Archive of Our Own ^beta

          Tommy shakes, trembling with all the ferocity of a madman as he hobbles down his makeshift cliff. With each firm grasp of the roots embedded in the dirt, he keeps himself from spiraling to the ground; and yet, he feels his dignity slipping down and down that pillar. He had come so close to allowing Dream's influence to tear him apart. So close to leaving it all behind. Ending it all.

The young man shakes his head defiantly, the stubborn flick of his hair catching the waning light of the setting sun. He swings his body sideways, muscles tensing as he allows one hand to peel away from the tangled roots to shield his forehead from the harsh rays. Squinting against the light, he peers into the distance, surveying the ground far below. His gaze settles on a small pond nestled among the grasses. Tommy gulps, the taste of adrenaline and earth filling his mouth as he steadies his grip on the gnarled roots, his heart racing with anticipation. With a grunt, he gathers his strength, muscles coiling like a spring. He pushes off the dirt pillar, feeling the rush of air against his skin as he dives into the water.

The pond was deep, but not deep enough to completely protect the young man from a fall that high. He grunts, bubbles escaping and flying out of his mouth in a whirlwind as his wrist hits the bottom of the pond. Dirt and sand swirl around him in a gigantic cloud as he fights against the heavy water, his head emerging with a desperate gasp.

Tommy kicks his way to the shoreline, collapsing onto the sand coughing and sputtering as he expels the water from his lungs. He heaves himself up onto the grass, rolling over onto his back to gaze up at the pillar that almost caused him to take his own life.

“He was only here so that he could watch me.”

The words reverberate in his mind tauntingly.

"Fucking bastard," he mutters under his breath, his voice low and venomous.

He digs his fingers into the grass beneath him, each blade biting into his palm as he clenches his fist tighter. That bitch. Stealing his discs. Manipulating the election. Forcing his best friend to exile him. Worst of all: convincing Tommy that Dream was his only friend. He grits his teeth together, eyes loaded with outrage. Was that his plan the entire time?! Get Tommy alone, away from his friends who could support him, twisting and molding his mind into a shell of what it once was? Make Tommy rely on Dream and think of him as his only friend, then, just when Tommy was most vulnerable, turn his back on him and leave Tommy in a pit of despair?

Tommy’s heart thunders in his chest as he tries to piece together the shattered fragments of his reality; the betrayal tastes bitter on his tongue.

Dream had probably expected this. As soon as that green bitch left, he knew Tommy would try to do something drastic—he had likely planned on it too. That was one way to get rid of your enemy: let them do it for you.

With a gasp of pure rage, Tommy propelled himself to his feet. He instantly regretted it, however, when a blinding pain shot through his leg. He grappled at the ache, clutching his right knee with knitted eyebrows. His hand came back red.

Fucking hell. Dream had gone apeshit with the explosions, and he had gotten nipped by a few of the discharges. His skin was raw in areas and soot covered his body, but his knee seemed to have caught most of the damage when Dream blew up all his supplies. Tommy bent slightly at the hips, a sharp wave of pain coursing through him as he opened his mouth to groan, yet no sound escaped his lips. He fought not to look at the wound that throbbed at his side, instead choosing to shift his gaze toward the ruins of Logstedshire.

He needed to get out of here. Right now.

With all his might, he straightened his back, the action tearing at the tender joint. It wasn't too bad if you were considering blast wounds. He knew Tubbo had to go through some extensive facial reconstruction after he got blown up by Technoblade, so at least he didn’t get nerfed in the face. His leg didn't seem to be broken in any way. The skin around it looked fucked and there was a small chuck of flesh missing but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Something small must have hit him during the explosion, like a metal object or some shit, and ripped him anew.

His thigh felt more of the explosive bit, the skin torn back a couple layers and almost raw. But it was fine. In all honesty, it was okay—so long as he didn't look down. He needed to get it healed. He wasn't very familiar with medical jargon, but even he understood that having an explosion wound in his leg—or in any part of his body, for that matter—wasn't a good thing. He needed someone’s help.

Tommy limped back to the ruins of his 'home', every step a reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. He carefully picked his way through a hazardous landscape littered with shards of broken glass and mounds of debris in search of any medication that might have survived the blasts. His hopes steadily declined, though, as he turned over rubble and twisted metal, revealing nothing. Not a single bottle or bandage lay in sight.

He surveyed the remains of Logstedshire, the holes littering the ground and the black ash covering the grass. The pillar stood hauntingly like a giant tombstone. Fuck. His own remains could have easily become part of this graveyard of fucked up memories.

He shuddered at the thought of being trapped in this God-forsaken prison for all eternity. How the fuck had Dream gotten so in his head? He wasn't his friend. Not now, and not since day one. From the very beginning, Dream had been there with sinister intent, lurking in the shadows, pulling the strings, and thwarting any attempt he made to escape from the suffocating grip of control that the other placed upon him. Dream was there to watch him, manipulate him, and prevent him from doing anything that would get in that bastard's way.

Tommy was the only one who never obeyed him. He was the only one who consistently defied Dream in every possible way since the moment they met. Well, every moment except for now. He looked shamefully at the remnants of his things, remembering how easily he had given everything up. He closed his eyes tight, teeth clenched in frustration.

“He was only here to watch me.”

He inhaled the ash in the air, taking in the scent of the soot-stained atmosphere with unsettling clarity.

"This place is a shithole!" Tommy shouted, his voice echoing through the dense woods as he slammed his fist into the bark of the nearest tree. The impact shot a jolt of pain up his arm, but he brushed it aside, staring at the lines in the bark. Lines and connections. Lies and deceptions. A web of bullshit. Dream was a fucking menace.

"He was only here to watch me," he said to nothing. "He was only here to watch me."

It was like he was trying to cement reality in his brain. The fact that Dream had burrowed so deeply into his psyche that he had to repeat the fucking obvious just to get it through his thick skull was frankly terrifying. But those fucking webs of lies extended far beyond Dream. Who was here to stop Dream from hurting him? No one. Who was here to stop Dream from blowing up everything? No one. Who was here to stop Tommy from killing himself? No one.

All those people that 'visited' him—they weren't really visiting him, were they? Quackity and Ranboo dropped by, but it was clear their visits were colored by pity rather than genuine intent to help; their presence felt like an obligation, not a commitment. They would linger only for a moment, offering fake ass comfort before ultimately retreating to their own worlds, leaving him feeling more alone than ever. Each encounter underscored the sad truth that everyone in his life had abandoned him, even his best friend. They only showed up out of the memory of 'what was', back when he was still powerful and his words actually held weight, when he was vice-president and Wilbur was—

He shook his head and leaned back against the tree. No, he couldn't afford to think like that right now.

"He was only here to watch me," Tommy reminded himself as the sun rose.

But why? Why him?

He stared directly into the light, the blinding glow burning. He swore he could hear the faint sound of Cat playing on the jukebox next to his home, and he felt the wooden solidness of the bench beneath his hands as Tubbo sat next to him, overlooking the valley. He was transported back to L'Manburg, where laughter flourished among friends. Memories flooded in—each vibrant moment marked by the banter shared with Tubbo and the rest of their crew. Those fateful days when Dream had launched his attack on their base, the terror that gripped them when Eret betrayed their trust, and the heart-wrenching devastation that came when their homeland was obliterated before their eyes. It was just like that all over again, but instead of Eret, it was Tubbo, and instead of his L’Manburg, it was his fucking knee. Dream always targeted him. Always watched him. Stalked him in Pogtopia. Always followed him. Brought him to the brink of death dozens of times over. Wanted Tommy's blood on his sword.

But why?

White.

The memory was hazy, shrouded in a colorless mist. He had almost forgotten it. Dream and his gang were there, menacing silhouettes standing outside the imposing gates of L'Manburg's base. With an imperious presence, Dream raised his voice, slicing through the stillness of the night.

"White flags!" he shouted, the words echoing off the solid black walls that loomed above them.

The L'Manburg Cabinet stood resolutely atop those walls, looking down at the figures with impassive expressions. Dream’s gaze was laser focused on Tommy, cutting through the distance like a knife. Even from that far away, Tommy could feel the chill that radiated from those eyes—a nauseating shade of green that seemed almost unnatural, swirling with an unsettling intensity. But there was something more in Dream's gaze, a deeper, darker undertone that suggested not just malice, but a twisted sense of obsession.

