid or just a bit too much of a smart-ass. 

This time, he didn’t fully know what had caused this. 

However…

It had been about three weeks ago, Philza thought, that he could pinpoint the direct action that had led him to his current predicament. 

_______

“I won’t be gone more than three months, Tech, promise!” he practically wilted in emphasis, drooping his ears and wings like some whining dog. Half of it was just because he knew it annoyed, albeit playfully, his political partner. Half of it was…because he genuinely was getting desperate. And he was never above being a little whiny now and then if it meant he could get his way. 

“I’ve put together another set of hypotheses!” He tried to explain himself once more. “I have to at least try to get her out, what good of a partner would I be if I didn’t attempt?” 

“I’m sure she would appreciate you being alive far more than another possible wayward science project.” Techno, having busied himself all day with reviewing yet another security meeting and the subsequent paper readings and signings, rubbed his eyes. 

Philza groaned, slumping against the grand desk the pink haired man sat at. Or more, curled like a shrimp at. With one knee tucked against his chest and the other leg currently tapping a hoofed toe against the bearskin rug of the study. While a pair of thick reading glasses appeared as though they were about to fall off his nose, he looked nothing like the grand Emperor that legends so often painted him as. 

Of course, when one has ruled a nation that hadn’t been at war or suffering any major economic, infrastructural, or health crisis for the past fifty ish years, one could probably afford to look a little ‘shrimpy’ while signing off on security documents. 

Especially when said documents, and earlier meetings, had seemingly arrived out of nowhere. 

Of course, Phil knew they hadn’t, both the Emperors had seen the growing signs of conflict outside their borders over the past few years. But as time so often does when one is so long lived, it felt more like a few weeks rather than years. 

It was…concerning. 

The Antarctic Empire had been founded on blood some six hundred years prior, a group of rebel fools had simply camped out long enough on the edges of the south pole’s frigid continent and had defended it viciously over the next couple of years as the camp grew in number. When it was finally large enough to be considered a threat was when they had discovered the one tipping point in the war of independence against the southern nations. 

Redstone. 

In a world where power could only be attained by mages privy to education, ships capable of rowing or sail, and cavalry, all of which costing massive amounts of funds to even keep alive and functioning during wartime, the mere notion of an alternative power source was a miracle at best. And with enough technicians and scientists and foolhardy idiots who were desperate enough, that small colony soon learned how to mine, refine, and harness the magical potency of that carmine stone. With a much younger Techno’s strategy and an equally determined Philza, the nation became independent and self-sufficient. Becoming the main exporter of Redstone to the other countries had certainly benefited, but it had been the cooperation of the various tribes of people who had all come to call the Antarctic their home that had truly led to their independence and success for the next five hundred years. 

The point being that Philza and Techno had endured many an attempt to annex their nation, endured numerous plagues and famines and internal strife within their borders. And each time, they’d succeeded at maintaining peace. More importantly, over the many years of their rule, they’d convinced the other surrounding nations that the Empire was not one to be fucked with. For lack of a better term. 

And so, the sudden call of a security meeting had left the two Emperors more than a little shaken. 

Techno, as much as his reputation of a bloodthirsty warrior preceded him, was never one to jump head first into a fight. 

“The best way to win a war is not to engage in war at all.” he’d said. “Once one has declared war, both sides, no matter the outcome, will lose. Be it supplies, land, or life, the cost of war is to lose. Even if legally speaking you have won.” 

Ever the strategist . Phil had thought as they had listened to the various speakers. Generals of the border regions militaries, Scouts and Spies within the neighbouring countries, all of them had voiced their findings and concerns. 

A power vacuum, Phil had learned, had occurred. 

The President of one of the Tymarian Republic, a nation known for their discovery of diesel fuels and engineering productions, as well as their constant butting of heads with their neighbours, had been assassinated. The country had been split with the initial founding of the Presidency, with half refusing to acknowledge the new leader and the other insisting on the abolishment of the old. The assassination had only exacerbated the issue and now the two sides were pointing fingers, claiming their new leaders, and rallying their allies and supply chains in assumption of the worst. 

And the Empire had received offers, and threats, from both sides. 

It was not a decision to be made lightly, Phil knew that. 

But it really could not have come at the worst time! 

“If I don’t go now the conditions to attempt to meet and free her won’t happen again for another hundred years.” he’d explained. His previous whining had been replaced with a more serious tone by then.

Kristin’s imprisonment, as much as he would like to use it as an excuse to annoy Techno and avoid some of the lesser duties of being Emperor, was still of delicate importance. To both him and the Empire. 

As little as she had been able to divulge of her situation, part of her curse keeping her unable to speak the whole truth, Philza wasn’t stupid enough to not know of her importance to the Empire. Any person locked away on a magical island that only appeared under certain circumstances would be cause for suspicion. Why were they locked away? Why was the island so fickle in its timed appearances? She certainly was no ordinary person from that alone, and what magic he had seen her using led him to believe it was no coincidence she’d been locked up. 

And considering some of the more annoying aspects of being co-emperor were that some of the neighbouring nations were seeking alliances of marriage, a prospect neither Emperor was really willing to partake in for various reasons, finally nipping that option in the bud by tying the knot with his elusive partner would be a bare minimum benefit for the Empire when it came to freeing her. At the very least, Kristin was an exceptional magic user the likes of which the Empire hadn’t seen in decades, even without Phil having been head over heels for her these past hundred years she would still prove to be a powerful ally. 

If freed. 

It wasn’t just because Philza was desperate to try and release her from her prison that he had wanted to go on this expedition. With the state of things as they were, any alliances they could make that could further reduce any threat of war would be a boon. 

There was just one problem.

“I’m aware.” Techno brushed a lock of hair away from his face, scratching out another signature on a document. 

A document allowing for the reinforcements of the coastal guard, Phil had already read it. Already signed off on it. 

The New Tymarian Republic, or Dictat honestly, had begun to prod against the Empire’s borders. 

Scouts and fishermen had noted the appearance of iron warships, churning out black smoke along the horizon. Toeing just up to the edges of the currents that marked the borders of the Empire’s waters and the Neutral Zone, they seemed to be testing the borders. 

Why, though, was still a question that couldn’t be answered. 

Radio to the ships led to silence and envoys to the Republic were met with hostility and a refusal to respond. 

Invasion was whispered amongst the coastal towns and ports. 

And had finally reached the ears of the Emperors that morning during their security meeting. 

It had been agreed upon that the coastline’s defences should be reinforced at once, that no aggressive manoeuvres be made just yet but to assume that an invasion would be attempted. As stupid of an idea that would be, considering the Empire was far larger, far more equipped, and far more hostile in just its landscape and weather alone than the Republic, it was never a bad idea to assume the worst. 

Mediocre men who believe they are great are some of the most dangerous leaders. Techno had said once. They’ll destroy their nation attempting to prove how great they are and leave any country they invade filled with their own empty fuel tanks and confused, starving soldiers running in circles to hold a line that stopped existing months ago.  

Knowing the current power vacuum of the Republic, it wasn’t entirely out of the question that some foolhardy leader would want to seize the opportunity to prove themselves to their voters. Or benefactors. 

“If they meet the conditions, however,” Philza was surprised at Techno’s sudden counter. “And they find Kristin first, what then?” 

The man removed his glasses, folding them carefully as he set them atop the paper he had just signed. The gold ink was still glittering as it dried. The Empirical seal had yet to be stamped. 

“She might be safe where she is, they might not be able to replicate the same conditions to find her, assuming they’ve not left people behind to monitor her and report back via radio.” Techno fidgeted with the ends of his braid, a ridiculously long and multi-layered symbol of his time at peace. Something he’d grown proudly over the past fifty years. 

Philza had tried to replicate the tradition himself but to a lesser degree, realising he’d have to keep his own braid no longer than mid back to keep it from tangling in his wings. 

“Oh…Oh I don’t like that idea one bit Tech,” he scowled at the thought of his Kristin being under surveillance for who knew what purpose. “You’re making my goal of freeing her sooner rather than later seem far more appealing right about now.” 

