Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peace is the breath you hold before your release and inhale of war.

The Blood God lives in a cycle of endless fighting, fury at his hands and bloodshed under his feet. There is nothing quite like the rush of the energy and heightened emotions of a battlefield, a crushing ache accompanied with sharp tangs of fear. A splitting screech lasting for what stretches on forever and a quiet like none other to dash in and blanket over the fields like nothing had ever happened, hushed and silenced with a swallow.

Pause.

Hold.

Bitter wine drips from the tips of his fingertips to intertwine with the clean slate of snow. He takes a deep breath, cold splintering air rushing into his lungs against the heat of his core. Head tilted on a diagonal, the world still on its axis as he plays with the little pieces on it, a grimace with perfect white teeth and a sharpened tongue to speak his mind.

Hold, hold, hold.

“My lord,” the Blood God hears behind him. Ah. Back already? The god hums in permission for his vassal to continue, not turning from his gaze over the wide spread of ruins. He folds his arms across his chest and gently hold onto the sleeves. He feels the blood soaking into the fabric.

His vassal behind him speaks again. “We aren’t in the condition to do anything. They’ve forced our hand.”

The Blood God furrows his eyebrows. Crows fly over in the distance and settle down somewhere amongst the bodies. “Have they now?”

The vassal dips his head in response. “I’m afraid we might have to retreat, my lord.”

“Are you sure?” The Blood God twists his body over to face him. “Is there really nothing else we can do?” Surely, he would’ve found a way- a mastermind of strategy and tactical brilliance that doesn’t fall short of anything. The situation was inevitable, a mess of complex relations and hate but below it all, there could’ve been a way to fix it, couldn’t there?

A pause. “Not without a cost that I’m not willing to make.”

And it shouldn’t be so surprising, but the god had had hope.

The Blood God tips his head back and lets out a long breath, hot steam out floating above into the air. Hold. Don’t suffocate. Hold.

Do not exhale.

Quackity did not scream and flail over onto the ground the first time he met Karl. That would be nonsensical, rude, unsolicited slandering of his name that should only be spoken in prestige and honour. In no way, shape, or form will anyone have the absolute audacity to spread these rumours about him landing on his ass and swearing at Karl before realizing he was in fact a stranger.

A better abridged version of their short meeting would be that Quackity was a respectable gentleman who helped Karl navigate the streets of the small town Karl grew up in to guide him home like the bumbling fool he is.

…Okay, so maybe that wasn’t exactly what had happened, but the important thing was that Quackity had made a new friend accompanied with awkward laughter and apologies.

Nice.

So, Quackity has a new friend. As of last week. Exactly five days ago. He hasn’t made a new friend in years. This is a new friend! Basically his second friend! Ever! Two whole friends!

Damn, he’s good at this.

Quackity packs up his bag, humming to himself. Today he’s going down to the town to meet up with Karl, who wanted to show him around. It’s not that big of a place, to be honest, but Quackity’s only ever stopped by once or twice and he’d gone directly for groceries and left to head home. He’s excited; he loves people, he loves the atmosphere of big crowds, and Karl seems to be just as excited to share the town with Quackity.

He grabs his beanie as he heads out the door, snugly fitting his hair into the navy fabric and runs down the hill through the forest. It takes him ten minutes sprinting and walking to reach the main path, and five more for the trees to thin out. He spots Karl’s bright clothing standing in front of the stone walls. “Hey, Karl!” Quackity shouts, waving his arms wide. His friend turns and shouts, running towards Quackity to meet him in a big hug. Quackity bursts out in laughter.

“Quackity!” Karl says. “Come on, let’s go! I want to show you the bell tower!” He grabs Quackity’s arm and tugs him toward the big gates, and Quackity shakes his head from the pace they move in and grins, a bit lost. Karl doesn’t even hesitate, going on about the tower, some childhood memory, a playground, and Quackity lets himself be dragged along.

“What the fuck is that, Karl?”

“That’s… have you never seen a peanut before?”

“The fuck’s a peanut?”

They were having lunch when the Blood God is first brought up.

Karl gasps at his side and taps at Quackity’s shoulder. “Look,” Karl whispers, mouth gaping. He places his bowl down beside him. “It’s the Blood God!”

What. Quackity blinks and cranes his head where Karl nervously eyes. He sticks his tongue out at Karl when his friend hurriedly tries to stop him, hissing something about staying quiet and not being obvious. With an obnoxious turning of his head, Quackity spots a tall red figure in the street, who stands at the community board. There’s a long, pink bun draping off into a ponytail. He stands alone, and around him are whispering groups of people peeking glances in his general perimeter. “That’s the Blood God?” Quackity asks, pointing. He looks at Karl in confusion. “Him?”

Karl makes a panicked noise and shoves Quackity’s arm down, moving to block his vision. Quackity squawks when his soup sloshes around in his bowl and grumps at Karl. “Yes- him!” Karl says in distress, ignoring Quackity’s pouting. “Don’t just look at the Blood God, man, what if he sees you?”

Quackity shrugs. “Then I talk to him.”

Karl stares at him in distrust before slumping. “You’re really something,” he says, and takes a quick glance behind him before leaning in. “He’s scary,” Karl whispers. “I bumped into him when I was little, once- I almost peed myself, he stared at me until I ran away. I tripped on my laces and it left a scar on me. Physically. And mentally.” He lets out a shaky exhale and sinks backwards, cringing.

Quackity laughs. “That dude? He’s barely scary,” he says. He turns back to his soup. He looks down sadly at the small chunk of fish that fell on the ground and continues to eat. “What’d he do, be tall?”

“He’s scary!” Karl defends, crossing his arms. He sighs. “I know you only moved here a little bit ago, but the Blood God’s important around here, man. He’s been around for decades. He’s a literal god!” He picks up his soup and sips directly from the bowl. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak. I used to think he was a myth, but he started to show up a lot more frequently nowadays…” He frowns. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”

Decades. Quackity scoffs, shoulders drooping, wincing. More stuff to remember. It’s not hard, but it’s… overwhelming, maybe? It’s sort of amusing. He looks around the square again before puffing up. Whatever. Yeah, he hasn’t been around long, but he can fit in. He does fit in. Karl’s nice, too. It’s fine. “I’m sure nothing’s wrong,” Quackity says dismissively. “How much would you bet he sounds like an old smoker with busted lungs?” He earns a swat and a snicker from Karl. “What?” Quackity exclaims, excited seeing his new friend smile. “He’s probably ancient, am I wrong? Huh, Karl? You think he squeaks or something?” He takes a deep breath and lets out a high-pitched screech. Karl falls back in laughter. The man promptly launches into another story when he sees a small lizard shoot around under their feet; it’s funny, good, and Quackity feels like he fits in- he’s being funny and Karl’s great. It’s fantastic.

When Quackity looks back at the board, there’s no one standing there.

He lets out a deep breath.

Another week passes and another weekend spent with Karl is added to the list.

Then another, and another, and soon enough, Quackity startles at the realization he’s known Karl for two full months now. He drops his book and gasps, springing up. Smiling smugly to himself, Quackity gets off the couch and pumps his fists into the air, dropping to his knees, jumping up and screaming. Fuck, he has an official friend! A long-term friend! How cool is that?

With another shaky exhale he glances over at the clock- about dinnertime. He sticks a bookmark into his last page and sings out loud as he heads to the kitchen, dancing as he moves around the room. He gets out a pot and throws water on and begins chopping vegetables. Time passes and the front door opens with someone shuffling in. Quackity spins around with a big smile plastered onto his face. Life. Life is so precious. Nothing can ruin his vibes. He loves everyone and everything. He opens his arms for a hug and the other swiftly ignores Quackity, walking past him to place his bags onto the table.

He hums. “You’re in a good mood, did you finish your project?”

Wait.

Quackity blanches. In a flurry of movement, Quackity hurriedly presses the wooden stir into the other’s hands and runs upstairs, stumbling on the steps. His socked feet slide against the stairs, hands splayed onto the walls. There’s a loud screech that’s barely muffled from the wooden infrastructure. The other stares at his disappearing figure. “…You forgot, didn’t you.”

“I FUCKING FORGOT!”

The shadows of the forest are long and slanted by the time Quackity makes it home. An overall fantastic day. He spoke to Karl again and met one of his friends, Bad, who seemed hesitant at first before slowly warming up to Quackity and started making jokes. He was nice, positive, and it was fun to mess around with the dude as he kindly but firmly tried to get Quackity to stop swearing.

There are promises Quackity makes to meet the rest of Karl’s friend group- it’s hard to find a time that works, but Bad says Quackity’s free to come hang out with him any time he’s in town to selling fruits and other goods at his stall. Bad packs Quackity with a shit ton of food items to take home, despite Quackity telling him it was alright. A forceful shove of bags into Quackity’s arms while ignoring his awkward reassurances and Bad nods to himself, seemingly satisfied. Quackity absolutely does not feel anything at all. Nothing about this warms his cold, shriveled heart. Even when Bad pats his shoulder and welcomes him to the family, Karl raising his arms and yelling in congratulations.

Quackity sniffs and scoffs into the cold night air.

He makes his way up the hill, weaving through wayward branches and bumpy roots to the small clearing his little cabin stands on. The lights are off, but the front door is emanating a dim glow that escapes through the gaps. Quackity breathes out, letting the air puff out in a pocket of steam, smoothly hopping over the rough ground. He steps along the well traveled dirt path, humming softly as he makes it to the door and presses his body against it. It slides open with a quiet creak. He peeks his head inside. Empty.

Quackity walks in, using his foot to push close the door behind him. Moving the bags to one arm, he sits against the raised floor that separates the house from the doorway, tugging his shoes off with his empty hand and clambering onto the floor. When he stands, there’s a faint smell of cooked vegetables clinging to the air. He shuffles through the main living space, entering the kitchen and smiling at the presence of food. With hurried movements, Quackity places the bags onto the counter before plating himself some potato and carrots. He eats them cold, leaning against the sink.

The night croaks outside and the wind blows in the forests. Quackity’s done, dishes put away, cleaning up for bed. When he exits the bathroom, the clock is steadily into the night and he quietly tiptoes into the bedroom. There’s his roommate, sleeping in the spot closest to the door and he moves around the blanket-covered body in the darkness and sneaks onto his own mattress already set up in the corner. He closes the curtains and gets under the blankets.

He looks over to his left. “Goodnight,” Quackity whispers, and turns his head to sleep.

The next morning when he wakes up, the parallel blanket and mattress are put away and he yawns in the morning sunlight.

“Would you, by any chance, know where my chamomile is?”

“I don’t know why you would think I would know where it is.”

“Quackity, we live alone.”

“I could’ve invited my friends over.”

A snort.

“Because you’re a little bitch!” Quackity belts, throwing his head back. He holds his beanie on with his left hand, holding a flimsy stick at his lips with his right. He steps onto an empty crate and does a twirl. “A tiny, little bitch!”

“Language!” Bad scolds. He almost drops the crate in his hands at the speed he turns to Quackity. He grunts, pushing against the wooden edge with his knee, bringing the weight back to his arms and places the crate onto the wagon with the rest of the produce with a heave. Bad sighs and brushes his hands against his apron. “Why are you like this?”

Quackity spins on his spot and opens his arms dramatically. “Baby,” he croons, putting his elbows together and cradling his face. “You are the biggest little bitch, smiling little bitch, my homie little bitch,” he sings, dragging out the i’s. Bad yells, trying to drown out his words. Quackity breathes in deeply to tease him, eyes wide in glee as he watches Bad complain.

“No, no! Stop it!” Bad shouts, poking Quackity in the side to force him to spit out the air in laughs. “That’s not very nice, is it, Quackity?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I hurt your feelings?” Quackity says, dropping the voice. He steps down and grabs another crate of fruit from the floor to place on the wagon. Bad lets out a quick sigh, giving him a tiny, tired smile.

“No, but you shouldn’t-”

Quackity puts the crate onto the others and grabs an apple from the top of one and runs off, manoeuvring past Bad into the marketplace. Fucking legs it. He glances back and Bad’s still got another crate in his hands. Perfect. “GOT YOU, BITCH!”

“QUACKITY!”

Quackity cackles. He’s confident Bad’s not going to come after him- not that he’s done anything wrong, but he can stop the bit now. Quackity slows as he gets out of the street, looking around. He bites off a chunk of the apple, chewing loudly. What can he do now? Karl’s busy doing his job, Bad’s going to be preoccupied preparing to ship out produce.

Quackity makes a straight line with his mouth, cheeks squishing. Maybe he needs more friends.

There’s someone playing music down to his left. Quackity’s ears perk up and he gravitates towards the singing, getting closer, intrigued.

Music.

There’s not really anyone around besides one person next to the musician himself, who’s leaning back against the stone wall of some building with his legs stuck forward on the ground, crossed. The guy has a brown cap on, tugged over his eyes, wearing a little worse for wear wool coat over a thin white button down. The guitar though- a thing of beauty, clearly looking like it’s spent its time well used but properly cared for. Quackity marvels at the way the man’s hands move over the fret, a rough hum of gibberish as he plays.

Next to them, the other person dressed in a jacket of a slightly better condition and a thick sweater looks up and down at his work before doing a double take. He jerks back. Quackity opens his hand in a little wave.

“What the fuck-” the man- teen? The dude jumps slightly, hand flying to his chest. He lets out a big exhale in different parts, making loud noises. He squints up critically at Quackity, who raises his hands and shrugs. “You scared the living shit out of me. What the hell, man?”

The guitar man hums in question and glances up. “Oh,” he says, peering up at Quackity from the cap’s brim. “Hello there.”

Quackity gives the two a toothy grin. “Hi,” he says back. He lowers a hand to take another bite of his apple. “I like your song.”

“Aw, that’s awfully kind of you,” the man says, cheery. “I like your hat.”

What is this? “Thanks, my roommate got it for me,” Quackity replies, pleased with how well the conversation seems to be going. He crouches down fully, crunching into his apple again. “I like your hat, too.”

The guitar man laughs, shaking gently. He cradles the instrument against his body and his right-hand tips his hat up to fully uncover his face, curly brown hair pushed away to the side. “Thank you, man, I also really like your jacket as well, did you know that?”

Quackity gasps, placing a hand to his chest. “No way, your jacket’s really nice!”

The other guy sputters beside them, staring at the two of them. He says a series of no’s while putting up his hands, trying to stop their conversation. “No, hold on, who are you?” the teen demands. He points the end of his pencil at Quackity, frowning deeply. “What- where did you even come from? This place was empty like three seconds ago. That was scary as shit. You should apologize to me. Who are you?”

“Shut up, Tommy,” the other says, not sparing him a glance. Tommy, then. The musician’s grin comes back as easy as it disappeared for the few seconds, eyes crinkled. “Thank you,” he tells Quackity. “I bet I’d like your name, too, if I knew what it was.”

“Oho, you think?” Quackity laughs. “My name is Quackity.” The dude nod and repeats it, reaching out a hand and Quackity takes the handshake.

“Wilbur,” the man says, and the kid interjects from the side with an, “I’m Tommy.”

“No one asked,” Wilbur says, ignoring Tommy’s squawk. He lets go of Quackity’s hand and goes back to the strings, palm resting against the wooden body. “If you aren’t busy, Tommy and I are just hanging out here, if you’d like to join us,” he offers. Quackity perks up and he drops back onto the ground and settles into a cross legged position.

Tommy scowls. “I never said he could join us. I’ve got shit to do, go away, prick.”

Wilbur dismisses Tommy with a hand, leaning towards Quackity with a playful roll of his eyes. “Play another song?” Quackity requests, and Wilbur obliges. He purses his lips as he plucks notes into an opening and into another melody. Despite his talk, Tommy stays calm as he hums along, scribbling onto his paper, and Quackity watches in fascination at how smoothly Wilbur sings. There is a lilt to his words and as he progresses into the song, he gets more confident and comfortable. It picks up at the chorus, Tommy mumbling along to the words.

He missed music.

The song ends and Quackity claps, having put down his apple core. He sighs. “I haven’t heard a song in years,” Quackity reminisces. “That was great. Thank you so much, man.”

Wilbur laughs, pushing his hair back from his face. “Now I’m not sure you should’ve listened to me for the first song back,” he jokes.

“Shhh, Wilbur, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life, don’t you ever doubt yourself,” Quackity says, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye, making a fake sob. Wilbur flushes pink, sheepishly pleased.

“Oh, stop it,” Wilbur says, tugging his cap down. He absently plays with the strings, random notes filling in the background.

Beside him, Tommy groans and kicks Quackity’s foot. “Yes, please fucking stop, you’re feeding his ego,” the teen complains, “You’re fishing for compliments, Wil,” and Wilbur flips him off, pushing his hand into the side of Tommy’s face. The teen sticks out his tongue and bites the air between them threateningly. It clearly doesn’t work as he immediately gets flicked in the forehead. Quackity lets out a laugh.

“You guys are fun,” Quackity says. Tommy fully turns to him and looks over him properly and crosses his arms.

He squints. “You like women?”

“Uh. Sure?”

Tommy nods, satisfied. Wilbur lets out an exasperated laugh. “You can stay,” Tommy says. He goes back to writing and Wilbur gives Quackity a little shrug and a smile before strumming another few chords, encouraging Quackity to sing along as well this time round.

That’s how Quackity meets his third and fourth friend.

“I have four friends now.”

A pause before continuing to put away the cleaned glass vials into a container. “Am I included in this?”

“No.”

“Thank goodness, almost panicked for a second there.”

“Hey, wait, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Chapter Text

It should not be this nerve-wracking to give someone a gift. He’s gotten plenty of gifts before. Hell, he’s been in this situation before- granted, always on the other side, but he’s been there. Gifts are fine. It’s completely normal, it’s what he’s been told friends give each other. He’s given his roommate a gift before. It’s all went well. It’s fine. He’s fine.

The small ceramic mug in his hands smiles up at him in all its glory and all Quackity can see is the rim being slightly uneven, handle not perfectly perpendicular, sides bumpy.

He’s not fine.

“Fuck,” Quackity mutters, shaking off his trembling hands. For a moment he contemplates heading back home or hiding the mug before Karl comes but ultimately stands where he is with a big exhale and a tip of his head towards the sky. Come out quicker, Karl, please, he’s going to actually die out here.

A few swears and excruciating minutes later, Karl exits the open entrance of the town walls and spots Quackity by the edge of the forest. “Good morning!” Karl shouts as he approaches, grinning brightly. It twists into a little laugh when he sees how tense Quackity is, eyebrows pinching slightly. His jog slows as he gets to Quackity. “You good?”

Karl’s right there. Give him the mug. Say something nice. Stand up straight. Smile. Bow. Wait, no, scratch that, not that.

“I have a gift,” Quackity says instead, gulping down his nerves. He clears his throat, grimacing at the way his voice cracked. He grabs the mug and tries not to shit himself. Oh fuck, smile, right- he tries for a smile and holds out the mug to Karl, who gasps and reaches out for it. The man takes it and gently brings it up closer to himself, fingers holding onto it carefully.

Quackity turns and kicks a rock on the ground as far as he can and turns back to Karl before it lands.

“You got me a gift!” Karl says, hopping side to side, giddy. His hair bounces and flops against his forehead. “This is so cool! Wait, let me get you something too.” He holds the mug in one hand and looks in his bag with the other. Karl makes a face as he rummages around but eventually gets out a pencil, holding it out to Quackity. “There, this’ll do for now, okay? Perfect.”

Quackity’s hand twitches when he goes to grab the pencil and his eyes start to burn- he shuts his eyes and lets out a quick breath, rubbing his face with the back of his hand.

Well. Now he’s- no. Uh. Not right now. Karl presses the pencil into his hand, giving him yet another smile before turning back to the mug. “Yo,” he whistles, turning it around in his hand. It’s a soft white and glazed with some sort of pretty satin coating, intricate details etched around the bottom edge of the cylinder. Karl’s eyes are wide as he admires it. “It’s crazy nice, where did you even get this, man? Oh my gods.”

“Thanks,” Quackity snorts. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and leans back into the fabric, shrugging. “I made it.”

Karl’s jaw drops. “No way,” he says. He looks up and down between the mug and Quackity’s face. “There’s no way! You never told me you did pottery. When did you learn? This is fantastic, dude. This is like, professional quality!”

Quackity scratches the back of his neck. “It’s been a while,” he laughs. “I wanted to make something for you, so. Yeah.” He coughs into his shoulder. “Should we go- we’re meeting your friends today, right? Let’s go!”

Karl narrows his eyes and throws himself at Quackity, wrapping his arms around Quackity’s shoulders into a tight hug. Quackity startles slightly, arms coming to stabilize himself as Karl swings back to one side of him. His hands freeze hovering over Karl’s back. They curl and uncurl, unsure if they should clasp onto him, but Karl doesn’t pay any mind as he keeps one arm draped over Quackity’s shoulders and directs him with their sides pressed together into the town.

“Quackity, you don’t need to buy anything for them. No need to worry, man, they’ll love you.”

Quackity hands the woman a couple coins of loose change and grabs the bag. He turns to Karl and scoffs. “These cookies are for me. None of you are having any of it. Don’t even think about taking them, Karl. Mine.”

“Oh.”

At first, he’s not quite sure what to make of them.

“Is George still asleep?” Karl groans as the two approach the house. Outside, there’s a sheepish looking man in a white mask with another looking slightly more pissed off looking guy beside him. When they approach, it’s all more apparent the shorter of the two is clearly sulking, black hair tied up in a small ponytail behind his hat.

“Sorry about them,” the guy named Dream says, smiling. “We’re always a bit of a mess.”

“Not always,” Sapnap defends.

“Yes, always,” Dream says, scoffing.

“You’re a mess, I’m always on top of my game.”

And when Quackity steps into their home, a tall, narrow home squished in beside the neighbouring houses, he’s a little surprised at how less of a mess inside the house seems to be. There are chests and crates stacked up in the corners of the room and some clothes haphazardly thrown on the floor, but it’s not really that bad. There’s a load of papers and a cup on the low table to the side and a small stack of chopped wood next to the fireplace. Posters and other trinkets decorate the walls.

It’s nice; they’re nice, though maybe cautious from some. Sapnap continuously eyes him as he walks around their house trying to be polite, a terribly concealed glare and a furrow in his brows when Quackity gets too close to Karl. He’s stuck in a place where he can’t rely on Karl for comfort and Dream’s attempts at subtly scolding Sapnap are painfully awkward while Quackity pretends he can’t hear them, examining one of the swords hanging on the shelf.

“Cut it out, Sap.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to. Behave.”

It’s a nice sword, he’ll give them that. Sleek. Heavy hitting. Part of a matching set, if the axe and shield leaning against the wall on the floor are presumably part of it. The sword’s definitely in a better condition. Quackity gently reaches out and runs light fingers along the blade. It’s well sharpened, the metal looking too shiny to be used often. More inclined towards an axe, perhaps. He’d always personally preferred a sword.

He peers at the flat edge of the metal, hands gently resting against the shelf and looks into a crystal clear image of his own eye.

“Quackity,” Karl says. Quackity looks up and his hand drops to his sides. Karl’s at the end of the hallway, gesturing from behind the other two. He waves his hand. “Come over here, I want to show you something!”

“Uh, yeah, one sec.” Quackity moves to the doorway and shuffles his way past Dream. He accidentally stumbles slightly over Sapnap’s foot in the narrow hallway. “Whoops,” Quackity says, hands coming up. “Just walking past.”

The tampered down scowl he gets back isn’t ideal.

It’s barely been an hour and they’re sat around the living room. Quackity clears his throat from his spot on the big cushiony chair and glances over at the couch. Karl’s engulfed under Sapnap’s arms, with an initial, “Wow, you’re being weirdly clingy today!” from an oblivious Karl and a grumpy noise from Sapnap. The two of them are talking and as much as Karl includes Quackity in their conversation, Sapnap immediately distracts him with something to talk about- and Quackity loves the guy but Karl jumps at it and starts rambling on about it, forgetting he asked Quackity anything in the first place.

Jealously is a bitch, Quackity wants to say, raising an eyebrow when Sapnap prompts Karl into another story. Throughout this whole ordeal, Dream’s been leaning against the other side of the couch sharpening a dagger in his lap and occasionally peppering in a comment.

Quackity leans back against the cushion and chuckles, wondering if anyone would even notice if he left.

“Why is there a homeless man in my chair?”

“That’s Quackity,” Karl says brightly before pouting at George. “You slept through your first impressions. Again.”

“And look how well that worked out last time,” George complains. “Now you’re all sitting here stinking up my house.” He stretches backwards, arms behind his head and yawns. “Is he going to stay here too?”

“You’re right, George, we should kick him out,” Sapnap says, immediately detaching himself from Karl. George’s confused “what” is ignored by Sapnap as he hops over to Quackity. For the first time since arriving to their house, he properly makes eye contact with Quackity and holds out a hand. He gives Quackity an awfully fake smile. “I can escort you out.”

Dream doesn’t look up as he lets out a cautionary, “Sapnap.”

Quackity raises an eyebrow. He leans back in his chair. “I’m assuming this isn’t personal, but can I ask why?”

It gets apparent to Sapnap Quackity’s not moving so he retracts his hand and crosses his arms against his chest. He clucks his tongue. “Just don’t think it’s gonna work out, is all.”

Karl frowns and stands up himself and looks at the hostility between the two. “Hold on. Sapnap, Quackity’s my friend. I thought you two were getting along.”

“Guys, what’s going on?” George asks.

“We’re getting along fine,” Sapnap says, not looking back. “He’s getting on my nerves, that’s all.”

“I’m not here to make you uncomfortable,” Quackity tells him. He raises his hands to his shoulders and shrugs. “I’m not going to fight. I only wanted to meet new people.”

Sapnap falters but keeps his arms crossed and glares at him. “Sure. That’s why Karl’s been out of the house so often, that’s why all he ever talks about is you, that’s why you made him that stupid mug. What, are you two best friends now? Just because he’s your first friend doesn’t mean you’re his only friend. You’re not wanted here.”

Karl gasps. “Sapnap!” he admonishes, reaching out and grabbing Sapnap’s shoulder. Sapnap doesn’t turn, only aggressively shaking off Karl’s hand and makes a step towards Quackity, a sharp stomp on the wooden floor. He rolls up his sleeve, hands clenched into tense fists, and he growls.

“I could-”

“Sapnap,” Dream levels, mask looking up from the dagger. And Sapnap- Sapnap stops at that. His hands release themselves and fall, hovering over his sides. He glances back and it’s almost unsettling, the mask’s smile staring back at him. Quackity looks away. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re not losing anybody. Karl just wants you to meet his friend who hasn’t done anything wrong, and he won’t.”

Sapnap huffs. “…What if he does?”

“Then I’ll be with you,” Dream assures. “But this isn’t fair to Quackity or Karl. Give him a chance.”

Sapnap turns back to Quackity and he hesitates. Quackity can see Sapnap’s hands shaking as he adjusts his hat before he pushes them into his pockets. Sapnap purses his lips and looks up to the ceiling and closes his eyes. His face scrunches and Quackity- he knows. He knows what it’s like. Behind him, Karl looks hesitant if he should go to Sapnap or stay still, George looking out of place. “You don’t have to apologize,” Quackity says quietly, shrugging. “I get it.”

