【超字數(shù)了，，，分三期了，，，】

She rolled over to fix him with her piercing blue eyes, looking annoyed. As if Techno had failed some sort of test he did not even know he was taking. “Well, I feel like that sometimes,” she declared imperiously.

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“How could you not? You’re so small, of course your spirit would want to break out of there. You’re suffocating it.”

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“I feel like a frog sometimes, too,” she continued, in that nonsensical way that young children often bounced from the heaviest subjects to the lightest without warning or prolonged thought. Techno missed having that kind of power—the power to simply not give a damn. “Mama and I went to the village yesterday, and it rained, so we had to stop under a tree so we wouldn’t get wet, and I found three frogs running by in the rain! Three frogs, Techno! Have you ever seen three frogs all at once?”

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“Never,” Techno lied easily. “That’s the rarest occurrence in the world, I think. As rare as a quadruple rainbow. I think the gods might be sending you a sign.”

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“And the frogs,” she barreled on, seeming to give no heed to Techno’s reply, “they were just jumping from one puddle to another. Splish, splash, splish, splash. But I don’t think they liked any of the puddles because they didn’t stay in one for too long. Splish, splash, on to the next adventure!”

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“Adventure, huh?” Techno mused. “Is that what your spirit wants then? To break out for a great big adventure?”

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“I don’t know what my spirit wants to do when it gets out.”

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When, Techno noted. Not if. What she wanted, she would get, and Techno was almost always the instrument for it.

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“But,” she added, getting to her feet, “right now, I think I’d rather not get scolded by papa. So, let’s go home.”

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And she smiled, that smile that ran in Techno’s family and seemed to find him the only exception. It was a smile, Techno thought, that wars would be fought for. It was a smile that could burn this whole damn forest down. The gods took all the good things they had ever created and stitched it into the corners of that smile.

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Techno couldn’t help but smile back, rougher on the edges and made of meaner stuff.

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He got to his feet and held out a hand to his sister. She placed her tiny palm in his. It was the most precious thing Techno would ever hold.

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“Let’s go home,” he echoed.

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Philza rolled the apple between his palms, feeling its weight in his hands for a moment before he tossed it into the basket by his feet. Already, it was piled high with the ruby-red fruit, spilling over into the grass below. He stepped back and inhaled deeply, the scent of apple blossoms and spring and life crawling into his lungs and settling there like an animal in hibernation. He could taste the sweetness on his tongue. He could feel the breeze against his skin.

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The apple orchard was ready for harvest, and everything was all right with the world.

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“Dad!”

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Philza turned to watch his son weaving between the trees. He couldn’t help the laugh that exploded out of him at the sight of his youngest son’s arms piled high with apples, toppling to the ground with every excited step he took. By the time he reached Phil, he only had a handful left with him, the rest leaving a trail of red through the orchard.

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But he was grinning as if he had accomplished something great.

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“Best delivery boy in the whole kingdom,” Tommy said proudly. “I’m still waiting for that promotion to Head apple-Picker.”

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Philza ruffled his hair affectionately. He’s gotten so tall, Phil thought as the golden strands slipped between his fingers like running water. “You have to beat out other competition to get that title, Tommy. Can’t have the people thinking I’m giving you special treatment.”

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“It’s only right to give special treatment to your special boy!” Tommy declared, rolling the apples into the grass by his feet.

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“That is nepotism.”

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“No, it’s being a good father.”

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Phil’s smile faltered, almost infinitesimally. But Tommy caught it anyway.

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“Hey,” he said with a gentler voice than Philza deserved. “Is something wrong?”

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“No,” Phil said, feeling fissures form in his chest where his heart used to beat. He took a deep breath, letting the taste of pollen linger on his tongue before he swallowed the bitterness down. “Nothing’s wrong. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

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Tommy stared back at him with soft blue eyes. Someone once told Philza that children were merely reflections of their parents, but he knew that couldn’t be true. Because every time he looked in a mirror, he only ever saw the worst of himself—all the places he’d abandoned, all the people he’d killed, all the sons he’d left orphaned. But when he looked at Tommy, all he ever saw was proof that the universe still had the capacity for goodness.

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Tommy really did get a lot taller. In time, he would grow to be even taller than Philza was.

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If only he hadn’t died before he could.

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There were many things, Philza knew, that Tommy could never do now. To even have him standing before Philza under the shifting shadows of their kingdom’s apple trees was an impossibility. Tommy’s brows drew together in confusion as the silence between them stretched on; Philza knew he was only prolonging the inevitable.

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Just let me stay in this lie, he begged, for one second more.

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A minute passed. Two. Tommy shifted on his feet.

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“Dad…?” he whispered.

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Philza sighed, and, in a quiet, broken voice, he said, “This isn’t real, is it?”

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Tommy stared at him blankly.

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And then he began to smile.

