Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Phil hears about the threat of a bloody conqueror months in advance. 

His spies send their letters, filled with warnings and horrid tales, two great kingdoms crumbling to the might of an unrelenting force. His advisors draw together preventive plans, strengthening the city walls, striking alliances with nearby crowns that share similar concern to this threat. His generals begin harsh training, trying to build up soldiers that will be able to withstand the army that slowly marches towards them, bringing what could very well be certain death. 

His people worry quietly as the weeks pass by, frightening stories spreading like fire, of a dead king’s castle being burnt to ash, of a fallen kingdom’s army being put to the grave. 

His family worries as well, for a moment, but all it takes is a sure nod of Phil’s head, a quiet smile, and they leave the matter be. They put the weight of the danger into his hands, and they continue with their own responsibilities. 

They trust it will be taken care of. 

Phil gathers what little information he can about this deadly, fast-approaching conqueror. He gets first-hand reports, survivors telling vague details of what they can shakily recall. His spies infiltrate where they can, and are killed before they ever get too close, before they can give anything concrete. 

It paints a fuzzy picture, pieces incomplete, filled in by rumor and speculation. 

The conqueror is a man with little mercy, it is said. With thousands following his raised sword, believing him to be the strong ruler that will lead them into a glorious age. He is a man with plenty of resources, plenty of victories, plenty of blood stained into the path he walks. 

The battles he fights are only getting easier for him. The kingdoms are falling faster. Phil’s home is next. He knows of it weeks in advance. 

And he knows it's not going to be a fight he can win. 

It’s just not feasible. His soldiers are outnumbered. His allies are hesitant, unhelpful. He cannot fuel the proper war that will bring them out on top, that will finally bring the bloody conquest to a close. His people will be slaughtered. His crown will be stolen. He will be another name to the growing list of fallen rulers. 

But a sword raised on the battlefield is not the only way to take care of a threat. Phil knows there’s plenty of other ways to secure victory, or at the very least, push off defeat for another week longer. 

The moment the conqueror’s forces come within range, Phil sends an invitation. 

He invites the conqueror to lunch.

Here's the thing. 

Technoblade fully intends to ignore the invitation. He’s not entirely in the mood to hear someone plead for their life, or for their family’s life, or try and appeal to his humanity and insist that his conquest doesn’t need to have so much blood spilt. It’s an overall depressing thing to sit through, at best, and mildly frustrating, at worst. 

His advisors speak against it. They say there’s no point in walking into a possible trap, but Technoblade doubts any proper trap can be set in a tent set up outside the kingdom walls, right beside their own camp. 

His generals have soldiers posted at every corner, every angle needed. Clear reports come through with the king arriving with only his own protecting entourage, and nothing more. If it’s a trap, it’s badly built. Bound to crumble within the hour. 

It’s true that Technoblade has no reason to attend. No tempting incentive. The king’s letter doesn’t offer any appealing reward at sitting down and having a civil conservation first before jumping into the battle. 

But it is neatly handwritten. Signed by the ruler himself. 

It is strangely friendly, in its wording. 

I would be ever honored-- he has written, in flowy pen-- to have you join me in an afternoon lunch. It is not often we are graced with such interesting company. I’m sure you have plenty of riveting stories, if you’d be so willing to share. 

Honestly, it reads more like an kind invitation to a pleasant lunch, rather than a bargaining meeting for the sake of a kingdom’s survival. There is warmth within the sentences, like Technoblade could be an old friend finally returning from some great voyage. There is a familiarity, as if he’s just a neighboring king passing through. 

It’s an interesting sort of tone to give. Techno sits within the privacy of his own quarters and reads over the letter again and again, a bit confused as to what this king is trying to convey. 

It could just be a thing of appeasement. A polite yet desperate attempt in stroking his ego. Technoblade doesn’t have any good reason to listen to such a request, to bend to such meager efforts. 

But he is curious. And the signature at the bottom of the paper tells of a name that he doesn’t have a face to. 

Phil Za. 

He presses his thumb to the dried ink, and wonders for a moment how it would be if they were really just neighboring kingdoms, old friends. It’s a passing thought, a useless thought, but in the burden of the conquest, in the stress of keeping this burning battle onwards, it’s nice to have that single, simple moment.

It’s nice to simply indulge, for a handful of seconds. 

It’s not like it will change anything, he reasons, upon accepting the invite, waving off his advisor’s protests. There is nothing this king can say to make Technoblade stop this conquest. He can offer the best food, the best treasures, the greatest bribes, but Technoblade is not going to budge. 

The man will have his head on a spike by the end of the week. His kingdom will crumble. His soldiers will fall. Technoblade will be on his way, bloody with victory, and his curiosity will have been sated, having put the face to the name, having put the face to his grave. 

The next day, Techno rides along with his guards on the short trek over towards the designated meeting spot. There’s an innocuous-looking tent set up in place, the tarp a deep green color, with the king’s soldiers standing guard by the entryway. They must give some sort of signal at his approach, because as soon as Techno stops before the tent, going to dismount his horse, the king steps out. 

He’s not a very intimidating picture. 

He’s a bit short, for one. Dressed in light green colors, casual wear, the only true signs of his status being the modest crown over his hair, and the golden shine of a necklace tucked underneath the collar of his shirt.

It’s a stark contrast to Techno, who dons light armor over his own dark red colors, gold accents upon his sleeves, gold rings within his braids. He may not wear a crown like most kings, but his presence is enough to know that he stands above. He is draped in the reward of bloody battle, dressed with all the proper honors.

“And here I was, worried that you’d never arrive.” The king calls out, as Techno walks up towards him with his guards lingering close at his heels. He tilts his head with a palm to his cheek, as if honestly distressed over the idea of being stood up. “What a waste of good food that would’ve been.”

“Hardly the most important thing you should be worried about.” Technoblade says in return, a near warning, and a reminder. He has no interest in playing a show of polite manners, but he does find some satisfaction at being able to now take in the features of this new king’s face. 

Phil Za. There’s freckles on his skin. An old scar on his chin, which makes Techno wonder if the old reports of the king being formidable in battle could hold honest truth. His eyes are bright blue, calm and observant, taking quick, tiny glances to the company closing in around him. He stares passively at the presence of Techno’s guards, flicks his attention to the sword on Techno’s hip. Then he looks away altogether. 

“True.” Phil hums, almost shrugging a shoulder as he turns his back, waves a hand. “Come in, then. No need to stand in the sun for introductions.” 

Technoblade takes silent notice at the casual air of those words. It’s too confident, in his opinion, for the situation at hand. It implies that there’s something more here. He carefully follows the man inside, fully expecting something drastic to happen, for some sharp threat to show its hand, his guards having to shield the worst of it.

He’s immediately met with mild surprise by the fact there’s nothing of the sort. 

There’s- lunch. Set up and waiting. 

There’s a square table at the center of the tent, with plates of food all spaced out, utensils and napkins neatly placed, the seats already pulled out. The centerpiece on the table is a thing of lovely dark roses, similar to Techno’s own banner colors, and again, he thinks of that passing thought of being just neighboring kingdoms, just two rulers coming together to talk, himself only being an honored guest. 

He lifts his hand up to rest onto the handle of his sword, curling his fingers tightly over the grooves of it. He checks around the rest of the tent for anything more, and is vaguely underwhelmed at the fact there’s nothing. It’s just the king. It’s just lunch, apparently. 

“You’re welcome to keep your guards inside, if you want.” Phil offers, drawing Techno’s attention forward again as he takes his seat, leaning back into it with a hand rested onto the rest of the table, and the other onto his armrest. He shrugs a shoulder again, utterly unconcerned. “I would insist there’s no need, but- You’re justified in having the caution.” 

“Interesting choice to not have your own at your side.” Technoblade observes, realizing quickly that the guards by the entryway are the only guards of the king to be seen. Did he send the others away before Techno arrived? Or are they lying in wait somewhere?

Maybe this is a poorly planned ambush like how his advisors thought, the rest of the king’s men at a distance, keeping an ear out for some signal. Techno supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s just more disappointed than anything, oddly enough. 

“Little need for that.” Phil speaks bluntly, his brows lifting up in question. “If you wanted me dead, what good would a handful more of soldiers do?”

Techno pauses for a moment against the sheer acceptance in such a statement. The calm, easy reasoning in the king’s voice. 

So that’s what it is, Techno thinks. That’s why the letter was like that, that’s why they’re having some odd lunch. Victory is already in hand. This king has already given up.

Pity. Technoblade wouldn’t have minded a good fight. 

“Stand outside.” Techno orders his guards, and they leave without a word, the curtains of the entryway falling shut behind them, giving the king and Techno privacy. He turns to look at the king, at Phil, once more, trying to find that look of welcomed defeat within his eyes. 

There’s no such thing. The king stares up at him with something utterly unreadable, unwavering. He is relaxed, but there isn’t a despair or desperation in his gaze. If he’s lost hope, he’s quite good at hiding it. He’s quite good at keeping his composure. Techno does commend him for that much, at least. 

“Please,” Phil raises his hand up, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Sit.” He offers, with a hint of a smile on his lips. Something about it makes Techno second guess his easy victory. 

He settles back into a wary mood as he sits in his seat. 

“Tea?” The king offers, pouring into a waiting teacup at his left, sitting innocently upon its saucer. It steams with a persistent warmth, probably tasting like something sweet. 

Too sweet, perhaps.

“I’ll pass.” Technoblade insists, leaning back in his chair, no intention in taking part in any of this lunch. Easy victory or not, defeated king or not, he would do well to keep caution around a clear enemy. This isn’t a friendly meal. This is not the time to give opportunity to poison. 

“There’s nothing in it.” The king reassures, and before Techno can say anything of justified suspicions, Phil reaches forward and takes the cup to prove it, lifting it up to his mouth and taking a sip without even a hint of hesitation. 

He puts it back down closer to Techno, the level of the liquid clearly lower. 

“If there’s anything you want to eat, I could take a bite first, as well.” Phil further offers, dabbing a napkin to his lip before pouring his own cup to drink. “It’s all meant to be eaten, regardless.” 

Technoblade blinks. 

Alright. Poison isn’t the route being taken here, then. Regardless, he should not partake in the food. He should not risk it. He knows better than to indulge in such an interaction with a clear threat, even if- 

Oh, wait a minute.

“Is that apple pie?” He asks, leaning forward to look closer, genuinely curious. Phil seems to nearly make a double-take in surprise, but he covers the reaction in reaching forward to cut a slice onto a plate. 

“Apple-cinnamon. Not my favorite, personally, but to each their own.” Phil confirms, taking a bite from the end with his fork, chewing, swallowing, and then holding it out for Techno to take. 

Technoblade probably shouldn’t.

He still does, though. He inspects the part that Phil’s cut, and insists for the same fork he’s used. Phil gives it over without insult or question to why. He only moves on, taking another slice for himself, cutting into it properly while Techno starts to pry up the top layer of the pie.

There’s a passing minute where there’s an honest peace between them both. The silence of two rulers genuinely just eating together, their utensils clinking against the plate. Phil only takes a few bites before pausing in his meal, though, the quiet mood seeming to shift into something more tense as he lifts his head up. 

Phil looks upon him with a staring look, a finger pressed over his lip as if in thought. “Forgive me if this seems like an insult.” He begins, which Techno thinks is a terrible way to start an insult. “It’s truly not.” Phil adds on, as if hearing the thought, before then finally saying his piece. “But how… old are you?”

Techno slows in cutting another bite of pie with his fork. In the short ten seconds of silence that passes, he tries to consider how such information could be beneficial to the king in any way. He can’t think of anything, other than some preconception that he’s young and naive. That would only be a benefit on his part, the king underestimating him.

“Twenty.” Technoblade says, looking to Phil’s face for the reaction to that. Phil gives nothing, only the slightest furrow of his brow. 

“According to my reports, your conquest began four years ago.” He says, a further press for the answer he wants.

“Your reports are correct.” Technoblade confirms, putting his fork down. He’s mostly finished the pie, having dragged out all the best bits of apple from within the dough. 

“You were sixteen when starting the conquest?” Phil asks, although it’s more of an observation than a true question. “Sixteen?” He repeats, heavy with disbelief, the word dragging as he speaks it out loud. His eyes are wide, now, with an almost judgmental sort of look, as if Techno’s lied straight to his face and then refused to admit it.

Technoblade narrows his own gaze with a slight frown. “You said to not take this as an insult, but it’s starting to feel like one.”

“Take it as a compliment.” Phil shakes his head, the disbelief melting down into a more firm sort of respect. “I couldn’t even imagine…at sixteen, taking on a whole kingdom.” He looks back up at Techno, the hint of a smile appearing on his expression again. 

Technoblade shifts in his seat, the apple and cinnamon sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. He shouldn’t have eaten it. Shouldn’t have eaten anything. He can practically hear his advisors hissing protests and disagreement, in his head, and Techno feels a frustration at himself in the same way, rising in his own throat. Why would he take the risk? Why did he dare to indulge? 

“Honestly, such a feat is incredible.” Phil then says, and all of Techno’s thoughts stop. 

The honest wonder in the king’s voice doesn’t help, but rather- it melds the anger into an odd form. Technoblade struggles to swallow for a second. He sets his jaw and lifts his head and looks at the king straight on, keeping his words steady. 

“I did what I had to. I’ve led my people this far.” And while he doesn’t say it, it’s implied-- he will continue leading them on, through all the obstacles in their way. 

Through the obstacle that is currently in his way. 

“I commend you for it.” Phil nods, quiet in speaking, his head turning down again to look over the rest of the untouched plates. Techno looks upon it with him, and has a passing urge to push the food to the floor, to let it rot and stain with the blood of a too-calm ruler. “Even in war-”

“What’s the point of this?” Techno asks, and when Phil glances up with his expression thrown off-  “Of the invitation, of- this.” He waves out to the food. “What is the point?”

“I told you within the letter. I wanted to invite you to lunch.” 

“For what?” Technoblade spits out. “I’m not naive. My army readies itself to attack you. I’m a clear threat on your doorstep. You really thought I would be swayed with some show of hospitality?”

Phil doesn’t falter at the threat of having lost. The hint of a smile grows into a proper turn of his lips, and he shakes his head in a gentle disagreement. “I’ve already heard of what happened to the last person who tried to bribe you.” 

Yes. Techno robbed that past ruler of everything. Sacked his kingdom, burnt his army. Rumor insists that Techno was offered all the treasures within the royal vault, and he saw it only as an insult, saw it as not enough. 

“So what, you’re going to try to bargain with me, instead?” Technoblade asks, wondering if that’s the play here. One king’s desperate attempt. “Try to gather my favor with pleading words?”

“I will not beg for my life.” 

Technoblade falters for the sudden cold, steely tone that has slipped into Phil’s throat. 

“I will not beg for the sake of my kingdom, either. If war must happen, let it be.” Phil goes on, lifting his chin like a proper king adorned with pride. “I’ll fight accordingly. My soldiers will fight accordingly. And I know it won’t end well for us. You outnumber us. You hold greater power. We will die.” 

It’s said like a fact. An unmovable fate that has been accepted, and yet. There isn’t despair. There isn't a struggle. Phil is unflinching to the sure danger that is pointed towards his beating heart, and quietly, Techno wonders if maybe he’s gone mad. Maybe that’s his deal, a few crucial things having gone missing from his head, underneath the stress of all this. 

He is still smiling. And now, even though they sit at the same level, on matching chairs, Phil feels a little too towering. Too much. Techno isn’t sure if he should reach for the dagger on his thigh or bare his teeth in a similar type of threat. Because that's what it is, yes? A threat?

Is it? Because Phil’s harsh look is now mellowing into something more gentle, and he sighs in a way that’s more lighthearted than anything.

“Oh, but such a fate isn’t here yet.” He tells Techno, waving a hand up. “Why not meet the man leading the other side first?”

“You blame this on curiosity.” Technoblade says, thinking that to be a strange motive, but fitting for such a strange action. 

“Yes.” Phil grins, and he leans his elbows forward onto the table, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Isn’t that why you came?”

It is. Technoblade can’t even deny that, because it is, but it’s not like the king was supposed to know that. He feels uncomfortable under Phil’s calm gaze now. Like he’s being seen too well. Being looked at too closely. 

“My advisors spoke against it.” Technoblade says, hoping to steer the conversation back towards war or something. Bloody battle, threats of death. Things that are more palatable. 

“Fair enough. Seems like a proper opportunity to get assassinated.” Phil nods, and Techno huffs with amusement at the sheer easy delivery of that sentence. Phil steeples his fingers together in front of him, clicking his tongue. “My advisors did the same when I proposed this idea. Proper opportunity to get murdered, they said.”

“We’re not quite dead yet.” 

Phil chuckles a little. Technoblade almost wants to frown against the sound of it, purely because he can’t make sense of it. 

