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Chapter Text

The rain crashed down in torrents, dumping so much water on the land that it gathered in pools rather than soak into the earth. Phil loved nights like these; the rain beating down on the window and thunder rumbling in the distance while he relaxed by the fireplace with a book and some tea. It was soothing in an odd sort of way, reminding Phil of vague half formed childhood memories. The only thing missing was his family, but they were on a short vacation to the seaside on the far side of H'Ardcorre, just mother and sons, and would be back by morning. He hoped the storm hadn't ruined the trip. 

Still, he enjoyed the brief and rare silence. It was a moment of pure respite that he'd gladly welcome with open arms. He didn't have to think or worry for the evening, his only concern relaxing with his book.

A knock on his chamber door rattled him out of his non-thoughts. 

So much for silence. Phil inhaled deliberately to ease his annoyance. "Yes?"

The door squealed open. "There's a young man at the gates requesting an audience, your Majesty.”

Phil frowned and turned in his seat to face who was speaking. "At this hour? In this weather?" he asked incredulously.

"He refuses to leave, he says it's urgent, sir." The Blaze-born guard sounded as bewildered as Phil felt. "Should we tell him to return in the morning?" 

"No. Escort him to the throne room." Phil heaved a deep sigh, set his book on his table, and stood. Only truly desperate people would come in the dead of night, in the middle of a thunderstorm. He wrapped himself in his favorite green robe before descending the stairs. 

The castle was always cold at night, especially when it rained, despite Phil's many attempts at warming the halls. He kept redstone torches lit along the walls and carpeted the solid marble floors. It hardly made a difference, the stone sapped all heat out of the air and reflected the wet chill of the night. He shivered as he walked to the throne room, pulling his robe closer around himself. Another Blaze-born guard posted at the entrance bowed her head a little before opening the door for Phil. 

Between two more guards, standing perfectly at attention and contrasting how lax the adults at his side were, was a piglin boy. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, wearing a red cloak and soaked to the bone. His long pink hair was in a braid draped over his shoulder and dripping rainwater on the smooth tile floor. 

The guards bowed to Phil, but the boy knelt on one knee. "Your Majesty, he's been searched. He has no weapons, only this letter." One guard with ram horns gave Phil a wet envelope. It bore no crest or address, but it did have a wax seal on the back in vibrant red, bearing the head of a boar. Phil examined it, then popped the seal and tried to take the paper out carefully. The letter inside was not as soaked as the envelope, the water only had the chance to seep in through the corners. 

To His Majesty King Philza Craft of the Kingdom of H'Ardcorre

We humbly present you with our best and most promising weapon, the Blade. Please accept it as our tithe towards the war effort. Put it to whatever use you see fit.

Blood for the Blood God.

"You said he has no weapons?" Phil asked with a frown. 

"No sir." 

Phil looked at the boy, still kneeling with his head bowed. "Stand up, mate," he said, voice softening at the edges. The boy did so with a quickness. He didn't meet Phil's eyes but he stood flawlessly at attention, like a well trained soldier. How odd for a delivery boy. "Where's the weapon?" Phil asked.

"I am the weapon, sir. At your service." The boy bowed again and straightened out.  

A horrid feeling blossomed in Phil's chest. "Come again?" 

"The Blade, to be used at your discretion sir." The boy's face and voice were completely void of emotion. He was almost robotic. Red eyes stared directly ahead, perfect like a statue. 

If Phil hadn't seen him breathe and blink and speak only a second ago, he would've said the child in front of him was indeed a statue. 

He looked to the guards. "Go back to your posts. I'll handle this,” he instructed, his voice level and not matching the rocks churning in his stomach. The guards both inclined their heads gently and then exited the room. The boy didn't move. Phil wasn't sure if he was even breathing. 

"Alright, um. Blade, was it?" Phil wrinkled his nose. The idea of calling a child a blade, a thing to be used, filled him with disgust. The fact that the child in question was fine with it was worse. "We're gonna have a little chat, alright?" 

"Yes sir." The boy only blinked. Not even a glimpse of emotion was to be found. 

Phil bit his lip in thought and concern. "Hm. Come with me." He motioned for the boy to follow him out of the throne room. He did so dutifully.

They walked through the corridors for a short time before Phil could think of what to say. "So. Blade. Shit, uh… how, um. How old are you?" Better start with the basics, he thought. Maybe he looked younger than he was. Phil knew a thing or two about that. 

"I'm fifteen, Your Majesty." 

Phil's heart sank and sat heavy in his gut. Fifteen. This boy was only two years older than Wilbur, and he was expected to be in battle? No one in the army was under eighteen. Surely whoever sent Blade to him was aware of that. 

"That's, uh, a little young to be in the army, innit?" he said carefully. 

"I've been training for years, sir. I'm completely and properly prepared for battle, whenever and wherever it pleases you, sir." 

He was trembling, ever so slightly but Phil could see the way his muscles tensed under his wet and cold tunic and cloak. Blade clenched his jaw tightly, in fact his entire body was wound up like a spool of string. He was probably freezing, the poor thing, soaked to the bone in an early autumn storm.

"Let's get you out of those wet clothes, hmm? I think you're about the same size as Wilbur, you can borrow some of his pajamas for the night." Phil extended a wing gently to herd Blade to his side. The boy paused, taken off guard by the gesture, but quickly adjusted and kept pace with him. His hooved feet tapped along the ground, perfectly in time with Phil's talons softly clicking like a march. 

The rest of the walk to the master suite was silent. Blade was apparently not much for conversation. He followed Phil without even a glimmer of curiosity, and that was also concerning. Everything about this boy concerned Phil. 

Rather than intrude on Wilbur's personal rooms, Phil asked the servant who was stoking the fire go and retrieve the largest of Wilbur's sleeping gowns from the laundry room for Blade and something to dry himself with. The boy in question stood by the door, at attention once again. "Um. Go ahead and sit, mate." Phil gestured awkwardly to one of the chairs by the fire.

Blade sat. He looked uncomfortable doing so, the first shadow of emotion Phil had seen in him. "Where are you from?" 

"I'm from nowhere, sir. I only exist to serve you." Blade's fingers twitched, just a bit, just enough for Phil to notice. 

"Well, now. Surely you have a name?" Phil asked. 

"I am the Blade, sir." The boy didn't falter. 

"Yes I read. But is that your first name or a last name?" 

"It's just my name, Your Majesty." 

Phil frowned. "You don't have a surname?" 

There was a flicker of something in Blade's eyes. The more he talked, the less rigid he became. "Family names are for people with families, sir." 

Something, his heart most likely, shattered in Phil's chest. He knew this war with the Essempi Empire would bring casualties to his people, to the innocent and vulnerable. Phil knew all too well what the cost of war was and he hated it. The wings on his back were a heavy burden, a reminder of the Elytrians he'd been born to and then were ripped away from him by genocide. If he'd had a choice in the matter, or maybe if he had tried harder to appease the old human king, Phil never would've allowed a war at all. But the humans were a superstitious and aggressive kind, they responded to fear with hate and suspicion, and the late King Schlatt was the most cowardly and hateful and suspicious of the lot. The hybrids of H'Ardcorre terrified the humans. 

Children were always the ones that suffered the most through war. Rations, absent parents, the constant fear of invasion that occasionally was proven to be very much founded in reality. Orphanages grew overcrowded within months. The war was nearly three years long at this point, and many decades in the making before that. 

"I see," Phil said softly. "Who raised you then, if you don't have a family? Did you come from an orphanage, maybe near Flowerfall?" 

Blade didn't answer right away. He clenched his jaw and tapped his fingers on his knee. "My superiors raised me, sir," he said finally, voice tight. 

"And… who are they?" 

The boy's silence was even longer. "It doesn't matter anymore, sir. I'm here now, to fulfill my sacred duty."

Phil's chest tightened. He opened his mouth to ask what, exactly, this boy's duty was, but a knock on the door interrupted him. "Come in," he said instead, a twinge of impatience in his voice. 

A servant with long floppy bunny ears came in carrying some gently folded sleepwear and a towel for Blade. Phil thanked them and gestured to Blade. "Go ahead and get changed for the night, mate. Have you had supper? I'm sure there's something in the kitchen that I can have brought up for you." 

"I only traveled, sir. I had rations along the way." Blade took the clothes and bowed deeply to the servant. They blinked, a little flustered but they accepted the respect by patting Blade's hair. 

"Oh, that won't do. Bring something up, won't you? Don't wake the chef, just anything that's lying around." Phil smiled at the servant as they bowed to him and closed the door behind them. He turned to Blade. "I'll leave you to get changed. I'll just be up in the loft, alright?" 

Blade bowed and Phil climbed up to second floor loft that overlooked the rest of his suite. There was a cozy little nest up there, for nights when the family didn't want to split up and head to their own rooms. His boys were still young, Tommy was only seven and Wilbur barely a teen, and they both craved the safety of a nest from time to time. It wasn't a nest in the traditional sense, but the bed was round and had raised cushioned edges all around to keep anyone from rolling off, and it was full of pillows and blankets and the boys' stuffed toys. Friend the sheep stared with black button eyes at Phil as he arranged the covers, alone as Henry the cow was with Tommy currently. 

Phil thought about where Blade would be put for the night. Sleeping in the nest was only for family. Maybe he could sleep in one of the guest rooms. But the guest quarters were in the spyres in the east wing, and that was a little far for Phil's comfort. He wanted to keep an eye on the child- and he was a child, no matter what he'd been trained to do or be. 

Phil decided on a cot, next to the nest. They still had the one that Wilbur slept in when he got old enough to want to sleep on his own but didn't want to be in his room. It wasn't as secure as the nest but Phil didn't think it was appropriate to hole Blade up in the currently unused nursery. He pulled it out of the storage closet. 

A knock at the door distracted Phil. "Go ahead," he called over the balcony of the loft. The same lopeared servant as before entered with a platter of bread and cheese and some fruit. 

"I'm sorry, sir, this was all we had on hand at this hour," they apologized. 

Phil nodded. "That's fine, leave it on the table for the boy. Thank you." He dismissed them gently, bidding them a good night, and finished setting up the cot. He draped a blanket and pillow on top. If Blade needed more blankets or pillows, he could always ask. 

"Your Majesty." 

Phil looked over the railing and smiled. Blade stood in the middle of the room, looking significantly warmer in Wilbur's sleepwear. The sleeves and pant legs were a bit short, but they were short on Wil too. There were wrappings around Blade's wrists that caught Phil's eye. That would be a conversation for the morning perhaps. His pink hair was neatly tied up in a bun, and he held his wet clothes and the now wet towel in his arms. 

"Oh, those will go in the basket up here," Phil said. "Just bring them up when you come up for bed." 

A confused frown passed over Blade's otherwise stoic face. "Oh, yeah, 'course. You can sleep up here tonight, mate. I've got a bed all ready for you. Didn't think you'd appreciate getting shunted off to the guest towers," Phil explained. This was why he had Kristin, his head ran away with his manners sometimes. 

Blade blinked in thought, then he seemed to come to some conclusion and nodded. "Yes sir." 

Phil smiled. "Come on up when you're ready, alright? There's some snacks for you on the table. I know it's not exactly a five-course meal but go ahead and eat up." 

Blade looked at the platter on the table. "Yes sir. Thank you sir." 

He didn't get to ask any more questions for the night. It was late, and Phil was tired, and he was sure the boy was too. The things he really wanted to know had effectively locked Blade down. Where he was from, who was in charge of him. The letter had mentioned the Blood God but there were many different sects of that particular faith. It was an ancient religion, and as so often did with old and well worn faiths, different groups had splintered off from the original and then from each other. The Blood God wasn't an unpopular deity either, especially now during a war. People always seemed to gravitate towards Him when there was conflict close to home. Kristin complained about it a little, not that Phil would ever let her catch him calling it complaining. 

Phil blew out all but two of the candles at the bedside and nestled into the pillows. He figured Blade would come up when he was done eating. He heard soft murmuring coming from down in the sitting room. He couldn't make out any words but Blade was definitely whispering, breathy and soft. 

He tried to wait for Blade, but Phil fell asleep before the boy came up. He woke in the morning to warm, golden sunlight streaming in through the window and birds chirping. Blade wasn't in sight, and the cot was neatly made with militant precision. 

Phil stretched and yawned, wings reaching for the sky, before draping his green robe over his shoulders. He stepped down from the loft, only to find Blade standing at attention by the door. "Oh. Morning, mate. How'd you sleep?" 

"I'm well rested, sir." Blade looked straight ahead, red eyes trained on some distant spot Phil wasn't privy to. 

"Good, that's good. Uh, how long have you been there?" 

"I woke up at dawn and took my post immediately, sir." And indeed he had, he was still in the sleep clothes Phil had given to him. 

Phil bit his lip. "Right. Uh, there's no need for that, son. I'm sure the guards on the other side of the door are doing their job just fine." He smiled kindly. "What do you say we find some day clothes for you and then go have breakfast? My wife and sons will be home in a few hours."

Blade blinked, and something like confusion passed on his face. It disappeared as soon as Phil recognized it. "Yes sir."

Chapter Text

His first night was nothing like what Techno expected. The king had been confused, even concerned, and Techno supposed that was fair enough. He'd shown up unannounced during a particularly rough storm. But Techno thought that the letter would please the king. Instead he'd only frowned and brought him to his personal rooms. 

He thought he'd be sent to the barracks at some point, after he answered the king's questions, or perhaps sent directly to the battlefront. He was perfectly equipped after all. Techno was ready to be deployed immediately, at the king's disposal. 

Techno was not sent to the barracks or to the war. He was given clean, dry clothes and food and a cot with a warm blanket by the king's side. That had confused Techno terribly at first. Surely the king would want him where he could be useful. 

But of course the king would want his new weapon to be at his side. King Philza was known to be a little eccentric, it was rumored that he built his castle himself with his own two hands centuries ago. The last of the Elytrians, Philza Craft had been king for nearly five hundred years, and in that time the kingdom of H'Ardcorre had prospered generously. He was a good and powerful king, deserving of a sacred weapon such as Techno the Blade.

So he prayed after he ate, letting blood seep from his arms into a scrap of cloth before tossing it into the fire, and went to bed in the cot. The blanket was warm and soft and the pillow was full of downy feathers, and Techno accidentally slept in. He meant to rise an hour before dawn but the soft orange light had taken the horizon when he woke up. He jumped to his feet and made his bed with a quickness. He didn't even have the chance to change back into his still-wet uniform, scurrying down to stand at attention at the door and await further orders from the king. 

King Philza woke up hours later. He seemed startled that Techno was by the door. Internally, Techno scolded himself. Of course, the door was too far away and already protected by guards, the king probably wanted the Blade to be near him instead. Thankfully the king didn't think this oversight was bad enough to warrant a punishment. He smiled and spoke of properly fitting clothes and food. 

So Techno dutifully followed his Majesty to a room just down the hall. "It looks like Wil's clothes fit you well enough, so we can pull some stuff from his wardrobe for now until I can get a tailor here. Is there anything in particular you'd like? We've got silks and satin and wool. Tommy hates the stuff but Wil's really fond of woolen sweaters." 

The room was large, with clean marble floors and a large fountain made of strange turquoise stones. It was a beautiful room, the morning sun streamed through the stained glass windows, painting the floor and walls in warm, colorful light. Phil flicked a lever on the wall and water erupted from the faucet in the middle of the fountain. He flicked a few more levers and sweet smelling liquid poured from other pipes into the water. 

Techno instinctively took a step back. A large collection of water in a basin only meant one thing. Perhaps the king was just too kind to express his anger at Techno's failures, or maybe he viewed punishment as a clinical thing and was removed from it entirely emotionally.

"Alright, mate. I'm gonna go and call for the tailor and have someone find some clothes for you. If you need anything, just shout." King Philza smiled and patted Techno's shoulder, then left. 

That was odd. Did the king expect Techno to punish himself? Water based punishments always required multiple people, two to hold him down and one to pour the water over his face. How was he meant to punish himself with the water? And what was the point of the fragrant liquids? 

Maybe the king would send in guards to punish him. He should prepare himself for it then. He turned off the water and knelt at the steps of the fountain. He waited for someone to come in, to shove him into the water and half-drown him for his failure. 

He waited. And continued to wait. 

Techno knelt on the hard stone and remained patient. The king might have been testing Techno. He would be well within his right to do so. 

After what felt like hours, there was a knock at the door. "Are you okay in there, mate?" came the king's voice, full of worry. Techno didn't dare move. The door opened after he didn't respond. 