"I want to see white flags outside your base by dawn!" he called out, the threat explicit in his tone. "Or you are dead!"

Fear.

"I'm the only one Dream's scared of," Tommy sighed like it was a relief. He chuckled to himself breathlessly, as if this were all just one big joke. "And he almost had me," he laughed, "for a second there."

He pushed himself off the tree with a newfound sort of confidence. A strange satisfaction coursed through him. Dream was afraid of him. He limped back to the gaping hole that was Logstedshire, breathing in the cancerous particles in the crater as he laughed at the absurdity of it all. Dream—the man, the myth, the legend, ruler of the land, and an unkillable beast—was afraid of a child. Not that he considered himself a child, of course; he was too proud to admit that. But it was fucking pathetic.

Tommy coughed, feeling the dust settle uncomfortably in his lungs. He needed to get out of Logstedshire; it wasn't safe anymore.

“It wasn't safe from the beginning,” a thought tugged at his mind.

If Dream believed him dead, then there was no reason for him to return. Dream himself said he wouldn't, and even if he did, he would find only a giant pillar and blood on the ground. He could break free, start anew somewhere where peace wasn't just a distant dream but a tangible reality. It was time to leave the chaos of Logstedshire behind and rebuild his life from the ground up, far away from the corrupt bitches of this land.

He moved cautiously around the jagged edges of the crater that had once been a home, sifting through the debris strewn across the ground for anything that might aid him in his survival. As he dug through the rubble, his fingers brushed against a few dull tools that had somehow withstood the chaos of the explosions. Though one blade had a large chunk missing from it—much like his leg.

He took the blade and tore a large strip of fabric from his shirt, wrapping it clumsily around his injured knee. He knew it wouldn't provide much support, but any assistance, however minimal, was better than facing the dangers ahead unprotected. Scanning the remnants of the battlefield, he noticed a few scattered pieces of armor, each one battered and barely held together. Most of it seemed entirely useless. With a low, resolute grunt, he forced his head into a dented helmet that felt heavy and awkward, and limped away from the crater.

A rush of confidence soared through Tommy. He didn't have to stay here! He could fucking leave! The thought sent a thrilling chill through him, but it was quickly followed by a wave of uncertainty. Where would he go? The Nether was out of the question; Dream had ruthlessly destroyed his portal, leaving him stranded. Returning to L'Manburg was equally unthinkable—he would be met with hostility and a swift death right at the gates. His gaze wandered to the jagged outline of the peninsula that surrounded him. The land was hemmed in on three sides by the sea, which left only one option.

Turning slowly, he faced the dense, shadowy forest that fringed Logstedshire. He had never dared to venture deep into those woods before; Dream had always kept him close, ensuring that any distance was an insurmountable barrier. But now Dream wouldn't know. And Tommy wouldn't care. The young man huffed as he tightened his grip on his small, battered sword. Tommy needed to get as far away as possible, just in case Dream ever came looking for him.

So, he began to trudge towards the unpredictable.

          His mouth dropped wide open as he came across a village just an hour into his travels. All this time, help was only an hour's walk away. The village bustled with life, the aroma of fresh crops wafting through the air. He cautiously ventured closer, drawn by the sight of bountiful fields and the rhythmic sound of laughter and chatter. He stole some crops and food. The thought of medicine tempted him. The village could be home to a healer who possessed the knowledge and supplies to treat his injured leg or, at the very least, have a disinfectant that might stave off an impending infection. But the shadow of Dream loomed large in his mind. The possibility of Dream finding him was too realistic. He couldn't afford to be discovered—not now, not when he had come so far to escape. He knew he had to keep moving, to put considerable distance between himself and the village. He had to travel far enough so that if Dream ever learned of his flight, his trail would be long gone.

Tommy hobbled gingerly onto the narrow, winding path that meandered away from the village. He made his way up a sprawling hill, its grassy slopes dotted with wildflowers. The hill eventually gave way to a series of rocky outcroppings; the terrain grew steeper and more challenging, forcing him to plant his feet carefully as he clambered over the uneven surface. The hills kept increasing in size until Tommy was pretty sure he was dredging up mountains. He could tell that the elevation was at least increasing if the drop in temperature was anything to go by. He could feel the chill creeping into the air around him, biting at his cheeks. The sounds of the village were long behind him, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the echo of birds calling from the treetops above. Tommy paused for a moment to catch his breath, glancing back at the fading landscape below.

Turns out he was right. He was climbing a fucking mountain. And it was cold as shit. He shivered, realizing that his ripped t-shirt, dented helmet, and torn jeans were not the best fit for the nippy weather. To add to his misery, he had lost his right shoe a couple of days ago and had been walking barefoot ever since. It didn't really bug him when he was living on an island surrounded by sand, but now, as he feels his foot get torn up from stepping on brambles and thorns, he really regrets not bringing any sort of footwear. Especially now that it was snowing.

Tommy shivered as snow fluttered down into his hair, collecting on his lashes and brushing his shoulders, seeping deep into his bones. The young man let out a whimper, his body shaking horribly in the new climate. He hadn’t seen snow in years—not since he and Wilbur had left Technoblade in the frozen wasteland of Antarctica to seek refuge in Dream’s realm. And now, standing here, clad in little more than his thin clothing, the reality of his situation washed over him like a wave of despair. Tommy briefly considered turning back but shook off the thought immediately, cursing his cowardice.

He pressed on, each step through the snow a battle against the elements, the cold air gnawing at his raw leg like a feral animal. He had to keep going, to put as much distance as possible between himself and Logstedshire, away from Dream. The wind howled around him like a pack of wolves stalking their prey. Survival was his only goal now. He had to survive so that he could get back at Dream and get revenge. Not for anyone but himself—maybe Wilbur. He had to keep moving.

The cold was getting worse as he ascended higher into the mountains, the chill penetrating his skin and wrapping around him like a malevolent shroud. His teeth chattered, and he wrapped his arms tightly around his chest to conserve warmth. Fortunately, the mountain had started to level off, AKA he didn't have to scale a fucking cliff anymore. The landscape evened out to a plateau, providing Tommy with some much-needed relief. Yet, even on the plateau, his entire body shivered uncontrollably. The wind whipped around him, threatening to blow him over the edge of the mountain if it had the chance. He looked around. The snow was untouched, covered in a thick, white blanket of snow that went beyond what he could see.

Was there even an end to this tundra? There had to be a village nearby. Tommy began his hike once again, cold sweat running down his back as the sun set. He needed to find shelter before dark. Once the sun disappeared, Tommy would lose his only source of heat. If he didn't find shelter quickly, he wouldn't survive. With the very real threat of death looming over him, Tommy quickened his pace, trudging across the flat of the mountain.

Crack!

A faint sound reached his ear, causing him to pause in his tracks. He looked around for the source of the noise, but everything remained quiet. Confusion knitted his brows together as he searched for any signs of a threat. Finding none, he took a cautious step forward with his injured leg.

CREEE—SPLASH!!

Tommy yelped as fire consumed his leg, shouting as it became engulfed. There was a reason why the land was so flat here. The thick blanket of snow had hidden it. It was ice.

Tommy scrambled desperately, trying to pull his leg out of the frigid water. The ice cracked further beneath his weight, the gashes in the frozen water deepening with every twist and turn as he struggled. With a shout, Tommy yanked his knee free and crawled to the edge of the frozen lake. He stood up as quickly as he could, determined not to let his body succumb to even colder temperatures nestled in the snow.

Tommy panted, hopping on his good leg to relieve pressure on his freezing shin.

"FUCK!" He screamed, trying his best to dry his leg off. "No no nonono!" He begged his leg, attempting to extract the ice-cold water soaking it.

A high-pitched gasp escaped his lips, interrupted by a moan of terror. Here he was, stranded in the heart of an unforgiving Arctic tundra, dressed in nothing but thin layers that did little to stave off the cold. His barefoot leg was soaked in water, with the temperatures around them only making his leg freeze over. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck he was fucking dead. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows over the snow, signaling the impending night that would plunge him into even colder darkness. His injured leg was already becoming numb. He needed to move right fucking now. Tommy scrambled past the plateau, the temperatures continuously dropping along with his security.

