Chapter Text
The first thing Philza was aware of was the pain.
It washed over him in waves, waters choppy as contrasting ripples crossed one another as they radiated out from innumerable sources.
Endless hands held him down in thrashing agony until the black tsunami of torment overran the fragile awareness tethering him to existence. It wasn’t so much as a snap, but a slow, agonizing unraveling of fibers.
He didn’t stop screaming, even if he couldn’t hear it.
“Technoblade” grimaced throughout their patrol. Suffice to say, Technoblade was…displeased with their assessment of his father’s life expectancy. Furthermore, he obstinately ignored their exasperated reminders of their medical assistance, protection, and lack of lethal force (in practice, if not intention). It wasn’t as if “Technoblade” was intending Philza to die; they truly were tending to him with the full extent of their capabilities. His death would be in spite of those efforts. Neither was Technoblade soothed by the insistence that “Technoblade” could trust Philza were he a ghost.
That isn’t trust; that’s neutralizing a threat!
“Technoblade” did not comprehend his distinction. But evidently, Technoblade rejected their extremely generous compromise. Disheartening as it was for him to so vehemently denounce spirithood, “Technoblade” would admit that it was far more difficult for individual souls. And so, “Technoblade” was suddenly committed to keeping a nebulously threatening human alive. They would cradle the pieces of him, and force his heart to beat on.
Though “Technoblade” held their reservations, Philza had proven astonishingly resilient in the crucible of “Wilbur’s” tantrum. Perhaps he did stand a chance. The possibility turned tumoltuously in the spirits.
Leaving the barn with a significant retention of soldiers as both external and internal protection, “Technoblade” assessed their provisions. Spirits dispersed through the half burned home, piling supplies in the vessel’s arms. From their reports, “Technoblade” took stock of the damages. The crisp white of the lime coated walls and cheery colors trimming windows and doors were stained a lethal ebony. Darkness streaked upwards in hungry echoes of tongues of Hellfire. But the mazanka structure was relatively sturdy, all things considered. A few of the support wooden lattices were devoured, but the mixture of clay and straw and willow branches composing the walls was relatively steady. The thatch roof was completely obliterated, but that was hardly a shock. The “twins’” loft room was likewise ruined. With it, a swath of the food storage. “Technoblade” wracked their memory, as the ash held little evidence. Gone were the arcing strings of kovbasas and smoked mutton among the rafters, dappled by various game like grouse or the rare deer. Some dried plants, but most of that was in the cellar, so the seasonings Philza stored here wouldn’t be missed. Well, by the ghosts who could only taste ash, at least. That left…medicinal herbs. They grimaced.
The main room was an ashen husk, panting on its deathbed. Indiscernible lumps of wreckage formed alien mountain ranges, and would require proper identification to discern ruined furniture from salvageable storage from sentimental fragments.
The rocking chair was blackened, yet stood a lone withered skeleton in the once-hearth of the home. Their fingers froze before dusting over the smooth worn wood of the armrest. It was…protected.
It’s my mother’s.
Ah. With utmost respect, “Technoblade” retreated. Their bow swept billows of ash into their air.
Philza’s room was unscathed, protected by another mazanka wall. The slightly quartered off kitchen was less so, in part due to their own ransacking for weapons. “Technoblade” gathered snatches of food and a jug of water into a bundle of Philza’s bed quilt. The house’s lingering smoke would sabotage his recovery. As would “Wilbur” taking advantage of the plethora of tactical disadvantages compared to the highly defensible barn.
The cellar was untouched, and with it a solid assortment of rye, beets, cabbages, and the lot. A thinning stockpile, but not an immediate emergency. Figuring enough hours and combat had passed since lunch, “Technoblade” snatched a poppy-seed roll. Yum. Ash. My favorite flavor. At least by keeping Philza alive, they’d remember to eat regularly, too. They snatched a pot of honey for his wounds, and sent off a scout to a hive they’d spotted in the woods during their stint wolf hunting. Here’s hoping “Tommy” didn’t mistake it as an invitation to cannibalism…
Beyond that, the cellar stored wood, seed, and….iron. An impressively robust stockpile, given the circumstances. Remembering Philza’s panicked warning about avoiding the cellar, “Technoblade’s” eyes narrowed. A weapons cache tarnished Technoblade’s painting of a gentle, domestic father.
