Archive of Our Own

Philza Minecraft became aware, suddenly, of three things. He didn’t know where he was, everything felt wrong and bad, and he was going to be sick. The world was spinning around him like he was strapped to the middle of a wheel. He didn’t know what was going on. Phil fell to his knees, one hand going to his mouth, one hand grabbing at anything he could find for stability. His body felt subtly wrong in a way he didn’t fuckin’ like at all. He collapsed further, trying to breathe shallowly till whatever was happening passed. His arms in the edge of his vision looked wrong—was it the fact that they were covered in cream-coloured fabric? His ears were ringing. This whole situation was fucked up and weird. 

He screwed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through this. 

“Philip? Philip?” someone was saying. There were hands on his face. “Philip, are you alright?” 

Phil managed a groan in response. The spinning was starting to subside, but he still didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Had he been hit by a potion effect?

“Get him some water,” a woman instructed firmly. There was movement over his head. “And get him to shade, right over there, yes. Faster.” God, he hadn’t heard that language in a while. Hands picked him up and moved him like he weighed nothing. “Philip,” the person said again, running a hand over his head. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Well that pushed the situation from concerning to flat out weird. What the fuck. Phil batted the hand away and pushed himself upright. “I’m fine,” he said. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “What the fuck happened?” 

There was an avian woman crouched in front of him, white wings swept out behind her. She was wearing pale green robes decorated with a surprising amount of gold, and she was frowning down at him. “Philip, have you been hanging around the servants again? There’s no call for language like that, even if you are sick.” She reached out and flicked him in the ear, expression severe. 

Phil recoiled from that, jaw dropping in shock. What was this woman doing to him? He didn’t remember her—but he did remember—he had the haziest of memories. He—liked her? He remembered positive things? “Sorry,” he managed. He looked out beyond this woman, and realised three more things. His body felt weird because he was smaller than he should be. He was sitting on a sort of couch, but his feet barely hit the ground. The couch was in a little shaded viewing box with sitting areas and a buffet of snacks, and half of the people in this space were avians. More avians than he’d seen for probably centuries. The box looked out over a sandy-floored arena where an assortment of fighters were locked in some sort of combat, and he remembered being here. He remembered being here a very, very long time ago. He’d been a child, and going to the arena to see the fighter training had been a reward. A child barely big enough for his feet to hit the floor when he sat on the couch. 

What the fuck was going on?

“Are you feeling better, Philip?” The avian woman stood up and looked towards another avian in much less fancy robes. “His colour is a lot better, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Phil forced out. “Feeling better, I think.” He took a deep breath. “Mother.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.” She sat down on the couch next to him and curled an arm around his shoulders. “You just stay out of the sun, and things should be better.” Phil didn’t say anything. She ran a hand over his hair and started a conversation with one of the other people in the room.

Phil stayed quiet, huddled up against the woman’s side. His eyes darted around. He resisted the urge to puff up his wings or scream and run—god, he really wished he could lay around him with a sword right now. His child body did not have a sword. He chewed on his lip, trying to take stock of the situation. 

He was wearing sandals, robes, a beaded bracelet, no weapons. There was something when he moved his head—little earrings, and his hair was braided. He was small enough that if the woman next to him tried to pull him into her lap, he’d probably fit. God—seven? Eight maybe? He kinda remembered being a small kid. 

God, what he remembered. He hadn’t thought about his childhood for so long—centuries, probably. It had ended in fire and an enemy attack, he’d survived, he moved on. He’d been small in a house full of people, he remembered that. Running through rooms full of adults talking about things he wasn’t interested in. He’d been in lessons and found it boring. There had been a lot of avians, it had been an avian city of some kind. He’d been fascinated with fighters and had begged to be able to see more about them. 

Phil stayed quiet in the box and looked down to fighters on the sand. A piglin hybrid with a trident batted the sword of a cat hybrid away and knocked her to the ground. She stared up at him, and the piglin looked to a human in finer armour standing to the side. He nodded, and he stepped back, pulling the trident away from the neck of the cat hybrid.

In his memory, these had been soldiers he’d asked to see more of, but looking at this with the experience of a lifetime, he could see that there were no avians down on the sand, and most of the fighters were wearing collars. Phil glanced around the room. Awful lot of the non-avians in the box were wearing collars too. He tucked his chin into his chest. So he was a child again, and he was a child in a city that kept slaves. Fuckin’ fantastic. 

A rabbit hybrid in a red tunic came over with a plate of little snack foods. She offered it to him. “A snack, young master?” She was wearing a collar too. 

He did not feel like food. “No, thanks,” Phil said, shaking his head without emerging from his huddle. 

“Good god, can’t you see he’s feeling sick?” The woman above him said venomously. “Think a little, if you can.” She turned to face the woman with the tray in a way Phil’s hind-brain informed him meant trouble. 

“No, no,” Phil said hurriedly, straightening up. “It’s fine I just, I’m not sick.” He took a look at the plate of food again. Oysters, a soft cheese spread over shards of cracker, cured meat wound around slices of fig. Honestly he’d put a dent in any of that, if he was eating. “I—is there any sweet shit?” He looked up at the rabbit, who quirked a very slight, surprised smile at him. 

“Philip!” His mother slapped him in the ear. “You have got to get a handle on your language. We expect better from you, you need to be conscious of your place.” 

The slap barely hurt, but it made his head ring. And it made him feel like crying, horrifyingly. Child body, child reactions. Phil fought back any tears and nodded. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Is there anything sweet? Please?” His memories of appropriate manners were even hazier than the rest of it. 

The rabbit nodded. “Of course, young master.” She disappeared behind them, then came back with a plate covered in tiny sticky cakes. 

Phil took one that was studded with cranberries and had a curl of lemon zest on top. “Thank you,” he said, holding the sticky cake carefully. 

The avian woman holding him bapped his ear again, but gentler this time. “You don’t have to—“ She sighed, sounding amused. “Don’t overdo it. You’re a noble, remember your rank.”

Oh, so he was going to get in trouble for being polite now? That was going to happen again. Phil took a bite of the cranberry-cake to keep from saying something that would get him in more hot water. His mother smoothed a hand over his hair. 

Phil fought down the instinctive reaction that someone he barely knew was touching him, fighting with ancient long-buried feelings interpreting the interaction as familiar and comforting. She started talking to another adult over his head. Something about a Lady Vespian’s garden party. Phil ate his cake and was faced with the issue of sticky hands. On the sand, fighters moved through formations. There were young teenagers down there, or even younger than teens. Phil tried to lick his fingers clean quietly.

“Oh honestly, Philip.” His mother heaved a disappointed sigh and pulled his hand away from his face. “What is wrong with you? Did you hit your head when you fell, or something? It’s like you’ve forgotten all your manners. You, boy, water for his hands.”

A cat hybrid hurried forward with a bowl and towel. He wasn’t that much older than Phil must be now. He knelt down Phil’s side and held out the bowl for Phil to put his hands in. 

Oh, he hated this. 

What she had just said though—“Yeah.” Phil dunked his hands and polished them off with the towel as fast as he could.

“What was that?” His mother’s tone was polite-dangerous.

“Yes, Mother.” Phil cleared his throat. “I mean, I did hit my head, I think. When I fell.” He was going to need to fall back on that as much as possible, while he figured out what the fuck he was going to do . 

“Oh, poor baby.” She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. 

He handed the towel to the cat and tried to smile at him. 

The cat took the bowl back and stole back towards the back of the box without looking at him. Phil watched him go, and then straightened to look down on the sand again. 

“I think we’re done here, do you think we’re done here?” His mother held him out by the shoulders. “If you already hurt yourself?” She barely waited for his nod and then was looking up at the others in the box. “We’ll be heading home.” She smiled down at Phil. “Maybe next time you can come for an actual fight, if you’re good.”

Goddamnit, he had been hoping against hope that the arena was only used for display fights. He had to get out of here. Phil managed an unconvincing smile, but his mother was already standing up and talking to others, wings sweeping behind her. 