Dream briefly turns to Quackity before flitting back. Sapnap groans loudly and shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry, man,” Sapnap says, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I- fuck. Yeah. No. Whatever. Really, I am sorry. I just. Have stuff going on. It’s not… it’s not you.”

Quackity waves his hand in the air dismissively, brows pinched together and he shakes his head. He smiles at Sapnap and outstretches a hand and waits for Sapnap to gently high five him.

After a bit of hesitation, there’s a soft pat against his palm.

Score. Quackity winks at Sapnap, who looks taken aback.

“So he’s staying?” George peeps up. He scratches the back of his neck and frowns. “I don’t think we physically have any more space in the house.”

Sapnap groans and grabs a cushion off the couch to throw at the man. George squawks and haphazardly throws his hands up to evade the cushions. “Seriously, George? We just had a moment,” Sapnap snipes.

“It’s a genuine question!”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Quackity dismisses, waving him off. “You guys got any food?”

Quackity says his goodbyes as the sun comes down for the evening and he makes his way through the forest. They were nice, after the initial reluctance. George was a good middle ground as he plopped himself into the conversation casually, leaning against the arm of the couch and conversing with Quackity. Sapnap maintained an awkward air to him throughout the day, genuine apologies even as he left.

Sapnap will warm up to him, Quackity thinks. They’ll get along soon enough.

Days like this interacting with people in conflict are, as strange to say it, not a big part of his life anymore. All too long ago and unmemorable, Quackity can’t say he’s really had any sort of hostility when his only ever interactions in the past years have been with his roommate and occasionally, shop owners. Honestly, he sort of missed it in a strange, nostalgic way. Even stranger, it ended nicely this time around. He might be overly protective and whatever else they’re all dealing with- the small ticks in his actions and doubts, practiced words from Dream. Quackity smiles wistfully.

Doesn’t he know that all too well?

In a couple minutes, Quackity gets to the biggest spruce tree near the edge of the forest where it thins out to the small field area that houses his home and the farmland. He raises his hand against the tree trunk, mumbling a small protection spell before slipping past the small barriers.

He walks along the rocks to the top of the hill, skipping along the side of their crops with flowers brushing against his calves. It slightly wets his pant’s fabric from the small droplets of water clinging to the leaves. He spins and stumbles onto the clearing in front of their house, almost tripping as he steps down from the edge.

Quackity rolls his shoulders back and cracks his neck, breathing in. Ah. The crisp air of the countryside with literally nothing but plants surrounding them. There are hints of the wildflowers carried by the soft breeze. Otherwise, it’s mostly a clean, fresh area with soil beside him.

Home.

Quackity inhales deeply.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH-”

He stops screaming as the front door opens abruptly and his roommate sticks his head out, squinting at him. His hair looks messed up- probably from sleeping in the living room, and he looks thoroughly displeased. “Hey,” Quackity says, waving his arms. “I’m home!”

He receives an unimpressed look back. “I heard. You woke up and killed every living creature in a five-mile radius, it’d be hard not to.”

Quackity sticks out his tongue. “Can you stop insulting me every time we talk?”

“Can you stop coming back?”

“Oh, you love me,” Quackity chirps, ignoring the other’s small, annoyed mutters. He puts a hand on his hip and holds up his bag with the other. “I brought cookies. Do you want them or not?”

“…What kind?”

“Toffee.”

“You may come in.”

The Blood God turns his gaze towards his vassal, who looks unusually grim today. His eyebrows are slightly lowered coming onto a lour while still maintaining a professional, polite aura. “Is something the matter?” the god asks.

“No, my lord,” his servant answers. He doesn’t move but relaxes his face, keeping his head straight forward towards the crowd. “Nothing is wrong.”

The god tilts his head and looks out at the tall, white symposium and his eyes flit over the attendees. They are in the presence of other individuals of the highest status, gods and more-than-mortal beings dressed to the epitome of perfection. The Blood God tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear, shimmering where the light hits it. The gold on his ears shine, and his eyes redden as he scans the crowd.

He lays his eyes on a masked figure leaning against one of the pillars, dagger twirling in his hands as he speaks to a looming angel dressed in blacks.

Ah.

The Blood God lets out a light laugh and leans back in his throne. His eyes fade back and the energy dissipates from his irises. “Are you still on about that?” he says, amused. He props his chin up on the back of his hand. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen him, haven’t we? I missed him. He was my favourite.” His servant opens his mouth but sighs after a moment of consideration, rolling his eyes. He drops his stance and presses his hand against his face, groaning.

“My lord,” he warns, looking up at his god with distrust.

Ha. The god reaches out with a sweet smile and pats his servant’s head, who only sinks under his hand and grimaces. “Be courteous to him. That’s an order.”

His servant sighs but places his hand back on his shoulder, bowing shortly. His hair stays pinned and tied back in a small braid. “I don’t see why he needs to be here, my lord.”

“He’s a holy soldier,” the Blood God says. “It would be highly unmannerly of a god my prestige to have not invited one of the best soldiers in this plane, wouldn’t you say so?”

“Perhaps the Blood God could’ve made an exception,” his servant mutters. “Anyone to question you would be a fool bringing an axe to his execution.”

The god snorts. He picks up the wine glass resting on the table beside him and takes a long drink, glancing up when the room begins to dim quickly. The ceiling lanterns stay glowing bright and gold, fractals of its rays coming out from the glass ornaments that surround them. Shadows come in from the sides, hugging the pillars. He straightens his posture and hands the empty glass to his servant, who takes it and passes it along to a server.

The Blood God rises from his seat and gestures to the people present, who looked to the podium as the room darkened. There are lights casted over hundreds in the masses of otherworldly faces, with a few that are familiar, friendly. There are ones who raise a glass to him and he smiles back gracefully, acknowledging them with a small bow of his head.

He flicks his hand and the flames get extinguished.

Another snap in the pitch dark. The floor lights up with a persistent thrum and a thread of glowing energy spins its way to the center and blossoms from the obsidian sculpture, flowering out into a white beacon in the middle of the room. The lanterns brush against each other as its flames return, whistling in the air as a strong wind comes past them. The Blood God’s hair flutters in his face, glossy strands shining in the spotlight.

“Welcome to the new era,” the god says. “For peace and fresh beginnings after a war well fought. It is my pleasure to bring us all towards a quiet sunrise.” The crowd claps, applause drifting out and echoing in the tall ceiling and some holler, glasses raised in the air. The Blood God steps away, his servant coming up to the front and bowing deeply.

He unsheathes his sword in a slow, deliberate move and raises it high. “May new alliances and trust form among your grace and powers. The Blood God’s highest bids of hope and respect rest in your hands. This humble servant wishes all the equal opportunities and best of luck in future endeavours. Thank you.” The vassal slides his sword back into the scabbard and turns away from the crowd who dissipate from the front, turning to their own conversations. “Except you, you masked bastard,” he mutters, stepping out of the spotlight. “May your future endeavours look as grim as your unfortunate face.”

His god huffs and holds out his hand towards his servant. “Stop being petty and accompany me around the room, will you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“So, I met a guy with a mask today.”

“Not this again.”

Chapter Text

It’s over, they whisper, slick, sinister grin pulling at their lips. Those pale thin hands reaching towards him and making his knees buckle under the spells, poison at his tongue and his hands restricted against his sides- he bites the inside of his mouth and writhes, searching for something.

They laugh and disappear.

You have nowhere to run!

He is dropped and he spits, hands curling around his arms and he tries to breathe. It’s heavy and fog smothers his head.

Quackity?

He swivels and there is a familiar face, eyes red as he stumbles forward and collapses. Oh no, no. Quackity moves to catch him, sluggish in his movements, feet trudging through the ground like swamp water. Long hair falls over his back and Quackity’s hand slips and slides against the other’s body as he continues to fall through his arms and they both end up on the ground, Quackity keeping them both sitting.

His hand paws at Quackity’s back weakly. Quackity, Quackity- there isn’t much time, they’re coming.

There is magic clinging to his limbs and wounds covering his body. What are we supposed to do? Quackity can’t do anything. They’re cornered. They’re going to die. He’s going to die. They’re both being chased, toyed with to gloat about their victories.

They have to leave.

His grip on the other tightens.

What do you mean?

Quackity?

Quackity.

There are spells in his mind that dizzy him but he grits his teeth and stands up, his friend sputtering wet coughs against him and he howls.

Quackity-

Chirp.

Chirp, chirp.

It’s bright when Quackity wakes up, blinking and swallowing down the feeling of sick clump in his throat. The ceiling greets him, blurry little insults painted onto the corners with a terrifying looking handprint dragging down the wall accompanying it. He smacks his lips and winces, shutting his eyes and pushing his head back, trying to forget the remnants of some faraway anxiety and nausea tightening his chest and pricking his stomach.

He must’ve dreamt again.

A loose slap to his face and he rolls his head to the side.

Bleh.

It’s been so long and it’s still bugging him, clinging onto his back and clawing at his skull. Ugh, he doesn’t want to deal with a headache.

Groaning, he sits up and his blanket slowly slides off of him, pooling around the front of his waist. The curtains are neatly done tied together at the sides of the window, the sun shining into the room. The stand near the door holding a sword is empty, the space where his roommate sleeps having a small desk laid out on it, papers in a pile at the side. The man himself is nowhere to be found, though.

Quackity stretches. He’s mindlessly folding the blanket and mattress to put away and has them both rolled up in a minute. He opens the window latch with a hand, sticking his head out and closing it when nothing’s out of the ordinary. Same old fields and same old sky. Grabbing his things, he shoves everything away in the closet haphazardly beside his roommate’s belongings. He let his hands glide over his beanie and only taking a clean shirt, then to the doorknob and exiting the room, tugging on the white tee.

He beelines towards the kitchen and splashes his face with cold water. He fills a glass up at the sink and washes the two tea mugs and the plate they put the cookies on yesterday. They’re put away on the rack to dry. Quackity grabs his water and walks back to where he came from to the stairs.

The narrow staircase is shoved in beside the entrance to the hallway of two rooms. At the top is a small, cramped area where there’s a few largely spaced-out rungs on the wall leading to a small trapdoor. Quackity maneuvers his way up while managing his water and grabs the handle, sliding it to the right. He places the water on the floor above and climbs the rest of the way out.

The light shines in from the round window on the south, glass slightly dusty and dim at the edges. The rays reach two thirds down the room, various unlit candles and empty lanterns scattered about the wooden tiled floor.

This is the attic.

Or more specifically, his attic. And this attic is no ordinary attic- no, not at all, Quackity can assure. Not only does he reside in it, but it also serves a special purpose and holds many hours of his current waking hours.

Welcome to Quackity’s workspace.

He claps his hands together and grins. “Let’s get started then now, shall we?”

One big step forward and he almost trips over something on the floor. He yelps and leans into a hop to regain his balance, cringing as his feet get cold and wet.

“Fuck, my water!”

How long has it been?

It’s a blessing and a curse, ceramics. It’s deeply rooted itself into Quackity’s life and he can’t even remember when he’s started to make sculptures- he’s been doing it for as long as he’s known his roommate, sure, but that was years ago. He doesn’t remember when that happened. And imagine: Quackity, picking up ceramics. Ceramics. Out of everything he was known for, he decided that clay was going to be his thing.

For good reason, he grumps, but people were weird about it for a long time. He leans back from his current project, considering it.

Wonder what they’d think now.

He dips his hands into the basin next to him and flicks the excess water onto the small duck. He smooths out an edge on the duck’s cheek and purses his lips, turning the little thing around in his hand to inspect it. With another dip into the water, he brings his hands back and gently presses down on one side of the beak. The speckled grey gets nudged upwards to the cheek to support the eye, rounding the face out.

Mm. Another slight adjustment to the beak and Quackity puts it aside on the shelf beside him next to the other several small ducks, all similar in size and stature. They’re lined up along the closest surfaces he can reach, other miscellaneous projects on the side in the small room of the attic. There are three bins on the shelves and various wooden tools are scattered upon his main workspace. There’s a thin cloth mat laid out that’s covered with a fine dusting of dried clay on top of his desk, dark patches where the duck rested and water sprayed. There is an overhang that stands tall where little cups of other tools and papers filled with sketches are stashed away to be worked on sometime later, little notes tacked on and scribbled measurements in margins.

Quackity leans back and lets out a deep breath.

He stands up from the stool he sits on and stretches backwards, groaning and walks towards the clay bag he has in the corner. He crouches down and peels back the plastic to cut off another chunk of clay and seals the bag back tight. He passes by his past projects, potentially to be put in the kiln, and plops down to begin another duck.

For how long he’s been doing this, most of the process is done without much thought. Automatic, quick work at the general shape of the body, head, limbs, and he’s well on his way through the sculpture. He hums to himself as he scrapes a place for the eyes, puts in marks for the feet, and lets himself get lost in the process.

It’s been a while since he worked like this. Coming in and getting completely blindsided until the morning sun rises, birds chirping about and scolding him as he tiredly slinks back downstairs to pass by his roommate, who gets out the house at dawn. Quackity’s been spending a lot of time outside with new people- perfectly new friendships he’d made yesterday. And that meant learning how friends work for them now, adjusting himself with every new detail he gets. He’s always been one known for his adaptability but with time it’s been pushed to the side, favouring a stability and routine in this cabin. Even if it was out of necessity.

He wants to say he’s gotten the hang of it all. No one thinks of him strangely, at least, and he’s fairly confident he’s made enough of a bond he could stay away for a while. So here he is instead of outside with Karl, whose eyes had brightened and told Quackity it was “more than cool to work on more stuff like the cup you gave me that was super awesome and fuck you are just so damn handsome please never stop being my friend you sexy son of a bitch, I’m Karl and you are so great” or something along those lines when Quackity nervously mentioned he had work to do. Not paraphrasing at all.

Ahem.

Quackity turns the duck in his hands and nods to himself. It’s just about done. He beings smoothing out the details, humming. He patches in the rough spots and scratches in details. Honestly? It’s almost laughable how calm he got immediately after being able to sit down and work on his stuff again without the background thrum of worries going hey, what should I say to them? Should I have done that? Why did I do that? It’s reassuring to know it’s still there for him. The novelty of the everything going on has mostly worn off and he feels comfortable acting as he normally would around his friends, albeit still cautious to keep some things private. He’s content being silly, joking around and trying to mess around like any human would.

Hm.

A wide grin sneaks up on Quackity’s face. Oh, he knows exactly what he wants to do. He hastily checks over and is satisfied enough with the current duck and puts it on the shelf. Quackity goes to grab some more clay- a bigger chunk this time, and he stops for a second, hand over a bag of a different clay before shaking his head to himself and heading back to his desk.

A Blood God statue.

He lets out a stupid laugh to himself as he takes a ball and starts molding it in his hands to make the general shape of the head. He doesn’t need to sketch it out. He knows what the supposed god looks like; tall, long pink hair, apparently intimidating, and one great ass. Quackity snickers as he dips a hand into the basin and works with the ball, indenting the spaces for the eyes and pressing extra clay on as a nose to reshape later.

Quackity’s only seen him in the town once, in the square with Karl but he’s heard more from Tommy. Tommy’s a huge fan, always scurrying around to catch a spot of the god, his bag clutched in his hands. He’s confided in Quackity about the little gifts and offerings he’s gathered through the years, always too scared to go up and deliver it, watching from the distance and throwing away whatever item in frustration with himself.

“Next time,” Tommy promises after Quackity’s relentlessly aggressive encouragement. His ears are red and he retracts his hand to cross his arms against his chest, rolling his eyes but not quite managing to simmer down his grin. “You have to come with me though.”

“Of course,” Quackity says, standing back up to continue dancing. He waves his arms in the air and shakes his torso. Quackity hollers. “You do that, I’m gonna give the Blood God a lap dance!”

“Why the fuck would you say that.”

Maybe he’ll give the sculpture to Tommy, Quackity muses, grabbing a wooden tool. He could really like it. Or he could give it to his roommate.

The sun sets before he knows it.

They’re sitting in the orchard supposedly working. Karl’s out of town and Quackity’s not lonely enough to be in slightly uncomfortable company with the three of Karl’s friends. Seeking out someone to spend time with, Quackity ended up tagging along with a complaining Tommy and wound up at the farm, running past a confused Bad to the apple trees.

Underneath the stumpy green leaves is an entirely unsurprised Wilbur who greets Tommy with a raised eyebrow and a cheerful “Hello!” to Quackity. The man gives Tommy a swat on the head, Tommy attempting and failing to block it with his basket.

“Get to work.”

They’re not working. Quackity’s sitting on the grass, twirling blades between his fingers. It’s only been a few minutes and Tommy’s already next to him lying down on the ground, saying he’s taking a short break as he crosses his legs and puts Wilbur’s folded up coat under his head.

“And he keeps going on, and on, and on about the symbols so naturally I fuckin’ zone out and then he calls on me. I tell him straight up I wasn’t listening and you know what he says? Tommy, you’re being disruptive. What- I beg your pardon?”

Quackity makes what he thinks is an appropriate response and Tommy nods approvingly. Quackity’s… Quackity’s never had a teacher before. But the situation is pretty universal. He’s gotten a lot of uncalled blame before. Aggravating.

What is algebra, though? He’s afraid to ask.

“It’s difficult, man,” Tommy groans. “I wish I could just finish studying. I wish I were stronger. Fuck, I wish I were the Blood God. That’d be sick, wouldn’t it?”

It’s odd to hear that, but information is information, so Quackity clicks his tongue and looks at Tommy. “About that, what’s all this I’m hearing about a Blood God?”

It’s an immediate reaction. Tommy shoots up from the ground, eyes wide with a hand against his chest. There’s dirt clinging onto his sweater and he gasps dramatically. “You don’t know about the Blood God?” he asks. “Fucking- Wil! He doesn’t know about the Blood God. The Blood God.” He looks back at Quackity and shakes his head sadly. “You poor, poor soul.”

Wilbur snorts from where he is at the trees. He picks an apple from a low hanging branch and throws it at Tommy, who squawks and throws it back. The apple doesn’t even get close, flying past on Wilbur’s left. “He’s obsessed with the Blood God, I tell you,” Wilbur stage whispers to Quackity, huffing. “Ever since we came to this town. Hero worship, you know?”

He knows.

Beside him, Tommy crosses his arms. “I’m not worshipping anybody,” he rebuts. He shakes his head again and reels back, a hand rubbing his temple. With an eye, he peers at Quackity before shutting them closed again, groaning. “Oh my gods, you don’t know anything about him. Where do I even start?”

“From the beginning,” Wilbur helpfully provides, ignoring Tommy flipping him off. The man starts to roll up his sleeves before stopping, hands at the edge of his basket. He makes a face. “Hold on, aren’t you going to help me with this? Bad’s paying the both of us to do a job here. Your break’s over, you gremlin.”

“One second, Wilbur! Thanks,” Tommy calls back grinning before pulling his lips back and wincing once he turns away from Wilbur. He swiftly moves to Quackity and places a hand on Quackity’s shoulder. Tommy leans into his space and raises an eyebrow. “Look, Quackity,” he whispers. “I can tell you all that you need to know. Hit me.”

Quackity punches his arm.

“OW- no, you dickhead!” Tommy scowls, reeling back and shoving dirt at Quackity’s legs. “I didn’t mean literally!”

“Oops,” Quackity says, unapologetic. He sits back in the grass and presses his lips together, thinking. Tommy’s scowl quickly subsides when Quackity ignores him and genuinely seems like he’s curious. Origins, beliefs? What is he curious about? What would Tommy know? “Where did the Blood God come from?” Quackity asks eventually.

The last bit of anger on Tommy’s face disappears and he blows out a raspberry. “He came to this town a few decades ago,” Tommy answers, eyes pointed up as he thinks. He crosses his arms against his chest again. “There was a raid in the town, you know, the pillagers and stuff?”

“Yeah,” Quackity nods. Of course. On the outskirts of the country, small towns like this one were prime targets of raids and attack simply due to the lack of protection they had. It wasn’t that long ago they stopped at this particular town, receiving a low-key reputation for safety. He remembers that.

“Well, not to brag or anything, but the Blood God saved the town,” Tommy says. His eyes light up and he points to the town square, which they can’t really see inside of from the orchard due to the walls. “He must’ve heard the prayers or something- this place was almost gone for, but you know the square? That’s where the Blood God first showed up. He fucking- he had a sword and he stabbed everyone. All by himself.”

“He saved the town?” Quackity asks, laughing. “Just like that?”

“Don’t laugh, of course he did!” Tommy says. He falls back into the grass, punching his hand above his head. He lets out a light sigh, smiling sweetly and laying his hands on his heart. “I remember it so clearly. It was like I was there.”

“Tommy, you weren’t even born,” Wilbur chides.

“It was like I was there,” Tommy repeats, gazing into the sky. He turns to Quackity and grins so wide he looks a little silly, scrunching up his nose. “And now he protects this place and defends it from any intruders in exchange for the gifts people give him. Gods, he’s so cool, Quackity, I can’t- you have to see for yourself. I swear to you. If we see him, fuck man. You’ll flip your shit.”

“That’s great, Tommy,” Quackity tells him, hugging his knees close to his chest. “Have you given him a gift before?”

Tommy blinks. “No, I, uh. I haven’t been able to do that yet.”

“Why not?” Quackity asks. Tommy doesn’t answer, shrugging. With a foot, Quackity nudges Tommy’s leg and laughs. “Aw, come on, Tommy! Go for it man. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it no matter what it is.”

Tommy whines, batting Quackity’s foot away. “I don’t know, man, it’s not that easy.”

Quackity tuts and shakes his head. He gets up from the ground and looks down at the teen. “It’s easy! Listen to me, Tommy, when you’ve lived as long as that guy, nothing truly matters anymore. He won’t care at all. Nothing! Nothing matters!” He finishes preaching and starts dancing, bouncing along the grass. Tommy yelps as Quackity barely avoids stepping on his hand. “The world truly does not care, Tommy!”

Tommy looks at him with a judgmental face and sits upright to avoid more collateral damage. “Is that supposed to comfort me? You suck at this.”

Quackity pauses for a brief second to gasp, offended, before continuing to dance. “What do you mean, I suck? This is solid advice! Next time we see him, you’re giving him something.” Tommy sputters.

“What- no! I didn’t agree to this at all!”

A spin around Tommy. Quackity hums. “You have no choice in the matter. Next time.”

Tommy laughs nervously, “I don’t know, man.” But Quackity squats down and holds out a hand and waits for Tommy to clasp onto it. He does after a moment.

“Promise me,” Quackity says.

And Tommy hesitates, but he ends up swallowing and nodding sharply. “Next time,” Tommy promises.

Quackity completes the statue that night and fires it a week later, emptying two vials to complete it.

He proudly shows the finished product to his roommate.

“Hey, look, man. It’s the Blood God. Real accurate, isn’t it? Down to the hair, hot damn. So godlike. Truly, no one has been more Blood God-y than him.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Quackity slaps the Blood God statue into Tommy’s hands the next time they meet, skidding down the path and almost tripping over his schoolbag on the ground. Tommy’s sitting outside near the town walls with his book balanced precariously on his knees, Wilbur scrubbing at the walls with a rag and mop.

“Oh, hello Quackity,” Wilbur calls, wiping away his hair with his forearm. Quackity offers him a wave and turns to Tommy, who lifts his head but not his eyes up from his paper, frowning at a sentence.

“Catch.”

The statue slips from his hands. “Big Q, What the fuck-” Tommy almost drops the thing, trying to grab it as his book slides off his lap. His pencil rolls to Quackity’s feet and he kicks it back towards the teen. When Tommy finally gets a grip on the statue, he takes a good look on it and his jaw drops. “Holy shit,” Tommy gasps, eyes wide. “What- WIL! LOOK!”

Wilbur’s already making his way over. “I’m looking, I’m looking, stop shouting so loudly,” Wilbur hastily shushes him, leaning in to look at the statue. He lets out a low whistle and leans back, mop tucked under his arm to roll up his sleeves further. “That’s beautiful, Quackity, where did you get that?”

“Why is that always the first question everyone asks me?” Quackity says. “I made that.”

Tommy screeches beside him. “You made this?” he screams. Wilbur looks at him, surprised and impressed. “Are you selling these? This is so pog, holy shit man.”

“Great! It’s yours now,” Quackity says, clapping his hands together. “Look, Tommy. You can use this to practice talking to the guy so you can do it in person, alright? This is training. Think of it like exposure therapy, you’re a man allergic to pie nuts slowly overcoming his allergy. Eat those nuts. You can do this.”

Wilbur makes an amused smile, tilting his head. “They’re called peanuts, Quackity. The hell are pie nuts?”

Quackity snaps his fingers. “Peanuts, right. See? They’re already getting exposed. Caught in four-fucking-K. Tommy, learn from them.”

“What? No, I’m not. What?” Tommy says, utterly confused. He shakes his head and blinks rapidly, dismissing Quackity with a hand. “I’m not doing that, what the fuck?”

“So you’re prepared then? I’m excited for you to speak to him!” Quackity says, immediately looking around. He swivels in his spot and stretches his neck, looking over to the right where a hill is. “When do you think he’ll come?”

“The Blood God’s barely around,” Tommy warns, holding the statue to his chest. “He’s not just gonna walk through the town, you know? Once in a blue moon. It’s special occasion.”

Special occasion, yeah right. "Then who’s that?” Quackity says, pointing to the tall, pink haired man on the very top of the hill. Tommy’s face whitens and Quackity’s grin gets wider. “What about that promise we made, buddy?”

“I hate you so much,” Tommy whispers.

Wilbur pats his back and kicks at his legs, making Tommy scoot up to avoid him. Tommy scowls. “Go on, then,” Wilbur prompts.

“I’ll bite you, bitch,” Tommy says, voice lacking the usual aggression. After a quick check at the hill he does get up, putting the statue away in his bag and grabbing a string with little charms on it.  It rattles and clinks against each other, shaking nervously in Tommy’s hand. He moves about ten steps before stopping, looking back at Wilbur and Quackity.

Quackity clucks his tongue and walks over to push Tommy forward, palms flat against his back. Tommy’s legs move under him until he’s able to go on his own without help, body on the world’s most questionable autopilot as he makes his way over. And at the rate he’s going, he’s never going to make it.

Quackity does him a solid and yells out, “Look behind you, tough guy!” and waves his arm wide.

Tommy whips his head around. It’s the fastest thing he’s done yet, and he gives Quackity a withering glare. “Cut it out,” he mouths, dragging his hand across his neck. “Stop it!”

But in front of him, the footsteps stop and Tommy freezes where he’s standing too. He stands straight and faces forward, gulping. “Uh, sorry! Excuse me, but could I talk to you for a second?” Tommy says and his panic intensifies when the Blood God actually turns around.

His eyes meet Tommy’s. The irises are a terrifying dark red and he looks at Tommy with a blank expression, like he’s expecting something.