“No. Not yet.” 

Technoblade leaves the meeting that afternoon with nothing agreed upon, nothing touched except for half a slice of an apple-cinnamon pie, all the apple bits picked out. 

Phil’s gained nothing, except for the knowledge that the conqueror which the lands all fear is a young man with a burning fire in his eyes. He is not naive, he was right in declaring as such. Phil has no doubt that his reputation is well-earned, and that victory would be his, if he felt so inclined to take it. 

Technoblade will not take it, though. Not yet. 

The enemy army outside Phil’s walls still prepares for their planned attack. His own soldiers prepare for the worst as well. Phil knows that it’s very likely that everything could go sideways, all their lives taken within a single bloody battle, but he also knows this:

Technoblade is a young, angry warrior with too much power collected far too quickly. He is paranoid and restless, but dangerous all the same. He likely has very few --if any-- people who are on the same level as him, who hold his trust in their hands. Rumors do say that the conqueror is someone who bears the weight of the crown alone. He is formidable in carrying such authority, and yet-

He is also vulnerable. 

In this first meeting, as unimportant and passing it may have looked, it did show one thing. Phil did not flinch. He is someone who is frighteningly collected, even against such terrible odds, and that creates intrigue. That makes a quiet thought, in Techno’s mind, of the two of them being on equal grounds. Even if Techno doesn’t realize it, it’s what Phil has laid down. 

And in that being established, there comes opportunity for curiosity. Good strategy ensures you know your enemy at least a little bit before striking out. Has Techno truly gotten anything from meeting Phil? At the offered chance of being able to try and get more, wouldn’t he take it? 

Phil thinks so. But he could be wrong. 

Phil could lose everything to such an unusual play, he could still end this week with his torn head upon a spike, but as he writes the second invitation, calls for the chefs to make a second round of food- he feels confident that he’s got a chance. He’s got a foot in the door, a claw dug into flesh. 

Technoblade returns for that second meeting, set a few days later. 

Phil makes sure there’s apple pie set out upon the table. He pours tea again, takes a drink out of both the cups. He has a passing thought of some separate, more desperate plan, of putting poison within the tea and drinking it regardless, just to make sure that the conqueror will fall. He puts that thought away. No need to resort to such drastics, not when things seem to be falling into place. 

Technoblade regards everything on the table with an air of mistrusting suspicion, and takes every word of Phil’s with a subtle type of hostility. Phil can feel the threat on his life practically floating through the air, and he smiles beside it. Techno falters at such a reaction. 

He picks through a slice of apple pie, yet again. Tears it apart for all the good bits, in a way that reminds Phil so heavily of Tommy’s own habits when eating at the dinner table. He doesn’t dare to voice that thought aloud though. It’s far too early for it. 

Instead, he simply talks of the food served. He talks lightly of his preferences while eating his own fill, and Technoblade gives rather little in terms of response, but he does scrunch his nose at the bowl of stew, and Phil, in reply, laughs. 

He lets himself laugh, and then covers his mouth with his hand, pressing his smile to his palm. 

“Sorry.” He apologizes, with the same appeasing tone he would give to one of his embarrassed children. “I’ll have something else made for next time.” 

Techno’s eyes narrow, likely in consideration for letting there be a next time. His army will probably begin an attack fairly soon, according to Phil’s scouts. They’re ready and willing and simply waiting on the signal. Phil needs to postpone that signal. 

He does so by bringing up old stories of a few assassins here and there. He points to his chin, sees Techno’s expression light up with a caught attention. 

“The knife was meant for my throat.” Phil tells him, and he lifts his arms up and crosses them over each other, put into an X shape. “I had to hold them off like this until the guards could come, and in those seconds, the blade still got a little too close, with them pressing down so hard. I didn’t even realize I was cut until my wife pointed out the fact there was blood staining the collar of my shirt.”

“And here I thought you might’ve gotten that from a proper fight.” Technoblade says, resting his elbow and weight onto the armrest of his chair. 

Phil smiles, warm and kind. “Is that where you’ve gotten yours? From battle?” 

Techno is littered with scars, and he doesn’t make a specific effort to hide them from where they pass his sleeves. His face bears the marks of someone who’s fought and survived, who clawed his way out with his bare hands. Bloodied, young hands. 

Technoblade turns his head and has them both sit still for a moment in his silent thought. Phil wonders if he’s considering the merit of telling the truth. What better time would there be to say it? To a man that you will likely kill within the next few days? Everything that is said will probably go to the grave, safely kept in rotting hands. 

“Not all of them.” Techno admits, and he gives a telling action, presses his fingertips to the unusual, faded scar that sits over his nose, crosses over to the side of his cheek. A stray swing of a sword wouldn’t give a scar like that. 

No, it would have to be something sharp, metal, wrapped over his face. Phil knows that someone as ruthless as Technoblade isn’t someone who had a childhood without worry. How does a teenager become a bloodthirsty conqueror? With anger. With a vengeful fury, a line crossed, and desperation turned into bravery. 

A muzzle tied too tight, digging into flesh- torn off at last, snapping teeth biting down. 

That would do it. 

“Are they dead?” Phil asks, and while he keeps his face mostly blank, he allows a bitterness to flash over his expression. “The ones responsible?” He asks, as if they’re his enemies as well. 

“Yes.” Techno answers that near instantly, with a vague sort of satisfied pride, but he also looks at Phil with confusion, as if not quite sure what he’s seeing. 

Phil smiles, wiping away the anger, the harsh edges. He picks up his cup of tea, and steers the conversation into something else that will keep Techno’s attention. 

“Do you play chess?”

Chapter Text

Technoblade isn’t sure how to explain himself to his advisors, about putting off the attack for the sake of another meeting with the king. 

So he just doesn’t explain himself. Frankly, they don’t require his input on all his decisions, and he reminds them as such with a pointed look and a vague threat of imprisonment. 

It does seem foolish on first thought. The king has offered to teach him how to play chess. The king that he is supposed to kill, the one who is ruling the land that he plans to invade within the next week or so, has offered to teach Techno chess. 

Technoblade isn’t sure why he accepts. 

It’s probably a bad choice. It’s definitely a poor choice, actually, considering the circumstances, but the judgement to be had is on Phil’s shoulders first, because he offered. He keeps sending the invitations. He started it, Techno wants to insist, but that makes him sound childish, even though he did. 

Internally, Technoblade justifies it as a matter of strategy. The king does so love to talk. Wouldn’t it be helpful for him to accidentally mention some weak part of his defense, some area of his kingdom that he can’t properly hold? All it takes is one flaw, one moment of falter, and that can lead to a smooth, instant victory. The king has already seemed to accept the fact that winning is not likely. Techno is practically obligated to make his defeat as efficient and neat as possible. 

Truthfully, though, Technoblade cannot deny it-- this isn’t some great, big plan. It is a matter of curiosity. The king called him out on it from the very start, and Techno hasn’t exactly strayed from that motive. 

He just cannot figure out Phil. The way he talks, the way he sits back in his seat, so casually, the way he dares to grin with such ease, or when he laughs, short and cut-off-- Techno doesn’t know what to make of it. Doesn’t know how to take it. 

All his advisors always keep a stern, professional tone in his presence. All his generals, even as prideful as they are, hold respect, and hold their head low. All his people, his subjects, bow lower, whisper in reverence, cower under his might. 

Phil looks him dead in the eyes and absolutely destroys Techno on his second ever game of chess. 

There’s not a hint of mercy in his smile, only a smug amusement that has Technoblade almost want to declare the start of war right now, out of sheer spite. He doesn’t, though. He just glares into the man’s direction and tries to make sense of the moves he’s missed. 

No one’s ever bothered to explain to him the rules of chess. Techno supposes he’s also never asked, nor had the time for it. The king goes over it with a simple, calm tone, easy to listen to, easy to memorize. He sets up the board with a passing comment of how it’s not a game that most can master all that quickly. 

Technoblade is not like most. 

No one gets to where he is without having a terrifying sense of drive, a cunning mind, a relentless determination. He has clawed his way to the top, fought his way into power. A chess game is nothing compared to that. 

A chess game isn’t all that important, in the grand scheme of things. Techno walks out of the tent that afternoon with, unfortunately, frustratingly, no wins underneath his belt, with Phil offering to continue playing in the next meeting. 

Technoblade should let it be. 

A single win in a meaningless chess game doesn’t matter. 

But there is something very tempting about the idea of having the meaningless victory anyway. A victory with no stakes, no threat. 

The king asked him before, when he set up the board for the first game, if he’s ever played chess, ever played anything similar. Techno did not answer, because he can’t remember if he’s ever played such games. He remembers watching some of the street kids kick around a ball one time. 

That probably doesn’t count. 

Technoblade comes back for a rematch. And for intel. But mostly for the rematch, if he’s all that honest. Phil takes a bite of apple pie and passes the slice over to Techno’s hands, and then plays a move that has Techno staring down at the board with a near frown. 

He loses. Again.

It’s not important. Techno knows it's not important. He knows it’s foolish, knows it’s ridiculous, to give his attention to this, of all things, but there’s something very compelling about the routine of it. The challenge. 

The way Phil sometimes raises his brow questioningly at Techno’s moves, the way the pieces clack against the board, the way the apple pie sits sweet past his teeth. 

Technoblade cannot figure out Phil, yes, that’s true. It’s baffling, the act of roping a certain enemy into games of chess, sharing apple pie and tea on the side, while both their armies outside twiddle their thumbs, waiting for the bloodshed to start. 

Techno must confess, however, that he too displays the same baffling behavior. He keeps telling Phil to reset the board. He picks at the apple in his pie as Phil takes his time in setting down the pieces.

He keeps coming back. 

He can not explain why. 

He just tells his generals to put off the attack for another week. His advisors press for details, and Techno makes the excuse of gathering information, of Phil possibly having invaluable word about his allies-- their enemies. 

They take the excuse without complaint. They should take any excuse without complaint. It’s Techno’s right to do what he wishes, to attack when he wants. He’ll get to it. 

…Just as soon as he manages to beat the king at chess.

Terrible ambition is man’s greatest downfall. 

Phil knows this very well. He knows that too much focus and too much drive can tear one apart from the inside, and the best things are always held in restraint.

The young conqueror doesn’t seem to know what restraint means, though. He’s stubborn in progressing, in playing these games of chess like they’re life or death, and Phil is almost tempted to dissuade the staring focus he’s got, if it weren’t for the fact this was mostly the intention. Something to keep his attention. 

Maybe it’s working a little too well. 

Phil expected initially for Technoblade to eventually get bored with this. To grow tired of losing, and from there, he’d adapt, but with the way things are going, boredom might not be the end result here. Phil might find his winning streak to be broken, soon enough.

It’s honestly fascinating. Techno didn’t even know how to properly play chess just a week prior. Now, he puts up a good fight, their games dragging out for longer and longer. 

He still loses, though. 

Stubborn heart can’t always beat out sheer experience. Techno wears his frustration in a way that reminds Phil so very much of Wilbur, in the way he tries to bite back the anger of it and pretend it’s hardly a bother. He utilizes the disappointment of losing fairly well, however. He learns his mistakes quickly, and doesn't ever dare repeat it more than once. 

“You know, you are getting better at this.” Phil tells him outright, midway through their third game of the day, with Techno’s chances on the board not looking all that favorable. 

“Save me your condolences, your majesty.” Techno mutters, his cheek propped up against the knuckles of his hand, his brows furrowed together. He’s tapping gently at the table with his other hand, a restless, thoughtful type of fidgeting. Beside the repetitive noise of it, Phil realizes this might be the first time Techno’s ever actually used his title in conversation. 

First and last. 

“Phil.”

Techno goes very still in where he was staring at the board. He looks up, sitting a little straighter, head lifted from his hand. “What?”

“My name is Phil. Do me the honor of using it, in place of needless titles.” He says, and then he plays his move without lifting his eyes, letting Techno’s surprise have a moment to fizzle out before he turns his attention back. 

“You-” Techno starts, almost hissing the word, as if about to be caught up in offense. Phil almost worries for a second if he’s misstepped, pushed a little too hard too early, but Techno clicks his mouth shut, instead, and only gives a short, slow nod. “If that’s what you wish.”

Phil nods, keeping his mood ever unbothered, a slight smile put on his face. 

“You may call me Techno.” The conqueror then says, and Phil’s smile almost turns into a grin. He barely manages to keep it down, his teeth biting into the inside of his mouth. 

“Techno.” Phil says, pleasantly surprised that the gesture has been returned. He had thought it would take a bit more time. 

He points a finger down to the game, wanting to quickly move the focus on before Techno can begin questioning the choice of such a gesture at all.  

“That’s checkmate.” 

Techno looks down at the board, the passing conflicted expression on his face dissolving away into full exasperation. He looks away from the board entirely and picks up his fork beside him, stabbing it into his slice of pie, tearing it apart for the apple bits with a violence that’s probably unneeded. 

Phil sweeps up the pieces with a small huff and goes to set up the board again. 

He wonders if he should just start serving apples, with how Techno keeps tearing apart those pies. 

Technoblade can’t say he’s so familiar with failure anymore. 

He’s had a very good streak for himself, winning in all the battles he’s waged ever since he first took a crown for himself. He knows he’s had missteps, a few stray mistakes that were corrected, but ultimately, throughout his conquest, he’s never wandered far from the path he’s carved out. It has been a while since he’s tasted the bitterness of frustration, the clawing, digging feeling of anger as something keeps being swiped out from his grasp.

He still has not won in chess. The days pass on, the meetings run out. Phil still hasn’t lost.  

So Techno pushes off the attack for another week. 

He silences his advisors’ protests and pushes off his generals’ impatience and quietly replays the losing games of chess inside of his head. He considers different approaches, different strategies, though none of war, none meant for the battlefield. Just for a simple, useless chess game. 

His priorities are skewed right now. He knows it very well, he’s quite aware of it. 

But he also knows that he’s getting closer to beating Phil, and the king himself seems to know it, too. 

He stalls in the games now. He tries to bring up conversation, speaks of random topics that are maybe meant for distraction in Techno’s mind. He talks of the chess pieces themselves, of who made them, how he had requested it, how the color of the paint and the design of the board is all a matter of preference. He goes off on some tangent about color, about how green and gold has always been his favored pair, but he’s always been partial to blues, as well, and the reds that Techno wears aren’t half-bad, but--

Gods. Techno won’t lie, there is something almost- nice, in hearing the man talk, his thoughts displayed in such a calm, easy tone. He’s never had any sort of conversation about the simple topic of colors. But he does have priorities, and he does, more than once, make Phil stop talking so that he can get back to the damned game on the table. 

Phil always does, with a sound that seems like a laugh being held in. 

They play, with slices of apple at their fingertips, the skin of it sometimes stuck in the grooves of Techno’s teeth. There’s still pie, there’s still proper food, but Techno only reaches for the apples, only takes a drink from the tea that Phil drinks as well. 

He moves his piece, one day, with a sudden sight of a lethal opening on Phil’s part. He takes it with a near impatience, almost knocking over another piece in doing so. Doesn’t matter. The game is settled. 

Techno wins, at last, Phil’s king piece cornered. 

“Checkmate.” Technoblade says, finally. 

Phil regards the board for a moment, taking in the sight of it. He sits straighter, shoulders backed, and then he looks up, staring wide, as if taking in the smug pride of Techno, as well. 

“Huh.” He gives, and then he breaks out into an open grin, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped together in his lap. Techno mirrors the motion, leaning back, too, almost grinning in return. “That’s-” Phil cuts himself off for a second, unable to grasp the proper words. Techno’s grin only grows, cool satisfaction sinking deep through his chest. “Huh.” Phil glances down at the board again, almost baffled, yet- impressed. 

Because Techno only learnt how to play chess two weeks ago.

“That’s incredible.” Phil says honestly, shaking his head with a certain acceptance at his fate, the defeat settled in, victory resting kindly onto Techno’s shoulders alone. It isn’t as heavy as Techno expected, in comparison to all the other victories he’s taken. There is an uplifting joy to it, something more satisfying than just meager triumph on the field. 

Technoblade hums in some vague effort of humble appearance, reaching forward for his tea, meaning to take a drink. 

Phil makes a light sound of laughter, reaching out to knock over his piece on the board.  

“You remind me of my son.” He says, so very fond, and Techno almost spits out the tea. He coughs a little, Phil looking up at him with nothing apologetic, just a slight curious look.

“Sorry?” Techno chokes out, clearing his throat. Phil nods his head, resting an elbow onto the table as he looks back to the chess board.

“Tommy. My youngest. He always looks so content with himself whenever I let him win in these games.” He explains, adjusting the piece that Techno had almost knocked over earlier, in his haste to win. “You just reminded me of him, right now.”