Phil absently went to worry at the edges of his wings, and found fluff instead of smooth feathers. No . He pulled his wing forward to look at it. Pale baby down met his eyes, instead of flight feathers. His wings were fuzzy. There was no way he could fly with these. Well, that put an crimp in his half-formed idea of running away. 

Phil resisted the urge to either put his head in his hands or curl up and cry via wrinkling his nose a few times and surreptitiously tugging on a handful of his braids. 

“Philip, come along,” his mother said. She was standing near the back of the box, hand out. 

Phil pushed himself to his feet and followed. His mother took his shoulders and pushed him towards a staircase. He made his way quickly down the curving stone staircase, trying to figure this out. These people were absolutely fucked, and he was, at max, eight. He’d been hit lightly in the head and had to fight the urge to burst into tears. He had no idea if his battle training was similarly messed up by being in a child’s body. He didn’t want to be part of this city, but if he ran immediately, he’d be in danger of dying to mobs, if he wasn’t sent back—he was a noble, apparently. Hated the sound of that, too. 

“Technoblade,” someone said nearby. 

Phil’s head shot upright. He’d outpaced the rest of the avians on the stairs and was by himself, for however long it would last. The staircase had dumped him down just above the sands, and a group of fighters were standing in a loose clump talking. They were mostly nether hybrids, and a piglin reached out to ruffle the hair of one of the smallest of the group, who looked about his age. 

“You’re doing well, proud of you,” one of the piglins said. “You’re going to be a strong fighter.”

“Eh,” the youngest piglin said. “I’ve got a ways to go I think?” He shrugged, and Phil knew that body language, he knew him . 

“Excuse me,” Phil said, hanging himself over the bannister. “Is your name Technoblade?”

The whole group flinched. One of the oldest pushed the youngest behind him. The piglin opened his mouth to protest, but was shushed by another person, a blaze hybrid who put her hand over his mouth. The biggest person in the group stepped forward, bowing low. “There is no one by the name Technoblade in this group, young master.”

She was speaking in avian, with a heavy accent, and Phil realised they had been talking in a nether dialect. He probably wasn’t supposed to know nether dialects. He was a noble now. And he was making it weird. “Ah, sorry, my bad,” he said. “I thought I heard the name Technoblade—he’s a good friend of mine—“ He cut himself off, realising he probably sounded insane. He was eight, now. Eight and a noble. “I thought I recognized the name,” he finished with no social graces whatsoever. 

The whole group was wearing collars. Including the young piglin he could just see tucked behind the others. The spokeswoman for the group smiled nervously. “Ah, this group may have use-names that we use amongst ourselves, just for talking, but we would never take names without permission, and not until they were earned.”

“You don’t have fuckin’ names ?” Phil said, his voice going high. 

“Philip!” That was his mother’s voice. “Leave the fighters alone. God, he’s so obsessed with them, I don’t know what to do.” 

How to cover for this? Phil drew back from the railing. “Uh, he had a sword.” He pointed at the younger piglin in the group (Technoblade?) who had pulled away from the people trying to hide him and was staring up at him. He was thin, and there was a bruise on his face. “It looks like he’s about my age?”

His mother sighed at him. “I know he has a sword, but he’s not an avian. The lower races mature faster, and it’s good for them to have jobs and occupations as soon as possible. Keeps them busy. Your job right now is to pay good attention to your tutors, and you can look into weapons training when you’re older.” She grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away from the bannister. “We’re going home now.” 

Phil tried to look back over his shoulder at the piglin his age, who was being pulled away by the group of Nether hybrids. He didn’t have a name? He was a fighter in a fucking arena? His mother’s fingers were tight on his shoulder, and she pulled him down a passageway and away.

As they left the arena, the avians launched themselves into flight, leaving the non-avians and the child behind. Phil tucked his fuzzy wings tighter against his back. He missed the sky. 

“Come along, little master.” The rabbit hybrid was standing by the side of a road, holding out her hand. 

“Right.” Phil trotted over and took her hand, cause it seemed like the right thing to do. “If you call me Phil, would you get in trouble?” 

She glanced down at him, eyebrows raised. “Probably.”

Phil heaved a sigh. “Won’t ask you to do that, then. Thanks.”

She coughed a laugh into her hand, and they started down the road. There were people heading by with packages and hand carts, a crowd threading in and out between the tall arena and towering homes built of pale stone. Someone was ringing a bell. Phil glanced to the other side of the street. A cow hybrid was ringing a bell out in front of a fox hybrid holding the hand of a tiny avian girl. The cow was wearing a collar, and she was calling “Avian, make room.” The crowd stepped aside for the little trio. 

Phil tried not to grip onto the hand of the person he was holding too hard. God, he wanted a drink. What were the odds his parents (his parents ) were going to let him get drunk? Probably not good. He glanced up at the rabbit who was walking with him. “This is very rude and I’m sorry,” he said. “Hit m’head and shi—stuff. I don’t remember your name?” He had a horrible thought. “Do you not get names too, like the fighters?”

She glanced down at him, eyebrows raised, but just in surprise, looked like. “I do have a name. It’s Shanla.” She tilted her head to the side. “Nether hybrids are in a special case, because of the cost of bringing them across the planes, they have more to repay, and of course their use-names are unpronounceable. So they are offered the chance to earn proper names.” 

Great. Fantastic. He loved this, actually. Phil nodded. “Shanla. Sorry.”

“It’s nothing, little master.”

The road led to a rope bridge that stretched out into nothingness. The arena had been on a stone island that hovered hundreds of feet in the sky, and they were passing to another island that hovered a little higher. Beams of blue light strung between the parts of the city like beads on a string, and a single long braid connected the city to the earth. 

The bridge was crowded with land bound traffic, and they soon slowed to a shuffle. They were right behind some cow hybrids dragging a hand cart full of bags of vegetables. Phil peered over the railing at the ground below. Looked like some sort of farmland. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shanla’s hand go into a shoulder bag she was carrying, and came out with a bell. 

Phil made a frantic grab for her hand. “Fucking—please don’t.” He looked up at her. “Please, I can wait.”

The rabbit had paused with her hand in the air. “But, it’s going to be so inconvenient.”

“I don’t mind.” Phil shook his head violently. “I’d rather we don’t use the bell, please. I don’t want to fuckin’ bother people.”

Her head tilted to the side. “It’s not a bother, young master, it’s the respect due your rank.” Her hand moved with the bell. 

“ Please ,” Phil said, standing on his toes to grab for the bell. To his horror, his voice was getting choked up. “I don’t want it, please.” 

Her eyes searched his face for a moment, and then she put the bell back in the bag. “Alright, little master. If it’s what you want.”

And even asking for no special treatment was given to him because of this bullshit hierarchy. Phil blinked furiously. “Thank you,” he said fervently. He stared down at his feet, trying to get himself back under control. 

Shanla squeezed his hand, and they shuffled forward through the crowd. 

Home was a many-storied villa built to spill across a hillside, enclosing many gardens. Most of the people he saw were non-avians wearing collars. Phil was ushered immediately to his room and told to lie down to recover, and someone was posted outside his door. Phil flopped on his cot amid some stuffed animals. He had to get out of here, that was for sure. This place was rotten and whatever attack he vaguely remembered putting him onto the run couldn’t come soon enough. How old had he been when it happened? Phil shoved his face into a pillow and tried to remember. He couldn’t fly really, but he could have been able to glide? There had been a lot of running at night, which became the normal thing very fast, and he’d learned to start a fire and use a sword, which he’d been excited about. He also remembered crying a lot, but he got over that quickly. He flopped over and stared at the ceiling, a fresco of a cloudy sky and migrating birds at a height. 

He couldn’t rely on an unknown enemy attacking and ejecting him from this city. He had to get out. But he was a child, and he suspected he had a child’s skills to match. And the presence of Techno put an extra line in the redstone. He had to take him with him. So he just had to get an enslaved child out of a fighting arena, while he was also a child, and then they could make a break for freedom. Easy. 

Someone pushed through the door. Phil sat up on the bed, folding his legs underneath him. “Hello?” 

“There you are.” That was one of the slaves, a fox hybrid. He was holding a tray. “Feeling better?” 