          He wasn't sure how much time had passed. A relentless blizzard blanketed the forest, swirling in chaotic gusts and obscuring his view of the moon’s position. Each step he took crunched a print into the thick layer of snow, yet among the towering spruce trees surrounding him, there were no signs of civilization—a cabin, a fire, anything that would suggest he wasn’t utterly alone. His left hand, which he suspected was broken, felt oddly warm—definitely not a good sign. His injured leg was completely numb, making it increasingly difficult to bend it. It was as if the joint had frozen over in the lake somehow. Each breath came out in heavy clouds of white, and his eyes felt like they were freezing over with every blink. He didn't know what else to do except keep moving.

As luck would have it, Tommy face-planted into a deep patch of snow, grimacing as his head hit the ground with a smack when as his foot slipped into a small crevice hidden beneath the snow. He ground his teeth together and pulled himself back up, his muscles protesting with every movement. His leg had become almost completely immobile, making it difficult to put one foot in front of the other. It was a wonder he hadn't tripped over it more than once. The adrenaline from earlier had completely evaporated, and Tommy knew he was on the verge of collapse. He could feel the weight of exhaustion settling in. But the thought of Dream—and the possibility of his knee seizing up and turning him into a frozen fucking corpse in the middle of nowhere—motivated Tommy to keep pushing and moving. He leaned heavily on his good leg, using it to propel himself forward.

          He was dead. His leg was entirely useless and unable to move or be felt, dragging in the snow behind him. He was practically hopping forward, clutching his left forearm in his good hand and willing the burning sensation in it to stop. His head felt so dizzy and light from the cold. In all honesty, he didn’t know what the fuck to do.

Yet oddly, there was a warm feeling inside of him, kinda like the way Techno used to make him hot chocolate once on a rare occasion back in Antarctica. Tommy never figured out how Techno managed to make it. You wouldn’t expect the all-mighty Blood God to create something so sweet and delicious. Techno would always shove the mug into Tommy's hands, and Tommy would accept it with a huff, pretending to turn his nose up at it as if he were better than Techno. But he would always drink it. Tommy swears he saw Techno crack a smile once.

Tommy felt his lips upturn against the cold. He slowed down a bit.

Odd thought but flying would be really cool. Phil can fly. He has those big ass wings you can hear a mile away beating with the intensity of an army of drums. He would fly down from seemingly nowhere and coo at Techno and Tommy for being "such good brothers."

Tommy would immediately shout and protest, claiming he was better than Techno in every way, while the eldest brother would remain silent until Tommy's tantrum ended. After everyone fell silent, Techno would suggest throwing Tommy out of the house into the snow, prompting the youngest to scream again, with Phil doing nothing to ease the child's fears besides laughing his ass off.

Tommy chuckled, falling to his knees in the snow.

Phil would laugh so hard, in fact, that his wings would malfunction, causing him to crash in all directions as he cackled, knocking objects off tables and shelves.

"No Philza! That's my elite collectible relic of some random book from some random guy from the 1600s!" Techno would raise his voice slightly and shout. (Of course, Techno never actually said the last part; he knew the names and titles of all his collectibles. Tommy, on the other hand, didn’t.)

"What the fuck is going on?" Wilbur would peek his head out the door, his guitar in hand. He had probably just been writing some music. Phil would laugh even harder as Technoblade would try to save his novels from the wrath of Phil, his superhuman speed and strength no match for Philza's unbridled howls. Wilbur would then get pissed off at the racket being made and automatically blame Tommy for the mess. Tommy would defend himself, but ultimately, he would find himself in time-out even if he hadn't been the one to make Wilbur to lose his mind.

Tommy laid down fully in the snow, his body numb to him as his mind raced.

Tommy would then annoy Wilbur so much that he'd be let out of time-out. He’d hang around Wilbur for an hour, trying to read and understand the sheet music scrawled on some parchment in Wilbur's messy handwriting. Sometimes, he'd even teach Tommy how to play the guitar.

That was probably Tommy's favorite thing in the entire world: holding Wilbur's guitar, which the older adored and would not allow anyone else to touch, and watching Will’s mouth twist up in a smile with a pride he hadn’t seen directed at anyone else.

Tommy smiled into the snow, curling up to get more comfortable.

Techno would begrudgingly drag himself into Wilbur's room and announce that he had made dinner. Wilbur and Tommy would follow him to the table, knowing that the eldest had prepared potatoes for the fifth time that week. Phil would always let out a nervous chuckle at the sight of the vegetable.

"Potatoes... again," he would say in a cheery voice.

"Yayyyy," Wilbur would mock in response.

This would spark another argument between the two older brothers, while Tommy remained quiet, buzzing in his shoes and waiting for Tubbo to knock on the front door so they could go out and play together.

Tommy felt an overwhelming sense of sleepiness fall over him. He let his eyes close. He was tired. He should sleep.

A knock, and Tommy would know that Tubbo was there waiting for him. He would zoom out of his chair and zip to the front door. He would open it to the outside world, and there would be a bright light.

A bright light.

Light.

His eyes snapped wide open.

From where he was lying in the snow, he spotted a flickering light in the distance. It was faint but unmistakably present. Exhaustion weighted him down, making each small movement feel monumental. With palpable effort, Tommy maneuvered himself onto all fours, crawling slowly toward the source of the light. As he drew closer, the light intensified, bathing everything in its soft radiance.

Each labored breath caught in his throat as he paused to gaze up at the cottage that stood before him, nestled amid the snow-laden trees. Its windows gleamed like welcoming eyes. Against all odds, he was drawn to it, fueled by a flicker of hope that he had thought lost in the cold.

He crawled to the nearest door at the bottom of the three-story cottage, drowsily yelling a drunken "Shhhh!" at a horse that neighed at him. Pulling himself inside, he shouted, "Hello?" to anyone who might be able to hear him. There was no answer, so he tried again. Still, silence greeted him. He moved fully into the house, kicking the door shut with his good foot. Warmth enveloped him like a father’s embrace, and a soft feeling settled in his stomach, giving way to mindless giggles. Endorphins flooded his system as he chuckled with relief. Then he started sobbing.

He hugged himself. Tears ran down his face as he thanked whoever owned this home for saving his fucking life. He wiped his tears away with his good hand, cursing himself for crying. He had just survived this horrid ordeal. He was Tommy Fuckin' Innit. Of course, he wouldn't die from something as simple as snow. Either way, he smiled gratefully.

His grin stretched further as his head tilted to the left, where stacks of chests rested against the walls.

"HOLY SHIT!!" He shouted as he opened them.

Whoever lived here was fucking loaded. There were piles and piles of gold and diamonds and food and tools. He grabbed hungrily at the food, eating a raw potato like a lunatic. He looted the chests, taking just enough supplies to survive without drawing attention. To his great fortune, one chest was filled with medical supplies. Most of it contained burn cream and serums, but there were also disinfectants, gauze, stitching materials, and an abundance of alcohol. Tommy couldn't help but take a quite noticeable amount for his wounds, piling all his stolen goods in the center of the room.

On the far right, he noticed a ladder. He decided to climb up it to scout out more of the house, hoping to find additional supplies. And he was rewarded; there were more chests, each filled with powerful gear. He grabbed a particularly shiny sword and a bunch of apples, quickly chowing down on the fruit to quell his rising hunger. He felt like he hadn't eaten in days! Thank fuck for the people of this house. Speaking of the people of this house...

Tommy froze, cautious now that he was sensible again. They could be back any minute. Fuck, they could even be here now! He hadn't checked out the third floor, maybe someone was here sleeping! In a sudden fit of fear, Tommy crept back down to the ground floor, afraid to make even the slightest of noises. He returned to his pile of things and then froze again.

Fuck. What now? He had nowhere to go. If he stepped outside into the cold, he was sure he would freeze to death. But if he stayed inside, the homeowners could attack him. What was he supposed to do? Fear prickled along his back, sending shockwaves of anxiety through him. He glanced around, searching for anything that might help. To his surprise, he discovered more to the house than he had initially assumed. The ladder led down to a rather unfinished basement. If you scraped hard enough, you could dig something secretly into the walls...