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“Follow the breadcrumbs,” his little sister said. “That’s what papa always says.”

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The path was well-worn and cut through the thickest part of the forest. The trees were so close together that the sunlight could no longer pierce through, leaving the two of them walking through the dim with no guide but their hands in each other’s and the memory of their father’s murmured words. Follow the breadcrumbs. The little things would be the ones that kept them on the right track: a crooked tree, a low-hanging branch with all its leaves plucked off by passing hands, a pile of rocks by the side of the road that a younger Techno had spent three bored minutes stacking together—now moss-covered and leaning dangerously to the side, but still standing.

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Following breadcrumbs through a cold, dark forest with his little sister’s hand curled around his fingers. This was a route they knew by heart, and a story they’ve lived hundreds of times before.

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“Follow the breadcrumbs,” his sister repeated, tightening her grip on Techno, “and you’ll never get lost.”

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And then, slowly, she began pulling him to the side, heading straight towards the brambles.

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Techno pulled her back onto the road, small feet skidding reluctantly across the dirt. “Papa also says to not stray from the path,” he reminded her sternly, eyeing the dark trees standing like silent sentinels on either side of them. The path was safe. The path would take them home. Anything else was a dangerous gamble. Though he knew this forest well, it did not know him at all, and gods knew what monsters lurked behind the bushes, waiting for wandering strangers. “Keep away from the dark—”

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“Or the Spider will get you,” she finished, and her voice was dead and dull.

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Techno’s heart skipped a beat. He was used to her jumping from one emotion to another, but this was something different. Something that was not her at all.

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“Are you alright?” he asked worriedly.

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“Yes,” she whispered back, as if there was an invisible threat she was careful not to startle. “Just tired.”

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“Do you want me to carry you on my back?”

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“No.” She took a deep breath. “We always have to walking side by side. This is how it happened.”

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Confusion and panic warring inside him, Techno said, “How what happened?”

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She suddenly paused, pulling Techno to a stop with her. She had her eyes fixed straight, looking off towards a horizon Techno couldn’t see. There was only the dark, and the weight of her small hand slowly growing colder in his.

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“Techno,” she said slowly, quietly, too unlike the brilliant girl that spoke of souls and adventures and frogs in the rain just a few hours—days—years—eons ago. “Techno,” she repeated firmly, turning towards him with wide, fearful eyes. “Techno, what’s my name?”

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Techno opened his mouth to answer, but silence was his only reply.

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“You’ve stopped again.”

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Wilbur slowly lowered his bow, looking around the tower with a growing sense of unease. He did not remember learning the song he’d been playing for his mother. Did he write it himself? Was it a ballad from some long-dead composer? Still thinking about the unfamiliar tune, Wilbur walked silently towards the table in the corner, where the silk-lined case for his violin stood open and waiting. He placed the instrument gently inside and snapped the case shut. For a moment, his fingers lingered on the gold clasps.

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I don’t even play the violin.

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He turned towards his mother, who continued painting as if nothing had happened, lost in her colors.

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“Mother?” Wilbur called. “Mama?”

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She paused, then gestured him over. “Come look at this, Wil.”

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Wilbur made his way over to her, stopping just behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders as he leaned in to look at her work.

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There was a painting hanging in the hallway downstairs that Wilbur walked under at least a dozen times a day: it was the official family portrait, done by their court painter, when Tommy was just a toddler and slept soundly through everything. Wilbur had always hated it. They’d all looked so stiff and serious in it, and Wilbur could still remember the horrid pins and needles he acquired from sitting on the floor for hours on end.

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And his mother, in response, had made it beautiful.

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She’d used brighter colors, softer colors, turning the dark, somber shades into something that felt more alive. Everything was the same, and yet everything was different. Still seated on a simple throne was Mother herself, but with more gray in her pinned-up hair. Behind her, a hand on her shoulder, was Father. He stood with his blue eyes lit up with pride, the only signs of his age in the laugh lines forming at his temples as he smiled back at Wilbur from the canvas. And then, drawing all attention inevitably to him, there was Tommy, leaning against the arm of Mother’s chair.

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He was older, too, with longer hair, curling over his ears and shoulders. But the traces of his childhood remained in the wolfish grin and the cocky quirk of his eyebrow. Before Wilbur could think better of himself, he reached out to run his fingers along the painted lines of his brother’s face. Fortunately, the paint had already dried, and Wilbur was free to trace the gentle curls of Tommy’s hair.

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Then, slowly, Wilbur’s hand drifted towards the floor, where he had been sitting in the original painting. He wondered how Mother made him beautiful, if that was at all possible in the first place. He wondered how the years had made their mark on him.

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But instead of paint, there were only pencil marks where Wilbur was supposed to be. Vaguely in the shape of a person. A sketch.?

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He looked down at his Mother, and she turned in her seat to look at him with a sad smile. “You’re not done yet,” she whispered, raising her hand to cup his cheek and gently wipe away the single tear that had escaped without his notice.

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“I ruined it,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry—”

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“No, darling, that’s not what I meant at all.” She got up from her seat and wrapped her arms around Wilbur. Wilbur had to duck his head to bury his face into her shoulder, trembling with a grief he could not name. His mother held him like he was a child again, seeking comfort from nightmares. “You have ruined nothing. You are the greatest gift of my life, Wilbur. But I do not want you here.”

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He pulled back with tear-stained cheeks, unable to fit enough air into his heavy lungs. “Here?” he asked. “Where is here?”

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“The Art Tower,” she replied simply. “And everywhere. And nowhere.”

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And Wilbur remembered.

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“I’ve been here before,” Philza said. “We’ve been here—all of us. Everyone caught in his web.”

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Tommy made a noncommittal sound as he waved a hand through the air. “More or less.” He wiggled his fingers absently as he thought. “It’s like… well, we’re all in his play, aren’t we? That’s what he said. If that’s right, then this place is the wings, where everyone waits before the curtains rise, or after their part is done.” He looked up at Philza. “Or when they’re waiting for their turn.”

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“We’re all dreaming,” Philza murmured, repeating the Green God’s own words. “He’s put us to sleep while he’s writing the next story and giving us good things to keep us pacified. Like children.”

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He looked down at Tommy, watching his son’s expression as it shifted. Philza was sitting against the trunk of an apple tree, with Tommy’s head resting across his lap and apple blossoms falling idly through the hazy air. Under any other circumstances, it would have been a perfect day. As it was, all Phil could see was phantom blood on his hands from the last time he’d held Tommy this close, and a growing sense of trepidation as each second ticked by. Another second where the Green God was tearing the real world apart. Another second towards another story of rebirth and tragedy and unknowing. Another second without knowing where Techno and Wilbur were, whether they were safe, whether they were alive, whether they could still remember who they were and who he was and what they still had to do.

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“You aren’t really you, either,” Philza said, less of a question and more of a lament that he was right. Hesitantly, he ran his fingers over Tommy’s hair, and felt his heart snap when Tommy did not pull away.? “You’re someone I want you to be.”

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“I’m someone you need me to be,” Tommy corrected. “Does that make any of this less real? Does that mean I’m not really here, trying to make you wake up and go save my dumb brothers? Does that mean I’m really gone—not even a ghost or a memory?” He shrugged. “Who knows? You’re supposed to be the adult here. You tell me.”

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“Adults don’t have all the answers, Tommy,” Phil said. “No matter how much I wish we did.”

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“Answer me this, then,” said Tommy, reaching out to run a hand over the obsidian feathers of the wing Philza had been using to block the sunlight from his eyes, “how the hell did you hide these? Hard to imagine I just didn’t notice you walking around with two massive fucking wings jutting out of your back.”

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“I’m a god, Tommy,” Phil said slowly. “I can hide anything.”

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Tommy’s blue eyes slid to Phil’s. “Not everything.”

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Without waiting for a reply, Tommy sat up and put both of his hands on Phil’s shoulders, his expression deadly serious. I never knew this side of him, Phil thought. And I never will.

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“Listen,” Tommy said, as if Philza was not already hanging on to his every word, memorizing every syllable and intonation. “I know you’ve already figured it out. You know why Dream is so afraid of you. And it’s the same reason why you’re the only person that can break out of here.”

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“If I can,” Philza said, “why have I never done so before? We’ve been in this cycle for eons.”

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“You’ve come close,” Tommy replied. “So close, a few times. But either Dream always finished rewriting before you could, or…” Tommy paused for just one second before continuing, more resolutely, “Or you didn’t want to leave.”

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Philza opened his mouth to say he would never do that. He would never jeopardize an entire universe just to revel in some lie, no matter how beautiful it was.

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But then he realized he already had.

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Swallowing the bitter taste on his tongue, Phil asked, “I want to stay, Tommy.”

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Tommy blinked, his expression crumbling with anger and disappointment. And then, clarity, as the first of Philza’s tears began to drop, a warm and silent rainfall. He never could hide anything from Tommy. “But you won’t,” Tommy finished, something like pride flickering in his eyes.

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“But I won’t,” Philza confirmed, wrapping his hands around Tommy’s wrists and holding on for dear life. “I have to end it, Tommy. I can’t put everyone through this again. I can’t put Wilbur and Techno through this again.”

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Tommy grinned, triumphant. “That’s my Dad.”

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“My Tommy.” And with that, Phil gently pulled Tommy’s hands away from his shoulders and stood, brushing apple blossoms from his clothes. They fell to the grass, limp and already rotting despite their loveliness.

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Tommy got up, and for a moment, they stood there together, just son and father, looking out over their orchard and remembering slow days when once they were four, with Tommy on Wilbur’s shoulders and their mother painting and Philza tossing flowers into the air just to hear his family laughing.

