#technotalks

Who told you about us?

[general trigger warnings for: death, grief & depression, brief mention of blood, allusions to disassociation, and self-negligence in regards to one's own health.]

There are few things that Technoblade finds as satisfying as weaving. He spent hours and hours making the fabric for his infamous red cape, after all (and hours more still carefully stitching in the runes for to ward against harm, to ward against fire and wind and rain, to defend in tandem with each other).

It is, quite frankly, the only thing keeping him from abandoning Ranboo’s death veil entirely.

His fingers are plastered with gauze and tape by the time he’s done; the spider-silk stained rust at the edges despite his best efforts. It is beautiful, he thinks, as he gazes upon the thing that denotes the fact that he has lost one of the most important people in his life. “It’s beautiful,” he says quietly to himself, in a house too cold and too quiet, and chokes on a sob as he tries not to tear the damn thing in two.

And despite the fact that he hates it, he loses himself in the rest of the work of preparing for a piglin funeral. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve had a body to decorate in gold and quartz, telling the world the story of a man that was beloved by strangers. A friend to most. People, not sides. A warrior, a builder, a tirelessly kind individual. But the server is mostly non-piglin, and they hosted an overworld funeral. Lowered Ranboo’s body into the dirt and let be covered by earth that had done nothing wrong except to be trampled by individuals who would rather collect attachments than to share in them.

(Selfishly, he wishes he could’ve stopped them. Selfishly, he wants his son to be treated with the respect that he deserved in life.)

A day passes.

And another.

Finally, after three days and almost three nights (gods, he isn’t the man he used to be) he has enough wood to burn through an entire night. And so, as the sun sets, the flames start to burn high and hot enough to remind him of the Nether. The flames cast flickering shadows over his face as he begins to sing a mourning song below the stars - the only beat being the crack-kszt of the bonfire, and his only accompaniment the forest behind him.

There is a long pavilion they speak of Of which I’ll never seek But as the flames burn low in our camps tonight I find your soul is one I cannot keep.

Stay safe on your travels, my son Take Death’s hand and ask her so: “Will my memory be kept?” And if Death replies with no, Turn towards the sun, and pray and weep.

But do not fear, my son, my dear I sing for you and you alone Your memory is fine with me There is nothing to fear or weep for The only prayer is mine

His hands are built for violence. They are weathered, calloused things; hands that have bathed in the blood of poor souls that thought they could stand up to The Blade; hands that are broad and thick and forged in war to hold an axe for as long as he needs.

His hands are built for violence, and Technoblade knows it. The delicate, clumsy piece of jewelry cradled in them is a testament to how out of practice he is with things other than what people have called his, well, calling. But it'll have to do, because there are six other pieces that came out even worse, and Ranboo is on their way. He doesn't have time to redo it.

It doesn't help that his hands are shaking as he types out a quick message on his communicator.

Glad to be back, Eret. I, uh, think I need to clean my house up - been gone for a while, huh? - and anyhow, would you like to come over for dinner?

The moment he sees Ranboo standing on the docks, all gangly limbs and shaggy hair and poorly fitting tuxedo, even after all this time, he runs.

He runs straight into his son, warm and alive, and the two of them tumble down into the snow (and of course, Technoblade makes sure that it is his back lying in the cold, because Ranboo is alive and he never wants to see them hurt again if he can help it). It is the first time in his life that he wants to cry over someone that isn’t Philza, shed tears out of happiness that someone’s body is fragile flesh and blood returned to… well, not just him.

But he is selfish and weak when it comes to his son, so he quietly thinks to himself that he’s allowed to believe that Lady Death did him this favor for a moment. That he can hold his child now. That he can press the palms of his hands against traitorous eyes that threaten to let tears fall, for the briefest of moments.