Techno blinks, and purses his lips together for a second, not wanting to frown. “You didn’t let me win.” He says, just to make things clear, and to make an effort to not think of the weight of such a comparison made, an image being put into his head. 

“Oh, no. This was all your own effort.” Phil assures, and he rests his other elbow onto the table with his chin put into his palms. “Well done. It’s been a while since I’ve actually met someone else who could beat me.” 

Techno puts his cup down, still reeling a little over Phil’s words. “Someone else?” He repeats needlessly. 

“My wife.” Phil says, and oh, there is true fondness upon his voice. A sweet, vulnerable love. “Now she would give you true trouble. She’s always a bit ruthless in these sorts of games. Neither of my sons like to play with her.” Maybe you would, he doesn’t say, but Techno can almost hear it. 

He almost imagines it, for a second. Thinks of sitting by the table, across from a smiling mother, staring at the pieces for hours on end, for that same gentle victory as before. 

Technoblade coughs again, even if there’s no tea in his throat. He moves back to the chess board. He focuses back on Phil. 

“What other games do you tend to play?” He asks, genuinely wanting to know, wanting to try. Maybe he could learn a few more from Phil. Maybe he could progress faster in those, and destroy Phil’s self-confidence within a single week, this time around. 

“Moving on that quickly?” Phil asks, almost judgemental. Before Techno can reply, he goes on, a wisp of laughter on his words. “Ah, that’s how you are. You win once, and you’re bored with chess. I see.”

“I can beat you a couple more times if you’d like.” Technoblade offers, deadpan in the delivery. Phil laughs, a little harder than last time, and Techno almost smiles.

“You could. But maybe this was just luck. Maybe I’m off my game today.” Phil says, a challenge given in the squint of his eyes. 

“No you weren’t.”

“I could’ve been.” Phil insists. “Maybe I’ve been going easy on you this whole time.”

Techno narrows his eyes. “This is my first time winning the game at all, how are you going easy on me?”

Phil shrugs with a snickering laugh, picking up the board and tipping it over, all the pieces scattering onto the table. Technoblade helps set up the next game, and to his great disappointment, he does not win. 

He flicks a chess piece off of the table in his frustration, and Phil laughs once more, comparing him to his son again. Bad at losing, he says. Tommy is terrible at losing, he can never bear it. Wilbur tends to be more mature about it. 

I suppose you’re more like him, most of the time. 

Technoblade tries to move on from that comment after he’s left. 

When he returns back to his camp, sitting inside his own private quarters, he tries to not think about it, think about the way Phil said that. 

He tries to not imagine it. 

But curiosity has been the driving force for all of this, and curiosity presses him on. He wonders if Phil plays chess with his sons often. Wonders if it's them or him who offer to play, if they set up the board in some quiet room within their castle, with the fire flickering, and apple slices at their fingertips. 

He wonders, for a second, how it would feel, if he were in that spot. Their spot. 

He lets himself forget, for just a moment, the honest reality of it all. Lets himself wonder how it would be if these meetings weren’t way of stalling war, but rather just a pleasant evening out with Phil, his-

His-

Technoblade blinks the thought away, and tries to not let himself dare imagine it. But it repeats in his head regardless, as stubborn as he is, as persistent as all his other efforts. 

Phil is not helpful, in his need for conversation. 

“I still can’t imagine taking the crown that young.” He says, during the middle of their first game of the day, Techno trying to repeat his win, wanting to begin his own streak of victory to shove into Phil’s face. 

“I get it.” Technoblade mumbles, more focused on the board, although his determination isn’t as intense as before, since he knows he’s capable of beating Phil at least once. “You’re old.” He adds on, mostly for a distraction. He moves his piece. 

Phil sputters for a second, thrown off by the insult. He hesitates in retaliating. “Wha- shut up.” 

Techno resists the urge to smile, for in that distraction, Phil’s made a poor move. He goes to take advantage of it, and then is struck frozen by Phil’s next question. 

“But do you truly have no family?” He asks simply, Technoblade staring at the board, staring at the pieces. “No one else who rules next to you, who you consider close?”

Techno tries to move. He falters, and then follows through, moving his piece. It doesn’t feel as satisfying as he was hoping for. “No.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that.” Phil says, moving his own piece with a quicker sort of decision, covering his open spot. “Maybe one day you’ll find them.”

“I don’t need anything like that.” Technoblade quickly dismisses, trying to see if he could try getting Phil through a different route.  

“It doesn’t matter if you need it. I just hope you’ll find it regardless.” Phil insists. He speaks it so calmly, the words breezy, the topic passing them by. “The world is so much easier to bear with when you have at least a little bit of company.” He looks up, eyes bright. “Don’t you think so?”

Hm. Technoblade almost wants to argue that he does have company, but he holds against it, oddly enough. He’s not so sure his argument would hold…weight. 

He plays his moves, and lets the topic go. Lets it be. 

They move on. 

…But he does have company, he still wants to say. He has his people. Has his council of advisors and his group of generals and his swarm of soldiers, but- Well. He can’t quite imagine playing chess with any of them, he supposes. 

Not like how he does with Phil. 

Speaking to them is just different. Being around them at all is a drastic shift, in comparison to how Phil looks right at him. Beside his kingdom, there is a weight, a victorious weight, a feeling of respect and power that Techno had been sure was exactly what he wanted. He weighs it now against the feeling of Phil grinning towards him in winning the cursed chess game once again, and he wonders why the weight doesn’t feel so good to carry anymore. 

He wonders how it would be if he didn’t have to carry it at all. 

No matter. 

…It doesn't matter.

“You have two sons.” Techno says one day, a quiet question made in the words. 

He takes his time in playing their game this time around, instead picking at the food on the table, acting as if he’ll eat it. He considers it, imagines it, and then returns to the apples, as he always does. Those are familiar. Those are a quiet, indulgent comfort. 

“So I do.” Phil replies, and he says nothing of the way Techno keeps stalling on making his moves. He eats his fill with no hesitation, taking bites of whatever Techno seems to linger on. It’s not really needed, by this point, Techno doesn’t actually think poison is going to make an appearance anytime soon, but there is a comfort in knowing that they’ll die together if any of it is tainted.

“Do they…” Techno begins, and then he trails off. He huffs. He presses a hand to the edge of his mouth, like trying to grab at the words that won’t form. Phil takes the opportunity to speak his mind, almost eager to do it. 

“My oldest, Wilbur, is about nineteen. A year younger than you. My youngest, Tommy, is thirteen.” He starts, with an endeared tone draping over his words. “Wil’s a bit more studious than Tommy. Tommy loves to spend his time outside whenever possible. Wil takes after his mother, black hair, purple eyes. Tommy takes after me. They’re not the biggest fans of chess, like you are, but Wil plays it with me more often than Tommy does.” 

Instantly, fuzzy faces form in the space of Techno’s mind, and curiosity makes him wonder how the princes would be in the flesh, rather than just described in word. Do they have the same smile as Phil? Do their voices rhyme, do they speak with a similar habit, that constant calm tone? How would they play? How would they win?

“They’re my pride and joy and they’re both- utterly insufferable.” Phil says, and Techno’s torn away from his thoughts, instead looking up with something baffled, upon hearing that last bit. 

Phil just bursts out in a laugh, leaning his head back with a hand to his brow. He gives a long-suffering sigh, suddenly just so very weary. 

“They love to be at each other’s throats! Each and every day, it’s something new. Oh, he stole this from my room, make him give it back. Oh, he messed up my organized bookshelf, tell him to stop looking through it. He interrupted my lesson. He tugged at my cape. He looked at me funny. He stuck his tongue out at me.” Phil waves a hand up. “They’re princes, they know better, and yet they act like two stray cats fighting over the last scrap of fish.”

“And you compared me to one of them?” Technoblade asks. 

Phil snorts. He lowers his head with a fond look, not seeming so bothered, even with his barrage of complaints. “It’s just the expression you wore. Tommy loves to brag when he can. He always gets so-” 

“I don’t brag.” Techno interrupts him, sounding defensive, and Phil pauses with a sudden blank expression settling over his features, as if trying to not refute it.

“...No. You don’t.” Phil says, but there’s still a twitch of his lip, like a threat of a smile. “You just- have that little look on your face.”

“What look?” Techno asks. “I don’t have a look.” He says, Phil nodding and reaching for his cup to take a drink of tea. Techno can see him smiling against the edge of it, a bit smug, nearly teasing. 

“Yes, yes. You’re right.” Phil says after a moment, going to put the cup down. “There’s no look.”

“I don’t. And you’re lying.” Techno insists, and vividly, in the moment, he knows this is a dumb argument to make. It’s pointless, and he’s just complaining like a child now. But the way Phil looks at him, the way he humors him at his protests, it almost feels like-

Like-

“No, no, I would never lie. There isn’t a look. You’re absolutely right.” Phil agrees, a clearly placating thing, his voice honey-sweet. 

“Hm.” Techno frowns, turning his attention back onto their neglected game, clicking his chess piece down with a certain weight. Phil responds to it by making a poor move, a wide opening set in place, and Techno frowns even harder, leaning forward in his seat. “You can’t just let me win.”

“Gods, you’re insufferable.” Phil complains, in the same fond tone as before. Technoblade almost wants to laugh at the sound of it. He settles for just a small smile, instead, feeling light, feeling weightless, feeling like-

It matters.

Chapter Text

Once Techno’s got an settled idea in his head, it seldom leaves him alone. 

He tries to not give it any thought. He tries to ignore it, tries to move past, but questions still press into him, like the edge of a knife about to break skin. It stings over his throat, burns over his heart, pushes against all the other thoughts in his mind. 

The weight of a kingdom is one he’s willing to carry. The weight of being a respected ruler, a feared name, a legend in the making, is one he was so sure he wanted, when he started this. 

He isn’t certain, now. 

He questions it. 

Looks upon Phil’s kind expression, and asks himself- 

When was the last time someone other than Phil smiled at him? Truly, honestly smiled? Looked at him as if he were something important- no. Something fondly cherished. 

Someone who could be fondly cherished. 

He cannot remember. 

…He’s not sure if he’s ever had it, really.   

He tries to think of how all the others within his kingdom look at him. Tries to think of their adoration, their respect, their fear. It all pales in comparison to Phil, for some reason. It all feels rotten in his mouth, sick in his stomach. 

He stands so high above them. He stands as their leader first, their savior, second, their enemy, perhaps a true third. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t count. 

When was the last time someone used his name? 

Not a title. Not an insulting little label to differentiate him from the other dirty, starved kids, lined up in a row. His name.  

Technoblade, he thinks. Techno, he repeats to himself, as Phil did. That’s checkmate, he had said, in that simple little grin, words kept with a lingering kindness. Something almost fond.

Ha. 

Now that’s funny, Techno thinks. How senseless of him to be bothered by this. How foolish of him. He can almost laugh at it, with something so bitter between his teeth in biting down on such a realization, at last. 

He is the king of a fast rising kingdom. An unbending conquest, crushing everything in its way, furious, hungry, and bloody. He is the most important figure among them all, he is respected, he is revered, in the eyes of thousands. 

But he is not loved. 

It doesn’t matter, he tries to convince himself. It’s like the chess game itself, the pieces tossed aside when the game is done. It’s meaningless. It’s useless. He can go on without it. It’s only a passing comfort, a thing of amusement. His people wait on him, now, to give the signal, to give the agreeing nod. To start the fight up, to move on. He should do it. He should.

But he orders for another week to go by, instead.

It doesn’t matter, he tries to insist still. 

But I hope you’ll find it, Phil had said. 

Technoblade sits awake in his room during the late hours of the night, hearing the muffled noise of his soldiers keeping on their patrols. Would anyone keep him company if he asked them to? Would anyone explain the simple rules of chess, without judgement, without cruelty?

It does not matter, he tries to repeat, tries to burn the words into truth. 

But what will happen after, then? Why had he begun this at all? It was for revenge, at first. Then- anger. Lingering, burning anger. Maybe some part of him hoped to find home at the end. Create it from the ashes of the fire he set. If he could not be given a place to belong, he would make it, with blood spilled and death given. 

I hope you’ll find it.

Maybe he has. Maybe he has! Here, in the army he’s built, in the power he’s created. Isn’t that it? Isn’t that enough? It stands so tall, an intimidating, vast thing of potential for him to be proud of, and yet. Techno looks down upon it anyway. Looks up, and looks at Phil. 

He has found it. 

And he can’t even keep him. 

One of the greatest powers in the land, and he can’t keep this. He is a self-made king, a warrior born of clawing ambition, and yet, even with all that effort, he can’t even have this, have a sense of peace, have the quiet victory of a useless chess game won. Not for more than an afternoon, not anywhere except for the quiet, small space of a tent. 

The people are growing impatient, he knows this. His generals are looking upon him with wary eyes, judging stares. His advisors gaze upon him with a stiff, disapproving look. It makes Phil such a contrast, everytime Techno walks up towards that tent. Phil always smiles at him, like he’d been looking forward to hearing Techno’s voice. 

Techno asks for one more week. His council pushes back on it. They question it. They argue in the war room about stalling, about the king tricking him, about the meetings having long lost their use. 

The enemy king is just trying to prevent the inevitable, they say. He is just wasting Techno’s time. He’s wasting all of their time. He’s stalling. 

Maybe he is. 

Techno knows he must be. It is so likely, so very likely, near certain, that all of these meetings are just a plot, a king’s attempt at protecting what is his, but even so.

He still refuses to start the attack.

One more week, he commands, with an unbending resolve. 

One more week.

“Why the apples?” Phil asks him, one day, a finished chess game sitting between them both, Techno comfortably lounging in the feeling of small, simple victory.

He’s a little surprised it’s taken this long for Phil to question it. It’s obvious how Techno favors them, how he picks away at everything else, yet always reaches for the apples in the end. He always finishes off the plate, by the time they’re done. It’s the only thing he will eat without a second thought, hardly ever patient enough to wait for Phil to take his own bite first. 

He shrugs, snapping a slice in half between his fingers, a bite-sized piece held in his palm. “I like apples.” He says, and he pops it into his mouth, relishing the flavor while staring at the winning move still sitting on the board. He wonders if they should move on from chess, soon enough. He hesitates to move on to anything, though. He wishes to stay in place for a little while longer. 

“But why?” Phil asks, head tilting to the side, a slight smile kept with something so curious in his eyes. “What, is it- taste? Is it because it’s fruit? I mean, I could have more fruit brought.” He offers. 

“Honestly, I like the green ones better.” Techno admits, Phil looking down at the red slices now with a furrowed brow, almost frowning. “But apples in general- they’re alright.”

Phil huffs. He looks back up, raising his brows. “Just alright?”

Technoblade hums, chewing slowly in thought. Phil waits quietly. He always seems to know when to wait, seems to know a thoughtful silence from an unintentional one.

“Yeah, it’s just-” Techno swallows for a second, the other half of the apple slice held near to his lips. “When I was younger, I stole an apple from a fruit stall.”

Phil blinks, not having expected that. “What?” 

Techno quickly eats the other half, and reaches for another slice, bending it between his fingers, waiting for it to snap. He chews, then goes on. 

“I got away with an apple from a fruit stall. Usually, when I swiped stuff, I tended to get caught pretty quickly. I wasn’t the best with-” Technoblade waves a hand, pausing for a second, hesitating. “I wasn’t very good at stealing.”

Phil’s face shifts into a subtle little realization, washed under with a patient focus. 

“That one time, though, I got away. And I ate the whole thing in one go.” 

Techno had spent weeks memorizing patrolling schedules, laying out the best escape routes in his head, the best place to hide so that he could relish the rewards of his efforts, just once. 

He looks up to Phil with a near shrug, his expression so casually content. “The taste of successfully stolen goods is like no other. I’m just revisiting that. Flavor of victory n’ all.” 

Phil chuckles, lowering his head with a smile. “Really?” He asks, and Techno nods, the apple slice snapping apart in his hands, the half brought to his mouth. “It’s the fruit of victory for you, then.” Phil jokes, Techno smiling.

“Mhm. Fruit of crime, more accurately.” He nods, digging his nail into the half-slice, leaving a small indent. “I don’t usually indulge in it, but- you always have it on the table, so. Might as well.” 

“I’ll see if I can have the other kind brought. Green ones.” Phil says, hand held to face in consideration. “Might as well, if it makes you happy.”

Techno hums. 

“That’d be nice.” 

Techno wonders if he is happy, just like this. If it would be a true sense of satisfaction, if he could live like this forever. Half of the joy is all in his head, he feels, with persistent thoughts and dreams, painting some picture of him being someone’s son, but the taste of the apples are real, and Phil’s laughter is something honest, something true. 

He thinks he’s happy. 

“What’s your favorite?” Techno asks him later on, finger vaguely pointed to the plate beside him, the apples nearly finished. 