He watched as his co-emperor picked at the edges of his pink hair. 

“You see my dilemma then?” Techno quirked a brow. “I risk my political partner getting himself in trouble or I risk a potentially powerful asset to the Empire getting captured by our potential enemy.” 

“Oi you talk about Kris like she’s a weapon and not just a person.” Philza rolled his eyes. 

“That is not my intent and you know that.” Techno flicked the man’s forehead. “I am, however, trying to be a good friend and find you an excuse to go see your lady.” 

“Aw aren’t you chivalrous!” Phil chirped, rubbing at his forehead. 

“Chivalry has nothing to do with letting you go be an idiot.” 

And much to Philza’s surprise, and his later regret, Techno had allowed him one chance to attempt to find Kristin’s island. 

Operation Circe, it was called. 

He would venture out alone to reduce suspicion, no announcement would be made of his absence from the court except to the trusted few. He would fly the universal colours of a fisherman, wear only the Empirical Blues while within the Empire’s waters and immediately hide them once in the Neutral Zone. He would radio back to Techno each hour a status report from his ship’s coms. If he was to leave the ship for any reason, he was to take his earring and his wrist communicator with him and keep his Blues hidden unless they were needed for proof of alliance should he encounter an ally undercover. 

He was not to stay longer than a week in the Neutral Zone. 

He was to return immediately if the conditions to find the island were not met.

Or if the Tymarian Republic declared war. 

He’d done everything according to the plan. 

He’d done everything right. 

But…as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. 

He’d seen one of the rocky islands just along the border of the Neutral Zone, nothing out of the ordinary, there were many islands sparsely covered with short pine trees and the odd flock of southern seabirds nesting. But it was that odd glint of light that had caught his eye. That shimmer of something metallic that should not be there. 

He’d radioed in the anomaly before dropping anchor some ways off the coastline of the island and had flown out to investigate. 

And then- 

______________

Bullets, they had to have been bullets, he reasoned. But they’d been so fast, he’d not heard of anything being able to shoot that quickly. That repeatedly. 

Three wounds, he counted. A bullet to the base of his wing, another to his shoulder, effectively immobilising both limbs. No doubt the exact wounds that had sent him spiralling from the air and crashing into the bundle of pines at the centre of the island. Which of course led to cracked ribs, a broken arm, something wrong with his leg…

Philza choked as blood stained the gag from a strangled cough. 

Oh that’s not good ….he continued to cough as the grey clad soldiers realised their captive was no longer fighting, instead curling his head back to try and free his windpipe from whatever was strangling him- 

A hand wrenched the gag from his mouth and he found he was being carried as voices shouted to one another. 

He recognised the language as Tymar.

He did not recognise the words.

The world was flickering red as whoever carried him began to run. 

He bit at them, his arms bound painfully behind his back, locking his wings in place, he could only fight them with his teeth. Not that it was helping matters. Not that he really could do any damage to them. It was instinctive at this point, some primal, buried piece of him still trying to free itself from the bonds in the only way it knew how. 

He squirmed, hissing as he felt himself being placed into a boat. Something small with a motor, he judged from the awful growling sound it made before it sped off into the water. 

Hands continued to hold him pinned as he kicked at his captors, spitting blood that pooled in his throat from some wound…oh gods had his lung been punctured?! He’d counted three bullet holes earlier but…where was the third- 

He screamed as a hand pressed something against the wound in his shoulder, as another pair of hands undid the front of his shirt, as someone commented on the Empirical Blues, as more hands began to dig into the wound between his cracked ribs, as a needle stuck his arm and injected- 

….needles pierced his veins, injecting some fluid he would never know the purpose of, hands gripped him tight, digging bruises into his skin as he bit and screeched, no longer a person, no longer a man, but a thing that snapped and hissed and fluffed its feathers as mages walked past its cage day in and day out, no longer a being of flesh and bone and consciousness, but a thing, an experiment, a corpse that just so happened to still be breathing as it was torn apart and pieced back together again and again and again and again…  

-”....can’t….sir….” 

The needle was removed, though he could still feel the chill relief from the pain as it flooded slowly through his system. 

“...sir I can’t….” 

It still hurt, his wounds burned and his vision flickered with red as he hissed at the voice beside him. 

“Can’t help…need you to…” 

The language was different, not Tymar… but he recognised it, he knew the words. Now that the pain was dulling, he could actually make sense of what was being said. 

He dared to pry his eyes open, to see the mess he had just gotten himself into- 

A pair of tired green eyes hidden under layers of a grey, winter uniform, stared at him. Within their hands was the empty syringe being dropped into a canister as they retrieved a scalpel and forceps. 

Around him, some holding guns and others keeping him pinned, were similarly clad soldiers. 

All still in the boat, he realised with a wince as they hit a particularly rough patch of water. 

Philza coughed once more, painting the hands of one of the soldiers red as he did. 

He took a vague bit of delight in watching the soldier flinch from the blood. 

Serves you right, fuckin shot me.  

Gods, he tried to look at himself, just how bad was it-

Bad! Very bad! He clenched his eyes shut at the site of the bloodied mess that was his chest. 

He immediately knew why he was coughing blood…

“Sir.” the green eyed man spoke once more, Pageish he realised. “I can’t help you if you keep fighting, do you understand?” 

Philza tried his best to nod, to speak a quick acknowledgment, all he managed was a shaky thumbs up. 

It got the point across at least. 

“Alright, so long as you don’t bite anyone again I will do my best to help you.” the green eyed man assured him. 

And while whatever he’d been injected with had certainly numbed the worst of it, the pain that pierced straight through to his skull from the forceps being buried into his chest left him stranded in a world of white. And silence.

Chapter Text

Philza woke to the sound of an engine. 

Low and deep and rattling a pin somewhere, it was jogging something attached to him, pinching into the back of his hand. 

Slowly, he let his eyes focus on the ceiling of the room as he came to. Noting the dull grey panelling that indicated he was in an iron warship. He’d…he’d been taken captive. He must have been. 

 He scanned to his left. 

A wall, metal of course, and bars of a medical bed buckled tight to said wall to keep the bed from sliding about in harsh weather. There was a clipboard with a chart hanging from a pin, a language he was familiar with but hadn’t read in awhile. Something about blood transfusion? 

He scanned to his right. 

A room. 

Small, compact, it looked as if it had been retrofitted to accommodate the medical equipment within it. His bed of course. But also a small shelf-cupboard and table, a sink with no mirror, a tiny window near the ceiling he couldn’t begin to hope crawling out of if he ever did break the glass. And a door. With no visible lock or handle on the inside. 

And the IV drip that hung above his head, leading down to where it connected to his hand. 

Fun. He sighed, exhausted, but relieved he wasn’t in immediate danger-

-his communicator was gone. 

“Shit…” 

____ 

He woke again, later in the day he guessed from the brighter light that flooded through the singular window, and finally managed to drag himself up to inspect the extent of his wounds. 

It was not pretty. 

His wing was broken, that much was obvious. As was his arm, or maybe shoulder, maybe both. He wasn’t sure. Both limbs had been splinted and placed in slings. Or the equivalent of for his wing. 

A quick flex of his legs told him his ankle was definitely sprained something awful and his ribs were no better. 

The thick bandage that cinched around his chest however, that he wasn’t entirely sure of. Nor the odd tube that poked out from under the layers.

Phil didn’t dare pry at the cloth to inspect further, if what he’d seen from before was real and not some pain induced hallucination, then removing the bandages was not the most ideal for him. Obviously. 

Still, he wasn’t certain to what extent his insides were fucked up. 

Curiously, he realised the clipboard was still hanging above his head. 

With a bit of careful manoeuvring, he managed to unhook it from the wall and began to decipher the writing. Tymarian, of course, he noted.

Well…that answers a few questions there.