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“They call you the Angel of Death,” Tommy began, and Philza knew the end was near. “But that’s not all you are. What are you the god of, Philza?”

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The words were Tommy, but the voice was not. It was the whisper of a thousand different Tommys from a thousand different universes. It was the shout of those who had been Philza’s sons and those who never were. It was the battle cry of soldiers and thieves, the exiled and the dead, the lost and returning.

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It was the demand of all the boys Philza had failed.

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“Are your wings not a reminder of what you are? You are passerine and bird of prey, both.”

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Philza turned to look at Tommy, but he was not looking at Tommy—or, more accurately, he was looking at all of Tommy, brief images of all the Tommys that had come before. Here, a tall man with a golden crown of laurels. Here, a young boy with a broken compass strung around his neck. Here, a feathered creature with wide blue eyes. Here, a weathered warrior with alliums tucked into the pockets of his ruined coat.

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“God of death, they call you,” every Tommy said at once, “and they are closer to the truth than they think. After all, is death not just a final act of liberation? Tell me you look out every open window and wish only to fly away. Tell me what the Spider and his infinite authority fears above all. Tell me what you are.”

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“I’m the god of freedom,” Philza said. “And I’m flying the fuck out of here.”

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“Damn right you are.” Tommy grinned, still flickering. Still all of him. “So, go.”

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Philza spread his wings, aiming for the sky.

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He was the god of freedom, and he was flying the fuck out of here.

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But also, more than that, he was a father.

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So, despite the world waiting for him beyond the sapphire sky, he turned to look at his son one last time. His golden boy with the golden smile. And he hugged him. It was a simple thing, a quiet thing, that parents have been doing for their children since the very concept of parenthood was created. But still, to Phil, it felt like a revelation.

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Every version of Tommy hugged him back.

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“I wish we could have had more time,” Philza whispered, his tears coming on more quickly, so warm they might burn right to the bone. “I wish I could have watched you grow up. I wish I had loved you like you deserved. I wish I could have made it all up to you. I wish a universe’s worth of wishes for you, my boy.”

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“I know.” And this was just Tommy’s voice. Tommy, singular. This Philza’s Tommy. “I better not see you, Wil or Techno again for a long, long time,” he added, which Philza knew meant, I will love you. Without requisite or deadline, I will love you.

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Philza replied, “We aren’t in any hurry,” which meant, We love you, too.

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When Philza let go, Tommy was gone. He was alone.

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And the sky was awaiting far above him.

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Mother tilted her head towards a distant sound that Wilbur couldn’t hear.

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“We don’t have much time,” she said firmly, her hands fluttering like paint-stained moths set aflame. “He’s almost done. And then we’ll have to do this all over again.”

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But Wilbur was still reeling, his mind going through a thousand thoughts per second and managing to understand none of them. “I was—We were fighting…”

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“Always fighting, you lot,” Mother said with a small smile, but her eyes were sad. “Deep breaths now, Wil. Tell me what you know.”

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“I was in a city in the north,” Wilbur said, his mouth tasting of ash and melting snow. “Outside a—a church. With broken windows.”

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“Yes, you were.”

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“I don’t play the violin.”

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“No, you don’t.”

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Wilbur glanced at his mother’s painting, the one with soft colors and old lines. “And Tommy will never live past fifteen.”

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“No,” Mother replied, regret and sorrow—two of Wilbur’s own restless shadows—gleaming in her eyes, “he won’t.”

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“And you’re dead, too,” Wilbur continued, freefalling into the abyss, “aren’t you?”

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“Yes, I am.”

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He ran his shaking hands through his hair, clutching a handful of the brown strands and almost tearing them away in his terror. It was a fear he knew well. It had never truly left him since the night he found her gone. He’d been too sick to attend her funeral afterwards, spending feverish days in and out of consciousness. When he’d finally been steady enough to pull himself out of bed, they’d already buried her, and he only saw her again in painted portraits that didn’t quite capture the brightness of her smile, and in the middle of the night when every hallway of the castle was haunted by her.

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But now she was here, standing before him, older than she had been when he lost her, and still younger than she deserved to be. She deserved decades. She deserved infinity.

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And Tommy did, too.

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“I want to stay here with you,” Wilbur said, still a child. Always a lost child, with her. “Because I miss you. Because you were the one person that I had nothing to prove to. Because you can make things alright. You can fix the things that I broke. Can’t you?”

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She looked at him. He knew her answer.

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“You could stay,” she said kindly. “I won’t fault you for it.”

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He knew she meant it, so why did the pain in his chest only get worse?

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A soft breeze swirled into the tower. Wilbur inhaled the scent of fresh apples.

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It was so real. So real.