“Favorite fruit?” Phil asks, glancing at the slices, then looking upon their game, a hand curled around his chin, elbow resting onto the table. He moves his piece lightly, then reaches over for an apple slice of his own.

“Mhm.” Techno nods, sitting up to make his own move. He hesitates in looking over Phil’s defence, brows furrowed and his free hand hovering in thought. 

“Well, the apples are a good choice.” Phil admits, the slice held carefully in his fingertips. “I'd rather have a handful of grapes, though.” 

Technoblade frowns, looking up from the board. “Grapes?”

“Don’t say it like that.” Phil deadpans, midway through chewing his apple slice, and Technoblade instantly needs to double down on the sound of judgement, just to annoy him. 

“Grapes.” He says, tilting his head, frowning harder, as if Phil’s implied that he eats dirt in place of actual fruit. 

“I’m guessing you don’t like them.” 

“They’re okay.” Techno shrugs. “They’re-” He waves a hand, reaching out for another apple slice, instead of making his move on the chess board. “Grapes?”

“Why are you acting like that’s unheard of? They’re fruit.” Phil defends, sounding bothered, but the effect is broken by the slight smile on his expression, his head shaking as if in exasperation.

Techno mirrors the same smile, words kept light. “I just feel like there’s so many other options you could choose.” He moves his chess piece, lets it click on the board. 

“And yet, I choose grapes.” Phil replies, moving his piece almost right after, having seemingly planned it in the time Techno stalled. “Tommy likes apples.” He then says, like a compromise made. 

“Red or green?” Techno asks, instead of moving his piece. He thinks of some miniature version of Phil, thinks of a kid with blue eyes and freckles, no scar on his chin. 

“Red.”

“Hm.” Techno hums in judgement, frowning again. “Green are better.”

“Don’t tell him this, but I agree.” Phil says, and Techno looks up, meeting Phil’s grin with a smile of his own. 

“I won’t tell.” He promises. 

He wonders if he was ever honestly happy before. 

He’s never had anything like this, before. 

“I brought you something.” Phil says upon the next meeting, speaking up the moment they step into the tent, guards left outside, the food waiting on the table. 

Along with a wooden box. 

Phil picks it with an odd sort of smile, something a little bittersweet, making Techno’s heart feel unsteady in where it sits behind his ribs. “I was hoping to have it done sooner, but-” He starts to say, but then he pauses, and gives a slight hum. 

“Bit late for bribery.” Technoblade tells him, eyeing the box with a pretending wariness, even if in reality, he’s actually rather intrigued. Excited, almost. 

He sits in his seat, facing Phil, knowing he should be more careful. He should know that all these meetings are leading up to something. He can’t seem to muster the proper caution. 

“It’s more of a prize, if anything.” Phil laughs gently, depositing the box into Techno’s hands, moving around the table to sit in his own seat. Techno sets it on his lap and goes to lift the lid of the box up, and he hesitates for a second upon seeing what’s inside. 

There’s a chess piece.

He opens it further and sets the box on the table, staring at the contents.

There’s a chess set. A custom made chess set, painted in red and black. 

Techno’s banner colors. 

“It’s always good to remember one’s victories.” Phil says, and now the handful of wins that Techno has collected feel like nothing in his palm. He would throw them to the dirt, if it meant he wouldn’t have to take this gift, and hear the sentence that Phil says next. “And now you can play on your own time. After.”

“After.” Techno repeats, reaching into the box, lifting a red king piece in his hand. His heart gives a writhing kick from where it sits caged in his ribs. 

Phil tilts his head, averting his gaze. There is the calm, morbid sort of acceptance from their first meeting, and now, with it, there is also a hint of that desperation, that despair that Techno had then expected. 

He smiles, and it’s a strained thing. 

“...This can’t go on forever, I know.” 

No, it can’t. But Techno hesitates to think of the aftermath. The end of one more week. 

The thought still settles, offers up questions. 

What will happen to this tent, when the fighting begins? Will it be torn down, or left to burn? The memories here will be stomped into the dirt under the might of his soldiers, drowned out by the screaming of Phil’s kingdom trying to survive. 

And what of when the fighting is all over? When Phil is dead, perhaps by Techno’s own hands? When Techno has gone forward, onto the next throne, what will happen then?

What happens after?

Techno’s hand squeezes over the chess piece in his palm, almost too tight, a near worry on if he’ll snap it in his fingers. 

He cannot imagine what comes after. He cannot fathom it. 

Or, more truthfully- he doesn’t want to try. 

“Can’t it?” Techno hears himself saying. 

Then he realizes what he’s just said. 

He looks up with wide eyes, seeing Phil’s smile slipping away into that calm, ever calm look. Almost loving. Almost knowing. 

Hardly surprised. 

Techno cannot imagine beginning the attack. He cannot imagine losing this. Phil must know this. 

I hope you find it. 

He did. Techno did. After all, Phil gave it right into his hands. 

Techno, the fool he was, took it.

He leaves, almost immediately. 

Phil doesn’t try to call him back, and Techno doesn’t know if he’s upset about that or not. 

Techno takes the box with hand-painted chess pieces and leaves, calling a meeting with his advisors. He leaves the box in his quarters, and announces to his council that the next meeting made with the king will be the last one. 

He tells them to mobilize their forces, to have everything in order. He ignores the fact they’ve all been waiting for a near month, now. They’ve been in order. They’ve been waiting on him.

They all bow their heads in something relieved, either way, with shared gazes passed amongst them, strained expressions made in his direction. He narrows his eyes in question. They answer, almost impatiently. 

We would never question your choice, your majesty. They tell him. But we did fear that he was succeeding in tricking you. Trying to carve an opening for your death.

You’ve been acting differently, as of late. They tell him. 

There’s been rumor amongst the camps that you had grown weak. They tell him. Of course, such a thing said is treason, it’s an insult to your presence. On that matter, we should-

Techno dismisses them all. Sends them away and ignores the passing whispers of a few advisors trying to linger close, before they ultimately walk out. They give warnings and suggestions and offer a set up of an execution, for this enemy king daring to plot against him. Daring to plot his demise like this, in the guise of a peaceful meeting. 

Techno wonders if Phil truly was planning such a thing. 

He was, he tells himself. He was. He tells himself that’s exactly what Phil was doing, because it is easier to stomach, to think that he is putting aside a threat, rather than something good. Something to lose. 

He will bring Techno’s downfall. He will have him dead. That’s just the inevitable result. All this talk, this fondness, this kindness-- a lure, maybe. A pretending act, just to get him close, just to put the knife in his heart. That’s what it was. That’s all it was. It didn’t matter. It never truly mattered. 

Techno has to dodge away. He has to fight back, he has to win, he has to crush the risk of defeat and spill the blood of the enemy to the ground, so that he can live, so that he will taste victory again. 

But- a quiet voice speaks, in the very back of his mind, tucked beside gentle daydreams- maybe it’d be worth it.  

Maybe defeat would be worth it, if he could win this. One moment of peace. One moment of love. One stolen green apple desperately devoured, one short minute of not quite starving anymore, before being found, being dragged out into the road, beaten and bloodied for taking something that was never his to have. 

He can’t, he tells himself. That’s not an option to take, his people need him. His kingdom that he has built depends on him to stay standing tall, to keep leading them to victory. 

But the idea settles. How would it feel, for just one minute? To be that someone cherished? To not be starving, at last? Is it worth it? 

Could it be worth it?  

He won’t ever truly know unless he tries. Unless he reaches out for it, takes it, and then runs, ignoring the screaming insults hurled at his back. Looks the danger in the face, takes the knife to the chest. Chokes on his blood as a consequence, lays in his grave with nothing but sweet fading memories as his reward. 

This was Phil’s plan all along, perhaps. 

It is certainly clever. Technoblade will give him that.

Or maybe he is just lucky, to have such a vulnerable-hearted fool falling into his palm. 

Techno opens up the chess box that night. 

He sets up the board before his lap, sitting on his bed with nothing but the dim lighting of a lantern as his flickering company. The pieces click gently as he plays through old games, playing the moves he can remember. 

He falters in playing Phil’s side. He falters every time. 

He repeats the game with a different defeat in every round. 

There is a familiar sort of hunger that festers in him, one that threatens to carve him apart, to cut into his flesh for survival, if he will not find nourishment elsewhere. He craves to dig his nails into something and never let go. 

He thinks of a mother sitting beside him, smiling gently in the candle light. He thinks of brothers, bickering siblings, fuzzy faces he doesn’t know, voices he craves to hear. 

He thinks of Phil, playing the winning move. 

Techno knocks over his kingpiece for the umpteenth time. The fire in his lantern is nearly burnt out, but he sets the board up again. Plays again, and again, trying to feel maybe just a wisp of the victory from before. Just trying to grasp the memory, over everything. One more game, he tells himself, then he will put this away, and put it aside for good. Continue and forget. 

For after, Phil had said. This gift was so Technoblade could still play after, but how could he, if he has no one else to sit across from him? No one else that he would want, at least. 

Techno knocks over his king again. Loses the game to himself, again, and again, and again. A repeating, coping thing. He squints in the dark of the room, hears the vague noise of his guards talking outside. 

Maybe this is enough, he almost thinks. Maybe just this, this remnant of a passing calm, will be enough for the rest of his life. He’ll repeat the games when he feels he needs it, and it’ll be enough. It’ll ease the hunger pangs, and let him rest. 

He knows he is lying to himself from the second he even forms that thought. 

He pours the pieces back into the box, when he is finally done. He places the board gently down, and closes the lid. It’s become so dark that the colors of the pieces can’t be seen. Red and black, the colors of a kingdom that looks to him, waits for his order, waits for the swing of his sword. Technoblade wishes they would stop waiting at all and just leave him be. 

He wishes he could go home, and ignores the fact that home isn’t even something he has. 

He sleeps for a handful of hours that night, with a red king piece cradled in his palm, the head of it snapped off. 

Techno arrives at the last meeting with no guards, no soldiers following at his heels. 

He insists it’s unnecessary, at the cusp of the end to this stalling peace. His advisors try to argue, they try to raise their valid points, and Technoblade sends them out and ignores their words. He goes, and threatens punishment on anyone who will follow. 

He arrives with Phil waiting inside, rather than greeting him at the doorway. There’s no chess board, a game set up to be played. There’s no food, no centerpiece of flowers.

Just a lone table with two seats. A setting for simple bargaining, it seems. 

This is what Techno expected in the first meeting. The man sitting on the other end of the table, hands clasped together with a steely look set in his gaze, his crown a vivid, gleaming gold over his head-- this is what Techno should’ve met, on the first day. 

This is the ruler of the kingdom Techno plans to conquer.  

“Your army has been setting up for an attack.” Phil says, and it is insufferably quiet, the way he speaks. It’s so gentle, yet so stern, and Techno stands beside the doorway feeling guilt claw through his throat, digging into the vulnerable space of his lungs. “My scouts reported soldiers being stationed at my kingdom’s gates. War is on the horizon, it seems.” 

“There is a reason why I’m here.” Technoblade replies. 

“Yes.” Phil smiles, that same calm smile, unwavering, unflinching. “I suppose so.” 

Techno tries to summon the anger of betrayal, tries to muster the fury that burned up within him before this kingdom was even in sight. He steps forward with a hand curled tightly over the handle of his sword at his hip, and he pulls his chair out with a scraping noise on the ground, sitting down to look the king dead in the eyes. 

“Did you expect to be able to stall for longer?” He asks Phil, all hints of sincere hesitance gone. “Did you think I’d falter? Or forget?” 

Phil lifts his chin, his expression utterly still, his voice steady. “My stance hasn’t changed, Techno. If war must happen, then it’ll happen. I will fight accordingly.” 

“But your plan isn’t to die.” Technoblade insists, almost arguing. “You were trying to stall. You’ve been trying to distract me for weeks now, you’ve been trying to- make me reconsider.” 

Phil turns his head away, brows furrowed in taking in Techno’s words.

“The chess, the talk of your family, the food-” Technoblade leans forward, hands to the table. Phil glances down at the gesture, lips pressed thin. “Admit it. It was you stalling.”

Phil doesn’t say anything. 

He lifts his gaze up, and looks at Techno, and says nothing. Dragging the silence out. 

“You were stalling, and now it has to come to an end.” Technoblade tells him, trying to speak it like a criminal sentencing, a final fate. “This cannot go on forever, and you-” 

“If you want this to end, then end it, Technoblade.” Phil interrupts, the acceptance in his eyes clear to see, the unwavering knowledge of someone knowing they are meant for death. 

Techno freezes at the thought that maybe Phil is expecting death right here. Expecting Techno to draw his sword, right here, to use his body as a calling signal to the start of battle. He would be right to expect that sort of ruthlessness. 

Maybe before, Techno would’ve done it. 

But now-

Now-

Technoblade didn’t see any guards when coming into the tent. It was a detail he didn’t care about, but now he can’t help but zero in on the implication. His hand shakes over the handle of his sword, and he moves his arm away from it, trying to swallow down the constricting, unfamiliar feeling of fear rising up his throat. 

Does Phil expect for Techno to kill him now? To hurt him? He wouldn’t-

He couldn’t even try, he knows it. They both know it, surely. 

But you would have to, regardless, something reminds him, in the same matter-of-fact, calm tone of Phil’s voice. When the fighting starts, you will have to.

So why not do it now, to get it over and done with?

Techno’s breath catches in his lungs, and his head tips forward, a sharp noise hissing through his mouth. Phil looks to him with a flicker of shock, which then shifts into such worry, such concern. Such love. 

Techno stands up from his seat, the chair screeching back, falling to the floor as he nearly stumbles away, needing to put distance. He can’t breathe. He can’t seem to grasp a full breath in his lungs, can’t seem to pull his thoughts together. He should settle, he should stand strong, he knows it, but if Phil is waiting for Techno to kill him, then Techno also knows he can’t do that.

“It’s alright.” Phil tries to say, holding a hand out over the table, leaning forward. Technoblade shakes his head.

“Stop.”

“Technoblade-”

“Just- stop!”

Phil goes still. He tilts his head, and Techno can feel the stare of his eyes burning into him. He waits for Technoblade to talk, like he always does. Patiently, quietly waiting. Listening. 

“Please, stop.” Techno asks, as if he’s the one at Phil’s mercy. He turns away, taking a breath. 

“Techno.”

“I can’t just spare you.” Techno almost spits out the words, nearly furious with it. “I can’t just- continue on, and leave this kingdom be. Every battle I’ve started, I’ve won. I have to start this one, too. I can’t just avoid it.” 

Phil stands from his seat, the chair quietly pushed back. 

“My soldiers and my generals are growing restless. My advisors look at me and say there’s rumors of me becoming weak.” Techno hisses, feeling so frustrated for his hands being tied like this, when it should be anything but. “They wouldn’t accept some peace treaty. They’d think it to be a lie, some trap placed down. They’d assume I’ve been tricked!”

Phil walks around the table, coming closer towards him. Techno turns at seeing him get near, in the corner of his eye.  

“They wouldn’t let you be. My people expect victory. Blood. It’s what I’ve always given.” Techno tells him, almost pleading with it. He tries to lift his chin high, and tries to be steady, calm. “I must give it.” 

Phil lifts his chin with him, and then gently laughs. 

Technoblade blinks and falters upon hearing it, for it is a grief tinged thing, with an unmistakable pride upon his eyes. As if Techno’s said something right. Chose the right path. He lifts a hand to Techno’s arm and holds onto him, just above the elbow. Techno looks down and stares at the action of it, confused. He glances at Phil and watches as the man lifts his other hand towards Techno’s face, ever slowly, and Techno isn’t sure of what he’s trying to do, but he-

“I have faith that you will,” Phil says, as he cradles Techno’s cheek in his palm. 

As if he’s someone cherished. 

“For there isn’t anything that could stand in your way.” 

His hand squeezes at where it’s holding onto Techno’s arm, and Technoblade remembers then to let himself breathe. It is not an effective effort. 

“Thank you for giving me at least a few weeks more, Techno.” He says, and Techno blinks hard, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. 

“You shouldn’t be thanking me.” Technoblade chokes out, and he wants to say so much more. You should not be smiling at me. You shouldn’t be this kind to me. You shouldn’t be acting as if we’re close, as if we’re parting ways with a goodbye. “You’ll die.” He warns, as if needing to remind Phil that Techno is a threat to him, a threat to all that he rules over. 

“But at least I’ve gotten to know you, before that.” Phil says, and somehow, he sounds content. Satisfied and final, in his tone. “Thank you for that.” 

He goes to take his hand away. It slips away, from his palm to his fingertips, passing by the side of Techno’s chin, and Techno doesn’t think, doesn’t reconsider, he just moves, his arm snapping up to grab at Phil’s hand at the very last second, before it can fully fall. 

He pulls it back to the crown of his head as he lowers his head down, like a bow, like a sign of defeat.