"What are you doing? Did you even take your bath yet?" King Philza asked, as if he didn't know. So they called it a bath in the castle. It must have sounded better to have names for the different punishments. 

"I haven't taken my bath, sir. I was waiting for the guards to assist me," Techno explained. He left the fact that he couldn't do the job by himself unsaid, so as to not bring attention to his continued failure. 

The king's eyes softened. "Do you need help? I've bathed my boys plenty of times, I can get the hard to reach areas," he explained. 

Techno was confused about hard to reach areas but he answered the question anyway. "I do need help for a bath, Your Majesty." 

"Alright then. Go ahead and strip and get in, I'll turn my back." And the king did so, leaving Techno even more confused. He scrambled to remove his sleep gown but did the king mean to remove his pants as well? He might as well, if he was going to be fully submerged in the water. This would be more intense than the water punishments in the barracks then. As it should be, this was far too important for him to be given a light punishment. He was the king's weapon now, he couldn't afford any mistakes anymore. 

The cold water sent chills up Techno's spine but he didn't react beyond a sharp inhale. He swallowed and stepped down to the level so he was standing with the water waist high. "I'm in the water, sir." 

King Philza turned back around and his face dropped like a stone. "Oh. What happened?" 

Techno frowned in confusion. "What do you mean, sir?" 

"Your chest, your arms… what did all that to you?" The king sat on the edge of the pool, careful that the water didn't touch his feathers or day clothes, and gestured for Techno to come closer. He did so, having to step up to get within arms' reach. The king immediately looked away, putting his hand up. "Ah! You can, uh, sit on the steps, if you want. No offense, mate, but I don't really want a faceful of your privates." 

The king's customs were extremely strange. Techno never knew anyone to be bothered by nudity. It wasn't uncommon for his peers to wash each other, and in the open area of the barracks there was nowhere to hide. 

But Techno was not going to make the king uncomfortable. So he sat on the submerged step, and the water was once again at his waist. 

King Philza carefully looked at Techno's chest, the scars that marred his skin. All his punishments were in places that he could easily cover up, he couldn't present himself as a broken sword. "What in the world happened to you?" 

"Many of these were unavoidable, Your Majesty. As a child, I had much to learn," Techno explained. He was a little ashamed that he had so many marks; the more marks one had, the more mistakes one had made. "However I did learn well and I haven't repeated any of my mistakes." 

"You- mistakes?" The king's frown only confused Techno further. 

"I'm sorry sir. I've been trained to be the best, but it was a long road. I'm completely capable of anything you ask of me now, sir." 

King Philza's frown deepened. "Blade, turn around for me please?" 

Techno did so without thinking. He heard the king hiss as if in pain and quickly glanced over his shoulder. "Sir?" 

"Oh Blade! Your back! It looks like someone used you as a cutting board! Who did this to you?" The king's blue eyes met Techno's red and the worry and a flash of anger struck him in the chest. 

"My superiors, sir. I had to be punished." Techno heard the tone in his voice and internally cringed. 

"Punished? For what? You're fifteen!" The king sounded outraged. Techno flinched and tried to hide it as a shrug. 

"I had much to learn," he said simply, forcing his voice to be flat. 

"You're a child! Who does this to children?" Before Techno could answer, the king stood up. "Stay here, I'm gonna get some stuff to help. Some of these are still bleeding…" 

Techno grimaced slightly but nodded and remained where he was. He waited patiently, and when the king returned with arms full of potions and medical gauze he looked up at him. "Shit, okay. Uh, we've got healing and regen, and I grabbed this stuff just in case. Uh, I'm gonna drain the tub and put more hot water in it, because this is gonna burn no matter what but I'd rather you not freeze to death in the bath."

He pressed a button, and the water flowed down into a grate, and then he flipped the levers again and more water poured into the pool. Only one of the fragrant liquids was turned on as well, the purple one that left a soft, foamy film on top of the water and smelled of flowers. "That'll help soothe your wounds," King Philza said gently. "Stay with your back to me, okay? I'm putting some healing potion on the open cuts. It'll sting." 

It did sting, but Techno only breathed in deeply. He thought of the barracks, of the others tending to one another's wounds after getting injured in training or when someone was lashed. No one had been allowed to use potions to heal. It was a strange sensation, cold at first and then warm. The king murmured soft encouragements as he healed Techno's back. 

He cupped some water in his hand and carefully drizzled it over Techno's back and shoulders. "That should feel a lot better now. Here, use this to wash, okay?" The king handed Techno a rag, it was soft and thick. Techno thanked him quietly and cleaned himself with it. 

King Philza helped Techno wash his hair, which was not expected at all. He felt the king remove his hair from its bun and it fell along his back. It was long enough that the ends fell into the water. With sweet smelling soaps and a cup, the king cleaned Techno's hair for him. 

It was oddly intimate and absolutely terrifying. Techno felt something heavy and huge well up in his chest. Hurriedly he forced it down with a deep breath. 

Clearly, the king was inspecting him. That was the obvious answer, because why else would Philza Craft be spending his morning washing his weapon's hair when he had far better things to do? 

Even so, Techno couldn't stop himself from tilting his head back as the king ran his fingers through his hair. He told himself it was the weight of the water pulling his hair down. 

Finally the king decided that Techno was clean enough and let him out of the pool. He handed him a towel to dry off with. "Sir?" Techno dared. He shouldn't bring it up, if the king forgot about the punishment then Techno should be glad that he got away with his mistakes. But he could never leave well enough alone, as evident by the marks all over his body. "What about the bath?" 

"What do you mean? You just had a bath," King Philza said. 

Techno's brow furrowed in confusion. "That was the bath?" 

Something akin to pity softened the king's face. "Have you never had a bath before?" He shook his head. "No, don't… don't answer that. Of course the kind of people that would whip a child wouldn't let him bathe." He took a deep breath, as if to calm himself, and then motioned for Techno. "We found some clothes for you to wear, the tailor will be here tomorrow to fit you with your own clothes. The folks in the laundry room are cleaning your clothes from last night too." 

He presented Techno with the garments. Techno accepted them graciously, bowing deeply. 

The king left him to dress himself. The clothes were very nice, a soft woolen red tunic with long puffy sleeves and veneer brown leggings. The colors were rich and vibrant, and the cut fit Techno well. The leggings were a bit short, stopping at the middle of his calves, but that was fine. He preferred for his hooves to be free of clothing. 

He braided his still wet hair and exited the room. King Philza was waiting with a patient smile. 

Breakfast was uneventful. Techno thought it was strange that he was allowed to sit at the table, let alone by the king's side, but many things the king had done up until now were odd. Techno only stayed quiet and did as he was told, although that wasn't quite right. 

King Philza didn't really tell Techno what to do. Everything he said was asked as if it was a suggestion. Not that Techno could refuse any of the king's orders, but the illusion of freedom was nice even if it wasn't true. 

A servant entered the dining room. "Your Majesty, the queen's carriage is approaching the gate," he said. The king's face lit up. 

"Pog! Thank you." He smiled at Techno. "Don't worry about cleaning up, mate. I've got some very important people to introduce you to." 

Techno followed the king to the front door of the castle. He noticed how his feathers quivered eagerly, how there was an extra bounce in his Majesty's step. The king didn't even wait for the doorman to open the doors and did it himself, and with a child-like eagerness he rushed down the steps to meet the carriage. 

A little boy with golden curls, no older than seven, jumped out of the carriage and ran to the king. He was picked up and squealed as King Philza spun him around above his head, flapping wings as blond as his hair in the sunlight. "Dadza, Dadza!" 

"Did you enjoy your first time at the ocean, Toms?" the king asked, grinning. 

"Yeah! We got she-shells and Wilbur got bit by a crab!" The young prince giggled brightly. 

"I was pinched, not bit," corrected another boy. He was older, about Techno's age, with dark curls over one eye and glasses and brown feathered wings. He wore a thin gold circlet crown in his hair. The crown prince Wilbur, then. He looked up and made eye contact with Techno. 

The queen stepped out of the carriage and Techno saw why King Philza was so excited to see her. She was beautiful, black hair cascading down her back under her wide brimmed black hat. Her gown was black and purple and glittered in the sun. The king beamed and sat his youngest on his hip, reaching for his wife's hand. He kissed her on the cheek. 

The sight was a perfect picture of love, of domestic bliss. The kind of peace that Techno was told his service would one day bring to all of H'Ardcorre. That ugly, heavy bubble grew in his chest again. He pushed it down with all his might. 

"Dad? Who's that?" 

The youngest pointed up the stairs at where Techno stood, stock still so he didn't intrude on the reunion. The elder prince frowned and crossed his arms. The queen also looked up, then met her husband's eyes. 

"Ah, well. This might take a bit of explaining. Shall we?" The king gestured to the door, and the family climbed up the stairs. He set his son down so the boy could run up by himself, using his tiny wings to try and jump up two steps at a time. They clearly weren't large enough to take his weight for longer than a few seconds. 

The elder prince Wilbur held Techno's gaze as he ascended the stairs, until the Blade turned his eyes down and he knelt before them all as they reached the top. 

"Ah, mate, you don't have to do that," King Philza said gently. 

The young boy immediately jumped on Techno's back. "A new servant, Dadza? He's only Wilby's age!" 

The king grimaced. "Tommy, buddy, get off. He's not a tree for you to climb." Prince Tommy obeyed with a groan and ran to his mother, clinging to her skirt. 

"You can stand, you know," the queen said. Her voice was soft and had a strange, almost dreamlike lilt to it. Techno stood, bowing again briefly. 

"Blade, this is my family. Everyone, this is Blade," the king introduced. 

"Blade? That's such a cool name!" Prince Tommy giggled from behind the queen's dress. He peered at Techno with big sky blue eyes. 

Prince Wilbur considered Techno carefully. "What's he doing here?" 

Techno glanced at King Philza. The king coughed into his fist. "Well. I have to discuss it with your mother but I thought he'd stay with us for a while. He needs… a good family." 

"Really, Phil? Adopting a child without me?" the queen teased. The king smiled sheepishly. 

"I can explain better later," he promised. 

Prince Tommy was delighted. "Alright! We're gonna prank Wilbur so hard, Blade!" He ran up to Techno and grabbed onto his arm, jumping around eagerly. 

Techno looked to King Philza. He smiled but it didn't ease the terrifying bubble in the boy's chest. He ignored it. He could do this, it was his sacred duty after all.

Chapter Text

Days went by, and Phil didn't know any more about the boy who called himself the Blade than he did that first night. He decided to make the boy comfortable, at least, while he attempted to get him to open up. Kristin assured him that it would happen, it would just be a long process full of trial and error. He had to break years of brainwashing first, and for that he had to have patience. 

Luckily patience was something that Phil had in abundance. A little trick one learned when their lifespan was several thousand years long. 

Patience was something that neither of his sons had learned yet, Tommy especially. He was only seven, he still had the entire world ahead of him, but a week felt like years to him. Wilbur had a bit more of it, he knew that Blade wasn't exactly like other boys and he knew that helping him learn was going to take a while. But Blade's demeanor annoyed Wilbur- to be fair, Wilbur was at the age where everything annoyed him. He wasn't a fledgling anymore, and he wanted the world to stop treating him like he was. 

Phil had the old nursery turned into a room fit for a teenage boy. It was close enough to the master suite to keep Blade content while also easing him into a sense of privacy. 

The boy rarely left Phil's side, unless otherwise ordered or asked to be with someone else. Tommy took great delight in ordering Blade around to help him in his silly little escapades, and Blade seemed almost completely incapable of telling anyone no. 

That… was a problem. One to be solved later, unfortunately. 

Phil had far less time to spend on Blade or his family than he would've liked. The war had taken a turn, the recent storms and flooding had affected routes that the resource caravans typically used, hindering the armies on the eastern front as they waited for supplies. Weapons came too late to abandoned camps and rations arrived rotten and inedible. He wanted to negotiate a ceasefire, at the very least, and had reached out to the newly crowned King Eret for a meeting. He offered to arrange for transportation to his castle, to attempt some diplomatic end to this before more people died. The flooding also made correspondence slow, so Phil could only wait for King Eret's response. 

Phil and Kristin did their best to include Blade in all their family activities. They took him to the gardens often, where Phil tended to the roses to decompress. They were Phil's favorite part of the castle, a collection of courtyards in the center of the building filled with trees and flowers and other plants from all over the realms that he'd traveled to in his time. 

Blade also seemed to like the gardens. He was the most relaxed there, his rigid posture would soften and his eyes wandered. Phil was glad, if the gardens helped Blade then he wanted the boy to spend as much time there as possible. 

Unfortunately, when Phil sent Blade away for some alone time- because if he didn't, Blade would stand silently and stock still for hours beside Phil while he worked- he knew he'd go to the training yard instead. He sometimes watched from the window as the boy practiced the same motions for hours at a time. Blade's skill was impressive, rivaling even Phil's most veteran and disciplined soldiers. Generals Nook and Thompson would probably be ecstatic if Phil sent them a soldier with so much use in battle. But Phil wasn't about to send a child to fight in a war, regardless of his talents with a sword.

As the days turned into weeks, Phil found himself buried in paperwork and meetings. He had his usual business to take care of on top of the war effort. New trading routes had to be established and negotiated in the wake of the fighting and the floods, crops had been washed away, people were left without homes. And while Phil dealt with the needs of the living, Kristin was busied with the realm of the dead. Her reapers were working overtime, between the war and the storms there was a large influx of souls to collect. 

Wilbur sometimes helped. As the next in line for the throne- if Phil ever retired, Kristin joked- his eldest son had to know how to run the kingdom he'd inherit. So Phil had Wilbur practice responding to letters and sit in during some of the meetings with his advisors. If Wilbur had an idea, Phil would listen to it and encourage him to share. 

"Dad? This letter is from King Eret," Wilbur said one day while he helped Phil sort through his mail. He handed it to him. It was a red envelope, thick stationary with a gold wax seal and the crest of the Essempi stamped on it. Phil popped the seal off and read the letter inside

King Philza,

Thank you for your kind words. I'm willing to send my financial advisor Sir Quackity of Las Nevadas as an ambassador to meet with you and arrange the terms of a ceasefire. If all goes well and you're also willing, I may find interest in a treaty. I don't want to continue this conflict any longer than absolutely necessary. 

With kind regards,

King Eret of the Kingdom of Essempi

Phil grinned. "Oh, that's amazing news. That's fantastic news." He looked at Wilbur. "With any luck, this ridiculous war will be over by the end of the year, Wil. Eret's sending an ambassador over." 

Wilbur smiled. "Really? Will that mean we'll have more time with you and Mum?" 

Phil's grin faded a little. He knew he'd been busier than usual, between the war and the floods, but he'd forgotten about how his sons were affected. They probably missed him, which was most likely why Wilbur didn't complain when Phil had him help with work. 

"Yeah, son. Actually, how about we find Tommy and Blade and your mum, and we take the afternoon off? Celebrate a little bit?" 

Wilbur wrinkled his nose at the mention of Blade, but his face brightened when Phil suggested spending the afternoon together. "Do we have to have Blade with us? He's so creepy, he just stands there like a statue." 

"We do. He needs to know that he's part of our family," Phil said. He stood up and stretched, groaning softly as his back popped. 

"Is he, though? I mean, you say he is, but he's just some kid that follows you around," Wilbur pointed out. "And he's weird. He talks weird and he acts weird. He doesn't do anything but stand around or train all day."

"Wilbur, we've been over this. Blade is healing from a bad experience. He's gonna be a little odd sometimes." Phil led Wilbur to the door. 

"What happened to him? I can handle it, you don't have to sugarcoat it, Dad. I'm practically an adult." 

Phil chuckled softly. "You're thirteen, son, you've got years left to keep growing. And if I knew, I'd tell you. All I know for sure is that he's from a place that abused him. He won't talk about it." 

Wilbur hummed in thought. "Maybe you're just asking the wrong questions," he said.

That certainly gave Phil some food for thought as he and Wilbur went to the training yard to retrieve Blade. Tommy was there too, watching Blade on the sidelines with stars in his eyes. "He's so cool, Dadza! I bet he could take on a whole army all by himself!" 

Phil laughed and picked Tommy up. He was probably getting to be a bit too big to be carried around but Phil didn't really care. It was instinct to keep his fledglings close. He looked out and watched Blade decapitate one of the dummies with an effortless twirl of his sword. "Blade?" he called.

Instantly the boy stopped what he was doing and dropped to the ground on one knee. He didn't speak or look up, waiting patiently for someone to tell him what to do. Phil's smile waned but he kept it in his voice. "We're going to the gardens for the afternoon, just the family. You're welcome to join us if you want." 