That’s— it’s not what it looks like, alright? Then what was it? He’ll explain when he wakes. Plenty of good reasons. That I can think of right now. Plenty. Alright?
“Tommy” hadn’t managed to suffocate Philza by the time they returned, which was just as well. His tail arced through the air like a snake, a ring of eyes suspiciously observing as “Technoblade” set out their haul. Like a viper it struck, spearing the quilt from their hands and nearly knocking down an array of earthenware jugs. “Tommy” dragged the quilt to him. His wings unfurled on the slumbering Philza he curled about.
And then suddenly froze. Hyper attuned to the demon, “Technoblade” glanced to find a sea of blood red goat eyes skewering Philza from every angle. “Tommy” held still, a panther tensed before the pounce. Only his ears moved, micro swivels capturing Philza. Who as far as “Technoblade” could discern, was just lying there trying not to die.
“Hm?”
“he’s waking.” “Tommy’s” voice was softer than a breeze and full of just as much wonder. His wing flared out to block “Technoblade’s” approach, but, after a flash of annoyance, they phased through. Ever so slightly, Philza’s brow twitched. He didn’t so much as yawn or stretch. Perhaps “Tommy” was picking up on the change in Philza’s heart beat or respiration. Ever so slowly, his raspy breaths quickened. The first sign of life was the scrunch of his visage and a low, pained whine.
A twitch behind lethargic eye lids, dawning awareness, intent. Philza’s hazy eyes fluttered between open and closed with each pained breath. Heavily hooded, his groggy gaze awoke to a sea of crimson fur. Philza blinked. Blinked again. Disoriented, his pupils crossed. Craning his neck, Philza’s gaze blearily traced the long arc of claws blossoming around his head.
Reflected clearly in the moon-round of his wild eyes was the first true insight “Technoblade” had into Philza’s real thoughts: one twitch and I’m viscera.
His torpidity vanished in an avalanche of unadulterated terror. Philza lurched upwards, and his immediate crumple from pain and enervation narrowly saved his life as the demon instinctively flexed his claws sharply inward. Philza rolled, writhing in a whirl of vertigo to crash into “Tommy’s” side. The demon peered at him as he collapsed to the floor and began to crawl. Or rather, as his injured leg inspired too much agony, drag himself across the hay loft. “Tommy” swept his tail in to scoop the human back, but at Philza’s pained cry he jolted.
Philza panted roughly between scraped out notes of injury, chest heaving faster and faster. His eyes rolled, whites flashing, cornered, desperate. They latched onto “Technoblade.” The first keen of a ragged howl choked on pure terror, muzzled silence. “Technoblade” raised an eyebrow, then remembered the gory wound splintering their chest. Ah. Oh, and the shredded neck. Double ah.
The monsters shared a worried glance as their patient dragged itself towards the ledge. Then immediately caught themselves and looked anywhere but each other, smothering such illogical concern and camaraderie. Philza froze at the edge of the hay loft, staring down the steep drop, the splinters of the ladder spilled far below. His heart rate spiked so much that even “Technoblade” could detect it.
“Tommy” lurched, then very, very carefully stayed laying down, even as his every muscle coiled. “Breathe,” “Tommy” ordered, harsh in his panic.
Philza only recoiled, lurching to catch himself from falling. In his accelerating hyperventilation, Philza couldn’t even produce pained whimpers anymore.
They hadn’t known that Philza trusted them, and felt off kilter knowing it was broken now. It was…useful, if he trusted them. Reciprocation would be intolerably foolish, naturally. But the appearance of it… “We’re not going to hurt you,” “Technoblade” tried. But Philza didn’t seem to hear, hypnotized with the fountain of their blood stained down their chest. Tears dotted his eyes. “Trust us, Philza. You don’t have any other option.”
Philza’s head repeatedly jerked between the drop and the monsters. He inched further back, arms shaking to keep him up. Each gasp shorter than the last.
Whatever warrior they’d admired was gone. There was no calculation in Philza, no strategy, no defiance, no vigor. There wasn’t even comprehension. There wasn’t even survival, even breath.
There was a dog. And it was scared.
He’s scared, he’s only ever been scared, can’t you see he’s only trying his best?
His eyes were blue and soft and so, so wide. And then Philza’s eyes rolled up, body crumpling as adrenaline’s puppet strings severed. His abandoned body pitched back into open air.
“Tommy” howled as Philza plummeted over the side. Because he’d forced himself to stay down, he wasn’t quick enough. “Technoblade,” too, was confined to the ills of the corporeal, left with their hands reaching out to nothing.
They felt a little silly for that, as ghostly hands enfolded Philza, slowing him to settle on the ground. Right. Of course, they hadn’t doubted their soldiers for a second, it was just reflex. Technoblade’s reflex.
“Tommy” stared over the edge, claws sunk deep into timbers. He snarled, “what happened!?”
“Human panic responses can hinder their own breathing to the point of fainting. It’s…”
“…pathetic,” “Tommy” and “Technoblade” sneered at the same time. What an asinine hindrance to one’s own goals. As if you didn’t do the same with “Wilbur’s” illusion, or the lightning, Technoblade drawled acerbically. …Touché. Still, they had caught Philza, hadn’t they? Lying him in the hay, “Technoblade” checked him over. His breathing was struggling to reassert to baseline, but was recovering. But the crawling had agitated wounds. If they couldn’t find a way to ease his panic…
He was oddly unsteady, and quickly sat next to Philza, chin propped on his knees. “I thought “Wilbur” said he already knew?”
“Difference between knowing and waking up next to a demon,” “Technoblade” shrugged. “You should transform to Tommy again so we don’t present threats. Stress will sabotage recovery.”
“So. He’ll….heal faster if he feels safe? That feels made up.”
“More like: if he doesn’t trust us, he will resist treatment.”
“Well I think it’s better if we scare him into submission. Trust is the opposite of safety; it’s just an invitation to get stabbed in the back.”
“…But Philza didn’t stab us in the back.”
“Maybe he’s too weak to. Definitely way too weak to ever hurt me anyway. Besides, trust only matters if you’re too weak that you need it.”
They frowned at the demon’s assessment. Perhaps they only questioned the words considering their origin, but it gave them pause. True, Philza was pitifully outmatched. But only alone; Philza was clever enough for reinforcements. And if he wasn’t, it was still a basic pack animal instinct. Furthermore he had the opportunity, when he went to town with “Tommy.” Given his covert threat against monsters…had he known, then? And still hadn’t gathered the militia to dispense with them? Yes, he definitely knew by then. Curious how he didn’t round up an army to kill us? Mm. But Technoblade would say whichever answer increases Philza’s survival chances. Come on, can’t you tell I’m bein honest? No. They couldn’t. Their mistake, believing him the first time. “Technoblade” wouldn’t make that error twice.
Regardless, they sought to avoid “Tommy’s” horrific bedside technique. “And Philza is weak. By that logic, he is desperate for trust. And we’re perfectly positioned to manipulate that, as his “children.””
The framing mollified the demon instantly. “Tommy” mulled it over, and reluctantly complied. Child’s play.“Guess I can remain a Philza pup a bit longer. But, I can fix myself a lot quicker than you can. So I’m not bothering until you’re disguised, too.” Haeh? “Obviously he was WAY more scared of me. But seeing his half dead corpse kid isn’t exactly reassuring, either.”
Oh. “Technoblade” glanced at their broken chest again. This body might not last long enough to reach the greatness Technoblade deserved. But, Philza wouldn’t see it that way, would he? All his talk about “self care” and “healing,” as if he wanted a monster to be well.
The spirits hesitated. The words of a presumed traitor had little worth. They weren’t so easy to dismiss, coming from the only man to well and truly protect them. Or, protect was too strong a word, perhaps. What had Philza been doing? Why? The once simple creature was suddenly an enigma. They wanted answers, but unfortunately Philza was dying too quickly to be much use.
And, Philza would only further distress himself seeing their wounds. Might just be easiest to fix it, for the sake of closure.
“Technoblade” stabbed their hand into the gaping wound. Arteries and veins floated back to their place. Forcing frost to suture the fragile fragments back together, “Technoblade” carefully negotiated the pieces of themselves back into place. They sent a pair of soldiers to refill the jugs used to bathe. “Tommy” hissed when they swatted at him for trying to lick the bloodied water, since he hadn’t earned that feast. They were loath to waste bandages Philza needed, but it’d bleed through too quick. They replaced their tattered shirt with one of Philza’s, rolling up the sleeves and tucking in their belt. Still, it swallowed “Technoblade’s” scrawny frame. They needed to eat more.