They stay like that, for a moment. Phil’s fingertips upon the top of his head, a replacing weight for a crown Techno will never wear.

Is it worth it, Techno wonders desperately, for this? 

Phil’s hand passes through Techno’s hair as he takes a step closer, letting go of Techno’s arm, and every instinct in Techno tells him to move back, to get away. To lift his head and look, at the very least, at the threat that fast-approaches. 

What are the chances that Phil will make one last ditch effort, one striking blow before it all burns up? He would be justified for it. Techno would do the same, in his position. Reach for a knife and make at least one final attempt, with such an opportunity presented. 

Technoblade closes his eyes and falls forward into it, waiting for the sting of metal digging into his gut. He feels Phil’s arm wrapping over him, feels his head resting into the space of his shoulder, and he waits, waits for the stabbing pain, pressed so far into his heart, that he’ll be dead on the ground before anyone even realizes what happened. 

Phil’s hand presses over the back of his head, above the start of his braid. He tucks his fingers underneath Techno’s hair and puts his hand to the nape of his neck, a near featherlight weight. Techno holds his breath, knowing so well that to be giving up like this has to be his most pathetic mistake yet. It is nearly worth it, though. 

It is worth it. 

He breathes shakily, and lets the seconds pass, and then wonders- wonders as to why Phil’s so hesitant, why he hasn’t yet done it. Why are they just standing here? Is it not better to be quick about this sort of thing? Is he just stalling, once again, dragging the whole of it out? 

Techno can’t say he’ll complain, really. Nothing is really up to him, anymore. 

“Easy, now.” Phil whispers, so gentle that it hurts. Techno takes in a hitching breath, his eyes burning, and Phil’s hand presses over his spine, tracing circles into his back. “It’s alright. You’ll be alright.” 

Nothing happens. 

Techno waits. He waits, held in Phil’s arms, the perfect opportunity. He waits for the sting of a dagger, waits for the pain of death. Why would Phil do this if not to- to make some attempt at an attack? Was this not the end goal? The honest intent behind all those meetings?

Technoblade blinks hard, feels his head going light, his airway so strangled, it’s hard to breathe in. He waits. And nothing happens.  

Phil won’t do it. 

Techno’s hand reaches up and tugs at the edge of Phil’s sleeve, at the fabric hanging down beside his elbow. He tugs, ever so lightly, and can’t form the words to make Phil do it. He will not beg for his life to end. He won’t. He doesn’t want it to end like that. If it doesn’t have to end like that, then he won’t force it. 

But he will not dare take the option of victory, either. 

“I-” The words are choked in Techno’s throat as he tries to speak, the sound of coming out broken. “I issue a surrender.”

Phil tenses up from where he stands, hands falling still. 

“Techno.”

“I issue an official surrender to your kingdom.” Technoblade lowers his head to the comfort of Phil’s shoulder, taking this defeat and putting it through his own chest. “To you.” 

“Technoblade.” Phil breathes out, and it is stern, unwavering. He pushes Techno to move back, taking his head between his hands, holding him to look him dead in the eyes. 

He is smiling, still, with teeth bared like a threat made. Techno blinks, wanting to hide away into the space of Phil’s shoulder again.

“I cannot accept.” Phil whispers, unmoving, unforgiving.

And Techno’s vision begins to blur. 

Chapter Text

As useful as it would be to keep the factor of attachment out of this entire plot, Phil has to admit, from the very beginning, he could not see Techno as anything other than a bit too young. 

Yes, he carries himself otherwise. He speaks and acts as is expected of his title, but even with darkened scars to his face and the glittering gold of royalty wrapped over his head, Phil still sees someone a bit too young, too naive. 

It’s too familiar. 

He sees Wilbur in him, nearly. A boy on the very edge of adulthood, not quite ready for the crown, but oh so desperate to try. Desperate to prove himself, looking to Phil with an fidgeting impatience, waiting for him to give some sort of signal, the go-ahead. It’s an instinctual thing, to search for guidance when one isn’t so sure where to step next.

Techno’s never been quite sure of anything, from the first step into the tent. 

Phil knows it. He’s seen it, in the split-second hesitations. It was something of distrust, at first. A rightful wariness, but then it quickly faded to a faltering towards indulgence, that apple pie on the table. It became short, passing looks of consideration, reaching forward with an open hand, reaching to a chessboard, wanting. Wanting and waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and then sitting still in a rise of dread. 

A very quiet dread. 

Phil had noticed it near instantly when the look of worry settled into place on Techno’s face. He had known, then, in those days leading up, that the looming weight of their circumstances must’ve been digging at him, sinking its claws straight to the heart. 

It must be near terrifying, Phil had thought, in between sips of tea, while Techno stared at the board-- to find such unexpected, needed comfort, and to know it will be torn away soon enough.  

He must be terrified. 

And something in him at the time ached to coax the pain of it out, to soothe Techno’s fears as he would for his sons, but that wasn’t the goal, then, and it wasn’t something he was capable of, anyway. Not with such a situation like this. 

So instead, he furthered the fear. Forced that ticking clock of theirs to the end minutes, pulled all that rising dread and pushed it into being a sudden pressing force— with a newly painted chess set in hand, given over like a farewell gift. A beloved thing to remember him by, when he was dead and gone. 

And against that, Techno had looked up at him as if hoping for Phil to say something different, to take the burden of his terror away. He looked at him in a way that asked for help, such a wanting hope for any guidance at all. 

Phil did feel tempted to give it, for a second. 

He could nearly see a younger Wil, in those eyes, asking for a hand to hold. 

He does not give it. 

He gives nothing except the observant gaze of someone waiting for the fire to catch, and he watches as Techno burns up before him, with snarling anger hissed through his teeth, like a dog being pushed into the corner, now seemingly ready to bite down and draw blood, if it means it won’t have to be hurt anymore. 

Phil felt tempted, for a passing moment, to call him back when he stormed out. Felt as if he was staring at the back of his youngest son fleeing out of the room, the boy too caught up in his frustrations in a way that would end up searing him from the inside out, reducing him to nothing but crumbling remains. 

Some part of Phil wanted to chase after, to keep Techno together and whole, to prevent that eventual collapse. 

The better part of Phil knew that the collapse is what was needed. 

He lets him run. 

He lets him come back, lets him try his best in acting as if he could continue on with this defeated conquest, as if he’s sure that this was exactly how he wanted it to go. Phil, in response, stays unwavering, with a steady voice and a calm look, and Techno unravels apart to his own uncertainties easily enough, the fire of his fears having made its mark. 

It really just takes the slightest nudge. A quiet implication of Techno’s hands being forced to do the unthinkable, and suddenly, the boy can’t take it. He falls to his terror, the pieces of him burnt and broken, and Phil, upon sheer instinct, gathers him within the loving embrace of his arms. 

It’s such a pitiful thing, truly. Phil wants to hold the shattered parts of Techno together, to mend the worst of the wounds, to cradle this bleeding heart to his cheek, and he supposes then, only then, does he realize in full what he’s actually done. 

What Techno has done, in reaching out with such desperate hands.

Technoblade offers surrender, and Phil- 

Almost wishes to take it. Wishes to take him, put this entire war behind them both, keep that which he loves far, far away from all harm. 

But this wasn’t the intent. 

This wasn’t the point, Phil thinks in frustration, but it’s too late now. Techno has burnt scars into the space of Phil’s heart, and Phil has no desire, no time to try carving them out. 

He can only do what he can. He can only continue, and hope, desperately, quietly hope, like how Techno must’ve done, in all those afternoons. 

He bites back the urge to ease that horrified look on Techno’s face, grits his teeth in a semblance of a cruel smile, seeing the glassy shine of tears coming up in Techno’s eyes at hearing Phil’s refusal. 

He allows the indulgence of cradling Techno’s face to his palms, thumbs pressed to the tears now falling down, but no more. 

He does have his priorities. 

There was a goal, here. 

“No-” Techno is heaving out the words, grasping at the ends of Phil’s sleeves like a child clinging close. “No , I-” He shakes his head, the movement muted against Phil’s hands. “I’ll surrender. They’ll stop if I’ve surrendered, if I’m- if I’m taken prisoner-”

“Stop.” Phil tells him, and Techno seems to collapse in on himself, his knees falling to the floor, head tilted up with his eyes falling shut, trying to stop in this helpless crying. 

“Phil.” He insists still, hands grabbing onto Phil’s wrists, thumbs pressed to the veins of the king’s beating heart. “Phil, I’ll surrender.”

“You will do no such thing.” Phil tells him, forcing his words to come slow and sure. He leans forward, leaning over Techno with his hands still held to his face, the front of his bangs nearly brushing over the top of Techno’s brow. “Because it wouldn’t work.”

“Why?” Technoblade pleads, and to that- Phil digs his nails into the curve of the boy’s jaw, Techno tearing his eyes open to Phil’s narrowed look, this sudden near-anger put down upon him. 

“Do you think your own people wouldn’t try to free you?” He hisses through gritted teeth, Techno staring wide at the shift to such a cold tone. “Do you think- I would even be able to make it back within my own kingdom walls, with you captive? We’re too close to your camp for comfort, and I know there’s soldiers of yours stationed by my gates. You’d be freed within the hour.”

“But if I order-” Techno tries, and he stops and winces with Phil’s grip shifting, holding his chin in the tight grasp of one hand, now. 

“Stop.” He orders, unbending, unwavering. “I cannot accept a surrender with the threat of retaliation so present.” He says, speaking so neatly, so matter of fact. “Your people will fight to get you back. They’ll fight to avenge your death. They’ll fight to continue the fight, even if you tell them otherwise. You know that. You know how your kingdom was built.” 

Techno blinks up at him, a shuddering sob strangled somewhere in the space of his lungs. Phil can see a stray tear slipping past the corner of his eye, and he tries to pay it little mind. 

“Do you think such tensions will go down quietly now? At the very brink of battle?” Phil can’t help but speak a bit more gently, regardless, weakened by the sight of such a lost look, a silent ask for help. “Your surrender alone does nothing.” He whispers out, the last word pulled through his teeth. 

He lets go, then, and Techno falls to the floor with his hands under him, catching himself at the very last moment. 

He stays knelt down, head bowed beside Phil’s legs for a moment, shoulders trembling in place with a quiet, hissing inhale, as if about to cry, about to scream , and then-

Silence. An unnerving, worrying silence, as if he’s holding his breath instead, to keep the worst of it in. As if trying to stay pulled together, wanting his face to stay hidden to the floor so that he doesn’t have to be seen in such a crumbling state. 

“Then what do I do?” He asks Phil, his voice cracking within his throat. He lifts his head, no longer bowing, but he doesn’t look up. 

He seems too vulnerable, in the way he sits by Phil’s legs.

Too young, too foolish, Phil can’t help but think. A warrior reduced back into such a fumbling, lost child, unable to bear the weight of the crown he’s being given. He seems like a shadow of the man that so many fear, a poor mimicry of the threat that Phil was told to prepare against.

Don’t leave him like that, some desperate, loving part of Phil cries. Pick up him, console him, do something.

Anything. 

“Phil, what do I do?” Technoblade pleads to him, beside the edge of a sob, lifting his face up, and Phil sees- 

He sees-

He knows that the honest point of all of this was to turn Techno’s weakness into Phil’s own strength. 

The intent was to make use of a newly remolded weapon, and turn it against its own. Phil knew how it was meant to play out, and he knew that the moment Techno took the chance for a feeling of home, it would all be set in stone. Phil would walk away, having done what he set out to do. Having bought time. Having secured victory. 

But Phil sees his sons, in such a trusting call for help. 

He sees a different sort of opportunity in the way Techno looks to him. His hands twitch at his sides, something in his chest screaming to protect what is his. 

He craves to reach down and hold Techno to his shoulder once more, to gather all those broken pieces and then set them back into something he would cherish, something he would keep, when this is all over and done with.

Focus, he tells himself. Focus.  

But you cannot leave him like this, his heart still insists.

What sort of father would you be— to leave a son behind like this?

Phil takes a breath, and struggles to not show his faltering strength. Slowly, ever so carefully, he kneels down with Techno, hands pressed to the floor.

“When we fight, my kingdom will lose.” He says, like a fact. An unmovable fate that has been accepted. There is no despair. No struggle. “As long as your people stand strong, then my kingdom will lose. And I will die.” 

Techno makes a quiet noise that has Phil reaching out to take him by the arms, squeezing down like a silent comfort. 

“What we need is weakness.” Phil tells him, and he lets go of one arm to reach into the pocket of his outfit, his hand grabbing around something of glass. “I need you- to present a weakness.” 

Technoblade sits up in slow-gathering focus, eyes drawn to a vial of a grey-colored liquid being pressed into his hands. 

He stares at it with a held breath, and then looks up at Phil. 

“...What is this?” He asks, and Phil tilts his head, smiling oddly, like Techno’s missing the joke. It’s sharp around the edges, with a vivid anger flashing behind his eyes. 

“A gift for your council.” Phil spits out, his hand making Techno’s fingers close around the container. “It’s completely tasteless, odorless. They wouldn’t even notice it until it’s far too late. It works fast, though, so I’m told, so you’d have to be smart about it.” 

Techno reels back, looking to the vial, then to Phil, then to their hands again. “You-“ His eyes turn wide. “You want me to-” 

“Listen to me.” Phil leans forward, squeezing his grasp over Techno’s hands, so that Technoblade can’t drop it. Techno makes a cut off attempt of shaking his head, his words coming breathless. 

“You’re asking me to betray my people-?”

“Listen to me.” Phil cuts him off, pressing down on Techno’s hands so tightly. “Were you not already betraying them by giving surrender?” 

Techno’s expression crumples into something pained, and Phil turns his face sympathetic, voice made soft.

“I know this is something more brutal, more personal, but it is necessary, Techno.” 

Techno exhales hard, as if trying to clear his lungs of something. His head falls forward a touch, as if the weight of this has become too much. “You want me to poison them.”

“Yes.” Phil confirms. “Every last person on your council.” 

“And- and then what? Shall I kill my generals, too? Set fire to my own camp, slaughter my own subjects-?” He asks it like it is unthinkable, an insane request to even hear, but Phil knows that is considering it. 

He isn’t meeting Phil’s eyes. 

There is a guilt so present within them, and he isn’t pulling away from Phil’s hands. Rather, he is clutching at the poison like it is a lifeline, a last chance given into his palms. He isn’t just considering it— he is trying to accept it. 

“Look at me.” Phil says, and Techno keeps his focus towards the floor, brows furrowed together as if he’s truly battling some internal conflict, within his head. 

“I can’t just-” 

“Technoblade.” Phil calls, and Techno looks up, waiting. A plea for help, for guidance, in his gaze. “What other options are there?” He asks him, now gentle, careful. “Do you want to win this?”

“I don’t know what I want.” Techno confesses, blurting out the words with a slight shake of his head, frantic. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” He repeats, but he keeps the vial in his palm, and reaches out with his other, grabbing onto Phil’s sleeve, Phil reaching up and pulling him into a hug once more. “I don’t know, Phil.” He says, muffled against Phil’s shoulder, that bottle of poison lifted and held over the space of his chest. 

Gods, he sounds distraught. Phil holds him ever tighter for it, wishing all of this could be different, wishing that it wouldn’t have to unfold like this. Why did this all have to unfold like this?

“I am not lost.” Phil consoles him, a hand held over the back of his head. “I’m right here.” He draws back, holding Techno by the face again, making him look him in the eye. “I’m right here, and I’m asking you to do this for me. I need you to do this for me. Bring blood to your people, like they so desperately crave. Bring fire, bring death. And-” He hesitates, suddenly uncertain, and Techno stares wide. “And after, when the damage is done-” 

He lets go of Techno and reaches to the earring hanging behind his hair, a chip of emerald wrapped in gold. 

His hand hovers in midair, considering. 

It was a gift from Tommy, a present for one of Phil’s birthdays. A constant reminder of a son’s adoration, swinging gently from his ear. He couldn’t say why he chose today of all days to wear it. 

Phil takes it off and puts it into Techno’s open hand. 

“When you’ve done what you can, run to the west side of the kingdom walls, by where the forest sits heavy. There is a tunnel, put into stone, somewhere by the bottom of a hill. There will be guards, but you will announce yourself- and show them this.” 

“Phil?” Techno asks, hand kept wide open on his lap. Phil makes him close his fingers around it, makes him hold it tight. 

“Show them this, and you’ll be let in. I’ll have given instructions for them to wait for you, and once you’ve arrived-”

“What is this?” Techno asks, suddenly more fearful than when Phil told him to go commit an act of utter betrayal, to go sabotage a war. “What are you- What are you doing?” 

“I am giving you a chance.” Phil hisses. “Technoblade. I will give you a place to sleep. I will give you food to eat, give medicine for your wounds-- give you a place to stay, somewhere where you will be safe, while this all falls.”