Tommy grinned.

He stole a shovel from the homeowner's chest and began quietly digging himself a hovel. Before long, he had excavated a hole a couple of feet deep, large enough for a person to squat and move around.

Tommy was highly claustrophobic. He had discovered this back in Pogtopia when he got stuck under those pistons in his redstone-gone-wrong contraption, and to this day, he still hates enclosed spaces. However, he would have to suck it up if he wanted to survive. He took all his stolen supplies down to the hole, tempted but refusing to take more lest the homeowner notices. He would have to make do with what he had for now; it seemed he would be living in this hole for a while.

He gulped as he covered the entrance to the crevice with a slab of stone he had found in the basement, surrounded by pitch darkness. He lit a torch and placed it in the corner of the cave. Exhaustion tugged at his eyes, making them heavy and drowsy, but he knew he couldn't sleep yet—at least not until he had tended to his injuries.

Shivering, he carefully unwrapped the frozen scraps of his shirt from around his knee. It was much colder in the hole than it had been in the house. As he exposed the explosion wound to the air, he felt numb to the pain. He was even more concerned that as he poured alcohol and disinfectant on it didn't even tingle. At least the skin on his injured thigh burned when he poured it on, but it wasn't a good sign.

He wasn't sure what to do besides redress the wound and slap some anti-burn cream on it. He could deal with the rest in the morning. Right now, all he needed was sleep. He blew out the torch and curled up in the hole. It was pitch black and cold, filling him with terror. But he was alive. As Tommy closed his eyes wearily, he thought of smiles, laughter, and hot cocoa.

He was alive.

          Tommy jolted awake, abruptly sitting up and hitting his head against the ceiling of the hole.

"Shit!" he hissed, rubbing the spot where he had banged his head.

It took a moment for the memories to come rushing back, for him to remember where he was and why. He sat there, the panic subsiding, but still lingering inside his chest as a sharp, uncomfortable feeling.

He shifted to a more comfortable position, leaning against the cold dirt wall with his legs extended in front of him—well, with one of his legs extended.

Tommy's eyes widened in shock as he looked down at his leg. Large blisters ran up to his kneecap, pockets of oozing and bubbling flesh sticking out starkly against his skin. The same was happening on his left hand, small pustules contrasting against his pale, sickly blue flesh. But there was one major difference between the two frostbites. A blackened color tainted Tommy's leg, the pigment stretching from his toes to the middle of his shin. His foot seemed almost dead, the toenails yellowed and cracked, and his sensitive skin torn, spotted red and blue at the edges of the impairment. He attempted to move his foot, but it wouldn't budge. The worst part was that it wasn't even numb anymore; it was completely devoid of any feeling and unresponsive to any movement. Panic set in as he struck his foot, hoping that it would somehow regain its sensation. Of course, when that didn't work, he started hitting it even harder. With a gasp, he let the dead limb flop down to the ground, using his hands to crawl back away from the leg in fear as though it wasn't attached to him. His chest heaved, raw unbridled fear rushing through his system. Fuck. This was really bad. He placed a hand on his heart, willing it to calm down. Sure, his leg was probably dead, but if he didn't act like a big man and take care of the rest of his injuries, he might also be dead. Maybe if he left it alone, the blood circulation would return, and he'd be able to feel his leg again.

Tommy deliberately avoided looking at his injured leg, pushing down the gnawing feeling in his stomach that told him it would not be alright. He focused instead on the task at hand, drawing out the fire-resistant remedies he'd stumbled upon earlier. With careful precision, he scooped out a handful of the thick, salve-like ointment and began to smear it over the raw skin of his left hand. He had no idea if it would work, but he didn't want to take any chances.

Next, he reached for a small piece of plywood, roughly the size of half a forearm, that he had found in the unfinished basement. Tommy wrapped gauze tightly around the plywood, creating a makeshift splint, and secured it to his wrist with a few more layers of gauze. Glancing down at the injury, he noted that while the explosion wound had not significantly worsened, the skin surrounding it had taken on a red-ish color. He decided to keep an eye on it. Right now, more than anything, he needed to rest and conserve his energy to heal. He ate a small amount of food, just enough to settle his stomach. A sharp cough escaped him. He closed his eyes once again.

          It was getting worse. It was clear that there was no blood circulation in his leg, as the discoloration showed no signs of fading. Maybe it was just Tommy's imagination, but the frostbite seemed to be gradually creeping up his leg. He reassured himself that it couldn't be true, because as far as he knew, frostbite couldn't spread. And Tommyinnit was never wrong about anything. He worried his lower lip.

His explosion wound was swelling slightly, a foul odor emitting from the hole. He disinfected it once more, wrapping his entire leg in bandages this time, hoping to quell his fears of losing his leg. His kneecap was completely swollen, and the edges of the hole turned dark red and a purplish color. A small sheet of film had scabbed over the blast, and he got excited for a moment thinking that it was healing itself. That idea was quickly discarded once he saw the yellowish tinge to the film and a piss-yellow pus slowly seeping out from underneath it.

The blisters on his hand had popped, clear fluid running down his arm as he tried to sop it up with cloth. He coughed violently into his arm, shivering despite his hot forehead.

Once again, he croaked forcibly and sat in heavy silence.

          He was right; the frostbite was spreading. It had moved a couple of inches up his leg, creeping ominously toward his knee. He didn't know what the hell to do. He was freezing and gaunt, with no clothing to provide him warmth so he wasn't getting much sleep. Other times, he was so cold that he felt as though he slept for days, waking up with a nauseating feeling that overwhelmed him completely. He wasn't getting any better and a blind man could see that. A deaf person could probably hear him as he hacked constantly, mucus building up in his throat. If he didn't start healing soon, it might be the end for him.

          He had to cut it off. There was no other choice. An axe and medical supplies laughed tauntingly beside him.

He looked down at his leg, fully aware that it was dead. There was no circulation to the limb, and it was completely dark and cold to the touch. He was horrified when, just a couple of minutes ago, he had peeled off the gauze, ripping some of the skin from the limb with it. His leg was completely lifeless, and it was rotting and decomposing while still attached to him. The frostbite had worsened, creeping further and reaching his kneecap.

His blast wound was oozing pus, turning a sickly red and green color. It was dreadful to look at, and there was nothing he could do to treat it. His wrist wasn't getting any better, and the popped, infected blisters hurt like a fucking bitch.

The infections all over his body had weakened his immune system, and in the cold, he had caught some sort of sickness. It felt like there was fluid in his lungs, and every time he coughed, a mixture of phlegm and slight traces of blood would spot his elbow.

His leg was dead, and he had come to terms with that. The only thing he hadn't come to terms with was the fact that he had to cut it off. If the infection kept spreading, it could kill him, especially if the frostbite was able to make it back into his bloodstream. Unless there was someone up in that house who could help him, he would have to chop it off. And he had checked the house. Twice over. Dread settled deep in his stomach. He had scoured the house, calling out several "hellos" and "help me's," When he looked around and saw that no one had been in the home since he got there, he knew full well that he had no choice but to proceed with the amputation.

A newly sharpened axe sat by his side. If he was right about this—which he had no certainty of and was taking a complete leap of faith—he shouldn’t bleed to death, as blood circulation in his leg was already reduced from the frostbite. He had gathered some precautionary supplies, including a bucket of ice-cold water he had dragged down from above the homeowner's fireplace and a bottle of whiskey he found stored in a chest beside the owner’s bed. (And like, what the fuck. The dude who owned this house had a serious drinking problem. You do NOT need alcohol first thing in the morning.)

Tommys hand rested atop the axe, his leg sprawled out in front of him on a white cloth. A cold sweat trickled down his forehead as he stared at the blade. Fuck. What the fuck? Fucking hell, how was he supposed to do this?!

His heart thudded in his ears, drowning out the sound of his harsh breathing. He was beyond terrified. He took a deep, steadying breath.

"Alright," he whispered to himself. "Right, this is it. Alright. This has to be done. Come on, it's the only choice. Come on. It—" he was blabbering to himself. He gripped the axe a little tighter.