Blade stayed on the ground for a moment, as if thinking, and then stood. "Yes sir. I'll return my weapon to the armory." 

Wilbur huffed under his breath after Blade was out of sight. Phil hushed him gently. 

After gathering the boys and Kristin, Phil was glad to see the gardens. He trimmed the rose bushes, giving a blossom to Kristin and delicately placing it in her hair. "Red suits you," he whispered. Kristin giggled and kissed him briefly. 

Tommy groaned loudly. "Oh gross! Go do that somewhere that me and Blade can't see! Look at him! You turned him into a statue!"

Phil and Kristin both laughed. There was a soft noise that drew Phil's attention away. Blade stood nearby, hands folded behind his back, and the smallest of smiles traced his mouth. It might not have even been noticeable if he didn't spend so much time with Blade, if he didn't know how utterly stone-faced he was most of the time. 

This was the first time he'd seen Blade smile, Phil realized as his heart soared. Even if it was barely a smile. Phil would gladly take it. 

"Mate, you can sit if you want," Phil invited. "You don't have to stand there the whole time." 

Blade blinked and the tiny smile disappeared. "Yes sir." He sat on his knees in the grass. He watched Tommy play in the flowerbeds, his silver circlet left forgotten in the grass beside Phil and Kristin. 

Blade's eyes drifted to a bush of black-faced pansies. Something soft and sad flickered on his face, but it was gone within seconds. Phil didn't hesitate to pick a few of the flowers and weave them into a crown of sorts. He handed it to Blade. "Here you go, mate. Can't be the only one here without a crown."

With trembling hands, Blade took the flower crown and stared at Phil in bewilderment. He swallowed. "Thank you sir." He put it on his head, careful as if he'd be burned by the petals. 

Phil beamed at him. For the first time, Blade looked like he felt as young as he was. 

—

When Sir Quackity arrived two weeks after King Eret's letter, Phil ensured that he would be welcomed as warmly as if he were an old friend. He wanted to make a good impression, to show how dedicated he was to ending this war on good terms. 

The ambassador was meant to stay for four days to negotiate terms of a ceasefire. Phil didn't see a problem with this, four days would be more than sufficient. At least, it wouldn't have been a problem if Sir Quackity wasn't absolutely insufferable. 

He walked into Phil's throne room before the doorman could officially introduce him, wearing the most garish outfit of navy blue and gold and a hat with a feather in it. He bowed with a flourish. "Your Majesty! Thank you for having me!" 

"He looks stupid," Tommy said, not quietly at all, from behind the curtain where he and Wilbur were hiding. Phil tried to hide his grin as Wilbur hissed at Tommy to be quiet. "What? He does! He looks like a peacock with that stupid feather!" Quackity's smug smirk turned into a pinched mouth. 

Phil stood and met Quackity on the floor, holding out his hand. He was almost a head shorter, the feathered hat must have been to make him look taller. "A pleasure to meet you. I'm sorry if you heard what my son said, he's still young and doesn't know how to keep his thoughts to himself yet." He saw Blade follow him, standing with his hands behind his back just within Phil's periphery. 

Quackity looked at the hand that Phil had outstretched. He carefully took it and shook lightly. "Of course, your Majesty. Children can have some very… interesting opinions." 

"I find my sons' thoughts to be very insightful," Phil said, fighting the urge to scowl. Quackity's eyes darted to Blade at his right. 

"I see. I can't wait to meet your children," he said insincerely. "Will your, ah, pet here be present during negotiations?" 

Phil almost didn't catch how Blade stood just a bit taller and his jaw clenched. He was ignoring the spark of anger in his own chest. "If you're talking about Blade, no he won't be. My eldest son Wilbur is invited to watch, however. As the next in line, it's in his best interest to see how this sort of thing plays out." 

He heard Wilbur make a disgusted noise from the curtain. "You gotta be kidding me…" Privately, Phil found himself agreeing. 

Sir Quackity proved himself to be as pompous and opinionated as that first meeting. Phil had thought that the ceasefire would be simple, but Quackity's demands were egregious. He proposed sanctions, forced quartering for the Essempi troops, and control of the eastern border. Phil pushed back as much as he felt he could without losing the ceasefire entirely. His own demands were simple; allow the supply caravans to bring resources to his army on the eastern border. 

"He thinks we're stupid," Wilbur grumbled after the third meeting on the second day. "He thinks if he keeps giving us all these stupid demands, we'll just declare war all over again and then they can keep fighting us." 

Phil sighed. "I know Wil. We can't let him push us into another fight, but I won't let him step all over us either." 

Blade and Tommy had to sit these meetings out. They both lingered outside of the room in the hallway. Tommy brought his toys, bored of sitting around waiting. Once Quackity tripped on Tommy's blocks as they exited the meeting room. "Ow, damnit! Who left these here?" 

"That was my tower of power!" Tommy lamented. "How will the citizens of Pogtopia know who the coolest king is now?" 

Quackity scoffed. "Right, of course. Must you play right here in the hall, your highness? There's an entire castle for you to cause havoc in." 

"Tommy, you do know you don't have to wait out here for us," Phil said gently. He didn't like how Quackity spoke to his son but he did agree that Tommy had left a minefield of toys in the hall.

Instantly, Blade dropped to one knee. "I'm sorry, sir. His Highness was bored watching me train so I helped him bring his things here to entertain him. This is my fault." 

Phil blinked. "Uh. It's okay, mate. Tommy, you need to pick up your toys. Blade, will you help him?" 

Tommy whined a little but did as he was asked. Blade gathered as many of Tommy's toys as he could carry in his arms, leaving only a small group of stuffed animals for the younger. 

Phil glanced at Quackity as they scrambled away. "He's just a boy. He gets bored and Blade isn't good at telling him no." 

Quackity hummed. "Of course, your Majesty." Phil didn't like the sarcasm in his voice. 

Finally, after three days of arguing and Phil putting his foot down, they came to an agreement. As a final send off to Sir Quackity- and to privately celebrate him finally leaving- the night before he left Phil had a small dinner party. He invited Quackity and his page, a boy named Charlie that they'd only seen glimpses of, to supper with his family. 

"Can we catch fireflies in the garden after dinner, Dadza?" Tommy asked as Phil preened his little wings. He carefully draped thin silver chains over his feathers, clipping the ends to his clothes. 

"Of course, Toms. As long as you behave, okay?" Phil kissed his golden curls and placed a silver crown on the boy's head. 

"Feather promise me!" Tommy insisted. Phil chuckled and plucked one of his own feathers from his wing. 

"To keep my promises from flying away," he murmured softly, handing it to Tommy. 

There was a soft cough at the door. "Your Majesty, dinner is ready," a servant said. 

"Right. C'mon, mate. Let's go send Sir Quacks-a-lot off." Phil picked Tommy up and carried him on his hip to the dining room. Kristin met them on the way there and held Phil's hand. 

Once they arrived, everyone sat. Blade was right across from Quackity, and he continued to eye every one of the ambassador's movements. If Quackity noticed, he didn't bring it up. 

Conversation was very one-sided. Quackity rudely talked about everything under the sun, laughing at his own jokes and making his poor page laugh too. He frowned when Tommy, trying to catapult peas via his spoon at Wilbur, accidentally hit Quackity in the eye instead. 

Phil bit his lip to keep himself from laughing. Kristin looked at Tommy, not unkind but with that sternness that Phil could never seem to muster towards his sons. "Tommy. Best behavior, remember?" 

Tommy pouted and slumped back in his chair, playing with Phil's feather. 

Dinner went on. It was almost over, the servants took away the last of the dishes and poor Tommy looked like he was about to explode with energy. Wilbur just looked bored, reading a book under the table in his lap. 

Quackity stood as Phil and Kristin did, and strangely Blade stood abruptly as well. He stared Quackity down with red glinting eyes, to which the ambassador raised a brow. "Put it on the table," Blade demanded, voice dark. 

"What are you talking about, boy?" Quackity scoffed. He reached over to shake Phil's hand. 

The next moments were a blur. In an instant, Blade launched himself, jumping across the table in a flurry of red and tackled Quackity to the ground. There was a very brief struggle, and then a horrible crack as Blade tried to take something. Quackity screamed. The boys and page were shouting.

"Blade, no! Stop!" Phil bellowed, desperate to be heard over the commotion.

Blade did stop, as soon as the words were out of Phil's mouth. He got off of Sir Quackity, who was sobbing profanities on the ground cradling a broken arm, and knelt before Phil. He wordlessly presented him what he'd wrenched out of Quackity's hands. 

A silver knife from the table.

Chapter Text

"You son of a bitch, it was just some silver!" Sir Quackity screeched. He rolled on the floor, holding his broken arm to his chest and shouting curses. The page boy was desperately trying to help him stand, but Quackity kept batting him away. "Stop touching me!" 

"Oh my gods! Blade, what did you just do?" Prince Wilbur cried out, feathers puffing out in terror and shock. He held his book to his chest and scrambled out of his chair.

"That was so cool!" Prince Tommy laughed. He stood on the table to get a better look. 

"Tommy, get away from him!" Wilbur grabbed his little brother and pulled him away. 

Techno ignored them all. He only cared about the king's safety at the moment. Sir Quackity was no longer a threat, but King Philza didn't seem very pleased with Techno. 

A few guards came and escorted Quackity away. The queen told them to take him to the infirmary to get his arm set. The entire time, Sir Quackity whined and moaned and cursed. 

"You can rip up that truce, Philza Craft! King Eret will hear about this!" 

Techno stayed kneeling, even during all the chaos. He waited for further orders. But none came. Instead, Queen Kristin ushered the princes away, and King Philza followed the guards that were escorting a still-screaming Sir Quackity away. 

That was fine. Techno was patient. 

Unfortunately the sudden silence gave Techno room to think. The king had been upset. He'd shouted at Techno, for the very first time since he'd arrived. He didn't look angry but that didn't mean anything. 

Maybe King Philza already knew about the knife. He must have, because he didn't look surprised when Techno presented it to him. If he knew but didn't say anything, then he must have been preparing to confront Sir Quackity himself. The king could fight, Techno had heard the stories of how fearless and skilled he was in his youth. He must have been planning to let Sir Quackity attempt to attack him, to out his betrayal. 

Which meant that Techno had undermined his authority. 

Dread filled Techno's chest. The king wouldn't stand for that. He was a kind and good king, he tolerated Techno's minor mistakes and trusted him with his sons. He'd given Techno his own room, a private quarters attached to the royal suite, and clothes fit for royalty, hewn with gold and silver and lapis and emerald. And Techno had repaid that kindness with this display of insubordination.

He deserved whatever punishment King Philza decided was worth this horrible overreach. He waited for the guards to come for him next, to lock him up underground. He'd been told as a child that the castle had a dungeon, same as the church, and that the king would hold all his imperfect servants there. 

Techno waited and waited. The servants cleaned up the mess that had been left by the scuffle. "Sir? What are you still doing here?" one servant asked as she carried the plates away.

"I'm waiting to be retrieved," Techno answered simply. 

"Ah. Would you be more comfortable in a chair, sir?" 

Techno frowned a little. Perhaps the servants were just used to calling everyone formally like he was, but he didn't think he should be called sir. He was the Blade, a thing to be used. Although at this point he was beginning to feel more like a trophy hung on a wall, a centerpiece for conversation rather than a functional weapon. He trained every day so his edges stayed sharp, but it brought him little comfort. Did King Philza just think that Techno was incapable despite his many reassurances? Was that why he didn't tell Techno that he knew Sir Quackity had a knife?

"No, thank you miss. I'm fine here," he finally answered. The servant nodded and bowed, leaving him alone once again. 

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Techno reminded himself to be patient. The guards would come, eventually. Maybe this was part of the punishment. 

What if it wasn't, though? What if he was meant to find the dungeons himself? In the barracks, one was expected to walk to the lashing rack by themself to await punishment. Was that why no one had come? Were they waiting for him? Would his punishment be more severe if he stayed? 

The door opened and Techno took a deep breath to brace himself. He was ready for the rough hands, he wouldn't even struggle. 

"There you are! I've been worried sick! I thought you went with Kristin and the boys," the king said. He didn't sound too upset, more relieved than anything. 

Techno swallowed thickly. He needed to explain himself. But he couldn't speak out of turn, and he hadn't been asked why he stayed here in the dining hall. He pushed down the heavy, ugly feeling in his chest that kept trying to come up. 

He felt a hand on his back and flinched despite his best efforts. His muscles locked up and he expected the pain any second now. It never came. 

"C'mon, mate. You're not… you're not in trouble. Come on, stand up." The king's voice was soft and careful, his hand a steady weight on Techno's back, right between his shoulder blades. 

Techno could not disobey an order. He was told to stand, so he did. Even though his legs felt like they were made of lead, his knees full of sand, his spine made of brittle splintering wood. He ignored it all. He would pray away the symptoms of his weakness later(King Philza did not worship the Blood God, and there was no altar where Techno could present his bloody rags to be burned, so he often settled for lighting them on fire with the candles in his room).

King Philza didn't move his hand from Techno's back. "Do you need to sit first? You're a little shaky," he asked. Techno held his gaze down and forced himself to push past the feeling. If he didn't think about it, it would go away on its own. 

"No, sir. I'm fine," he said with as much confidence as he could find. He focused on keeping his breaths even, despite the fact that he felt like something was growing in his lungs, choking every bit of air out of his system. He couldn't be weak in front of the king. 

"Uh huh. Here, come sit. You look like you're about to pass out." The king led Techno to a chair at the table. "I'll have someone get you some tea, bring the color back to your face." 

Techno almost argued. Almost, if it wasn't ingrained in him to take orders first and never ask questions. So he sat, because he was told to. 

It was easier to be told to do things. He didn't know what to do with himself when the king dismissed him with no explicit goal or task. He trained, because that was all he could do when King Philza told him to go outside and enjoy the sunshine, but he was never instructed to do so. He took the suggestions that he was given as orders, because what else could he do? The only people who explicitly demanded anything of him were the princes. 

A servant brought him tea, and King Philza sent them off with a message to the queen that Techno was found and safe. The tea was good, the king liked to have a variety of them on hand. They helped him think, he had said. 

"Quackity isn't going to sign the truce," the king sighed. "I can't say I'm surprised." 

Techno hid his grimace by sipping his tea. "I'm sorry, sir." 

"Eh, don't be. I get the feeling he was gonna try and come up with a reason at the last minute to weasel out of it. I'm sending a letter to King Eret in the morning to explain the situation, and to tell him to find a better financial advisor." King Philza sipped his own tea and sighed. "Good eye, by the way, but I wouldn't have broken his arm over some stolen silver. I was gonna let him take it and then bill him for it later." 

"He was going to attack you," Techno said, unprompted. He bit his lip immediately and looked down at his lap. "I'm sorry, sir, I spoke out of turn." 

King Philza frowned and leaned forward. "No you didn't. This is a conversation, mate, it goes both ways." He reached across the table and put his hand over Techno's. "You can speak your mind around me, okay? Always. I wanna hear what you have to say." 

Techno swallowed and nodded. He was free to speak? That didn't make sense, weapons didn't need to have opinions. Weapons did their sacred duty and they did it silently, without complaint. 

"And second, he wasn't gonna attack me. He was just stealing my silver so he could pawn it off later. He returned a bunch of little things he stole, actually. Some cups and silver plates and utensils. He even tried to steal a hair brush and a handheld mirror. I guess that's why he had so much luggage." The king chuckled. "He went on about how we aren't worthy of him keeping any souvenirs. Between you and me, mate, I don't think Quackity has the spine to try and attack me. If anything, he would've ordered his page to do it for him." 

That Techno agreed with. Sir Quackity was a coward, through and through. People that arrogant were rarely genuinely capable of anything other than self preservation. It made Techno feel a little foolish for thinking that he would attack the king. 

He looked at the teacup in his hands. It was porcelain, delicately painted with flowers and gold leaf. It could probably fetch a good price from the right buyer. Techno sipped the tea inside. 

The king said he could speak. Did that extend to asking questions? There was only one way to find out. "Sir?" Techno started tentatively, fully prepared to be slapped for his mistake. "If I may ask… um, that is… where are the dungeons in the castle?" 

King Philza paused in the middle of drinking his tea. He looked Techno in the eye. "Blade, there aren't any dungeons. The guard barracks have a brig for emergencies, but I don't wanna keep dangerous criminals in my castle."

Techno frowned. If the king didn't have a dungeon, then where did he keep the ones who had failed completely? Where did he put the people who refused to comply, who intentionally didn't follow orders, who were a problem? 

