#tkot

Your restful sleep makes you feel more energized than you have in centuries. The grass is soft underneath your bare feet as you walk. The breeze is steady, making your elegant robes billow out to the side. Your eyes flutter closed in content. You do not trip or fall. You’ve walked every part of this server too many times for that to happen.

The waves crash against the side of the cliff a short distance away from you. The salty smell of the ocean mixes beautifully with the scents of the flowers. This is the environment you love; alone, not lonely, quiet, but not silent. 

This is your home. The entire server is your home. You have no designated dwelling. No castle, cottage, or base. You rest on the softest patches of grass. Conjure a pillows of flowers to rest your head on. Sometimes, a fox will pad over and curl into your body for warmth. The long-abandoned Temple of Time is your workspace, a place rarely visited.

You continue walking, taking in the peaceful sights. The light breeze makes the blade of grass and the flowers sway languidly as if in a slow dance. You twirl around once to match them, a soft giggle leaving your lips.

You are still naive at this point. Still foolish. Still young. Still unaware of the curse of your duties.

You’re so happy listening to the symphony of the world - the birds, the grass, the distant waves, your breathing - that you don’t even notice that you’ve strayed from your usual path. 

Only when your eyes catch on something unfamiliar do you realize. Nothing is unfamiliar in this server. Not to you. It's not supposed to be. Your job is to keep track of everything. How could you have missed this- this home?

Conjuring your notebook and quill from the air, you walk closer to the dwelling. 

Voices. Human voices. You hear them wafting from the windows of the home. Two masculine voices that speak back and forth. The sounds mix in with the rest of the world.

You realize that you’ll have to speak. You realize that you haven’t spoken in years. Your voice is slightly husky when you test it out quietly, but it isn’t broken or cracking. 

Drawing yourself up to your full height, you stride right up to the wooden door an knock.

The voices go quiet. The words still. So do you. 

You wait. Wait as there is silence - except for nature’s symphony - for a couple more moments. Wait as you hear low muttering. Wait as you hear what sounds like a chair scraping against the floor. Wait as the sound of a blade rings true. Wait as the doorknob turns. Wait as the door is slowly opened.

You are greeted by a person. Maybe not a fully human person, but a person nonetheless. That mere fact takes a few moments to sink in. As does the fact that a crossbow is being pointed right at your heart.

“Hello?”

The man in front of you, the one who opened the door, the one holding the crossbow, has a deep voice. Deep like the thunder that crashes during the powerful rainstorms. Deep like the ravines you love flying over. But it’s strangely soothing.

Your face brightens in the most minuscule smile as you respond. “Hello.”

Another man steps into view. He looks very different. Blond hair instead of pink. Blue eyes instead of a dark red. Curious smile instead of a wary scowl. Green clothes instead of red. He seems a little older too. Or maybe that’s just the shadow of his stripped bucket hat. 

“Who are you?” The crossbow man demands, shifting his grip on the weapon slightly. A long lock of his pink hair falls over his shoulder. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

The man in green interjects. “Techno, calm down. I don’t think she’s a threat.”

Techno. So that’s his name.

You laugh. “I wouldn’t dismiss me like that.” 

It’s true. You are a goddess. You have the power to conjure. You have the power to make things simply cease to exist. You may not be as powerful as Time, but no one is. You still are a force to be reckoned with when provoked.

“See,” the man called ‘Techno’ growls, not taking his eyes away from you for a second.

You are unfazed. “Who might you be?” you ask.

“I’m Philza,” the other tells you. “Philza Minecraft.” 

He seems far more chipper. More friendly, more welcoming. He’s much warmer. But Techno is cold as ice. His crossbow still hasn’t been lowered. It still is aimed directly at your chest. The arrow would go straight through you if he pulled the trigger.

You’d feel every bit of pain the injury would cause. Feel everything as if you were a mortal. But no matter how much you’d bleed, you wouldn’t die. Nothing could kill you. You were a goddess. The Keeper of Time. Of course a measly arrow wouldn’t kill you.

“I’m Technoblade.”

You nod, mentally committing to memory everything you’ve learned thus far. When you get back to your favorite clearing in the forest, you’ll record the events in your notebook. 

“Who are you?”

It’s been centuries - maybe millenniums - since you’ve had to answer that question. An almost immeasurable amount of time since you’ve had to carefully select your words as to not give too much away. Despite how long it’s been, you remember your standard response.

“My name is Y/n Tempus.” Tempus meant ‘time’ in the ancient language of the server. No one except for you remembers it. It’s a dead language. Practically extinct. But the name is fitting. It is not your actual surname. You don’t have one. But if you did... Tempus is what you would choose.

“Where are you from?”

“Thousands of blocks away.”

It isn’t entirely a lie. Technically, you were born very far away from the doorstep of the cottage you currently stand at, but you aren’t from anywhere. You were born too long ago for anything to count. 

“Why are you here?”

“Technoblade?!” Philza sounds exasperated, embarrassed, and angry all at the same time. “I told you not to be so hostile.”

You chuckle. “Oh no. Let me assure you, I completely understand. I’d be quite wary if I met the first other human on the server.”

That makes both of the men go quiet. They share a confused glance. They look back at you. Then look at one another again. Finally, the silence is broken.

Philza takes a step closer to you, concern evident on his face. “Young one?”

You nearly bark a laugh at the ironic pet name. You may look young, your youthful beauty may hide the millenniums of years you’ve lived, but it doesn’t erase them.