"Come on, come on Tommy. You can do this. It's only below your knee. ‘Snot like it's the full thing. You can even keep the scar from the blast wound. It'll be so cool, and women love scars. Just cut your leg off and be done with it. Just—you're a big man. You can—" He felt a wave of nausea hit him. He yanked off his helmet, gagging dryly into it. Spit pooled at the bottom pathetically. He shook his head, dropping it to his side.

"Stop being a pussy," he scolded himself, but his eyes were wide with fear. He took some time to collect himself. He had to be calm if he was going to do this. He wasn't going to make it if he didn't cut it off. Though, if this amputation went wrong, he would also die. And if he did make it out alive, an infection could just as easily kill him later on. But he sure as hell wasn't dying today.

He had already tied a cloth band around his thigh to stop any excess blood flow. Everything was prepped: the water, the whiskey, the towels, the axe, and his leg, which was completely drained of color and ice-cold to the touch—

Tommy let out a deep breath. Was he ready? Was he truly prepared to live as a disabled person for the rest of his foreseeable and possibly very short life? Was he ready to face death?

He reached for the whiskey, unscrewing the cap and bringing the bottle to his lips. Taking a long, hard swig, he felt the burn of the liquid as it sloshed down his throat. He grimaced and coughed at the taste, shivering from the sensation. Shaking his head to dispel the unpleasant feeling, he smacked his lips, his mouth dry. Setting the bottle down, he then reached for the buckle of his belt. Tommy wasn't stupid. He knew that the last thing he wanted to do was chop off his tongue as well as his leg. He fucking loved talking. And insulting people. And calling them slurs. Okay, maybe not that last one. Dream defiantly did, though.

So, he bit down on the belt, making sure to shield his tongue from his teeth.

His grip tightened around the axe as he struggled to lift it. Funny. The handle of the axe felt so heavy, which was a bit peculiar because Tommy could usually lift an axe with one hand with no struggle in the past in sparring practices with Techno or battling Dream. But now, the weight felt overwhelming. He took a sharp breath, steeling himself. He could do this. After all, he was Tommy Fucking Innit.

With determination, he lifted the axe higher, gripping it firmly.

"Alright, alright. Come on. You can—" Tommy thought to himself. His heart was pounding in his ears.

"You can do this," he thought. This was it. He was actually going to do this.

"I'm a big man!" he shouted, the belt in his mouth muffling his voice.

He grimaced and raised the axe high. With a primal shout, he swung it down with all his might.

          The moment he had removed the limb he had kicked the dismembered flesh to the opposite corner of the room with his good leg and gurgled out a gasp, quickly throwing up into the helmet beside him. He dry heaved, coughing up mucus and fear equally. He didn't feel anything at first, adrenaline and the already numb nerves in his leg preventing much pain. It was a different sort of pain he felt. The area felt full of pressure, and the skin on his thigh above the cut was trying desperately to send pain signals to his brain, a wild throbbing feeling on his stump.

He had started feeling a sharp stabbing ache after he had shakily rinsed the stub in water. It became even worse as he poured the whiskey on top of his thigh, shouting with a scream of pain and shock as he felt the wound sizzling. He gasped and moaned in pain, thick tears rolling down his face as he held the residual limb with shaky hands. As fast as he could, he wrapped the base with more gauze than he had ever seen before, tying it tightly with a grunt.

He sobbed at the ever-growing pain, knowing full well he didn't have any pain medication to quell the flames lapping at the amputation site. What was worse was the feeling of pain he felt in his dead foot. He knew he couldn't feel any pain there—he wouldn't be able to. It was gone. Disconnected from his body. And yet he still felt like it was there, attached to him.

His head grew fuzzy with the wild pain, and everything was spinning. It was hard to breathe. His body felt like it wanted to shut down on him. He willed his mind to stay awake, fearing what could happen if he were to pass out. But his body protested, wanting to shut down and stop his nerves and all this confusion. Against his will, his eyes slipped closed, and everything turned on its axis as the world went black.

          Technoblade rode Carl toward his home, a deep frown on his face. He had not been having a good week. Being taken hostage by some losers in aprons and almost being executed was definitely not on his bucket list. It was actually embarrassing, if you asked him. But Carl made it all worth it. He couldn't believe they had put Philza under house arrest.

"Free himmmm!" "Philza Minecraft knows what you've done!" "Free Philza!" the voices screamed in his head.

At least he had gotten back at Quackity—that had been a good one-liner, you know, the one with the pickaxe in his teeth. He chuckled to himself and pulled on the reins to will Carl to gallop faster.

"We're almost home," Techno said to the voices, hearing cheers in response.

As if on cue, the outline of his house emerged as he crossed over a hill. He hopped off Carl to look at it through the blanket of snow that was torrenting down from the sky.

"We're home, Carl," he said affectionately, his fingers trailing slowly up and down the horse's soft, wiry coat. Carl, a sturdy creature with dark chestnut fur, nickered softly in response, the sound lost momentarily in the rustle of the snow-laden branches. "Alright, Carl," he whispered gently, pressing his cheek against the animal's thick mane. "Let's get you back."

He walked on foot, his hand wrapped around the horse's harness as he guided his friend home. The snow crunched softly beneath his feet as he placed Carl back in his pen, closing the gate door and locking it, the latch clicking reassuringly into place. He paused for a moment, resting his hands on his hips, gazing at the horse. Carl’s big, intelligent eyes looked back at him, glistening with gratitude. The horse's trough was empty, and he had no food, so before allowing himself to rest, he would have to drag some apples out for the horse to regain his strength. Luckily, he had some stored in his house.

He climbed the weathered stairs to his home, swinging the door open with a sigh. He unclipped his heavy road cloak, shaking off the snowflakes that had settled upon it, and lifted his pig skull mask to the top of his head for a moment to breathe in the air of familiarity. He had missed it here.

Techno offered a brief, clipped "Hullo" to Edward, his eyes drifting momentarily to his companion before he turned his attention to his food chest. He threw open the heavy lid and reached inside, retrieving a couple of apples, and then closing it with a resounding snap.

He hesitated, a frown creasing his brow as he stared at the now-closed chest. Something felt off. He opened the chest again, this time peering into its depths with a scrutinizing gaze. The chest was noticeably emptier than when he’d last checked. He calmly let the apples in his arms roll back into the chest, closing it once more and looking around. His senses heightened; he scanned his surroundings. He couldn't be too sure. An animal might have managed to get inside and raid his stash.

"And been able to open the latch?" the voices supplied helpfully.

He brushed aside their musings, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. When he rifled through his other belongings, the pit in his stomach deepened. A distinct absence of familiar tools met him, along with a stark lack of medical supplies that had previously lined the shelves. Someone had raided his house. Anger bubbled within him. Even his bucket, the one he kept above the fireplace, was gone. Who in their right mind would steal a bucket?

It might have been those losers in the aprons who took his things. He hadn't seen them take anything, but maybe one of them managed to snatch a few items. Had one of them snuck away unnoticed, plucking at his belongings while the others distracted him? A flicker of doubt crossed his mind as he remembered their appearances. None of them had shown any signs of injury. If they had needed medical supplies, wouldn’t they have appeared worse for wear? And how could they possibly conceal something as bulky as a bucket on their person without giving themselves away?

No. Someone must have broken into his house while he was away and stolen his stuff. Based on how much was missing, he figured they were probably injured—and likely quite badly.

Techno sharply pulled his mask back on, narrowing his eyes. He drew his pickaxe silently and stood up straight, a brooding aura surrounding him. It wasn't safe, and neither was Carl. He tightened his grip on the pickaxe, letting out a low, menacing snarl. Could no one ever just leave him alone?

With stealthy, calculated movements, he crept around the house, his instincts alive as he checked every corner and crevice, prying open chests and scanning for anything out of place. When he reached his bedroom, a scoff escaped his lips upon realizing his whiskey had been pilfered. Was it really a drunk bum rummaging through his things? Phil had given him that whiskey as a housewarming gift, even though his dad knew he didn’t drink. He had kept it there for safekeeping, and now some alcoholic had swiped it. He was going to kill this guy.

Venturing down to the ground level, he searched for any sign of an intruder. He found lots of missing items from his chests, mostly food and bottles of water, but he didn’t see any sign of a person. As he prepared to check outside, a putrid odor assaulted his nose. He quickly raised his elbow to his mask, stifling a groan in an attempt to block out the foul smell. What was that?

The stench grew stronger as he approached the ladder, fumes wafting up from the basement. He climbed down into the unfinished room cautiously. The smell intensified, invading his nostrils and choking him with its putrid embrace. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, they landed on a slab of stone awkwardly positioned in the corner of the room, catching his attention. Suspicious. That slab had once been in the middle of the room to mark where he intended to place an underground potato farm.

Approaching the slab carefully, he inhaled deeply, the odor worsening as he pushed it aside with a grunt of effort. The stone scraped against the floor, the sound unnerving in the suffocating silence. The slab slid away to reveal a dark hole. Techno lowered his head to look down into it, holding his breath to avoid the suffocating smell coiling up into his face. The smell burned his eyes. He maneuvered himself, slipping his feet into the hole; it was a tight fit but manageable if he wiggled hard enough.

He descended into the hole until his feet landed on a hard surface. It was pitch black, and he couldn’t see anything, but the overpowering smell assaulted him once more. He had faced many horrors in his life, but he had never encountered a stench like this. It was the worst thing he had ever smelled—a grotesque mix of rotting whale and salty blood. His face twisted in revulsion as he reached into his pocket for a small torch.

He lit it, and the hole filled with light. Immediately, he spotted a figure curled up in the far corner of the crevice. He squinted, trying to get a better look at the figure.

"What are you doing in my house?" Techno demanded with an even voice, shining the torch in the direction of the person. No response. He repeated himself.

"What are you doing in my—" He paused. His eyes trailed from the figure to the room, his eyes landing on an object on the other side of the hole. His eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as he looked at it and the bloodied towels around it. What the...?

His eyes snapped back to the figure, holding his breath. Were they alive? He approached slowly, cautiously stepping over the empty bottle of whiskey and discarded medical supplies. He shined the match enough so he could see the person. He almost dropped the match.

You’re kidding.

Tousled, dirty blond hair peeked back at him, speckles of blood dotting pale blue skin. The kid's red and white shirt was torn up, a hand with yellow and red stained gauze supported by a small strip of wood. Pants with one side cut off and a missing leg, presumably the item on the other side of the room. It was packed tightly with white bandages, red staining them through. His eyes snapped back to the boy's face.

Tommy.

He felt bile rise to his throat; the helmet filled with vomit beside the boy not helping his nausea. He willed it back down, his mind racing. Why was he here? How long had he been here? Why was he hurt? What happened to his leg?

Is he alive?!!?

Techno rushed to his younger brother's side in an instant, pressing his fingers against the boy's neck. He exhaled in relief upon finding a pulse. It was weak, but it was still there. Holding a hand in front of the younger boy's mouth, he felt a slight puff of air; the kid was breathing, but it was labored and faint. What had happened down here?!

Techno felt the boy's ice-cold body, searching for any other injuries he might have missed before scooping him up into his arms. His eyes couldn't leave the stump of his leg, an uncharacteristic waver in his steps as he rushed up the ladder as fast as he could with his near-death brother slung over his shoulders.

He could never catch a break, could he?

          Tommy peeled his eyes open, or at least tried to. As soon as he managed to open them, he snapped them shut again as a bright light and a splitting headache hit him like a punch. He groaned, bringing his right hand to his forehead to press on his temple, willing the ache to go away.

"Awake? Finally," a monotone voice drawled.

Tommy's eyes shot open, and he moved his hands to push himself up but hissed in pain as he put weight on his broken hand.

"Careful, I just made you a working cast. That splint of yours was working wonders," the man said sarcastically.

Tommy stared at Technoblade in shock. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he cursed, coughing violently from his rusty vocal cords.

"I should be asking you why you're in my house" he replied dryly.

"Your—your hou—oh. Oh, shit."

He stares at his older brother, who sits beside his bed on a stool. The elder closes a book and places it down, crossing his arms. He was sitting next to Technoblade. In Technoblade’s bed. In Technoblade’s house. He was so fucked.

Tommy growled, an insult on the tip of his tongue, when a sudden pang of pain hit his head. He groaned and gripped his hair. Technoblade straightened and leaned forward in his chair.

"You shouldn't be talking now, so shut up," the older man says.

Tommy opens his mouth before snapping it shut at the glare he receives.

Technoblade gently pushed Tommy back down on the bed. "I've got you on a lot of painkillers. I can't do anything about your head. I've done the best I can, and you'll be fine. You need to sleep more. So shut up and go back to sleep."

Tommy felt the weight of exhaustion settle in, and he let his eyelids flutter closed, surrendering to sleep.

Technoblade shifted uncomfortably in his seat, listening to the small puffs of air coming from his brother's mouth with a clenched jaw. He knew Tommy needed to rest. How long had it been since the kid had gotten any real sleep? How long had he been on the run? How long had he been hiding down in that hole? It couldn't have been more than a week. He couldn't imagine it being any longer. But the bags under his eyes spoke volumes. He was exhausted, starved, and injured.

"Idiot."

          The next time Tommy woke up it was with significantly less pain. There was still a dull ache in the back of his head, but it was an improvement. As he opened his eyes, he saw Techno sitting at his bedside once again. Techno was working with a knife, although Tommy couldn't quite see what he was doing.

Tommy involuntarily coughed, his lungs feeling sore. The elder brother's attention shifted to him instantly; he placed whatever he was holding on the floor and began rubbing circles on Tommy’s back.

Once Tommy's coughing fit subsided, Techno leaned back on his stool and watched Tommy. His mask was off now, a blank expression on his face.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Like shit," Tommy replied, pulling himself up into a sitting position, mindful of his broken wrist.

"Good. Now can you explain to me what you are doing in my house?" Techno grunted.

Tommy rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, dragging it down his face in frustration.

“What happened to me?” Tommy asked.

Techno sighed through his nose, deciding to forgo further questions for the moment.

“You tell me. I come home after nearly being executed to find my house ransacked and filled with a disgusting smell. I discover my brother in a hole, freezing and barely clothed, practically dead and missing a leg.”

Tommy's eyebrow raised at 'executed', but he got quickly sidetracked. Tommy's breath caught. He had forgotten about his leg. He made a wild movement, trying to tear off the bedsheet to look at it. Techno caught his wrist.

“Don’t,” he said plainly. Tommy let his hand drop to his side, obeying his brother with a distant look in his eyes. Techno's frown deepened, and he sighed again.

"I found you in that hole and brought you up to this room. You've been out of it for a couple weeks now—maybe 3 or 4. You have pneumonia—that's the cough you have. It was easy to treat. You're still recovering from it, but the medication is working. It was probably because you were walking around in a t-shirt and pants doing who knows what in the middle of the Arctic.”

"Your hand is healing well. It was broken and bruised; you probably fell on it. I replaced the splint with plaster and treated those blisters. Everything else wasn't too hard to handle. You were malnourished so I fed you. You were tired so you slept. You were cold so I got you warm."

Techno grimaced.

"Your leg was harder to handle."

Tommy sat stock still.

"You cut it off. I'm sure you remember that. You made a good call too. You cut below the knee, so I could see the remnants of frostbite on the stump. It would have spread to your entire leg if you didn't get rid of it, and it would have made it into your bloodstream. You would have died. I had to trim a lot of dead skin off, but your amputation was rather successful.”

“I'm not sure how you managed to do it so well considering you're an idiot in a dark hole, but you did it. You had a mild infection, but that was treatable. That wound in your kneecap was really bad. I don't know what happened to it, but there were shards of stone logged in it. The infection there was even worse. It's still pretty bad right now, but I'm working on it."

Techno leaned back in his chair, watching his younger brother intently. The kid looked like he was about to throw up, but that wasn't surprising. He had a lot of information to process.

"You were also dehydrated. You lost a decent amount of blood too. I stitched all of the cuts I could and dressed all of your wounds."