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But then he looked at the painting again, staring at the incomplete version of him. At his father, who had aged when he could not. At Tommy, older than he ever would be in truth. At his mother, who had given him her artist’s hands.

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“Will you forgive me,” Wilbur asked, his voice rough and small, “if I still want to live without you?”

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In reply, she pulled him down gently and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. “I loved you before I even met you,” she whispered against his skin. “And I loved you even more after I did. I am sorry for leaving too soon and leaving too much.”? She pulled back, her eyes shimmering and hands warm on both of Wilbur’s cheeks. “But look at you. Look how much you’ve grown. Look how far you still have to go.”

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“Come with me?” he asked, pressing his face closer against her paint-streaked palm. “You can lie. Lie and say you’ll be coming with me.”

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“I’m always with you, Wil,” she said, smiling a wavering smile. “I am in every note you play and every song you sing. I fight your every battle and feel your every pain. And I feel your joy, and your compassion, and your regret, and your bravery. Whatever you do, Wil, I am with you.”

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“And…” He swallowed roughly. “And Tommy…?”

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“You and your brother,” she said, “are bound by something stronger than fate, and stronger than death.” She dropped her hands and stepped back. The distance between them was a chasm. “One is gone, but not forever. One is gone, but not the other.”

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Wilbur took a rattling breath and squared his shoulders.

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He wasn’t ready. But he had no other choice.

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He gave his mother one last lingering look. All the things he still wanted to say, he said it with it. All the I love you’s addressed to hallway ghosts and all the I wish you were here’s screamed into the silence of his own head. He would never see her again. He would never see Tommy again. Those were the truths he would have to learn to live with.

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All that grief and love and hope and fear in one word. “Goodbye,” Wilbur said.

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He shut his eyes as he turned away, unwilling to look at what he would be leaving behind. His perfect mother and her perfect painting of what could have been.

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She might have said goodbye back. But the wind was whistling past Wilbur’s ears as he took off running, drowning out everything else. When he opened his eyes again, the arched window was waiting before him, opening into the endless sky.

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He leapt.

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And his father caught him.

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Wilbur grinned up at the winged figure above him as they soared past the eddying clouds. “Always have to make a last-minute entrance, don’t you?”

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Father looked down at him as he tightened his hold on Wilbur’s hand, obsidian wings cutting through the air in persistent booming beats. “Are you alright?” was the first thing he said. He sounded like he was choking on his own heartache. For once, Wilbur found he was just like his father.

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Wilbur closed his eyes against the rushing wind, letting it dry his lingering tears. “No,” he admitted, “but I will be.” Wilbur looked around at the open sky, seeing nothing but blue and white until the distant horizon. “So, Father. How are we getting out of here?”

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Even in their separate sadnesses, Wilbur still noticed the small smile on his father’s face. “Do you trust me, Wil?”

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“I just jumped out a tower for you.”

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Father’s laughter was a strained sound, but it was almost like music. “What if I asked you to let go of my hand?”

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Wilbur didn’t think. He just let go.

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For a moment, he was weightless, suspended mid-air, as clean and pure as the clouds that were the sole witnesses of his slow descent. There was no life and no death and no Wilbur and no enemy waiting for him on the other side. No dead brothers, no lost brothers. No mothers in towers, no fathers newly regained. There was only the falling.

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“Wil!” Father called out over the rushing wind. “Open your eyes!”

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Wilbur had not even realized he’d closed them. When he opened them again, all he could see was the welcoming blue, and his father falling right beside him, wings tucked in close.

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“I saw Mother,” Wilbur said to the open air, his hands in his pockets as if it were a normal afternoon conversation.

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“I saw Tommy,” Father replied. “He said to tell you to not die yet.”

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Wilbur smiled faintly. “Sounds like him.” He balled his hands into fists where his father couldn’t see them shaking. “But was it really him? Really them?”

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“I don’t know.” Father sighed as they hurtled into nothingness. “And does it really matter, Wil?”

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“I suppose not,” Wilbur said. “We had them back for a moment. That’s all it was, in the end.” He spun in the air to face his father. In the short time since they’d faced off with Dream, his father’s eyes had aged a million years. More somberly, Wilbur said, “We have to get Techno back, too. Where is he?”

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“Tucked away somewhere else, like I was. Like you were.”

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“How did you get to me, then?”

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Philza grinned. “Like this.” He unsheathed the sword at his hip, and tore a hole right across the sky below them.

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“What the fuck—” Wilbur shouted as the tear in the very fabric of the universe spread before him. It was a pitch-black scar running across the blue, a jagged line of nothingness. Wilbur reached out to clutch his father’s arm, his heart rioting inside his chest as it rejected what his eyes were definitely seeing. “What the hell is that?”

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“Our way out,” Philza said, moving closer to Wilbur, his wings folding over the both of them like a comforting childhood blanket. “Falling is the easy part, Wil. Now it’s time for the crash.”