 It listed about what he’d expected, the breaks, the sprains, the use of an IV for fluids, pain management and blood transfusion. What worried him however…

‘Punctured air sac, left hand side, fluids crossed into lung, bullet unable to be retrieved, missing scrap of shirt, antibiotics administered to reduce chance of infection until patient is strong enough to undergo retrieval surgery, wound to be monitored closely and applied with a drain to prevent build up of fluid in airway, redstone intrusion (?) implant (?) deemed harmless and unobtrusive for future surgery, special care to be taken not to agitate the stone with electrodes unless absolutely necessary.’ 

Not that electrodes would trigger the Redstone to do anything, he’d learned that the hard way some years ago. 

Still…

A punctured air sac. 

Not a lung, but still a portion of his airway. Still a risk of obstructed breathing. 

And…

Even if he’d somehow managed to miraculously heal his wing, if the bone had never been broken, he could never hope to maintain flight for long with a punctured air sac. 

“Fuck!” he spat, tossing the clipboard to the foot of the bed. 

There went that option of escape. 

Philza groaned, rubbing his eyes with his good hand as he settled into the reality of his situation. 

He’d been captured. 

He’d been wounded, had his flight stripped from him, had his communicator confiscated if it wasn’t crushed from his rather ungraceful landing, and he was at the mercy of the very nation that had been giving the Empire so much trouble lately. 

For a while he let himself fume. Angry at himself for having been so stupid, for having left the Empire on his mission, for being so confident in himself that he let all caution drop. 

He let himself get angry, rather than fearful. 

After too many years of captivity, of being a prisoner of war, of being tortured for information, Philza had learned anger and fear felt very similar. And he’d rather anger than fear at the moment. If he was afraid, he wouldn’t be able to think, if he couldn’t think, he’d only get himself into further trouble. Better to let himself get pissed off for a bit, allow the emotions to run their course, and then turn to assessing his situation. 

So he did just that. 

Cursing in every language he knew, and then a few he’d not been too practised with. Throwing the single pillow against the wall a few times as quietly as he could to keep any guards from outside hearing and potentially coming in to restrain him. Before finally taking a few deep breaths, as well as he could anyhow, considering the odd pinching sensation from his numbed wound, and releasing the emotions as he exhaled. 

You got this. He told himself. You’ve survived before. You can do it again.  

It was a weak assurance. But it was an assurance nonetheless. 

Philza then decided to inspect the room. Or, cell really. 

Any information is useful in the long run.  

Carefully, he left the bed, immediately feeling wobbly on his feet. From both the lack of coordination caused by whatever medicine was numbing his wounds, as well as the subtle rocking of the ship itself. 

Right, he recalled noticing the engine earlier. Tymarian iron warship.  

They weren’t nearly as fuel efficient as his own warships, powered by diesel with a backup steam generator from coal boxes as a last resort. Not at all as powerful as the Redstone engines that the Empire were known for. But they made up for their fuel deficiency with their engineering skills and sheer thickness of armour. 

Slow then. He reasoned. His captors must not be too worried about fleeing back to their borders with him if he was being kept on an iron warship rather than one of their scout boats. Then again, they could also still be keeping him until he was deemed stable enough to move. 

He wasn’t sure. 

Thinking hurt. 

He decided to think later, returning to his initial goal of studying his cell. 

It was no different to what he’d initially seen. Metal ceiling, walls, floor, door. No lock on the inside. Window too small to climb through.

The tap and sink could be used to possibly bash someone’s head against though. As would the safety rails on his bed. Maybe even the legs and wheels of it as well. 

He’d have to break the legs off though if he were to try that. Not exactly the easiest feat, all things considered. 

Philza carefully pried open the cupboard on the shelf. Noting the rounded edges and magnetic closure for safety. 

If he could remove the pins on the hinge, he might be able to create a shiv. 

It would also be very noticeable if the cupboard door went missing. 

But, he could use the magnetic closure to keep it shut…

There was a possibility there. 

And the handle of the cupboard door fit perfectly in his palm, he could use the door itself as a makeshift shield for a time. Not a great one, but decent enough to catch a blade or a punch. 

More options then. 

Philza shuffled the items around inside the cupboard, noting how sparse the supplies were. 

Forceps, clamps, IV picclines, tape, bandages, trays, syringes, needles…  

He shuddered at the site, pushing down the familiar bitter tang that coated his mouth at the imagery of the medical equipment. 

Nope, don’t have time for that…  

And then he found it. 

A scalpel. 

A wicked grin crossed his face as he tested the edge on his finger tip, noting the lethal sharpness it bore. He had at least one weapon now.

If, that was, he could successfully hide it. 

As far he could remember, most medical bays kept a tight inventory on their supplies. A single scalpel might not be missed in normal circumstances, but one that was stored in the room of a prisoner would certainly be noticed. 

Then again, it was a bit odd that someone would leave a scalpel of all things stored in the same room as him. 

Did they have to set this up on short notice? Or did they underestimate him? 

Or maybe, they just forgot? 

Either way, he realised. Their management didn’t seem very thorough…He might just be able to get away with nicking the weapon unnoticed-

Philza’s ears twitched at the sound of voices outside the door. 

He quickly, quietly, returned the contents of the cupboard to where he had found them before settling himself back on his bed. 

Later, he assured himself. Later.

Chapter Text

Techno paused. 

Something was wrong.

He’d been on his way to yet another meeting. Forgoing his usual routine of waking early to kick his co-emperor out of bed and drag the groggy bird by the foot towards his closet to get his royal blues in place before the rest of the morning started. A routine of many years at this point, consisting of scolding Philza for having spent the night playing rounds of card games with the off-duty guards or flying about in the frigid air instead of getting his sleep. 

“Come on mate, five more minutes!” the man would whine. 

“You’re not a toddler Phil.” Techno would shove the bedraggled co-emperor into the fitting rooms, tossing his royal blues after him before shutting the door. “Emperors don’t get ‘five more minutes’, Emperors get up early and do important adult things, like taxes and hearings and signing papers.” 

He would be answered with more whining from behind the door and the sound of half-asleep fumbling as Philza shuffled into his uniform. 

“This is bullshit! Bullshit!” the man would finally stumble out with ruffled feathers before hastily tying his hair into a bun. “Why did we decide being Emperors of a frozen fucking wasteland was a good idea?!” 

“Quit your fussing, you used to be a warrior.” Techno would straighten out some of Phil’s feathers as they made their way to the kitchens for breakfast. 

“Exactly! And that’s why I’m allowed to be fussy!” Philza would lightly shove the pinkette aside, a playful refusal for Techno’s help with his wings that morning. 

He’d always miss the routine whenever Phil was gone. 

He’d always feel a pit in his stomach whenever the earring felt cold during his absence. 

Techno paused, reaching for the emerald that hung alongside the many golden hoops and chains within his ears, little reminders of his victories that forever left a permanent mark within the scarred skin. His most sacred, and oldest, being that green gem from so long ago. Now hanging cold from his ear. 

He unhooked it, inspecting the stone in worry. 

He’d received a radio call about an hour prior, nothing noteworthy, just the location of Philza’s skiff and that he was going to drop anchor to check a nearby island. But then the earring had suddenly grown cold to the touch. 

Techno watched in growing horror as the green gem began to darken, flickering between its lustrous hue and a muddied black. 

And then…

It returned to its usual colour, warming back to its normal temperature within his hands, though with a hint of grey tingeing the edges, flowing back and forth like a heartbeat. But it was otherwise…fine? 

That made no sense. 

The emeralds the two wore had been enchanted to monitor their safety, growing cold and dark if something happened to risk their lives, should they be hurt or dying it would surely show. 

But what did it mean if the emerald went dark for a moment, and returned to normal? 

It had never happened before to Techno’s knowledge. 

He tried to put that thought aside as he attended the security meeting that morning, tried to bury the nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. 

By the time he had finished his work for the day and went to check on the radio, the lack of messages left him feeling cold. Not a single hour had passed with a promised check in from Phil. Not since that morning. 

Techno swallowed the panic in his throat as he flipped the switches into place to send an outgoing message. 