So did Philza. On survey, “Tommy” also required sustenance, and was irritated when “Technoblade” said they’d make soup instead of fetching a bear or virgin carcass.
“Considering this body is the closest one…no,” “Technoblade” said dryly. It was a faster deflection than explaining for the umpteenth time that serial killers were inevitably executed.
“Tommy” blinked with five eyes. “Wait. Virgins are a type of human?”
I’m not gonna lie, even I don’t have a quip for this one. “…it’s a type of dung beetle.” Their vessel snickered, and “Technoblade” for once had to fight to maintain their neutral expression. Excellent. Their careful analysis of his psyche had correctly determined that humor would appease him.
“Beetles are wonderfully crunchy,” “Tommy” insisted grouchily to cover his ignorance.
True, insects were a decent protein source. If you make me eat beetles, Imma rile up the ghosts into singing annoying songs. Duly noted.
Cool relief trickled down Philza’s throat. It broke through a horrid canyon of bile and agony and heat like the first cleansing rains sweeping away the dust and cracks of the dry season.
Was he sick? It felt like it, certainly.
His eyes were crusted over. But in the blur, a figure loomed over in a long cascade of dark hair. Around the next spoon of water, Philza’s mouth cracked in a grin that split chapped lips. It took a few tries, his awareness washing in with each new gasp of water. Philza couldn’t seem to move his left arm, pain lacing up his nerves. The pillow it rested off shifted in response. No, not pillow. Warm. Soft. Strandy. Strandy? No. Furry. Very warm. Animal, alive. But more than that escaped him, head hurting with the effort of specificity.
The other arm took a few tries, and his hand couldn’t quite seem to grip fully, or even feel the lock of Kristin’s hair. But he weakly twirled it in his fingers all the same.
She hesitated, then dropped more liquid in his mouth. It leaked out upturned corners. I missed this. I missed this so much. And then: why do I miss this?
As his smile flickered, a cold palm settled across Philza’s burning forehead. It was cold. Too cold. But a soothing balm against the fever nonetheless.
After a time, the water gave way to warm broth. The borscht soothed his ragged throat, even if it was criminally underseasoned. The tang of fermented beets slightly stung. Throat infection, maybe? It’d explain the radiating pain in his chest.
It was just so much effort to open his eyes. Philza kept nodding off again, startled back into a groggy haze by the spoon talking at his lips.
Vaguely, things didn’t make much sense. This wasn’t their room at all. Neither was it the medic’s hall, what was their name again? P- Po- Ph- Phil? No, that’s him. Unable to grasp the memory, he let the concern fade, concentrating on chewing a mouthful of potatoes and cabbage. Ponk. That’s right. So where was he? It nagged at him until figuring out he was lying in hay. Huh. Did that make sense? Perhaps he was too befuddled to understand why it was perfectly logical.
The bowl clinked as it was set aside, the figure shifting away. Philza tugged at the thin braid looped about his finger. “C- cuuuh—” dear Prime oowwww. He coughed horrendously and she paused, drawing closer. “Comeon, sweetheart,” he croaked with a winning smile, “jus a little more?”
“Haeh?”
“Haeh??” Philza echoed. That wasn’t remotely Kristin’s voice. Where- where was Kristin? Panic unfurled in his chest, startlingly sharp, hollowingly fresh. Like he was remembering a bullet lodged deep beneath his ribs, only just now jogged into white hot agony.
Who was with him? Where was his Kristin? Why wasn’t she here? Sickness and health, she’d vowed, why wasn’t she— - voice. Someone else was taking care of him, right, she had to sleep sometime. Someone Kristin trusted. Someone that loved him. Someone he loved in turn.
The responding haeh had been familiar, also striking a resonate cord. But a happier one. Or…almost happy. Another pang, the echo of panic. But as memories trickled in, Philza gasped. Oh! Oh he has a son. Bliss filled Philza’s chest at the wonderful realization. He has a son. He has…three! Three beautiful boys. All theirs. All perfect.
Philza rubbed an eye, but if anything the world blurred more. Was there a reason he was crying..? “Ah. Sorry Teckhno. You look so mu- muuu- ch like her.”
“That. Is how heritage works,” they deadpanned. It was oddly stilted. Just how badly was Philza doing that Technoblade’s worry seeped through? Chuckling at the awkward joke, Philza’s smile stretched in reassurance, aching to soothe his son’s fear. It wasn’t right, to let a child worry for their parents. It just wasn’t right.