He also hadn't seen anyone be punished, even the servants. Was punishment a private thing here? He assumed so. 

"If this is still about Quackity, he's leaving in the morning, I don't see any reason to lock him up over some trinkets." 

Techno took the exit from the conversation that he was given. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry for assuming, sir." 

The king smiled gently. He was quiet for a long moment. "Were there dungeons where you were? Before you came here, I mean." 

Techno's grip on his teacup tightened. He wasn't supposed to talk about the church. It didn't matter where the weapon was forged from, only its effectiveness in battle. He was also supposed to obey his superiors, and the king was superior to all, except maybe the deacon. That was a blurry line that Techno didn't want to think about. 

"There was one," he admitted. If he didn't give any details, then maybe it would be fine. It was normal for churches to have dungeons and stockades. It was normal to fall asleep to the sounds of crying and screaming echoing from underneath the church. Honestly, Techno had assumed he couldn't hear anyone here because the dungeon was deeper underground.

King Philza hummed softly. "What would… get a person put in there? Hypothetically?" 

Techno's heart raced. He could tell the king about the insubordinates, surely. That wasn't specific to the church itself. "Disobedience. Failure. Blasphemy." 

"I see." The king didn't sound pleased by that. Techno was afraid to look up. He didn't want to see the disappointment in his face. "Were… you ever down there?" 

"I have been in the dungeon once. I was being punished for…" Techno trailed off. He remembered the incident, the sting of the whip across his chest as he stood in front of the one who was supposed to be receiving lashes, how he'd refused to move and so he'd been strung up on the rack and whipped as well, holding hands with his friend through the pain. He was dragged to the dungeon afterwards and chained up for a week, only eating gruel and being used as a practice dummy for the older children. The deacon himself had come down, dirtied his robes on the unholy and bloody floor, and set Techno straight. "My child, your sacrifice was not unheard, but you mustn't throw yourself at the feet of the inferior. Your duty is to the Blood God, and the king. You must remember that." He'd been ten. 

"My disobedience was corrected," Techno said, brought back to the present by the clattering of a teacup touching its plate. 

"Alright. Here, dungeons are for criminals. They're meant to keep dangerous people away from everyone else. They're not for punishment," the king explained. 

Techno didn't know what to make of that. "Where do punishments happen, then, sir?" 

King Philza was silent. Techno dared to peek up at him. He was biting his lip, brow furrowed. "I'm not sure I understand you, Blade." 

"I'm sorry, sir. I should have been more clear." Techno bowed his head again. "Where are the punishments performed? There is no lashing rack that I've seen." 

The king looked like he'd eaten something sour. "We don't do that here. No one is ever hurt for honest mistakes, and if they do something wrong on purpose then they're talked to. I don't believe in corporal punishment." 

Techno was stunned. No punishments at all? How did he correct imperfections then? How did the castle run so smoothly, how did the servants respect the king? 

All Techno could do in response was nod and look at his teacup. 

Once the king was pleased with the return of color to Techno's cheeks, he led him back to the family suite. Prince Tommy immediately ran to the door and latched onto Techno's arm, golden feathers flying in every direction. "Blade! Blade, that was amazing! How'd you jump over the table like that? You gotta teach me!" 

"Why is he still here?" Prince Wilbur spat. 

"Wilbur, please," the king sighed, rubbing at his forehead. "Didn't mean to be gone so long. We had a very… insightful chat. One we should've had a while ago." 

Queen Kristin smiled. She gestured to Techno to come to her. He glanced at the king before doing as he was told. 

"Are you alright?" she asked gently, holding his hand. Techno nodded silently. Her touch was so gentle and light. It made his skin crawl. He wanted to shy away. He wanted her to tighten her grip and never let go. 

"I'm sorry, I thought you were following Phil. I didn't think to have you come with me." 

Techno's heart stuttered. The queen, the Goddess of Death, was apologizing to him? No, that couldn't be right. She shouldn't apologize to anyone, she was the queen. 

Prince Tommy kept trying to climb on Techno, pulling on his arm and braid. Prince Wilbur gathered his little brother up. "Get away from him, Tommy. Or else he'll break your arm." 

The queen frowned. "Wilbur, that's quite enough. Blade isn't going to hurt either of you." 

"Yeah, Wil! Blade is cool! And that grumpy bitch deserved it!" Prince Tommy said loudly. 

"Tommy, watch your language," the queen chided.

Prince Wilbur scoffed. Techno felt the heaviness in his chest try to bubble up again. He looked to King Philza for guidance. 

"It was just a misunderstanding, Wil. Blade thought that Quackity was trying to hurt me," the king explained. 

"With a butter knife?" Prince Wilbur rolled his eyes. 

"Hey, hey remember that time I stabbed you with a fork? And you cried about it for a whole day?" Prince Tommy argued. 

Techno bowed his head in shame. How could he have been so naive? Prince Wilbur was right, he had overreacted.

King Philza took a deep breath and stood with his hands on his hips. "Alright. We've had quite an eventful day, and I'm sure we'd all like to put it behind us now. Bedtime, boys!" 

Prince Tommy groaned. He always complained at bedtime, he didn't like going to bed even though the moment he was nestled between his parents, he was snoring. Prince Wilbur grunted and got up to leave. "I'll come say good night, son," the king called after him. The door slammed in response.

Techno was told to go to his room, so he did. It didn't matter that he was offered a spot in the nest with the royal family. He hadn't outrightly refused, but he also didn't deserve to sleep in the same bed as the Crafts. 

He found his rags and knife, knelt by his bedside, and prayed. Blood ran from the thin cuts in his arms onto the rag and he whispered with his head bowed. He asked the Blood God to forgive him for his mistakes, and to not punish the royal family over the incident with the ambassador. He asked for the strength to make fewer mistakes tomorrow. He thanked the Blood God for his victory over Quackity, as tiny and insignificant as it was. 

Techno cleaned up after his prayer and wrapped his arms, then burned the rag. He watched the flame envelop the bloody fabric distantly, and then curled up on his bed over the blankets. 

He'd never felt further from the Blood God, from his purpose, than now. He felt cold inside. Alone.

Chapter Text

Sherman Thompson did not become General by pussy-footing around. He was a man of action, a man of strategy. He joined the army to make a difference, and stayed because his army, his king, his people were more important than whatever worldly ambitions he had. 

The war with the Essempi Empire was entering its third winter. Thompson didn't find this to be concerning, wars could take years, sometimes decades. The concern came when the weather turned, and the worst storm season he'd ever seen in his fifty-three years of life absolutely stalled both armies. Supply caravans were stranded for days by flash flooding, his troops were starving and low on ammunition and morale, and the newly promoted General Nook was so stressed out Thompson could hear his creeper breath hiss through the metal mask he wore. 

King Philza had sent word that the ceasefire he was trying to arrange had failed. He asked Thompson to return to Castle Craft to discuss the army's next moves. So Thompson left Nook in charge of the troops and rode back to meet with the king. 

The castle was the same as it had always been, a tall and beautiful building on a hill overlooking the valley. The banners hung on the gatehouse at the wall bore the royal emblem, the red H'ardcorre Heart surrounded by black wings. It was nice to see the flag clean and cared for, rather than the torn and burnt scraps that fluttered in the breeze on the battlefield. 

Thompson didn't even have to show his sword at the gate for the guards to let him past, they knew him by his graying hair and enormous horse. They nodded in respect as he passed by, and he nodded in return. 

The stable boy took Carl once Thompson dismounted and led the stallion by the reins. "Careful, boy. He knows how to unlock doors," he warned the kid, who looked at the horse nervously. Carl snorted and allowed himself to be led away to the stables

Standing at the top of the stairs was King Phil. Thompson bowed before approaching, and the king grinned. "General! I'm glad you made it. I'm assuming the trip wasn't too bad?" 

"Jus' this awful damn weather," Thompson said. He climbed the stairs and he and Phil hugged like old friends. 

"Come in, come in. You must be tired, it's a long journey," Phil said. He gestured to the door. 

Thompson had been in the army for thirty-five years, had been General for eleven of them, and in that time he'd gotten to know the Elytrian like no other. Philza Craft was uncommonly kind and even though he could absolutely obliterate the Essempi army by himself, he was a pacifist by choice and in his heart, wanting to spare innocent lives as much as he could. Even so, Phil had a chaotic streak the likes of which Thompson had never seen; it was a ridiculous bout of daredevil antics that had left the Goddess of Death Herself so charmed that she'd agreed to marry him. They told the story often, usually ending it with a kiss to make their sons squirm.

Phil was not a predictable man. Thompson learned that the first day he met the king, when Phil had responded to his new guard's practiced salute with ruffling Thompson's then-pink hair. "Welcome, mate! Hope you like it here!" he'd grinned cheerily. 

Reasonably, it wasn't exactly out of character for the king to just take in a random child out of nowhere. 

Young Tommy came running up to Phil and Thompson the moment he spotted them. "Dadza! Dadza!" 

Phil did not hesitate to pick Tommy up. "What's going on, Toms?" he smiled, placing his green and white hat on his son's curly head.

Golden downy feathers floated everywhere. The boy was getting ready to grow his first flight feathers. Thompson remembered when Wilbur shed his baby down, there were flyaway sandy brown feathers in every corner of the castle for months. 

"I'm hiding from Blade!" Tommy giggled in a very loud mock-whisper. 

"Oh really? I didn't know Blade liked hide-and-seek," Phil said. 

"Your Highness? Where did you go, where-? Your Majesty!" 

Around the corner, frantically looking for Tommy, came a teenage boy that Sherman swore had stepped out of his own family portrait. He had the same pink hair, the cloven hooves, his youngest brother's eyebrows and his own jawline. But his eyes, the brightest and most vibrant scarlet, belonged to Thompson's sister-in-law. 

It was like looking in a mirror from the past. It was like looking at his twin brothers again before he left the family potato farm to join the army. It was like looking at his sweetheart little brother and his wife as they announced with unbridled excitement that they were finally with child.

Thompson felt like a knife had been driven between his ribs and twisted. 

The boy dropped to one knee in a deep and respectful kneel, bowing his head and looking at the floor. "Sir, I'm sorry, it's my fault that His Highness ran off. I wasn't paying close enough attention to him and-"

"Blade, Blade. It's okay, mate," Phil said, setting Tommy down. "He's gonna run around, he's seven. There isn't much he can do to get into trouble around here. You don't have to watch him constantly." 

The boy's brow furrowed, as if confused. He bit his lip in thought, then nodded. "Yes sir." 

"Now, c'mon. Stand up." 

He did, approaching the king and standing at perfect attention. His ruby eyes fell on Thompson. Somehow, impossibly, the boy stood even straighter. 

Phil looked between Thompson and the teenager. "Ah. Um. Sherman, this is Blade, our newest resident. Blade, this is General Sherman Thompson." 

Something that might have been joy flickered in Blade's eyes, but his face didn't express it. He looked at Thompson like any soldier would. Hell, he was better behaved than most of the troops, too. Thompson wondered how old Blade was. Fourteen, maybe fifteen? There was still some lingering baby fat on his cheeks. None of Thompson's troops were this young. 

Phil looked down at his son, frowning thoughtfully. "Tommy? Did Blade know you were playing hide-and-seek?" 

"Um." Tommy bit at his sleeve cuff. A nervous habit. "No, not really…" 

"Then you should apologize for scaring him." 

Tommy pouted. He turned to Blade, wings drooping. "Sorry Blade." 

Blade didn't react verbally but there was something in his eyes. Confusion, mostly. His jaw clenched, as if holding his tongue. Phil seemed to be satisfied though. He took his hat back and ruffled Tommy's curls. "Alright then. Go play, mate."

Tommy ran back to Blade, all trace of his remorse forgotten in an instant, pulling on his arm and bouncing around. "C'mon, Blade! Let's go prank Wilbur! We can put bugs in his bed!" 

"Tommy, no hiding living things in people's belongings," Phil scolded gently. There was a small smirk on his mouth. "And no fire. And no stealing."

The prince groaned, throwing himself at Blade's feet. "What else am I gonna do? Blade doesn't have any good ideas, he just trains all the time when he's in charge!" 

"You can still collect bugs in the garden. Just don't leave them in Wil's room," Phil suggested. 

Tommy hummed, still laying on the floor. "Can I keep the bugs?" 

Phil snickered, just a little. "As long as you can find a way to keep them safe and not let them roam around the castle, I don't see why not." 

At that, Tommy jumped to his feet. "Yes! C'mon, Blade, we gotta find a box!"

Blade didn't move a muscle, not until Phil smiled at him and gestured for him to go. "It's all fine, mate. You can go play with Tommy in the garden if you want." The boy hesitated a moment longer, eyes shifting between Phil and Thompson. He pressed his lips together briefly and bowed with a small and formal "yes sir" before being dragged away by the little prince. 

Thompson cleared his throat. "Where, uh. Where'd ya get another kid?" 

King Phil smiled tiredly and for a moment he looked as old as he was. "I'm still figuring that part out." 

They walked down the corridor leisurely, heading towards Thompson's quarters, separate from the guard's barracks. Briefly they talked about the front, how neither army had been able to advance due to the storms. Thompson had noted that the Essempi army was beginning to dwindle, and that there was less movement that he had been able to see across no-man's land. 

"That doesn't mean anything, they might just be pulling troops to put less pressure on the supply caravans. Quackity was very insistent that we give them supplies for the ceasefire, I think they're running low on resources," Phil mused aloud. 

"Or they're directin' troops to try an' sneak 'round us," Thompson pointed out. "The southern border wall is weak 'cuz of the floods. I think they might be lookin' for an openin' round about there." 

Phil nodded. "Perhaps. If you could, I'd like a full report on the army's movements from the month before monsoon season until now." 

"I'll do my best, sir," Thompson said. They passed by a wall of windows that overlooked the main courtyard. Tommy jumped and fluttered in the daisies as he tried to catch butterflies with a net. Blade stood nearby with a small wooden box, patiently waiting for Tommy to put his latest catch inside. 

He had to be mistaken. He must have been. There was no way his late brother's son was standing there among the daisies, holding a box full of bugs for the youngest prince. Thompson watched as Blade knelt in front of Tommy and opened the box carefully. 

"I don't mean to stick him with Tommy so much, but Wilbur won't have anything to do with him after the Quackity incident and I can't have him following me and Kristin around all day," Phil said beside Thompson. "I think it's helping. They spend a lot of time in the garden and playing in Tommy's room." 

Phil told Thompson how Blade came to be a resident of Castle Craft. A boy who showed up in the dead of a storm with only a letter and the clothes on his back. It sounded like the start of a folktale. Thompson was sure that was how Blade's past caretakers saw it, anyway.

—

For the first two days of Thompson's stay, he didn't leave the meeting room much. He spent hours mapping the movements of the Essempi armies, looking for safer routes for the supply wagons to get to their destinations without being swept away by mudslides and flooded rivers. Phil agreed with him that sending a platoon to the south would at least be a deterrent. 

Phil still hadn't heard back from King Eret, it was beginning to look like Sir Quackity had convinced the young king that diplomacy was off the table. Phil still wanted to give Eret a little more time before making any rash decisions. 

The third day saw Thompson sending a letter by crow to Nook, detailing the new strategy. He watched the bird fly off into the distance, carrying the letter and a gold coin with it. His eyes followed the black dot until it disappeared into the gray overcast, and then a new movement caught his attention. 

Blade was in the training yard. He didn't appear to have either prince in tow. Just as well, they were probably with their tutor at this time of day. Although why Blade wasn't with them was puzzling. 

Thompson watched the boy wield his sword like it was an extension of himself. The way he moved was like a dance, choreographed with intent and precision. Thompson wondered how the boy would fare against an actual opponent. He seemed bored with the dummies, slicing through them with little fanfare. 

The boy had talent. He looked like he'd be right at home on the battlefield. A soldier with Blade's skill would be absolutely invaluable to whichever side he saw fit to fight for. 

It was tragic that such potential lay in a boy of fifteen. Maybe in time, Blade would be able to enlist, but by then the war may be over. If Phil had anything to do with it, it would be. 

Thompson rubbed at his forehead, trying to ease the headache that he'd woken with. He needed to get away from all this paper and talking. He needed to move his body, use his muscles to ease the ache that had been building in them. 

He grabbed his sword and headed down to the training yard to clear his head. 

Blade had not left by the time Thompson made his way to the dirt yard. He smoothly stabbed his sword through a dummy, spilling straw everywhere. 