“Crow, this is Boar, location and status?” 

He waited. 

Static. 

“Crow, this is Boar, do you copy? Location and status?” 

Static once more. 

Techno gripped the earring tight in his fist. 

“Phil? The emerald’s…it’s doing something strange. Are you okay?” 

.

.

.

.

Static.

___________

The boat was empty. 

Well, not entirely. 

The skiff had been loaded with enough supplies to last a single person for some time. Food, water, a redstone lamp and heater, thick furs and woollen clothes to withstand the frigid air, a supply of seal fat for keeping one’s skin from cracking in the cold. A bit haphazardly ordered but otherwise perfectly stocked for someone on a long venture. 

Kristin frowned as she skimmed through the ship’s logbook, careful not to tear the pages with her gloved hands. 

It was Philza. That much was obvious. She’d recognise that scratchy handwriting anywhere. 

She did not, however, have the faintest clue as to where he could be. 

The skiff looked as if it hadn’t been abandoned for long, maybe a day or two. There was still a plate of food on the table of the galley, untouched and still good, perhaps only ten hours old. Cold, but it certainly hadn’t gone bad.  The bed was unmade, a few clothes still laid out as if they had been picked through to decide which one was warmer. The knife that would be under the pillow was still there, hidden away in its sheath. A crossbow and short sword were still tucked away in a locker. The anchor was still dropped.

There was no scent of blood, no sign of any fight having broken out. No damage to the hull or sails, the anchor chain was intact, if anything the whole scene looked disgustingly normal. Just…empty of the one thing it was supposed to be carrying. 

Kristin fluffed her wings, adjusting them over the small bundle on her back as she began to pace. She crossed through the galley, the bedroom, the storage spaces. Then out onto the deck, the sheltered helm, the bow, the stern, the mast in the centre. Checking every corner for some hint she was missing something, some scratch, some stain, any indication that something had happened. 

But there was nothing. 

Just an empty ship, with nothing wrong, and a logbook whose last entry was about dropping anchor to check out a nearby island. 

An island that, of course, was gone. Now that her own island had drifted into this space. 

Kristin crossed her arms, tapping her foot against the deck of the ship as she stared back at the tropical little islet she called home. Or rather, had been forced to call home. 

It was not a story she deemed fair…

“Phil? Phil please this is Techno, do you copy?!” 

Kristin nearly jumped as a voice, frantic and almost breaking, crackled from near the helm. 

“What the fuck?” she prodded at the little box beside the ship’s wheel, trying to make sense of how exactly the voice was emanating from it. 

“Phil! Phil do you copy?!” 

There was a button, a couple of buttons actually, but this one seemed the largest and therefore the most important, she decided. 

Kristin pressed it. 

“Hello voice box!” she responded. “You know Phil too?” 

The voice responded, low and cautious. “Who is this? How did you get this line?” 

“Is this one of those ‘radio’ box things Phil told me about?” a light went off in Kristin’s head as a memory resurfaced. “Oh! Oh my gods are you Technoblade?!” 

For a moment there was static, then the voice spoke again. 

“That…is one of the names I use yes, who…are you?” 

Kristin sighed in relief. Finally, she could probably get some more clues. 

“I’m Kristin! Phil’s told me about you, I’ve found his skiff but I’ve not found him. Do you know anything about where he might be?” 

“He found the island?” Techno’s voice was confused. “Well, your island I guess?” 

“Doesn’t look like it,” Kristin sighed. “I don’t know how much he’s told you about the way my island works but to summarise, it floats around in its own little dimensional pocket I think he put it, moves from place to place, has ways for people to get in and out except me.” 

“His boat entered the boundary,” she explained. “But not him. So I assume he wasn’t on it or near enough to it to be caught inside the pocket. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Does that make sense?” 

There was a pause from the radio. 

Kristin envisioned the face Philza had described to her years ago. Pale, scarred skin, piglike ears, a slight underbite to accommodate for the pair of tusks that jutted out from his lips, striking blue eyes that were framed by long braids of rosey pink hair. 

And glasses, Phil had described. Kinda rectangular frames, doesn’t wear them all the time, just for reading, he’s got some fishbowl-ass vision when it comes to straight lines and lettering. Gives him a headache if he’s not using the glasses. 

She imagined, with a smirk, the rather stoic looking warrior Techno had been described as, quirking a brow as he listened to her explanation of the island’s oddity. 

“Makes sense.” the response was flat. “I don’t really question how magic and curses work, that’s more Phil’s thing, figuring that stuff out.” 

“But that then begs the question,” Techno’s voice returned to it’s cautious tone. “Where is Phil?” 

“Well he’s not on the island that’s for sure.” Kristin adjusted the bundle across her back, fluffing her wings over it further as it shifted with a sleepy whine. “The crows would have alerted me, they adore him! Wouldn’t let him sneak past the barrier without screaming in my ears about it.” 

There was a slight chuckle from the radio. 

“He called them all ‘little shits’ and ‘bastards’ when he told me about them.” Techno’s grin was audible. 

“So, not on the ship, not on your island.” he listed. “He mentioned in his last radio call that he was going to check on something he saw, there was an island near the coordinates of the skiff. And I’d say it definitely was not your one.” 

“Hmm.” Kristin chewed on the edge of her fingernail in thought. “Odd. Very odd.” 

“Actually, you don’t happen to have a visual of any other islands from where you’re at?” Techno asked. 

“Sadly no, the barrier is indicated by a ring of fog.” Kristin shook her head. “Can’t see past it, can’t fly above it.” 

“Doesn’t seem to affect the radio transmission at least, so there’s that.” Techno sounded as if he was pacing, if the odd patterned tapping was any indication of what was happening on his end of things. “So the magic that affects the barrier doesn’t affect radio…” 

“That is a good point actually,” Kristin flicked a bit of nail she had chewed from her finger. 

Gross.  

“Should I take the radio with me back to the island?” she asked. “To keep in contact with you in case he turns up?” 

Techno laughed. 

“Only if you can unhook the system from the skiff,” he chuckled. “The mast holds the antennae and the rest of the thing is sort of built into the helm, it’s not exactly small. Not like a short range communicator.” 

“Ah, damn.” Kristin huffed. 

“Is there any way you could stay on the boat though?” the man asked. “Or is that not going to work with the curse?” 

“Unless the boat is directly on the sands or tied to the dock, it’ll be left behind when the island moves.” Kristin prodded at the helm, a thought forming in her mind.

 “There’s a lot of stuff he left behind, I don’t think he intended to stay out for long so we can assume something has happened.” She read the labels on the various buttons along the helm. Noting the anchor retrieval. 

“I don’t like thinking about that,” Techno sighed. “But, you’re right. He would’ve been back by now if something had happened.” 

“This sounds incredibly rude but,” Kristin cringed a bit. “Can I take the boat then?” 

There was a pause. 

“I think I see what you’re getting at.” Techno responded, slowly. As if the gears in his head were turning. “If you keep the radio with you, you can contact this channel again and report if he turns up, or try to contact his short range communicator.” 

“I’d be at the mercy of wherever the island goes next, it’ll be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, but with a magnet at least.” Kristin nodded. 

“Better than nothing.” Techno agreed. “And I have his last coordinates to start from, so there is that.” 

“And he’s left his books and notes here.” Kristin added. “When I’m not checking the radio, I could try some of his theories he proposed on breaking the barrier.” 

“He took books with him?!” Techno sounded almost exasperated. “I told him to get the pages he needed copied! Not take the whole- never mind.” 

“I’ll smack him for the water damage later,” the man sighed. “Would you mind checking back in with the radio in about an hour or so?” 

Kristin saluted. “Can do.” 

“Good luck out there.” Techno’s voice was sombre. 

“You too, Emperor.” 

At that, the radio switched off. 

And the bundle on her back squirmed, whining as the little creature within stirred sleepily. 

“I know love.” Kristin tucked her wings closer to the bundle once more. “Lots of new noises huh?” 