He needed to know the diagnosis and outlook. More than that, he needed to alleviate Technoblade’s responsibility. “Can you fetch mother for me?”
His son became awfully still.
“Technoblade” and Technoblade shared the same speechless hesitation. Pain flickered in their chest at his welling horror. You can’t-! they wouldn’t. “Mom is getting medicine in town. With Wilbur. Tommy-” had shedded his human disguise swiftly, arguing that Philza only needed one cub to be properly lulled. The “dog” curled up at Philza’s side glowered at them “-is playing. With the chickens.”
Thank you. I couldn’t- to watch him find out- to tell— thank you. Of course. They were pleased when Technoblade collected himself. He noticed the hesitation. Ask him: “You don’t remember?”
“Tommy’s so-” coughing, covering, he’s diverting so you don’t worry, “-sweet with the hens.” He hummed a little, head dipping sleepily. “Technoblade” caught it, and he exhaled pure bliss. Philza was burning to the touch, and the longer they pressed their hand and the heat didn’t fade, the more certain they grew it wasn’t “Tommy’s” fire. The wounds were infected. But what could they possibly do about it?
“I said, don’t you remember Mom saying she’d get medicine?” Was Philza pretending, like he had with the “concussion”? A paltry attempt to lower their guard. But…it was a bizarre direction. A cruel one.
“Huh? Oh…yes, of course, it’s coming back to…me…now…” How easily he lied. Instinctively, even. He doesn’t want you to worry about him, that’s why. Yet his gaze was unfocused, seemingly unable to latch onto them at all. Eyelids drifting between open and close in the ebbing of a tide. The nudge of a cold spoon at his lips roused him from his pensive state. Philza dutifully swallowed the honey, sighing as it eased the more painful jagged edges of his raspy voice. “Are you alright?”
“Heh…? I’m not the sick one.”
“No quips. Is affectin you more’an you’ll admit. Don…don worry bout me.” “Technoblade” tensed at the sharp insight. But there was no pounce earned for their balking, as Philza’s attention slipped away again. “Tommy” checked them as he trotted past. He butted Philza lightly with his muzzle, licking his bandages. Startled, as Philza had apparently missed his blatant approach, Philza weakly managed to ruffle through his fur. Admittedly, the demon made for a rather effective distraction. Philza was mumbling to himself trying to remember the dog’s name.
Still, if a feverish, amnesiac Philza was so swift indentifying the personality discrepancy, it boded poorly for how clever he really was. Only if you assume that cleverness is used against you. Which they did. Obviously. Right? The lack of evidence was surely proof Philza was more cunning an adversary than fathomable. Surely.
However, they did have the foremost expert on Technoblace on hand. They were making a concerted effort to not distract Philza from recovering by such trivial matters as his entire family and home being destroyed. Surprisingly, Technoblade barely hesitated. Missed talking to his father, they supposed. Not that they trusted him with control, just suggestions.
As Philza dipped in and out of consciousness, “Technoblade” held odd, lopsided conversations with him. They weren’t entirely dissimilar to daily topics, but dipped far more heavily into recollections “Technoblade” don’t have. Stories and inside jokes and do you remember…? They couldn’t discern if that was a symptom of him being lost in the sea of his own history, or current lying Philza’s courtesy of avoiding topics that might reveal the imposters’ ignorance. If it were the latter…they mulled over the tactical advantage of a secret keeper who could navigate conversations with others to cover their blind spots.
Who’s to say you couldn’t be allies? Allies couldn’t be a threat. Who’s to say- When they had the truth from him, more could be discussed.
Philza’s smiles were so free, they noticed. They were the dappling of sunlight through the canopy. Had those stopped, when Kristin died? When his children had? When he realized he shared it only with monsters? Or was he simply loopy with fever?
They supposed, if nothing else, it suggested that he was a kind, soft man before the mask slipped up. It lent itself to the interpretation of his harmlessness. But “Technoblade” had known many a kind, soft man. And they never seemed to remember their gentle nature when it came to “Technoblade.”
“It’s slipped my mind; why’re we in the barn again?”
After a beat to receive Technoblade’s input, “Technoblade” grinned and noogied Philza (and subtly pressed a boot into “Tommy’s” side when he growled). “Well, someone is highly contagious, alright?”
