Archive of Our Own ^beta

The forest is a mouth. Its teeth are gnarled branches, its breath the wet rot of autumn, a lingering, cloying dampness that gnaws at the bones of anyone foolish enough to wander too far beneath its canopy. Tommy knows this, but he goes anyway.

The boy had been warned—by hearthside whispers and frantic mothers clutching their children back from the woods’ edge. They said the forest takes. It takes and it keeps.

But Tommy is not taken. No, he walks free, always free, though the price of his freedom stains his skin like a bruise.

Technoblade watches him from the shadows of the trees.

The fae prince—king, perhaps, though such titles mean little in a world of perpetual dusk—stalks him in silence, a predator borne of root and soil. He is a thing made of sharp edges and hollow places. Antlers rise from his skull, dripping with moss and moonlight, their cruel points glinting whenever he turns his head. The mask he wears—bone-white and unflinching—splits the night with its starkness, a boar’s visage frozen mid-snarl.

Technoblade does not hunger in the way men do, but Tommy’s life hums with a resonance that makes him ache. It is a song, faint and unsteady, like the trembling of strings under an inexperienced hand. It should not belong to this boy. It should belong to him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Technoblade tells him. His voice rumbles through the gloom like a landslide. Tommy jumps, his head snapping towards the sound, his heartbeat thundering against his ribs.

But the boy doesn’t run.

He should. Gods, he should. The forest is not kind, and neither is Technoblade. The fae takes what it wants, leaving behind hollowed-out shells where once there had been people. But Tommy stands his ground, his shoulders set with the kind of defiance that should have been crushed long ago.

“And who’s gonna stop me?” Tommy snaps, though his voice wavers. He is clutching something in his hand—a knife, perhaps, or a crude talisman meant to ward off what he doesn’t understand.

Technoblade tilts his head, the points of his antlers brushing against the low-hanging branches. The mask hides his expression, but Tommy feels the weight of his amusement like a stone sinking in his gut.

“I could stop you,” the fae replies, soft as a blade being unsheathed.

The boy’s defiance falters. He knows the stories, knows how the fae speak in circles and snares, how they lie with truths too cruel to parse. But he also knows that standing still is a kind of death, too.

“I’m looking for someone,” Tommy says, his voice quieter now. “Someone who came into this forest and didn’t come back.”

Technoblade says nothing. He steps closer, and the ground seems to sag beneath his weight, the trees themselves bending as if in reverence. When he speaks again, it is almost gentle.

“And who are you hoping to find, little mortal?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. Not at first. His gaze drops to the knife in his hand, the blade nicked and rusted, the handle wrapped in frayed leather. He twists it, as though he could carve courage into his palm with its edge.

“My brother,” he says finally. “Wilbur.”

The name hangs in the air like a curse. Technoblade’s antlers twitch, the moss trailing from them swaying like thread caught in the wind. For the first time, his voice softens, the growl receding into something low and mournful.

“There is no Wilbur here,” he says.

And then, before Tommy can speak again: “There is no one here but me.”

Tommy should leave. The forest is a predator, and Technoblade its sharpest fang. But there is something in the faes voice—something fractured, something almost human—that keeps his feet rooted in the mossy earth.

“You’re lying,” Tommy says. His voice cracks, and he hates it.

Technoblade chuckles, though it sounds more like bones grinding together. “Am I?”

The boy’s grip on the knife tightens. He takes a step forward, then another, the light of his torch trembling in the windless gloom.

“I’ll find him,” Tommy says, his voice firmer now. “Even if I have to tear this place apart.”

Technoblade’s laughter fades, leaving only silence. His mask tilts downward, as though he’s considering something. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he steps aside, his antlers brushing against Tommy’s shoulder as he passes.

“Then come,” he says, his voice low and sibilant. “Let us see what you are willing to give.”

Tommy hesitates only for a moment before following. The forest closes behind them, a gaping maw snapping shut. The moonlight falters, but Technoblade does not. He moves with the ease of a shadow, his form slipping between the trees as though he is part of them.

And perhaps he is.

Tommy doesn’t know what he expects to find in the heart of the forest. Maybe his brother, alive and waiting. Maybe a corpse. Maybe nothing at all.