Chapter Text

The door opened with a hideous groan, causing Philza to wince and flatten his ears against the noise, as a figure entered the room. 

Wild red hair that looked like it had been mussed up by a strong gale framed a pale freckled face, and tired green eyes laden with dark circles peered out from under the shadow of a fiery fringe at where Phil lay. 

He’d let himself go limp, feigning sleep as he watched the intruder through barely parted eyes. Not an easy feat, considering he was fairly certain whatever had been drugging the part of his mind that registered pain was definitely wearing off. His chest was beginning to ache, sending sharp jolts of pain through his body at every other breath.

Ow…

The red haired figure didn’t seem to really take note of him, shutting the door behind them and placing some items on the small table. 

They busied themselves for a bit. Philza watched closely as they placed some rolled up clothes aside and counted out something from a pill bottle before seting a small bowl of something that steamed, and smelled vaguely of oats, directly in the centre of the table. 

They then paused. 

“I don’t think you’ll find what you were looking for here,” he spoke in Pageish. “We don’t keep confiscated items in the same room as prisoners.”

Crackly and not fully sticking to a single octave, he sounded on the verge of illness. Or perhaps he was just exhausted. 

His tone was clear, however. 

A cautious warning. 

There was no point in continuing the lie. 

Philza sat up, keeping his expressions neutral despite the growing pain in his wounds. 

Unalarming. He told himself.

Harmless. 

“You’re pretty good there ey mate.” he grinned. “How’d you catch on?” 

The red head nodded towards a set of faint, almost unnoticeable footprints against the metal floor. 

“Warm skin on a cold floor tends to make marks.” He stated. “Either from the oils leaving residue or from condensation, particularly that last one if it was a recent occurrence.” 

Shit.  

He’d not thought of that. 

Then again, most people wouldn’t. 

“Ah, damn. I’ll have to wear socks next time.” Philza grinned. 

The red head gave a light smile. 

“I’ll see if I can put in a request.” 

“Wait really?” Phil would’ve laughed in surprise if the movement didn't pinch his wounds. 

“If you don’t try to bite me again when I change your bandages,” the red head shrugged. “We can work out an agreement.” 

“Ship’s Surgeon, Caera Moore.” he turned back to whatever it was he was fiddling with at the table. “I already know who you are, your Highness, you gave quite an introduction a day ago.” 

Already a day. Philza scowled at that bit of knowledge. 

Already a day under enemy watch. Already a day on board a ship bound to who knew where and certainly no longer anywhere near his last recorded coordinates.

“It’s Majesty, actually.” he corrected. “Not to be that guy but Highness is for family members or partners. I am neither.” 

“So you do rule jointly then?” Caera seemed surprised. “...huh.” 

“Eh, I take half the responsibility and Techno takes the other. We balance each other out, keep each other in check.” Philza explained, loosely. “And we have a council of course, elected officials and such, gotta make decisions well thought out and as fair as ya can, ya know?” 

Caera’s eyes blinked, slowly, his mouth slightly agape as he tried to make sense of Phil’s behaviour. 

“You can drop the whole Majesty thing tho,” Philza assured. “We’re not located anywhere official enough to be using formal titles, just Phil is fine.” 

Be friendly, but cautious. He remembered from his years of unfortunate experience. They are not your friends, but they can feel guilty and hesitant to harm you if you make them think you are theirs. Or at the very least humanise yourself to them.  

“You are….” Caera shook his head, as if clearing a thought from it. “...not at all like I was warned about.” 

At that, Philza scoffed. He did have a reputation over these past centuries. 

“You don’t have to worry about me mate,” he grinned, flashing his sharpened teeth. “I’m a little fucked up as it is, can’t exactly attempt a shipwide murder spree when ya got holes in ya.” 

Caera shrugged. “True that, true that.” 

“If anything, you’re being far more reasonable than I expected of my captors.” Philza countered. “Patching me up, giving me a window room, a bed even? Never had that before.” 

“What’s your goal with all this?” he asked. 

He doubted he would receive a proper answer, more than likely this ‘Caera Moore’ was only being civil because he was a doctor and nothing more. Probably under gag orders to only speak about certain topics, prevent secrets from leaking that his captive could possibly use to his advantage. 

“I’m not privy to the General’s orders.” Caera finished setting up what looked to be a tray of medical supplies. 

General?

Philza didn’t bother to let his eyes linger on the contents any longer than he had to…his heart was already racing.

“My goal, however,” Caera held out the tray. “Is to keep you alive with the hopes of eventually healing. To the best of my abilities anyways.” 

The man paused. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” his eyes looked confused, concerned even. 

“Wasn’t assuming a doctor would,” Phil raised a brow. “But now I’m sceptical.” 

“You flinched,” Caera nodded towards the tray of supplies. “It’s just some shears and bandages. And a dose of pain meds for your IV.” 

“You bit me last time I injected you directly, I’m not doing that again.” the man’s tone was light, as if trying to make a joke of the attempted chomp to his hand.

Fuuuck! Phil recalled the way the red head had known he’d been up and snooping around. 

“Shit.” he slumped defeatedly against the pillow of his bed, fighting the sudden jolt of nausea in the pit of his stomach. “You’re a bastard for detail aren’t ya.” 

His heart raced faster as the man drew near. 

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” The doctor’s tone was almost sorrowful at those words. But whatever sadness tinged his voice was quickly buried by a neutral professionalism as he addressed Phil once again. 

“You don’t do well with medical stuff.” 

“Am I being that obvious?” Philza rolled his eyes, but he could already feel the buzzing of panic within him. A swarm of hornets waiting to burst from their shaken box. 

Shit shit shit! He grit his teeth. 

Whether it was the medicine that was currently in his system, or perhaps the fact that it was wearing off by now, or the entire scenario in general, either way he was slipping. Whatever sense of calmness towards his situation he’d been trying to create, to keep his mind clear and his captors unsuspecting, he was losing it rapidly- 

- he was dragged from the cage, bound and hissing, kicking with ragged claws at the hooded figures. It did nothing. It would always do nothing. His efforts would always be in vain. He was never going to land a lucky swipe to his captor’s arms, never going to loosen their grip on him, never going to wriggle free of his bonds and bolt away. 

He tried, still. He tried to bite at the hands that pinned him, even as they cinched him to the table. Tried to shake them away from him as they brought out their tools. Tried to scream insults, though it sounded more like incoherent screeching, as they carved into him. 

Sculpting, moulding, tearing… Weaving something permanent into his bones and muscles and sinew. Burning his organs until they melted like hot iron, only to reform into something wholly different to what they should have been.

Red was all he saw, all he felt. Be it the blood that painted him like some sickly canvas, or the burst vessels in his eyes that clouded his vision…or the stone that was slowly crystallising from his bones-

- “Would it help at all if I explained my process?” Caera’s voice dragged his mind from that dark place. 

Right..  

He wasn’t there anymore. He told himself. 

He wasn’t exactly in the best place to be, that was certain, but he wasn’t there.  

It was burned to the ground six hundred years ago. Buried under volcanic stone and ash, a scar on the land it had once tainted, forever cursed to burn in the only equivalent to hell that existed in the mortal realm. 

He wasn’t there. 

But why should his captors care? 

“What’s your deal, Doctor Moore?” Philza’s ears flattened. “Speaking Pageish on a Tymar warship? Offering to make life a bit easier for your captive?” 

“Are you so cruel to your own prisoners of war that you distrust how others treat theirs?” the red head frowned. “Or would you prefer I return that cruelty?” 

That stung far more than Phil thought it would. 

“No,” he countered. “But when one has experienced the cruelty of being held prisoner by many others over the years, one can be a bit skeptical when kindness is offered.” 

For awhile, Caera seemed to go quiet, that look of confusion returning once more across his freckled face. 

“I doubt you’re that old,” he finally said. “But I don’t doubt your experiences.” 

“What can I do to make this easier for you then?” he offered. 

Phil grit his teeth as the growing sensation of burning in his ribs returned. 

“Asking first, I guess.” he relented. “Talking…helps. Explanations and such, or just…whatever you feel like. Something for me to listen to.” 

“I can do that.” Caera nodded. “May I put some more pain killers in your IV then?” 

“Please.” 

Chapter Text

100 years before the Empire

Year 0 of the Century of Founders

“The South Pole, the Great Ice Shield, the Southern Continent, all names we have come to call the landmass that caps the end of the world. The bottom of the globe. It is a hostile place, filled with naught but ice and brutal winds that are known to carry particulates that cut through the skin. The few animals and plants that have evolved to survive there are as tough and harsh as the climate they call home. 

One would not think of the place as anything other than a barren wasteland, a world unwelcoming to visitors, and the last location anyone would want to be exiled to or imprisoned in. 

That is, however, exactly what started the events of The Century of Founders. 

For many years, various nations, after having discovered the frozen pole, decided that it would be a perfect place to leave all of their problems. Prisons were emptied into the icy tundras, political threats were exiled to those rocky shores, the unwanted and unspoken for and nuisances of the world were abandoned across the ice fields. In the hopes of them freezing to death or becoming each other's problems, either way, they would never have the resources or even the hope to escape. 

As people so often do though, these prisoners and criminals and other unwanted, banded together to survive. With the limited resources available, a series of outposts were set up and maintained along the coastline of the continent. While they were not quick to accept new members, they knew well enough that survival counted on numbers. And so when the first refugees from the collapsing Naushta Empire began to seek shelter within the small hunting lodges and fishing outposts, they were begrudgingly accepted. Especially after proving themselves to be quite formidable opponents to the few raiders who dared to prod at the frozen continent’s shores.” 

• History of the Empire, ch1 Prelude to the Empire: Criminals and Courtesies, Ranboo et al.

“Is that the last of them?” he cleaned his blade on the edge of his cloak, breath fogging in the frigid air, leaving crystalline formations along his tusks. 

“There was one more but he didn’t seem to be with them willingly.” Niki shrugged her cloak tightly around her form, shivering.

The blood on her hair had already grown frosty.

 “Faeborn, unlike the rest of them. Had an iron collar. Took a couple of their own crew out and then made for the rocks.” 

She gestured towards the grey cliffs at the edge of the stony beach, where a crimson trail splattered across patches of dirty ice. 

The rest of the shore was no better. Blood and offal lay about the jagged rocks, bodies already being picked at by the sea birds and crabs that called the place home. Where there wasn’t a body lying dead, their bloodied limbs being lapped at by the sea, there was the wreckage of the grounded ship, chased down and dragged ashore by the very crew that now picked through the remains. 

He was reminded of carrion birds picking at a carcass. 

An image he had seen far too often in his youth. 

“Should we go after them, Ferrum?” Niki’s voice was tinged with concern. 

“If they were a threat to their own crew then they are no threat to us.” Ferrum sheathed his blade at his hip before striding towards one of the corpses. 

“The enemy of your enemy is not always your friend.” Niki scolded, joining him as he knelt beside the body. 

“That may be true in most cases,” Ferrum turned the body onto its back, closing its eyes and crossing its arms over its chest before marking a familiar sigil across its forehead. 

“But considering the circumstances here, I don’t think they’re of much concern.” he placed his hands together in prayer, uttering a quiet offering as his blood warmed within his bones. The body before him pulsed once with a reddish glow, and then shrivelled with a sickening squelch as the blood was sucked upwards by some unseen force. 

The orb of sanguine fluid hung above his head as Ferrum thanked his god for their victory, for lending him their strength, for choosing him as a vessel among mortals. And then it dispersed into nothing. 

Presumably, the god was pleased with the offering. 

If the sudden joyous raucous within Ferrum’s skull was anything to go off of. 

Blood! 

Blood! 

Blood for the blood god! 

We thank you for the offering! 

Offering! 

So loved! 

So adored! 

Strong vessel! 

Loving vessel! 

We love you Ferrum! 

Our Ferrum! 

Yes yes! 

Now heal! 

Heal your wounds! 

Heal your people! 

Feed them! 

Fed us! Now feed them! 

Bounty awaits! 

Food and warmth! 

The creatures that smell the blood of the dead! 

Hunt them! 

Many crabs! 

Many gulls! 

Eels! Fish! Auk! Seal! 

They smell the blood! 

They hunger! 

Lure! 

Lure! 

Feast upon them! 

Waste nothing!

“Ferrum?” Niki’s voice broke him from his trance. 

Ferrum nodded towards the bodies. 

“The voices recommend using them as bait to catch some scavengers.” he shrugged. “Bit gruesome but, I mean what else can you do I guess?” 

Niki sighed. “What else indeed.” 

“Line them up on the shore,” Ferrum instructed. “Keep their heads covered at least. We’ll bury them once we have enough supplies.” 

“We owe them that much,” he added. “They’re still people. They deserve a burial.” 

“I’ll tell the crew.” Niki stated. 

The day passed in sombre quiet. The weight of their actions bore down across the frames of the survivors as they did as instructed. Placing the bodies of the invaders along the high tide line. Burying the faces under layers of stone and pebbles. Stripping the cloth from their frames but leaving enough to keep their dignity. Before looting the remains of the beached ship. Picking through and sorting the pieces. 

Iron and weaponry in one pile, wood in another, sail cloth folded over crates of dried hard tack, rope twisted across barrels of watery grog. 

Once the spoils were accounted for, Niki assigned half the crew to begin carting off the supplies and their own dead to the outpost. The other half she had begin to strip the ship to its bones, prying apart the hull piece by piece.

Termites on a rotting house.

Ferrum joined where he could. Tying stacks of supplies together to be carried easier, giving a hand in prying apart the hull of the ship, patching up the wounded with the minimal supplies he had. 

He wished he understood how the Blood God was capable of healing him, and yet not others. It would be far more helpful, he mused, if he could snap his fingers and have his friends healed of their injuries rather than using up valuable supplies to keep them from bleeding out. 

He’d use as many supplies as he could, however, if it meant keeping his crew alive just a bit longer. 

As the sun began to glitter low along the horizon, Ferrum felt the back of his neck prickling. 

Something was watching. 

Or, someone. 

Cautiously, he glanced about the blackened cliffside, eyeing each rock and cranny and snow drift. Remembering what Nikki had said about the one survivor who had run off- 

His eyes landed on a skeletal figure crouched beside the line of dead. 

They were shivering, a pair of tattered and near featherless wings hugged their frame as the few rags they wore provided little in terms of warmth. They prodded about the bodies, as if searching for something. If it weren’t for the narrowed, angry blue eyes that glared out from behind their tangled blonde hair, Ferrum would have assumed they were mourning the dead. As it was, they seemed quite content with digging through the remaining clothes, hissing in frustration as they seemed to not find whatever it was they were searching for. 

Ferrum noticed the thick, iron collar around their neck. 

Perhaps they were searching for the key? 

“Niki,” Ferrum addressed his friend. “Did you or the crew happen to see anything like a key in the scrap piles?” 

Niki, having busied herself with removing nails from a plank of wood, paused. 

“I don’t think so, no.” she glanced towards where Ferrum was looking, her face twisting in sympathy at the sight of the ragged creature digging about the corpses, trilling and hissing in frustration as their search turned up nothing. 

Ferrum winced at the scene, rubbing at his wrists that bore the old scars of his own shackles from not more than two years ago. 

“Think we could convince them to follow us back to base?” he asked, already grabbing a set of clothes that looked about the right size of the survivor, folding them carefully after checking for holes. 

There was still blood on the edge of the cloak, he noted. 

“Try to get one of the smiths to cut it off?” 

“Your call.” Niki shrugged. “I’ll let the outpost know. We’ve lost two members anyhow today, not like we’d be adding any more mouths to feed at least.” 

Right… Ferrum rubbed a hand across his face. 

He hated having to perform funerals.

Especially for his friends…

It was going to be a long evening. 