“Uh, a little bit.” He watched the fox put the tray down on a small table. It contained a bowl of cheesy lentils, a glass of water, a pair of raisin cookies, and a plate of bread. The bread was cut into animal shapes. “I’m very sorry, I forgot your name.” 

The fox glanced at him. “Benca, little master.”

“Right, right,” Phil said, nodding. “Sorry. Am I not eating with my parents, then?”

“Your parents are entertaining tonight, and they’re going to be up a little late for you.” Benca opened up a chair and sat it next to the lentils. “So if you’re feeling up for a meal—“ He left the sentence dangling. 

“Oh yeah, of course.” Phil scrambled off the bed and into the chair. He picked up a piece of bread and scraped it through the lentils. “Thank you for the animal bread, though. I mean, thanks to the kitchen.”

The fox looked at him with a slightly bemused expression. “Of course, young master. If you need anything, you just mention it to Jensa, he’s just outside.” 

The lentils tasted good, and it was unlocking vague memories of scrambling around this house. Getting into trouble for being in places he wasn’t supposed to be, mostly. Phil nodded, mouth full of bread. “Sure ‘ting.” 

Benca nodded at him, smiling, and then slipped quietly from the room. 

Phil dug into the food. Okay, first thing on the plan, he had to get a better picture of the lay of the land. He’d wait till the house had gone to sleep, and then he’d explore. 

The exploration had not gone well. He’d forgotten he couldn’t fly, and then failed to climb a tree in time to escape notice by the house guard. He’d been deposited back in his room and the door had been locked. Which was fine, he’d try it again tonight, he’d just go out the window. 

Phil looked up at the cow hybrid standing in the garden where he’d been instructed to eat breakfast. He’d been told to go back and get changed properly twice this morning, until he put on robes with enough embroidery and more jewellery. The earrings hit his jaw when he moved his head. “Kenza, do you go to the arena sometimes?”

The man’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “Sometimes.”

“Alright.” Phil took another spoonful of the soup and biscuit-dumplings that was his breakfast. “Do you know about the fights?”

Kenza raised his eyebrows. “Some of them.” He smiled faintly. 

“Alright.” Phil attacked a dumpling with the edge of his spoon. “Do people always die?”

His expression smoothed a little into inoffensive blandness. “Not every time. Just for the headline fights. And even then, it comes down to the king’s decision, usually.”

“The king, eh?” Phil grimly ate some more of his soup. 

“The king or one of his guests,” Kenza said. He tipped his head to the side slightly. “Your father is one of his guests fairly frequently, so maybe if you go along, they’ll let you make the decision, as a treat.” 

Phil’s eyes widened. He would actually rather be whipped again than have a gladiator fight come down to his decision. Something of that must have shown on his face, because Kenza had put out a hand.

“If you don’t want to decide, I’m sure your father could do it for you, little master.”

His father. A distant figure doing work most of the time. Political and business work. The likelihood that he would decide on death for this hypothetical fighter facing execution for his entertainment was high. “No, I could do it,” Phil squeaked out. He forced himself to take a deep breath and stirred his soup around. He’d lost his appetite. “The headline fights, are those ever fighters like, my age? I saw someone who was—” My best friend. Someone I care about deeply. My shield-brother in another life . “Like me.”

“Oh no, very rarely,” Kenza assured him. “Only if the fighter is very, very good.” He smiled encouragingly. “Fighters your age would only be facing mobs, normally, probably.”

So given that he’d never seen a weapon Techno couldn’t become master of given two weeks to practice, the odds that he’d be a headline fighter was high, to say the least. He had to get him out of there. 

“Are you done with your breakfast?” 

Phil looked up from where he’d fallen into a slump at the table. A bird landed in a bush next to him and stabbed at a cluster of berries. “Oh yeah, thanks.” 

Kenza took the bowl away from him. “Now if you’d just follow me, young master, your tutors are waiting.”

“Fuck,” Phil said. 

Kenza coughed into his hand, grinning. 

School had been a wash. He’d been quizzed on historical facts he had no idea about, which earned him a few raps with a ruler, asked to show his work for math questions he couldn’t explain his answers to, which also led to punishment, and told to answer questions about science that the tutor didn’t want the true answers— which also led to punishment. The only thing that kept the man from going directly to his father to complain that he was faking ignorance was the galactic lesson, which he passed with flying colours. 

He still got in trouble for his calligraphy though. He’d tried to explain that his penmanship was faster and it would still work to enchant, and got another rap with a ruler for his troubles. He’d been smacked so many times that his hand was still red and stinging. 

And he had cried when he got in trouble for science, which was just the cherry on the top of this shit sundae. It had been tears from frustration at how he couldn’t do anything right, but that had earned him another lecture about facing his punishment like a man. Overall, he wasn’t a huge fan of education, here. 

Phil tucked his hand inside his robes, scrubbing away tear marks with his off hand. His parents wanted to see him, and he had the vague memory that his father didn’t like to see evidence of him “throwing a tantrum” or “acting like a baby”. Alright. He took a deep breath. 

“Just a second, little master,” Shanla said. She’d come down the staircase from another area. “Your hair.”

“Oh.” Phil tried to stand still while fast hands tucked the little braids in his hair into a clip again. 

“There you go.” She stepped back. 

Phil nodded at her. “Thanks, Shandla.” 

She got a funny look on her face, but she held the door open for Phil to walk down the few stairs into the dining hall. 

Several adults were lounging on colourful couches circled around a banquet table, pale wings draping back along the floor. The table was covered in platters of food and pitchers of drink, and slaves were bringing trays closer to the lounging diners. Paper lanterns floated up in the apex of the ceiling arches, buffeted by air currents. 

“Ah, there’s the boy,” a blond avian in red and gold said. His couch was at the head of the table. “Come on, let’s get a look at you.” 

Phil stepped carefully down the shallow steps and crossed the room, conscious of the people looking at him. He stopped in front of his father, a powerful figure with gold at his neck, and tucked his hands behind his back. 

“How have you been doing, then, Philip?” He took a sip of his wine. “I expect to hear good things, you know.”

Ah, so the tutor had come to him anyways. Phil took a deep breath. “I need to study more for science and history, sir. The tutor didn’t like how I did maths, so I need to fix that. I’m doing okay with languages.” 

His father raised an eyebrow. “Are you?” he said in a southern dialect. That had been the language of the locals when Phil and Techno had established a trading outpost they jokingly called an empire. The locals had convinced Phil that “daisy chain” meant “fuck” and he’d used it as a curse word for almost a year. 

“Yes, sir,” Phil replied. And he had no explanation for how he knew this, did he. “I’ve been reading. And listening.”

His father raised his eyebrows, flipping back to avian. “Maybe spend more time studying your history, and less time listening to terrestrial languages.” 

He wanted to spend less time studying these bullshit subjects and more time fighting people, but needs must. Phil nodded. His earrings bumped against his jaw. Behind him, one of the adults said something behind a hand and then laughed. Stay focused. “Yes sir.” 

His father waved a hand. “No dessert until your tutor reports that your grades have come back up.” 

Phil nodded. “Yes sir.” 

The avian man sipped at his wine, seemingly pleased with Phil’s reaction (or lack of reaction) to that. He waved a hand. “You’re dismissed.”

“Um, sir.” Phil fought the urge to ball up his robes in his hands. “Can I make a request?” 

“You think you can make requests?” He raised his eyebrows. 

“It’s not an earned reward, it’s a safety thing.” Phil had thought this up last night after a haze of half-remembered impressions and images that came up in dreams. His father nodded in a very noncommittal way. Phil pressed forward, fighting the urge to swear between every word. “Since we’re noble, I’m in a dangerous position. To keep me safe, I could get a bodyguard, and I saw a fighter at the arena who looks just my age.” He saw some form of indulgent understanding break across his father’s face, and his mother laughed lightly. Phil pressed forward. “So if we hire him, he could keep me safe, thereby protecting the family.”

“He’s fascinated with the fighters,” his mother said by way of explanation to another adult, who made a considering noise. 