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They fell into the dark and were gone.

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“I should know you.” The words fell in a pathetic rush from Techno’s mouth. “I should, but I don’t.”

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The little girl who was his sister, had been his sister just a few seconds before, stared at him with wide eyes that were like twin pools of ancient water, reflecting his own strained face back at him. Her question echoed in his head, a chant and an accusation and a lament. What’s my name? What’s my name? What’s my name? Techno wrenched his hand away from her and scrambled backwards, his breaths coming fast and harsh. She frowned after him, but did not move to follow.

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“You’re my sister,” he sobbed, clutching the hand that had held hers so gently, so familiarly. “But I don’t even remember your name.”

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Hers, and their siblings’, and their father’s and mother’s. Once knowledge as common as air, now slipping from his fingers. He stared at her, begging the universe to give him one syllable. One letter. He would take anything. He would take breadcrumbs.

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“I killed you,” he whispered, falling into the dirt, a puppet with no master. He put his head in his shaking hands. “I killed all of you.”

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“No.” The sternness in her voice made him look up. She still stood where she had been, a pillar of stone, her face pink with fury. “That wasn’t you. The Spider got you. That’s all.”

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“That’s all?” Techno shouted. The forest was a pressing in on them, he knew it. The darkness would take him again, just as it took him all those years ago the last time he’d been down this road.

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“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, that is all. It was all him, never you. We understood that then, we understand that now. Nobody blamed you or will ever blame you for something you could not control. We’re not that horrible, or that stupid.”

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“But I hurt you,” Techno whispered. “I know I did. You must have been so scared.”

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“I wasn’t,” she said, but Techno knew it was a lie by the wobbling of her lower lip. “You would never hurt me, I knew that.” She stepped closer, slowly, as if she were approaching a wounded wolf. “And it’s important to me that you know that, too.”

?

Something flickered in Techno’s periphery, and they both turned to see the forest open just up ahead. Beyond the darkness, there was a small clearing, blazing with sunlight. Surrounded by flowers patches and shrubbery was a house, small and cozy with a brick chimney letting out pale smoke. A window was open, and through it, Techno could see a table set for dinner, and children fighting over an apple pie. A tall, wiry man with his pink hair pulled back from his face was swatting at them with no real force, telling them to share, you greedy little monsters. A woman with braided hair stood to the side and threw her head back in a deep laugh. One of the kids leaned too far in the scuffle, fell face first into a bowl of mashed potatoes, and began wailing. An older child, almost as old as Techno, rolled her eyes warmly and promised to do anything he wanted if he would just stop crying.

?

Techno saw all of them.

?

None of them saw Techno.

?

“They’re calling me back,” the little girl said.

?

But Techno couldn’t take his eyes off the house and the family that lived in it. His house, once. His family. Warm and lovely and easy.

?

“I can’t go home yet,” Techno said, hating himself more and more with every word. “I still—I still have to save Wilbur and Philza. I still have to bury Tommy. And I still have to put that green bastard into the godsdamned ground.”

?

“Well, duh.” When he turned to her again, she had her hands on her hips and a sad smile on her face. “I said they were calling me back. No one said anything about you. Not everything’s about you, you know.”

?

Despite everything, Techno managed a weak laugh. “Of all the people to be my guide through this shit afterlife, why’d it have to be you?”

?

“Because my spirit is too big for my own body,” she replied haughtily. “And I’m tired of some random man deciding my lives for me. He didn’t even ask if I wanted to be a human being. What if I wanted to be a frog in the rain, did he ever consider that? No. Instead, he made me small and stinky and boring.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I want to be more than someone else’s backstory. I want to be the hero. I’m going to be the hero next time, just you watch.”

?

“I already am,” Techno said softly. In the distance, he could still hear the laughter of people he used to know by heart. But closer, somewhere just behind him, he heard a voice. Calling his name.

?

Techno turned towards the voice. He would always turn towards that voice.

?

There was only the forest off the path, broken branches and nothingness. And still, somehow, he knew he would be safe in it.

?

He shakily rose to his feet, each small movement sending electricity through his veins. His old bones knew he should be going with her, going home, and starting the cycle anew. The wheel had to move forward. This was not how the real story ended.

?

But screw the wheel. Screw what the storyline dictated.

?

He was Technoblade, and he was going to write his own damned story.

?

He stood his ground, felt the wheel push at his back, shoving him roughly forward. But if he was even half as stubborn as the little girl before him, then he had nothing to fear.

?

The ground held beneath him.

?

He passed a hand over his misty eyes. “I have to go,” he said tiredly. “Wilbur’s looking for me.”

?

She grinned. “So, get going, you slow old man.”

?

“I’m not that old—”

?

“Whatever you say, grandpa,” she replied, taking one step towards the light. And then another. “Oh, before I forget, everyone wanted to tell you something.”

?