But as the darkness deepens, he feels the weight of the forest pressing down on him. The trees whisper in voices too faint to understand, and the path beneath his feet seems to shift with every step.

Technoblade does not look back.

“Do you know what your brother promised, to enter this place?” the fae asks.

Tommy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to know.

“You’ll have to pay his debt,” Technoblade continues, his tone almost conversational. “But you’re already paying, aren’t you?”

Tommy doesn’t know what he means—doesn’t want to know—but he feels the truth of it anyway, gnawing at him like the teeth of the forest.

The trees are a mouth, and it is hungry.

Still, he follows.

The voice is faint at first, a ripple in the dense quiet of the forest. It hums like a broken tune, lilting, dissonant. Tommy stops in his tracks, the breath freezing in his throat.

“Wilbur?” he calls, louder than he means to. The sound ricochets off the trees, swallowed by the undergrowth.

Technoblade pauses, his head tilting in that unnerving way that makes the antlers seem like extensions of his thought. For a moment, there is something almost amused in the tilt of his mask. “Careful, little one,” he murmurs, his voice honeyed and sharp. “The forest echoes, but it doesn’t always echo you.”

Tommy clenches the hilt of his knife until his knuckles ache. He doesn’t care what the fae prince says. He heard Wilbur—he knows he did.

“Don’t do this to me,” Tommy says, the crack in his voice betraying his anger. “If you’re messing with me—”

“I’m not,” Technoblade interrupts, his tone clipped. “This place is its own master, boy. Even I can’t twist its rules, though I know how to bend them.”

Tommy glares at him, the tension coiling tighter in his chest. “Then help me find him!”

For a moment, there is silence, heavy and oppressive. Then Technoblade lets out a low sigh, the sound rumbling through the hollow space like distant thunder. “I’ll help,” he says. “But know this: no one leaves this forest without leaving something behind.”

Tommy hesitates, his grip on the knife loosening just slightly. “What does that mean?”

Technoblade doesn’t answer. Instead, he gestures for the boy to follow, his movements fluid, almost serpentine. “You’ll see,” he says, the words like frost in the air. “If you’re lucky.”

They walk in silence, save for the crunch of leaves beneath Tommy’s boots. The path winds deeper into the forest, the trees growing denser, their branches intertwining like the fingers of a thousand grasping hands. The air smells of decay and something sweeter, something metallic.

“Wilbur?” Tommy calls again, his voice cracking with desperation. “I’m here! I’m looking for you!”

The forest replies, but not with words. The voice that echoes back is distorted, stretched thin and brittle like it’s being pulled from some faraway place. “...Tommy...”

The boy stumbles, his heart lurching. “That’s him,” he says, breathless. “That’s him!”

Technoblade says nothing. He watches, silent and still, as Tommy sprints ahead, his torchlight bobbing wildly in the dark. The prince doesn’t follow. Not yet.

Tommy finds the clearing by accident.

The trees part suddenly, the oppressive darkness giving way to a sickly, pale glow. The ground is soft underfoot, a carpet of moss and petals that glisten as though coated in dew—or blood. In the center of the clearing stands a figure.

Wilbur.

At least, it looks like him. His face is too sharp, his eyes too hollow, but it’s his voice that spills from the gash of his mouth, his name that rings in the air like a bell.

“Tommy,” Wilbur says, his voice warm and brittle all at once. “You came.”

Tommy freezes at the edge of the clearing, the torch shaking in his grip. The figure—Wilbur, not Wilbur, something pretending too well—steps forward, his movements too fluid, too perfect, as if his body has been unhinged and stitched together by the forest’s will.

“I came for you,” Tommy says, his voice trembling but fierce. “I told you I would.”

The thing that wears Wilbur’s face smiles, wide and unyielding, his teeth too bright in the gloom. “You shouldn’t have.”

Behind Tommy, the air stirs. Technoblade has followed, silent and foreboding, his presence dragging a weight into the clearing like the tide pulling in a shipwreck. “He’s not what you think he is,” the fae prince says, his tone unreadable. “And this place... it won’t let you take him.”

Tommy whirls around, his face a mix of desperation and rage. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do!” he shouts, the torchlight dancing wildly across the antlers, the mask, the glint of moss. “That’s my brother!”