Phil kept his eyes on his father, fists clenched at his side. He only had half (less, really) of his memories, but he knew that a bodyguard was a good idea. And if he could get Techno—

“Philip, you’re as safe as can be in the villa,” his father said. He reached out and picked something off his plate. “Oh wait, I said no sweets. Here.” He put it back and offered Phil something else. When Phil didn’t immediately move forward, he gestured with the item in his hand. “Come on, then.”

Phil reluctantly stepped forward and accepted the tiny meat pie. It had a little spiced relish spooned on top. “Is that a no?”

His father threw back his head and laughed, turning his attention to the man next to him. “Is that a no? Listen to him, Claude, he’s going to be a politician someday. You’re dismissed, Philip.” 

Conversation picked up again around the room. Phil fought the urge to crush the meat pie, which would not help anything, and which also would probably get him in trouble for bad manners, and then retreated from the room. One of the adult avians watched him go, but his departure was mostly ignored. 

He’d eaten spiced rice and lentils and yoghurt for supper, then been closed into his room for the evening again. They left him a small clay lamp to study his history, this time. Phil sated his internal need to break something by climbing as high as he could go on the furniture and jumping off into a tuck and roll a few times, and then screaming into his pillow. And then he’d stared at the history book for a little bit, before opening it with hatred in his heart. If he was going to get Techno out, he needed absolutely every tactical advantage that he could get, including, possibly, good marks from his tutor. 

The oil in the lamp eventually burned out, and then he stayed waiting in the dark for a little longer, until he was absolutely sure the house was quiet. Phil used a butter knife to work the shutter on the window open, and then slipped out onto the trellis. 

It was just made to support a rose bush, but Phil weighed about as much as a feather pillow. Maybe one that had been dunked in water. Phil worked his way down the lattice work, cursing the thorns on the bush in the safety of his mind. 

He made it to the ground only bleeding lightly, and then dusted himself off. Now to explore. And he would listen out for the house guards doing rounds this time. He had figured out that the middle floor his room was on was bedrooms and offices. He wanted to learn what was down this staircase, though. He slipped down the corridor, sticking to the shadows. 

The doors down here were much closer together, and the wood was less engraved. Slaves’ quarters, or storage? He heard footsteps echoing down the corridor. House guard, he wanted to avoid them. Phil turned around, and ran directly into a figure clothed all in black. The figure grabbed his arm and yanked him off his feet. 

Phil made a desperate grab for a knife he didn’t have, and then kicked out. 

“Got him,” someone hissed. “Brat wasn’t in his room. Get the potion.”

That was bad. That was not fucking good at all. Phil tried to twist and bite, but he didn’t have the muscle to pull himself up when he was held at this angle. He managed to land one glancing blow on someone’s face, and then he felt delicate glass shatter against his back. The cold heaviness of potion weakness spread out from the impact site, and the world fell away. 

Phil came back to consciousness slowly, curled on his side in the dark. Well, he’d remembered why he had the impression that his need for a bodyguard would be a convincing argument. Unfortunately, his timing had been wrong. The kidnapping happened after he went to the arena for the first time, not before. 

He was on a rough wooden floor. He’d been gagged, tied hand and foot, and a rope went from his hands to his feet so that he couldn’t straighten out properly. They’d even bound up his wings, which seemed really fucking unnecessary given the whole thing where he didn’t even have flight feathers. Phil breathed carefully through his nose and waited for the weakness left over from the potion to pass. He was conscious now, but his limbs felt heavier than they should be, even with his weak child muscles. 

There was a chink of light coming from a crack under the door, and he could just hear the murmur of voices through it. Well, the first rule of being taken prisoner, after “get back to consciousness” was “figure out the lay of the land”. Phil wormed his way across the floor towards the door. It took a few times to stop and rest—the combo of the potion effects and child’s muscles didn’t make this easy—but he made it only with his face and arms only rubbed a little raw against the floor. 

Pressed up against the door, he could hear voices and movement. Sounded like four or more people, the scrape of a chair on the floor, and footsteps as someone was moving. 

“What if he doesn’t resign, though?” a nervous voice said. By their language and accent, they were avian, and higher-class.

“We don’t need him to resign, we just need him to stop blocking Anthony’s investment.” That was the person walking, also avian. 

“I don’t know,” said a third voice. “Titus is pretty hard to put pressure on—no, look. The bribes didn’t work, making it clear that he’ll be making enemies if he continues didn’t work, what’s to say that yanking his kid’s gonna work?” A chair scraped. “His wife’s still of egg-bearing age, maybe they just try again. I haven’t heard that the kid’s especially noteworthy. And Titus is practical. I don’t know, man’s pretty damn close to untouchable.”

“I don’t care if he’s untouchable, he needs to stop blocking Anthony and stop making us sign alliances with goddamn filthy terrestrials!” The walking person stopped and took a deep breath. “Look, part of his influence is because he’s the golden boy. So successful, brilliant, tactical, whatever the fuck leads into his mythos. So if he won’t respond to all our reasonable offers, we hack the kid to pieces and leave them outside his house. Make it clear he died badly, because of Titus’s actions, then we get Adrianne to start the whispers that he’s a bad father, and we use that to reduce his influence. This is going to work, guys.”

“I don’t know,” the first person said uncertainly.

“Oh come the fuck on, Ben,” a new voice said. “If you can’t make the difficult calls you’ll never survive in politics.”

Phil pushed himself into a sitting position. He had the general tone of the conversation already, he figured. His memories of this kidnapping the first time were a blur of darkness and terrifying threats from adults. Good to know he hadn’t imagined the threat that they were going to cut off his wings. These guys definitely fucking seemed like they would offer to do that. He rested his cheek against his knees for a second. He’d been rescued, eventually, he was pretty sure. His dad had been there and he hadn’t been in trouble for crying, for a little while.

Staying tied up in the dark waiting for rescue sounded unbearable though, and it wouldn’t move his goals forward. Alright. For the first thing, he needed to get out of these ropes. He blinked around the room, trying to see in the light coming from the door. He was in some kind of store room. There were some lumps over in that corner that looked promising. 

Phil scooted himself forward across the floor. He only had to rest once this time, the potion really was wearing off. The lumps in the corner proved to be jugs on a shelf. If he stood to the maximum height allowed by the rope, he could just swipe at them. He worked his feet underneath himself and stood up as tall as possible, uncomfortably hunched over because of the ropes. He could just get his head up to the level he needed, and if he pushed with his head while shuffling along on his feet, he could push the jugs to the edge of the shelf. 

The jug shattered on the floor, and Phil froze in place, scarcely daring to breathe. There was no uptick in noise from the room with the adults, they didn’t appear to have heard the crash. Fuckin’ excellent. He let himself sit down from his uncomfortable crouch. Now he had a whole assortment of sharp shards. Getting out of these ropes was going to be child’s play. 

Phil put his face on his knees and breathed through that, trying to resist the urge to giggle at that thought. See how unprofessional your kidnapping attempt is, guys? A child could break out of here. And he’s fuckin’ going to. Phil took a few deep breaths, leaned over to select a shard of broken pottery, and set about sawing at his ropes.

They hadn’t even bothered to lock the door to the room they’d thrown him in. Phil carefully pulled the string to lift the latch and slipped out into the main room. 

There were five avians in this room lit by lamps. Three of them were sitting at the table, one was pacing, and one was over by a sideboard. Two of the people at the table were still in nondescript dark clothing, and the other three had shed their black over-robes, revealing elaborately embroidered and richly coloured outfits. There was the chink of a bottle against glass at the sideboard. 

“Oh, I’m going to lean on the suppliers so I get fresh fish at the same time as the palace.” One of the men at the table leaned back in his chair, fingers linked behind his head. “What about you?” 

There, on the other side of the room. They’d dumped their weapons in a pile by the door. Phil crept from shadow to shadow, bent low and scarcely daring to breathe. The tile floor was cool under his bare toes. The men at the table laughed as they passed glasses around.

Phil made it to the weapons. The short sword was entirely the wrong size for him, proportion-wise, but the dagger wasn’t exactly right either. Could he fight with a dagger and a knife, maybe? There was a good-sized knife underneath that sword. Phil reached out to carefully move the blade. 

There was the clatter of a chair being shoved back. “Shit, the brat’s out,” someone said. 

Phil’s hands closed on the sword and he threw himself sideways, pivoting as he emerged to turn and face his kidnappers with the weapon out. 

His wings flew out to balance him, blade held out in front of him, but it was wrong, it was all wrong. His wings were the wrong weight and didn’t have the flight feathers to move him, the sword was too heavy and too long, his muscles were barely keeping up with the demands he was putting on them. 

One of the adults made a grab for him, and Phil slashed out with the sword as he dove to the side. 

“Fuck!” someone yelled. “I’ll have your wings, you little rat.” 

There was the slide of more weapons exiting sheaths. Phil breathed steadily, crouched on the balls of his feet and sword held out in front of him. Surely he could kill a couple of them before they got him down again? Look at their clothes, this group was nobles to a one. One of the men stabbed down at him. Phil hit the sword away as he stepped to the side, throwing himself open to Death. 

Nothing happened. 

Where love and rightness normally flooded in, there was just his tiny child body, straining to lift a sword. 

“Get the potions!” someone yelled.

“All we’ve got left is harming!”

“So use the goddamn harming!” 

Another sword slashed in towards his side. He barely got the blade up in time, reverberations shocking through his hands and arm. He nearly dropped the weapon—they had him backed in a corner now. 

He wasn’t the Angel of Death. He wasn’t even Philza—nobody called him that. He was a child, powerless, surrounded by adults who wanted him dead. His arms were tired. 

Phil bared his teeth, hauling the sword higher and mantling his wings. What a way to dedicate himself to death anyways, going out in a hopeless fight. “Alright, you fuckers,” he growled. “Fucking come at me.” He darted forward, ducking under the sword coming towards him and stabbing wildly up into the person’s ribcage. 

The sword sunk in, blood sprayed out, he snapped his teeth at a hand that grabbed for him, a blade scored over his shoulder, and then he was out the other side of the group of men, circling to get the table between him and his kidnappers.

“Rufus, what the fuck,” one of the adults said, looking at the person he’d stabbed. 

Rufus brought a hand to his chest, and then collapsed. He hit the ground, blood gushing from his mouth and the gash in his side. 

“Rufus, what the fuck ,” someone said again, higher pitched, dropping to their knees beside him. The body on the floor twitched and was still. Phil wiped blood away from his eyes.

Oh, there you are , a voice said in the back of his head. Oh you have ended up in quite the mess, haven’t you. It sounded like she was smiling, like she was always smiling at him . Here . Magic slammed through him, the cool touch of death and mental starscape awareness of the souls around him followed by a cascade of awareness of how to use this weapon, in this setting, in this body. 

Time started again. The adults moved towards him, furious and shouting and swinging weapons. The sword in his hand felt natural again.

Phil grinned. He could taste someone else’s blood in his teeth. He moved. 

The door slammed open in the next room as the new arrivals got here. “Where is he?” That was Phil’s father, just a hair’s-breadth away from yelling. “Where is my son?” 

“He’s just through here, he’s fine.” That was the city guard who Phil had found after he stumbled out into the street. “He looks bad, but very little of the blood is his.” 

“Very little—” His voice got very tightly controlled. “How much?” 

“He’s been scraped up a bit, had one gash on his shoulder we had to close.” The guard’s voice was approving. “You’ve got a brave little kid, he didn’t make a peep when we sewed it up.”

“Sewed up? You sewed up my son?”

“We gave him a couple sips of wine first!” 

He was a little cold. Phil pulled the blanket a little tighter around him, eying the mug on the table. He could do this. He carefully moved his hand to his drink and brought it to his mouth, so he could take a sip of the honey-milk. The combination of post-fight adrenaline crash, the middle of the night, and—to be fair—a child’s alcohol tolerance, made him pretty woozy. 

Fuck, he wished he could tell Techno that half a glass of wine had made him drunk.  Techno’d never let him hear the end of it. He missed him. The guard had wiped off his face with a wet rag, but he was still sticky with blood crusted on his neck and behind his ears. Phil took another sip of his drink. 

“Philip. Philip, are you okay?” 

Phil blinked. His father was kneeling to the side of his chair. He was wearing a light sleep tunic that he normally wouldn’t be caught dead seen in public with, with two mismatched over-robes thrown over it. Phil smiled at him. “Hey.” He nodded. “I’m good.”

His father huffed out a laugh and reached out to ruffle his hair. “That’s my boy.” His head tilted to the side, and then he stood up to talk to the guard standing near the door of the guardhouse breakroom they’d stashed Phil in. “What happened to his wings?” 

Something happened to his wings? Phil reached back for his wings, missed, and settled for carefully bringing them forward. He was still fuzzy, but the fluff on his wings had darkened. Huh. 

“There was a lot of death magic in that room, sir,” the guard was saying. “We think they were trying a ritual that went wrong.” 

“And he survived.” Phil’s dad put his arm around Phil’s shoulders and pulled him into his side. “You’re sure everyone who did this is dead?” 

“ Oh yeah.” The guard was nodding. “They turned against each other or somethin’, there was nothin’ movin’ in that room once we got there.” He paused. “There was some paperwork, with their plans and shit—sorry, sorry. Uh, with their plans, we think, though it’s coded. If you want it.”

His father’s thumb was moving in repeating circles on his shoulder. He was so sleepy. Phil leaned his head against his father. “Absolutely I want it,” Phil’s father said. His tone was dark. “Send every bit of possible evidence to my home. If I can’t take them apart for this, I’ll make their families pay.” He tugged at Phil. “Alright, let’s get you home.”

“‘Kay.” Phil stumbled to his feet. There was one more thing he had to do. What was it? Oh yes. Phil blinked up at his father. “Can I have a fuckin’ bodyguard now?” 

His father flicked him lightly in the ear. “Watch your tongue.” He raised his eyebrows. “We’ll think about it.”

God, if they wouldn’t listen to him even now, even after this, he really had no hope of getting Techno out. “Please, sir?” His voice wavered in the middle. He wrinkled his nose and stopped that. 

His father looked down at him for a second, face unreadable. “Alright, we’ll get you your own gladiator.” He tucked a strand of blood-stiffened hair behind Phil’s ear. “Come along, now.”

Phil was so full of energy he was kicking his legs in his chair. “Can we go now?” he asked his mother. 

She laughed slightly at him, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “After we eat, Philip.”

“I’m not hungry,” Phil told her. “I—” he took in her expression and swallowed that retort. He’d just eat fast. “Okay, after we eat.”

“I have to eat too, don’t forget,” his mother said, lightly teasing. “Do you want me to skip breakfast too just because you’re impatient? I waited for you to wake up and everything.”

“Ah.” Phil tucked his toes into the cross-brace of his chair. “No, that would be—we can wait till you eat.” 

“I should think so,” his mother said, still laughing a little. Benca came over with a tray and started placing plates down. His mother lifted a hand. “Ah, I’ll be wanting mint tea as well.”

“Of course, mistress,” Benca said, nodding. He put a plate in front of Phil, a spiced roll stuffed with dried fruit and covered in a sugar glaze. 

Guess the no-dessert rule was being bent. “Thank you, Benca,” Phil said, grabbing the roll with both hands and taking a big bite. 

A couple expressions chased themselves over the fox’s face, settling on a smile. “Of course, little master.” He turned to go. There was a nasty welt on his back visible above the collar of his shirt. And the way he was moving carefully—Phil recognized that. He’d been beaten. 

The sweet roll was abruptly tasteless in Phil’s mouth. “Wait, what happened to you?” He put the roll down on the plate. 

His mother looked at him, confused. “What are you talking about, Philip?” 

Phil gestured—“Your back—his back—he didn’t do anything wrong!” That was a guess, to be fair, but a) Benca seemed like the most even-keeled and non-offensive of men, b) nobody deserved to get beaten. 

“Oh.” His mother sighed. “The house slaves have been punished for their role in letting you be abducted. Eat your breakfast.”

He did not want to eat his breakfast. “But that’s not fair ,” Phil appealed desperately. “They didn’t do anything wrong—I went out the fuckin’ window— everybody got punished?” 