Techno’s eyes dart back and forth from the earring in his palm to Phil’s honest look. “What?” He breathes out, disbelieving. “Phil-“

“We can-“ Phil shakes his head. “It’ll be no different. We’ll sit beside the fireplace, we’ll just talk- play chess during the quieter mornings. If that’s what you want.” 

“You can’t-” Techno almost says, trying to deny it, but the words get stuck in his throat. He clings to the earring, and to the vial of poison, and he holds his breath again, turning his head away, eyes wide. “You can’t just- This isn’t-”

“I will give it to you. It’s yours, but only-” Phil grabs onto both of Techno’s fisted hands. “Only as long as you ensure defeat for your own people.” 

Techno closes his eyes, as if he needs a moment to consider. Phil feels as if it’s only a matter of processing, taking it in.

“I’ll take care of everything, after.” Phil insists, one more time. “I will take care of you. But I need you to finish this for me.” He squeezes at Techno’s hands. “Techno. Will you do it?”

Techno lifts his head back up, meeting Phil’s eyes with a burning fire in his gaze. 

“What do I do?” He asks, and Phil knows he’s won. 

Victory settles back into place, ever sweet. 

“Wipe your tears, first.” Phil tells him gently, like a father to his child. “Now listen close.”

On some level, betrayal within the ranks is always something to be expected, especially during the height of conflict, during such a new rise to power. 

All of Techno’s council have done their duty to weed out what spies and traitors they can throughout these bloody few years. All of Techno’s generals know to strike down deserters to the cause, to make examples of soldiers that refuse to follow their orders. They know treachery is unavoidable. They know there will always be hostile faces trying to strike at the heart of their new growing empire, and the only way to defend against it is to wait for it, with a careful watching eye. 

They all look outwards, though. Backs towards their king, their implicit trust placed into his hands. 

Why would anyone ever question their leader, the one guiding them through this fight? Why would anyone ever foresee him setting fire to the very thing he’s worked so hard to build? He is the king, they must think. He is our king, the one who gives judgement upon those traitors, those spies, those deserters to the kingdom. He is the centerpiece behind these efforts, he is the crucial supporting piece, the purpose behind it all. 

Why would he ever try to burn it all to the ground?

The people trust Technoblade, their mighty ruler made from the blood of the losing side, and for that reason alone, Techno finds it almost terrifyingly easy to pull the rug out from all of them, and let them fall. 

He poisons his council in one fell swoop, during an early meeting set before the sun has even risen. 

He makes the excuse of it being a final look over their strategies, one concluding preparation before the fighting begins. After one needless glance over the map on the table, the positions of their armies drawn out, Techno insists upon a toast. A small reward for the victory that is about to come. His council, as prideful as they are, accept the gift gracefully. 

Technoblade does not drink from his cup when he lifts it to his lips. He does not call for the distant guards when his council people begin to choke, spitting up blood, clawing at their throats with wheezing breaths. He makes his way toward the door of the tent as bodies writhe on the floor, and he drags back someone trying their hardest to crawl outside, hoping to catch someone’s attention.

He stands over them all and waits until his breath is the only one left within the tent. 

And then he leaves, with little concern on if the dead behind him will be discovered before they’re meant to be. The war room is meant for only the king and his most trusted. No one will come in without invitation from inside, and no one is left to bring anyone past that closed door.

Technoblade calls his generals to him as the sky begins to lighten into a gentle, muted blue, the mass of his army preparing themselves for the dawn. He demands for his highest officers to follow him away from camp, to the secluded area of the woods. No one can question him, for his authority, but as they venture outwards, he can still see the curiosity in their eyes, the wonder of if this might be a test set out, some sort of final assessment before the battle. 

Once they are far enough into the trees for no one to be able to hear the screaming, Techno draws his sword from his hip, and drives it through the throat of the general closest to him. 

He is sorely outnumbered from where he stands, but the element of surprise lets him take down three men within the first ten seconds. The slow realization of what is happening lets him take four more. A few beg to know what he is doing, wondering if this is a king’s furious judgement, traitors found amongst their ranks, but Techno explains nothing, and instead strikes his sword down and stains his hands in red. By the time they realize they must fight back if they wish to see the sunrise, there are only three left. 

Technoblade makes quick work of them, unfaltering, unwavering, even with the stab of a blade to his leg, a dagger put across his cheek. Blood flows heavy from his own flesh and from the cooling corpses laid out around his feet, and he steps over them to make his way back to his camp. 

His returning presence is mostly overlooked with the darkness of the early morning, the business of the preparations distracting everyone’s eyes. A handful of guards demand to know who struck an injury upon him, and Techno waves their anger away with some mention of a failed assassin. They leave it be, at that. Technoblade has had his history in dealing with attempts on his life, and there is no point in seeking out who sent this supposed killer when war is looming so close. He sends them away to useless duties, goes into his private quarters with an excuse of finding a change of clothes, and then he shatters a burning lantern upon the walls of his own tent, and watches it catch.

He moves out from the backside of his tent and rushes away from the area, screams of horror rising up at the realization that the king’s tent has been set aflame. Techno makes no glance over his shoulder as he makes his way through his camp, the walkways and blindspots of his patrolling guards known like the back of his hand, which reaches out and knocks aside a standing torch to let it fall onto the dry grass below. He passes through a tent and takes another lantern, setting it to burn high, and then breaking it at the ground. 

When the sun breaks over the horizon, fire is roaring over Techno’s camp. 

For every fire that is doused out by his panicking people, Techno sets two more. He hears the cry of his subjects wondering where their king has gone, he hears the yelling of soldiers asking where their generals have run off to. He makes his way to the stables. At first, he means to just steal a horse, but on second thought, he decides to set them all loose, as many animals as he can. He puts fire to the hay stacked to the side, and against such heat, the creatures flee for their lives, scattering out into the camp, furthering the chaos. Techno manages to capture one horse before it can go too far, and before he can pull himself upon its saddle, he hears the crying call of his title being shouted at his back, people recognizing his presence at last. 

Where are you going? Where are you going? They ask, hands clawing out, clinging to his bloody cape. Help us, help us. Come back, help us, guide us, lead us-

Techno draws his sword, with blood still stained on its blade. 

He kills the first person who took hold of his cape. He strikes down the second person who had grazed their fingers upon his sleeve. His people back away at the act of violence given so quickly, a sentence of death carried out. Shock makes them all move too slow, disbelief holding them in place. The king wouldn’t kill his own people, his own innocent people, who were only asking for help. Maybe they had done some sort of crime. Maybe the king decided that they had to pay for presuming to touch him so desperately. Maybe, maybe, maybe, they all think, and Techno cares little for whatever conclusion they will eventually draw. He takes his horse and rides out from his camp, straight to Phil’s kingdom, directly to the battlefield itself. 

The fighting has begun. He can see soldiers clashing against soldiers, armies being sent out from the kingdom’s gates. The great force of his army was meant to be marching down to meet them by now, to assist in the guarding forces that were stationed by the kingdom walls. But without any generals to lead them forward, without a council to decide the strategies needed, without a king to fuel the fight--

The scales are tipping. 

Technoblade rides towards the worst of it, taking as much speed as he can, intending only to move straight through it, to rush to the forest far past. 

“The camp has been attacked! The people are being attacked! Your families are in danger!” He screams out as he approaches, not a call for assistance, not an order to retreat. A distraction. 

His soldiers look behind them to the smoke rising from the distance, and as they look in terror for what it might mean for the reinforcements that were meant to arrive, they are overwhelmed, killed in the moment of falter. 

Technoblade lets them fall. He rushes past, using his own men as his shield, a distracting force to any weapons trying to focus on him. He goes, unaware that an order from the king has made it so every one of the soldiers fighting knows that if they are to see the enemy king on the battlefield-- they are to let him flee. 

Technoblade flees, his wounds stinging in the jostling movement of his stolen horse. Something startles it as he approaches the treeline, and he’s knocked off the saddle as it rears up, a frightened noise given. Techno hits the ground and rolls himself back to his feet before his limbs have even had a chance to ache, and he forces himself into a frantic run, leaving behind the battle without so much as a second glance. 

He runs out to the forest, follows along the west side of the wall, not stopping for a second, not even for a breath. He runs until a limp in his leg slows him down, his injury from before making itself known. Ragged wheezing pulls through his lungs, exhaustion starting to hit, and as he climbs up a steep incline, bloody hands clawing at the dirt to pull him up, he stumbles at finally reaching the top. His feet catch over the edge of roots sticking out, and he falls over the edge of the hill, rolling to the bottom on the other side. 

It’s a painful ordeal, but not without proper results. By the time Techno’s forced himself to stop, groaning out with every part of him dirtied and bruised, he hears shouting voices calling out, cold authority in their tones. 

“Who’s there!” They shout, and Techno turns his head, seeing a glimpse of a crossbow held up. “Announce yourself!”

“Don’t shoot!” He yells, grunting in trying to sit up, his arms shaking underneath him. “Don’t shoot! I’m the king of the enemy empire! Technoblade!” He announces, and he reaches to his ear, to the hanging earring of Phil’s that he’s put on. He can’t quite manage to take off the backing with one trembling hand, and time is of the essence, pain is just an inconvenience- he tears it from his ear, and holds it up, the emerald glinting in the glow of the morning light, a drop of his blood splattered onto the back of it. “I give surrender! Your king told me to show you this-- I give surrender!”

There’s some scattered conversation given amongst the guards. Techno doesn’t catch it, for he’s more preoccupied in trying to sit up on his knees, fisted hands put to the dirt, arms shaking in trying to push himself up. By the time he’s fully lifted his head, there’s hands grabbing around his arms, lifting him up from the floor, dragging him towards the tunnel ahead. He takes ragged, broken breaths, a part of him wondering if this is the moment he can allow a second of relief. 

He tries to walk along, but they’re moving too quickly for him to gather his bearings, and he can’t pull himself together, can’t push off the exhaustion and the pain and the relief of having gone through with this, his own defeat set by his own hands. It’s over, he thinks, near desperately. It’s over, he’s done it, it’s done. He’s done. 

He closes his eyes, head falling forward as the weight of his skull feels like too much. He’s done. Everything around him seems to become muted, a little too far away as it all settles in, and he swallows hard and tries to focus more on the feeling of the stone dragging underneath his boots, his feet hitting the grooves of the walkways. Where exactly are they taking him, now? Phil had said they’d see each other again after, once the worst of the fire had burnt out, but Techno can’t be sure where he’ll go. He can’t be sure of where he’ll end up. 

He comes back to himself eventually, a couple minutes later, maybe. He doesn’t know. He’s frighteningly unknowing of anything. Phil’s plan has been carried out to the end, and his fate isn’t in his own hold anymore. He looks around and sees more stone, sees the dim lighting of cells, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. 

“I want Phil.” He says, the words feeling like cotton stuck in his teeth, his throat dry and hoarse. The guards hardly react to his question, and of course, Techno supposes they would care little for what their enemy might want. They open a cell for him, toss him inside, and Techno lands to the ground with a grunt, all his injuries screaming out in angry pain. “Wait-” He still tries to speak, but the door is already swinging shut, and he can hear the lock being turned. 

They leave him there, walking away as if he’s of little importance, as if he’s meant to just die here, and be forgotten. 

He pushes himself up onto his knees, his breathing coming hitched in his throat as he feels over the remains of his armor. He doesn’t have his weapons anymore. He doesn’t have his cape. He has nothing except the dried blood on his hands and face, the dirty clothes on his back, and in his palm--

He opens his clenched hand, his fist feeling cramped in how tightly closed it was kept, and a sense of absolute relief fills his chest as he sees the glint of the emerald earring still in his grasp. He didn’t drop it. They didn’t take it. They couldn’t take it, more likely. As if Techno would let them take it, even while he’s mostly unconscious. 

He holds the jewel to his face as if it's a blessed thing, something of protection. He breathes. 

He looks to the cell door and stares out into the hall, trying to listen for anything worthwhile. There’s no nearby footsteps, no faint talking in the distance. The guards that took him here seem to be long gone, now. 

Now it’s just him, and they’ve left him alone here, within this cell. 

What if this was the true plan, something in him whispers, a quiet dread digging in with the same pain of his open wound. What if all that talk, all those promises from before were nothing but false words, and you’re meant to be left here to rot?

Technoblade blinks against the muddled feeling of fear twisting in his chest, and he leans back, lowers himself to rest on his side on the ground, feeling that fear settle into a stubborn sense of hope. Love. 

If he is to die here, then he has no one to blame except himself. He knew what it could mean, taking such indulgence, taking this chance. It would still be worth it, he cannot help but think. It was all still worth it, if it meant Phil will be okay. 

Phil will come back. 

Techno squeezes the earring in his hand, the needle poking hard into his palm. The pain of it is grounding, and he closes his eyes and turns his head, feeling the strands of his disheveled hair falling over his face. 

Phil has to come back. Technoblade has nothing else left to do, no more options to make, no more chances to take. All that’s left is to wait here, stay in place, stay until Phil comes to hold through on his words. All Techno can do now is trust him. 

That’s easy enough to do. 

He will come back. 

He has to come back.

Techno stirs to the sound of shouting, distant arguing. 

He wakes to the sound of Phil’s voice. 

He startles a bit, eyes wide towards the wall, almost not quite able to process what he’s hearing. It is harsher and colder than anything he’s ever heard before. A near baffling contrast to every other time he’s ever heard Phil speak. Has Phil ever even raised his voice to him, during all those meetings? Not like this, never like this. 

“You’re all fucking idiots!” He curses, his voice echoing against the walls, Technoblade blinking in sheer shock for the fact that it’s Phil speaking like that. It’s Phil- and he has lost composure, he is speaking with fury, he is hissing threats like he means it. 

Something about that makes Techno so relieved that his eyes are almost burning with it. The air in his throat hitches for a second. 

“I’ll have your heads for this, for this utter fucking insolence, you can’t even listen to the most basic orders! Where is he?” He yells, and Techno blinks again, up at the ceiling, stubborn, desperate hope taking its spot within his heart. His hand squeezes around the emerald earring, still kept in his palm. “Where is he!?”

“Phil.” Techno croaks out, throat dry, stinging as he swallows. He turns his head further and looks to the bars of his cell, just as guards approach by it, carrying torches in their hands, the light of it making Technoblade close his eyes in a wince. 

He takes a second to become accustomed to it. He then looks back to the cell door, and sees a more familiar face standing at the other side. 

“Techno.” Phil breathes out, quiet and gentle, with his eyes looking kind, so painfully kind. “Technoblade.” He says, and then he turns to the guards, his gaze turning lethal, his words suddenly ice cold. “Open the door.” 

Chapter Text

It takes only a handful of seconds for the lock to be turned, but in all honestly, those seconds feel like full hours, to Phil. 

His guards are moving too slowly, too casually , for men who are thin fucking ice to begin with. Every second passing is a second too long. Impatience claws at Phil’s back like a rabid beast starving for meat. He digs the edge of his thumb into the side of his hand, resisting the quick-passing urge to take the key and open the door himself. It’s unneeded. 

The metal of the celldoor’s hinges creak as it's pulled. Techno’s face winces against the noise, nose scrunching up with a sour frown, his head turning away, his cheek pressed to the stone under him. Phil slips into the cell before the door is even fully open, and he falls to his knees at Techno’s side with little care as to what dirt might stick to his clothes from it. 

“Techno- Technoblade.” He breathes out, holds onto Techno’s arm with a careful weight, his other hand hovering over his face, eyes taking in the poor state of him; the blood splattered across his hands, his leg, the side of his jaw, near where Phil’s earring was put before he sent him out from the tent, just a day before. 

That same emerald earring is held up by Techno then, a hesitant sort of offering held by a shaking hand. Phil blinks down at the sight of it within his palm, the gem dirtied with dried blood. A raging fury rises up and through him at the realization that it must’ve been torn out from its place. That’s the only logical explanation for why there’s a streak of blood underneath Techno’s ear. That’s the only reason as to why there would be such an odd wound there to begin with, because some idiot soldiers couldn’t comprehend simple instructions in remembering to be civil with a face who was known to be coming-

Phil breathes hard, and bites down on his tongue, enough for there to be a slight stinging left by his teeth. 

There is nothing more than he wants than to settle within his anger and punish the ones responsible. He wants to turn over his shoulder and snap out with all the frustration of having his work ruined, at having his efforts thrown aside. He wants to give justice as he sees fit, wants to prove something, wants to make a proper example so that the whole of this will become easier, soon enough- but he has his priorities. 

And Techno is staring up at him with a frail, lingering hope, colored slightly in a tired pain. 

Phil breathes again, slow and steady. Now is not the time, he reminds himself. 