It takes him a second to realize he’s expecting words. “Fuck, sorry,” Tommy sputters, cautiously but quickly stepping closer. “Hello, Blood God.” Quackity can see his hands shake with its clutch onto the small necklace. “I uh- I wanted to give you this- it’s a gift, I- here you go,” he stammers, holding out his hands at the god.

Passive eyes move from Tommy to his hands, gaze landing on the necklace.

Tommy gulps. “I know it’s not usually what the townspeople gift,” he says, heading into a nervous ramble. “But I haven’t got a lot of money- Wilbur and I, Wilbur’s the one that kind of raised me, the one in the brown jacket over there- we’re like, we’re brothers and we’re... Not very well off. Um. I’m not allowed to go mining, either, so I haven’t got any ores on me, but I.” Tommy swallows, clearing his throat. “Thank you. I wanted to thank you. For protecting the town. And- and I really, really think that you’re so fucking cool and I’m sure you hear- uh. I’m. Yeah. Haha. Sorry, I shouldn’t swear.” Tommy laughs awkwardly and he gets even more panicked as he glances up for a second and the god hasn’t said anything as he stares Tommy down. “You don’t have to take this- it sucks, I know, I shouldn’t have offered,” Tommy rushes out, hands shaking. “I’ll just- I’ll leave, but thank you, sir- lord? God? I don’t-”

The god reaches out and gently takes the necklace from Tommy, who crumbles in on himself and looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Tommy gapes as the god looks at the necklace, moving it around in his hands. “It’s really nothing,” Tommy says, breathy laughter at his lips. His hands clasp together behind his neck, elbows at his chest. “It’s just made of andesite and a little bit of iron that Wil got for me a few months ago-”

“Thank you,” the god says quietly, blinking slowly. “The Blood God accepts this gift in return for protection.” He puts it over his head and moves it around his neck to center it, humming when it’s adjusted. The small charm rests against the pressed white shirt and hangs alongside golden threads and buttons holding his cloak up.

Wilbur lets out a suppressed snort beside Quackity. “Oh no,” he whispers, grinning into his hand. And… yeah. It looks out of place, Quackity’s not going to lie, but it’s sweet.

Tommy’s starstruck. He stares at the necklace and glances up and his mouth drops, unblinking. He shuts it quickly, though, shaking himself and he stands up tall. “It’s an honour, Blood God,” Tommy says as he salutes him, voice painfully deepened. It goes back up as he slouches down again, glancing over at Wilbur, who gives him a thumbs up. “I- I’ve got to head off now, if that’s okay?”

The Blood God blinks back again and nods his head towards where Quackity and Wilbur stand below on the hill. Quackity raises his hand in a little wave, to which he receives a low hand up in response before the guy goes back and continues down his path away.

As he disappears, Quackity turns to a rapidly approaching Tommy. He dashes over from the top of the hill and trips over on his feet on the dirt path, clumsily swooping into a faster run to maintain his balance. He gets uncomfortably close and shuts his eyes as he runs straight into Wilbur, who shrieks and drops his mop.

A loud oof and a punch of air from Wilbur’s lungs escape and Quackity winces beside them. “Oh, you fucker-” Wilbur starts, arms coming to cage Tommy against his chest. They both stumble backwards a few little steps before stilling, Wilbur coughing from the impact.

“Wil,” Tommy gasps loudly, clinging onto the front of Wilbur’s jacket. He stares up at Wilbur and lets out an unbelievable laugh. “Stop coughing- Wil, I just spoke to the Blood God, holy shit.” He detaches himself just as quick, running a hand through his hair and exhaling. Wilbur dusts himself off, face scrunched up in a scowl. It morphs into a smaller, prouder smile when he sees Tommy’s excitement before neutralizing as he coughs, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“You look like you shit yourself,” Wilbur says. Which is… fair, considering Tommy absolutely looks like he has some serious constipation by the twisted near tears on his face.

“You good?” Quackity asks.

“I just met the Blood God, I just met the Blood God. He said thank you, I can’t feel my legs, is that normal?” he blabbers, jittery. “Shit- don’t know, don’t care. Nothing, and I mean nothing can ruin my mood right now. Like, did you see that? My gods, I just. Oh. Wow. I spoke to the Blood God.” Tommy spins to Quackity. “Big Q! Did you see him? The Blood God? Fuck!”

“I did, Tommy,” Quackity snickers. “It went great,” he cheers instead, throwing an arm around Tommy. He leans back into Quackity’s side gratefully, laughing deliriously. “You talked to the Blood God himself! You completely scammed him, what an idiot!” He gets a punch in the shoulder and more yelling and he shouts back, Tommy grabbing his head and not-so-gently hitting his head through the beanie.

“Don’t slander his name!”

Quackity ducks out and Wilbur grabs Tommy’s arms, urging Quackity to give him a good punch for me while Tommy berates him for using the God’s name in vain, you bitch. The irony of the situation is not lost on him, making him laugh despite everything else. Ah. What he could tell Tommy.

He doesn’t punch him but he does make fun of the way he saluted at the Blood God, cackling as Tommy tries to silence him forcefully.

“Quackity.”

The cold is nice against his skin and the night is no longer quiet. Quackity perks up, turning his gaze from the darkened sky to Wilbur. The man stands at the mouth of the staircase in his coat, buttoned up and hands in his pockets and an awkward wave. Quackity slides one of his arms off the railing. “Ay, Wilbur! Thought you went home with Tommy, what’s up man?”

Wilbur walks over to Quackity, coming in front of him. He offers him a small smile. “I wanted to speak with you for a moment, if that’s alright.”

“Well, this feels serious. Should I have worn a suit?” Quackity says, gesturing to the railing. “Be my guest.”

Wilbur whistles as he comes over, one hand clasping onto the railing and the other fidgeting with a rock. He doesn’t say anything, so Quackity turns his attention back up. It’s clear out tonight. The stars are bright and shining against the black, tiny little spots scattered over the entire expanse. It’s nice, being out in a fairly isolated place like this being able to see the stars. Still, he misses them. A small cloud of steam comes from his sigh as he stands up straighter, looking down at the town. The view is one of the reasons the bell tower is one of his favourite places to stay.

Wilbur adjusts his position beside him. “I wanted to thank you,” Wilbur starts, gaze looking over at the town. He looks over at Quackity. “Tommy’s- well, me as well too, I suppose, but he’s been pretty lonely. You’ve helped a lot.”

“What?” Quackity chuckles. He pops his lips and looks away, conflicted. “This is, uh, pretty out of nowhere.”

Wilbur shrugs. “Just wanted to tell you. You’re a good friend.”

There’s a lot of things Quackity would call himself, but good friend wouldn’t even be close to the first things that come to mind. Friends… are honest. Quackity refuses to look over, collecting himself before smiling. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it’s more than just me,” Quackity says, nudging Wilbur with his elbow. “You guys have each other.”

“It’s been a miserable couple of years,” Wilbur laments, rolling his head back and groaning. He laughs high and sharp, dragging out the last laugh into a sigh. “It’s nice having you around. Change of pace from only us, you know.”

Quackity hums. It is nice to spend time with other people. “Tommy’s good company.”

“Maybe. Seven-year-olds aren’t the most ideal company and they grow up into worse little twats,” Wilbur jokes. “I miss little Tommy. He was so small… I would carry him on my back and we’d run around the woods pretending to be soldiers.”

“He was seven?” Quackity exclaims, eyes wide. “I thought you two were brothers. You know. Since. Birth?” He blanches. Fuck, how do brothers work?

Wilbur snorts and shakes his head. “Nah, I picked him up when he knew how to talk and everything. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he admits, laughing lightly. “A fifteen-year-old is barely prepared to care for themselves, much less a seven-year-old kid. I’m surprised we didn’t accidentally kill ourselves. God knows I’m an awful cook.”

“You did a great job,” Quackity tells him. Wilbur looks up at the stars and stays silent. The soft light illuminates his face and Quackity watches him as thoughts flutter past and crowd Wilbur’s mind. “He’s a good kid.”

“He is,” Wilbur easily agrees. He clicks his tongue and blows a raspberry. “I wish I could give him a better life, you know? I hardly make enough for the both of us to live on. I feel like I’m letting him down.”

“You’re not,” Quackity says, placing a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder. “Look, Wilbur, what you’ve been doing is hard. It won’t be perfect, but it’s you. He has you, and that’s enough, Wilbur.” Nailed it.

Wilbur peers over at him for a second, Quackity thinks he might cry. But the man just turns back and chuckles, closing his eyes. He tosses his rock in the air and catches it. “Very cheesy, Quackity,” he teases and laughs at Quackity’s pout. “No, thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.”

Quackity sniffs and crosses his arms against his chest, huffing. “Well, if you’re going to make fun of me, I won’t say anything at all. It’s all very cheesy, Quackity. Maybe I have feelings too. Maybe I just want to be nice for once.”

“You literally gave Tommy the nicest gift ever today,” Wilbur says. “You’re plenty nice.”

And Quackity’s not warmed by that at all. No, he’s a stone cold being with none of those fluffy, fuzzy feelings. He’s definitely not flustered and conflicted as he coughs, huffing and puffing out his chest, deepening his pout. “Is it because I’m old? You make fun of my wisdom and my hopeful wishes the new generations will be smarter than the last? Are you serious, Wilbur?”

“You? Old? Look, Quackity, once you’ve lived as long as me, you get a lot more jaded and washed away,” Wilbur says, brushing away a fake tear and a sob. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to keep up with the latest trends.”

More than you could know, Quackity thinks. “Yeah, yeah,” he says loudly, leaning into the palm of his hand and yawning. “You old man. Worried about little ol’ Tommy and his future. You’re such a dad.”

“I’m not his dad,” Wilbur immediately responds, sobering up.

There’s a little pause on the beat Wilbur doesn’t continue. “Alright.” Quackity doesn’t question it. “What does Tommy want to do anyway?” he asks instead. “He’s always studying.”

Wilbur clicks his tongue. “He’s finishing school, but Tommy wants to fight. A swordsman, maybe,” Wilbur replies. He fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. “I think he wanted to be a performer or something before we came here. That’s when he found out about the Blood God.”

“Ha, fuck that guy,” Quackity says, snickering to himself. “He’s training, then?”

Wilbur winces. “We’re… trying to,” he says. “I don’t have the money to get him lessons so he’s learning from a sword fighting book with this stick he named Linda. I’ve tried sparring with him, but I’m not very good at fighting. Wasn’t ever really my thing growing up.”

What he’s hearing is that the Tommy needs a teacher. And a swordsman, at that. “I know a guy,” Quackity says, clapping his hand on Wilbur’s back. “He owes me a favour anyway, I’m sure he could help out.”

Wilbur blinks. “Really? Didn’t you just move here?”

“I have my connections, Wilbur,” Quackity boasts, smug. “Leave it to me.”

Please don’t leave it to him.

Dream, the swordsman he claimed owed him a favour, does not in fact owe him a favour. It wouldn’t be too big of a deal if that could change easily. However, the guy is also apparently not the kind of person to highly value favours or any type of promise one can make above monetary pay.

Quackity finds out this out the hard way.

He’s in their living room, bargaining with Dream who looks back at him with the blank look of the mask. It might be unsettling if it wasn’t annoying. Quackity groans, hands clasped together in front of him. “Oh, come on Dream! One time. I’ll owe you one. Please?”

The bastard clicks his tongue. “I don’t know, Quackity. I’ll be busy. I have a job, you know.”

Okay, rude. “What if I pay you?” Quackity offers.

“How much?” comes a voice on the couch. Dream turns to face the noise, crossing his arms against his chest and leaning on one foot.

“Sapnap.”

Dark brown eyes look over the edge of the cushion and shrug. “What? It’s a genuine question.”

But Quackity doesn’t even hesitate, settling on a price after contemplating it quickly. “Two gold,” he puts out, wiggling his eyebrows. “Ay?”

“Nuggets?” Dream says, sounding unimpressed.

“No, what do you take me for?” Quackity scoffs. “Bars.”

Sapnap sits up fully. “Wait, what the fuck-”

“Since when do you have gold?” George pipes up from his chair, looking up from all the wires in his lap to face Quackity. He lifts the goggles from his face and narrows his eyes. “Hold on, you borrowed money from me last week and you haven’t even returned that-”

In front of him, Dream raises his chin and tilts his head slightly. “Five.” Quackity purses his lips.

“Three.”

“Four and a half.”

“Four, final offer.”

Dream snaps his fingers. “Deal. Four gold bars, all upfront.” He stretches out a hand and Quackity takes it, shaking it firmly. His gloves are tight and grip well in his hand, the leather warm to touch.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Quackity says, pleased. Behind him, George keeps asking questions, getting louder as Quackity continues to ignore him. “Is tomorrow outside the west walls of the town alright with you?”

“No, Quackity, why do you have gold? How do you have gold? Quackity!”

Dream hums. “In the morning?”

“Afternoon,” Quackity says. “I’ll have the gold with me. I’ll hunt you down if you don’t follow through.”

Dream shrugs and steps past George to grab his axe and heads outside. “Alright. See you then.”

The door shuts behind him.

“Are you rich, Quackity?”

Chapter Text

There’s a mouse.

Quackity arrives at the west walls a bit before twelve, stretching and leaning against the stone bricks. The shadows are cool and it’s nice, his back cold against the rough wall with the sun peeking over the edge. The small mouse runs past him into the bushes and he watches it disappear into the green, hearing the leaves rustle. The temptation to go after it is… present, but Quackity decides against it, stubbornly facing away from the bush. Not this time.

He manages less than a minute.

It was a futile attempt. He ends up at the bushes, going as far as squatting down next to the shrubbery. Before he can proceed, arm hovering over the leaves, he hears footsteps behind him. Quackity turns and bingo, Dream’s here. Dressed in a thin, olive shirt and holding onto a long bag, he looks down at Quackity and tilts his head in question. Quackity whistles and stands up, dusting off the front of his pants. “Hey, nice day out, huh? Blue skies. The bush looked nice so I- yeah.”

Dream hums noncommittedly. His hands fidget at the bag straps. “Who am I teaching?” he asks. “You?”

The thought of it is laughable but Quackity just shakes his hands. He tuts. “No, no, not me. I don’t need it. They’re just running late, give them a minute,” Quackity says. Dream nods.

Then they don’t say anything.

It feels painfully awkward and Quackity isn’t quite sure what to do, but a raggedy old coat comes into view from the walls. A saving grace- Quackity shouts and calls for Wilbur. The man jogs over with a big grin that gets wider as he sees someone standing next to him. “Hello!” Wilbur greets, eyes crinkling. He outstretches his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, what the fuck.”

Dream turns to face Wilbur and even with his mask, it’s clear he’s taken aback. The hand held out continues on without stopping and clasps onto Wilbur’s other arm and they both ignore how unsubtle it is. “Wilbur,” Dream says, terse. “It’s… you.”

Well. Quackity looks between the two and thinks perhaps he’s made a miscalculation somewhere.

Wilbur laughs all breathy and nervous, putting his full attention to Dream. “Dream! What a pleasure,” Wilbur grins, not looking fully into his eyes. Or mask, he should say. “I wasn’t expecting you. It’s been a while.”

His hand curls around the bag. “It has been a while. I didn’t know you wanted to learn to fight,” Dream says conversationally. “Easier to get out of situations, huh. Your hair certainly would’ve appreciated it.”

“Well, things change,” Wilbur says hotly. It’s tense and Quackity’s afraid they might actually start fighting so he reaches out and places his hand on Wilbur’s arm. The man deflates, relaxing his shoulders and clearing his throat. “That’s not the reason we’re here. I’m not the one taking lessons.”

The smile stares back unsettlingly. “The child, then?”

“He’s not the child, he has a name,” Wilbur retorts, furrowing his eyebrows. “Tommy’s just coming back from school, give him a second.”

“School?” Dream laughs, crossing his arms against his chest. “You can’t say he’s not a child and then follow it up with he’s coming back from school.”

Wilbur bites his lip this time and turns to Quackity, pulling him slightly to the side. Quackity’s expecting it but he still startles slightly when both of Wilbur’s hands land heavily on his shoulders and grips him tight, the man’s face contorting into something forcefully pleasant. “Quackity,” Wilbur starts, hanging his head. He purses his lips and exhales roughly through his nose. “Quackity, you’ve fucked me.”

“I’m nowhere near your ass, buddy,” Quackity shoots back before wincing. “Sorry. Not the time.” He gets a loud exhale in response.

Before Wilbur can say anything more, Tommy bursts into the clearing, rocks crunching where he comes to an abrupt stop. Looking around dazed, Tommy pants with his hands on his knees when he catches his eye on Wilbur. “Wil? You said I’m learning how to fight? Are you serious?” Tommy asks, breathless.

“Long time no see,” Dream says, giving him a small wave.

It’s almost comedic how Tommy looks over him and back to Wilbur before having a double take, neck snapping back to Dream. The white mask in all its glory stares back at him. His eyebrows furrow and he frowns.  “…What’s Dream doing here?”

“He’s the teacher,” Wilbur says.

Immediately Tommy shakes his head. “No, he isn’t.”

“I’m just as surprised as you are,” Dream says, shrugging. “Quackity didn’t say anything?”

They all turn to him.

Okay, no, this isn’t fair. Quackity throws his hands up. “I didn’t know either! I’m sorry, it’s not my fault you all decided to have previous shit going on,” Quackity complains. “All I wanted was Tommy to learn how to fight and I happened to know a guy. I came down to town a few months ago, I don’t know the deep lore of all the neighbourly relationships. Is the bakery lady going to stab me if I introduce her to you?”

“You could’ve at least asked-”

Dream cuts in. “Look, forget it, it doesn’t matter,” he says, huffing. “I’m here to do a job and I’m not going to half-ass it. Let’s go.” He doesn’t wait and swiftly walks down the gravel path along the side of the wall. There is only the sound of crunching again and Wilbur narrows his eyes after him, but Tommy mutters a small fuck it and grabs his bag.

After a few steps, he turns his head back while still moving and nods at Wilbur, who’s frowning. “I’ll be back before the sun sets,” he calls, turning fully and staggering.  He waits until Wilbur’s shoulders droop and waves him away with his approval and with it, immediately spins back around. Tommy catches up to Dream and tries to match his step, occasionally having to take an extra jog out of rhythm.

Wilbur purses his lips. “I don’t trust him.”

“I don’t know what’s going on with all of you, but I’ll go with them if it makes you feel any better,” Quackity tells Wilbur. He hurries after Tommy, a hand at his head securing his beanie. He too turns back to face Wilbur, giving a smile he hopes looks reassuring. “It’ll be fine, he’s Karl’s friend! Nothing’s gonna happen. You have my word. Go do your errands for the day.”

The last thing Quackity hears is a sigh before he fully runs after the other two.

It’s not a long walk. Dream guides them to a fairly circular, empty area not far into the forest, stopping at the side of a huge tree stump to take off his bag. Quackity knows this place- a few minutes walk from here is a small river that goes all the way up to the mountain. So it was Dream who trained here, Quackity muses, looking at the dirt disheveled on the ground. Explains the axe markings on the stump.

If Tommy was relieved to see Quackity was coming with them at first, he’s certainly forgot all about his worries on the way here because he’s stuck to Dream’s side, peering over his shoulder. “So, you’re a swordsman?” Tommy asks, trying not to look impressed as his eyes scour over their surroundings.

“And I’m good at it, but I prefer an axe,” Dream says, unclasping the bag and taking out two swords, both in leather coverings. Without much care, he throws one at Tommy, who barely catches it.

“Then why the fuck are you teaching me?” Tommy says, making a face. But he’s excitable and immediately tries to get the sword out, pulling before properly untying the string keeping it together. When he pulls it out, he can’t suppress himself, giddy at the steel that greets him. “Oh, it’s sharp,” he mutters to himself, gently putting his hand on the blade.

Dream has his own sword out and swings it to his side. “I’m the only swordsman who can deal with you, apparently,” Dream replies, looking up pointedly. “So don’t piss me off, Tommy.”

Tommy looks away from the new sword and scowls at Dream. “I can find another teacher, idiot.”

“I’m the best fighter in this town, you won’t find a better teacher,” Dream says, crossing his arms, daring him to argue. It does seem like Tommy knows that as well, judging by the way he deflates and swallows his words. He glares. “I’d be careful as to what I say,” Dream warns.

“This is a pretty small town, to be fair,” Quackity pipes up from the side. Tommy gives him an thumbs up behind Dream’s back. The man himself eyes him, mask moving slightly to the side towards Quackity.

“Whose side are you on?”

Quackity raises his hands by his head. “Just saying,” Quackity shrugs. He clasps the back of his neck and looks up at the sky, sighing. “But no, yeah, Tommy. I literally know nobody. Dream’s your best bet.”

"I reckon I could beat him,” Tommy announces, raising his arms. He shuffles back to the middle of the dirt area. With completely unfounded confidence, he makes two thuds hitting his fist against his chest and steadies his sword with both hands. “Fight me!”

No response. Dream continues taking things out of the bag, some thin leather coverings and gloves. Tommy shouts again before kicking dirt at him. Dream sighs, standing up and coming close, throwing Tommy the guards. “I’m not fighting you yet, we’re going over the basics first. Put those on.”

Tommy kicks it to the side and Quackity picks them up, sighing. Tommy raises his sword higher between him and Dream. “Yeah? Hit me, big man. You can’t-” Dream swoops low and kicks at the side of Tommy’s legs. Taken by surprise, Tommy falls to the side, bracing himself against the dirt. His elbow smacks onto the ground and he sputters. “That’s not fair! You didn’t warn me! This is a sword fight, Dream, you kicked me- you bastard.”

“Our first lesson is standing,” Dream says, holding out a hand for Tommy to get up. “Quackity, give him the guards.”

“I know how to stand,” Tommy grumbles, grabbing Dream’s hand and hoisting himself up. This time, Tommy obediently takes the leather protection and doesn’t complain as Quackity helps tie them on. One for each arm and one for his chest. With a quiet thanks and a little hop, Tommy adjusts himself. He puts his feet shoulder wide and his arms up to guard. “I’m good now. Let’s move onto the swords, please.”

Dream ignores him again and goes to tap both of Tommy's feet with the point of his sword. “Your stance is too short,” Dream says instead, knocking Tommy’s leg with the flat side of his sword. Tommy startles and shuffles them a little wider before getting knocked again. Dream ignores the multitude of swears and handles his foot to the appropriate positions. “It has to be wide enough you can be hit without falling over. Stability is key, both for defense and offense. You should always be in control of your balance. Your opponent shouldn’t be able to immediately disarm you.”

Tommy takes in a deep breath and nods. “Okay, that’s a lot of information. What’s lesson two?”

“Your mom.”

They call him the mood-killer, killer of moods. Dream’s hand slaps over his mask and Tommy reels back, shaking his head and blinking, turning to Quackity. Quackity clicks his tongue and waggles his eyebrows at the two. Tommy glowers. “Why are you even here? Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks, annoyed.

Quackity fakes a tear. “They grow up so fast,” he bemoans, hiding his face. “One second they’re calling out for you and the next, they shut the door with all their teenage angst and emo music. Time flies.”

In the corner of his eye, he sees Dream move and kick the underside of Tommy’s knees. Tommy’s legs buckle and he falls backwards, a startled noise accompanying it. “Lesson two, never let your guard down,” Dream says, twirling his sword in his hand. When Tommy opens his mouth to shout, Dream whacks the back of his head with the flat edge of the sword.

Tommy grumbles as he gets up. “Yeah, yeah, fuck you too, bitch.”

“We’re not sparring yet, you barely know how to use a sword,” Dream says.

“I’m holding it right now, dickhead,” Tommy shoots back. He’s holding it wrong, Quackity thinks to himself. He snorts quietly, looking away when Tommy’s eyes dart over to him leaning on the tree trunk.

In front of the boy, Dream tilts his head to the side, considering. “Move your thumb,” he says. Tommy glances down and quickly changes his grip. “Other way.”

“I know how to hold a sword!” Tommy says, frustrated, adjusting his hand again and Dream stops, letting his arm free from them crossed against his chest.

“Fine,” Dream says. He draws his sword and steadies himself, pulling up his sleeves. “You’re on offense. Last longer than ten seconds, then we’ll see.”

There’s a pause of Tommy’s surprise before Dream’s last comment clocks in. Huffing, Tommy rushes in, lunging his sword back past his shoulder and swinging down.

Their swords immediately clash and Quackity whistles. Tommy’s a little too eager, too wide and big in his movements and it slows him down. Dream’s not entirely holding back but he isn’t going easy either, so Tommy’s easily taken off balance with a sharp twist and a well-placed push. To his credit, he does stay stable and manages to escape, quickly scuttering back before Dream can press further.

Tommy’s chest rises and falls fast while Dream stands back up normally. “Is that all you got?” Tommy taunts as if he hadn’t been close to a fast defeat, his sword raised between them through heavy pants.

Hm. Dream runs in and catches the top of the sword’s hilt with his own and pushes both of their hands down. Tommy yelps and Dream takes the opportunity to force Tommy’s arm backwards and nabs the sword from his hand. With the side of his body, he pushes Tommy the rest of the way down onto the ground and directs the point of Tommy’s blade at Tommy’s neck, Dream staring down at him.

“Lesson three,” Dream says, watching Tommy gulp. “Don’t get cocky.”

That was fun. Quackity claps and Tommy flips him off, rolling his eyes. “That was over ten seconds,” Quackity calls, giving Tommy a wink.

Tommy gasps and Dream retracts, turning to Quackity. “It was not,” Dream exclaims, but Tommy grabs his sword from Dream’s hands and springs up, wiping at his clothes hastily. He raises his sword and grins cheekily, laughing.

“AGAIN!”

Admittedly, Quackity is barely paying attention when it happens. The momentary distraction caused by the little yellow bird with the grey feather tails probably didn’t help, what with him not expecting anything.

It had been an hour, maybe two. He’d lost interest around the point Tommy relented and let Dream go over basics on the promise they could spar a bit afterwards. So when they do eventually spar, Quackity’s mostly zoned out and squinting at the bird that’s picking a nest in one of the nearby trees.

The dirt is fully messed with, clouds of dust puffing up whenever either of them stomp too harshly on the ground. Dream ducks and there goes Tommy, barely having enough time to react and his body goes too far forward. He balances himself from the inertia, sword continuing its swing in a stuttered motion. There’s no time to not fall and to dodge, so Tommy ends up still standing but with his body exposed. Dream steps to Tommy’s left where he’s open and brings his sword down- Tommy raises his own with a shout and his face scrunches from the effort, pushing against Dream.

Dream goes right, loosens his grip and Tommy stumbles, turning before he falls and landing on his side. Their swords switch places and Dream forces his arm down in a sharp motion that has Tommy’s arms shaking.

That’s when Tommy rolls to the side and while Dream was fully expecting that, he doesn’t expect Tommy to kick his legs up in an attempt to get the man’s hands away. Instead of whatever he was hoping for, Dream is not easily pushed away and his calf meets the edge of Dream’s sword.

The metal cuts his skin.