But for the sake of maintaining your ruse, maintaining your relative anonymity, you say nothing.

“Where did you come from?”

Your brows furrow slightly in a puzzled sort of frustration. “I told you, thousands of blocks away from here.”

Another concerned look is shared between the men. Techno and Philza are their names. You must remember for later. You always do. It isn’t an issue. Your memory is impeccable.

Techno asks the questions again this time. “Have you never heard of the Community House?”

The name doesn’t ring a bell. “No.” For once, your answer is completely truthful.

“Do you not know who Wilbur and Dream are?”

“No.”

“Sapnap and George and Tommy?”

“No. Who are they? Surely, they can’t be humans.” They can’t be. Philza and Techno have been the first human-dish beings you've seen on the server in many many centuries.

“Well, not all of them are humans. There are a lot of hybrids.” Philza gestures to himself and his companions. “Matter of fact, Techno and I are hybrids as well.”

You have trouble processing the news. How could humans and human-like creatures have just re-appeared since yesterday? When you went on your morning and nighttime strolls around the previous day, you saw nothing. Today, you see a home. You “meet” the two people living inside. You learn that they know many other humans.

You think back to the last thing you remember. 

The lighthouse.

You remember visiting the lighthouse on it’s monthly check. Checking to make sure nothing is severely broken or damaged beyond its previous state of minor disrepair. You remember falling asleep on a particularly soft clump of grass after drawing on the smooth surfaces of the rocks that rest near the water’s edge. It’s a fun pastime of yours, creating small pictures using crushed berries. 

You painted them only yesterday. Today is the day after yesterday. You visited the lighthouse, went on your normal walks, and tended to your pets yesterday. Everything was normal yesterday. Today has proven to be quite the opposite.

“Excuse me,” your voice is clipped, masking an emotion they’ll never decipher. “but could you please take me to the lighthouse?”

Their expressions of blatant confusion only amplify your panic. It’s been a long time since you’ve panicked.

But then, Technoblade’s eyes flash with recognition, remembrance. “Do you mean the old, crumbled, stone tower near the ocean?”

Old? Crumbled? Yes, the lighthouse was in sub-optimal condition the last time you visited - yesterday - but it shouldn’t be destroyed in the span of a few hours. The few hours you spent resting.

“Yes,” you manage to say.

To your surprise and immense relief, Philza Minecraft and Technoblade lead you out of the unfamiliar territory they call home and to your home.

Sure enough, when you arrive, the lighthouse isn’t what you remember. Vines grow up the sides of what’s left of the walls.The stones are much smoother, as if because of erosion. But erosion takes time. And not enough time has passed for visible effects of erosion to be shown.

A flash of color catches your eyes. You paintings on the rocks. Or, what’s left of them. Most of the image has faded, been washed away.

But how? You were just here yesterday. A trembling hand - yours - ghosts over the paintings. Memories of creating them flash one after another. Memories are strong. But they can also be false.

“How long has it been since these were painted?” You ask your travel companions who have stuck around, deciding to explore some of the area as well.

Philza answers. “Over a century ago.”

That makes you freeze. Makes your muscles tense. Makes everything screech to a halt. 

“But that can’t be right,” you mumble to yourself, trying to make sense of everything you’re being told. “I went to sleep and-”

Your unspoken question answers itself. It was your sleep. Your rest. Somehow, somehow, over a century managed to fly by as you rested your eyes. How that happened your will never understand. 

Once again, Time refuses to wait. Or maybe it simply can’t. 

Politely thanking Technoblade and Philza, you assure them that you know your way home and walk away. Walk towards your favorite clearing in the forest. Walk even a little further to where the Temple of Time is tucked away.

You sit down right in the center of the floor, the diamond and stone brick floor cool and smooth underneath you. Your dress forms almost a halo around you as you bent forward to begin recording in your notebook....

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

From the Notebook of Y/n, Keeper of Time:

It seems that time has eluded me once more. I went to sleep yesterday - or what I thought was yesterday - and woke up today. Only to find out that today is over a hundred years after yesterday.

I’ve been told that in the time that I’ve been asleep, humans and hybrids once again walk the server. And apparently, there’s a “god” among them. Another one. Not me. Not Time. 

The Blood God, is what he’s called.

He is not actually the God of blood. It’s merely a title. A name assigned to him. His name is Technoblade. ‘Techno’ for short. Those he is not close with call him ‘the Blade’. I can tell that nickname affects him. I don’t need to ask why. Maybe I will someday, though. Maybe just to see what he says.

Philza Minecraft, the other man I met today, also has his own title. I’ve heard as much. The Angel of Death. I know Death. Quite well, actually. She’s quite kind. I didn’t tell him that, though.

No one knows who I am yet. They don’t need to. It’s forbidden for me to share my true identity. I share my real first name and make up a surname, but I also craft entire backstories for me.

Someday, I’ll observe the other humans and hybrids. I won't meet them. I won’t let myself form attachments. It’s dangerous. It’s setting myself up for heartbreak. I would know. I do know. From experience. And trust me, it’s not an experience I want to have again.

For now, I must get used to the fact that I have company once more. I must return to living in the shadows and forcing myself into isolation. I must prepare to write a lot in this Notebook. 

I must prepare for a new Era. A new wave of life and pain and suffering. Of death and rebirth. Of knowledge and power. Of true hearts and corrupt kingdoms. 

It’s time, my dears, for the Era of the New Server.

Taglist: