Archive of Our Own ^beta

There is a weeping tree that rests at the edge of the water. Its boughs drip with pink and mauve and lilac buds in the middle of spring, dancing with the minnows in the shallows like a worldly mirror to a faerie court. The breeze sings a gentle hymn, rocking the delicate blossoms with a lullaby so sweet it woos the listener to stay—be at ease—let your worries roll off your back and under the waves that lap the shore.

It’s a beautiful final resting place.

There is a sword nestled between its roots. It was not dropped there by an errant hand, lost in a battle long ago, or discarded by an unknown person, be they traveler or thief or otherwise. It stands proudly speared into the earth—or, rather, into the stone plinth constructed for just that purpose. It is not yet weather-worn, the faint amethyst sheen to its blade born of another plane entirely; it cannot be bested by such a little thing as wind nor rain nor dust.

It is as keen and strong as its once-bearer.

There is a crown that adorns its crossguard, a brow of metal and polish rather than flesh and bone. It gleams with enchantment so subtle one almost could mistake it for the simple glint of lesser metal. A young hand once carved the gold out of the depths of the earth, pried its gems from the stone and slate of the mines and carried them to the sunlight above. Those same hands fashioned the raw potential into a halo that kissed the crown of a legend and whispered, “You may accomplish all that you put your hands to.”

It proved those words true to all who gazed upon it.

There is an emerald looped by a ring and chain around one tine of the crown. It sparkles like living green flame, a promise whispered across the years, a bond that will never be broken, a light in times of despair. Like a fractal of time, it dangles suspended in space, a frozen droplet of memory and companionship. Its craftsmanship is superior to the crown, but shows the same shimmer of enchantment and wear of time—of love.

Its twin rests in warmth not far from its own cold grave.

There is a man who kneels at the headstone. His eyes mirror the clear sky above, his hair a twin for the sun that lingers at its zenith overhead. Contradictorily, a darkness follows him—it is in the depth of the inky feathers folded along his back, the aura of death that is subtle yet clinging, the shade of his steps that whisper of void and dust and eternity. This holds not a candle to the shadows which mask his face and bend his spine, however.

He grieves—and yet, he smiles through tears like shooting stars streaking down his cheeks.

There is a spirit that never dies. He walks with a crown of stardust and a sword of hope and the roar of a thousand—hundred thousand—million voices rising all around him. The cape around his shoulders paints a kaleidoscope of color with every move, spilling light and joy across a landscape of emptiness. In a realm beyond mortal ken, he is second only to the Goddess who breathes life into void and eternity.

And his name is Technoblade.