It’s not deep- it’s not deep at all, only a shallow graze of a line that drags down horizontally across Tommy’s leg. Blood begins to seep slowly. Tommy curses loudly and that’s when Quackity looks over, paling. There’s a clatter as Dream drops his sword and rushes over, looking over it briefly. It’s clearly nothing bad, so he grabs Tommy’s hands and presses them over the cut, the two bickering on about whose fault it was. Tommy, demanding why he wasn’t given leg guards and Dream, asking what idiot kicks their opponent’s hands when they’re holding a sword.

A small stream of blood drips from between their hands.

It’s not deep but Quackity jerks violently from his place on the ground and twitches before throwing himself back, slamming his arms around himself on the ground. He doesn’t register any of the pain. After taking another gasp he shoves his arm over the bottom half of his face and tries to calm his breaths, the fabric quickly heating. There is a small tug in his mind that grows and aggressively shouts at him and crawls under his skin, burning.

Quackity swallows hard and presses the heel of his other palm into his eyes. “Quackity?” he hears Tommy call. He doesn’t get up. If he does, he’ll get sick, or at the very least, dizzy.

Man. This sucks.

“I’m fine,” Quackity grits out, letting out a long exhale. It gets rid of some of the jitters and he swallows, eyes blearily blinking. The sky is a muted grey. “Fuck. Fuck, yeah, I’m okay.”

Tommy winces as he tries to walk over to Quackity before his eyes widen in an epiphany, glancing down at his leg and up at Quackity and fuck- “Oh shit, do you not like blood?” Tommy asks, stepping back. Dream’s already trying to get him to sit back down anyway, telling Tommy to be careful while still keeping an eye on Quackity.

“Something like that,” Quackity says, waving both of them away. “Stop getting closer.”

Tommy stays still, continuous pressure on the cut but Dream comes over to him. “Breathe, Quackity,” Dream says, hovering over him uneasily, and Quackity hopes Dream has never dealt with other people in distress before.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it,” Quackity grumbles and finally lifts his arm from his face, the wind feeling cool where he was probably sweating. With a heave, he pushes himself up and blows out another deep breath. “I’m gonna. I’m gonna head out for now.” He points in a general direction of his cabin.

“Are you sure you can walk alone? You look ill,” Tommy says, concerned. “I can go get Wilbur for you.”

“You’re still hurt, Tommy, you’re not going anywhere,” Dream chides.

“It’s just a cut, and you’re the one who did this, prick.”

Right, he’s injured. Quackity grabs onto his beanie and hobbles over to Tommy. He takes off his jacket and ignores Tommy’s protest once he realizes what’s going on, throwing it onto the kid’s calf. Then Tommy swats it off so Quackity goes to pick it up and properly place it around the cut, barely touching his skin. He stands up quickly and steps back before his headache gets worse.

Tommy has other concerns. Though he’s obediently tying it around his leg this time, he doesn’t stop whining. “Big Q, your jacket’s going to be ruined. No amount of washing will get rid of that- it’s winter soon, you’re going to freeze.”

With a huff, Quackity hurriedly walks away. “I can get another jacket, Tommy. I’ll get you some ointment next time around, alright?”

Tommy blinks. The realization that Quackity could get more clothes registers but stubborn as he is, he doesn’t let up. “It’s expensive. You don’t have to, I’ll be fine. It’s not even bad, it’s literally only the skin,” Tommy complains. He pouts and gets up, gently pressing his weight on the leg. He sighs. “Go home, Quackity. Lie down.”

He’s already gone. Quackity shoots them a peace sign from behind the tree trunks and brushes past the trees still in their vision in what he hopes is a normal pace before sprinting, gulping in fresh air as he gets away as soon as he can.

Blood on his hands, blood on his clothes, blood in his hair, blood in his mouth, blood at his hands and at his mercy.

Blood for the Blood God.

The ground sloshes beneath him as he stands up. There is nothing but the stench of metal and its sweetness intoxicating him, smeared across his skin and bathed into vision. The air is dizzying and coarse, red in front of his eyes. He raises a hand and wipes it down the side of his face, fingers dragging into his open mouth, tasting crimson cover his teeth, sharp against the skin. It’s gross but he grins maniacally, catching the eye of a soldier who scrambles away when they see him.

With a twist of his hand, the soldier is dragged down and dark blades of red sever into their torso. They go limp.

It’s power.

He takes in a breath and laughs, throwing his head back and relishing in the way his lungs burn. The next battalion charges in from his left and there is glee thrumming through him as he scans over the ruins of the city, bodies scattered over the destruction. Yes, yes, yes, he cackles, slashing his way through. Numbers and numbers of soldiers all kneeling down before him like tissue paper thrown into a bonfire, so pretty but quick to go, leaving behind little sparks of ash reflected in his pitch-black eyes.

It’s silly and cute and fucking stupid that they think they can stand a chance against a god like him, no matter how young and immature he is still.

Pop.

Pop, pop, pop. It simmers down to him, alone again and emerged victorious. He is greeted with nothing. There is no where to go. With a rough wipe of his hands against his neck and his robes, he sits where he killed the last soldier, unmoving in his posture. His eyes flutter shut and he sinks into the blood.

It is much later he is given a soft glance from the Goddess of Death who appears from the side, sweeping past the bodies with a critical eye. The comforting air to her all too familiar now. He gives her a crooked grin. She looks away.

“How long has it been?” she asks.

Time is not the focus, but he knows the sun has up and gone once since it ended. He tells her that. She only nods and in a matter of minutes, several of her angels surround her and spread across the city. They help her out, she had told him. They do what she does but on a smaller level where she can’t afford attentiveness to every detail, her angels to be found anywhere.

“Everything has its time,” she says, raising a gentle hand for a crow to sit upon it. It catches the Blood God’s eye and caws. “When it comes, someone needs to be there to guide them home. But I cannot be everywhere at once, can I?”

They are all busy in their work. The Blood God watches as two of the goddess’ servants fly close by him, hurrying past with their arms linked. They chatter quietly and go to their goddess who smiles and laughs with them. He blinks. There is no one by his side and when he turns over, his own reflection is looking back at him, eyes red.

There is dried blood crusting on edges and thin areas in the pools drying and creating a separate skin. He places a gentle finger on his reflection and dips it in, the thin layer folding around his nail before disappearing into the pool. The liquid turns black then into a swirling white, gold, and up comes a miniature form of a human, sword at their hand.

He makes a small motion with his palm over it and watches at it slices through the air.

A raindrop drops onto its head and it collapses into the pool.

The Blood God looks up to see the skies a dark, gloomy grey, rain progressively getting more and more. A storm, he supposes.

Soon, the entire city is being rained on, pale pink froth bubbling at the sides and he is left alone again. The Goddess and her angels left and he only gets up when he is called for in another battle. It is by the strong prayers from these warring countries he was summoned, desperate humans seeking a new god. The God of Valor does not pay him any mind as he comes in to kill, mindlessly and without thought, only pointing him towards highly trafficked areas. The Blood God doesn’t do sides. Both of them called and all he needs is blood from someone, so he goes over and greets the soldiers.

He kills a pair of soldiers working harmoniously and wonders what that’s like.

Going along the river will eventually bring you to a concealed path on the dirt hill. From there, it leads almost directly to Quackity’s cabin. It’s easy, and though he doesn’t really need the paths anymore, they’re nice to have and he’s really too lazy to cover them back up.

Regardless of how easy it may be, Quackity barely makes it home and lets out a huge sigh in relief at the doorway. “I got blood on my jacket,” he says as soon as he walks in, shutting the door behind him. He steps up onto the wooden tiling and slumps onto the floor in front of all the doorways where the entire house is connected.

There’s a lit candle on top of the log table with his roommate sitting there, several glass tubes in front of him with a one in his hand and a small towel. Hearing Quackity, his head shoots up, concerned. “Do you need me to kill someone? What happened? Are you okay? What do you mean, you got blood on your jacket? Only the jacket? You’re not wearing your jacket. Where is it?”

Quackity turns his cheek on the floor to face his roommate and blows a raspberry. “Don’t kill anyone,” Quackity says, deflating. “Jeez- Tommy got hurt, alright. Calm down. I need a new jacket, is all.”

His roommate is still tense but continues what he was doing, wiping the glass clean. “You worried me.”

“No kidding.”

Chapter Text

Lying isn't really something Quackity is unfamiliar with. In fact, perhaps he’d go as far as to say he’s pretty good at it. It’s not like the only reason he’s here today is because Quackity has never told a single truth ever since he’d assumed his new role in this world, stepping in his new blue sneakers and wondering if this is how normal young adults live. That would be absurd and unhealthy for any promising, naïve human child growing up.

Good thing he wasn’t a promising, naïve human child.

Needless to say, he’s quite comfortable living a lie. It’s second nature and more familiar to him than the fingerprints on his hands. The wind tickles the underside of his nose and he twitches away, sighing as he turns his head over on his knees. It’s one of the biggest parts of his life but he doesn’t love it- at least, not anymore, if ever. Every time he’d… meet someone, the more and more every lie that came out seemed less and less relevant to his life.

Maybe he wasn’t meant to live as Quackity, town newcomer all around funny guy.

It's different, he reasons, half-listening to Wilbur and Tommy’s banter. He likes it here- he enjoys himself without any guilt, he has fun, there isn’t a million voices screaming at him all the time and telling him what to do and how to act, micro-managing his actions. There isn’t consequences and it would be messier if he did say something now. It’s important. He knows it’s important to lie about this.

She’d be proud of him.

Or absolutely disappointed but Quackity would rather pretend it’s the former. He’s good at that.

He shouldn't but he finds himself daydreaming time to time again about belonging. About how easy would life be if he'd been born here, in this town, growing up alongside Karl. A fresh start. In a way, he supposes that's what he's been doing. Pretending he's always been here, freezing when he's caught in the truth with offhand comments here and there. There are still some moments Sapnap hesitates before laughing, going along and it stings more than it has any right to- it's his own damn fault he's been playing pretend and yet.

If he'd been here before what happened, Karl said, it would've been easier for him to adjust.

"What happened?" Quackity asks, grabbing a random shirt from the pile and plunging it into the cold, clear river stream. It's no surprise to see Karl look up at him with his eyes dimmed and more sloped than usual, a small cautious smile on his face.

"You should ask him yourself," Karl says, wringing out a pale blue fabric in his hands. “It was mostly a thing of- no, sorry. Just. It wasn’t always just the four of us, basically,” Karl says, biting his lip. “It used to be the three of them and then the five of us- and. No. Yeah. I think you should ask him yourself.”

Karl was too nervous about the subject to be tight-lipped, unasked details coming out of him the more he tried to cover up. Quackity only had to sit there silently as the man had stumbled through his explanation. Really, he could’ve probably waited it out of the poor man but he interrupted Karl with a splash of water into his face and brought the mood back up. His clothes ended up soaking wet, his new jacket already properly made a mess of.

Quackity’s not an idiot, he can read between the lines.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. In a few years, he’d have to inevitably leave and set up a new place in a new town with a new face and maybe by then he’ll learn his lesson and he won’t get attached to its people.

People like Tommy.

“If I was a god, I would simply just be better than everyone,” Tommy says, sticking his chin up, and Quackity finally zones back into the conversation. Tommy spins his arms around and whacks Wilbur in the face with his lunch doing so and ignores his shout. “I’m already great now, but I would become even stronger. Think about it. Me. As a god.”

“Yeah?” Quackity laughs, leaning back into the stone wall. He squints as the sun hits him past the roofs of the buildings. “The god of what? What would you do?”

“The God of Women,” Tommy says amiably, straightening up. Wilbur gives him a critical eye.

“Tommy, you’re not a woman.”

He swats away Wilbur’s hand that comes to flick at his forehead but gets flicked anyway. He sticks out his tongue at Wilbur and turns back to Quackity with a smile, clearing his throat. “As I was saying. The first thing I would do as the God of Women would be abolishing all men of this town.”

“Apart from you?” Quackity muses, laughing.

“Wilbur’s going to be the first one- yes, I don’t deserve to be abolished, of course apart from me,” Tommy says, kicking at Wilbur’s legs. The teen takes a bite of his sandwich again before contemplating, cocking his head. “Maybe not the Blood God,” he says with his mouth full. He lowers his voice into a whisper conspiratorially. “But consider this- the Blood God is actually a woman.”

Wilbur huffs out a laugh and Quackity stares at him, dumbfounded. “The… what?”

Tommy leans back into himself and nods his head as if he’d made the best proposal in the world. “The best people in the world are women, Quackity,” Tommy explains, putting his hands up, letting out a light chuckle. “I don’t make the rules. So by simple logic, the Blood God must be a woman. Easiest math in my life.”

Yes, Quackity’s not any less confused. His eyes dart around. “He’s literally a guy? You’ve met him. Why would he be a woman?”

“We don’t know, has anyone ever asked?” Tommy says, pointing a finger. “Checkmate.”

“Tommy, do you have a crush on the Blood God?” Wilbur pipes up, amused. “Do you want to have a crush on the Blood God? Where is this going?”

“What the f- I do not have a fucking crush on the Blood God!” Tommy shouts. “Do I have to like every woman I meet? Okay, maybe I do but that’s not the point here- Look. The Blood God. Woman. Fucking epic. Just think about it, it makes sense.”

Quackity shakes his head, hand at his chest. “Tommy, I’m sorry but there’s no way the Blood God is a woman.”

“Yeah, like you would know,” Tommy says, crossing his arms. He pouts. “How would you know if the God was a woman or not? You’ve probably never even met a woman before.”

“I’ve met your mom.”

“Don’t say that,” Tommy instantly shoots back, kicking Quackity’s foot. “Stop it.”

“You’re awfully aggressive today,” Wilbur comments, earning another kick to his foot that he returns. Quackity shrugs.

“I’m not going to lie to you, man. I only know the facts, and the facts say that your mom thinks you’re an idiot, Tommy. I’m sorry.”

“My mother would’ve been best displeased with you, prick.”

Quackity waggles his eyebrows. “That’s not what she said last night.”

Shuffling. More swears, a half-eaten sandwich thrown at his face. Wheezing laughter. “Do not ever refer to my mother in such a way- come here, I’m gonna fucking stab you, you massive dickhead, Dream said I’m getting better at my swings-”

He’s going to miss this, Quackity thinks. A slice of ham slides down his face and he forces out a laugh, peeling the thing off and slinging it at a screaming Wilbur. Tommy steps on his own already ruined sandwich and complains to Wilbur loudly for making his food inedible. Someone from an upstairs room on the street pokes their head out the window and shouts at them to be quiet and the two in front of Quackity sheepishly call back apologies.

Yeah, he’ll miss this.

“The borders moved again.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No, it was probably a rat or something. Just wanted to let you know.”

In hindsight, Quackity probably should’ve left with Karl when the man had gone out to deliver a letter he’d accidentally forgotten about the entire day. It was tucked away in his bag only to be discovered when he got home and trying to find a blank piece of paper, groaning as a letter across town appeared instead.

Now Quackity’s still in their house squished on the floor between the big cushiony chair and the low table, awkwardly glancing up at Sapnap. “My chair,” George would’ve butt in, pushing Quackity off and adamantly not getting off of it.

Thankfully, Sapnap’s busy trying to brighten the house and Dream has come back from another lesson with Tommy, the door shutting behind him.

Sapnap leans down with his metal lighter next to the candle, hand protectively around the wick as it catches alight. The flame flickers and illuminates his face. “Alright, then,” he says, whistling. Dream walks past behind him on the couch and tosses something on the table over Sapnap’s head, swiftly taking off his jacket. Startled, Sapnap makes a small noise, face scrunching as he tries to inspect it from afar. “What the hell is that?”

“Tommy told me to give it to the Blood God if I ever saw him,” Dream says, folding his jacket haphazardly and flopping down onto the seat beside Sapnap. He sighs. “Said it didn’t really matter who, just to make sure the god knows it was from him.”

“Can’t he give it to him himself?”

“Something about covering all his bases.”

Quackity picks it up and spins it around in his hands. It’s a thin bracelet of twine, a shoddy wooden carving of a sword tied to it. There are little metal bits also tied on and if it isn’t the most… thing-like thing he’s ever seen. “I can give it to him,” Quackity offers, pocketing it. Dream shrugs- go ahead.

The pool of melted wax slowly gets bigger.

The room is silent again and Quackity is about to blow the candle out if only they could have something to talk about or something to do. But Sapnap speaks up as soon he begins to lean forward, eyeing Quackity before opening his mouth. “I could beat the Blood God in a fight,” he says and wow if that is the furthest thing from what Quackity expected.

Beside him, Dream lets out an exasperated laugh. “Not this again.”

“I could!” Sapnap goes on, elbowing Dream. “We’ve never seen him fight. He could be dogshit for all we know.”

Fuck it. “Oh, he’s probably terrible!” Quackity eggs on, clapping his hands before placing them on the table and standing up. Sapnap brightens a little at this and Quackity does a little dance in his head before continuing, hoping to get a laugh out of him. “He really walks around in a stuffy cape in hot weather and doesn’t do anything- what kind of war god is he? He’s going to die of heatstroke! What idiot does that?”

“Exactly!” Sapnap says, standing up as well. Dream groans and sinks further into the cushions, head in his hands.

“Guys, we literally have an altar for the Blood God in this house, we’re going to hell.”

“Baby, I’m already in hell,” Quackity says, shit-eating grin on his face. He reaches out for a high-five and after a moment, gets a slap from Sapnap- if jokingly talking smack about the Blood God is going to help him get on Sapnap’s good side, then goddamn Quackity’s going to take this opportunity and run with it.

Maybe he runs a little too far.

“The Blood God really likes gold,” he tells them. “Gods like that sort of stuff. You should give him a ring or something.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard people do that,” Sapnap says, tapping the pencil against his lip. Karl rolls over from beside him, throwing a questionable glance towards Quackity.

“Didn’t you like… not know anything about the Blood God when we first spoke?” Karl asks laughing, eyeing Quackity.

Quackity shrugs. “Tommy’s been telling me a lot about the Blood God. I’ve been around for a while now Karl, what do you take me for? A peasant?”

“He definitely dyes his hair. No one has natural hair colour that’s pink.”

Bad looks at him funny. “I don’t know if human rules apply to him, Quackity.”

“But what if it does? We should get him berries for dye.”

“The Blood God is hot.”

“Why are you like this?”

Tommy kicks him when he insinuates that the Blood God is his mother.

Out of everything he was trying to get out of this, the other townspeople starting to talk more about the Blood God was precisely not one of his expectations.

The jokes were fun, but maybe talking about it outside around town and so blatantly wasn’t the brightest idea he’s had.

It’s a nice day out and he is out by the square walking to meet Karl to accompany him on his mailing route when he passes two women, one behind a stall and the other leaning over the counter. They pay Quackity no mind and he’s about to ask for the jerky they’re selling when he hears what they’re talking about. He stills.

“Did you hear? The Blood God is being seen more often, everyone’s talking about how he’s asking more from us. Dahlia said he accepted her offering of the gold her husband mined last week. Do you reckon that’s enough? You know her baby hasn’t been of the best condition, feverish all the time. You don’t think there’s anything to worry about, is there?” one of the women stresses, face stitched anxiously. The other reaches out and places her hand over the first, holding them gently.

“I’m sure they’re all going to be fine, dear. We’ve been leaving gifts by the church for decades now, he’s certainly heard our prayers. Maybe he simply requires more.”

The first sighs. “I have those rings the travelling trader gave me, do you think that’d be enough to guarantee my protection along to the baby?”

Quackity interrupts. “Hello, sorry,” he says, hand pointing towards one of the displays. The two turn to him. “Could I get some beef jerky, please?”

“Oh, of course,” the first woman says. She turns and gently takes a portion from her wooden crates and puts it in a small cloth bag, methodically tying a knot. Quackity reaches for his coin pouch and picks a few out, holding his hand over to give when one falls out from his grasp. The other woman steps aside.

“My bad,” he says, reaching down to pick the coin up. Crouched, he picks the coin up and presses it heavy into his palm before springing back up. He smiles brightly. “Here you go, thank you very much. Have a good day.”

She takes the coins thanking him for his purchase and he goes on his way, weaving past the crowd with the jerky in his hands. He almost trips.

Maybe he should lay off the jokes.

It’s too late, he thinks, catching sight of Karl standing by the community board. There’s a new paper sticking to it about the Blood God, something about keeping prayers more routine and the specifics of what kind of offerings are best.

Whoops.

Fuck- nope, no, not today. It’s already the seventh duck he’s broken today, he’s fucking tired of this. He kicks his stool and ignores the crashing as he climbs down the ladder and down outside the cabin, shoving his jacket on, roughly exhaling.

He’s almost at the town when he finally deflates and starts walking slower, regret already catching up to him. He hopes none of the other ducks were damaged in collateral by his outburst- man, he shouldn’t have done that. Quackity presses his palm against his eyes, blowing out a breath. His roommate is still out along the forest and he doesn’t particularly want to bother anyone else this evening. He could get something to take home, he supposes, walking past the stall vendors that are packing up to close.

Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to come looking for cookies.

It’s too late now to go back to the market in the square. The bakery is also closed, but there is a possibility the baker is home. Quackity clucks his tongue. There really isn’t a way to get in besides breaking the door and he’s been standing in front of the store for a few minutes now. She hasn’t showed up. He peers over at the simple fencing along the side of the yard and hums.

After a short moment of consideration he walks over and places his hands on the top of the fence, bracing his hands before hopping up and over the stout wooden pickets. He lands gracefully on the other side and looks up at the house. It’s like any other house in this town- stone foundation with wooden planks, painted and a tiled roof.

He waits.

He’s just about to give up and go home when the light blue painted door opens to reveal a woman in a plain brown dress, buttoned to the side over a pale cream shirt. It’s the bakery lady- Quackity’s pretty sure her name is Niki. She has a wide woven basket tucked under her arm and she closes the door behind her, lightly walking over to where the shed is.

“You’re here!” Quackity pipes up. No tact. The woman startles, letting out an undignified noise in panic and drops the basket as her eyes dart over to Quackity. Whoops. Quackity lets out a small whistle, rocking back on his heels. “Hey there, nice seeing you again,” he says, putting up a hand in a small wave. Niki seems briefly confused, glancing around before turning back to face Quackity. She pushes back her hair with a hand looking annoyed.

“Quackity, right?” she eventually says, keeping a wary eye on him. She lets out a long sigh, still tense. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s me alright, I had a question, is all,” Quackity chirps, clapping his hands together. “I love your dress, Niki!”

“Thanks,” Niki replies, smiling sweetly with knitted brows as she grabs the heavy looking iron axe that was leaning against the shed. “Get out of my flower garden, please.”

He’s not in- Quackity looks down and oh fuck. He yelps at the colourful array of plant material he hadn’t realized was under him and hops out of flowerbed, wincing at the crushed tulip stems and petals in the space of his footsteps. “Sorry,” he says, grimacing.

Niki looks at him for a long moment before sighing again, resting the axe against her shoulder. “It’s okay. Mistakes happen. As long as you don’t do it again.” she says, opening the shed with one hand. The door clunks open and she goes in and out with a few logs in her arms. They make a dull thud when she places them onto a tree trunk, gripping the axe hand with two hands.

Quackity swerves around and gets closer, standing near Niki as she raises and lowers her axe onto the logs. They split into neat halves. Another log is placed on the stump and Quackity watches her swing down. “Of course, of course, it was my bad,” Quackity says, putting both his hands up in apology. He puts his hands in his pockets. “So.”

She looks at him expectantly. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if I could get some cookies?” Quackity inquires. “The toffee ones.”

She places her cut logs in her basket and turns her head curiously. “Is that all? You could’ve just knocked on my door,” Niki says. Quackity blinks.

“I could’ve what?”

It’s nice inside, decorated neatly with pretty trinkets and plants by the windows. It’s a different layout to Karl and the other boys’ house, but around the same size. Moving past him, Niki places her basket down in the cubby by the fireplace and walks not far to enter the kitchen and opens a cupboard. She takes out a couple items and throws something on the stove, the gas burner ticking loudly as it’s turned on. I haven’t prepared batter today, if you’re alright with waiting, she had warned.

He’s good at waiting.

Quackity walks over to the kitchen, taking in how big it is in comparison to the living room and sits at a chair Niki nods at. The table’s not huge, a vertical cut of a dark oak log with a satin finish, a thin lace cloth down the middle with a bowl of fruit at the side. He runs a hand over the bumpy edge of the wood. “These are nice tables.”

“My friend made it for me,” Niki says, hooking her finger on the edge of the bowl and dragging it a little closer to herself, grabbing two apples. “He gave me this in return for a cake, one time. It was a little unexpected, not gonna lie,” she laughs. She turns the tap on and washes the fruit under the running water. “He always goes above and beyond- I really didn’t need anything. I do appreciate it, though. It’s beautiful craftmanship.”

“Oh, I know someone like that,” Quackity says, snorting. “They just won’t take no for an answer, will they?”

“Techno’s always been an overachiever,” Niki remarks. She gets out a small knife and starts cutting the apples, dexterous hands at halving them. “He wanted to learn how to bake and he didn’t leave until he could make this batter by heart,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Techno, huh,” Quackity says. Techno.

She glances up from the apples. “Don’t joke about his name,” Niki says lightly. “He said it was very important to him.”

“Oh, I would never,” Quackity assures, placing his arm on the back of the chair. Ha, Techno. What a stupid name. “It’s a great name.”

Niki raises her eyebrow but she laughs eventually and slides the plate of cut apples onto the table. Popping a slice in her mouth, she goes back to the stove and clicks the gas off, unclasping the sugar jar and pouring some into the butter. It smells good. He tells her so. She offers to teach him how to bake too, but he kindly refuses. He already knows someone who bakes cookies, why would he need to learn how to make them himself?

He mostly watches her put everything together. After a bit it occurs to him he hasn’t actually paid for anything, so his hands go to his pockets to take out some coins and- “Look at this,” Quackity says, reaching into his pocket. The little bracelet jangles in his hands, the tiny wooden sword carving hitting against the metal. “Something Tommy made for the Blood God.”

She looks up from the dough. “Oh,” Niki says politely. “It looks very well made.”

“It really does not, Niki,” Quackity snorts. “You don’t need to lie.”

“I’m not lying, it’s sweet,” Niki defends. “I wouldn’t lie unless I needed to.”

That’s fair. Quackity shrugs and puts the thing away, taking out his coins and counting them before giving up and putting them all on the table. With the loud clatter, Niki looks over and immediately starts refusing, saying he’s way overpaying. He waves her away and tells her he’s paying for the damage dealt to the flowers and even then, they bicker about the price.

The cookies are laid out on the tray when Niki goes to the storefront briefly to grab a jar of flaky salt, leaving Quackity alone. He takes the brief moment get a closer look of his surroundings. To his left there is the hallway with two doors, one left slightly ajar. The door has a small wreath hung up on it. But to his right, there is a small area in the corner in the living room with a bunch of objects on a stool and a cushion on the floor tucked in behind a bookshelf. He immediately perks up and is by it in a second, crouching down next to it. “A shrine?”