“I’m- I’m so sorry.” Phil grits out towards him, and Techno’s expression twists up into utter confusion, almost looking baffled by the apology. He makes no reaction to Phil touching gingerly at his face, only continuing to stare up at Phil, listening to his voice. “You weren’t- They were supposed to take you to your room .” Phil explains, moving back to help Techno in sitting up from the floor, careful to not let him move too quickly, lest he worsen any hidden injuries that Phil can’t see past the dim lighting. 

Technoblade blinks oddly, no care to his wounds other than a passing pinched look. His hand closes tightly around the emerald earring, Phil having not taken it from him. He sits up fully with a hand pressed to the floor under him for balance, his eyes looking to Phil’s hand on his arm, then looking back to Phil himself. 

“...I get a room?” He asks quietly, near disbelief, and Phil wants nothing more than to pull him close into his arms and refuse to let go. Hold him to the space of his heart until he’s made satisfied in knowing Techno will not be pulled anywhere else. He refrains, if only because there are injuries that must be tended to, hurts that must be healed. 

Priorities. He must have priorities. 

“Come on.” Phil coaxes, leading Techno to try and stand, taking his hand in his, letting him hold onto his shoulder. “Let’s get you out of this damned cell, yes?” He slowly lifts Techno’s weight up, making no comment to the way Techno takes a moment to get his legs in working order. “Slowly, now…” Phil warns, cautious in every way. 

“You Majesty…” A guard speaks up, from beyond the bars. Perhaps one of the ones who threw Techno in here to begin with. The anger from before flares back up from behind Phil’s ribs, hot and suffocating. “Is it really wise to-” 

“Brian.” Phil calls to his royal guard, suddenly lifting up a hand, pointing out the guard speaking question, without even turning his head away from his focus on Techno. “Strike him.” 

Technoblade jerks his head up at the sound of a hand making contact with someone’s face, the order having been carried out without even a second of hesitation. Phil moves his hand back to help Technoblade in staying upright on his feet, and together, step by step, they move through the cell door, into the dungeon’s hall.

“I would’ve rather done that with my own hand, but seeing as I have something more important to carry right now, that’ll have to do.” Phil says breezily, Technoblade staring with wide eyes at the guard clutching his cheek, Phil’s royal guard standing over him with little pity. “Seize him, as well.” Phil then adds on, so very casually. “Take his weapons, and put him within the cell. He can replace Techno’s spot for now.” 

“Wait-” The guard looks to the others for a plea of help, but they all turn their gaze away, unwilling to be the next person who will catch the king’s fury. A few of them come forward to restrain him for the royal guard, who goes about taking the guard’s weapons with little care to the struggle. “Your Majesty! I meant no offense!” The guard calls out. “Forgive me!”

“I care not what you meant. You still disobeyed my simple order.” Phil replies, very matter of fact as he turns himself and Techno to head down the hall. 

He pays no mind to the sounds of fighting at their back, the guard trying to give justifications, begging mercy. It’s all background noise now, seemingly. 

“Will you be able to walk for a bit?” Phil directs his focus towards Techno, instead, his voice soft with strong worry in his eyes. “I can’t tell how bad that wound on your leg is.” 

Technoblade struggles to meet his gaze head-on. He stares at his own feet, instead, seeing how his boots are stained with blood and dirt. He blinks quietly for a second, then makes an unsteady nod. 

“I can walk.” He insists, although the ache in his leg does make it difficult. He figures he can manage so long as Phil continues to hold him through it. Techno’s arm curls tighter around the man’s shoulder, the half of his weight carried as they move down the stone walkway. 

There’s the sound of a cell door closing, locking, from behind them. Quiet footsteps following behind. Techno glances at their backs out of sheer habit, and he’s not sure how to feel at seeing Phil’s personal royal guard trailing behind. 

The other guards stay a little farther back, either out of rightful fear or careful respect-- it’s hard to tell. Techno can’t be sure how Phil’s subjects might act towards their ruler. He’s never had reason to really consider it. Maybe, before, he might’ve guessed it to be something of loyal devotion, a high respect and faith, rather than fear, if only because he’s never witnessed Phil give such cold emotion. 

Phil never did raise his voice, in all those meetings. He never shouted, never scolded, never seemed anything other than calm and kind. 

He seems the same, in carrying Techno along. His grip is gentle, though firm, and the care in his eyes is warm. Too warm. Almost burning, to Techno’s skin. 

Maybe he never felt a need to be stern with Technoblade? Never thought it was required? Techno wishes, for his own dignity’s sake, that he could argue within himself and say Phil made a mistake in that, with Techno being an enemy and such, but he can’t lie against the unwavering truth. Phil’s kindness worked better than any stinging anger might’ve done. Techno is a fool who is frail-hearted against it, and it’s not a reach to say that, because that in itself is why Techno is in this current condition to begin with. 

He huffs out a breath against his own swirling thoughts, and clings tightly to Phil’s side as they come to a sudden stop, Technoblade bringing himself back and realizing he let himself become distracted, not even giving sight to where Phil is leading him. He looks ahead and realizes the reason they’ve stilled-- there’s a set of stairs leading out from the dungeon. Techno can manage fine enough on flat, solid ground, but stairs? He’s less confident about that.

“Will you manage?” Phil asks him, looking at him with a careful shift of the arm sitting over his shoulders, a glance made down at Techno’s wounded leg. 

Technoblade purses his lips in an attempt to hold back a grimace. He makes some semblance of a nod. 

“I can try.” He says, but he can give no promise on not collapsing half-way up. He will try his best. Somehow, he feels like Phil will deal with it without issue, though. He feels sure that Phil will get him to the other side. 

Phil will get him out of here. It is comfortingly inevitable.

“Your majesty.” One of the guards step forward, a hand held out, a passing endeavor to get back into their king’s good graces. They look to Techno with a meaningful intention, arms open. “If you’d like-” 

“Don’t fucking touch him.” Phil snaps out, and the guards all stay away, the royal guard being the only one who stays in place, a respectable distance kept. “None of you lay a fucking hand on him. I do not want your help. I do not need it.” Phil swears, and Technoblade stares outright in shock for the outburst, for the sudden statement made. His ability to stand seems to falter, for a second, and he holds tighter to Phil to stay upright, hand coming up to grasp at his sleeve. 

Phil takes his hand away and moves it to his shoulder instead, maneuvering Techno towards him. 

“Alright. Hold on to me?” He says, and Techno does, without question, only processing why Phil might be asking that a few seconds after, the same moment his feet leave the ground, Phil lifting him up with slight strain, just enough to be able to move him up the stairs. 

“I can- I can-” Techno tries to speak, but his words are melding together, stuck in his throat, and he holds onto Phil tighter on instinct, not wanting to be dropped. Phil moves on with a sudden swiftness, almost impatient, with such a furrow in his brow. 

“Brian.” He calls again, to the royal guard who’s following them up, Techno seeing his raised chin from over Phil’s shoulder. “Fetch the royal healer and send them to my room. Tell them to bring their supplies. Be quick about it.” 

“Of course, your Majesty.” Brian responds, and Techno squints his eyes at the light of the hall as they come out from the depths of the dungeons, these halls far more better lit, more spacious, and utterly unfamiliar. 

Technoblade takes it in with an overwhelmed air quickly filling his lungs, the reality of the situation crashing in. He doesn’t have any idea how far he’s been taken from that forest entrance from before. He had passed out a bit, when they dragged him past the walls. And he wasn’t paying attention to Phil leading him forward, earlier. Techno has no clue where in the kingdom he is, but with Phil’s presence, with the vastness of this hall they’ve stepped into, with Techno’s own importance as such a valuable prisoner--

He’s within the castle, isn’t he? The royal castle? 

It takes a moment for a certain conclusion to pull together in Techno’s head, a certain sense of bafflement coming through the shock. 

Has Phil literally given him a room within the royal castle? 

Phil’s hand brushes over the back of Techno’s shoulder as he carefully sets him down back on his feet, and Techno takes great focus on staying standing, his leg screaming out in stubborn refusal to his weight. Phil takes his arm over his shoulder again, letting him lean close, and as Techno bites down at the sting of pain traveling up through his thigh, Phil squeezes a hand around the wrist that’s hanging over his shoulder. It’s grounding, as a gesture, and it’s more comforting than Techno would like to admit. 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Phil asks him as they linger in place for a moment, Phil letting Techno take a second to recuperate. “It’s not a terribly long walk, but…”

“I can manage. I’ll manage." Techno quickly insists, shaking his head to Phil’s silent offer of carrying him again. He looks down the hall to see Phil’s royal guard walking off, a brisk pace off towards the royal healer, apparently. Phil tugs him into the opposite direction, moving them towards the edge of the hall, making a right turn. Techno lets him lead the way, hardly any complaint or struggle made.  

“I’m-” Phil sighs, something frustrated lifted into his voice for a second. “I’m so sorry you had to wait down there.” He apologizes, brows furrowed together with a scowling look made on his face. “I told them to move you into the open room beside my own, but- it seems they thought they knew better.” He mutters under his breath. “Or that they couldn’t comprehend it, with their idiocy.” 

“Well, it’s-” Techno opens and closes his mouth for a moment, faltering at the fact that his room, the room within the royal castle, is beside the royal living quarters. The king’s own room. “It…seems fair. Am I not the literal ruler of the enemy kingdom? Should there not be some caution taken in that?”

“Oh, please.” Phil scoffs a little, almost amused. He squeezes at Techno’s wrist again. “You’re as dangerous to me as a newborn kitten.”

Technoblade narrows his eyes towards him in a false glare. “I could kill you with my bare hands.”

“Not right now you can’t.” Phil says pointedly, at their current situation. “You can’t even stand.” 

“That’s-” Technoblade tilts his head away, relieved for the light, teasing tone that’s crept into Phil’s words. This is what is familiar. Techno can manage this. “I fell down a hill, Phil, don’t make fun.” 

“You fell down a hill ?” Phil asks, the worry in his eyes returning tenfold. “How did you-” He cuts himself off, suddenly holding a hint of anger on the edge of his words. “What else did you endure, actually? Your ear…”

“That was through no fault but my own.” Techno quickly confesses, lest those guards from before get sentenced into a full-scale interrogation. “I tore it. I was- taking out the earring-”

“Oh, Techno.” Phil says, so full of- something , that Technoblade’s feet stumble, Phil having to pull him up. “Careful, careful. Do you need a moment?”

“No.” Techno denies, but Phil gives it to him anyway, slowing their pace into a snail’s crawl, carrying up Techno’s weight with a tighter hold onto his side. Techno takes the moment to look anywhere other than Phil’s face looking at him, and he notices now the presence of guards standing at their posts by the corner of the hall, their heads bowed down at Phil’s passing. They give very little glance to Techno, the reason for that maybe being the way Phil’s holding him, keeping him close. 

“Final stretch.” Phil reassures, as they turn into another separate hall, more guards posted at the corners, those same guards coming forward to open a door into one of the rooms put to the side. Techno half-walks-half-limps through the doorway with Phil to find a large bedroom kept warm with a flickering flame at the fireplace. 

The door closes quietly behind them, and Phil moves Techno towards the seating beside the fire, plush blue chairs with a small wooden table before them. Phil kicks the table aside, scooting it out of the way to let Techno move easily into the seat, and Technoblade hesitates for a second in the fact that he might stain the nice fabric with the blood and dirt on him. 

“Maybe you should-” Techno almost says, wanting to be careful, and Phil cuts him off, nearly shoving him off his feet. 

“ Sit .” 

Techno sits. He’s not keen to attract the king’s fury, either. He leans stiffly back into the softness of the chair, hands placed gingerly over his lap, feeling rather out of place. Like a wild dog that somehow got inside and took a rest upon the good furniture. 

He picks at the edge of his nails, digging the dirt out from under them as Phil steps away, returning at Techno’s side quickly with a pitcher and a cup. He pours out water for Techno, putting the pitcher to the table, putting the cup into Techno’s palms. It’s pleasantly cool against his skin. Techno takes a sip without any second thought, glad to have something for his dry mouth at last. 

He wonders off-handedly if Phil would put poison in here. He didn’t take the poison-testing sip like he always does, whenever they have their tea. 

Techno has half a mind to mention that, to make some light joke out of it, but he quickly forgets about the topic when Phil kneels down beside his leg, starting to undo the laces for one of his boots. Techno almost immediately jerks away, hand pressed to the armrest like he’s about to climb his way up and off the chair, leg injury be damned. 

“What are you doing ?” Technoblade asks, and Phil doesn’t even lift his head, still focused on his task, uncaring of the fact there’s mud sticking to his fingertips from pulling at said shoelaces. 

“I’m taking off your shoes for you.” 

Techno glances around for a second as if to find anyone else who will stare at Phil with utter bewilderment. There is nothing except for the elaborate decoration of a room well-lived in. He goes to put his cup aside, trying to lean down, hands reaching out over Phil’s. 

“Phil- it’s fine. I can-”

“No, you cannot.” Phil insists, and he smacks Techno’s hands up and away, Technoblade sitting back up with his arms awkwardly mid-air for a second, out of sheer surprise. 

Phil looks up at him with a pointed sort of gaze, some quiet, odd smile tucked underneath. 

He points to the table, no room for argument in his tone. “Drink your water.” 

…Techno takes his cup again and drinks his water. 

This feels treasonous, somehow. There’s a limit to a king’s goodwill, Techno feels. Helping an enemy ruler to walk so that he doesn’t faceplant and pass out on the floor is one thing. Helping that same ruler take his shoes off is another. This seems- just plain unnecessary, in all honesty, but Phil’s already putting Techno’s boots aside, standing back up on his feet with a gesturing hand put over his own chest. 

“Your leather?” He asks, and Techno looks down to his armor, putting his empty cup down by the side of his leg so that he can pull at the straps of it. He tries to undo a buckle at his side, but his fingers fumble for a second with the dirt dug into the notches, with a strange shakiness also settled into his skin. 

Phil bats his hands away after a minute or so and goes to do it for him, which, admittedly, is probably for the best. Technoblade doesn’t have too much experience in undoing his own armor, that’s usually something left for his servants. 

Which only makes him feel worse at the fact it’s Phil doing it now. 

He tries to help where he can. He yanks off the straps for the leather over his arms, and lifts his head up when Phil takes his chestplate off, taking it to the side, draping it over the other chair on the other side of the table. Phil takes a moment to look over it, eyes tracing over the dried blood, and then he looks to Techno with a glance over his shirt, a bit confused by the fact there’s no matching blood there. 

“Where are you bleeding?” He asks, and Techno waves a hand up in a dismissing gesture, still fiddling with one of his sleeves that got rolled up wrong on his elbow, his fingers unsteady as they pull at the fabric.

“It’s not my blood.” He says, then he takes a second to reconsider. “Well. Most of it isn’t my blood. I am bleeding out of my leg, I think.” 

“Yeah, I thought so, on that part.” Phil says, kneeling back down in front of Techno to check on that certain wound. 

It’s not a life-threatening injury. It’s nothing to worry to death about. Techno doesn’t know why Phil looks over it with such careful attention, as if it is. It’s a stray jagged cut, put across the bottom side of his knee, a result of a desperate swing of a sword from one of Techno’s generals. It’s a poor placement, in terms of decent walking ability, but it’s mostly stopped bleeding now, and only stings the normal amount when Phil goes about rolling up his pantsleg. 

The door opens, then, with a quiet announcement from the guards of it being the royal medic. Phil doesn’t give any attention to them stepping through the door, instead just lifting his hand with a beckoning motion.

“Leave your supplies on the table.” He orders, leaning back on his knees, frowning persistently to the cut on Techno’s leg. Techno leans forward on his seat to see what could be so upsetting about it. It’s really not life-threatening. More irritating, than anything. Maybe there’s a threat of an infection that he’s not seeing? That would make sense, but it hasn’t been so long for the wound to have gotten that bad…

Technoblade’s attention is pulled away by the movement of a large bag being put on the table, Phil standing and pulling it open the second the medic has stepped away. He goes through the contents of it and takes out bandages and bottles and some tiny container of needles, and Techno is no stranger to the process of tending to one’s wound, but he can’t comprehend as to why Phil is the one setting the supplies out, and not the royal medic. 

“Stay nearby, but leave the room.” Phil says, as he wets a rag with the same water from the drinking pitcher. “I may call upon you later.” He still gives no glance to the medic. He kneels back down before Techno’s leg, and goes about cleaning off the dried blood.

“Of course, your majesty.” The medic murmurs, and they actually go , right out the door, the guards pulling it closed behind them as they step out into the hall.  

Technoblade looks at the door for a solid few seconds, as if waiting for Phil to suddenly become sensible, and call them back. No such thing happens. Phil stays wiping at old flakes of blood, so cautiously gentle, so stubbornly persistent. 

“Why did you-” Techno looks away from the door, looks down at Phil. “Why did you do that?” Technoblade asks, the words a bit faltering from where they leave his throat. 