“Philip,” his mother said sternly. “Give me your hand.” 

This again. Phil set his jaw and put his hand in his mother’s grasp. 

“Benca, get me a switch.” 

The house slave’s expression was blank as he pulled a midsized twig from a bush in the garden and stripped it of leaves. He handed it to Phil’s mother. 

“Philip, we have talked,” the switch came down on his hand. “About your language,” again. “It has to stop .” The switch broke, and she looked at it and sighed. “You need to be conscious of your position, and stop talking like a commoner or like a—” she threw up a hand. “Like a common house slave! Do you want people to think you’re a slave, Philip?”

There was only one answer for that that led to him being able to get Techno out of the arena and escape with him, no matter what the truth was. “No, mother,” Phil forced out past the lump in his throat.

She patted his stinging hand, then let it go. “Now, you being concerned about the slaves and fairness is a good sign for your ability to run a household someday, but they did fail to protect you. If we hadn’t punished them, they’d feel even worse. You’ll learn more about house management as you get older.” She smiled at him. “You’ll even get to practise with your new gladiator, which will be good for you. Now, eat your food, and we’ll go pick out a good bodyguard for you.” 

Phil nodded. He didn’t trust himself to say anything, actually, with the noxious cocktail of rage and fury in his chest and the child part of himself that still wanted to cry. He tucked his singing hand into his robes and picked up his breakfast with his left. 

Thank fucking god, Techno was here. Phil spotted him on the end of the line of fighters and fought the urge to wave. The arena masters had pulled out five people and had them standing in the back of the viewing box. They wore leather armour and weapons, and were politely not looking at the avians.

“Sabina, it’s wonderful to see you.” One of the area masters, an avian in red and black, stepped forward and kissed his mother’s hand. 

His mother smiled. “Paul, thank you so much for doing this for us.” 

Phil ignored the adults for a second and anxiously searched Techno with his eyes. He was too small for leather armour, but he had a pauldron bound onto his shoulder. He was too skinny, but he wasn’t standing like he was in pain. There was a small cut on his hand, but it looked clean and not infected. Techno was staring back, expression curious. Phil gave in to the urge and waved at him. The piglin’s expression didn’t change, but he lifted his hand halfway and waved back. The bear hybrid next to him looked down at Techno with his eyebrows raised. Techno looked back and shrugged elaborately, then gave a deadpan expression at Phil, eyebrow raised. Phil grinned back.

“And I think we’ll go with the cat,” his mother was saying. “Is he clean?”

“Ah.” Phil made a strangled noise, staring up at his mother. 

She looked down at him and sighed. “Look, I know you want the—the other one, but seriously, sweetheart, a nether hybrid?”

Oh god, if he got this close and lost him. Phil bit his lip against panic. “He’s my age,” he said, trying for a reasonable tone. He laced his fingers behind his back. “He could teach me how to use a sword, and sleep in my room in case the kidnappers come back.” He’s the best fighter you’ll ever see. He’s so smart. He’s funny. Phil couldn’t know any of that. He didn’t even know if that was true, with this baby version of his friend. He had to keep him safe. God, what could he possibly pressure his mother with? Phil tried to make his eyes big. “He’s not that much taller than me, so he’s not scary.”

His mother looked at him for a second, then looked at the arena master again. “Does that one even speak a civilised language?”

He’s so good at languages. Or he will be, someday. Phil kept quiet, watching the adults. 

The arena master nodded. “He’s actually quite fluent. He’s very well mannered, as well.”

“Are you sure, Philip?” His mother raised an eyebrow. “I know you like the look of him, but you’ll be responsible for him, and you know nether hybrids are unpredictable.”

He wouldn’t be responsible for him for long. They were going to get away and he would set him free, and then he’d take care of him until he was grown up. Phil nodded. “Yep.”

“Fine.” She looked at the arena master. “Now, as the piglin is clearly immature, obviously our originally discussed price will be lowered.”

Phil stepped forward and stopped in front of Techno. “Hi. I’m Phil.”

“Hiya Phil,” the piglin said. He was taller than Phil and looked down at him, and his voice was so much higher than Phil was used to hearing it. He was so young. 

Phil nodded firmly. “What’s your name?”

The piglin eyed him. “My name is whatever you want it to be, master.”

Right. He was a noble. “Oh fu—” Phil said, cutting himself off just in time. “I mean. That wasn’t a trap. I just want to know—“ He took a deep breath, anxiously resettling his wings against his back. “I know it’s supposed to be hard to pronounce your name, or whatever, so if you want I can call you something else. Just, if I am calling you a name, it makes sense that I use the name you’re already used to, doesn’t it?” Phil smiled. 

“Alright,” he said after a pause. “My use-name is Technoblade, master.” He used the nether pronunciation, then flipped back to avian. “But Techno is probably easier.”

“ Technoblade ,” Phil repeated. He reached out and took Techno’s hand. “Or Techno. It’s nice to meet you.” He couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face. 

Techno smiled back, a crooked grin. “Nice to meet you.”

“And this is the kitchen!” Phil said, gesturing with the hand not holding Techno’s. They were standing on the little staircase leading into the main kitchen. “Everyone is very busy, but you can ask for a snack any time and say I asked for it, and they might give it to you.” 

The human rolling out dough for tartlets at the nearest table raised her eyebrows at Phil. Phil smiled hopefully back. 

“Not sure I’d want to ask for special treatment without your permission, sir,” Techno said. 

Phil glanced at him. He’d gotten exasperated with Techno calling him old man once and told him to call him literally anything else, and for a week Techno had tacked a deadpan “sir” onto every sentence. It had ended when he put his head down on the table and given up and said that Techno could call him old if he wanted, please stop it with the formality. Techno had laughed at him for a good ten minutes. That line delivery was achingly familiar. But no, instead of his familiar battle buddy, the person stood next to him was a child in a slightly stained tunic with an incorrectly-sized sword. “Well,” he said. “If you want a snack, ask me if I want a snack, and then you can get us both food, and then we have permission.” He poked Techno in the stomach. “You’re too skinny.”

Techno blinked at him, offended. “I can still fight, sir.” 

“Oh, maybe we can spar,” Phil said, rising on his toes in enthusiasm. 

“You may want to ask your parents about that, young master.” Jensa paused in front of them with a bowl balanced on her hip. “Do you want a meal?”

“I’m just showing Techno where things are!” Phil said. “We can go—do you want food?” He glanced at Techno, who shook his head. “We’ll be gone, sorry!” He tugged Techno back up the stairs, and he followed. “Okay, so this is the rose garden, my mother entertains here in the mornings sometimes, so be careful. If you go on through here there’s the herb garden, and there’s a water garden beyond it.” 

“Philip! There you are.” His tutor appeared at the end of a corridor. “Come along, it’s time for your lessons.” 

Phil had stiffened, and Techno had promptly taken a half-step in front of him. “Uh, I thought I had the day off,” Phil said, leaning around Techno’s shoulder. “Because of the whole kidnapping thing?”

“You had the morning,” his tutor said reprovingly. “That’s plenty of time to laze around. And why are you hanging around this creature?”

Phil briefly fantasised about ripping the man’s throat out with his teeth. “This is Techno, he’s my new bodyguard,” he said as politely as he could manage. 

“Well, I suppose I see why,” his tutor said with a sniff. “You still look a sight. Anyways, no call for a bodyguard now. He can go make himself useful somewhere else. Come along.” He half-turned to go.

Techno barely knew him. He’d be fine alone, and he could probably go more places without a fucking noble going with him. Phil squeezed Techno’s hand once before he let it go. “Alright, I’ll see you later.”

Techno had a strange expression on his face, rapidly replaced by a noncommittal look. “See you later, sir.”

Phil followed his tutor down the corridor. He glanced back over his shoulder once at Techno. The piglin was standing in the middle of the hall, watching him go.

Lessons didn’t go well, but that was over now. Phil focused on the fact that he had found Techno being given new tunics in the laundry, and now he got to show him his room. He gestured. “So this is our room.” 