The door clicks back open and Niki barely looks back at him, hands scooping and gently dusting salt over the cookies. She pushes the cookies into the oven. “Yes, a home altar for the Goddess of Death,” Niki says offhandedly. She retracts her hands and pats them dry on a towel hanging by the sink.

Now that Quackity’s closer, he can see the details and of the offerings at the shelf. “The Goddess of Death? I thought this town were big Blood God worshippers,” Quackity comments, peering over the candles to the photos propped up behind. The smell of incense is delicate and it’s pleasant; a soft touch of chrysanthemum clinging to anything in its close vicinity. His hand reaches out to touch the side of the photos, fingers brushing against a posy containing a glossy black feather and dried flowers. There are a few coins and other small metallic objects littered on the wood, a teacup of cold tea in the middle.

You always did what he asked.

It’s been years. Still, his fingers begin to tremble as he stares into the photo so he shakes himself away. Quackity turns to smile at Niki, breathing in as he stands back up, smiling cheerfully. “Beautiful setup, Niki.”

She hums in thanks, taking off her apron. “This town is mainly Blood God worship, but I have my reasons for it,” Niki says, almost defensive. Then Quackity realizes she is defending herself and he waves his hands. There’s some relief that washes over him from Niki’s admission for some reason, but he ignores the slightly unsettling feeling.

“No, it’s great!” Quackity exclaims, sliding back into one of the kitchen chairs across Niki. “It’s nice to see someone appreciate some other god here. My old hometown used to worship the Goddess of Death, too.”

Then Niki brightens and they delve into a conversation about the goddess, sitting with cups of tea in their hands and chattering away the time.

Quackity glances down at his hands as Niki rambles on about her faith.

It’s fun- it’s so fun, in fact, the evening is almost night when he heads home with a wrapped package of almost-burnt toffee cookies in one hand and a bundle of incense along with a different posy in the other, skipping along his steps with Tommy’s bracelet in his pocket. Quackity gets home an places the cookies on their kitchen table and looks at the stairway, the hall dark without lights.

His hands twitch.

That night, he works at a familiar face with clay and stares at it. Something’s not right- he’s missing something and it’s bothering him. His thumb goes to push against the cheek and move the mouth. Nothing helps.

Has he really forgotten what she looks like?

He doesn’t want a repeat of earlier- he doesn’t even want to look at the mess he’s just thrown a tarp over. After quickly scrubbing his hands in the basin, he heads back down. His roommate hasn’t come home yet, so Quackity spreads and shuffles into his sheets, closing his eyes in the dark silence. He waits for sleep to take him. It doesn’t come easy.

But he’s good at waiting, isn’t he?

Chapter Text

His soldiers are dying. The Blood God has his vassal by his side, the two working in unison on the battlefield as thousands pile in the sides. The frontline was holding up fine a minute ago and there they go, laying before the other side and crumbling into dark clumps on the ground. He thinks, at first, he must be seeing incorrectly. As impossible as that would be, what other explanation would he have?

But his followers continue to get cut down, a sickly poor example of a spark meeting cotton fluff. Its taunts burns in front of him, heating his face with its laughter as it dangles real lives from their fingertips.

The Blood God can pinpoint the exact moment it turned into a bonfire.

Another fleet of soldiers are killed at his feet and he orders his followers into the heat of the battle. They are surrounded and that wouldn’t have been a concern if his front lines didn’t fall over again.

And then the next.

No.

There was no warning. They fall over like dominoes, a blunt sword thrust into their fallen bodies- his general slumps over in a snap and it was at that point he realized he was longer in control.

Something is wrong.

In his years here he has never been placed in a situation quite like this. There is not even a ground to regain his footing on. For the first time in his life he is forced to consider recalling, he is not sure what to do, this is not warfare he knows.

They call themselves the Purge.

“An era of renaissance,” his vassal continues. The Blood God has his face in his hands, listening intently to his servant. “They are trying to rid this world of quote, unnecessary destruction.”

“And what does that entail?” the Blood God asks, knowing what the answer is. His servant does not answer. “Who are they? Why are they defeating our soldiers? No, how are they defeating our soldiers?”

“It is unclear, my lord,” his servant speaks. “I supposed it was dark magic.”

“Dark magic. What is so special about heinous acts, how can they overpower a god. A god!” he spits, hitting the throne with a hand. It cracks.

His servant is unmoving, not even glancing at the split and veins now broken into the arm of the seat. The god swallows heavy at the sight of it, looking away and letting out a frustrated breath. “It might not be too late.”

They find out next time that it is too late.

He stands at the snow and here his servant is, dirtied from his head to toe and the bearer of grim news.

“They’ve forced our hand.”

He furrows his eyebrows. He asks more but his servant has no other answer for him but their retreat.

One last time. “Is there really nothing else we can do?”

He looks back at his god and swallows, eyes averting to the ground. “Not without a cost I’m not willing to make.”

The god lets out a long breath.

A cost. “What about our people? The soldiers? How will they defend themselves?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” his vassal says.

It is silent. The god trails his hand along his sleeve. The blood on his hands are already drying, dark blood caked in his nailbed. He shakes his head. “Retreating is not a choice. We are not leaving this war without putting in all we can. We will fight until we die. The deaths of those who fought alongside us will not be in vain.” The Blood God turns around and places a hand on his vassal’s arm, clenching before his hand loosens on the armoured plating. He sighs. “Regardless of what I ask. You will be by my side, will you not?”

His vassal places his hands on his shoulders, arms crossed over his chest to make a bow of service. “Of course I would be, my lord. I will follow where you go without hesitation.”

There are too much running through his mind- there are voices screaming at him, prayers muddled together to blur his thoughts. There are demands for him to do something, demands from himself to work something out.

Not without a cost I’m not willing to make.

The Blood God walks past the stairs, down the hall and out the building, pushing past the doorway and briskly down the path. His vassal is right behind him, hands at his hip holding his sword steady. He does not question where they are going. He knows why they are going. He does not ask why his god has changed his mind.

They are leaving.

What cost?

What fucking cost?

What price is he supposed to pay? What price would they be satisfied with? What price would he willingly pay before it becomes too much? They are calling his work sin, his worshippers depraved, wanting to contain and destroy the idea of bloodshed in order to purify the world. They claim they want to replenish natural order and create the utopia that could not exist without the eradication of all warfare, the erasure of degenerate action.

Where is he meant to draw the line?

He closes his eyes and he is at an empty grid of a board, his hand floating above with a white rock held tightly in his palm.

Your turn.

There is only one play a god should have- he should fight until he can’t. He should throw himself to battle even if all those standing by his side are dead. He should not give up until he is gone. He should have pride, valor in war and he should not forfeit until he cannot see what is in front of him.

That point is coming sooner than he can adjust himself to. The Blood God has already lost a third of his soldiers. Steadily, his followers are losing faith. The countries, towns, churches that honour and place their protection in his hands are made ruins and what remains is gruel, dust. The God of Valor has been killed. It is not only the Blood God they are after. He, too, has been sought after and killed on the battlefield. He has not retreated.

Look where that got him.

His fists tighten, fingers digging into his palm.

How does a god die but for his shrines to be desolate? How does a god die but still has mortals at their knees weeping at his churches, praying for his soul and return? There are his worshippers at a standstill, his soldiers devoid of new orders, and there are some who come to the Blood God’s door for guidance. Valor’s bonded vassal is regarded a public disgrace, the vengeance goddesses at his teeth for their broken oath of an eternal tie. How does that happen?

How is a god killed in a game he curates?

It is yesterday they are ambushed by those who call themselves the Purge. They almost kill the Blood God’s vassal- his bonded soldier, his immortalized vessel, his very own shared flesh and blood. There was a slash in his shoulder and an unruly amount of blood rapidly spurting from the wound, turning a sickly, glossy black as it clings and disintegrates his armour. He falls over on the ground and the god can see him collapse with people coming to swarm him, swords raised. The Blood God’s own shoulder screams in agony and he howls, his swing faltering and allowing a hit at his torso. His arm lashes out in blind rage and tears down whatever is in front of him and he tears off to where his mind is screaming at him to go, go, go, go, go, he’s hurt, he’s hurt, he’s hurt, you’re hurt, he’s hurt, he’s hurt-

His sword meets several bodies. The ground sloshes under him, splashing when he kneels next to his vassal, his sword thrown by his side. Blood, he needs blood- the god grabs a nearby soldier and tears their arm clean off. His hands plunge into their chest. He does not register their visceral scream, he does not know who this is, he does not care who this is- he is taking their blood and he is shouting out a prayer, the chant to a spell, the blessed blood washing over the corroded energy over his vassal.

Distantly, he knows this shoulder to be the site of the scar his vassal received during their bonding ritual.

He does not want to think about what would’ve happened if he died. His vassal lives with a darker, larger scar splayed across, covering his original scar and spreading down his back. When the Blood God touches the junction of his own shoulder, it stings unnaturally, something repelling his hand.

It is yesterday when he returns from battle the Blood God crumbles by his throne and slams his crown against the back. He has never been in this state of horrendous exhaustion, the work of trying to repel the dark magic from his vassal having completely drained every ounce of possible energy from him. He is not sure he will live. His breath comes in a choking gasp, a hand grasping at his throne. The sound of polished and perfected marble shrieking as it splits apart. He spits and tears at his skin weakly, wishing his body could provide anything other than searing bright acid and irrational impulses.

It is yesterday he finds the line.

They walk off the path through the forest to a clearing of a lake. He raises a hand to the surface of the water and mutters a goodbye under his breath. With steady steps, he goes into the lake and holds out a hand for his vassal to take.

Together they plunge into the dark and rise in the mortal realm, an isolated expanse in the middle of nowhere.

The wind flows in their hair and flutters in the wind freely, the tall grass they stand in dancing to the side.

Call him selfish. There is nothing he would do besides save himself in the time where his prayers have never been at an all-time low and them all consisting of broken, hushed pleas he ignores as he runs past his dying followers with what feels like a giant fuck you at their face.

But the cost he will not pay is his vassal’s life, he will not live if he is separated from his vassal, he will not risk his breath. He will not put either of them through what the body of Valor’s vassal now consists of, curled up mindlessly in pain with a part of him that is dead and the other part so unthinkably empty.

He can’t.

If that means abandoning his position, the millenniums he’s lived as their Blood God? So be it.

It has not been many centuries since he was manifested into a god but he has many a battle in his achievements. Now, the biggest war any realm has ever seen has come and gone with a big part of the command under his hand.

The aftermath of a war is only second to what it is with the war itself. The Blood God is well pleased and triumphant in their victory, word of his fight building more of his reputation. He is told there will be held a celebration event in the grand, holy symposium to mark the end of another great war.

He is trying to find his vassal to share the good news because for some reason, he is not by his side. It takes him a while, but he finally walks into the pavilion through the moon gate and sees who he’s looking for. His upper lip tightens. “Stop hogging my possessions.”

Sitting elegantly on the grass, the Goddess of Death hums but doesn’t look back, continuing to hand his servant another wooden ticket. With nimble hands meant for fighting, the Blood God’s very own holy servant diligently takes the tickets and stamps it with a red insignia.

Then the bastard looks up and sticks out his tongue at the god with no other change to his expression. He goes back to stamping.

The Blood God frowns. “You-”

“Hush, dear,” the goddess says gently. “I need to focus.”

This is unfair. He does not sulk when he walks over and sits beside his servant, watching the two of them work. The Goddess of Death closes her palms together and with a soft whisper, her hands separate with another wooden ticket appearing out of seemingly nowhere. She passes it off and the traitorous servant takes it and presses the ink firm on the flat side, putting the completed ticket on the ground in front of him. In moments, a crow swoops down and grabs it between its talons, flying off above the building top.

The Blood God crosses his arms. “Do you not have your own servants, Lady Death?”

“This one offered his aid,” the goddess replies. One of her four black, grey clouded eyes open to look over. “Do you need him?”

“…Not urgently.”

Beside him, his servant stands up from his kneel anyway, brushing off the front of his pants. “I am to attend to my god now, your Eternal. It appears he requires my assistance.”

“Of course. You may be dismissed,” she says.

His vassal looks down at him expectantly and so the god stands, neatly pressing down the front of his robe. “Don’t steal my followers,” the Blood God says, and he and his vassal move in unison back to the moon gate.

The goddess turns her head slightly and produces another ticket, the slightest bit of an amused grin on her face. “You might be a little too late,” she mutters under her breath.

“You bonded with one of my soldiers.”

“So it seems I did.”

"You sicken me."

She laughs.

The Blood God brushes his hands over the pile of gifts. Humans are strange, he thinks, huffing slightly. There are mainly offerings of gold, jewels, and he picks through the items on the surface. It’s all very glamourous, but something catches his eye so he reaches out and lifts it up before him.

It's a thin, golden coronet decorated with small rubies, lapis, emerald around the ring. He raises his arms and places it down.

It fits well, he thinks, turning his chin. The crown stays and does not slip, perfectly sat on the top of his head. The god looks at a reflection on the flat surface of a silver plate and appraises himself.

The door creaks open and his vassal walks inside and doesn’t look twice at the crown. The god takes one last long thought and turns to his vassal, who had come to accompany him after he’d finished his sparring training. His servant tells him about the upcoming event, the god answering with what he will or will not do.

The crown will stay, he decides.

They are down looking around the symposium when the Blood God sees a specific someone and backtracks. His vassal immediately goes to stop as well, bowing slightly to the angel who startles at the sight of them. The angel bows back.

The Blood God only raises his eyebrows and dramatically sniffs. “Look who it is,” the Blood God says, and the soldier-turned-angel in front of him becomes sheepish. "How does it feel to be a traitor?"

"It feels great, lord," Philza grins. Upon his back is graced a pair of widespread wings, still new and unfamiliar, grand in all glory. A raven’s wings, the Goddess of Death had said. “The best choice I could have ever made.”

“Perhaps I should convert as well,” his vassal hums.

“Do not even joke about that,” the Blood God warns, putting a hand up. “It is too late for you to change your mind. You’re stuck with me now.”

His vassal shrugs, sure. Philza laughs. “It was a strange transition,” the angel says teasingly. “It would be nice to have a familiar friend with me.”

“Let us leave you to enjoy the celebration,” the Blood God says cheerfully, his vassal snorting as hands come to his back leading the two of them away from Philza. “Tell Lady Death her bonded vassal is annoying.”

“Will do,” Philza grins, bowing before heading off. The Blood God and his vassal go the other direction not long before one particular masked soldier passes by them with a bow to the Blood God. The Blood God waves back and continues on with a now disgruntled vassal by his side, his previous mood subdued. He laughs lightly. “Why do you hate him so much?”

His servant pulls his lips. “I don’t hate him. I have plenty good reason for disliking him, my lord.”

The Blood God nudges his shoulder with a hand. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“He insulted your honour. He tried to stab your heart with my sword that he stole.”

“It was funny, though,” the Blood God says.

“It really wasn’t.”

They pass the obsidian sculpture, the light from the display casting a pretty shadow on his vassal’s wrinkled nose in distaste. The Blood God tuts. “Look, he’s learned from his mistakes now, alright? The past is in the past. We must move on to see the night progress into day, else we see nothing but shadows eclipsed by the moon. Do you disagree?”

His servant glares at him. “It happened last week, my lord.”

The Blood God makes a dramatic gasp. “That long ago?”

“I hate you.”

It is during the middle of the night he is pulled aside. The Blood God shoos his servant away, telling him to enjoy himself before attending to the general that has run through the crowd to his god. “There is a small town asking for help from a raid, it happened not long ago,” the general tells him, bowed.

“Suddenly? Send our soldiers,” the Blood God says. “I trust this can be managed on your own?”

“Of course, my lord,” the general says before quickly walking away.

Hm. He can confer with her later. Not far, his vassal has gone to talk with Philza and the Goddess of Death, other angels in the small group where they talk. He is about to join them when the God of Deception grabs his arm and pulls him back.

He turns and raises his eyebrows. “Is Trickster enjoying the celebration?” the Blood God asks.

Trickster waves his hand dismissively and claps his hands. “Blood God, I must say I’m awed,” Trickster says, grinning. “I’m almost tempted to find a vassal for myself. You and your servant are fucking fantastic working together, it’s truly a sight. I was watching the last battle from the sky, you’re brilliant.”

“Trickster with a bonded vassal? I would be impressed if you could manage to find someone to match your chaos,” the Blood God replies. The other god turns his head and raises his hands, shrugging with a smile on his face.

“That’s fair,” he says. There is a small moment before he startles and bows. “It’s Tubbo, by the way.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” the Blood God says, bowing back. He looks back at where his vassal stands and looks over the other god. “Would you like to meet the Goddess of Death? I’m sure my vassal would be pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Tubbo beams. “I would be pleased. Lead the way.”

Seven ducks plus five casualties and one with the smallest chip on its beak that it is almost unnoticeable. Quackity folds the tarp back up and tosses the broken ceramic into a box to throw out later, sighing.

The work he did yesterday taunts him when he goes to his desk. He does not look at her face but cannot bring himself to destroy it, either. He shelves it on the highest plank in the corner of the attic.

The rest of the day he spends with clay on his hands before it is too dark to see what he is working on. His hands reach for his candles but touch the bottom of the wooden crate, and he stands up to look. It’s empty. He’ll have to restock in his attic, but he doesn’t want to come back up here again for the day.

After he washes his hands in the basin and quickly throws something on his new projects -more ducks, surprise, surprise-, Quackity walks down the stairs and takes a glance at the clock. His roommate should be home soon, he hums.

He goes to fix himself a cup of tea, grabbing a random jar from the cupboard and spooning out whatever the hell it was into his mug and into a second one. Hot water filled to the brims, he stirs in a dollop of honey each and carries the two to the table next to the couch and places it on the wooden surface. He grabs a match and lights the lantern and returns to the kitchen only to grab the toffee cookies from yesterday before sitting back down at the table.

Three minutes go by. The tea is sweet on his tongue and hot going down. He stares out the window at the dark evening sky, pressing his cheek against his knees.

Tick.

The door opens when seven minutes have gone by, and his roommate walks in with red on his shirt and his cloak dirtied. He spots Quackity on the couch when he walks in and grunts in acknowledgment when Quackity gives him a nod.

“I made tea for you,” Quackity says, taking a sip at his own mug. “You wanna come sit down?”

His roommate mutters a small mhm as he takes off his boots and the cloak. Sauntering steps over to the table, he sits across Quackity, hands coming to wrap around the other mug and making a pleased noise at the warmth. He takes a long sip and the two sit in comfortable silence as the light outside gets to be pitch black. Quackity gestures at the cookies and the other takes one, biting into it.

“Finally decided to spend some time with me?” his roommate says.

“Thought you might miss me too much,” Quackity says, grinning softly. “Saw you getting jealous over my new friends.”

His roommate hums, not rising to the bait. “Karl, right?” he asks instead, still chewing. “He won’t do anything.”

Quackity raises his eyebrows and huffs out a laugh. “Possessive much?”

“No,” his roommate answers. “He’s too scared of me.”

“What about Tommy and Wilbur?” Quackity asks.

His roommate blinks at him slowly. “The blond kid?” he asks. “Wouldn’t you be the one jealous over me? He seems to like me more than you.”

“I am not going to be jealous over you, why would I be jealous over you? Really can’t tell what Tommy sees in you, you’re nothing but a lying body of flesh. A nightmare. Disgusting.”

He snorts. “Now you’re just overcompensatin’,” he says, reaching for another cookie and Quackity is reminded of meeting the baker yesterday.

"I talked to Niki properly yesterday,” Quackity mentions. “Super sweet, she’s an angel.”

He receives another hum back. “She’s nice.”

“We talked about her.”

He is no longer talking about Niki.

“I miss her,” his roommate says, swirling his tea. “Perhaps the next town we move to, we should find her worshippers. Might feel more at home.”

The next town. Quackity freezes. “Sure,” he says. Despite his effort trying to not give anything away, his roommate sees through him.

He places down his mug and looks at him with those eyes and Quackity bites the bitterness on the tip of his tongue. “You’re going to have to say goodbye, you knew this.”

Quackity doesn’t answer him.

“What’s your plan? What are you going to tell them? How long do you think you have until they get suspicious?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Quackity.”

He doesn’t want to hear it, so Quackity gets up with his mug in hand and heads to the kitchen. The sound of his footsteps is loud and accompanied with a sigh that he ignores. His hands twitch at the cupboards and he twists to the tap but he relents to the temptation and returns. With shaky hands, he pushes past the bags sitting in the front of the shelves to the back where there sits an old, dark bottle of wine. It’s directly in the line of sight where his roommate can see from where he sits. “I thought you were getting better with that,” he says, frown evident from his voice even without turning around.

Quackity waves a hand. “I know, I know, it’s just this once,” Quackity assuages, grabbing the bottle by its neck and pulling it out. He sets it down on the counter and pours the little amount of tea left in his mug down the drain. “It’s been a while.”

“For good reason. I didn’t even know they were still in the house.”

“I hid it a while back,” Quackity mutters, uncorking the bottle and pouring the wine into his now-empty mug. “I forgot it was here.” The glass fills up, up, and he almost floods the wine over his hands. He quickly brings the rim to his mouth and tips it back, drinking down half the contents before detaching, a sleeve coming up to wipe his face. His roommate winces, looking away.

“I hate that,” he says. “You’re gonna hate that. You’re not how you used to be.”

“Oh, I’m not how I used to be,” Quackity mocks under his breath, placing his elbows on the table and leaning forward. “I’ll do as I please.”

“You’re making me feel sick,” his roommate says, taking a mattress out from the closet. “Get up properly.”

Quackity attempts to straighten up a little against the wall but slumps down again, whining. “Tired,” he moans, arm slung over his flushed face. “Sick.”

The mattress is quickly unrolled and his roommate picks him up and lays him down, throwing his sheet over Quackity. “Go to sleep,” he says, closing the curtains. He goes to take out his own mattress from the closet and spreads it down in his own side of the room, sitting on the side. “I’ll be here.”

Quackity barely has the energy to peer his eye open before they both shut on their own.

He sleeps.

What is a human without conflict?

There is something so human in the way they love destruction and further, destroying each other. Destroying their homes, their families, their hopes.

The Blood God is no exception. He was never a magnanimous god, meant to be a ruthless, gracious killer. And so he was, matching and exceeding that definition tenfold and more, built upon the ideals of war by humans for humans. He is no longer a new god but he certainly isn’t an old god, with there not many of his nature. He was manifested from prayers, beliefs, prophecies of living mortals in the world. He is the embodiment of their thoughts.

Perhaps that is the reason it is easy for him to live amongst them.

Chapter Text

Quackity wakes up in a sweat.

A wooden ticket pressed into blood-covered hands.

It smells like chrysanthemums.

His eyes fly open to the familiar painted ceiling of their bedroom, hands going to his chest and he can’t catch a single, quiet moment in head- he barely glances at the body tossing over in his sleep on the other side of the room. The only motive is to get out and in his panic he’s not able to go and clean up his bedding, taking multiple attempts before finally opening the door.

There are so many things being screamed at him. He autopilots to get cold water but the empty wine bottle mocks him from the kitchen and he backpedals. Fuck. Quackity turns and runs into the attic. The door shuts loudly. Sitting himself right into his stool, grabbing out whatever workable clay he has, he puts himself to working methodically, ignoring the hitch in his breath. He begs himself to lose to the clay.

It proves not enough when a few minutes later, he shoots up without a second thought and goes to the back of attic. His hands shake as he unlatches the small chest in the shade, cool to the touch and retrieves a small vial from the collection. He twists it open with a hand and grimaces, almost choking as he gets its contents down.

The taste is terrible. Quackity hates having to resort to this, even if it can work as a temporary relief. His mind clears a little but now he’s left with the turn in his stomach that isn’t satisfied, discontent with what it has been given. For a moment, the thought of getting another bottle of wine crosses his thoughts but he shakes himself and takes another vial from the chest. He shuts it tightly and pushes it back into the shadows.

On unsteady feet, he walks back and places the vial down onto the desk. He picks up the current duck and finishes it, precariously going over every detail before taking the vial back in his hands and gently pouring a little bit onto its head.

He waits.

Something comes towards him. Quackity’s been on edge ever since he woke, so instinctually on the warning of danger, he makes a sharp twist to his left as his arm shoots up to block whatever is coming his way. His swing meets a flat edge and he yanks his arm open and hard to deflect it.

Tommy’s sword clatters onto the ground.

Shit.

Immediately, Quackity realizes what had just happened. Blinking away the spots in his vision and putting aside the turning in his stomach, he retracts his arm, letting it fall to his side. It’s too late, though. Tommy’s slack-jawed with his hands pulled to his right, empty, and he’s staring.

“What the fuck.”

If this wasn’t a great start to the morning, Quackity thinks. First he can’t manage to really focus on any of his projects, the empty wine bottle sitting by the kitchen sink made him feel terrible, and now he’s gone and messed up something he could’ve easily avoided. “Didn’t see you there, Tommy,” Quackity laughs, shoving his hands in his pockets. Perhaps if he plays this off well enough, maybe he can get the kid to forget. “Good to see you!”

The teen looks at his hands, at his sword, then back up at Quackity. Quackity’s smile falters.

“…Tommy?”

“Big Q, what the fuck was that? Are you okay?” Tommy rushes out, going to Quackity and tugging on his sleeve. Startled, Quackity resists, trying to gently get Tommy off of him, the guy still rambling as he roughly pushes Quackity’s sleeve up. “Holy shit, I wasn’t actually going to hit you-”

“Tommy, Tommy, I’m fine,” Quackity assures, taking his hands out and rolling up his sleeves himself after he manages to get Tommy off. He shows Tommy his open palms and turns his arms around fully. “There. Not a scratch.”

Tommy stares and his arm comes up to loosely block himself, looking down back at his sword. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Your mom."

Tommy gives him a deadpan look. "I'm being serious."

Quackity winks. "So am I. Tell her I said hello.”

“Whatever,” Tommy says, scowling. He still looks a little shaken and Quackity pats his back. Crouching down to pick up his sword, Tommy sighs, dejected. He gets up and slides the sword into its cover. “You heard me coming, didn’t you? Wilbur always said I was too loud for my own good. Do you know how difficult it is to catch Dream off guard? I swear that dick has better hearing than my dead cat.”

Part of it was noise, sure. Quackity slings his arm around Tommy, nudging the back of his head with a hand. “You’ll get better with practice, don’t worry,” Quackity tells him. He waits for Tommy to smile back at him. It takes a while, but it forms, and he gives Tommy’s hair a ruffle. “Come on, let’s get some food.”

With Tommy stuck to his side, he tugs him around town to the market. They are able to get to a street down from where Bad’s stall should be when Tommy suddenly pipes up with a “Will you spar with me?”, puppy eyes on display as he pouts. “Big Q, please.”

He laughs in response and Tommy groans, knocking his head against him. Quackity tsks. “I don’t know about that. I told you, Tommy, I’m not very good at sword fighting.”

“It’s practice, I just need someone to parry with,” Tommy whines. “I haven’t forgotten about you literally stopping my swing earlier. Spar with me.”