He strode up towards the feathered being, now poking disheartedly at the rocks along the shore. 

Until they heard his footsteps. 

With a warning hiss they flared what remained of their wings, baring their teeth and pathetically blunted claws.

Ferrum raised his hands slowly, letting them see he bore no weapon, only the bundle of clothes that he began to set carefully down at his feet before backing away. 

“ Do you speak common?” he asked as the ragged figure eyed him cautiously. 

They made no indication they understood him, their wings still fluffed and teeth still barred as a steady hiss rattled from their throat. 

“ Not common then. Uh, Naushta?” Ferrum switched to the only other language he knew, or at least knew well. 

There was no reaction from the figure at the change in language. Though they did seem to understand his tone, Ferrum felt a hint of relief as they lowered their wings and began to eye the pile of clothes enviously. 

“Okay, well,” Ferrum returned to speaking common. “The clothes are yours. You’ll need them. Trust me. It gets much colder at night.” 

“We’ll be splitting up,” he continued to explain as the figure slowly reached for the clothes, eyeing him the whole time, as if ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, before finally snatching them up and scuttling back a bit as Ferrum continued to talk. 

“Niki will be taking half the crew back to base, little fishing outpost we’ve been living in for a bit. Supplies are slim but it’s better than nothing.” he cringed at the site of the figure scrambling into the clothes, noting the way their ribs were far too visible against their skin. 

Noting the distinct scarring across their frame. As if something had repeatedly been stabbed into their legs and shoulders and neck and chest-

He almost gagged at the mass of skin and muscle and bone that had been interwoven within a solid block of what looked to be hewn, faceted stone. A fist sized gem of sorts, glittering and almost beautiful were it not for the torn and broken flesh that had fused around and within it. 

It pulsed with light, a low campfire glow that flickered in a timed pattern. Two pulses of a glow, a slow fade, two more pulses, another fade. 

A heartbeat. 

The figure paused, watching Ferrum intently before quickly covering the stone in their chest with a boney hand, tugging the new-ish tunic over top, hiding away the faint glow with bared teeth and a warning glare. 

“Sorry,” Ferrum turned away. “Meant to say, other half of the crew will be staying up that-a-way tonight.” 

He gestured towards an outcrop of rocks far enough from the high tide line to take shelter in. 

The figure followed the hand with wary blue eyes. 

“You’re welcome to join us, it’ll be warmer there. More people and all.” Ferrum continued. “We got some food too, basic stuff, just some seaweed broth and crab. And fresh water. Trust me you wouldn’t think it considering the snow but it’s easy to get dehydrated out here.” 

He couldn’t tell if the figure understood him or not. Only that their eyes had landed on him once more, shifting awkwardly as they tried to balance keeping a hand over their chest while the other scratched against the sores under the iron collar that was cinched across their throat.

A thought struck him then. 

Ferrum slowly pulled aside the edges of his own tunic, revealing the ragged scars from where his collar had once sat. 

At that, the figure before him paused, their eyes widening, scanning the old wound with familiarity and pity and rage. 

A kinship had been struck then. 

One that surpassed whatever language barrier was barring the two. 

And while it took at least three hours after Ferrum and his crew had set up their camp before the new figure cautiously skulked towards them, they did join them eventually. 

It was dark by then, the sun didn’t stay long in the sky in this time of the year and with the coming inky blackness of night the chill began to set in. 

Ferrum and his crew had set up a makeshift hut wedged between an outcropping of black rock and the beach. Scrap wood from the scuttled ship was layered around the sides, leaving enough space for a decent air flow and an opening to be crawled through. Their own bedrolls of seal hides and the few fleeces they had salvaged layered the floor, close together, but with enough room in the centre for the rather small fire. Barely more than coals for basic warmth and to heat the promised soup Ferrum had mentioned. 

Wood was scarce. Fires were rationed. 

It was as the shuffling of bodies getting comfortable to eat their small meals had finally died down, that the new figure approached. 

Shivering from the cold, wide eyed and hissing, they had inched their way into the small hut. Keeping their back to the makeshift wall as the crew noticed them, nodded knowingly to them, and offered them a small bowl of the soup.

Quiet and skittish and hissing with wings flared whenever someone moved too fast around them, they slowly sidled up beside Ferrum by the campfire. Settling themself with their back squished against the wall and their knees tucked to their chest, they slowly began to lap at the edge of the cup they’d been given. Before their eyes went wide in glee and they proceeded to almost choke from drinking down the broth too fast, licking every drop from the cup until it almost glittered. 

They didn’t sleep. 

They refused to lie down. 

Would shake their head whenever they began to nod off. 

Would hiss when Ferrum offered them his bedroll. 

It would be another three days before they finally collapsed in exhaustion. By then, the crew had returned to their little outpost. 

Ferrum carried the limp figure to his bunk in the corner of the makeshift hall, settling them with their back against the wall to sleep however long they needed. 

_____________

Techno pressed his back against the wall of his room. 

Gods he was tired. 

He couldn’t sleep. 

He’d tried. He’d taken some teas to calm his racing heart, his overthinking brain. He’d turned the redstone lamps down to just a warm, cozy glow. Like flickering candles, or the oil lamps from days long ago. 

Hell, if he knew where he kept his oil lamp he’d have lit it. For the sake of familiarity and routine. Even if the redstone powered light within the palace had long since replaced the need for such, it was soothing to pour the oil, place the wick, watch the flames lick about as he warmed his fingers over them. 

At the moment, his familiarity was with the feeling of pressure against his back. The scent of the sealskin that he had wrapped around his shoulders. The warm flicker of the redstone lamps some ways above him. 

The hewn marble flooring and wide bed with its canopy and massive bookshelves and tall backed chair and high windows that could be opened up to the expanse of glittering snowfields and starlight outside, were familiar too. To an extent. 

But he’d not spent his entire time of five hundred or so years within his lavish room. 

That had been recent as far as his memory was aware. 

His familiarity was within the tundra, the salty sea spray, the bite of the cold winds that turned his cheeks pink and nipped at his ears. The thick layers of hides that weighted down on his shoulders like a hug, the blackened paint he rubbed under his eyes each morning that smelled of soot and oil, the taste of fish skin hot from a skillet, the scent of warm broth from an earthen cup. 

The warmth of his co-emperor dozing against him, sitting back to back, propped up by their weapons as they took shifts to watch for enemy signals along the horizon line after a long month of fighting.

His familiarity was the sounds of distant thunder when there was no cloud in the sky, the scent of gunpowder and blood, the gentle hum of the redstone engines of the canvas planes.

His familiarity was the quiet breathing and snorting of the war moose, the jingling of their tack as they waited for their riders who would never return home as they had. 

Techno hugged the sealskin tighter around his frame, shaking his head. His familiarity was plagued with the unwanted, the harsh memories he’d grown accustomed to, the bitter taste of war that had become second nature to him. 

It tore at him. 

Old scars from battles long won burned across his back. The faces of a crew who’d been buried while he’d been cursed to watch them fall, flashed across his mind. 

It hurt. 

Nights like these hurt. 

Nights like these usually were met with a groggy Philza, returning from his evening flight and card games and light drinking with the off duty guards, landing on the balcony outside the window and shaking off the accumulated snow and ice. His own routine for his own demons.

He would open the window and turn on the kettle and stoke the fire in the hearth before dragging the various pillows and blankets from the bed and dumping them around wherever Techno had set himself during those nights. He would make tea and place the cup in his co-emperor’s hands and quietly sit back to back with him, before tucking the blankets around the both of them and nodding off to sleep. 

And Techno would find with a few sips of tea, with the familiar crackling in the hearth, with the warmth of his oldest friend against him, that the demons in his mind would cease their chattering. And he could sleep. 

Tonight, Philza was not here. 

Tonight, Techno grieved alone.

Chapter Text

Caera winced inwardly at the sight of the man. 

He’d heard of the Emperors before, well, ‘heard’ was an understatement really. Of how their lineage had been one of cunning and strength. Of how they were near merciless on the battlefield. 