"Not bad," Thompson said. Blade stopped what he was doing and immediately took a knee, placing his sword on the ground in front of him. Thompson frowned at that. While it was technically the correct etiquette, he wasn't a fan of it. "On your feet, boy. Don't kneel before me. I ain't a priest, and I certainly ain't king." 

Blade snapped up to his feet, standing at attention. "Yes sir. Sorry, sir." 

"Nothin' to apologize for, boy." Thompson looked at the dummy, its straw innards hanging limply and ruffling in the breeze. "Need a sparrin' partner?" 

Blade's perfect stoicism faltered. "Sir?" he asked almost tentatively.

Thompson chuckled. "You looked bored there, and I was lookin' to stretch my legs a bit," he explained. "It's fine if ya don't wanna. I know it's a bit intimidatin' to spar with someone… like me." He wasn't sure if he was referring to his age or his rank. 

Blade's ruby eyes widened. "Oh. Yes, sir. It would be an honor." He stooped to pick up his sword as Thompson entered the mock arena. 

The dummies were moved to the side, leaving the yard clear. Blade twirled his sword in his hand idly. Thompson smiled crookedly. "Your move, Blade." 

The sword came down in a sweeping arc. Thompson blocked it with his own blade, and was startled slightly by the amount of force behind it. The boy didn't look to be all that strong, skinny and lanky in the way that most teenagers were. Perhaps he was just wiry, all lean muscle and sinew. 

Nevertheless, the challenge was clear, and Thompson was never one to pull his punches. 

It had been a long time since Thompson had found a sparring partner that surprised him. His age and time in battle had prepared him for most things. He could usually read his opponents like books, judge where they were going to attack, what their weaknesses were, and use that against them. New troops were easy to throw to the ground, their cockiness and inexperience louder than their jeering voices. 

Blade was not like that. Blade knew what he was doing, and he knew it well. He held his sword with confidence, his footwork was practiced, his balance was impeccable. He fought as if he had been fighting all his life. 

Thompson had years on Blade and actual experience in battle, but he was still caught off guard by how unafraid Blade was. 

That being said, the boy's technique was not perfect. He favored his left arm and that often left him vulnerable. Twice, Thompson managed to get the upper hand on Blade, taking advantage of his weak side. The second time, Blade remained on the ground, breathless and sweating. Thompson himself was struggling to catch his breath. 

He offered a hand to Blade to help him to his feet. “Yer a little weak on yer left,” he huffed. “Are ya hurt?” 

“No, sir.” Blade took the hand and let Thompson pull him up. He was so much lighter than Thompson anticipated, a featherweight practically, and his arm trembled with the effort of finding his balance. Thompson glanced at the bandages wrapped around Blade's arms, bandages he'd thought were just to protect his skin and bind his sleeves out of the way, now stained a dusty red along the inside of his arm. 

“Righ’. That’s why yer arms are all bloody,” he said with healthy skepticism. 

Blade froze up, then fell into a kneel. “I'm sorry, sir-”

“Up, boy.” 

The speed at which he jumped to his feet was dizzying. He still stood with his head bowed, eyes trained on the ground and fists clenched. “I'm sorry, sir, I was praying last night and I was careless.” 

Thompson frowned, and he opened his mouth to ask how, exactly, Blade had injured himself while praying. 

“Blade, Blade!” 

A flurry of golden curls and feathers ran across the yard and into Blade, knocking him over. They toppled into the dirt, and Tommy laughed in glee. 

“My lessons are over! C'mon, let's go! Dadza gave me a glass box to put caterpillars in!” the young prince squealed. He tugged on Blade, shaking him excitedly. 

Blade looked up at Thompson, unsure. The old general sighed. “Go on, boy. Ya earned some playtime,” he said. 

Thompson watched as Blade stood and let Tommy drag him away to the gardens to catch bugs and critters. He'd tell the king about Blade's injuries later, and he'd give the boy a healing potion at some point.

Chapter Text

Techno was getting frustrated.

It had been two months and he still hadn't seen any sort of use. He could feel himself getting rusty, falling behind in his proficiency, even with as much as he trained. His poor performance sparring with General Thompson was proof of it. 

When would King Philza see fit to use Techno as intended? When would he get to win victory after victory for H'Ardcorre on the battlefield? Would he ever earn his place in the Aether beside the Blood God, or would he fail his purpose and be lost in limbo for eternity? 

Perhaps he was losing his edge because of his lack of discipline. He hadn't been punished in months, no one had so much as raised their hand to Techno. Was he becoming soft as a result? Dull and rough and brittle, easy to break, easy to defeat. King Philza had said that he didn't believe in punishing mistakes, but not having any punishments had Techno losing his focus. 

How could he be perfect if no one corrected his mistakes? 

That night he bled from both arms, in the hopes that a bigger offering would have his prayers heard. He prayed for forgiveness, he prayed for answers. He couldn't help but wonder if he'd done something horribly wrong, if the Blood God was punishing him because the king refused to.

Maybe he needed to take matters into his own hands. Maybe then he'd find solace again. 

Maybe he needed to start a fast. 

In the morning Techno did not eat breakfast. The king frowned as he refused his plate politely. “Everything okay, mate? Did you not want that for breakfast? We can have something else made for you.”

“Everything is fine, your Majesty. I'm fasting,” Techno said quietly, with all the weight of a confession.

“Oh! That's a thing you guys do, isn't it?” King Philza’s voice was casual but his face showed his judgement. Shame colored Techno's cheeks. “Is it for a holiday, or…?” 

“No, sir. I simply wish to bring myself closer to the Blood God,” Techno replied, almost in a whisper. It felt wrong to admit it, to acknowledge out loud how far he'd strayed from his purpose that he was having to resort to such drastic measures to rectify it. 

“Blade, do you need to be excused from the table?” Queen Kristin asked gently. “I know it can't be easy to watch us eat while you can't.” 

Techno's stomach twisted sharply. He told himself it was from hunger. “It’s not necessary, your Majesty.” 

The king and queen shared a look. “Alright. But don't think that you have to force yourself to sit through meals and watch the rest of us stuff our faces,” the king said. 

“And if you ever need to leave, don't be afraid to excuse yourself,” the queen added. She smiled at Techno, kind and warm. 

It made that ugly heavy feeling in his chest rise up. Techno forced it down with a sip of water. That feeling came back often, it was almost painful to deal with. Like a horrible little creature that burrowed in his heart and filled his ribcage with stones every time someone in the royal family smiled at him or talked to him in a soft voice. 

He wondered if it was a test, if the Blood God was tempting him with weakness. He refused to give in. 

—

“Blade! Blade, lemme fight with you!” Prince Tommy demanded. He ran up to the training yard, Prince Wilbur not far behind him. 

“Tommy, don't-” the crowned prince started to protest.

“Piss off Wilbur! I wanna fight and Blade is the best fighter in the castle!” Prince Tommy declared. He started climbing over the fence, completely ignoring the gate next to him, flapping his little golden wings and shedding down. The light of the gray cloudy sky did nothing to dampen their brilliant color. 

Prince Wilbur scowled. “Watch your language or I'll tell Mum,” he said. “And Dad said you could start when you're older.” He tried to grab his brother to pull him back over the fence but Prince Tommy was too quick and all he got was a fistful of feathers. 

“But I want to now! Blade will let me, he never says no.” The young prince ran up to Techno excitedly. “What’cha say, Blade? I bet I'll be the best practice partner ever!”

Techno looked up at Prince Wilbur, who scowled and shook his head minutely. He looked at Prince Tommy again, whose blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “Come on! Pleeeeaaase?” the boy whined, clasping at Techno’s shirt sleeve. 

“Yes, your Highness. I'll get the swords.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” he heard Prince Wilbur sigh as he turned to the weapons rack. “You're taking advantage of him, you know.” 

“Am not!” Prince Tommy exclaimed. 

“Yes you are! You know he won't say no to you ‘cus he's a kiss-ass!” 

“I'm gonna tell Dadza you're being a bully!” 

Techno cleared his throat and presented the young prince with the wooden practice sword. Prince Tommy stuck his tongue out at his brother and ran to the middle of the yard, waving the sword around carelessly. Techno did his best not to cringe at the lack of etiquette. After all, who was he to question how the princes had been taught to handle their weapons? The general had been quite lax in his use of protocol during their spar earlier in the week, perhaps he'd taught the princes similarly.

He took position across from Prince Tommy and held his sword forward. The young prince laughed and did the same, albeit much more sloppy. He swung his sword wildly and without form, as if pretending to copy Techno's movements, and made silly sound effects with his mouth. 

Techno didn't hesitate to close the gap between himself and Tommy. He swiped his false sword with less force than he would if he were more evenly matched, but enough to pose a challenge all the same. However, instead of blocking the swing like Techno anticipated, Tommy didn't even attempt to defend or move at all and was knocked clean to the ground. 

Immediately, Prince Tommy started crying and immediately, Prince Wilbur started screaming. 

“What the hell is wrong with you!” the elder prince shouted. He ran to his brother's side, checking him for wounds carefully while the younger sobbed.

Techno didn't move or say anything for a moment, too stunned at what he’d done. He wasn't sure what had gone wrong, but he needed to amend for his mistake. A truly grievous mistake, at that; harming his charge, the youngest prince! He took a step forward rather numbly and reached to offer Prince Tommy his hand to stand. “I'm sor-”

“Don't come near us! Shut up! You're not sorry,” Prince Wilbur snapped. He shot to his feet and even though he was shorter and skinnier, he shoved Techno so suddenly and with so much anger that he fell to the ground. Techno didn't dare defend himself, only looked up at Prince Wilbur from the ground in anticipation for further punishment. 

“You stay away from my little brother, you freak! Go! I never wanna see your stupid face again!” he shouted, loud enough for his voice to echo slightly.

Techno half expected the prince to take his practice sword and beat him with it, or maybe call for a guard to take him away. Prince Wilbur did neither, instead turning back to Tommy to continue to soothe him. Prince Tommy clung to Wilbur and wailed into his tunic. 

Nevertheless, Techno was dismissed. He got up and let his shaking knees carry him back to the castle. He silently hoped that the ground would open up beneath him and swallow him whole, but he made it back to his bedroom unscathed. 

There he sat on his bed and waited. He waited for the king to come in and demand answers, for the guards to take him away to the dungeon in the barracks, for anything at all to happen to him for his insolence. His stomach twisted in anticipation and fear and hunger. He sat stock still as he watched the gray light from the overcast sky grow pale and weak as evening approached. He didn't light a candle. 

He didn't pray either.

Techno's thoughts began to loop around themselves as he tried to make sense of what had happened. Was he not obvious enough with his movements? Should he have made sure Prince Tommy was focused instead of toying around with his sword? Perhaps he should have said no to sparring with someone so much younger, but he could not refuse any order from his superior, and though Prince Tommy was half his age he vastly outranked Techno in every way. 

The princes were not as adept at sparring as the children Techno was raised beside. By Prince Tommy's age, most children knew the proper way to hold and balance a sword and knew basic footwork and blocking methods. The specially talented ones, like Techno had been, would have their practice swords replaced with real ones and individual sparring would be introduced. Some would even choose a different weapon if they so decided, while proficient swordwork was mandatory individual tastes also played a role in training, particularly by age ten. 

In some part of his mind, Techno had a thought that maybe that was not how children in H'Ardcorre usually grew up. He remembered a few of the towns he'd had to pass through between the church and Castle Craft. The children in those towns had been cheerful, laughing and playful and carefree, with rosy cheeks and big grins as they ran about. He hadn't paid it much mind while he was there, Techno's sole focus was making it to the castle by nightfall, but looking back they hadn't been the same as his stony faced squad mates and he had found it odd in the moment. 

Something horrible bloomed in Techno's stomach at the notion that maybe he was not supposed to be this way. Then the blasphemy of that thought gave rise to panic so quickly that Techno became lightheaded and an intense nausea came over him.  

He bent over and vomited bile into a waste pan he stored under the bed where he often deposited the remains of his offerings. 

Maybe he should go back, Techno thought idly through the sour smell of acid, return to the church so they could repair whatever had fractured in his mind and his soul. Then he shook his head minutely at himself for such foolishness. No, they would never allow him to come back, broken and unused, a failure of the highest order. They'd kill him. The deacon would have him stand on the altar, cut his hair to burn, and then behead him for all to see and then hang his body upside down to drain it of all blood so he would never enter the Aether. He'd be made an example of. 

He couldn't just run away, either. Then he'd certainly be damned forever; deserters were cursed to wander Limbo for eternity, never finding a purpose or solace or honor. Techno would not be a deserter. He could still gain the Blood God's favor back as long as he continued his fast and prayers and practiced perfection, and maybe soon His Majesty would see fit to send Techno away to the battlefield where he belonged. 

Some part of him was aware of fat rain droplets hitting his window panes amid his endlessly spiraling reverie. It was dark now, the rainclouds choked out the light of dusk. 

Techno's stomach continued to roil angrily at him, punishing him since no one else could or would. He tucked the waste pan back under the bed and laid down. He didn't bother to cover himself with the blanket or take off his dayclothes. 

Time passed but without the daylight or a candle Techno couldn't tell how long it had been. He listened to the rain and imagined it washing away all his mistakes in the training yard. He hoped Prince Tommy was being properly looked after. He hadn't seen any blood but the prince wore red more often than not and Prince Wilbur did not let Techno get close enough to inspect him for wounds. 

A soft knock on the door interrupted Techno's self pity. He grimaced and had half a mind to ignore it. The servants usually came in to do the cleaning while he was gone for the day, but perhaps him returning so early had thrown off their schedule.

“Blade? Are you awake?” came the queen's voice, as gentle as a summer breeze in the evening. Techno's heart seized. He leapt to his feet so quickly he could feel the blood in his head struggle to adjust.

“I am, your Majesty,” he said, loud enough to be heard through the door. 

The moment the door opened and light spilled into the dark room, he fell into a kneel and stared at the floor. His entire body trembled, his eyes on the shadow cast on the ground by her. Was Queen Kristin here to punish him? He'd hurt her son, after all. 

“Oh Blade. There's no need for that, dear. Stand up, please?” Queen Kristin asked. Techno swallowed around the painful ugliness rising in his throat and did as he was asked.

Queen Kristin was radiant as always. She busied herself with lighting the room, the candlelight catching the delicate fabric of her violet dressing gown and the single white streak in her ebony hair. “There, now we can see,” she said triumphantly once she was finished.

She turned to look at Techno and there was no anger in her face, no reserved determination or forced blank expression. She looked at him and her dark eyes were gentle, and her smile was sad. “Come here,” she whispered, reaching out to him. 

Techno approached mechanically, his legs protesting his movement though he couldn't say why. He was ready for whatever the queen had in store for him. He would accept her punishment with grace and humility. 

She took his hand tenderly, clasping it with both hands, and led him to sit on the edge of the bed with her. “Are you alright?” she asked. 

The words gave Techno a jolt. He was the one who had been in the wrong, there was no need to ensure his wellbeing. If anything, he should have been the one asking about the prince. “I'm unharmed, your Majesty,” he said, voice raw and quiet. 

“Physically, yes, but I know you've been sitting in here agonizing,” Queen Kristin said. “Wilbur and Tommy told us their sides of the story. Wil seems to think you did it on purpose, but Tommy keeps advocating for you. He says he let you win.” She chuckled a little at her son's pridefulness, and Techno almost did as well. 

“I understand, ma’am,” he said, bowing his head so he didn't have to meet her eyes.  

Queen Kristin gently, so terribly gently, squeezed his hand that she still held. “I'd like to hear your side of it, just so we have all the pieces.” 

Techno's mouth went dry. His fingers twitched in her hand and he had to take a breath to steady himself. He told her all of what happened, as succinctly as he could. Once he finished, Techno took his hand back and slid to the floor to kneel in front of the queen. “I'm sorry, ma'am, it was my fault for not confirming that Prince Tommy was trained as I had expected. I accept any punishment given to me.” 

There was a heavy pause that had Techno counting every heartbeat that pounded in his ears. “Blade, please stand back up,” Queen Kristin instructed. He did, still not looking at the queen in the face. She patted the spot on the bed next to her, a silent instruction. He followed it, unquestioning. 

“What kind of punishment would you have gotten if this had happened where you're from?” the queen asked slowly, as if carefully choosing her words. 

“Fifty lashes for my insubordination and ten extra lashes for my oversight,” Techno replied. “Prince Tommy would also receive labor hours for poor etiquette.” 

She paused again and took in a deep breath. “Is that what you expect to happen here?” 

“I don't know. Nothing makes sense here.” Techno stared hard at his lap, his hands balling into fists. “There are no punishments, no dungeons, no lashing rack, no prayer time. I don't understand what I'm supposed to do.” 