“I’d rather care for your wounds myself.” Phil says simply. It is very final, very calm. Techno is familiar with the tone of such a statement, but the meaning of it is still a bit lost upon him. He stares outright, watching Phil tend to his wound. 

“Phil.” He says. Almost reminding. “This is beneath you.”

Phil hums a little, as if taking that sentence in and considering it for a second. “You are not beneath me.” He replies in kind.

That’s not what Techno meant , but he has no reply to such a statement regardless. He has no other words to give. 

Phil is perhaps the person he trusts most in the world, right now, but it doesn’t change the fact that Phil is still a king. Techno is- was his enemy. This isn’t- He can’t just do things like this. Can’t treat Techno like this. Even if they’ve made some sort of shaky alliance now, even if Techno’s backtracked on his earlier threats, this isn’t- He can’t just- That’s not -

The door opens again. 

Phil’s expression flickers into something annoyed, sharp and unkind, a sort of face that makes Techno’s stomach twist, if only because he’s so very unfamiliar with it. Phil turns on his knee to look over his shoulder, voice stern and clear. “I said to leave the-” 

He stops, right in the middle of his sentence. Techno quickly lifts his head up, thrown off at the sound of Phil’s sudden pause, and he goes still to the sight of a woman coming through the door. Her face holds no meaning to him, her black hair, her purple gown-- it’s nothing, really, to Techno. 

However, there is a very distinct glimmering shine of a crown upon her head. 

“It would do well to let the medic take care of this.” She says, soft-spoken, so very calm. It reminds Techno so strongly of Phil. She comes forward in a slow walk, hands clasped before her, her air seeming almost amused in the way she squints her eyes. The door clicks gently shut behind her, the guards closing it. “Not that I don’t trust your capability…”

“My love.” Phil sighs, so very weary out of nowhere, as if all the exhaustion of everything has laid down over his shoulder. He composes himself within the next few seconds, and he turns back to Techno’s leg, reaching for the bandages on the table. “Fair enough, but I think it’d be better to keep unneeded company away for now.”

“For your sake or for his?” She asks, and she stops behind Phil, looking over him and directly at Technoblade, now. She smiles, head tilting ever so slightly. “Hello there.” 

That’s the Queen. 

She is the Queen, there’s no doubt to be had about it. The king’s beloved wife, his right hand to all the duties of the kingdom. 

She’s very good at chess. Techno can’t help but remember that fact now. Of all things- that’s what pressing its way to the front of his mind. She’s brilliant at chess. Phil loses to her rather often. Techno wonders now if that’s just because Phil is hopeless when faced with the bearer of his heart. 

“Hello.” Techno murmurs, a little late, a little quiet. Gods, her eyes. They’re vividly purple, bright in thought, and yet-- for some reason, they are also heart-breakingly sorrowful. Near pitying, in some manner. 

Techno doesn’t know why such a look is being given towards him. Does the queen just hold a certain sadness in her eyes? She looks so very kind, though, even through the sadness. So very warm, the same as Phil. 

Technoblade wonders how it would be to have a mother as kind-looking as her. 

He looks away. Kristin makes a quiet hum, stepping around Phil with her arm reaching up, her hand tucking a stray piece of hair out from Techno’s face. The gesture is so out of nowhere, Technoblade doesn’t even have a moment to consider moving away from it. He stays where he is, looking back up at her with a slow processing of what just happened. 

“The council is calling a meeting.” She says, and although her eyes are still on him, hand hovering by Techno’s ear, she’s very clearly speaking to Phil. 

“I’m preoccupied.” Phil replies, something annoyed sat underneath it. Techno’s eyes glance down to him as he starts to pull bandages around his wound, his leg twitching slightly in the pain. Phil squeezes around his ankle for a moment. “Sorry, sorry.” He murmurs, and Techno turns his attention away, looks to the cup still put beside his leg, looks to the fire within the hearth. Looks at the boring walls of the room, as if they’re the most interesting thing in the world. Something is stuck in his throat, but he dares not try to cough to clear it. 

“It’s a meeting meant for you, specifically.” She clarifies, and Techno- he can’t explain why- he finds himself looking back at her. He finds a vague sense of relief in seeing that she’s turned her head away to face Phil, now. He tries to discreetly take in the details of her, the braids of her hair, the design of her dress. 

She’s wearing rings. 

One of them holds a bright green emerald.

Techno squeezes at the gem that still sits tucked into his palm, kept still between his fingers. He squeezes it so tightly, he wonders if its left several cuts into his skin by this point. 

He looks back at the walls, even though there’s nothing particularly important upon them.  

“And I am still preoccupied.” Phil insists, lifting Techno’s leg up a bit to wrap the bandages properly. Techno stays as still as humanly possible, trying to not flinch against it again. Phil still squeezes around his ankle, a repeating gesture. “What do they need?”

Kristin makes a passing noise, her shoulder shrugging up as she steps away, moving to the table with the supplies still spread out across it. She picks up one of the bottles, tilts it to see the liquid moving inside. “Nothing, really. I think they just didn’t believe you’d actually go through with this.” 

Phil scoffs lightly. “I was very clear in my orders.” 

“So I thought. It didn’t seem to get through their heads, though…” Kristin trails off, picking up the scissors from the table and passing them to Phil, who takes it with an appreciative nod. “I figured I would check up with you, and then head along in your place.”

Phil pauses for a second in his movement, looking up at her. Something hopeful blooms over his expression. “Would you?” He asks. 

“If only for the sake of saving their poor souls from a good scolding on your part.” 

“ You won’t scold?” Phil asks, a bit skeptical, a bit amused. He almost grins, and then he turns back to focusing on the injury at hand, tying up the bandages. 

Kristin’s lips point up into a small smile. “Maybe a little.” 

“Oh, I see.” Phil says, putting the excess bandages aside, the scissors along with it. “Maybe you just want an excuse to give some proper insults on my behalf.” 

“I won’t deny nor agree.” Kristin says, handing the bottle into Phil’s hand as he stands up. “This won’t do, by the way. I’m going to call for something stronger to be brought, as well as some bathwater, so that he can wash up.” 

“Please do.” Phil agrees, looking the bottle over in his hand as Kristin walks away, his face frowning a little at recognizing the faded red color. 

Technoblade doesn’t know what exactly is in it, but he can only assume it’s something of medicine, something of pain relief. Why wouldn’t the queen approve of it, though? Why would Techno need something stronger ? It could just be a matter of knocking him out into a short coma for the time being, he supposes, so as to not worry over his actions while they sort out what to do with him. He can reason with that. And it does sound like a tempting idea-- going into a short coma. He could do with a long rest, and an excuse to not think too hard. 

Phil puts the bottle back down onto the table and settles himself beside Techno’s right arm, leaning on the armrest of the chair with his attention now turned to the torn piercing on Techno’s ear. He takes the rag from before to clean the worst of the blood off, pushing Techno’s hair back and holding it away with a featherlight grip. 

“You could’ve been more careful about this.” Phil tells him, voice soft in a way that makes Techno’s throat feel stuck with something again. 

“Time was of the essence, Phil.” Technoblade manages to respond, hands curled up tight beside his thighs, his shoulders shifting up ever so slowly into something stiff. “It was the quickest way. I wasn’t keen on getting shot.” 

“I ordered for them to be lenient in firing on sight, for that entrance.” Phil sighs, almost frustrated by it. “They knew you were coming.” 

“Well, I didn’t know that.” 

“Neither did they, I suppose. They must’ve forgot.” Phil deadpans, utterly unimpressed with the mistakes made by his men. He puts aside the rag, the wound mostly cleaned. He goes through the supplies at the table, picking through the needles and thread. “You’ll have to wear the emerald on your other ear, in the meantime. While this one heals.”

Techno narrows his eyes in question, glancing at the side of Phil’s head in where he’s turned away. “It’s- It’s your earring.” 

“You can keep it for yourself. I won’t mind. Although- Let me see it?” Phil says, and he turns back to Techno with a hand held out, Technoblade hesitating for a second before bringing up the earring and giving it to him. Phil holds it up with a slight grimace. “Maybe you should wear it after a proper cleaning.” He mutters, and he puts the earring aside, upon the table, just as Kristin returns from the door. 

“I’ve also called for a meal to be brought.” She says, and Techno’s suddenly starving at just the mention of food, his stomach giving a pang of hunger rather than just a twist of nerves. “Will he stay with you tonight?” She asks further, and Technoblade gives a baffled look, wondering why the queen would even think of that being an option.

“I’ll take him to his room later. After.” Phil says, eyes kept on the supplies he’s setting up. 

Kristin huffs, something fond. “Alright. I’ll be back soon enough.” She says, turning away to head out the door. “I can’t imagine the meeting will take very long.” 

“Thank you.” Phil calls, Kristin waving up a light hand, some casual gesture of goodbye. 

The door closes. 

Techno stares at it, feeling more than a little lost. He feels so very small, all of a sudden, as if the Queen’s departure is a proper reminder to the situation at hand. He’s in the royal castle with no backup, no plan, no direction, with injuries he bears from a betrayal made. His kingdom, his people-

“You are going to need stitches for that.” Phil says, turning back to Techno, hand pushing his loose hair away again for a moment, all of Techno’s thoughts dissipating in favor of focusing on this, on Phil, on the worried gaze being pointed his way. It’s a heavy look, a little hard to face, but it’s far better than the faint taste of guilt trying to claw up his throat. It’s far more indulgent to just focus on this, and only this. “I’d rather get it over with now, but...” 

Technoblade gives a slight nod, looking pointedly past Phil. “Is that not medicine on the table? In the bottles?” He asks. 

“They will only do so much for the pain.” Phil makes a face, not even glancing at those bottles as an option. “It’d do well to wait for something stronger to be brought.”

“It’s only a few stitches, Phil. I’ll bear it.” 

“It’s stitches and a healing leg. I won’t have it.” Phil disagrees, taking his hand away and moving away from Techno’s side, much to his quiet disappointment. “Stay here. The medic should be back any moment now.” He says, going towards the door. 

Techno feels fidgety in being left alone on the chair. He takes the moment to pour himself some more water, trying to ease the hunger that’s now digging through him, revived by the reminder that he hasn’t eaten for hours. He tucks his hair back as he takes a drink, putting the loose strands behind his good ear like how the queen did. 

He falters in thinking over it, blinking down at the water in his cup. 

Why did she do that? 

“Techno?” Phil calls, and Techno puts his thoughts and his cup aside. “Did you want anything else for right now?” He offers, a guard waiting patiently by the door, waiting for Phil’s orders. 

“I’m- alright.” Technoblade shakes his head, sitting up a little straighter against the back of his seat, the pull of the bandages on his leg making him feel so very frail, all of a sudden. He has a passing thought of asking for Phil to just come back, to just stay beside him, but that’s- that’s just too much. He swallows down the idea before it makes it past his teeth. Phil still seems to sense it, though. He stays looking at Techno as if he’s seeing something past the blank expression Techno’s put on, and Techno resists the urge to sink down into the cushions of the chair and give some effort to hide. He looks back at the boring walls and considers paint colors. 

The royal medic arrives eventually, with a stronger medicine in hand, a tiny bottle filled with something potent, hard to brew. Phil pours it into Techno’s water for him to drink, and Technoblade can’t even refuse it, because it’s already been poured, already been brought. 

He can’t make sense of it. He can’t help but find a comfort in all this but he also can’t make sense of it. He doesn’t understand why Phil would make the effort for this. Why use something so valuable on him ? Technoblade is accustomed to pain, he can stomach it fine. The medicine does its work in muting the worst of it, so it should be alright, but for some odd reason, he feels a bit sick when Phil holds him in place gently for the stitches, his hand brushing Techno’s hair to the side.

He shakes when Phil ties off the last of the stitching. The room is hardly cold enough to justify it, but Techno can’t keep himself still. He denies having any pain when Phil asks if anything hurts, and he denies having any more water when Phil pours him another cup. He looks to the walls. Look at the flickering movement of the fire in the hearth. Looks to anywhere except for Phil’s eyes, because he knows very well what he’s going to see. 

“You’re alright.” Phil tells him, one firm hand held to his arm, the same as he did down in the cell. It is soothing and kind, and Techno looks at his hands, still covered in blood. Phil would probably wipe them down, if he brought attention to it. 

Phil squeezes his arm and then lets go. He tidies up some of the medical supplies, his voice turning light. “That should be enough for now.” He nods, pointing a finger towards Techno’s ear for a second. “You’ll have to be careful with this. You should heal fine, though, I see no reason why you wouldn’t-”

“Phil.” Techno says, a little like a call for help. 

Phil leans back from the table and looks at him. “Yes?”

How does Techno word it? 

How does he speak? He struggles to put the words past his lips. Something in him feels so exhausted, now, ready to sleep, even with nerves running through him, and he blinks his eyes open to the effort of trying to stay aware, trying to stay together. 

“Why am I getting a room of my own?” He asks, and it’s not exactly what he hoped to ask, but it's a start. 

Phil gives a confused frown, brows furrowing together. “Where…else are you meant to stay?”

Technoblade makes a slow, jerky shrug. “The cell I was in?”

Phil huffs, as if Techno’s made a slight joke. “I see little reason for that. The dungeons are for criminals and threats. You’re not a threat.” He mutters the next words, eyes glancing away. “Hardly a criminal, honestly…” 

“So I just get to stay?” Technoblade questions, leaning forward with his hands pressed to his knees. “In a room right beside your own living quarters?” 

“Well, yes.” Phil makes a small laugh. He looks at Techno with a tilt of his head. “Why not?”

Technoblade breathes in. Tries to form the words- and finds himself not wanting to disrupt this. As temporary as it is, as foolish as it is, Techno wants this kindness to keep. Wants to let Phil continue on until the very minute he remembers the upper hand he holds, remembers that he can let all these useless efforts go.

Phil takes a step away from the table, towards Techno’s side. He leans against his chair. “Why not?” He asks again.

“There could- just be other options, is all.” 

“No. I don’t think so.” Phil disagrees, very easily. Techno bristles slightly, already regretting the words coming out of his mouth. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture-”

“Techno.” Phil tries to say. 

“But I ask you to reconsider.” Techno hisses, wondering why Phil is not getting this.

“Reconsider what?” Phil says, sounding confused. “Did we not agree?”

Techno blinks up at Phil. Phil raises a brow, speaking slowly and surely. 

“I told you this was the plan. I would give you somewhere to stay.” 

Yes, Techno had believed that. Had heard that. Latched onto it with all the desperate hope of a fool weak to such an offer. But he didn’t think it would be like this. He didn’t- This wasn’t- 

It wasn’t supposed to be an actual offer. Was it? 

Was it?

“Technoblade.” Phil calls, Techno not looking at him, still processing the words given. “What did you think was going to happen once you got here?”

Techno stares blankly at nothing in particular, shrugging uselessly, and in his distraction, he accidentally lets his response go honest. “In all truth, I thought you were just going to execute me.”

Phil immediately straightens up, gaze put on directly on Techno with an indescribable expression to his face. Technoblade sees the discomfort in it, the upset edges, and quickly tries to backtrack.

“Not- not immediately. After a process, after-” He waves his hands up, trying to logic it together. “-it would be the eventual end result, y’know, but you wouldn’t- you wouldn’t do so right away.“ 

Phil’s expression tightens up, a near frown forming.

“I’m not upset by it. It’s not- I'm not saying you’re cruel in doing so, it’s the expected action, it’s- the smart choice is to be quick with it, and you’ve never been unkind, so-” Techno stammers over his words, hands waving up higher. “I mean, with this -“

“I will not kill you.”

“I-“ Techno falters, swallowing hard, because that is said with such finality, a definiteness that can’t be denied. “Considering the circumstances-“

“Yes, considering the circumstances, there is no reason for me to kill you.” Phil tilts his head further, as if trying to see something properly. “Or to have you killed.”

“There’s plenty reason.” Techno argues weakly.

“None that I find convincing enough.” Phil says, too easily for Techno’s heart. He stands up on his feet. “You will not be killed, or harmed, for as long as you stand within my kingdom.”

Techno furrows his brows, glancing away for a second in thought. 

“Exile, then.”

Phil spits out a sudden sharp sigh, nearly a laugh. 

“No!” He denies, shaking his head. “No, no. None of that. I’ll figure out the exact details of your fate later, but rest assured, there is no death, or punishment, or exile.”

Technoblade squints at Phil with a slight frown. “But then-“

“None of that.” Phil insists again. He reaches to Techno’s arm and pulls him up. “Let me help you walk to the bath. I’ll wash your hair for you when you're done, so you can tie it up now, if you’d like.” 

“I-” Technoblade looks at Phil’s smile, at the familiar comfort of it all. “Okay.” He says, going along, because that’s the easier thing to do. 

Phil just makes it very, very easy.