Particularly the ones who took on the mantle of ‘Philza’. 

While certainly the ones who were chosen by the Blood God to become the new ‘Technoblade’ were well known for their brutality in war, they at least were quick and efficient when fighting. Either disarming or killing cleanly, they did not linger on their victims for the sake of suffering. 

The ones who came to be called Philza however, had an almost manic streak of cruelty. According to eye witness accounts of the Claos Dukedom from the last invasion some fifty years ago, a foolish endeavour that cost the Dukedom dearly enough to withdraw into their own lands for near twenty years afterwards and still suffered the financial debts to their allies to this day, the Emperors were said to have joined the battles in person. As was tradition of the Empire of course, but gods did no one seem to realise how ruthless they were! 

Particularly Philza. 

Or, whoever was ‘Philza’ at the time. 

Butcher Bird. Caera recalled some of the crew amongst the ship, whispering in hushed tones at the sight of the recent deep cuts and bites that had been inflicted on the scout crew he had accompanied. 

Butcher Bird indeed. His own wound, a deep set of punctures and a radiating bruise from where he’d been bit on his forearm, still stung. 

He’d drained and cleaned it as best he could yesterday, once he had removed the bullets from his patient’s limbs…save for one….and set his broken bones. He’d used a small ration of antibiotics for himself, bites from other humanoids were nasty things after all, he hoped he would avoid infection. 

If he could. 

Caera watched his patient with caution, taking note of the man’s clenched teeth and eyes that did not want to look at his own wounds as he cleaned them. 

That same man had been a feathery, hissing creature of venom and spite not more than forty hours ago. Spitting blood in the faces of his captors, laughing when he wasn’t choking, attempting to swipe with clawed fingers and snap with fanged teeth. 

Far different to the half conscious man he’d been on the operating table, drifting in and out of his mind with a weak hiss one minute, a pained whine the next. 

Far different to what he was now. 

Afraid.  

Who wouldn’t be? Caera mused as he cinched a clean bandage around his patient. 

Except, this was the Philza. 

The one who was chosen to be the emperor known as Philza. He would have only been chosen if he was as terrifying and ruthless as the previous ones who held that title. 

Then again, Caera thought, there hadn’t been a war since the invasion by the Claos Dukedom. Whoever were the acting Emperors at that time must surely be in their seventies by now, sixties if being extremely generous. 

This man didn’t look more than maybe early thirties at best, he certainly wouldn’t have even been born during the invasion era. Let alone seen any of the Empire’s historical battles. 

It had been a rather uneventful fifty years for the Empire…

How would an Empire at peace produce someone with so many scars though?

Caera frowned as he noted the numerous pale lines that laced across his patient. Some knotted from healing terribly wrong, some indented from where the skin had regrown or been removed. 

A wide, mottled band around his throat, another on each wrist. Patches of feathers that had grown in white near where his back had been spiderwebbed with silvery lash marks. Bites, punctures, slashes, burns, he was riddled with stories that should not, could not , have been possible for someone his age to have experienced. 

Let alone survived. 

And the redstone fused to his sternum, Caera couldn’t fathom how it had been done, how he had lived. 

He didn’t want to think about the ‘why’ for its existence…

It glowed, faintly, pulsing in time to a heartbeat. Perhaps it was his heart. Perhaps all the Emperors prior to him had this. Perhaps they were trained from the moment they were born to-

“Please tell me you’re close to being done?” 

Caera blinked his thoughts aside, tying off the bandage before taking a step back. Watching his patient visibly slump in relief as the combined mixture of antibiotics and painkillers worked their way through his system. 

“Done.” the doctor stated before giving his hands a thorough scrubbing at the sink. “You should be good for another four hours in terms of discomfort.” 

“Think you’re well enough to try eating something?” he asked, holding up the bowl of thin barley broth towards his patient. 

The man…Philza…nodded, motioning eagerly with his good arm as he sat upright once more. 

Caera passed him the bowl. 

“Chicken broth and barley grains,” he explained. “I don’t want to stress your stomach with all the medications you’re on, but if you can keep that broth down for tonight then I’ll get you something a little heartier tomorrow.” 

“Fair enough.” Philza shrugged before sipping at the edge of the bowl. 

It was then, though, the emperor paused. 

“Your engine doesn’t sound too good.” the man’s ear feathers twitched. 

Caera tilted his head, straining to hear whatever it was the man had picked up.

He could hear that?

“How so?” he asked. 

“Your ship is designed for a sixteen cylinder turbine,” Philza’s ear feathers twitched once more as he took another sip of broth. “I’m only hearing ten cycles. Either your engine is smaller than it should be for a ship this large or it’s weirdly jerry-rigged.” 

Caera hoped his expression was neutral. 

He still felt his fingernails dig into his arm at the realisation. 

“Either way,” Philza finished the bowl. “You’re not making top speed with this thing anytime soon.”

Caera retrieved the bowl from the man’s hand. 

“We don’t need to be running at top speed,” he stated. 

“Not even with a high priority prisoner?” Philza grinned. “Mate, I’m almost offended!” 

“And how would knowledge of the ship being six cycles short of usual benefit you?” Caera crossed his arms. “You can’t fly anytime soon. We destroyed your communicator, your location is known only to us now.” 

“I could just be trying to get under your skin, doc.” Philza grinned, fanged. “Get you to slip up, reveal something that could help me ya know?” 

“Oh I already figured that.” Caera’s eyes narrowed. 

“Would you like to know what I’ve learned today then?” Philza ignored his expression. 

“Indulge me.” the doctor huffed. 

“This cell was set up quickly, you weren’t planning on taking a hostage.” Philza began to list. 

“Your arm is barely patched up from where you were bitten,” he pointed out. “And you’re being extra careful whenever you applied bandages or medicines too.” 

….damn.  

Caera smacked himself mentally. 

Of course a prisoner like the Philza would be able to catch on. 

“Your ship is running on a janky engine.” the man added. “And the barley broth was running very thin, even for broth.” 

The emperor grinned. 

Caera began to gather his tools. 

“Stating the obvious isn’t the way to ‘get under my skin’, emperor.” he knocked on the door, eyeing the way his patient shifted to catch a glimpse of whoever was about to open it. 

“I’ll see you in the morning.” Caera slipped out of the door the second it creaked open, before quickly slamming it shut and locking it behind him. Though he did not hear the sounds of anyone attempting to lunge from behind the door as he did, it was still a good precaution. 

“Ah, you survived?” 

Caera sighed in relief at the sight of the curly haired woman before him. 

“Somehow, yes.”

“How is he?” the woman, coiled ram’s horns and doe-like ears protruded from the fluff of white hair that bobbed as she tilted her head. Her voice laced in concern. 

“Alive and spiteful,” Caera gestured for her to follow as two new guards were stationed by the door. 

He switched to speaking Pageish as soon as the guards were out of sight, behind a corner in the grey clad corridor. 

“He knows about the engine, Puffy.” he stated. 

The woman, Puffy, narrowed her eyes. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he figures out our location soon too.” Caera added. “He’s as clever as the rumours say, I don’t think his wounds are going to prevent him trying to find a way out. We’ve only delayed the inevitable with him, he’s a ticking time bomb.” 

“The General has fucked us over by taking him.” Puffy hissed. “We’re not equipped for this bullshit mission in the first place and then he just had to go and shoot him down! If the Empire finds out, we’re fucked!” 

“When, the Empire finds out.” Caera shook his head. “It’s not an if at this point, it’s a when. They may be ruthless but gods they are loyal.” 

“And are you, Doctor?” Puffy turned in front of him and crossed her arms, blocking his path. “Loyal?” 

Caera’s eyes narrowed. 

“Are you?” He returned to speaking in Tymarian. 

Puffy shrugged. “I’m loyal to the coin and whoever’s head is on it at the time.” 

“ Which coin? ” Caera grinned. 

“Ah now you see, that is a good question.” Puffy chuckled. “ Perhaps we’ll find out soon enough.”