“Eh, next time,” Quackity brushes off before he almost trips, arm stuck on a now immobile and sulking Tommy. The teen glowers at him. Quackity sighs. “Okay, okay, fine. Tomorrow?”

Tommy breaks into a smug, self-satisfied grin and nods. “Yessir!”

He sprints off. Distantly, Quackity can hear Bad scream and Tommy’s boisterous laughter, followed by angry scolding and in reply, defensive remarks that continuously blame the other for not moving away quick enough.

Quackity huffs out a laugh and hurries his steps.

When the tower bell rings, Bad offers to lead their prayers.

It’s possibly the weirdest experience Quackity’s ever had.

As soon as it’s over, Tommy reverts back to being loud, taking up more space. “I think that your prayer is fine but compared to mine, it’s shit. No offense, of course. It’s just that I’m the biggest Blood God worshipper of anyone in the world ever, Bad, don’t feel bad.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you inside the town church, Tommy,” Bad comments. Tommy gasps.

“I think it’s quite rude of you to think that the church is the only measure of religious belief, Bad. That’s highly presumptuous and privileged of you to say that. Maybe I do go to church and maybe I don’t, that’s none of your business and frankly, you should never insult or undermine someone because of it. What’s wrong with you? What are you trying to imply?”

“That’s not what I meant! I wasn’t implying anything, I just thought wouldn’t going to church make you a bigger worshipper?” Tommy doesn’t answer, arms crossed. Bad sighs. “Tommy, I’m sorry, I think you misunderstood what I was trying to say. I apologize for what I said.”

“Damn right, bitch.”

“TOMMY!”

Pink hair.

“The Blood God never dies.”

He’s heading home for the day when he passes by the bakery and enters with the intention of quickly saying hello to Niki. The chiming of the bell is familiar but before he can say anything, he looks to his left. Both Quackity and the group of people at the table inside the shop get surprised, Niki calling out a small hello from the back. “Quackity! Come sit with us for a bit, man,” Karl exclaims, already getting out of his seat.

Quackity makes eye contact with Sapnap as Karl drags him over and thinks maybe he should’ve just let Tommy skip class today.

Weak protests put aside, Quackity is squashed into a chair beside Sapnap.

It’s not awkward at all.

He tries to make a few jokes, some of which actually landing and get Sapnap as well as George and Dream laughing. With a shared spread of Niki’s baked goods on the table, Quackity forgets about the shake in his hands and gets a semblance of normalcy.

Clearly, he relaxes too much. When Quackity takes a look at the clock hanging behind the counter, the hand tells him it’s been an hour and he startles. An hour ago was probably a good time to go apologize to his roommate for getting fucked over last night. Sapnap’s the first to notice when he pushes his chair back, looking at him questioningly. “I have to head home soon, need to check up on something before the sun goes down,” Quackity says, standing up.

Sapnap leans on his hand, blowing a raspberry. “Do you even live here? I swear you suddenly appeared out of nowhere and Karl just went along with it. Where do you go?”

Uh. No, it’ll be fine if he mentions it. “I live a little outside of the town walls,” Quackity says as vaguely as he can without sounding like a serial killer. He scratches the back of his neck. “I think I’ve told you guys this before.”

Sapnap shakes his head, sticking out his bottom lip with a nuh-uh and Karl makes a surprised noise. Okay- maybe it won’t be just mentioning it, but it’s still fine. He’s got this. “No, you haven’t,” Karl says. His eyes brighten and he leans forward excitedly. “Can we come over? I want to see your room! How far away is it?” He hasn’t got this.

“No!” Quackity says a little too loudly. Everyone startles. Even Dream, usually stoic and sitting there being intimidating, turns to him before looking away, and Quackity lets out an awkward chuckle, smiling weakly at Niki who looks up from behind the counter. He clears his throat and lowers his volume. “I- no, I don’t think so. Karl. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Karl says, and sits back. He tilts his head. “Why, is it a mess? Do you have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend, either’s okay. Are you poor? There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Karl asks, before waving both his hands in front of him, grimacing. “Wait. Sorry, no, you don’t need to answer that. I got too excited. That was rude."

Well, now he feels bad. Quackity shakes his head, trying to reassure the other. “No, it’s fine, I just- I have a roommate,” Quackity says, trying to be reassuring. “He doesn’t really like people all that much, is all.”

“You have a roommate?” Karl cries out at the same time of Sapnap’s exclamation of “You have friends?”, and Quackity scowls at the both of them and kicks himself mentally.

“You know I have other friends,” he grumps, wincing. “I know you said Tommy didn’t count, but you guys aren’t the only people I talk to. Just because you haven’t met them doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

“Didn’t you say that about my money last week?” George pipes up from where he’s laying his head on the table. “You still haven’t paid me back, by the way.”

“Go back to sleep,” Quackity snips, crossing his arms. “You aren’t involved in this, peasant. It was like ten coins, get over it.”

“How am I the peasant? You’re literally the one who borrowed money from me!”

“No, go back, you have a roommate?” Karl asks. “You’ve never mentioned any roommate.”

Quackity shrugs. “Never came up in conversation, I guess. There’s really nothing to say.”

“What’s their name?”

There are a few choices Quackity can make. He could simply not tell them his roommate’s name for no particular reason, guys, don’t worry about it, he could lie about it, he can run away from this town and never return. Or he can tell them his name- there is no possible route where this can go terribly wrong, right?

“It’s Techno,” Quackity tells them.

Karl pouts. “I’ve never heard that name in my life.” Yeah, haha, how strange for a delivery man.

Resisting the urge to slap himself, Quackity pushes his chair in fully, inching his way back to the door. “I’ll head off now then, if there isn’t anything else you want to ask.”

“You live with Techno?” Niki interrupts.

Oh shit, he entirely forgot where he was. “Uh- yeah,” Quackity says, laughing awkwardly. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There was definitely harm in sharing that. He breathes in sharply, leaning an elbow against the doorframe. “Small world, huh?” Niki narrows her eyes at him.

Sapnap raises an eyebrow. “You’ve met the guy?”

“Yes, he comes by every now and then,” Niki says, not looking away from Quackity. “He’s a friend.”

“I want to meet him, too!” Karl says.

“Maybe!” Quackity replies as energetic, careful in his words. Please, Niki, don’t say anything. “I’ll have to ask him first, though, there’s no guarantee he’ll agree. He spends all his time inside, man. He doesn’t talk to anyone other than me.”

“He talks to Niki,” Sapnap points out.

“He likes cookies,” Quackity tries to reason, wincing. “Not that you aren’t lovely, Niki, but cookies are a big motivating factor.”

“It’s fine, I know what he’s like. Speaking of, could I have you take something back with you?” Niki asks, grabbing a paper bag and filling it before Quackity can even answer. She works quick and in moments unlocks the small gate at the side of the counter and comes over.

Niki holds out the bag to Quackity. It smells like toffee. When he goes to grab it, she leans in and puts her hand over his, lowering her voice. “Are you-”

“Thanks, Niki, I’ll make sure he gets it,” Quackity interrupts loudly, smiling at her as he slides his hands away. He quickly turns to open the door with the side of his body, waving to the boys at the table who wave back, Sapnap giving him a peace sign. He waves at Niki. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Niki stops in her words and sighs. “Make sure I put in the proper number of cookies,” she says finally, waving back at him. The bells chime to silence and she walks back to the counter, tucking her apron back neatly.

The proper number of cookies, as far as he knows, is none. There is no reason he should’ve been given cookies, so when he looks inside the bag, he is not surprised to see a little note hastily written down on a napkin.

What are you doing here?

Quackity shoves the paper back into the bag and quickens his pace up the mountain, stumbling and hitting his shoulder against a tree.

“But if he does insist on faith, on truth, and on companionship of the worlds in which a lonely god has traversed, he will be expected of great responsibilities and unfaltering loyalty.”

When Quackity gets home, his roommate is already inside. Usually, he isn’t back until later, but Quackity’s a little frazzled to think about that right now. He kicks off his shoes and scrambles into the kitchen, too aware of his movements as he throws the bag of cookies onto the table. There is no reaction from the other. Quackity goes and sits himself into the chair across from his roommate.

A glance up from hands swiping clean a glass vial. “What is it?”

“I fucked up!” Quackity bursts out, tugging off his beanie and dragging a hand through his hair. He breathes in deeply. “I may have accidentally told some of my friends I live with a guy named Techno. And they want to meet you. Also Niki overheard.”

Their clock ticks in the background.

His roommate clears his throat. “So…”

“She knows.”

Techno places down the vial and looks at him in disbelief.  “You had one job.”

“It was an accident!”

Techno scoffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How do you accidentally tell people that you live with- it’s fine, it’s fine. Did Niki say anything?”

“No, but she, uh, left a note in the bag.”

Techno immediately goes to dump out the contents of the bag, picking up the napkin and a cookie. He reads the note and sighs. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow, it’s not a big deal. But you can manage whatever the mess you created on your own. What did you think was going to happen?” Techno says. “Am I just conveniently out every time they want to meet me?”

“I may have implied you were a recluse.”

Techno cringes. Hand dragging down his face, he places both his arms flat on the table, pressing himself away from the rough edge. “We talked about this the other day.”

“You talked about this,” Quackity says. “I got drunk off my ass.”

“And it was entirely unnecessary,” Techno says, and Quackity leans back into his chair, exasperated. Not this again. “Alcohol isn’t going to substitute anything. All it does is make us sick.”

“It works fine for me,” Quackity says despite it being blatantly untrue. Techno knows this as well- he doesn’t say anything, though, letting the silence speak for itself. Quackity does not go back on his word. He stares Techno down.

His roommate is the first to look away. “Well, I for one did not enjoy having to deal with the consequences of your choices,” Techno says, standing up and grabbing his cloak. He throws it on and clasps the golden chain closed. There is no reply. He sighs as if he’d expected it and it makes Quackity feel like shit. “I’m going to tend to the farm.”

At this time? Quackity blinks and glances out the window. The sun is barely still up. “You didn’t go out this morning?”

His roommate grabs the lantern by the front door and raises an eyebrow. “With the headache I had? You can complain to the guy I’m bonded with.”

The door shuts behind him and Quackity sinks into this chair, folding in on himself.

“Could I trust this holy servant to fulfill his role as a god’s liege?”

“He shall.”

“Then the Blood God accepts this offer and blesses this soul to bind for eternity.”

It is an excruciating few hours. Quackity had immediately gone to their room- the handprint on the ceiling corner is as unmoving as ever and the little insults on the side mock him. Techno’s desk has glass vials neatly propped up against the wall and papers in front, a familiar map laying out the forest and what land is within protective borders, the town a funny shape in the middle of all the complicated lines.

Beside that is another map of a snowy tundra north from here. There are notes beside it. Towns, names, how to build a house suited for cold weather. One beneath it is a town east, central to the country and on both maps, there are scribbled thoughts in Techno’s neat writing of potential places they could hide away to.

Quackity silently moves to grab his mattress from the closet and closes the curtains.

It is about night when the door creaks open and Techno moves to the closet, taking off and folding his cloak to put on the shelves. Quackity can feel Techno eye him and stills in his curled-up position, hoping Techno would just lay out his shit and go to bed. That doesn’t happen.

“Can we talk?” Techno asks instead, putting on a clean shirt. Quackity stays unresponsive, staying still under his sheets. There is more rustling from the other side of the room as Techno presumably gets his mattress, a light thud on the wooden flooring as he places it down. “I know you aren’t asleep.”

He kind of wants to throw his pillow at him. “Hey, Techno.”

“I don’t want to argue with you,” Techno says and- okay. Quackity deflates, muscles melting into his mattress because fuck, he’s tired as well. Fingers pressing into his palm, he whispers back a me neither and waits for Techno’s next words, hearing him shuffle into his sheets.

“Why don’t you tell them?” Techno asks, facing the wall. It’s quiet and by all means, Quackity could whisper his reasons but he’s finding it hard to answer, pressing the back of his head onto his mattress to try to relieve the anxiety.

“I…” Quackity’s grip on the sheet fabric tightens. “I don’t know,” he whispers, and he hears Techno roll over in his mattress. Quackity shuts his eyes and bites his lip, trying to keep his breath even.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” Techno asks not unkindly.

“I don’t know,” Quackity says again. “Until I can’t.”

“Is it not tiring?”

“A little,” Quackity admits, swallowing. “I don’t like lying.”

“I know you don’t.” A little breath. “What if you don’t?”

The stench of rust, rot, bile at his tongue and the blinding burn in his shoulder crippling him forwards as he sobs through bloodied teeth.

A smile at him, a white hood covering their face.

“The Blood God dies today.”

“No,” Quackity immediately says, because that’s about the stupidest idea he’s ever heard.

“No?”

He hesitates. “Too dangerous. I don’t- I don’t want to. And I… I like being Quackity.” Quackity’s good. Quackity’s safe. Quackity isn’t whatever he was before.

Techno hums in response and the room falls quiet for a beat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if word of the Blood God spreads further than this town. The borders have been acting up. The decision might be made for us, whatever that may be.”

“I know.”

The easiest, most painless route is running again before anything happens. The tundra might be nice. Quackity blows out a breath and turns his head over to look at Techno, who’s already looking at him. “What if it happens?” Techno says.

“What?”

“What if they find us?”

Quackity shuts his eyes. “Then it’s too late.”

“Well, that’s awfully pessimistic. I’m all about looking at the bright side- maybe we can go see Phil or something before we die.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“Aw yeah, I’ll get to see him even faster, then.”

Chapter Text

As soon as they enter the realm, the Blood God begins to run. The golden fabric of his robes fly behind him, a combined effort of his speed and the wind, fluttering behind him.

It’s new to be in a quiet field without the sound of liquid under him, the cold, fresh air smelling of faint magnolia. His vassal quickly follows, any disorientation quickly dissipating as his eyes dart around the surroundings. They’ve been here before; he’d recognize the place. “Where are we going, my lord?”

“There isn’t a destination,” the Blood God replies. “Somewhere safe.” He mutters another protective blessing under his breath and leaves it in their path, the grass coming back up to stand untrampled.

His vassal looks up. A crow passes across the orange sky, clouds dotted around. “Then I recommend we head west from here,” he says, stopping. “The most populated area in the country is east. The towns west are far spread in rural spots. It’ll be easier to remain unseen in the mountains.”

That’s… true.

The god turns, grabs his vassal’s arm and begins running towards the setting sun.

Humans are strange, he concludes.

The Blood God sits at the edge of the cliff, looking down upon the expanse of the snowy tundra. It has been two weeks. Two weeks spent going around towns, adamant they have minimal interaction with the mortal world. The only thing he allows himself to do is hide, protect, not wanting to risk anything for convenience. The Blood God has taken to a smaller form, a more… flawed version of himself, fit to be an average mortal that suppresses his energy. For millenniums, the only human contact he has ever had had only been through his sword or his hands, the bite of his teeth. Never small nods, a cheery greeting, or polite conversations about the weather and what product he uses for his skin, it’s flawless.

He raises a hand to his cheek and frowns. Unusually, his hand feels cold against his skin.

By all means, this is terrible. A sin. A holy, all-powerful being treated like any other mortal and letting it free? He’s a war god. It’s unheard of. Blasphemy should send him damning those who dare speak that shortly of him. The Blood God, highly respected with his holy soldier, has never had to truly deal with this. His reputation precedes him and his vassal would be done with them before he even has a chance to lift a hand.

It doesn’t bother him.

In fact, it makes something twist inside of him not uncomfortably. His vassal instead twitches and forces his hands away from his sword.

“Would your friend like some, too?”

Not his vassal, but a friend.

His friend.

It’s okay.

It’s too okay, in fact, the way he leans into it, saying, “Yes, please, that’d be nice.” It’s horribly too much okay when a joke makes the store owner laugh, the way they nudge his shoulder and clap his back.

It is only when his vassal tugs on his arm and whispers at him that, “We have to go, my lord,” he is brought back to his thoughts and jerks away from the counter. Voices flood him in angered demands, gleeful cooing, confused mutterings, and kill the man, kill the store owner, blood, blood for the Blood God, kill.

He brushes off the store owner’s questioning and takes their purchases, ushering his vassal out the door.

Why is this stuck with him? Why can’t he ignore this and move on like any other thing in his life?

His friend.

He drops his hand and blows out a long breath. There is no use getting worked up over nothing. It’s unimportant. He knows, though, if it were truly unimportant, he wouldn’t be thinking of this.

It’s not okay.

If he hadn’t done anything wrong before, there’s certainly reason enough he would be banished to the Netherworld. Though, there’s no reason to be banished if he isn’t a god, is there?

“My lord,” his servant starts, coming up from behind him. The vassal had always been slightly bigger than the god himself, but now he towers over him with a looming shadow. Of course he’s a god, he thinks. Here’s living proof. “We should keep going.”

The snow under his palm melts as he gets up.

A human body gets tired very quickly, he learns.

It is three months of travelling sporadically, every waking moment with paranoia seeping into his actions and wanting assurance their tracks have been covered well enough that they finally stop. They spend time looping around towns and scout out several locations- they decide on a wide mountain looking over a small town that is mostly self-reliant with minimal imports, which would be easier to manage. The moment they decide, the Blood God’s vassal takes it to himself to mark off what area would potentially be under their protection.

When the borders are all done and set up, the only thing left to do is seal them away.

Like he’s done once many times in his life, the Blood God kneels and mutters into the ground. Unlike any other time, it exhausts him and for the next few days, he is left lying on the grass drifting in and out of what is akin to a mortal’s sleep as his vassal moves around him trying to figure out how to build a house with the materials they have around them.

Perhaps they should have packed better.

It’s fine, though, what they need they can come down into the town and purchase from someone. The first time the god goes down to the square, someone makes fun of the way he speaks and he has to stop his vassal from going after them.

“I wasn’t actually going to do it.”

“I did not enjoy being immobile for ten days, I’m not taking chances.”

That was possibly the worst part. The entire time he is laid on the grass, he is bombarded with voices. It almost reminds him of when he first came into existence. He’s vulnerable but this time it’s because he is sustaining himself on nothing while making too grand of actions. No proper rest or feed, no energy extracted through the rush in battle. The ones screaming blood, blood, blood, drown out the rest, prayers hidden amongst the crowd as they beg him to return.

The Blood God keeps his eyes open and breathes out.

Blood for the Blood God.

Anything within the borders is protected. Perhaps masked is a better word, but nevertheless, it has been made to be unseen. He reminds himself that as he paces along the nontangible lines and begs his power is enough to hold up against threat. His hand curls against a trunk of a tree and sighs. He’s done what he could. If they are found, they are found.

The more mornings that pass without disruption, the more the tension releases.

He didn’t think they’d make it this far.

For the first millennium, he is filled with bloodlust.

A god born in midst a war, fleshed out from the pools of dead energy- he is made of death and seeks the warmth where life lays, coming into the crevice between their ribs and crunching down on it. The Goddess of Death meets him where he lies, eyes glowing red and body hunched, heavy breathing as he hisses, dripping blood from the sharpened edges of his mouth.

His first battle. His place of birth, the manifestation of his body among the corpses and the immediate smell of blood making him shriek and kill.

Kill, kill, kill.

Blood for the Blood God.

He is stained in life and death, hands covered in red. Only a few hours old and already changing the tides of the war with a bang.

Between all the voices, he hears the Goddess of Death approaching from his left. He seethes, turns and sees her.

A dark aura sticks to here and surrounds her body. She holds out her hand. A delicate gesture, hands in a black glove that go up beneath her long sleeves. She watches him stare, confused, and she steps down towards him and tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear when he doesn’t react. His eyes go past her, confused and dazed when there is no blood to take from this being.

Kill.

He curls. It stretches and screams inside of him, scratching at his lungs and squeezing his heart-

Blood, blood, blood-

There is a soothing whisper in his ear. “It’s going to hurt for a while,” the Goddess of Death says, gently grabbing his hands and holding them in hers. “The process is not kind, and neither are the duties we are brought here to do.”

It hurts.

“There is a lot you are being asked for.”

Kill.

Her eyes- there are an unusual extra pair. They are black, cloudy with grey. She looks at him with pity, knowing none of her words being understood. “I am so sorry.”

The young god doesn’t hear her. He cries, teething and spazzing against the robes of Death’s dress, howling as his mind screams and demands blood despite being fed only moments prior, the place devastated of any life. It does not get any easier. It never will.

He stops calling himself a god.

His prayers never disappear but they are thrown to the back, increasingly overwhelmed by the hunger for a kill. He ignores that, too. If he wakes up in the middle of the mountains covered in blood, corpses of dead wildlife around him, he pretends he hasn’t. He goes to their half-built home and washes off by the lake, shrugging on his new clothes.

This is safe, he tells himself. This is for necessity, not out of anything else, another layer of protection to keep them sane. He tells his vassal little of his intentions and asks he refers to him not as his lord, but as a friend. An equal.

It’s terrible at first, but they get used to it.

They always do.

“My Lord,” he says, dropping his left knee to the cold marble. Long, pink hair cascades off his shoulders to frame his front. He faces down, left hand on his right knee with his other hand gently gracing the floor, back straight. His voice is even and clear in his recitation. “I am of your breath and of your blood; I am to be but a vessel to carry out your needs and orders, to be sent to war and recreation. Please, accept this humble soul to be blessed with the Lord’s protection and guidance in this plane.” With a small tilt of his head up, eyes meeting the Blood God’s feet, the god catches a glimpse of his servant’s face. “It would ever be my sole purpose and honour to be placed this duty.”

It’s silent. There is no answer and no movement from the god. A sound of a water droplet landing echoes throughout the room. When the man exhales come a faint steam, fog disappearing as it rises along with his chest.

The god chuckles.

With a smooth stroke of his arm, the Blood God brings up the golden-lined quartz sword from his side to place the heavy blade on his servant’s shoulder. There’s a gentle press of the edge through the thin fabric of his silk shirt to his skin. The man stays silent through the process, eyes closed, only making a small flinch at the initial cut. Sharp pain shocks through his system. Bloods seeps from his shoulder, and there’s a light hiss from his mouth before the god kneels in front of him and nicks his own hand lightly, placing it on the wound.

The pain washes away into a warm haze and the servant lets out a quiet, shaky breath. The blood retracts back upwards, drying the white silk and disappearing into his palm, leaving behind a raised white scar over pale skin and a clean cut through the fabric. The god sighs as he cups the servant’s face with a hand, staring into his eyes.

“To be with me is something you cannot leave,” the Blood God murmurs into the air between them. “It is a sacrifice and a curse. I don’t want you to come to regret this.” His hands retreat from his face to the loose sleeves on his own clothes and stands, taking small steps backwards to his spot before. His hands clasp together in front of him and he straightens. “But if he does insist on faith, on truth, and on companionship of the worlds in which a lonely god has traversed, he will be expected of great responsibilities and unfaltering loyalty. Could I trust this holy servant to fulfill his role as a god’s liege?”

The servant does not shake. “He shall,” he says.

The god smiles. “Then the Blood God accepts this offer and blesses this soul to bind for eternity,” he says. “May the skies and earth witness our equivalent exchange in loyalty, strength, and protection. The blade to my hands, we will fight the battle of heavens. Praise be the lords before us.”

Today’s the day he was expecting. It took longer than he thought it would.

She is there when he turns the corner. He knows. It was not long after they departed her crows began to flutter around in the background, distant black specks that tried their best to hide from him. Try all they might, he could feel their eyes bore into his back- it’s either her or the angels themselves that are keeping an eye on him. Neither of them seem like a better outcome.

He’s been avoiding her.

She probably realized that, too.

When he turns, he sees her and his feet still, hands frozen against the tree. There is a crow on the ground that squawks and flaps its wings before flying away. Left alone now, her body is facing away, hand tracing over the small green sprouts in between the cracks of the stone ground. Always ever so graceful, in peace.

A small part of him is glad to see her, a face of familiarity in a space he feels entirely too big to fit in.

He swallows and leans against the tree trunk. He’s not going to speak first. He doesn’t think he can. The more time goes by the more tense he gets, arms tightening across his chest. The sun fully falls.

Finally, she addresses him.

“Gods do not usually mingle in the mortal realm,” the Goddess of Death comments, touch drifting away from the plants. They wilt as she lets go. Straight to the point, then. He sighs and presses his face against his sleeve- of course, of course. “Nonetheless with the mortals themselves.”

“I’m no god,” Quackity murmurs, adjusting his back against the stone. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone.”

Her head cocks to the side. “Of course, Quackity.” She turns to look at him. Her irises and pupils all black without a glow, not a hint of grey spotted around the swirls. It’s been a while since he’d been in front of those eyes, he thinks, bitter. Typical of him to be scrutinized like this. He’s surprised she hasn’t handed him a wooden ticket, being blessed the highest honour of being escorted by Death herself. That might’ve been better. “I expect I will not be seeing you around, then.”

Quackity drops his head and looks at his nails. “I’m afraid not,” he mutters.

“And this would make the Blood God happy?”

“I sure would like it,” Quackity says, meeting her eyes. He smiles tiredly and shrugs. “I don’t know about any Blood God.”

The goddess looks at him and he refuses to meet her gaze. He hears her sigh. A hand rests on his shoulder and he, too, sighs and sinks into himself. “That is all I wanted to hear. Stay safe, Quackity,” she whispers to him. “I’ll always be here for you two.”

“Thank you, Lady Death,” Quackity whispers, feeble. “You may take your leave.”

There is a quiet where Quackity thinks she might begin talking, maybe stay, but she disappears without another word. The space where she goes seems emptier than ever.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see her again.

Quackity slides down against the wall, knees propped up in front of him, and sits until the sun rises.

The words echo and disappear into the quiet. Another drip of water sounds through the room. After a long moment, the man in front of him looks up slowly and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, coming to sit on his heels. “Is it done, my lord?” Techno whispers, and the Blood God steps forward and reaches down to tip the man’s chin up with a tender touch.

The Blood God smiles. “It is,” the god whispers back. “Welcome home, Techno.”

The Blood God is dead.

Quackity throws his crown into the lake. It splashes slightly and immediately disappears into the darkness of the water.

Today, he is going to paint the interior of his and his friend Techno’s newly built cabin. The paint will be an ugly, pale brown because there is no other paint that is being sold at the market of the town nearby. They will live in this house and Quackity will live as Quackity. He has already begun to pick out what mannerisms the townspeople carry, their words, their thoughts.

He stares at the water.

Ha.

Haha.

It’s really not funny- it’s really, really not funny but his knees feel weak as he laughs, crouching down and wheezing his lungs out. He’s going to cry, he’s crying, he can’t stop laughing. The grass curls up under his fingers as he digs into the ground, desperately clinging and pressing his arms against the dirt, gasping out laughs in between his tears.

The Blood God is dead, isn’t that what you wanted?

Chapter Text

The sun hasn’t even come up yet when he jumps awake.

“Sorry,” Techno mutters into the darkness. He picks up his sword that clattered onto the floor, placing it on a closet shelf while he got ready. Quackity barely opens his eyes before falling back into his mattress. Techno continues to get ready, folding up his blankets and putting it away. He begins rolling up the mattress as usual when Quackity moves and rolls onto his stomach.