Techno nodded, looking around. Phil followed his eyeline. Phil’s bed, his table by the window, the bookcase—

“Oh yeah, these are my books and shit,” Phil said. He pulled one off the shelf and looked at it. Tiny scribbled font. “Mostly for school, but you might like them.” He looked up. “Do you read?”

Techno nodded, then wobbled a hand. “A bit, sir.” 

Phil could barely imagine a Techno not reading. Maybe they could bring some books with them when they ran. “Well, if you want to read them, they’re all there.” Phil put the book back on the shelf. “There’s history and shit, you might like.” He was rambling, faced with this tiny version of his friend. He wanted to take care of him, and he wanted to stick right next to him and never leave him alone. Focus, right. Phil scrambled over to his bed. “It gets put under my bed at night, but you have a cot, and I wasn’t sure, so I gave you one one of my stuffed animals. I gave you the bear but if you want a different animal I have a snake and a hedgehog too.”

Techno reached out to touch the stuffed bear. “No sir, bear’s good.” 

“Alright, good.” Phil nodded. He sat on the edge of his bed, anxiously flaring and unflaring his wings. Techno was looking at something else—the wardrobe full of outfits and the jewellery box sitting on the table.

He’d never seen Techno without some jewellery before. Even when they’d been absolutely dead broke and working as mercenaries, Techno had little gold loops in his ears and a plain gold ring. And here he had nothing except bruises, and Phil was decked out. Phil opened his mouth, then shut it again. “You’re gonna get in fuckin’ trouble if I give you jewellery. I’m sorry.”

Techno glanced at him in apparent confusion, and then shook his head. “Nah, I’m fine. I was just lookin’ around. Sir.” 

“No, you should have fuckin’ somethin’ ,” Phil said. He wanted to give his friend something. He went to his chest of toys and rummaged through it. There was something he’d seen earlier—there. Phil pulled out a cloth doll with a long set of looping yarn necklaces. He bit them off, and then sat down on the floor to do some quick braiding. “There,” he said, emerging after an intent few minutes. He scrambled to his feet and went over to Techno, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him. “Give me your hand.”

Techno glanced at him, eyebrows raised, and then put his hand out. 

Phil looped the strands of braided yarn around his wrist and focused on getting the ends tied. “There, now you have a jewellery, and I can have a matching one.” He started working on the ends of his own braided yarn, trying to tie it one-handed.

“I’ve got it, sir,” Techno said, reaching out. 

Phil held out his hand, and let Techno tie the bracelet on. He took a deep breath and smiled across at his friend. “There, now you have something, and now we match.”

“We do,” Techno said. He moved the yarn bracelet with his other hand and smiled. “Thanks, Phil.”

The morning kitchen was quiet and dark as it waited until the early shifts started. Bowls of bread dough sat quiescent on the tables, barely outlined in the glow from the banked fires in the ovens. Phil stood on his toes to scan around, and then hunched down low behind the table. “Alright, everybody’s in the salon for drinks and shit, and the guard only comes through here every hour,” he whispered. “We should be good.” Crouched next to him, Techno nodded intently. Phil crept forward in bare feet. “Follow me.” 

He darted from the safety of the corridor to the shadow of a table, and then to the side of an oven that still radiated heat. There was a faint glow down the hallway, a lantern throwing light and shadows. Both figures froze in place. Techno put his hand on Phil’s shoulder and squeezed. Phil stayed silent in the shadows, breathing lightly. With the very faint sound of footsteps, the light faded away. 

Phil patted the hand on his shoulder, and then scrambled forward towards the swinging door of the pantry. “Alright.” He straightened up, bringing out the lamp that he’d been holding tight as he ran. Techno reached out with a flint and steel, and with a tiny sizzle, they were both looking at each other over the wick of a clay lamp. Phil grinned at Techno, full of adrenaline. So far so good. He gestured. “Can you bring it over here?” Techno nodded and brought the lamp towards the shelves stacked high with items. Phil scanned the shelves as fast as he could. “Here.” He handed Techno a small waxed wheel of cheese, and two cured sausages, then faced the shelves. “Alright, you fuckers.” He could just see a bag of something on the top shelf. Could that be useful? He started climbing the shelves, digging his toes into the slats. Techno came up below him and caught his foot, lifting him up. “Thanks, Techno,” Phil muttered, clinging to the shelves. Techno made a noncommittal “you’re welcome” noise. 

It was a bag of lentils. Those would cook up okay, if he just got a pot for them when they were on the run. Phil grabbed the edge of the bag and leaned back, trying to shift it. It weighed about half of what he did, he might need Techno to lift it. 

“What the hell is this?” 

Phil froze in place halfway up the shelves. The door to the pantry was swinging open, and the head cook was standing there with a lamp in his hand.

“They were stealing food, master,” the cook said to the head of the house. His arms were folded across his chest. Shadows from the lanterns on the table danced around the room. 

Phil’s father rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Heavy rings gleamed on his hand. “Do you have anything you want to say for yourself, Philip?” 

The hands of the house guard holding him tightened on Phil’s shoulders. “It was my idea,” Phil said promptly. His wings were smashed painfully against his back by the guard. “I wanted food, so I went to get it. I made Techno come along to hold things for me, he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

His father looked at the cook with his eyebrows raised. “Techno?” 

The cook jerked his head at Techno, being held by another guard. “Your son named the new slave, master.”

“Right.” He sighed. “You can’t be doing this, Philip, but no real harm done.” He waved a hand. “Punish the boy as you see fit, beat the slave, send them to bed.” He turned to leave. “They should be in bed anyways.” 

“No,” Phil said, completely involuntarily. He struggled to get free from the guard, but the man holding him by the shoulders had leverage and at least a hundred pounds of weight on him. “No, he didn’t do anything, it was my idea .”

“Philip, don’t make a fuss about nothing, it’s unseemly.” His father paused in the door. “I know you’re fascinated by the boy or something, but he’s a slave who stole food. There’s consequences for that.” He raised his eyebrows. “Really I’m being very lenient, just because of your recent experiences.”

“Please,” Phil said, through a horrible lump in his throat. “Just punish me, beat me , I did it.” His voice broke. “Please, father.”

His father turned and looked at him for a moment. “No.” He shook his head.”I think this is quite adequate punishment. Your actions have consequences, Philip.” He waved a hand at the guard as he left. “I’m not to be disturbed unless something catastrophic happens.”

The cook glanced across at one of the guards. “Get me my cane, will you?”

“You can sleep on my bed, it’s softer,” Phil said. Fuck, he kept sniffling. He’d held it together through his punishment—that was fine—but seeing his child-sized friend held in place for a beating had started the furious tears, and then he’d heard the sounds of pain he made when the blows hit, and now his nose wouldn’t stop running. 

“I don’t think I can do that, young master,” Techno said. He stood with his shoulders slightly hunched in the entrance to Phil’s room. 

“Fuck, no, you’ll get in trouble again.” Phil scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I, okay, you can have the pillow from my bed, it has feathers.” He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. “That was my fault. I am so fucking sorry.” 

Techno’s shoulders moved in a shrug, and he winced. He smiled slightly at Phil. “I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t—” The words ripped free of Phil, and then he stopped himself. Making this child feel worse about his punishment wasn’t going to help anything. He took a deep breath. 

His eyes kept fucking leaking—he hated this. He hated being a child, he hated being powerless, he hated that he had nobody he could trust, he hated that he got people hurt because of his own stupid fucking actions. He hated this fucking city. He pulled Techno’s cot out from under his bed, and then got his pillow and put it at the head of the blankets. 

“Okay, you can sleep.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that just kept coming in this damn child body. “I’ll blow out the lamp, okay?”

“I really am okay, sir,” Techno said as he carefully sat down on the cot. His tone was concerned. And now he made the person he got hurt worried for him. Fantastic. 

“I know,” Phil said. He marched over to the lamp on the table and blew it out, shrouding the room in darkness. “I’m sorry.” He climbed into bed and curled up, letting the tears leak into the mattress. 

Phil pushed himself up out of his blankets in the early morning. Crying himself to sleep had left his eyes crusty, but aside from that he felt pretty okay. Being a child was awful, but at least sleep recovery worked. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned. On the cot next to his bed, he saw Techno start to move. 