Technoblade cocks his head, the movement slow and deliberate. “Is he?” His words are a dagger wrapped in silk.

The boy’s defiance falters. He turns back to Wilbur—his brother—searching his face for the cracks, the fractures, anything that might betray what he already fears. The figure steps closer, his feet silent on the moss, his hollow eyes glinting like the reflection of light in a deep well.

“Tommy,” Wilbur says again, softer this time, and it’s wrong. Too careful. Too kind. “Come with me. It’s safe here.”

The boy’s grip on the knife tightens, his knuckles bone-white. He shakes his head, his jaw clenched so tightly it aches. “You... you didn’t sound like that before. You never sounded like that.”

The figure halts, its smile faltering just slightly before stretching wider, unnervingly so. “I’ve changed. The forest changes us, doesn’t it? You’ll see. You’ll like it here.”

Tommy takes a step back, his breathing uneven. “You’re lying.”

Behind him, Technoblade lets out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound filling the clearing like rolling thunder. “Smart boy,” he murmurs. “But not smart enough.”

“Shut up!” Tommy snaps, his voice sharp and cracking. “You don’t know anything about us!”

The fae prince tilts his head again, the motion as inhuman as ever. “Oh, I know plenty, little mortal. I know this isn’t your brother. And I know that even if it were, you’d never truly get him back.”

Tommy’s heart feels like it’s being torn in two, but he doesn’t let go of the knife. “What do you mean?”

Technoblade steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate. “You think the forest gives anything for free? Your brother came here, and the forest claimed him. What’s left...” He gestures lazily toward the thing that wears Wilbur’s face. “...isn’t yours anymore.”

“That’s not true,” Tommy says, though his voice wavers. “He’s still in there. I know he is.”

The figure smiles again, stepping closer. “He’s right, Tommy. I’m still me. Just... more. Stay here. Stay with me.”

Tommy stumbles, his mind racing. He looks at Technoblade, at Wilbur—both impossible, both dangerous—and he realizes he doesn’t know who to trust. The forest whispers around him, its voice a cacophony of promises and threats.

“What do you want?” Tommy finally asks, his voice small. “What does the forest want?”

Technoblade’s mask tilts downward, the antlers casting jagged shadows across the clearing. “Everything,” he says simply. 

The Wilbur-thing smiles, its too-sharp face aglow with something that might be triumph. It extends a hand toward Tommy, its fingers too long, its nails like thorns. “Stay,” it whispers, and the word sinks into the boy’s chest like a hook. “You belong here, with me.”

Tommy’s torch gutters, its flame flickering as if caught in a sudden gust. The forest breathes around him, and he feels its hunger—deep, ancient, and unrelenting. He looks at Wilbur, at the thing that pretends to be him, and he knows that no matter what he chooses, something will be lost.

But Tommy is stubborn. Tommy is defiant.

And Tommy has a knife.

“I’m not staying,” he says, his voice steady now, hard as stone. “Not without my brother.”

The figure’s smile falters, its hollow eyes narrowing. Technoblade lets out a low, approving hum, a sound like distant thunder. “Brave,” the fae prince murmurs. “But bravery doesn’t give you the victory.”

The clearing seems to hold its breath as Tommy moves forward, the knife steady in his grip. His torch sputters but clings to life, casting frantic, jagged shadows that make the world around him seem even less real. The figure claiming to be Wilbur stops, its too-wide smile pulling back into something unreadable.

Technoblade does not move, but Tommy can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and oppressive, like the forest itself is leaning in to watch.

“You think you can fight this?” the Wilbur-thing asks, its voice sweet as rot, its head tilting unnaturally to one side. The sound of bones creaking follows, and Tommy’s stomach churns. “You think a little blade and a little bit of fire will save you? This place doesn’t lose what its claimed, Tommy.”

The boy’s grip tightens on the knife, and for a moment, he’s struck by how small it looks in his hand—how small he is in the face of the towering trees and the endless dark. But he refuses to falter. “Maybe not,” he says, his voice hoarse. “But I don’t lose those I care about either.”

Behind him, Technoblade hums again, a low vibration that Tommy feels in his teeth. “Bravery and defiance,” the fae prince murmurs. “You’re a fascinating little thing. But I wonder... is it bravery if you don’t understand what you’re up against? Or just stupidity?”