“How contagious? I miss them.” He whined it playfully, but the undercurrent of pained yearning bled through.
“Shoulda considered that before deciding to get sick, huh?”
Philza grumbled performatively. But halfway through the banter, he seemed to lose track of the conversation, head listing. It took “Technoblade” a few times to coax his wandering mind back. “What about you? I really am fine now, you shouldn’t bother yourself. I can care for my recovery alone if nece-”
The bid for isolation was obviously rejected out of hand. “Uhh don’t you remember? I already caught it.” Philza’s brow furrowed as he grasped at the lead, slowly nodding. His concern set “Technoblade” at ill ease. “Bro I’m fiiine. Walked it off no problem.”
“Your breathing stopped so many times,” Philza grieved with sudden certainty. The cold silence permeated the barn. But though “Technoblade” waited for his feverish attention to slide away, Philza only seemed to sink deeper into that quiet well. The “dog’s” head lifted from Philza’s chest. It softly whined.
They snorted. “As if! Don’t you know Technoblade never dies?”
After their third time assuring Philza that his beloved family was fetching a remedy, the idea struck. Medicine wasn’t a half bad idea, but they hadn’t any. While Technoblade had been quite accepting or down right eager of the lesser monsters and raiders that “Technoblade” cleared the area of, neither of them were keen on attacking random humans. Would he be amenable to…
Ask first. Steal second. Fight third. If it’s a fight it will be lethal. That’s fine, as long as we get medicine. I’m assuming no doctors or shamans? You could try asking our neighbors first. They can’t assist, but only because of “Wilbur.” We need defense, and if he’s replaced them- I understand. They’ll still give us medicine. You will have to bear the knowledge if “Tommy” or “Wilbur” has killed them. I understand. You will have to bear the necessity if they discover us. I understand. Technoblade was quieter, but grimly sincere. Just- don’t start with Missa, he’d probably figure it out if anyone would.
As Philza was shivering again, “Technoblade” charged “Tommy” with curling up to him. He whined about having to be human for it, but accepted the sniveling cowardly Philza would panic if he didn’t have a cub in reach.
“We’re going on a hunt for “Wilbur,”” they called to “Tommy” as they saddled Dave. Not a lie, even if not the priority. He’d been ominously patient. Given his revenge may well deliver itself by Prime’s destiny, intervention may be redundant. Blood loss, infection, the incompetence of monster healers…
“Technoblade” would prefer to fix the fever before -if, thank you for the correction- Philza died. This could prove difficult; a discombobulated Philza was useless for getting answers. Come to think of it, why should “Technoblade” expect their interrogation to yield truth? A feverish, unguarded Philza might just be perfect for getting his real thoughts.
Or feverish gibberish? If he barely knows what’s going on you’re hardly gonna get his real thoughts on the matter.
How irritating. “Technoblade” was antsy for the horrid resolution of this quagmire, suddenly riddled with doubt they could ever believe any reply they got. Why shouldn’t a man that cornered lie?
“Tommy” struggled to negotiate with the ghosts. Threats and growls got him absolutely nowhere, though he carefully noted how they evaded Hellfire. Eventually he struck along a logical argument, and convinced them that a wider perimeter beyond the barn would give more reaction time to “Wilbur’s” approach and that Philza would get very little rest if he glimpsed a ghost, wouldn’t he? “Technoblade’s” rebuttal was that he’d chalk it up to a hallucination, but was eventually convinced that “hallucinating” would also make him panic. “Tommy” relented to a temporary covenant to alert “Technoblade” should “Wilbur” attack. As much as he loathed it, “Tommy” needed expediency, and blood magic was easier than trust.
At last alone, “Tommy” immediately burned through his disguise into a stumbling “dog.” It was so much easier as one. All it had to do was rest his head on Philza’s chest and wag its tail as he stroked its muzzle. Content to laze about, occasionally snapping up spoonfuls of the stew “Technoblade” was steadily feeding Philza between medicine doses. How easily lulled a “dog” was. So simple a creature, his physiology was likewise pared. For all that he retained his Hellfire soul, the body it housed still interpreted accordingly to its biology. And so fear remained, but it dulled to atavistic survival. A “dog” knew only the wolf. Not the monster, not the infection, not the future, and certainly not guilt. “Tommy” nearly collapsed with the relief of it. But it was a respite he did not deserve.