“Nope,” Phil said, putting his foot on the pillow. “You don’t get up.”

Techno eyed him from where he was sprawled face-down on the cot. “What if I want to get up?” 

“Don’t do it,” Phil warned him. He scrambled out of bed and confronted his wardrobe. “I’m getting breakfast, don’t you dare move.”

“I think maybe I want to move, though.” Techno started to push his way upright and drew in a painful breath. 

“No!” Phil told him. “See?” He found a decently un-fancy green robe and started climbing into it. “Don’t move, or I’ll—” He sighed from inside the robe as he pulled it around him. “Fuckin’ cry, probably.”

“Oh no,” Techno said. He had a faintly horrified look on his face. “Okay, I’ll stay here.” 

“Good,” Phil threw on a necklace and headed for the door. 

“Good morning,” Phil said, hands laced behind his back. “Can I have some breakfast, please?”

Several of the kitchen staff looked at him sceptically, but Shanla put the spoon back in the bowl of peach filling she was spreading out into sweet rolls and looked at him, dusting her hands on her apron. “Alright, what can I get for you, little master?” 

“Anything is good.” Phil took a deep breath. He’d thought of this on the way over. “But if you have it, could I have some melon and salt and lime and chilli, and some of the crumbly white cheese, and pepitas?” 

The rabbit hybrid raised her eyebrows at him. “What brings this on?”

Phil worried at his own fingers behind his back. “I wanted to make a salad, it’s a nether thing. It’s for Techno.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Alright. That’s very kind.” She turned and headed towards the stairs that led to the cold room. “I don’t know about you making the salad, little master, but I’ll see what we can get together. You’ve been reading again?” 

“Yeah,” Phil said, following her. “A bit.”

Techno was sitting crosslegged on the cot when Phil got back. Phil nodded to him. “How do you feel?” 

“Fine, sir,” Techno said. His eyes tracked the bowl Phil was carrying in the crook of his arm. 

“I know that’s a fuckin’ lie,” Phil said. He wrinkled his nose as he saw Techno start to respond. “Or, okay. Fine enough.” He put the bowl in Techno’s hands. “I got you melon tajín salad for breakfast. You probably have enough time to eat it before we have to go do shit.” 

Techno was staring into the bowl. He fished around the container and came out with a spoonful of chopped melon dusted with spices and speckled with shards of white cheese, which he brought up to his nose and sniffed. He put the spoon back in the bowl. “This is nether food.”

“Yeah—” Phil’s stomach dropped. “Shit, did I make it wrong? I wanted something good cause of last night, I heard it was good for healing once.” He’d been told by a certain piglin that it was good for healing and it was the only thing that would let me feel better, Phil, surely we have some melons, I know it’s snowing but there are greenhouses, Phil, aren’t we creative and resourceful? I’m wastin’ away here, Phil. He’d found the melons, and thrown in—oh shit, the cheese and pumpkin seeds had been his own innovation. He’d fucked up. 

Techno jabbed the spoon at him. “This is real specific nether food, Philza Minecraft.” He was grinning. “Where’d you get this recipe?”

“I read it.” Phil lied promptly. “I mean, I must have read it wrong. I made it up—” The rest of what Techno said penetrated and he sat down on the floor. “How’d you know my name?” 

“How’d you know about a salad that wouldn’t be invented for another couple centuries, old man?” Techno put the bowl to the side and threw himself off the cot to put his arms around Phil. “Hey there, Philza,” he said, voice muffled in the avian’s shoulder. 

Phil squeezed him back, trembling slightly as he wrapped his fuzzy wings around them. He wasn’t alone. His friend was here. He wasn’t alone. “Hey, Technoblade.” His voice broke in the middle, but he wasn’t sure if it was from tears or laughter. They felt like the same thing, right now. “And you can’t call me that, we’re the same fuckin’ age !”

“I’m so glad to find you, Phil,” Techno said, still muffled. “I’m so glad to find you.” He emerged from the hug to look at Phil, and then went back in for another hug. “Why were you trying to steal food, anyways? I thought you were just being a kid or something.” 

“So that we’d have food when we ran away!” Phil took a deep breath and sat back, swiping his sleeve at his nose. Techno was there —he’d found his friend, and his friend knew him. He could face fuckin’ anything, now. “This city fuckin’ sucks. I was gonna get you out of here.” He wiped his eyes. “Do y’wanna go tonight?” 

“Eh, I’m kinda involved with the revolution now, Phil.” Techno also wiped at his eyes, and then reached up to the cot to pull the melon bowl into his lap. “Had to be a conduit of the blood god to convince them to spare you when it pops off, but y’know, that was gonna happen anyways.” He shrugged slightly. “So now I’m one of the weapons we’re usin’.” He ate a spoonful of the melon salad and made a pleased humming sound. 

“Oh that’s pog.” Phil nodded. He reached out for the melon bowl. “Can I have some?” At Techno’s nod, he scooped out a handful of salad. He remembered one time they had discussed early-early memories, and Techno had mentioned being part of a revolution. That movement was going to work, and he was willing to bet that the attack he remembered that brought everything to flames came from inside the city, not outside it. Good. God. Phil ate a cube of melon and licked the juice off his fingers. “Okay, so we have to stay. Fuck.” He’d have to stay and treat Techno like everyone else did, like this . He blinked hard. “Mate, I don’t know why you didn’t hate me on sight when we met, with me like, bein’ from here.”

Techno raised his eyebrows at him. “Phil, when we met you fought on my side when I made a bad joke and got jumped in a bar, and then you got thrown out with me, and then you offered to buy me a drink at the other bar in town.” He carefully picked out a morsel of cheese and ate it. “Plus you were swearin’ the whole time, so you weren’t standin’ on ceremony at all.”

“Yeah, my parents really don’t like the swearin’.” Phil took a breath, holding it when it went shaky. He scooted closer so his knee could press against Techno’s leg. “Alright, this is just like bein’ undercover, right? We did that, uh, once.” They had infiltrated a city while pretending to be dentists, of all things. Techno had gotten really into the background research and could still rattle off teeth facts for years afterwards. Phil had had to fake coughing fits when asked questions he didn’t know the answer to, which happened a lot. 

Techno was nodding firmly. “We did that before! And obviously this place needs to come down.” He poked Phil in the arm with his spoon. “If we were grown, we’d be doin’ this anyways, it’s just a little extra challenge cause we’re like—“ He sighed, poking at his tiny tusks. “So small.”

“Yeah you’re just microscopic, mate,” Phil said. He ate another cube of melon. He had someone he could tease and the conversation would not be barbed comments and hidden traps. He had someone who would watch his back. He had his friend back. He felt light-headed with relief. “Blow away in a stiff wind, you.”

“Hey, you can’t even fly yet,” Techno said reproachfully. “Don’t come preachin’ to me about bein’ small.” He poked at Phil with the spoon. Phil batted the spoon away. Techno shook his head sadly at him. “You’re fuzzy . To think I’d see the day with Philza Minecraft with fuzzy wings.”

“Yeah it fuckin’ sucks,” Phil agreed. “Can’t even get off the ground.” He leaned forward. “They’re really soft though, want to see?” Techno reached out to pat Phil’s wings, and made an appreciative noise. Phil sat back. Two bruised children sat together on the floor of an expensive villa, sticky with melon juice. “Alright, so we gotta stay here a little longer.” He took a deep breath. Time to plan for the future with less panic about getting out . “Does your revolution need a noble? I’m like—“ he wobbled a hand. “I’m like half of the angel right now. She’s keepin’ me locked out till I’m older.” 

Techno grinned across at him. “Phil, the revolution would be delighted to have a god-touched fighter, and if they aren’t, I’ll shout at them till they say yes.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can be real convincing, don’t worry.”

“Alright.” Phil clenched his fists, taking a deep breath. “We can do this.” 

“We can totally do this.” Techno nodded firmly. 

Someone to watch his back. A corrupt government to take down. A friend he could be himself with. A society full of traps and injustice he had to navigate. Totally achievable goals. “This city’d better fuckin’ watch out.” Phil grinned at his friend, who grinned back. “We’ve got this.”