“You’re so perfect waking up at four fucking o’clock in the morning- oh, look at me, Mr. I-got-my-shit-together,” Quackity grumbles into fabric. He puts on a voice. “I’m going to go fuck my wife and feed my ten children and dominate the stock market with this real society money and start an insurance business and partake in tax frauds, look at me go. The rich get richer. Pop off, king. Unproblematic. Immaculate. Heavens, you think you’re so much better, don’t you?”

“What.” Techno raises an eyebrow but gives up as soon as he questions it, going back to rolling up his mattress. He tucks it into its spot in the corner of the closet and grabs a clean folded shirt. “You’re literally a god,” Techno says. He looks over critically, blinking. “What are you on about?”

Quackity opens one eye and sticks his tongue out at Techno. “You think you’re better than me? Huh?” He huffs. “Humans are so stupid.”

“I’m not human,” Techno says.

“Yeah, no you aren’t,” Quackity snorts. “No reasonable human wakes up in the middle of the night. You’re a monster, that’s what you are.” His words get muffled as he wiggles back into his sheets, tucking the fabric over his nose. “’M going back to rest.”

Techno hums back and tugs off his sleep wear, getting into the clean shirt and a pair of pants. He folds the other clothes and places it onto his rolled-up blanket and gently slides the closet door shut. He walks over to the curtains to open them slightly, to let light into the room as the sun wakes and tours around where Quackity lays, blanket rising and sinking to the rhythm of his breaths, hair splayed out over the mattress.

There is a brief moment of contemplation as his hands hover over the pillow. Ultimately, Techno only huffs a laugh to himself and gets up, grabbing his cloak from the hanger as he walks out of the room.

A few hours later, Quackity hustles out of the cabin, running past the forest to go along the river.

“You seem excited.”

The sun isn’t out today, the cloud-filled skies making the circular forest area dim. It should rain sometime this week, with what how the weather’s been acting. Handing Quackity one of the swords, Tommy grins, pulling back to put his hands on his hips. “I haven’t fought anyone besides Dream- unless you count Wil, but he’s shit so of course I’m excited,” Tommy says, taking out his leather padding and also giving it to Quackity. He places down the sword on the ground to take them. “Here, put these on.”

“Aren’t they yours?” Quackity asks. With swift fingers, he ties each of the two on his forearms. They feel funny against his skin.

Tommy waves his hand and makes a face. “Yeah, but you’ve never done this before and Dream’s always on my ass for being safe,” he grumbles. “You know, one time he didn’t say anything when we started and I thought he finally got over himself but he grabbed my arm and tied it on himself halfway through. Weirdo.”

Well. Quackity’s going to have to make sure Tommy doesn’t walk into his own blade by accident, else the voices are going to scream at him again. “Safety’s important.”

Clicking his tongue, Tommy shrugs half-heartedly and goes to get his own sword.

It’s been a while since he’s fought with a sword, Quackity thinks. He never really liked swords, the little things. Techno swears by them, the pride in the blade he cherished and cared for was something that was all too familiar as he grew up. A dark purple, almost black with gold spots and shiny with enchants, it was a beauty Quackity had crafted with the blood drained from his opponents in battle, forged with the rarest runes. His first gift as the new bonded vassal of a god.

The Blade, as everyone called him. Always carrying that damn sword around, still keeping its rightful place next by his left hip as it has since the day he got it.

The sword in his hands now is light and simple, a wooden handle with a carbon steel blade. A double-edged plain longsword that still definitely wasn’t cheap and obviously more cared for under Tommy’s eager hands than it was under Dream, who regarded them as simply throwaway practice swords. Quackity swings lazily and feels the balance for it.

“Is the sword up to your standards, Big Q?” Tommy comments, laughing.

“I am a professional, Tommy, I need to check the quality of these swords,” Quackity says. They’re not bad at all. He’s just used to being spoiled. “I am absolutely a better fighter than Dream. Don’t doubt it.”

Tommy snorts. “Sure,” he says, finding his stance. He’s a lot better but still undershooting it, tighter than it should be for his height. Quackity looks down at his own feet.

Pretending to be bad at fighting is not that hard, at least on the front of not hitting his swings. Years of suppressing his urge to attack has trained him for this exact moment- he’s got this.

The hard part is finding the balance between being bad and being absolutely dogshit to the point it’s not even believable. At the end of the day, he still wants to make sure Tommy has fun and isn’t being dragged down trying to deal with him. Quackity raises his sword in front of him, adjusting his feet on the ground a little smaller and less stable, staring past the blade at Tommy. The plan of action is to copy Tommy, but a little more slightly off. Lean on his left. Maybe hit his elbow. Make up for smaller mistakes by being loud, distract him.

Tommy comes at him with a shout and Quackity shouts back, ready to strike. He tilts his grip on the sword.

Steel comes down and Quackity meets Tommy, letting them both dip down by his force. It makes a loud clang and Tommy heaves to push it down to the side and bring it back up, scrambling to dodge Quackity’s lower swing -slow and steady, make sure he sees it, do it loudly- and stands straight to block the second hit.

“Not bad,” Tommy says, breathing in and out a little harsher.

“Yeah,” Quackity says, “I’m really good, Tommy, you shouldn’t have challenged-” The next swing comes in between his words and it’s painfully obvious it’s coming, but Quackity stays still and squawks dramatically as he raises his arm to block it at the last second. It hits the leather and Quackity quickly forces his arm away to lessen any damage to it, the back of his fist pushing into his face on its way.

He checks down and there’s barely a mark on the brown. Nice.

In front of him, Tommy gets further by his quick steps back and grins, sword hanging low in his hands. “Gotcha bitch,” he says proudly, patting his chest. “The one and only Tommy Innit, undefeated yet again. One-zero!”

Quackity shakes his head and laughs, rubbing off his chin with the back of his hand. “You caught me off guard,” Quackity says, jumping lightly with his heels off the floor. He makes a motion for Tommy to come closer, nodding approvingly. “I got you, I got you. Come at me.”

With a wider grin, Tommy runs forwards, sword raised over his shoulder.

Quackity topples over.

Again.

And again.

Their first round lasts for about a little of over a grand total of three minutes. Quackity’s not quite sure how that stamina translates to the average holy soldier’s but he crouches down near the dirt, trying to look as tired as Tommy.

“I WON!” Tommy shouts, raising his arms high above his head. “GODS, I’M SO GOOD AT THIS, HOLY SHIT.”

Quackity laughs before coughing and hunching himself over. “I was definitely doing well until the last hit. You got lucky,” he defends himself, shaking his head.

“It was not luck, at no point were you doing better than me. Actually, how are you this shit?” Tommy says, breathing heavily. He collapses onto the ground and weakly points his sword at Quackity before his arm quickly drops. “What happened yesterday? An act of god?”

“Tommy, man, I’m trying over here,” Quackity replies, trying to match Tommy’s breaths. He pats the teen’s arm and stands up, nodding back to the dirt. “Come on, let’s go again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy says, letting out a big exhale before going to grab his water from his bag and taking a few gulps. He offers Quackity a drink, clearing his throat with another deep breath.

“Nah, I’m good,” Quackity says, resting the flat edge of the sword on his shoulder. “I can beat you without it.”

Tommy’s eyes narrow and he throws his water to the ground. “Oh, you’re on.”

They go for short, intermittent rounds that progressively get more stretched out as time goes by, Tommy’s limbs slowing with the tiredness and effort he puts in. Quackity, at one point, takes Tommy’s water and splashes his face with it before Tommy questions why he isn’t sweating.

“Big Q, that’s my water, you dickhead!”

“It’s hot, sue me!”

The edge of his beanie gets wet and Tommy tries for the next few minutes to snatch or pick it off with his hand or sword. Neither ever get close to his hat. Tommy asks him if the beanie’s magnetic or something, frustrated he can’t get to it even as a bit.

“Yeah, a chick magnet. That’s how I got your mom.”

Tommy aims for his head.

There’s fun in playing around. It’s a bit weird, honestly, put against someone he knows he could easily throw over and kill but he’s having fun. The way Tommy’s eyes brighten and his posture gets more confident when Quackity leaves open an opportunity for him to see, subtle enough it doesn’t seem intentional. Credit where it’s due, Tommy himself is an exceptionally fast learner and finds most of the faults Quackity sets up, including some he didn’t think the kid would get.

Not bad, Quackity thinks, having tripped over Tommy’s outstretched leg and met with the sword at his neck, all in rapid succession.

“That was impressive,” Quackity tells Tommy, taking his hand to get up. Tommy bristles and conflicted over how to respond, nods firmly once and grips the sword tight in his other hand, walking backwards to another beginning stance. His ears are red.

“Again,” he says roughly.

When Tommy finally puts his sword away, the two of them walk to the river and dip their legs into the cool stream. “I’m going to become the best swordsman ever,” Tommy tells him, determined, hair dripping from dunking his head into the water earlier. “The Blood God is going to think I’m so cool.”

“I’m sure he will,” Quackity says. Tommy’s shoulders come up and shy away from him, narrowing his eyes.

“Don’t mock me,” he says, shrinking into himself. He splashes a little bit of water in Quackity’s general direction. It barely hits his knee.

Quackity shrugs, kicking his feet softly in the water. “I wasn’t. I’m super proud of you, man,” Quackity says, smiling softly as he hits Tommy’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “If the Blood God doesn’t see that, I’ll make sure he does.”

Tommy stays quiet before an eye peers back at Quackity and only when he stays silent and reassuring does Tommy cough and straighten a little bit, adjusting his shirt. “…Thanks, Quackity,” Tommy says.

“No problem,” Quackity sings, getting up. “How about we go get some lunch now? My treat.”

It’s well in the afternoon when he comes home. Quackity spots Techno in the fields next to the cabin before he gets inside and stops by the side.

“EYYYYY, TECHNO!” he yells as he walks closer, solely for the purpose of watching him flinch and make an undignified noise of surprise, hands shooting from the soil to his hip. Quackity cackles.

He immediately deflates when he hears Quackity’s laughter. Of course. The only thing in the world that could ever scare him. Quackity takes full advantage of the whole not being able to trigger his danger instinct. “You’re back,” Techno says, unimpressed. He puts his dagger back in its sheath, sighing. “I wish you weren’t.”

“No, don’t say that to me, Techno,” Quackity says. He looks over the field and squats down, poking at the dirt. “You’re expanding the farm?”

“No, I’m building a church,” Techno replies. He makes another hole in the dirt and drops in a seed potato. He pats the soil firm. “We’re going to worship the Goddess of Death like the world intended.”

Quackity squawks. “If you’re going to make a joke about worship, at least make it about your actual god, you dickhead.”

“Oh, yes, blood for the Blood God, woo,” Techno deadpans. “Let me root for the guy that passed his title to his unwilling vassal and ignore my good friend who’s been out guiding people to the afterlife every day of her existence.”

“Look, she’s a workaholic and everyone else in this town are Blood God worshippers, you can’t make fun of them,” Quackity says. “And you still work for me! Sort of. Not really. I get my shit done, what the hell?”

“That’s what you think,” Techno says.

“Are you slacking off?” A hum for a response. “Why are you so nice to everyone but me.”

“You ever thought maybe I don’t like you?” Techno says, planting another potato.

“I’ve been with you your entire life!” Quackity yells.

“You think you’d get used to it,” Techno nods in agreeance.

“I don’t like the way your sass has gotten over time.”

“Thanks.”

He might kill Sapnap.

“How did fighting with Tommy go?” Dream asks him, and Quackity scoffs, handing over his jack of hearts to the smug bastard who puts down his new pair.

“I won,” Quackity says immediately, followed by Sapnap’s snort. His glare is met with a nine of clovers. Fuck.

From the kitchen, Dream turns his head over to Quackity, spinning a dagger in his hand. “Tommy said otherwise,” Dream says, one arm crossed over to the other. “Said you fell over a lot.”

Quackity shrugs. “Maybe. He’s improved a lot, he put up a good fight. Glad to see you’re doing your job.”

“Like that’s hard, you look like you’d fall over if a leaf fell on your head,” George says, not looking up from the small machine he’d been tinkering with on the kitchen counter. He blows on a tiny piece of copper wire. “It’d be embarrassing if Tommy lost.”

Quackity lets his hand fall into his lap. “George, what the hell, man.” George shrugs.

“I’m just saying.”

Across from him, Karl blows a raspberry, putting down three sevens. “What if Q’s actually really good and he’s hiding it?”

Quackity snorts. “Sure,” he says, flicking Karl’s arm. He flinches away and pouts at Quackity, rubbing his skin. “And I’m a millenniums old god that retired to pursue isolation in fear of his own consequences coming to kill him.”

“Okay, what I said wasn’t that out of reasoning. You even had that secret ceramics skill you never told me about,” Karl complains, throwing his hands up. He has three red cards. One of them is a six.

“It was stupid, that’s what it was. Don’t disrespect me ever again,” Quackity says. He outstretches his hand. “You have a six?”

Karl looks at his hand and groans, handing the card over. Next to him, Sapnap exclaims, “Quackity cheated!” and Quackity flips him off, sticking his tongue out and Sapnap makes a face back.

A few of his ducks are brought downstairs and laid out on the table for their final step. There are two that he picks up and twirls around in his hand and something about them are off- nothing physical, they just don’t feel right.

He places them back down and moves forward in his chair, placing his elbows onto his table and chin in hands.

Quackity hears the shuffling and movement outside the door before it glides open to Techno shaking whatever dust or dirt had settled on his cloak to the outside ground. He twists in his chair to face his roommate, laughing when he sees the amount of stuff he has in his arms that prevent him from fully dusting himself off. Techno realizes, belatedly, his boots still need to come off and sighs before putting everything down.

Loser. Techno gives Quackity a look as he laughs harder and picks up the gifts when he’s done, stepping up into their cabin. “They gave me gold again.”

“You can say no, you know,” Quackity says, snickering. He grins at Techno before focusing back on the ducks in front of him, considering. “You don’t have to take everything they offer because you’re their god. They’ll understand. Maybe.” He thinks about the women at the market. “Actually, they might not take it very well. Don’t.”

Techno’s silent for a moment. “I won’t. It’s nice, though. Familiar,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah.” Quackity looks up from his work, glossing over Techno and settling on the small gathering of shiny items in his arms. He whistles. With a hand, he tries to poke at the jewelry to admire them further before Techno walks away. “Damn, Techno,” Quackity says, leaning back into his chair. “You look like you robbed a bank.”

Techno lets out a huff and moves to hover over to the table, opening his arms and letting everything fall onto the wood with a clatter. “Sure,” he said. “Here, take some.”

“Nah.” Quackity’s eyes flit over some of the delicate jewelry and gems. “More of your thing, really.”

“You dress like you’re homeless, you could do with some of this,” Techno comments, picking up one of the rings. He slides it over his fingers and gives a mildly surprised hum at how well it fits. “Maybe then you’d look like what you are.”

“What the hell! That’s so rude,” Quackity says, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “I would never say that to you.”

“That’s because I always dress well.”

“You’re the one who bought me these clothes,” Quackity says.

“That was well over a century ago. I offered to buy you a nicer outfit, you keep getting the same jacket every time it falls apart.”

Quackity smacks his lips and puts his arms over himself and the blue fabric protectively. “It’s a nice jacket, what can I say?”

“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to replace that thing.”

“And yet you do it every time. The Blood God works under me, Tommy would have a heart attack.”

“I’m leaving.”

Quackity tuts, putting his arm over the back of his chair. “But they think you’re so cool, Techno. You’ve heard the stories, man- give them something to work with! The Blood God needs new plot, a storyline, something compelling.”

“You mean, give you something to work with,” Techno says, shrugging off his cloak. He folds it and tosses it onto the sofa. “You’re the only reason people believe in that nonsense. Then the gifts were finally coming to be more infrequent and you went and messed that up, too.”

Quackity has the audacity to shrug and dismiss Techno with a small wave, closing his eyes. “Look, setting off that raid was an honest mistake,” Quackity says, lifting his chin. “It’s fine. Potato, potato.”

“You pronounced it the exact same way twice.”

Quackity grins and holds up one of his projects, letting the small duck flip Techno off. The little clay creature makes direct eye contact with Techno with its current lifeless, grey eyes.

“I am so done with you,” Techno deadpans.

“No,” Quackity whines before sliding off into laughs. He looks over the duck and hums, eyes glossing over the rest on the table. “I do need some blood, if you have any on you,” he says. Techno doesn’t say anything but reaches to his side, producing three small vials of burgundy liquid. He walks over and deposits them into Quackity’s hands, who chirps in delight. “Thank you,” Quackity sings. “What would I do without you?”

“Die, probably,” Techno says. “I’ll be out in the farm. Let me know if you need anything.” Quackity hums in acknowledgement.

With the newly acquired vials, he twists one open and looks down at it. Rabbit blood, most likely. Steadily, he pours a little bit onto one of the ducks and places his palm over its eyes, watching the blood glow white for a moment before dissipating into the clay.

After a moment, there’s a small twitch under his hand and retracts it from the duck. “Hey there,” Quackity says, petting its head.

The duck chirps and nudges its head into Quackity’s palm.

He goes to send the newly animated ducks to the forest, sending them to sit along the border. They nod to him seriously and he blows them a kiss, smiling as they waddle away. Now, the other thing. Techno said the borders were moving.

When Quackity raises his hand against the lines, it wavers and he purses his lips, cringing at the swirl in his chest. He sits down for a moment to breathe.

That’s not good.

It’s concerning, to say the least. There’s nothing he’s done different; what the hell is it, then? On his way back from patrol, he picks up seven cracked ducks. One of the older ones that managed longer than a few weeks is damaged, too, a sliver running down its back and across its beak, quacking softly when Quackity picks it up.

Seven.

Seven.

At most, he gets one or two in a week- not seven.

He tucks the little ones away in his jacket and hurries back home.

Techno finds him sitting outside on the roof. He definitely knows how Quackity’s feeling- spoiler alert, he’s doing absolutely terrible. It’s written all over him, body hunched over onto his knees as he stares up at the sky, silently upset. Quietly, Techno just makes space beside him and sits down and joins him in looking up at the stars.

A long time passes before Quackity sighs. “They keep dying.”

“I saw.”

“I’m fucking tired of this, Techno.”

“Mhm.”

Shit, man. Quackity shuts his eyes and falls back onto the roof, sighing louder.

Techno peers over and cautiously pats his knee. “You’re doing your best.”

“Anyone would do better than me.”

Eh, Techno shrugs. “Perhaps. But I’m glad it’s you.”

Quackity makes a face. “Nerd.”

Techno’s sincerity drops along with the faint reassuring smile on his face and he glares at Quackity. “I’m being nice.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a sappy bastard for saying that,” Quackity snorts. He reaches out and pinches Techno’s cheek, cooing.

Techno gives him an annoyed grunt and moves away, swatting Quackity’s hand. He leans back into the roof’s tiles with his arms crossed and rolls his eyes. Quackity cackles, feeling a little bit lighter. Drama queen. With a light shove to his shoulder that gets ignored, he lays his head onto Techno’s lap. Despite Techno’s supposed irritation, he gently places down his arm across Quackity’s torso. Immediately Techno’s hand uncurls into the mess of the silky, black hair, and he marvels at the ethereal shine to the strands. It’s unsettling and inhuman in the most mesmerizing way.

The wind feels nice without having to hide away his hair.

It is in moments like these Quackity almost feels like he fully belongs in a world full of these strange, irrational human creatures who scour the world for something- he, lying under the night sky with Techno’s company, is immersed in a place that is so warm. It is welcoming, enveloping him with earthy tones with rumbling waves- when he observes Techno sitting near his fireplace, curled into his chair with the cover of a well-worn leather book held in roughened hands, he is reminded of the very human thought of home.

Quackity’s home shuffles under him and he peers up drowsily at Techno, who is already looking at him.

“What’re you looking at,” Quackity mumbles, eyes drooping. Techno shrugs but doesn’t say anything, and Quackity gives him a soft smile. Go ahead, he wants to say, but yawns.

A whistle of wind swoops past them, and Quackity watches Techno’s hair blow to the side and past his face.

“Thank you,” Techno mumbles.

He hums. “What for?” Quackity whispers back.

A beat. Techno’s silent, hands stilling at Quackity’s hair before letting out a breath and resuming. “For bringing me to life.”

For bringing me to life. Quackity lets out an exhale and fully closes his eyes, letting his arm drop down by his side and on Techno’s lower legs. Bring him to life. “I did, didn’t I?” Quackity muses, and when he blinks his eyes open. A smile Quackity knows he didn’t mean to let through forms on Techno’s face. The soft light of their oil lantern flickers, dangerously close to going out, placing shadows onto the cavities and details of Techno’s pleased look. Quackity laughs again and turns over, pressing his face into the soft fabric of Techno’s white shirt. “I want to thank you as well, then.”

With a couple blinks, Techno’s mouth goes back down into a little pout as his eyebrows furrow. “What did I do?”

“You brought life to me.”

Techno shoves him off. Quackity rolls past the edge and sputters onto the ground, dirt smudged on his face. He gets back up on his elbow, staring up at Techno, the night sky surrounding him like an ugly owl. The ugliest owl ever, stupid fucking birds named Techno. “What the FUCK.”

“Moment over, I’m never talking to you again.”

Chapter Text

It seems like Luck must really be on Quackity’s side today. Though the only thing in the sky are grey clouds, it hasn’t rained quite yet and he doesn’t feel so drained of energy, feeling better after yesterday even with the ducks. He gets shooed out by Techno who bans him from the attic for the day, telling him he should get his mind off of things for a bit.

For the better, honestly. He might be facing standing in a field of dead sheep if he isn’t careful. Still, Quackity’s hesitant but he trusts Techno will keep a better eye than him and heads down to the town, singing along the way down the mountain. He weaves through the trees and hums a tune Wilbur had played him the other day, snapping along to the beat with his other hand brushing against the greenery.

Someone’s leaning against the wall and sees him when he enters the gates. A big guy in a brown shirt who tips up his hat and makes eye contact, giving Quackity a short nod in greeting.

“You’re the blond kid’s friend, aren’t you?” the man asks, crossing his arms. Quackity lifts his hand in a small wave, slowing his jog to little hops and a stop.

Blond kid- that’s Tommy if he’s not mistaken. Not a lot of kids running around in this town, either under the age of eight or over twenty and none other he’s friends with regardless. “That’s me,” Quackity replies, smiling politely. “What’s up?”

The man stays silent for a moment. He looks Quackity up and down before nodding again. “He’s a good kid.”

Quackity blinks. “Yeah, Tommy’s great.”

“You keep that kid out of trouble, yeah?” the man says. “Got a lot going for him. Could head to the city. There’s the championships this year, in about two months. Let him know about it.”

Quackity nods again and starts heading away when it’s clear he’s done talking. “Will do!”

Championships? He remembers it being mentioned once, Wilbur joking about it with Tommy. Seemed excited. Maybe he’ll see Tommy around, though he’s probably in class or some other. It’s the weekday, though, and Bad probably has his stall set up, so Quackity heads left and to the center of the town where the market is.

The entire house of them are there sitting with Bad. Though he sees Sapnap around there from time to time as Quackity had found out he works for Bad, Dream and George usually aren’t hanging around outside in the markets. Quackity slows and walks over, not catching anyone’s attention before he speaks up. George glances up and Bad’s eyes brighten, Sapnap nodding at him.

“Are you guys holding a party without me?” Quackity says, hand to his chest dramatically. “I am feeling so unloved right now.”

“Aw, you’re welcome to join us, Quackity,” Bad says, waving him over and handing Sapnap a crate. “I know you don’t usually get invited to them,” he adds cheekily.

Quackity looks back at Bad as he comes over next to them, peering over his shoulder. “Woah- Bad, you’re being bold today, what happened? Are you good?” Quackity laughs. “You’re being mean.”

“He found out about Tommy,” Dream offers.

Quackity turns his head. Okay, what’s all this with Tommy today? Just how gossipy is this damn town, getting all up in his business? First all his fun with the Blood God got taken too seriously, now everyone knows about the kid. “Huh?”

It was a thing with Bad that he was over the moon when he found out Quackity had befriended the three sitting here with them. Apparently, he was even more giddy when he found out Dream had become friends with Tommy and by extension, Wilbur. With an excited light hit to Quackity’s arm and being too pleased to correct Quackity when he swears at Bad for hitting him, Bad thanking him for forcing them to be friendly while eyeing the others.

“I told you that you guys would make great friends!” Bad exclaims, looking far too proud of himself. Sapnap rolls his eyes and Bad sticks his tongue out at him, but it does nothing to bring down his mood. Singing to himself quietly, Bad pushes another empty crate off the wagon. “Tommy’s a great kid, I don’t know why you were so stubborn.”

“They tried to rob me as a kid,” Dream snorts. “Who the fuck robs a blind person?”

“Hey, language,” Bad chides by reflex before his face contorts, concerned. Surprising his grin didn’t stay glued on the whole day. “I didn’t know they did that. Are you sure it was them? I know Wilbur had stuff going on financially but…”

“Yeah, pretty sure they needed money for medication,” Dream shrugs, sighing as he plopped down next to George. “I didn’t have anything at the time either, so it didn’t really matter. I was still pissed off, though.”

“Pissed off, sure, you were so whiny. You were complaining all day that your bag got ripped,” George snickers. He clasps his hands together and closes his eyes, sulking and pouting. Sapnap cackles. “Oh no, my favourite leather knapsack! Whatever shall I do? If only I hadn’t been mugged by Tommy, outsmarted by a little nine-year-old. Look at me, I’m Dream and I am an idiot."

“I wasn’t thinking he was going to mug me, I understandably had my guard down,” Dream defends, voice getting higher. “If a little kid comes up to you with a high ass fever your first thought isn't going to be oh no, he’s going to steal my bag. What’s wrong with you, fuckface?”

“HEY!” Bad shouts, grabbing a tomato and pelting it at Dream. It hits him in the shoulder and Dream startles.

Sapnap moves past them to grab the boxes on the other side of the stall, awkwardly brushing past Quackity. He turns to push the back of Dream’s head and gets a hit on his leg in response. “Better than accidentally hitting on your opponent during a fight. Didn’t her girlfriend yell at you afterwards?”

Dream groans. “That was an honest mistake. Do you mind not airing all of my personal business? Quackity’s right there.”

Oh no, Quackity shakes his head, leaning into the conversation. “By all means, you guys go ahead. I’m enjoying this.”

Sapnap shrugs. “Do I look like I care?”

“Remember when you cut your own hair?”

That gets Sapnap to stop. He looks to Dream and raises an eyebrow, adjusting his grip on a box. “I was like, eleven, Dream,” Sapnap says, grumping as he moves away. “I didn’t think it would be that hard.”

“You were bald for a month,” George snorts. The box makes a loud thud as Sapnap drops it roughly onto the counter of the stall.

“I wasn’t bald, I still had hair, you idiot,” Sapnap snaps, crossing his arms across his chest. “It wasn’t that bad. You guys are exaggerating.”