Tommy ignores him. He keeps his eyes fixed on Wilbur—on the thing pretending to be Wilbur—and takes another step forward. The figure mirrors him, moving with that same eerie grace, its too-bright eyes flickering like distant stars.

“You want him back?” it says, and the words feel wrong, like they’re coming from somewhere behind the figure’s mouth. “Fine. Take him.”

It opens its arms, wide and inviting, and for a moment, Tommy hesitates. This close, he can see the cracks in its facade—the way its skin ripples, like a reflection on disturbed water. He can hear the forest in its voice, whispering promises that burrow into his skull and refuse to leave.

Stay, the whispers say, soft and coaxing. Stay with us. Stay with him. You don’t have to fight. Just stay.

The knife trembles in Tommy’s hand, but he forces himself to keep moving. “I’m not staying,” he growls, more to himself than to the thing in front of him. “I’m not leaving him here.”

The figure’s expression twists, its smile collapsing into something uglier, more jagged. “You don’t understand,” it hisses, its voice breaking into a thousand splintered tones. “You can’t save him. He’s already gone.”

Tommy stops, the words hitting him harder than he expects. He blinks, his grip faltering just slightly, and in that moment, the figure lunges.

It moves too fast, its limbs bending in ways they shouldn’t, its hollow eyes burning like embers. Tommy barely has time to react, throwing up the knife in a desperate, clumsy arc. The blade catches something—soft, wet, wrong—and the figure recoils with a sound that makes Tommy’s ears bleed.

“You think you’re strong?” it shrieks, its voice no longer Wilbur’s. “You think you matter? You’re nothing here. Nothing but food.”

The forest roars around them, the trees creaking and groaning as if alive. The whispers grow louder, more insistent, until Tommy can barely hear his own thoughts. But through it all, one sound cuts through—the low, rumbling chuckle of Technoblade.

“Careful, little mortal,” the fae prince says, his tone almost amused. “The forest doesn’t like when you draw blood.”

“I don’t care,” Tommy snaps, his voice ragged. He steps back, his breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts, the knife held tight in his shaking hand. “I’ll fight it. I’ll fight all of it.”

Technoblade tilts his head, his antlers brushing the low-hanging branches. “And what will you sacrifice to win?” he asks, his voice soft, almost kind. “What will you give to see your brother again?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He can’t. Because deep down, he knows the truth—the thing he’s been avoiding since the moment he stepped into the forest.

Wilbur isn’t coming back. Not really. Whatever debt he owed, whatever promise he made, the forest took it all. And even if Tommy finds him—finds something of him—it will never be enough.

The Wilbur-thing straightens, its smile returning, sharper than before. “You feel it, don’t you?” it whispers. “The truth. You know.”

Tommy swallows hard, his throat tight, his chest aching. His grip on the knife wavers, and for a moment, he wants to give in. To let the forest take him, too. To stop fighting.

But then he remembers Wilbur’s laugh—the real Wilbur, not this twisted mimicry. He remembers the way his brother used to ruffle his hair, the way he used to call him a pain in the ass but always meant it fondly. He remembers the way Wilbur promised, over and over, that they’d always stick together, no matter what.

And he knows he can’t stop. Not yet.

“I’m taking him with me,” Tommy says, his voice steady now, cold and sharp as the blade in his hand. “Even if it kills me.”

The figure laughs, high and mocking, the sound grating against his nerves. “Oh, it will,” it says. “The forest always gets what it wants.”

Tommy takes a deep breath and steps forward again. The forest groans, the whispers rising to a deafening roar. The clearing twists around him, the ground shifting, the trees closing in. But he doesn’t stop.

And for the first time, Technoblade moves.

He steps between Tommy and the Wilbur-thing, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallows the boy whole. “Enough,” the fae prince says, his voice like the crack of a falling tree. “The forest will decide.”

The clearing goes still. The air thickens, heavy with the weight of something ancient and watching. And Tommy realizes, with a sinking feeling, that this was never a battle he could win.

The air shifts. The forest, already alive in its cruel, suffocating way, seems to breathe now—deep, shuddering exhalations that send the leaves trembling and the shadows writhing. The clearing tightens, folding in on itself, the trees bending low like penitents before a king. A low, resonant hum rises from nowhere and everywhere all at once, vibrating through the marrow of Tommy’s bones.

Technoblade stiffens, his antlers twitching. The Wilbur-thing recoils, its too-bright eyes darting to the darkness pooling at the edge of the clearing. Even the forest holds its breath now, waiting.

And then he arrives.

Philza steps forward—or something like stepping, though his movements are too fluid, too alien to be entirely human. He emerges not from the shadows but with them, as if he is part of their fabric, woven into the very essence of the forest itself. His form flickers, impossible to pin down, his silhouette shifting between shapes that defy comprehension. One moment, he is a man cloaked in a tattered mantle of feathers, his face obscured beneath a crown of jagged branches and bone. The next, he is an endless expanse of eyes and wings, his form stretching too far, too wide, filling the clearing with his presence.

His eyes—if they can be called that—gleam like molten gold, burning with a light that is both warm and searing, like the final rays of sunlight before night swallows the world. His voice follows, a sound that is not sound at all but a deep, thrumming vibration that Tommy feels in his chest, his skull, his soul.

"You dare disturb my forest."

The words are not a question. They are an accusation, laced with a wrath older than the stars. The Wilbur-thing shrinks back, its form rippling, twisting, trying to escape—but there is no escape. Not here. Not from him.

Technoblade steps aside, bowing his head slightly, his antlers dipping low. For all his power, for all his cruelty, he is nothing compared to this. “Phil,” he says, his tone devoid of its usual mockery. “The mortal was bold enough to enter. He seeks his brother.”

The eldritch king tilts his head—or what might be his head—his gaze settling on Tommy. The boy feels the weight of it like the sky collapsing, his breath hitching in his throat. The torch in his hand gutters and dies, leaving only the pale, sickly glow of the clearing.

Philza takes another step forward, and the ground beneath Tommy’s feet seems to ripple, as though the forest itself is bending to accommodate its king.

“You think yourself worthy of reclaiming what is mine?” Philza’s voice is colder now, the warmth gone, replaced by something vast and unyielding. “This place is no playground for children. Your brother made his choice. He belongs to me.”

Tommy shakes his head, his grip tightening on the knife even though he knows it’s useless. “He’s not yours,” he says, his voice trembling but defiant. “He’s my brother.”

Philza chuckles, and the sound is devastating. It cracks through the clearing, reverberating through the trees, shaking the very earth. “Your brother,” he repeats, the words dripping with mockery. “And what are you willing to give, little mortal, to take him back?”

Tommy hesitates, his knuckles white around the hilt of the blade. He looks at Wilbur—at the twisted, hollow thing wearing his brother’s face—and his heart aches with the weight of everything he’s lost. He looks at Technoblade, silent and watchful, a predator waiting for the moment to strike. And then he looks at Philza, at the impossible being towering before him, and he knows there is only one answer.

“Anything,” Tommy says, the word barely a whisper but loud enough to ring through the clearing. “I’ll give anything.”

Philza’s form shifts, his crown of branches and feathers seeming to reach for the sky. For a moment, his expression softens—or at least, Tommy thinks it does. There is something in the golden glow of his gaze, something almost tender. But then it is gone, replaced by an inscrutable, ancient malice.

“You do not understand what you offer,” Philza says, his voice quieter now, but no less terrifying. “But very well.”

The forest moves. The trees twist and groan, their roots clawing up from the ground like grasping hands. The shadows close in, the clearing shrinking, suffocating, until there is nothing left but Philza’s burning gaze and the sound of Tommy’s heartbeat, hammering against his ribs.

“Take him,” the king says, and the Wilbur-thing screams.

It is not a human sound. It is the sound of something being unmade, something torn from the fabric of the world. The figure collapses in on itself, its form shattering into shards of light and darkness, and for a moment, Tommy sees his brother—really sees him. Wilbur, whole and unbroken, his eyes wide with fear and something like relief.

“Tommy,” Wilbur whispers, his voice cracking. “You shouldn’t have—”

And then he is gone.

The clearing is silent. The forest is still.

Philza looms over Tommy, his form flickering, his golden eyes glowing brighter. “Your debt is paid,” he says, and there is something final in his tone, something that feels like a door slamming shut.

Tommy looks around, his chest heaving, his heart racing. Wilbur is gone. The clearing is empty. And the forest—the forest—is still hungry.

“You will leave,” Philza says, his form beginning to recede into the shadows. “But you will not escape. Not entirely.”

Tommy opens his mouth to protest, but the words die on his tongue as the ground beneath him shifts, the trees groaning and twisting. The forest spits him out, casting him back past the forest line like a discarded toy.

When Tommy looks back, the pathway into the forest is gone. The trees are silent. And Philza’s voice lingers in his mind, cold and unrelenting.

Nothing leaves the forest unscathed.

The world outside the forest is muted, as though it has forgotten how to live in color. Tommy stumbles onto the dirt path leading home, his legs weak and trembling beneath him. The air here is cold, biting against his skin, but it doesn’t carry the same suffocating weight. The forest looms behind him, vast and unyielding, its maw shut tight as if it never spat him out.

Tommy walks. He doesn’t remember deciding to move, doesn’t remember how to put one foot in front of the other, but he walks anyway. The knife hangs limp in his hand, its edge dull and rusted, as useless as he feels.

The world is silent, save for the faint crunch of gravel beneath his boots. He doesn’t know where he’s going—home, maybe, though the concept feels distant, like something he once dreamed of. The forest has taken pieces of him he doesn’t yet understand, pieces he’ll never get back.

Then, through the haze, he sees him.

Wilbur stands at the edge of the path, his silhouette stark against the dim, fading light of evening. He’s still wearing the same jacket, the one he always wore on their long walks, but it hangs loose on him now, as though the forest took more than just his time. His face is pale, his expression frozen in something between disbelief and horror.

Tommy stops dead in his tracks. His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he wonders if this is another trick—another cruel illusion conjured by the forest or the fae king’s endless games. But Wilbur takes a step forward, and then another, his movements hesitant, trembling.

“Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice is hoarse, raw, as though it hasn’t been used in years. His eyes, wide and brimming with something fragile, lock onto Tommy’s. “Is that—oh, God, Tommy—”

Tommy doesn’t think. His legs carry him forward, and suddenly, Wilbur is real and solid and there, warm beneath his hands even as his body shakes like a leaf. Wilbur collapses into him, his arms wrapping around Tommy in a desperate, crushing embrace, and Tommy clings to him just as tightly, his knife clattering to the ground, forgotten.

“You’re here,” Tommy chokes out, his voice thick and broken. “You’re—oh, my God, Wilbur, you’re here—”

Wilbur buries his face in Tommy’s shoulder, his breath hitching, shuddering, as if he’s trying and failing to hold back sobs. “I thought—I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I thought you wouldn’t—wouldn’t find me, wouldn’t come—”

Tommy shakes his head, his own tears slipping down his cheeks. “I did,” he says, his voice cracking. “I—I went into the forest, and—and I found you. I—I didn’t leave you, Wilbur, I couldn’t—”

They collapse together, sinking to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs and desperation. Tommy feels the gravel digging into his knees, the cold biting through his clothes, but he doesn’t care. Wilbur is here, alive and breathing, and that’s all that matters.

For a long moment, they say nothing, their breaths mingling in the chill of the evening. Tommy presses his forehead against Wilbur’s shoulder, his fingers clutching at the fabric of his jacket as though letting go would undo everything. Wilbur’s hand tangles in Tommy’s hair, holding him close, as if grounding himself in his brother’s presence.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Wilbur whispers finally, his voice breaking. “You shouldn’t have gone in there.”

Tommy pulls back just enough to meet Wilbur’s eyes, his own red and swollen but filled with something fierce. “I’d do it again,” he says, the words sharp, certain. “I’d do it a thousand times, Wilbur. I’d give anything.”

Wilbur’s expression crumples, and he pulls Tommy back into his arms, holding him so tightly it almost hurts. Tommy lets him, lets himself sink into the warmth and weight of his brother, lets the forest fade into the background, just for a moment.

The path stretches endlessly behind them, the forest watching in silence. But for now, they are here, together, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Tommy lets himself breathe.