He’d been trying to help Philza. But trying to protect him nearly murdered him. And then when trying to help again to make up for “helping” him the last time, all “Tommy” had done was soak Philza and smack him around a bit before needing “Technoblade” to do it for him. And “Technoblade’s” mutter about half the food and supplies going up in smoke meant Philza was going to be even more stressed when he woke up for real. If he ever did, after how badly “Tommy” ruined everything.
He needed to apologize.
“Tommy” tried every trick he could to extend the ephemeral relief of doghood. Tell himself he was sniffing for the changeling’s scent. But as he thoroughly investigated the whole barn, and then did it again for good measure, a third time really he’s just dedicated, the terror didn’t abate, even if the pain did.
But he deserved that pain. Would face harsher retribution for trying to escape that sentencing. His every instinct was screaming that he needed to apologize now. The “dog” staggered towards Philza, then collapsed in prostration. Utter supplication. Implicit submission. With one last shuddering breath, the penitence began. Embers crawled across his arched back, leaving something so horrible and ugly as a human boy.
Almost at once, an invisible hand seized “Tommy” by the throat, pulverizing, cruel. It hurt. Oh Prime did it hurt. The body he’d slunken into rebelled around him: convulsing heart and writhing intestines and cold cold cold scraping down his spine.
Something was wrong with him. Or rather, “him.” If the ephemeral cold wash inflicting him as a demon wasn’t already panic-inducing, being a human was far, far worse. Feeling like a human was unbearable. His human eyes burned like Hellfire, streaks of magma carving canyons through his soft cheeks.
“Tommy” didn’t understand why it hurt so praising much. A keening howl shredded through him, forcing all the air from his lungs until black laced his vision. “Technoblade” had promised that if he panicked enough, his stupid human body would shut itself off. But it wasn’t working. “Tommy” was aware of every wretched moment of it. That was the worst part maybe. At least in Hell whatever was inflicted was reigned by the inconvenience of getting him from the respawn pits. “Tommy” knew intimately the weakness of his bodies, the exact precipice upon which they shattered. The only solace in his weakness, that pathetic escape. But with no seeming physical source to the torment, “Tommy” knew of no limits to the escalation. And that was far more terrifying than Hell could ever replicate.
“Tommy” was beginning to grasp that he fundamentally didn’t understand Philza’s power over him, that he should inflict such Hellish agony without lifting a finger. Philza was weak and small and stupid and yet was still somehow eviscerating “Tommy,” which meant “Tommy” was weaker and smaller and stupider. And he could scream at his thoughts all he wanted that it wasn’t true, that he could murder this human right now, it didn’t change how badly he was shaking.
He was helpless again, just like he’d always been. Only, he was doing it to himself now. He hated this. Hated Philza. Hated himself for acting like this.
He longed for “Dad” to wake up and have all the nice soft words to say, so “Tommy” could laugh at his pathetic human weakness. He longed for “Dad” to stop breathing once and for all, so “Tommy” wouldn’t be trapped in tormenting limbo.
But even as “Tommy’s” chest burned from the inside out and unfathomable forces crushed him like the tiny, insignificant bug he was, it was not enough. Philza was not appeased by the suffering. And so “Tommy” was suspended in torment, not knowing what he was doing wrong, only that it was hurting worse and worse. He writhed with it, as his heart bruised itself, as acid clawed up his throat like centipedes, as splinters carved blood beneath stubby nails clawed into the floor.
He tried to choke out his groveling. He really did. The words fell in fragments, little pieces splattering on the floor alongside his tears. Too weak to even apologize right. Messed up again, imp.
As he roused, Philza rumbled a low growl, demanding, “comere.” “Tommy” flinched painfully. But Philza would have his way with him, until atonement was extracted like teeth. “Tommy” fought screaming instincts to run as he crawled towards his master. Trembling arms barely held.
Philza seized him. “Shhh, shhh,” Philza slurred, mumbling a kiss into “Tommy’s” hair. “Isgonna be alrigh.”
“Tommy” burned tears into his good shoulder, and wondered why he didn’t scream with the agony of it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry im sorryimsorryimsorryimsooryim-“ he couldn’t get enough air, gasping each word like a lifeline. He needed Philza to stop hurting him but didn’t know how else to beg. When would it be enough?
“You don’ need to ever besorry. Ilove you.”
“That’s enough?”
“It’s everything.”