The queen gently put her hand on his shoulder. It took everything in Techno not to flinch at her touch. “Let's start with explaining things to the boys and apologizing to Tommy, shall we?” she suggested. Techno shook his head. 

“Prince Wilbur ordered me to stay away,” he explained. 

“Well. As Wilbur's mother and the queen, I outrank him, and I say that it's fine,” Queen Kristin said with an air of lighthearted mock haughtiness that reminded Techno deeply of Prince Tommy. He chanced a glance at her and there was a twinkle in her eye. “Would you say that makes sense?” she asked gently with that kind smile. A mother's smile. He thought the feeling it stirred in his chest might crush him. 

Techno nodded, the movement jerky and uneven. He let Queen Kristin pull him to his feet and lead him by the hand to the king's study. He could hear Prince Wilbur's voice through the door, his muffled shouting indecipherable for all his anger. There was a deeper rumbling voice, and the king replying on occasion when the shouting paused. 

The queen knocked on the door, and all the voices went quiet. “C'mon in,” the king said. 

Techno steadied himself with a deep breath and lifted his chin. He would not cower. He would accept whatever awaited him in that room with his head held high. 

Inside the study was bright, warm yellow candlelight bathing everything in contrast to the gloomy rain outside. King Philza sat at his desk, Prince Tommy curled up in his lap and clinging to his tunic. Prince Wilbur stood feet away, hands balled into fists and stance as though he'd been pacing. General Thompson was also there, leaning against the windowsill with his arms crossed silently. 

The moment Techno was in sight of the king, he dropped to take a knee and lowered his head to face the ground. He heard a scoff from Prince Wilbur's direction. A part of him mentally recoiled and he briefly contemplated standing prematurely. His leg twitched before he thought better of it. Best to follow protocol. 

“What are you doing here?” Prince Wilbur spat out like venom. 

“Wilbur,” King Philza chided. 

“I wish to apologize to his Highness Prince Tommy for harming him unnecessarily in a sparring match. I…” Techno paused to consider his words. “I was under the impression that Prince Tommy would have the same training as all children must have.” 

“He's seven!” Prince Wilbur snapped. “And you just went and attacked him! Why would you even say yes at all?” 

Techno bowed his head even further and closed his eyes “Disobedience is an offense punishable however higher ranks see fit,” he said quietly, not daring to look up. 

A sigh from the king had Techno's heart hammering in his chest. He sounded exhausted and disappointed. “We've talked about this, mate. No one is going to hurt you here,” he said. His voice was tinged with frustration.

“Phil,” Queen Kristin said gently. “Sometimes it takes a while for abrupt changes to sink in. Especially in cases like this.” 

There was a sound of small feet patting the floor. They stopped right in front of Techno. “Blade? You didn't mean it right?” Prince Tommy asked, voice smaller than Techno had ever heard it. His stomach twisted again at the thought that it was his fault that the young prince was behaving so timidly.

“No, your Highness, it wasn't my intention to harm you,” he answered. “If I had known you were untrained, I would have used a different approach.” 

Techno was unprepared for the small arms that threw themselves around him, nearly knocking him over. He was forced to use one arm to hold himself up and prevent them both from toppling to the floor. His eyes opened to see golden hair and downy feathers flying everywhere as the prince hugged him tight.  

“See! I told you, Wilbur! I told you it was an accident!” Prince Tommy declared loudly. 

“Right. Well, at least that part’s settled,” King Philza said. He sounded exhausted. Techno's stomach twinged. 

“You're kidding.” Prince Wilbur glared at his father. “Why are you letting him get away with everything? First he breaks Quackity's arm, then he hurts Tommy!” 

Queen Kristin took a step forward. “Wilbur, it's not as easy as that, he needs-”

“He needs to be locked away where he can't hurt anyone ever again!” Prince Wilbur shouted, enraged. “He's dangerous! What if he kills someone next time-”

“Enough!” King Philza yelled above Wilbur. He stood up and Techno was once again reminded of why Philza Craft was king. For all his calm and easy going mannerisms, he could be extremely intimidating when the occasion arose. “I won't let that happen. I'm going to put a stop to all of it. For all of our sake.” He glanced at Techno, and Techno cowered.

Prince Wilbur didn't appear to be reassured by this, however, and he stormed out of the study without another word. King Philza rubbed at his temple, a gesture he used often when he was stressed, and moved towards the door. 

“Let him cool off,” the queen suggested, putting a hand gently on his shoulder. “It won't do any good to try and talk while he's upset like this. I'll check on him later.”

King Philza hummed, his wings sagging softly. “Love, will you take Toms to the nest? Sherman and I wanna have a chat with Blade,” he asked her gently. 

Queen Kristin nodded and kissed the king's cheek. “Try not to overload him,” she said. She scooped Prince Tommy into her arms and smiled at Techno. “Stand up, okay? You don't have to kneel right now.” 

Techno did stand as Prince Tommy complained loudly. “It's not fair! I get left out of everything!” 

“I know sweetheart, but I think the things they need to talk about will probably bore you,” Queen Kristin said with a chuckle. She carried the prince out of the room and closed the door behind her. 

“Poor kid, just wants to be part of the conversation,” King Philza sighed. 

“This ain't a talk for li'l ones,” General Thompson said gruffly. He pulled a chair forward, the one that Techno presumed Prince Wilbur often sat in. He gestured to it. “Take a seat, boy. We got some questions for ya.” 

Chapter Text

This was Phil's fault, he knew it was. He had stalled for weeks, foolishly thinking that he had more than enough time to work with Blade, that it could wait until after all the war business was settled. His behavior was concerning, perhaps even a bit dangerous, but Phil never once thought that Blade would harm the boys. He was always gentle with Tommy and listened without questioning, for better or worse.

Phil should have known better. He should have known that Tommy would eventually take advantage of Blade's unwavering obedience and demand to fight despite knowing better. He should have known that Blade wouldn't know the difference between playing and real sparring.

And yet it was still a shock when Wilbur came running up to Phil, shouting about how Blade had attacked Tommy. The bruise on Tommy's chest was already purpling by the time Phil got a look at it in Wilbur's bedroom. After ensuring that no ribs were broken and his fledgling had no other injuries, Phil told Kristin and then they listened to both boys explain what happened. 

Tommy painted Blade in a considerably kinder light, insisting that even though it hurt really badly, he'd asked for Blade to fight him and then “let him win”. Wilbur was convinced that Blade had done it all on purpose, from not telling Tommy no to attacking the boy outright. Phil knew better than to believe either at their words alone. He and Kristin both agreed that they needed Blade's point of view before anything could be decided on. 

And as Phil watched Wilbur run out of his study after shouting at him, his chest constricted with regret. He shouldn't have let his temper flare up like that. All the boys deserved better than that. 

He'd have to apologize later once everything was calm again. 

He watched Blade carefully sit in the chair Sherman pulled up for him. His posture was immaculate as always, but his face no longer held that stoniness Phil had come to know. Instead Blade's scarlet eyes were on the ground, his mouth and brow relaxed. He looked like a normal teenager, almost. 

Phil chewed on the inside of his cheek in thought. He had so many questions and he wasn't sure what to lead with, or what would cause Blade to shut down again. He knew he had to be careful and patient with the boy. Not for the first time, he found himself frustrated that he couldn't just snap his fingers and right everything. 

Sherman beat Phil to it before he could even open his mouth. “Ya still prayin’, boy?” 

Blade's right hand rubbed at his left wrist in a small movement that Phil knew was a self conscious tick. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. 

Sherman grunted, displeased. “Unwrap yer arms,” he demanded. 

Blade's twitching fingers froze in place around his wrist and Phil's feathers ruffled. “Sherman, I don't think that's-” 

“Yer Majesty, with all due respect, this tiptoe approach ain't workin’. Bein’ gentle is only makin’ things worse,” Sherman said with all the bluntness of a man who did not deal in nonsense. 

Phil sighed and ran his hand through his hair, leaning against his desk and pursing his lips in a manner that was definitely not petulant. It was the truth, but it was a bitter one to swallow. Finally he nodded and looked down at Blade. “Go ahead, do as he says,” he said, still keeping his voice soft. 

There was still a very heavy pause between his words and Blade moving to follow them. The boy's fingers were almost clumsy as he tugged at the wraps around his arms until they loosened enough to be unwound. The topmost layer of bandage was pristine white, but just beneath it the fabric looked to be a dingy reddish brown, and the third layer was sticky and a far brighter red. 

And beneath that was Blade's bare arm, and Phil's heart dropped into his stomach.

The flesh was marred beyond anything Phil had ever seen, very fresh and still-weeping wounds crisscrossing over each other and previous scars in a horrible collection, starting at the wrist and traveling all the way up to the inside of Blade's elbow. Some appeared to be half healed, scabbed over and tender to the touch. The other arm seemed to be in much the same condition as Blade exposed that one as well. 

Very briefly, Phil thanked his past self for not eating dinner, because he was sure he would be nauseous at the sight. As it was, he could barely muster his voice to speak. “Blade… what is all of this…?” he asked in a horrified, shaking whisper. He knelt down so he could get a closer look and decide which cuts needed more immediate attention. 

“Prayer,” Blade said simply, as if it should have been obvious. He didn't try to shy away from Phil, even as he grazed his fingertips along the wounds. 

This was not prayer. Phil knew prayer, in his three and a half millennia of life he'd prayed to quite a few deities. The Blood God was a god of blood and war, yes, but he'd never heard of a sect teaching self mutilation as prayer. 

He shouldn't have been surprised, really, considering what precious little he did know about Blade's upbringing. And yet. 

Each arm had one very deep cut about an inch below the wrist that stood out amongst all the others, still open sickly looking wounds that oozed pinkish discharge that wasn't quite blood. Phil turned to grab a small healing potion that he kept in his desk drawer for emergencies for the boys. It wouldn't do a lot but it was better than nothing. 

“This is gonna sting,” he warned. He dribbled some of the potion directly on the worst of the wounds. Blade didn't even blink. There was a part of Phil that wondered if Blade even felt the pain, if he'd ruined the nerves in his arms after years and years of this. 

Blade didn't seem to react at all to any of it. He only watched with slight despondence as Phil cleaned and rewrapped his arms with clean bandages. “There, that should start healing faster now,” Phil said as he sat back on his heels to examine his handiwork. He couldn't do anything about the scars but at least the open wounds were clean and covered properly. 

The muscles in Blade's jaw twitched and he opened his mouth slightly, as if he was about to speak. There was a long pause where Phil's heart thundered so loud he thought it would drown out whatever Blade might say. Nothing ever came though. 

Sherman grunted impatiently. Phil sighed.  

“Blade, I need you to answer a few questions, and I need you to be completely honest with me. Can you do that?” he asked, taking the boy's hands gently. They were cold against his fingers. 

Silently Blade nodded, and Phil took a measured breath to steady himself. “Alright. Where are you from?” 

For a very long minute, Blade did not move. Phil wasn't sure the boy was even breathing. The only sound in the room was the pattering of rain on the window. Sherman shifted and started to speak again, most likely to protest Phil not pushing Blade harder, but Phil silenced him with a quick glance and a raised hand. 

“I know you don't want to talk about it,” Phil said, “but it's important. I need to know so we can help you, Blade. So what happened with Tommy today won't ever happen again.” 

Blade sucked in a breath and his fingers twitched in Phil's hands. “It… it would be blasphemous to say,” he finally murmured. 

Phil kept his hold on Blade's hands, squeezing back lightly, encouraging. “Why is it blasphemous? Who said that?” 

“It's in the scriptures, sir, in the Book of Bedwar. ‘And the smithery was hidden from men, for it beheld the secrets of holy weaponry that no king ought to sanely know, and the blacksmiths bore an oath to silence, and the blades were forged in orphanage’.” Blade recited the lines with perfect memory even though his voice shook slightly. He raised his eyes to meet Phil's. His expression looked pained, like he was searching for something in Phil's face. 

The Book of Bedwar rang a bell in Phil's head, but he couldn't follow it to where the familiar words came from. He'd have to do more research later, in between everything else. The thought made his head and his limbs feel heavier than they already did. 

“Alright, so you can't tell me where it is,” Phil said slowly. He was much too tired and much too frustrated with the situation to safely push Blade any further. Blade's hands went limp with what Phil thought might be relief. “Do you know where you came from before this place took you in? Who your parents were?” 

Blade's eyes lit up with recognition for a moment. “Yes, the deacon told me himself. I was born from a nameless woman touched by the Blood God who delivered me on her deathbed. He said that because I was born out of her suffering that it's my birthright to be the Blood God's Blade, and to stand by Them in the Aether one day after fulfilling my sacred duty.” 

“And what's that? Your sacred duty?” Phil asked. He regretted it immediately, he didn't think he wanted to know. 

“To bring victory to the battlefield and glory to the Blood God,” Blade answered, almost proudly. Phil ignored the way his stomach twisted at the idea and glanced at Sherman. 

The general just stood there near the window, arms crossed, staring at Blade with an unreadable expression on his face. “What else do ya know? What about yer pa?” he asked after a beat of silence. 

Blade turned to face Sherman. “I don't know anything else. The deacon said that my mother was alone and found the church by the will of the Blood God. She didn't tell him anything because she died that night, and no man ever came to claim me.” 

That didn't placate Sherman in the slightest. He grunted in thought, but he did drop it at least. 

Phil squeezed Blade's hands to return his attention to him. “Thank you for answering. I need you to do one more thing for me though,” he said to the boy. “No more hurting yourself. Not for punishment, not for prayer. Understood?” 

Blade's eyes went wide and for the first time Phil saw a true and full emotion in his eyes. Sickeningly, that emotion was horror. 

He fell out of the chair and knelt in front of Phil on both knees, bowing so low he was doubled over, hands on his knees. His body trembled. “Your Majesty, I beg for your forgiveness-” 

“Blade-” 

“- I understand the severity of my actions and the consequences, and I humbly ask for leniency-” 

“- Blade it's not-” 

“- any other punishment, anything else, sir-”

“Blade! Stop it!” Phil grabbed the boy by the shoulders and jerked him into an upright position, with much more force than was necessary. 

Blade flinched; Phil immediately moved his hands away. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” He shuffled back a bit to give Blade space, sitting on the floor a few feet away. He looked at Sherman, who was bewildered and seemed rather uncomfortable with the whole thing. This was meant to be an interrogation, yes, but hurting Blade was the opposite of Phil's intentions.

He couldn't stand it. A hurt and frightened boy sat on his knees before him, like a whipped dog looking at the master that betrayed them, and Phil was only making things worse. He needed sleep. He needed a break. His own body sagged with the weight of his exhaustion, his wings limp behind him. 

“This isn't a punishment, Blade, I promise,” Phil started quietly, gently, as calmly as he could. “I just don't want you to be cutting yourself anymore. That's not healthy. I'm shocked you haven't gotten an infection yet.” He pushed his hair out of his own face and sighed. “We'll find another way for you to pray, okay? Something that doesn't make you hurt yourself. We have a lot of books in the library, I'm sure there's a few in there that have other, safer practices we can look into for you. Will that help?” 

Blade gripped his left wrist with his right hand and stared at Phil with shiny eyes. Slowly he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he whispered, voice tight. 

Phil sighed and rubbed at his eyes as they burned with fatigue. “Right. Alright.” He looked at Blade, still on his knees, still looking like a frail and frightened child, and his heart ached with unresolved anguish. “Can I give you a hug?” Phil asked softly. 

There was a long moment of silence that seemed to stretch on for eternity, so much longer than any previous. Eventually Blade nodded shakily. 

Carefully, very carefully, Phil took Blade's hands and pulled him into his arms and held the boy to his chest. Phil was not a large man and Blade was not a small boy, but they both fit just fine for Phil's comfort. He could rest his chin on the crown of Blade's head without straining himself and that was what mattered. Blade did not hug back right away, his arms remaining at his sides, and Phil wondered if it was because the action was so foreign to him. He realized with no small amount of shame that he'd never hugged Blade before. 

“I'm so sorry that all of this happened to you,” he whispered into Blade's hair. “I'm sorry you spent so long in so much pain and I'm sorry that it took something like this to actually help you. I've put it off for far too long and I'm so, so sorry. You didn't deserve any of that.” 

Phil was mildly aware of a wetness on his tunic, and lifting his chin away from Blade's head he looked down to see what it was even though he had a guess. 

Tears fell down Blade's cheeks and dripped onto the chest of Phil's tunic, leaving dark spots in the fabric. He sniffled a bit and wiped at his face, but when the tears only came faster he gave up and just leaned his full weight into Phil. 

All Phil could do was hold Blade and ignore his own wet eyes.  

“You can use me as a tissue, Tommy and Wilbur do it all the time,” he said jokingly. 

Blade sobbed in response. It was a heavy sob, Phil could tell, bubbling up from the depths of wherever Blade had repressed it. 

Sherman left, dismissing himself from what was very clearly no longer a questioning. Phil knew he'd be here on the floor with Blade for quite a while still anyway, and Sherman was always awkward about family things. 

Blade didn't cry very loudly or for very long. Phil didn't expect him to do either. Like everything else about the boy, it was somber and muted. He was still proud of him. 

In the morning, Phil would go through the library for every book on the Blood God that he could find so Blade could find a new form of prayer. He would spend the entire day searching for a solution, eventually introduce Blade to the boys’ tutors Bad and Foolish, and discover that Blade was a very adept reader. He would learn that Blade knew nothing about Essempi, or what the war was actually about, or what went into war beyond battle strategy. He would discover that Blade liked animals and would consider getting him a pet, possibly a dog or even a horse. 

Phil would do his best to give Blade's healing as much attention as he could spare. 

And Phil would start the long arduous task of finding the church Blade was raised in and put a stop to all of it permanently. He would ask Sherman to help hunt down the deacon and that man would never see the light of day again once they found him.

Phil would make sure of it. 

Chapter Text

Someone was following him. 

It was only in the corner of his eye that Techno would catch the shadowy movements. At first he'd thought it was a trick of the light, but as the day went on Techno was sure it was a person. 

They were quick, and small, and utterly silent. If Techno hadn't been trained so intensely to pay attention to his periphery, to expect danger around every corner, he maybe wouldn't have even noticed. 

The first time he saw them, they were a dark shape in the window in the king's study that quickly ducked out of view. He assumed that it was the shadow of a bird and didn't think anymore of it. 

The second time, they were in the doorway to the dining room and disappeared in the time it took for Techno to lift his head to see properly. He squinted in the direction of the shadow, but he couldn't excuse himself from the table just yet. By the time Tommy was done with his pancakes, the figure was long gone. 

The third time they peeked out at him in the library from behind a bookshelf, catching Techno's eye as he turned to place his book to the side. This time he checked where he'd seen them, peering around the shelf to find only dust and empty space. 

“Whatcha doing over there, mate?” the king asked from the table. Books were stacked high, tomes of ancient religions and practices gathered for research. Some were in a language Techno couldn't understand. 

Techno frowned at the shelves in front of him. He would have to be quicker than that, apparently. “I saw someone,” he said to King Philza.

“Must've been Bad, he blends in with the shadows,” King Philza chuckled. He stretched in his chair, his wings reaching up to the high vaulted ceiling in tandem with his arms and shivering with the effort of being fully extended. “Probably should give your eyes a rest anyway, Blade. We've been at it for a while. You want lunch?” 

“No thank you, your Majesty,” Techno said softly. He would break his fast once they discovered a new prayer for him to take part in. Until then, he needed to remain steadfast in his devotion. 

The king pursed his lips in concern. “Hmm. Maybe some tea then?” he suggested. 

Techno considered it. Nothing in the scriptures said that tea would break a fast, as long as there was no sugar. He nodded, and the king's expression brightened. 

He stood to leave, gesturing with both arm and wing for Techno to follow him. Techno took a few steps towards the king. The hairs on the back of his neck raised, the sensation of being watched sweeping through him. Techno turned and his eyes flickered across the room to hopefully catch another movement. All he saw was dust particles glinting in the sunlight from a high window.

“Blade? Everything alright?” King Philza asked. Techno glanced around one last time, and found nothing still.

“Yes sir. I'm coming,” he said before turning back to the king and walking with him out of the room.

-

Techno was always a light sleeper. It hadn't even been something that had to be trained into him. Even when he was in the nursery he would wake up to every little noise, and at the first sign of daylight he was up and ready for the day. It made moving from the nursery to the barracks a bigger transition than it needed to be, as a squeak of a cot or a shifting body would stir him from sleep. 

It was a little easier to sleep in Castle Craft. Techno had his own room with a door, dampening the majority of the ambient sound of the royal family's nightly movements. It was more common for the rain or birds at his window to wake him these days.

Neither of these were the reason Techno was startled out of his dream. It had been the sound of the latch of his doorknob clicking shut. 

He sat up but rather than reaching for a candle, Techno reached for his prayer blade. Pale moonlight streamed in through his window, illuminating his room enough for him to see little specks of purple dust faintly glowing and floating in the air. He couldn't see the intruder but he knew without a doubt that they were in the room. 

With a feigned sigh, Techno laid back down. He hid his knife under the cover still grasped in his hand. He would let them come to him instead of wasting time and energy looking for them. 

It took a while. Techno laid there in silence, eyes closed and breathing forced into a slower cadence. He tried his hardest to will his heart to beat slowly to not give away his fake slumber. He started to wonder if maybe he had actually fallen asleep when he heard the softest of footsteps on the floor, shifting clothes and slightly labored breathing. The mattress bowed lightly as the intruder eased their way up onto it and above him. There was a pause, a shift in the weight, and a deep inhale. 

Techno raised his knife just in time to block the intruder's blade from plunging into his heart. 

The force of the block knocked the cloaked figure off of his bed and they toppled to the floor with a gasp and a grunt of pain, their dagger clattering on the floor beside them. Techno threw the covers off of himself and dove to grab the dagger before they could. The figure also reached to retrieve their weapon, but Techno was too quick and snatched it right as their hand closed around empty air. 

Then the blade was at their throat, and both froze. 

“Show yourself,” Techno demanded. The intruder slowly lifted their shaking hands and pulled their hood down from their head. Long black and white hair shined in the moonlight, tied back in a ponytail to tuck under the hood, and peculiar eyes looked up at him, one blood red and one creeper green. The face was young despite the scars on their cheeks. 

Techno's breath caught in his throat. “Ranboo?”

“It's Ghost now,” Ranboo corrected shyly. “Or… or it will be, once I complete my mission.” 

“What? What are you talking about?” Techno moved the blade away from Ranboo's neck, as the child held no threat. Renaming only happened once they turned twelve and proved themselves to be sufficient in their training, and once they were given their new name they began specialist training. Ranboo was ten. 

Ranboo trembled. They always had been one of the fearful ones, the ones that end up as drudges. Techno had done his best to protect them but he could only do so much without being punished himself. 

Techno stood up and offered his hand to Ranboo. They took it gratefully and lifted themself to their feet. They were still so small, Techno could hardly believe it. 

“Come, sit,” he said. He sat on the edge of his bed and gestured for Ranboo to do the same. They obeyed without hesitation, though clearly uncomfortable. Some part of Techno recoiled at that. 

The silence stretched on for a while. Ranboo just shook beside Techno, wiping at their eyes on occasion and staring at the floor. They weren't going to give up any information on their own. Techno sighed. 

“Tell me what's going on, from the beginning,” he said with all the authority he could muster. 

Ranboo flinched and grabbed at their arm. “I failed my test, Tec- Blade,” they whispered. 

Techno's stomach dropped. Failing a yearly test this late in training was unacceptable, there were no second attempts by ten years. If they couldn't fulfill their duty by then, they'd be punished with a month in the dungeon and then forced into drudgery work for the rest of their lives. 

“I failed and I was in the dungeon for a week,” Ranboo continued, “when Dream came and convinced the deacon to give me a chance to redeem myself. He told me that if I could bring back your head, that I'd be forgiven.” 

Techno stared at Ranboo, unable to say a word. Ranboo didn't seem to notice, instead pulling on their hair nervously as they spoke. “The scouts haven't seen you on the battlefield, so the deacon declared you a deserter.” 

“The king hasn't sent me to battle, he says I'm too young to serve in his army,” Techno said, baffled. “I would gladly be on the front lines if his Majesty allowed it.” The scouts clearly hadn't done their jobs correctly if they'd reported him to have defected simply for not being present at the battlefield. What if the king had decided to make Techno his personal weapon to keep at his side? What if the king had sent Techno away on a mission that wasn't near the fight? What if Techno had died on the way there?

Ranboo frowned. “That's odd, you're plenty old enough to fight,” they said, confused. 

Techno thought about telling Ranboo about everything that King Philza had told him, about the importance of preserving childhood and how physical punishment did not correct but instead controlled. Ranboo might have felt relieved knowing that the king would be empathetic to their past and fears. They might be comforted by it, even. 

But if they were sent here because Techno was declared a deserter, then it might cause more problems. 

“I think actually Dream was supposed to do it himself,” Ranboo mused aloud. 

“Of course he'd send you to do his dirty work,” Techno scowled. The venom in his voice surprised both Ranboo and himself. He'd never been fond of Dream, there was a one sided rivalry that Techno did his best not to encourage. Dream didn't like being beaten and he certainly didn't like having to work for his victories, which made sparring with him a nightmare. It was made worse by the fact that Dream was technically Techno's superior, two years older and a squad leader, and yet Techno surpassed him in every discipline. Several times, he'd called Techno the deacon's “little pet piggy” out of jealousy, because the deacon recognized Techno's prowess in battle. He did his best to put Dream out of his mind, he had more important things to worry about these days.

He looked at the dagger still in his hands. In the moonlight, he could see now that it was Dream's dagger, his shaky signature carved into the wooden handle. This blade was responsible for some of Techno's own scars, and the scars on Ranboo's cheeks. He remembered that day with a twisting stomach, running to the church and begging anyone, anyone at all for help while Dream held Ranboo down and carved permanent tear tracks into their cheeks.

“You know I can't let you kill me,” Techno said quietly. “I have… important duties here to attend.”

“Techno- I mean Blade. Please, you don't understand. If I don't come back with your head, they might exile me. They might kill me,” Ranboo pleaded. “I'll never reach the Aether if I fail again.”

“Ranboo…” Techno sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It tangled in his fingers briefly, tugging at his bun. 

All Ranboo needed was proof of Techno's death, proof that they had completed their mission, without Techno actually dying. He watched Ranboo tug on their hair anxiously. They could duel but Ranboo was no match for Techno, even if age or height weren't factors they focused too much on the wrong things and the distraction often caused them to lose spars. He could cut himself on the blade but there was no way to prove it was Techno's blood. 

An idea sparked in Techno's mind, a gift from the Blood God. A sacrifice to protect his friend. 

He pulled his hair free from its bun, raised Dream's dagger to his scalp, and steeling himself, sliced through a lock of his hair close to the root. Ranboo gasped and covered their mouth. “Techno, what are you doing!” they cried. 

Techno hushed them and gave them the lock of hair. “Here. Give this to the deacon, tell him there was an accident on the road and you lost my head but you still had some of my hair,” he instructed. “Beg him for forgiveness, pray to the Blood God for strength and for a victory in convincing him.” 

Ranboo took the hair and the dagger as they were handed to them, staring at both in shock. “But… you want me to lie?” they asked. They looked at Techno with their eyes wide. 

Techno nodded. “Yes. For both of us, you must lie. The Blood God will understand, They'll forgive you if you pray and thank Them for Their mercy,” he said, only half believing his own words. He grasped both of Ranboo's tiny hands in his own. They reminded Techno of Tommy's little hands that were always grabbing at him, pulling at him, excited and eager and confident. 

“I'll… I'll try my best,” Ranboo whispered. They sniffled and bowed their head. “I'm sorry for failing to kill you and making you take responsibility for my mistakes again.” 

Once, Techno would have chastised Ranboo for their failure. He would have made them kneel before him and apologize properly. He would have found pride in that, knowing he was teaching Ranboo to be a perfect soldier, a perfect weapon just like him.

The idea made Techno queasy now. He wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was because Ranboo reminded him of Tommy, and the thought of doing that to Tommy made Techno's chest feel hollow. Maybe it was because he'd lost his edge from months of lack of discipline. Maybe the deacon was right to want his head. 

“You are forgiven,” Techno said softly instead. 

Ranboo's head snapped up and they stared at him with shock. Perhaps that was too forward, he wasn't a priest after all, but Techno knew Ranboo needed it. 

Techno let go of Ranboo's hands and put his hair back into its bun. “You need to leave. The faster you get back, the faster this can be over with,” he said. “I'll escort you.” 

“i know the way out. There's a servant entrance in the kitchens, that's how I got in,” Ranboo said. They stood and pulled their hood back up over their head, tucking the dagger into a sheath tied to their waist and Techno's hair in their pocket. 

“The entrances are guarded at night, you'll have better luck going through the garden,” Techno responded. He grabbed his own cloak. The church's garments were excellent for stealth, in the darkness of night the red fabric was almost black and blended in more seamlessly than the standard gray or brown.

Ranboo huffed. “I can do it by myself, T- I mean Blade,” they groused. “I'm not a baby anymore.” 

Techno paused and glanced at Ranboo. They were taller than he remembered, their cloak was too short and exposed their clawed feet. Their eyes were dimmer, older. The dungeon had stolen the brightness in them. Techno cursed himself for not being there to protect them.

“I know,” he said quietly. “You're stronger than you know, Ran… Ghost.” 

Ranboo stood imperceptively taller at that. They nodded, and together the two of them left Techno's room.

Techno thanked the Blood God that the Crafts were heavy sleepers. He could hear the king snoring, and he was careful to align any noise he had to make to hopefully mask them. After that, the path to the garden was relatively simple. He and Ranboo stuck to the shadows and avoided any patrolling guards. 

Not that Techno thought that they were in danger, but he didn't want to have to answer questions about where Ranboo came from and why they were here in the middle of the night. Best case scenario he might be able to make an excuse that would be acceptable yet suspicious, worst case scenario they'd wake the king and possibly General Thompson and then there would be problems of which Techno would not be able to talk his way around. 

The garden was silent and cold, the chill of the autumn night seeping through their cloaks. The full moon lit their path and the grass muffled their steps. Techno led Ranboo to the tallest oak tree in the garden. It towered above the building it stood beside. “Climb this and then follow the rooftops to the outer wall, you should be able to get out from there,” he whispered to them. 

Ranboo nodded. “Thank you, Techno,” they whispered.

“I'll pray for your safe travels,” Techno mumbled. He offered to give Ranboo a boost to reach the lowest branch, but they declined. 

“Watch this,” they said. Their eyes glowed purple for a moment, and then they disappeared, leaving behind faintly glowing purple dust. They appeared again in a blink, perched upon the lowest branch. “I learned how to teleport!” they whisper-yelled. “It's easier when I'm enderwalking but I can do little distances when I'm awake!” 

Techno stared at them for a moment, slackjawed. “That's incredible,” he said softly. He watched as Ranboo teleported from branch to branch, a trail of purple following their path as it zigzagged across the tree to the top, where they teleported to the rooftop. They paused, looked down at Techno and waved, and then sank into the shadows and out of sight. 

Something heavy sat on Techno's chest as he made his way back to his room. He should've asked Ranboo to stay at Castle Craft. They'd be safe here after all, no more punishment and no more pain. It would be difficult to get used to but it was nothing that Techno hadn't already gone through. 

But then he'd have to explain to King Philza, and Prince Wilbur would certainly never agree to it. Not to mention that the deacon would simply send another assassin, and Techno had no way of knowing who it would be and if he would be able to defeat them given his poor practice lately. 

Silently, as he slipped back into bed, Techno prayed to the Blood God that all would go well and that the deacon would believe Ranboo, and they'd be welcomed back with open arms and receive a new name, and they'd become an amazing spy with their teleporting ability, and then all would be right.

Chapter Text

At some point or another, Wilbur could concede that he was being a bit stubborn. But someone had to be! His dad was a pushover and Tommy was too young to know any better. Even his mum was just letting this Blade kid walk all over her. She had believed him over Wilbur. Him! The weirdo that had been living in their castle for months for no reason!

All of Wilbur's concerns had been confirmed when Blade snapped Quackity's arm like a dry twig, over a butter knife of all things, ruining the ceasefire that Dad had spent days trying to negotiate. And he was only continuing to be proven right; Blade had attacked Tommy. Tommy, a seven year old who didn't even know how to hold a real sword, who had trusted Blade. He was lucky Wilbur was there to protect him before Blade could do any more damage.

By now Wilbur was convinced that Blade was sent specifically to split his family up, or kill one of them. Maybe he was like a cuckoo bird, planted in their family to get rid of himself and Tommy and take over from the inside. Maybe someone just really hated Wilbur specifically and sent a nightmare to ruin his life. 

Either way Blade was not to be trusted. 

It had been days since that night. Wilbur hadn't talked to his parents, they wouldn't listen to him anyway. He ate his meals in silence and tried to spend the rest of his time in the library. At least, until Dad came in with Blade and they started looking through a bunch of old dusty tomes that didn't even have titles. He couldn't stand the idea of being stuck in there with them, especially if his dad tried to involve him in whatever they were doing like he was so apt to do. So Wilbur had slipped out of the library with his book and went to the garden. He couldn't even enjoy the quiet of a library without Blade intruding.

He huffed with annoyance as he realized he had been rereading the same paragraph for the last hour or so, letting his thoughts drift instead of getting lost in his book. He blamed the book for being boring, it was about endermen mythology and it was a fairly dry read. He shifted uncomfortably, the bark of the tree he leaned against digging into his spine and wing shoulders. A breeze blew through him and had him shivering with the chill of late autumn in spite of the unseasonably clear blue sky.

Wilbur considered climbing down from his hiding spot in the dark oak tree to return the book and find something more engaging. If he was quiet and sneaky he could probably get through without being noticed. 

Just as he began to move, wincing at the pins and needles in his leg, he heard Tommy laughing. The boy's voice was loud enough to be heard long before Wilbur saw him, and was far away enough that Wilbur couldn't quite make out what he was saying. 

He thought about joining Tommy in whatever game he was playing. It had to be more interesting than this stupid book. Tommy was loud and obnoxious and annoying sometimes, but at least he was never boring. 

Then he got close enough that Wilbur could understand him. 

“What about over there by the big tree? There's no plants! It's just grass!”  

“I agree, your Highness. The book says the seedlings will need direct sunlight once they sprout, so they'll have to be planted just outside of the shade.” Blade, predictably and much to Wilbur's horror, was with him.

Wilbur shut his book and peered down at the pair from where he sat on the tree’s lowest branch. Blade pulled Tommy's wagon behind them, filled with various gardening supplies and tools. Tommy ran past him and threw himself on the grass in the sunshine. 

“Yes! This is perfect, right here!” he declared excitedly. “What do you think, Blade? It's the best spot in the garden!” 

“It's picturesque, your Highness,” Blade agreed. 

Tommy grinned and got to his feet. “Can I help you plant seeds?” he asked, running to Blade and tugging on his sleeve. It was as if nothing had happened between them, as if Blade had never harmed Tommy. 

Wilbur frowned down at them, seemingly ignored or still unnoticed. Blade grabbed the shovel from the wagon. “I'm sorry, there's only one,” he started to apologize. 

“That's okay! Watch this!” Tommy bent down and started digging at the ground, ripping at the grass with his bare hands until he finally pulled up a little clod of dirt. 

Blade nodded. “Very impressive, your Highness,” he said softly. “I’ll use the shovel to make a perimeter of the area to be tilled. If you'd like to help, you can dig up the grass inside of the area.” Tommy cheered and threw the dirt in his hands into the air. 

Oh no, absolutely not. Blade was not going to desecrate the garden, not in Wilbur's favorite reading spot, not while he was still alive and kicking. 

He jumped down from his branch just as Blade buried the head of the spade into the sod. “Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Wilbur spat. 

Blade looked up like a deer caught in the middle of grazing. He held the shovel's handle as if it could shield him, cowering slightly. He shifted his feet, and Wilbur noticed that he didn't kneel before him. 

“I'm sorry for disturbing you, your Highness,” Blade said, bowing his head in respect. “Prince Tommy and I were getting a head start on planting.” 

“So what, you thought you'd just rip up the garden and plant your own things? What are you even planting, something poisonous to make us sick?” Wilbur crossed his arms and stared at Blade with a scowl. “And why the hell is Tommy with you after what you did to him?”

“Piss off Wilbur!” Tommy shouted before Blade could respond. He shoved at Wilbur as hard as he could, which admittedly had him taking a step back to adjust to the force. “I wanna hang out with Blade! He's way cooler than you! All you do is read books and complain all the time!” 

“Tommy, he almost broke your ribs! He's dangerous!” Wilbur argued, somewhat knowingly in vain. Tommy was just as stubborn as he was. 

“He said he was sorry!” 

“He apologizes for things that aren't even his fault, what good is ‘sorry’ from someone like him?” 

Tommy growled in frustration and flapped his little wings furiously. “I'm telling Dadza that you're being a bully!” And before Wilbur could grab him to hold him back, the boy was running off towards the main castle with a trail of yellow downy feathers following him. 

Wilbur sighed and rubbed at his temple. He could run after Tommy, but then he'd be leaving Blade to his own devices and Wilbur could not leave this boy out of his sight while he was in the garden. He turned to Blade, who still held the shovel and looked out of place. 

“What are you still doing here?” Wilbur snapped. 

“I'm waiting for King Philza to come,” Blade said blankly, looking at the ground. 

“He's not coming, Tommy's probably gonna see a butterfly or something and get distracted,” Wilbur huffed. 

Blade shifted his feet again. Despite his stony emotionless face he seemed almost nervous. “I'm sorry, your Highness, I thought you knew. His Majesty gave me permission to plant a small garden of my own. He said that I could start digging out a spot and that he would come to help later this afternoon.” 

Wilbur squinted at Blade. “You honestly think I'm gonna believe that? Why would Dad let you tear up his favorite place for your own stupid garden?” he scowled. 

“His Majesty and I found a book about other practices and worship of the Blood God that are less… violent,” Blade murmured, still not looking up. “One of them is through agriculture, the Blood of the Earth. If I plant a garden of small crops, then I can leave offerings without injuring myself.” 

One of his hands moved to clasp at the opposite wrist and it drew Wilbur's eye. Blade wore a white long sleeve button up today, it hung off of him as if it were a size too large. Odd, seeing as his clothes were tailored just like everyone else's. 

“Well, you can't,” Wilbur scowled, crossing his arms. It didn't matter if Dad said it was okay, as far as Wilbur was concerned his parents were compromised. “Go back to the training yard and stay away from me. And Tommy. And Mum and Dad, while you're at it!” 

Blade's hands started to shake. “I'm sorry. His… his Majesty said I don't have to obey you anymore. If I don't… want to,” he whispered, words barely audible over the rustling of leaves in the breeze. He inclined his head down even further into a proper bow. 

Something about that riled Wilbur up further. He growled and ruffled his feathers. “Of course he did! Of fucking course! The one thing I could actually predict about you and he took it away!” he shouted to the sky, ranting to no one in particular and pacing in the grass. 

“Your Highness-”

“I can't believe this! You show up out of nowhere, when I'm not even home! And you get treated like a fucking porcelain doll! ‘Oh no, we can't make Blade upset, he's too fragile for that!’ Fuck that!” 

“Sir-” 

“And when you actually hurt people, like I keep fucking telling everyone you will because you're insane, it gets brushed off! ‘Oh he didn't know Quackity was stealing the knife, he thought he was gonna stab Dad! Oh it's okay that he hurt Tommy, it was an accident!’ Bet if I did any of that, I'd be locked in my room forever!” 

“Your-”

Wilbur turned on his heel to march up to Blade. “How do you do it? How do you get away with every single fucking thing? You could get away with murder, you know that? Me or Tommy say fuck or shit and we get talked to. You break people's bones and you just sit there looking like a statue while Mum and Dad and Tommy make excuses and go ‘oh poor Blade’. It's fucking ridiculous!” 

Blade, infuriatingly, did not cower. He stood still and though his head had raised to look at Wilbur, his red eyes were glazed over and unfocused. A small part of Wilbur cheered that he'd managed to finally hurt Blade in a way that mattered. A much larger part of Wilbur was annoyed that Blade didn't seem to be paying attention. 

“If you'd prefer, your Highness, I can find a different place to plant,” he said, voice distant. 

“I'd prefer,” Wilbur spat through his teeth, “for you to leave. Go back to wherever the hell you came from and leave us alone.” 

There was silence between them for a long moment, drowning out the idle sounds of the garden. Wilbur huffed when Blade looked at his feet once again. He opened his mouth and something like a soundless squawk came out. 

“What was that?” Wilbur snapped. 

“I can't,” Blade croaked out.

“You can't what?” 

“I can't go back. They'll kill me.” 

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “Oh please, I'm sure whoever it is will get over it.” 

Blade looked up finally at Wilbur. “The church wants me dead,” he said plainly, his voice forcibly flat. 

The words didn't want to process in Wilbur's mind, sticking like taffy in his ears. “That- that doesn't- what?” He stared at Blade, looking for any sign of hyperbole or a joke or anything. “You're kidding. Why would they want you dead? I mean, other than because you're insane.” 

“I haven't fulfilled my sacred duty to bring glory to the Blood God in battle, so I've been declared a deserter. If any member of the church finds me they're required by holy order to kill me and bring my head to the deacon himself, and anyone who doesn't is a heretic and will be punished in the dungeon.” Blade said this all blankly, as if it was normal. As if it wasn't absolutely barbaric to discuss his own death and beheading. 

“What the fuck,” were the words that eventually came from Wilbur's agape mouth. 

It was absurd that a church practiced those kinds of things, in H'Ardcorre of all places. Wilbur's dad had spent years digging the country out of that savagery. He'd brought all the different tribes of hybrids together under one banner. Standardized education, fairer trades, a focus on diplomacy and peace, outlawing poaching and slavery. Things weren't perfect, but they weren't that bad either. 

The idea that there was a church somewhere in their borders that taught such violent extremes and had gone completely unnoticed was frankly ludicrous. 

It clicked into place then for Wilbur. All the talk of how bad things were for Blade without going into detail, how he needed patience and understanding and to be welcomed with kindness. The flashes of violence and the dog-like unwavering obedience. The constant sword practice even when he had no partners. Growing up in a place where it was normal to kill and behead a teenager for not going to war would make anyone weird. 

Blade was no longer looking at Wilbur, turning instead to look at the oak tree. His expression was stony as usual. “Would you still like me to find a different spot?” he asked quietly. 

Wilbur shook his head. “No. Do whatever you want, I'm not your keeper,” he said. He sighed and put his hand to his temple. “Does Dad know? About the church wanting you dead?” 

“No, I haven't told him. I didn't think it was necessary since the church doesn't send scouts this far south normally,” Blade replied. 

“You don't think he'd like to know that they've put a bounty on your head?” 

“It would be foolish to send anyone to come here since the castle is so heavily guarded, and deserters are rarely hunted down. I'm not that special.” 

Wilbur scoffed. “Could've fooled me. You've got my whole family wrapped around your finger. You don't even do anything except look like a sad puppy most of the time,” he grumbled. 

“It wasn't my intention, your Highness. I wasn't meant to be… kept here,” Blade admitted, choosing his words carefully. “My expectation was to be sent to the front lines to fight, or to be used as a personal bodyguard. Doing all of this wasn't what I was trained for.” He gestured to the wagon full of gardening supplies.

“Does your church know that Dad only lets adults into the army?” Wilbur raised his brow. 

“If they do know, we're not taught it. The scriptures say that war starts young, and it'll consume the ones that can't best it.” 

“No offense or anything but your scriptures sound like the most depressing garbage I've ever heard.” 

Blade frowned, a true frown that looked foreign on his usually expressionless face. It was like watching someone paint over a portrait. Wilbur did feel a little bad about that one. 

“Sorry. That just sounds miserable. Your whole life spent thinking about death and gore and violence. You should read something that isn't awful,” he explained. He looked at the book in his hand. “Like this. It's not exactly riveting, but it's not about dying so it's already better by default.” 

“What is it?” Blade asked, tilting his head down to read the title. 

“Enderman myths. Really boring honestly, the guy who wrote it was really pretentious. Might be something you like though, since it's written like scripture. You want it?” Wilbur held the book out to Blade. A peace offering of sorts, he supposed. 

Blade looked at it for a long moment before slowly, cautiously reaching out and taking the book, like a feral animal approaching food left out for it. “Thank you,” he whispered, bowing. 

“Don't mention it,” Wilbur sighed. He crossed his arms and looked towards the main castle. It was his home, his safe haven. Protected by walls of stone and the well trained guards and his father, the King and the last true Elytrian. He'd grown up with stories of how his dad had fought in so many wars over the centuries, decided that he was tired of all the suffering, and had sworn to make H'Ardcorre a sanctuary. It was going to be Wilbur's job to continue that legacy once his dad stepped down eventually. 

He glanced back at Blade, who was still just standing there, holding both the book and the shovel. He looked awkward and out of place like that, but he wasn't frightening. Far from it, Blade seemed more vulnerable than Wilbur had ever seen him. “I don't like it when you hurt people,” he finally admitted. “It doesn't have a place here. I know that they hurt you, but you can't hurt others, that's not right. You have to be better than them.” 

Blade nodded. “Yes sir.” It wasn't said like he was taking an order, but like he was agreeing with Wilbur. 

“It's safe here. We have to keep it safe, alright?” Wilbur stared Blade down, silently daring him to oppose him. Blade didn't take the bait. 

“Yes sir.” 

“Promise me,” Wilbur pushed.

“I promise I'll keep the castle safe, your Highness,” Blade said, looking him in the eyes. Wilbur shook his head. 

“Not just the castle. My parents, my brother, the kingdom and the people, all of it.” 

Blade's gaze faltered and he looked at the book in his hand thoughtfully. “I promise. For all of them,” he said softly.  

Wilbur, at last, nodded approvingly. “Good.”

-

To be fair, Tommy didn't get distracted. It just took him a while to find his dad. He wasn't in his study or in the library, which meant he was in the war room. Well it wasn't really called a war room but he and the general spent a lot of time in there talking about war so that's what Tommy called it. 

They were talking at the table and messing with the maps when Tommy opened the door, muttering something about needing protection and camps being attacked. It didn't really matter, Tommy had something way more important that needed to be taken care of. He tugged on his dad's sleeve and begged him to come stop Wilbur from being mean to Blade. 

And maybe he had to resort to making things out to be worse than they were, but Dadza wouldn't budge otherwise. 

Tommy pulled at his dad's arm as he directed Dadza through the garden, trying to make him run with the same urgency Tommy had. “C'mon, quick! They're over here!” 

“Toms, slow down!” Dadza pleaded, trying not to trip on his robes. “I'm right behind you, I promise.”

They rounded the corner and passed the peony bushes, approaching the big oak tree. There, Wilbur stood by while Blade dug into the grass with his shovel.

“See, it looks way better now that it's lined up with the tree,” Wilbur said, pointing at the line of removed clumps of grass and dirt. Blade nodded in agreement and looked towards Tommy and Dadza. He started to kneel, but stopped halfway down and awkwardly tried to stand back up, using the spade as leverage. Wilbur noticed Blade's weird movements and turned to face them. “Oh shit, he actually went and got Dad. Color me shocked.” 

“How's it going boys?” Dadza asked, walking up to them. 

“I was just showing Blade how to make his garden look nice. He was gonna plant it at an angle,” Wilbur lied. Tommy flapped his wings in frustration, sending feathers everywhere. 

“Stop lying Wilbur! You didn't even want Blade here! You said he was gonna poison us!” He tried to march straight to Wilbur, if it wasn't for his dad stopping him and holding him still by his side with his much bigger and stronger wings. 

“Tommy here said that you were bullying Blade?” Dadza asked more calmly than Tommy thought was necessary. 

“It was a… misunderstanding,” Wilbur shrugged. He had that stupid smug look on his face, and Tommy squirmed angrily. 

Dadza hummed in thought. “I see. Blade? Is that true?” he asked.  

Blade looked between Wilbur and his dad, and then nodded. “I think we've come to an agreement, sir. Prince Wilbur didn't understand my actions before but I've explained myself.” 

“Alright then. I'm guessing apologies have already been said?” 

Wilbur nodded enthusiastically, and Blade bowed his head in agreement. Dadza sighed and looked down at Tommy. “Well, there you go. All settled.” 

Tommy crossed his arms. “Well no one said sorry to me for yelling at me,” he huffed, puffing his chest out. 

“Ugh!” Wilbur threw his head back and groaned. “Fine! I'm sorry I yelled at you Tommy. Happy?” 

That was all Tommy needed. He nodded and Dadza gently pushed him towards the older two. “Alright. I have to go back to work, boys. Try not to kill each other?” he said, sounding tired. 

“I'll do my best,” Tommy grumbled, grabbing Blade's sleeve. 

“No promises,” Wilbur said, glaring at Tommy. 

Dadza rolled his eyes. He instead looked at Blade with slight concern on his face. “Blade? You're really okay?” he asked. 

Blade looked at Tommy and Wilbur, who were now sticking their tongues out at each other and making dumb faces, and nodded. “Yes sir. I'm fine,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it this time.