He leaned towards her. “What is it?”

?

She leaned towards him. “You look dumb with that hairstyle,” she whispered gravely. “Please keep your hair out of your face because it’s starting to function like curtains.”

?

“You little brat.” Techno moved to grab her, but she danced out of the way, laughing so hard she almost tripped over her own feet.

?

She moved to go again, but stopped at the very end of the road, silhouetted against the sunlight.

?

“You know, for what it’s worth,” she said, turning just enough for Techno to see a faint smile on her face, “I think the Green God made the right call this time around, making you my older brother. You were pretty great at it.”

?

“Before I murdered all of you,” Techno said, his throat burning from a stoppered sob.

?

“You can’t ever just accept a compliment, can you?”

?

“It wasn’t that great of a compliment to begin with.”

?

“Fine, I take it back.”

?

“Don’t you dare—” Techno began, but she was already gone. Always have to have the last word, he thought fondly, glad to even have that small scrap of her to take with him into the dark. He folded the memory of her running home, twin braids bouncing against her shoulder blades with each excited step, and tucked it behind his heart, where it would always be safe. She would stay there, right next to the little house with the laughing strangers. Right next to Tommy.

?

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of pine trees and flowers and apple pies, and stepped off the path.

?

He walked first, then ran, ducking under branches and shaking his feet out of the tangled undergrowth, tearing through the dim with only Wilbur’s voice to guide him.

?

“Techno!”

?

“Wil?”

?

Closer now. Stray branches tugged at his clothes and his hair. With his sister’s advice and from pure annoyance, Techno ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt’s sleeve and tied his hair back into a simple knot at the nape of his neck. It wasn’t an elegant braid, but it would have to do.

?

He continued running.

?

“Wilbur!” he called again.

?

“Techno!” Just to the right of him. “Techno, over here—Techno.”

?

Techno fell against a tree, taking in what was before him. A strange, dark line stood out in the dim—blacker than black, cut straight from the darkness of the lowest caves of the earth. It felt… lonely. Standing beside it, wings tucked in close, was Philza. And Wilbur.

?

“Come on,” Wilbur said, a half-smile on his face. “You’re late.”

?

Techno rushed to him, and gave him a swift punch to the shoulder. Wilbur stumbled, almost falling back into whatever the black cut was before Techno caught him by the wrist and pulled him upright again.

?

“How many times do I have to lose you in a single day?” Techno demanded, squeezing Wilbur’s wrist just to make sure he was real, he was here, he wasn’t part of this strange dreamscape.

?

Wilbur rubbed sheepishly at his shoulder and said, “I didn’t really have a say in it.”

?

“Keep close to me from now on,” Techno ordered, releasing Wilbur after he was sure the pulse at his wrist was there. “And you—” He turned to Philza, ready to unleash his pent-up emotions on the nearest god available. But the fraught words died on his lips when he took in his old friend. “You look… different.”

?

Philza shrugged one shoulder. “It’s been a long few hours.”

?

“He saw Tommy,” Wilbur added by way of explanation.

?

“Is he okay?” Techno asked, stepping towards Philza.

?

Philza shook his head. “We can talk about it later,” he said, sounding strangled. Techno understood. It would take him years to speak about what happened on that road. For now, it was his own burden to carry alone. Someday, he’d share it, but not when the wound was too fresh, too hurting.

?

“Alright,” Techno said. “That’s okay. So how the hell are we getting out of here?”

?

He still had a score to settle and a prince to bury, after all.

?

Wilbur nodded wordlessly towards the pulsing black scar in the air.

?

“Oh,” said Techno, “you have got to be kidding me.”

?

“It’s safe,” Wilbur said.

?

“Say that again without looking so green and I might believe you.”

?

“It’s a cut through reality,” Philza said exasperatedly. “Of course it would not be a very comfortable experience.”

?

Wilbur scoffed. “It felt like having my innards rearranged by a very excitable toddler.” He heaved a resigned sigh as he faced the cut. “I guess I’ll go first.” He threw a look at the other two behind him. “See you on the other side, then?”

?

“I’ll follow soon,” said Techno. “Don’t get lost again.”

?

Wilbur gave him a mocking salute before falling into the void. It swallowed him whole.

?

Techno watched him disappear with a sinking feeling in his gut. Before a heartbeat had even passed, he was already moving forwards, intending to follow behind Wilbur as he’d promised. He would not let him out of his sight again.

?

But before Techno could step through, a hand closed around his arm and pulled him back. He turned towards Philza, a complaint already on his lips, before he noticed the somber look on the other god’s face. He really did look different. He was… quieter, somehow, and yet brighter, at the same time. Like a young star silently basking in its new-found brilliance.

?

“Techno,” Philza said, “we need to talk.”

?

Wilbur was being unmade.

?