His voice was even as he spoke. He had almost lost his younger brother. If he had come home any later Tommy wouldn't be sitting here right now.

"How long were you in that hole?" Techno asked.

"A week at the most."

A week.

Techno's expression remained impassive, but inside he was conflicted. A week. A week stuck in a cramped space, cold, hungry, and injured with no one to help him but himself.

"You amputated your own leg in that hole." It wasn't a question.

"I..." Tommy gulped, his eyes wide.

"That had to hurt like hell," Techno said, his voice betraying a hint of astonishment. He had seen his fair share of injury and pain, but amputating your own limb? That took a whole new level of grit and determination.

Techno leaned back in his chair, his gaze set on his younger brother. "You've got a hell of a lot of willpower," he added, an almost begrudgingly impressed note in his voice.

Tommy didn't laugh, looking down at his lap.

Techno noted the lack of a reaction, his lips pressing into a firm line. He could sense the weight of the situation settling heavily on his brother's shoulders. The usual spark of defiance and humor that he expected was missing. In its place was a quiet solemnity.

"What happened?" Techno inquired, his tone softer.

Tommy sat still for a long time, just staring at his hands.

"Well, after I was exiled from L'Manburg, my friend Dream—well, no, he's not really my friend. He made me think he was," Tommy said with a hint of sadness.

"It's all really confusing. He was a dick. Saying that he was the only one who cared about me 'n shit. Then he—he abandoned me, saying some shit about how no one would ever care about me. And I guess he was kinda right cause no one ever came to me in exile—but anyways he cracked and blew up all of my shit. That's what happened to my knee. Then I built a pillar and—"

Tommy cuts off, pausing for a moment.

"...I built a pillar to tell Dream to fuck off if he ever came back to Logstedshire. In the process, I fell and broke my wrist. I knew I had to get out of there so with no shit I just got up and left. I walked and walked for hours. Because I had no shit, I had no clothes for the weather. At one point I broke ice over a frozen lake and my leg fell through. I kept going until I found your place."

He grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry for nabbing your shit. I didn't know it was yours. But I took it and went down into that hole. And the rest... well, you can gather."

He listened silently. A sense of respect mingled with his anger. The lengths his younger brother had to go to to survive was, in a strange, morbid way, admirable. He had never thought his brother was a wimp. Even in their sparing matches when Tommy was a stupid kid (well, a stupider kid) he had grit. He'd keep getting up every time Techno pushed him to the ground even though there was no way to win. Techno would never deny that. But to cut off your own leg? As a teen just barely on the cusp of adulthood? All to get away from a bully? Technoblade had the feeling that his brother wasn't telling him the full story.

At the mention of breaking into his supplies, a wry scoff escaped him.

"You could've just asked."

"You shithead! You weren't here! I screamed out for help but you weren't here for a week!” Tommy gaped at him.

"I told you, I almost got executed. Forgive a guy if he takes a while to return home after an ordeal like that," he admitted brusquely. His eyebrows knitted at Tommy's voice. He had... he screamed for help? The thought made him unsteady.

"I don't even want to know," Tommy sneered.

"Probably for the best," he agreed, a hint of amusement lacing his voice.

His gaze softened as he studied the younger boy's battered form. Even in the face of everything, Tommy retained that defiant spark. It was refreshing.

They sat in silence for a moment while Tommy clenched his fists. The odds of this house belonging to Technoblade were astronomical. The last time he had seen him, Technoblade had become a terrorist, destroying his country with withers.

...His country? Was it even his anymore? He was exiled after all. His ex-comrades made it clear that he wasn’t welcome there, even after all the work and sacrifices he had made for them. His teeth ground together. In all honesty, he spent the first half of his exile hating Dream and the second half hating himself. But what about his so-called 'best friend' who betrayed him without a second thought? What about the fact that no one cared enough to visit him or help him? What about the fact that his terrorist of a brother was the only one who cared enough to save him (well, the eldest terrorist; Wilbur had made appearances as Ghostbur, but he was still a terrorist in Tommy's book)?

Technoblade observed the storm of emotions on his brother's face, gauging the tumultuous thoughts behind his eyes. He let the silence stretch. The tension in the air felt heavy, tangible. He could practically see it, the whirlwind of thoughts churning in the younger boy's mind.

"You're thinking too loud," he finally said, his voice cutting through the stillness.

Tommy snorted and gave Techno a sincere smile.

"Thank you for saving me, Techno. I don’t know why you did. But you—you're the only one who cared about me enough. So, thank you."

Tommy's heartfelt gratitude and the genuine smile on his face caught Techno off guard. He wasn't expecting such heartfelt gratitude. Especially not from Tommy. And especially not to him. For a moment, he was at a loss for words.

He shifted uncomfortably, unaccustomed to such genuine emotions. Clearing his throat, he met his brother's gaze.

"You're my brother," he said, his voice somewhat gruff. "I'm an anarchist, not heartless. I couldn't just let you die," he added with a quirk of his lips.

He couldn’t deny that seeing his younger brother broken and battered stirred something within him. Despite Tommy's insistence on allying with their power-corrupt middle brother, Wilbur, and that cursed country, Techno couldn't ignore the bond of blood that tied them together. He was just a kid.

Tommy's smile brought a small pang of... what was it?

Techno huffed silently, shaking away those feelings.

The room fell silent again.

"I think I've realized something after being through this whole exile thing," Tommy said, his voice almost a whisper. "My discs are what started everything. Dream has been after them from the beginning. My discs represent everything that everyone in this place has taken from me. So, I’m going to get them back."

He took a breath, a fierce glare directed at Techno.

"And while I do thank you for saving my life, don't think I've forgotten what you did. Don't think I've forgotten about how you blew up Tubbo. I know firsthand now how that feels, so that was a fucking dick move. Even though I'm not on the...best of terms with him, he was still my best friend. Nor have I forgotten what you did to L'Manburg."

"I don't regret what I did," Techno said, his voice firm. "L'Manberg was never right. It was corrupt from the start. And Tubbo... he was collateral damage."

Tommy's face hardened. "You destroyed everything. And you sound... you sound exactly like Wilbur right now."

"I'm nothing like Wilbur," he retorted, his voice low with a warning edge. "I'm an anarchist. I fight for freedom. Freedom from corrupt governments and the chains of oppression."

"Apparently your freedom has a price."

"Freedom always comes at a cost," Techno retorted, his jaw set. "You think L'Manburg was built without sacrifice? Everyone had their own agendas and motivations, even independent of L'Manburg. They had their reasons, and so do I."

He leaned forward, his eyes locking with Tommy’s.

"You may not agree with my methods, but I stand by my choices, regardless of the cost."

"If you never would have gotten involved with Wilbur and Dream's plot to destroy L'Manburg, maybe Wilbur wouldn't have died," Tommy bit back. "Maybe he would have taken back over the country and made me Vice-President again. Maybe I would still have my leg."

"You're playing the 'what if' game now?" Techno remarked dryly. "Wilbur's choices were his own. You know that. Your leg is an unfortunate consequence of the choices you made. L'Manburg, Tubbo, all of it."

He paused, his tone shifting.

"You're not the only one who's lost things, Tommy."

"Fuck off! I never wanted this to happen! I didn't want Wilbur to die—I didn't want to be where I am now! I just wanted—I just wanted to be happy!"

"We all want to be happy," Techno replied, "but life isn't that simple. Wilbur wasn't the same after the elections. His thirst for power was enabled by politics and government. And L'Manburg wasn't the place you thought it would be. It was corrupt and filled with even more corrupt people." Techno paused briefly. "But you're here now, with me. And you’re alive," he continued, his voice firm.

"And what’s the point of living now? Huh? What purpose do I serve?!"

Techno's gaze sharpened at the despair in Tommy's voice. He knew the anguish of feeling purposeless, of having no direction.

"The point of living," Techno said, his tone resolute, "is to find a purpose."

He paused, his eyes never leaving his younger brother's.

"You've always had a fire in you, Tommy. A will to fight and stand up for what you believe in. That’s what has always been so amazing about you, even since you were a kid. You channeled that fire to support L'Manburg, even if it contributed to tyranny. You took back L'Manburg with that drive. It’s powerful; you just have to direct it the right way."

Tommy’s face flushed red with rage. "You don’t know what it’s like! To be exiled and ostracized by the people you thought were your friends!"

"Why do you think I live out in the Arctic? Why do you think I live so far away from everyone else? Why do you think Tubbo and his gang sought me out for execution because of what I did to L'Manburg?" he finally said, his voice even.

Technoblade leaned back slightly, his expression almost contemplative.

"I do know what it’s like to have your ideals rejected. To be viewed as the villain for something you believe in." He paused, holding Tommy’s gaze.

"We all have our own battles, Tommy. But some of us are fighting the same war."

Tommy's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "Tubbo... tried to kill you?"

"Yeah," Techno affirmed, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. "Tubbo. The same Tubbo who exiled you from L'Manburg. People change. Sides are chosen. Sometimes, even the people you care about can turn against you. It happens. But it's disgusting when it happens because of the corrupt power that governance provides. That's why I am against nations. I’m not opposed to community, but I dislike the idea of people choosing a government over each other—like Tubbo did," he added.

Tommy seemed to be at a loss for words. Techno scrutinized his brother's reaction. It was clear the mention of Tubbo's actions had struck a chord. He waited a moment before speaking again, his voice laced with understanding.

"People have a habit of disappointing you," he stated. "I learned that the hard way. But I also learned that some people never change. And they're the ones worth keeping around."

Tommy's eyes narrowed, a glare forming on his face. He scoffed. "Like Dream?"

Techno tensed.

"Dream and I have an alliance," he responded, his voice firm. "It's transactional. It works. He saved me from execution," he said after a beat.

"Dreams a dick," Tommy scowled.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Techno's lip.

"Yes, he is. But he's useful," he replied unapologetically. "He helps me achieve my goals, and I help him. It’s a partnership based on common interests—not idealism or false hopes like L'Manberg."

"He'll betray you the first chance he gets. He'll hurt you in ways you can't imagine. He'll make it seem like you're worth nothing. He'll break you," Tommy choked. "He'll make it so painful to just live, and then make it seem that it's your own fault for breathing. He'll hammer you down, right until the point where you just don't want to live anymore."

Techno's expression tightened at Tommy's words. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Tommy's expression.

"You speak from experience," he said, his tone a mix of observation and question. He knew it. Tommy didn’t tell him the full truth. It was clear that Dream had done something more than just manipulate Tommy.

"What did he do to you?" he asked, his voice low and firm, demanding an answer.

Tommy averts his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it."

"If Dream hurt you... in any way..." His expression hardened again, a protective gleam in his eyes. "I'll make him pay for it."

"...I'm just warning you. Don't trust him."

"I can handle Dream. But I appreciate the concern," he replied firmly. "You've changed. You aren't the same," he stated. "You don't trust just anyone like you used to. You're tougher, wiser, and you’re stronger. Let me tell you something. You say you just want your discs back. But Tommy... they took everything from you. L'Manburg. Your 'friends' exiled you and left you for dead. Whatever Dream did to you happened. They took everything."

"And you know what Tommy? They tried to take everything from me. L'Manburg arrested Phil. They stole Carl. Tried to get me executed. Stolen and robbed from me. So, here's what I'm thinking, Tommy," he says with a burning look in his eye.

"There are two things we can do here. One: you leave. You get out of my house right now and never look back. Or... we could team up. And we can take down L'Manburg and get your discs back."

Tommy's breath caught. "But... you hurt Tubbo," he said slowly, each word heavy with the weight of betrayal. "You blew up L'Manburg. I couldn’t... I couldn’t do something like that to them. They’re my friends."

"You're right," he said, his voice a mix of understanding and resignation. "I did hurt Tubbo, and I did blow up L'Manburg. But you know as well as I do that they left you behind without a second thought."

Tommy bit his lip. "You wronged me." And then in a smaller voice: "But so did L'Manburg."

Techno's gaze softened at Tommy's admission. He could see the pain and conflict in his brother's eyes, the struggle to decide between loyalties.

A small sigh escaped his lips.

"I know a lot about putting trust in other people and having them betray that trust. Using me as a weapon and then casting me to the side when it's most convenient for them. Isn't that the same thing L'Manburg did to you? Force you to be its hero and then exile you when they were done with you? What kind of 'freedom' does L'Manburg even stand for if it won't even stand up for the man who saved it? That's why we must destroy it. We destroy L'Manburg, we destroy this rift between you and Tubbo. There would be nothing left for Dream to try and destroy because we'd do it first. You'd get your disks back. Join me. Let's destroy L'Manburg."

There was a long pause of silence. And then clarity.

"I will never forgive you for what you've done. But, if what you're saying is true, you'll help me get back my discs?"

Techno nodded.

"...alright then."

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Techno's face at Tommy's acceptance.

"Good," he responded, his tone firm. "We have an agreement. L'Manburg will fall, and we will get your discs back."

He extended his hand, offering a handshake to his brother.

Tommy reluctantly took his brother's hand, shaking it once while maintaining a resolute look in his eyes. "For my discs."

A rare grin tugged at the corner of Techno's mouth. "For revenge."

He leaned back, his voice taking on a serious tone. "We have a lot to discuss and plan. We need to find a way to infiltrate L'Manburg and locate your discs. We'll need to strategize, gather supplies, and prepare ourselves for a long and potentially dangerous mission."

Tommy raised his hand, eyes wide.

"Woah, this whole thing seems great and all, but how the fuck am I supposed to do it? I mean—I don't have a fucking leg," he ends sadly, a haunted frown darkening his face.

Techno studied him for a moment.

"You're right. You're not in the best condition physically," Techno said. "That's why you'll have to relearn how to walk."

The elder brother leaned down to the ground on his stool, reaching for something. "You know Tommy, I had a little surprise I wanted to show you. I have a little... secret stash of things we could use to get our revenge. But I'm sure this will make you happier."

Techno retrieved a wooden device, holding it carefully in his hands.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "The fuck is that?" he asked crudely, narrowing his eyes at the contraption.

"It's a leg to replace your old one," he grunted.

Now he could see it: it was a prosthetic wooden leg. Each curve and contour were a testament to masterful craftsmanship, carved from a rich, dark wood that hinted at the age of the tree it had been cut from. The vibrant grain patterns of the wood were accentuated by a glossy layer of resin, giving it a polished finish that caught the light beautifully.

The prosthetic extended just below the knee, designed with precision to replicate the natural shape of a leg. A leather harness was affixed to it, featuring a series of adjustable straps that expertly cradled and secured his thigh while accommodating a stub comfortably.

What fascinated Tommy the most was the strikingly realistic foot. It bore a remarkable resemblance to the human foot, complete with a delicately contoured arch and toes, yet it was engineered for function. The innovative ball-and-socket joint at the ankle allowed for a range of motion that mimicked natural movement; he could hardly believe it was possible.

He was going to be able to walk again.

"I made it while your lazy behind was asleep for weeks. It'll take you a while to get used to, but—"

He was cut off when Tommy suddenly hurled himself onto Techno, his younger brother’s body colliding with his own. Tommy wrapped his good arm around Techno's neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. For a brief second, Techno froze, taken off guard by the suddenness of the gesture. Then, he relaxed. He slipped the prosthetic leg onto the mattress and hesitantly returned the embrace, encircling his arms around Tommy gently. He could feel the gratitude and disbelief in Tommy's grip. Techno gently stroked the younger boy's back, allowing himself a rare moment of vulnerability.

"You shouldn't be moving much, Tommy. You're going to reopen those wounds of yours," he said.

Tommy buried his face into the curve of Techno's neck, his voice muffled yet earnest. "Thank you, Technoblade."

Techno's heart stung at those words. A small, bittersweet smile crossed Techno's face.

"You’re my brother," he replied quietly, the words heavy with unspoken emotion.

They remained entwined in that embrace for what felt like an eternity, the elder brother holding the younger close against the backdrop of their shared struggles. It was a strange, yet profoundly comforting sensation for Techno—this deep-rooted sense of protectiveness and unwavering affection for Tommy. It was a feeling that, despite its intensity, somehow felt... natural.

"Welcome home, Theseus."