That was what it was. As he fell through the black, spiraling between what was real and what was imagined, drifting in the space between lie and truth, he felt himself being pulled apart, and then pulled back together. Born and then unborn and then reborn and unmade. Father had called it the crash, but that wasn’t quite true. It was crashing and flying and crashing again—the euphoria of flight equaled by the pain of the collapse. It was agony. It was dawn.

?

It was over.

?

He hit the ground.

?

Breathed in, breathed out. The air tasted bitter. Like ash. Like the dust on a guitar case sitting unopened for years.

?

His ears were ringing, his vision blurring. There was nothing beyond the feel of cold snow under him, coarse and biting. His muddled mind could grasp no thought other than, I need a blanket.

?

He spat snow and blood out of his mouth and struggled upright, managing to get on his knees before he fell back again, what fight there was left in his body fleeing as his vision finally cleared, and he realized he was watching the end of the world.

?

The sky was red. The city was burning. Fissures arched across the ground like lightning, chasms leading straight to the underworld. As Wilbur looked on, the earth shook again, and more cracks spread, one breaking open just feet away from him.

?

shit, Wilbur thought, scrambling back, his heart in his throat. shit, shit, shit!

?

The only structure that remained relatively intact was the church.

?

And standing at its belltower, at the eye of the storm, was none other than Dream.

?

He didn’t seem to notice Wilbur’s reappearance. How could he? In the same way that giants paid no heed to ants, the god had bigger affairs to tend to than a single mortal standing in the wreckage of the only universe he had ever known. Dream paced around the circumference of the bell, trailing a hand on its bronze surface, only pausing whenever another earthquake hit. It took Wilbur a few dizzy beats to realize he was causing it. With a tilt of his head and a flick of his fingers, the Green God was slowly breaking the world apart, remaking it into another version, another stage.

?

Wilbur barely registered the thud of another person falling beside him.

?

“What the—”

?

Wilbur turned to watch Techno blink groggily at the scene before them, waking from a dream and straight into a nightmare. He already looked so exhausted, pink hair tied loosely back from a face that had seen better days: he was so pale, the only color on his face the dark lines under his eyes. How long had they been fighting? It felt like years. It was only hours.

?

“What’s going on?” Techno croaked.

?

“The apocalypse,” Wilbur returned.

?

Techno groaned as he fell back against the ground, burying his face in his arms. “Five minutes,” he said. “Let me have five godsdamned minutes without having to deal with this.”

?

“We don’t have that much time,” Father said.

?

Wilbur raised his head to see his father touching down on the ground beside him, soundless as the night. His eyes scanned the broken city around him before settling on Techno and Wilbur’s discarded weapons—and, because Wilbur could never catch a fucking break, they were sitting leagues away on a slice of earth separated by a dozen criss-crossing lines of fissures.

?

“When do we ever have enough time?” Techno’s voice was muffled by the snow. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

?

Wilbur groaned in sympathy, even as he accepted Father’s offered hand and got to his feet. He reached down and grabbed the back of Techno’s tunic, hauling him up so that Techno leaned on him while he leaned on his father. The three of them, exhausted in all sense of the word, watched as Dream continued breaking and shattering everything that no longer fit whatever story he wanted to tell next.

?

“I’ll get your weapons,” Father said, and Wilbur expected him to fly away to retrieve them, but instead he simply snapped his fingers, and Wilbur’s sword and bow, and Techno’s trident and chain whip clattered at their feet.

?

Wilbur glanced with shock at his father. “When did you learn that nifty little trick?”

?

“Must have picked it up somewhere,” Father muttered as Techno wordlessly re-armed himself.

?

Wilbur bent to retrieve his bow and rapier, surprised to find that his quiver was filled once more with new arrows, with gleaming obsidian feathers as fletching. These gods, Wilbur thought. I’ll never understand their silly games.

?

“This is it, then,” Techno said as he spun his trident idly between his fingers. “This ends here. Everything ends here.”

?

“How do we do this?” Wilbur asked. “The last time we think we got him cornered, he just shoved us into some other realm and went on his merry way.”

?

“I won’t give him the chance this time,” Father said sternly.

?

Sweat was beading on Techno’s forehead despite the cold, but his words were steady when he said, “We’ll be your support, Phil. Now, go.”

?

“Not yet,” Father said, turning to Wilbur. He lifted his cloak and reached into its inner pocket, pulling out a silver necklace. He pressed it into Wilbur’s palm and leaned in to whisper into Wilbur’s ear. “Find what is sacred to you, and never let go. If you would take any advice from your old man, let it be that.”

?

“Why does it feel like you’re saying goodbye?” Wilbur whispered back, curling his fingers around the necklace.

?

?Father stepped back with a small, sad smile. “I’m not,” he said. “It’s—just in case.”

?

“Just in case?” Wilbur demanded. “In case of what?”

?

Another one-shouldered shrug. “Worst-case scenario.”

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