“Yeah, yeah,” George says mockingly, ignoring Sapnap’s glare.

“Sapnap, could you take these to the orchard?” Bad calls out, gesturing to the two carts filled with mulch before fixing his grip on the crate slipping in his other hand. “It’s not urgent, I just wanted to let you know before I forgot.”

Waving offhandedly, Sapnap gets up from the ground, dusting himself off. “Nah, I don’t want to hang out with these guys anyway. Might as well get started,” he says. With a quick exhale, Sapnap claps his hand and looks back at Bad. “Anywhere specific?”

“You can put it inside the gates, that would be perfect,” Bad chirps before heaving the crate onto his wagon. It dips slightly under the new weight, the slight creak to its efforts.

Another golden opportunity lays in front of him and before it disappears, Quackity takes it. It would be nice to talk to Sapnap for a bit. He gets up and hops over to where Sapnap is, grabbing the other cart and copying the way he holds the handles and puts his back to the cart. “Let’s go!” Quackity whoops, giving Sapnap a lopsided grin. Sapnap stares back at him awkwardly, freezing in his steps.

“I don’t know if you’ll get paid for this,” Sapnap warns warily, and Quackity shrugs. Sapnap looks him over before adjusting the grip again, shaking his head and trudging forward. He mumbles under his breath. “…Alright, then.”

Quackity cheerfully tugs the cart behind him, slowing down when he realizes it’s probably heavier for someone who doesn’t do heavy labour all the time. That wouldn’t be good now, wouldn’t it?

It doesn’t take very long for them to arrive at the orchard after the first hurdle of making it out of the town, the cart bumping up and down against the rough cobble. A few more minutes going along the lake and to the other side of the town, they pull the carts up the slight hill one by one with Sapnap pushing up from the rear. Last time Quackity came here was a while ago, Tommy telling him the outsider perspective of the raid that Quackity definitely didn’t accidentally set off almost fifty years ago. An honest mistake, he really didn’t think they would follow him past the forest.

With a lot of effort on Sapnap’s end, they bring the mulch in past the first barn and where the fencing is. They get the two carts near the metal gates and securing the tarp back from where it got a little twisted on one of them.

A shadow looms over Quackity and he frowns, leaning in to try to pick out how the knot was tied together, rope now darkened in front of him.  He leans back and tries to move by there isn’t any sun- Sapnap has gone weirdly still at his side. “You good, man?” Quackity asks before hearing breaths behind him. A familiar presence. Intimidating, one might say.

No shot.

Sapnap is shaking. “Um.”

“There’s someone behind me, isn’t there,” Quackity deadpans.

“I need Quackity,” a deep voice says from behind him and fucking hell. If he had an actual heartbeat, it would probably had skipped a beat, freezing. This is not any of the solutions they came up with, this is not what Quackity was talking about. They weren’t going to tell them. You better have a good explanation for this. The attempt at ignoring him won’t work- Sapnap’s eyes won’t tear off from Techno. Quackity can’t even be bothered to turn around. “One moment.”

“You’re the Blood God,” Sapnap says, unblinking. He frowns, biting his lip. “What in the world would you need Quackity for? How do you know his name?”

“Yeah- haha, why do you know my name? That’s crazy,” Quackity gets out, nervously moving away. He barely makes any progress when Techno grabs his shoulder and pulls him up by his jacket. Gig’s up, he supposes, sighing into his defeat. “Oh, come on, let’s talk about this.”

Sapnap’s face runs through several emotions before snapping out of it. “You can’t just take Quackity,” Sapnap says suddenly. “God or not.” Without missing a beat, he grabs Quackity’s arm protectively and Quackity’s almost touched by the thought Sapnap’s standing up for him. Then he remembers what situation they’re in right now and it drops instantly. Sapnap’s eyes dart from Techno to Quackity erratically. Against his arm, Quackity can feel Sapnap’s hand shaking. He must be nervous meeting Techno.

Techno looks Sapnap up and down and raises an eyebrow. His hand drops from Quackity’s shoulder and tucks hair back behind his ear, squinting at Sapnap. The two maintain a stare for a solid few seconds before Techno blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“That’s Sapnap,” Quackity sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “You know exactly who he is.” Dick. “Sapnap, this is-”

He gets cut off by a yank. “Quackity, I’m serious,” Techno says and fully drags him backwards, Quackity stumbling a little before keeping up with him as the hand retracts from his jacket. He dusts himself off and refuses to look back at Sapnap, who’s shouting after them.

Techno starts to jog, leaving Quackity to keep up with him on his own. “You couldn’t even let me introduce you? After you so rudely interrupted our lovely conversation? We were bonding,” Quackity hisses, glaring up at Techno. “What are you thinking?”

“This is important,” Techno hisses back, glancing back and speeding up as it’s becoming clear Sapnap is hellbent on chasing them.

“Where the fuck are you taking him?” Sapnap yells, running. “Hey!”

“He’s really going through with it,” Quackity says, whistling awkwardly. “Talk about first impressions.”

“We’ll lose him,” Techno mutters, pulling into the forest.

Looks like his stop is here. Quickly turning around, Quackity waves at Sapnap and there’s less than a field’s space between them. Techno frowns at Quackity from the side, turning his head to motion him over. “I’ll be fine, Sapnap, don’t worry,” Quackity calls cheerfully, flipping Techno off with his free hand. “I’ll be back in a bit. Techno has an emergency!”

“What?”

With a blow on his hand and a not very careful step into the forest, Quackity puts up a protection spell and hurries after Techno’s already disappearing figure.

Sapnap runs to the edge and stops with heavy breaths, lost and thoroughly confused.

Where is Techno taking him? They shuffle to a stop as Techno looks around the area, frowning. He’s paranoid- why? He’s not injured, Quackity would know if he was. He looks expectantly at Techno, sighing. “This better have been worth it. You couldn’t have waited?”

“The borders are broken.”

Quackity blinks, his smile frozen on his face. He must’ve heard wrong. “What do you mean, broken?”

“What do you think?” Techno retorts, turning away. Quackity walks up right beside him, eyebrows furrowing deeper with a laugh- because there’s no way. It makes no sense. Nothing, and he means nothing can detect those walls. He knows what he’s doing. His ducks would’ve come found him if there was, on the tiniest fucking chance there was. There’s no way.

There’s no fucking way.

“Techno, what the fuck do you mean, they’re broken.”

Techno closes his eyes and huffs, jaw clenched. “It’s gone. I found eighteen of your ducks there. All killed. I brought them to the cabin.”

Eighteen ducks, dead at the border. Dread creeps in.

“The border can’t just disappear,” Quackity hisses, pushing past Techno. He tries to orient himself, pressing down the panic, spinning and grabbing Techno by the front of his cloak. “Where the fuck- take me there. I need to see it.”

Techno puts a hand on Quackity’s arm. “Hold on now.”

“I’m not fucking around, Techno, this isn’t fucking funny,” Quackity says, shoving Techno’s hand off. “Where is it?”

“Calm down, I’m trying to help you make a rational move. We don’t know what it is.”

The fucking nerve- “If there’s a problem with the border, it’s definitely not a fucking sheep or something Techno. What do you think happened? We can’t move slowly. If I don’t do anything now, it’s over,” Quackity says, eyes blown wide. He shakes his head. “We can reassess the situation later, dickhead.”

“It’s not over,” Techno stresses, placing his hands on both of Quackity’s shoulders. Quackity shoves him off again. He continues, undeterred. “This is what they want.”

“Techno, I need to see it,” Quackity says. “Do not fucking test me.” He meets his eye.

There’s a palpable tension and Techno rolls his eyes, letting out a breath. “Southern east, at the base of the mountain cliff where the path leads out for travellers. By the edge.” They’re a bit north from there. At most it’s going to be a twenty-minute sprint.

Quackity can make it two.

It’s really gone.

Not quite how Techno described it. It’s not broken, it’s been damaged.

That’s not any better, if there even is a difference. Quickly, Quackity kneels by the ground and places both his palms against the wall that forms under his hands, feeling himself getting drained of energy as his eyes flutter with exhaustion. An almost tangible force is left behind.

The way his body tenses and protests- it’s all too familiar in all the wrong ways, a sour taste wrenching his tongue and spitting in his face, a sweet innocent smile as he flinches away. Techno looks at him expectantly, hand poised over his sword and occasionally glancing around.

“It’s them,” Quackity confirms, hoarse. “Dark magic.” Techno curses under his breath. Quackity laughs, soft against the fear. “What about that holiday home, huh? Would be nice to see some snow.”

Techno turns back at him, frowning. “What?”

“We should leave.”

A hand grabs his shoulder and Quackity looks up at Techno. “We’re not leaving,” he says. “This town is going to be targeted. You know how they were.”

“I can’t lose you,” Quackity says emptily.

“You can’t lose this town,” Techno says firmly, picking up a chipped piece of ceramic on the ground and pressing it into Quackity’s hands. “I know you. This is the first time I’ve seen you this free since before this all happened. Do it for your life.”

Quackity crumbles the ceramic in his hands and lets the wind blow it away, getting stronger as the clouds get darker. Techno meets his eye and nods. For Quackity, his new life here. For Techno, his new role as a friend. For Tommy, so he can sign up for the championship and gush over the city and brag about competing.

When they head home, Quackity still feels sick and spends the night outside giving as much as he can, unable to close his eyes longer than a few seconds.

“Gods are arrogant, self-centered bastards. They know exactly what happens to us down here and they do not even raise a finger. They watch us as if we are young toddlers in a sandbox, playing around with our lives like dolls.”

“My god is nothing of what you speak.”

“Your god is a lie,” he spits. “How can you defend someone who has sworn to protect you, yet never comes when you call?”

“You cannot expect them to do everything.”

“Then what can I expect from a god? Something that another human could do? Something less? We are being protected by our own men who die on the battlefield every day. I see no god on our fields. I see no god with our soldiers. I see no god but cowards who bathe in our gifts and laugh when we pray for aid.”

She stays silent.

“How can you worship a god so useless? How do you live with yourself?”

“What else could I do?”

Does he help this town or leave it like he’s always done?

What’s more fair?

What more criticisms will he hear until they are happy?

Rain drops methodically on the window, slow and unpredictable in its slow tapping. Like little kids knocking on his door, asking through prayers if they could keep their mothers and fathers safe, if they could get an extra hard candy from the travelling traders. It was when they got older would their prayers turn to more pertaining death, asking their god if an honourable death in battle would bring them to Death’s loving embrace instead of a cold purgatory.

What counts as an honourable death? If he died for a piece of hard candy, would he too be able to rest in Lady Death’s hands?

Quackity is sitting on the floor when Techno wakes up. The fear and phantom pain in his shoulder is stressing him out. Stretching his arms, Techno doesn’t even look over as he sits up. “Why are you watching me sleep?”

Scoff. Yeah, play the clueless route, see how far that takes you. “You’re not patrolling today,” Quackity says, moving for the first time in hours since he sat down by crossing his arms. “You’re staying right where I can see you. We are not moving from this place. I sent out precautions, I set up alarms, we’re done. If they come they come.”

Last few moments before disaster in the bunker, ugly pale brown to accompany them while they say their goodbyes. Doesn’t seem too bad.

Techno grunts. “I definitely am not staying here, I don’t know who told you otherwise,” he replies, standing up. He yawns as he moves to the closet and pulls on a clean shirt. The mattress is rolled and put away. Quackity glares all the while, silently fuming. Techno doesn’t react.

“I’m not letting you.”

Techno raises an eyebrow. “You heard me yesterday. You’re not stopping me.” He moves out of the room and takes his sword leaned against the doorframe. Quackity quickly gets up and goes after him, keeping his face level and neutral as he watches Techno secure the scabbard around his hip and puts his cloak on, clasping it tight. The sun is barely up and he almost trips on the step that leads down to the small space in front of the front door.

When Techno comes over, Quackity stands in front of the door and shakes his head, arms spread wide protectively across to each wall. “No.”

“We’re sitting ducks waiting here,” Techno says, frowning. He finishes tying his laces and stands up. He’s so much taller than him now that Quackity had taken a to stay in a mortal form. “Move.”

“Do you want be bowed in service?” Quackity threatens, voice wavering. “I am your god. Listen to me.”

As he says it, he cringes and winces. Techno’s eye twitches, retracting. Quackity turns to look past and at the wall, afraid he’s going to look like he’s begging. Or worse, come off soulless, pleading him with empty words. What’s wrong, what’s wrong? They joke about him being a god all the time, the juxtaposition making them laugh after Quackity had gotten used to living like this. He is a god, despite everything, right?

This isn’t a joke. He hates this. But he hasn’t made it this far just to pay for the same ending, and he doesn’t have many choices left.

“You wouldn’t,” Techno says, eyes melting into something more pity than angry. He drops his arms and pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m not going to get hurt, and I’m definitely not letting the town get hurt.” Quackity doesn’t look up from the floor. “Quackity.”

“You remember Valor,” Quackity whispers, swallowing.

Techno purses his lips. “What about him?”

“What about him?” Quackity laughs in disbelief. He feels light-headed. “You don’t remember him dying? You don’t remember seeing his vassal practically dead, his mind lagging like a ghost behind him? Don’t you remember?”

“This isn’t about Punz.”

“One of us is going to be in the exact same scenario as him if we’re not careful,” Quackity continues, ignoring Techno, voice lowered. “I’m not risking it.”

“And I’m not risking this town,” Techno bristles, shoulders drawing up. He pushes past Quackity’s arm and gets the door open, stepping out. No, no, no. Quackity wants to scream. “You’re not changing my mind. We’ve run away enough. You have more to protect now. I am more than a tool.”

Fucking ouch. Quackity bites his lip, exhaling roughly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you?”

Techno walks down the path without Quackity’s reply, letting it hang in the air. He goes to the edge of the forest where it’s absolutely buzzing with energy, the panic and anxiety raising the levels as high as Quackity could manage while not passing out on the ground where he stood. Stumbling, Quackity turns around and grits his teeth, fear panging through him. It’s dragged down with exasperation, the wordless acceptance that he can’t do anything to convince Techno otherwise.

“When I go to Death’s door and beg at her knees for her to kill me, what then?” Quackity says, knuckles white as he grips the doorframe.

Techno stops in his steps. He looks to the side, not facing Quackity. “Then I’m sorry,” Techno says before continuing to the forest. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Wind blows in his face. The slight drops of rain that were beginning to fall since morning patter down more and more. When he blinks, the sky comes crashing down in a waterfall of wash that pours over the forest and his eyes as if it is trying to cleanse the worry. Here is your hard candy, it says. Lemon-flavoured.

Thunder hits and Quackity refuses to believe it means anything more than rain. Storm. He shuts the door. That god always had a sick sense of humour.

Chapter Text

Pain is not something one easily forgets. For eons Quackity has been intimately acquainted with its agony, traced into his skin and imprinted on his words. Born in midst bloodshed and the energy he displaced; he knows what he reigns down upon a battlefield. Scorching, blistering pain is something that tears from raised whispers, hissing in his ear.

As Quackity knows it, pain holds his hand and dances with him with the ever-present need for blood. It leads him on a five four time and he does his best to switch their roles, energy pushing bile from his throat when he turns, spinning out of control. Overworking himself means a dry heat in his limbs, trudging through and collapsing. The state of near hibernation when he first set up the borders. Pain comes from his and Techno’s bond when he drinks, alcohol coursing through his body and poisoning Techno’s blood. Pain stays where it breaks skin.

There has only ever been two times Techno had been almost fatally wounded, seared by their bond. A young Techno with short hair barely past his ears stumbling to his side, Quackity with the mildest trouble breathing for an hour before Techno had stubbornly refused Quackity’s help until he passed out on the marble floor. That determined lour never left his face despite his rapidly losing conscience. An older Techno lies on the ground, sputtering spit and blackened blood with a gaping wound in his shoulder. Practically dead. His body is slack, tensed at his upper torso and choking.

Techno is hurt.

The thrum of hurt is Quackity’s least favourite memory, any form of seeing Techno coming back with any form of injury immediately having Quackity worried. A younger Techno let himself be coddled with the blind loyalty and unquestioned obedience he used to have. An older Techno loses that but keeps a strong moral compass and extends his loyalty further than his god.

It starts with a gentle prick at his chest and Quackity is still annoyed. Oh, sure, I’ll be fine, Techno had said. I’m going to do this no matter what, he had said, this town isn’t going down without me but don’t worry, I won’t die.

Quackity tenses and forces himself to relax.

Look- Techno can manage. Right. Techno, he’s strong. If the Purge hasn’t ambushed them yet, clearly it’s something else of a warning. If they wanted him dead they would’ve killed him already. They know where they are, the border is more than enough to prove that. Techno’s got this.

Right.

Another pinch at his ribs- he pushes down the concern that blossoms despite himself and with a scoff, pushes away the pain and goes back to washing the dishes. Perhaps a touch too rough now, judging by the way a plate gets pushed out of his hand and clatters onto the soapy pile in the sink from a particularly aggressive scrub. It survives. He growls.

Perhaps he’s taken on too much to protect the borders again. He feels like he’s going to collapse in on himself, breathless. “Fuck you,” Quackity says aloud and flips off the soap dispenser. A bubble hangs from the spout. He picks the plate back up, running it through the water to let the suds run down and goes to place it onto the drying rack.

Techno is hurt.

It’s almost funny how fast things can change.

The plate slips from his hand before it’s fully slid in its slot and fumbles off the edge of the counter. It crashes onto the floor with a loud smash and shatters. His hand scrambles up to his shirt and clutches onto the fabric, soapy water soaking in quickly. Breathe. Please.

This is not anything from his borders. These are not his ducks.

TECHNO IS HURT.

His neck snaps to the side from the sudden pang and he screams. There are shards of ceramic under his skin and digging into his knee and palm but there’s heat erupting from his chest and Quackity stumbles from the force of it. Keels forward and takes a spluttering sob in and lets out a wheezing heave that crumples him inwards. It flourishes and burns his lungs.

Where is he?

He’s up. He’s on his feet, one arm supporting his front and he almost hurls as everything spins so rapidly. His knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the counter. Fuck. Eyes hazy, they dart around the room trying to find another point to launch off. Chair. With a grunt, he pushes- and lands, stumbling, coughing, tears streaming but lands on the chair. A turn and he gets to the doorway. Throws himself against the door. That doesn’t work- so a panicked kick at the middle splits into the noise of wood splintering mixing in with the background hum of a throbbing headache. Quackity misplaces his feet and lands on a shoe, leg flying back and slamming down on his front. He shrieks. With another breath, he pushes himself back up, heaving.

WHERE IS HE?

He stands with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily as he wildly looks around. Left- left. This way. This way, this way, this way- and if Quackity took a moment to look where he was going, he might’ve been able to recognize the trees, however different the tops look from on the ground. His legs flail under and slow him a bit, almost forgetting how to move through the world. How to be in his original form. But it doesn’t matter- nothing matters. Not now, not ever, and Quackity can’t think. This way, this way, this way. If he stops, he’ll never get up. It hurts. Everything hurts so goddamn much he can barely keep his eyes open, but this way, this way, this way-

OVER HERE.

He rips himself back from the charge forwards and his body rushes towards the source of agony while doing its best to ignore his own.

If he’s being honest, there aren’t many things Quackity is afraid of. Nothing beyond the scope of small upsets. He exaggerates things and presses them internally to replicate something of a feeling, griping and grinning for a crowd of one or more. He feels real.

GET CLOSER.

He’s going too fast to stop- which doesn’t matter because he crashes into a tree. He makes an aborted squawk as his body hits the branches and trunk and falls, and the thud rattles his body and rolls him on the ground. He groans in pain.

The grass in front of him is dead and yellow. He spits out dirt and brings himself up, rubbing at the debris covering him and his clothes. When he stands, he sways, stumbling to the side and hand reaching out to the tree for support. Another gasping breath.

FIND HIM.

Quackity’s hands fly around his hips before realizing he doesn’t have his vials with him. Or his dagger. He cries out. Quackity grabs a ragged rock off the ground and slashes his forearm. He slaps his hand over the wound and feels his arm pulse, white glow shining from the skin before it seals back up to a perfectly smooth surface. The escaped light flies away to chase the bond, the tie between them. Not a second later, Quackity spots the golden indicator glow bright inside the walls of the town.

Quackity leans onto the tree launches himself with his hand. Glides. His hair whips past his ears and he shoots up the walls, stopping in the air and swooping down into the streets.

SAVE HIM.

A cacophony of shrieking desperation before he spots a bloody mess laying in the middle of the square. Pink hair fanned over dirty cobblestone.

There he is.

TECHNO.

He’s right there- and he’s on the ground. Why is he on the ground? Where is he hurt? Quackity drops down. There’s someone near him too, so Quackity knocks them away from Techno, hissing wildly. His knees scrape against the rough stone and his hands are on Techno in an instant, eyes desperately searching over him. He can’t- he can’t see anything, there isn’t anything, there’s no blood, he’s still, he’s not making noises, he’s dead-

He’s not dead. He’s not, because Quackity feels like war but he doesn’t feel like death.

Instead, he’s in some torpor as his body shut down and their bond fights with as much as it can to resist, a god’s blessing keeping him safe. Quackity presses his palms over Techno’s chest, stuttering hyperventilation making it difficult to focus.

Dark energy.

Of course it is. Quackity’s eyes fly open in a panic. His hands rip away from Techno before placing back and curling away. Dark energy. Who the fuck is taunting them? He can’t tell how much Techno holds right now, but it’s not enough to kill Quackity or Techno. Incapacitate, surely. The proof is right in front of him. It’s controlled.

He turns Techno’s head over and Quackity quickly moves his hair to see a neat line dragging from behind his ear down to the junction under his shirt, the white line sitting so falsely prettily on his skin.

He feels sick.

Quackity’s hands go to his hips before remembering again- he doesn’t have his vials with him. Fuck, even if he did, that wouldn’t be good enough. He needs blood- he needs, he needs good blood, actual substantial blood, he needs blood that’s clean-

“Quackity?”

Quackity whips his head around. Whose- whose voice, blood, there’s blood-

There are hands on his shoulders. He tears himself away and hisses again. Don’t- do not kill, do not, do not break their skin, do not kill. “Quackity, calm down.” That’s not the same voice. Quackity forces himself to blink and his eyes feel heavy as the glowing filter disappears and there stands Wilbur in front of him. His eyebrows are furrowed. His mouth moves. Quackity can’t focus. “What’s going on?”

“I need blood,” Quackity blurts.

Briefly, he hears Tommy’s very concerned shout of, “What the fuck is going on? Did Big Q just FLY?” as Wilbur’s face retracts in confusion before nodding, glancing down at Techno. “How much blood?” he asks, voice high and panicked.

“I don’t know- a lot of blood!” Quackity shouts. He reaches out and snatches onto Wilbur’s arms tight, tearing his grip off his shoulders and twists it over, using his thumb to stretch out the skin to mark a spot to cut. There’s the slightest bit of tremor in his actions. Wilbur makes a startled pained noise. “Get me a knife.” Quackity looks up and around. There’s a small crowd of familiar faces around them and more unfamiliar ones, muttering and crying out that their god is lying dead in the square.

Karl and Bad are loud in their shock, Tommy looks terrified, George is slack-jawed. This- this isn’t important right now, Quackity decides quickly, looking away from Sapnap who looks a shade pale from passing out. He focuses on Wilbur who says he has a knife- quick, quick, quick.

TECHNO’S HURT.

With one arm trapped in Quackity’s grasp, Wilbur fumbles with his belt with one hand. Quackity hadn’t let go of his bruising grip and he doesn’t notice Wilbur trying to pull away. Even with the difficulty, Wilbur manages to get the handle of his dagger from his hip before Quackity snatches it and slashes it across Wilbur’s arm without hesitation.

It’s an easy, wide cut against pale skin and Wilbur winces, arm jolting but held still. Quackity tugs him down over Techno’s chest, one hand on Wilbur and the other over Techno’s chest, blessing the blood as it rapidly flows out. The crimson liquid twists and circles around Quackity’s arm from a distance in patterned streams, each pulse of the blood getting muttered a prayer. As it reaches his fingertips, the blood matches Quackity’s eyes turning a bright, white glow and encapsulates Techno’s torso in light. Wilbur jerks his head away to look behind, eyes blurring from the harshness. He hisses, blistering as it burns into his skin.

“Wilbur?” Tommy whispers, shaking. He, too, flinches away from the light and softly grabs Wilbur’s other arm, eyebrows gathered high in worry. Wilbur tries to brush him off, a forced smile on his face.

Under Quackity’s hand, Techno twitches, throat pulsing slightly. That’s- that’s enough, Quackity thinks. He pushes Wilbur’s arm away and places both his palms onto Techno’s chest, shutting his eyes tight and hissing as a sharp pain shoots up his arm and electrifies his shoulders and wrings his heart. His bones crack and connect inside of him, erupting pain from his shoulder where their ceremonial scar laid on Techno.

With one last surge of energy driven with anxiety, it ends with the sensation of something gouging itself from his lungs and spine, curdling pain that takes a shrill cry from his throat that tastes sour. It is joined by Techno’s first sound since Quackity had arrived, a visceral scream and a jump in his heart. Techno seizes and his limbs jerk with a wet inhale and exhale, coughing rough with glassy eyes that flutter half open in shock.

“Quackity-” Techno chokes out, hand weakly gripping at whatever he reaches first- Quackity’s arm, that’s his arm. He takes in a hiccupping breath and forces himself to relax, gritting his teeth. Don’t force yourself to speak, Quackity thinks, hushing him.

He struggles before his eyes close again, the only thing from his lips a shaky, cold exhale. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” Quackity repeats, eyes going over Techno again. The line on his neck stays but it’s no longer white, a pale yellowish scar in its place. Quackity adjust his arms and ignores the ache and protests from his body. In a hushed whisper he asks, “Are you okay?”

Techno’s eyelids struggle to stay even the littlest bit open, lashes magnetized to his cheeks. Still, Techno makes a tiny nod and Quackity goes to his hold his neck, letting him rest. “Aw, you care about me,” Techno croaks, a faint crooked smile before it vanishes again. His lips mouth a small thank you before losing form and melting into a neutral resting position.

Quackity feels like he’s going to fucking cry. With a difficult breath in, he leans over Techno, biting his lip to keep the ugly wrinkle in his chin away threatening to make him break. “Don’t do that again,” Quackity warns, voice low.

There is no audible reply. Techno blinks slowly before his eyes shut again, head falling back as he goes in and out of consciousness. Quackity moves to hold the back of his head up with a hand, the other moving them so Techno could rest against his leg rather than the cobble of the square.

The square.

When he lifts his head, Quackity immediately makes eye contact with a random woman and she stumbles back from the street opening, muttering to the small amount of other townspeople gathered by the board. Someone hurries away, closing a door behind them.

It was a good run, he thinks tiredly. There’s no doubt it’ll spread like wildfire.

Behind him, Wilbur speaks up. “Quackity?” he says hesitantly. His eyes dart to Techno’s slack body. Quackity gives Wilbur an awkward smile. Wilbur’s sputtering, blinking with wide disbelief and managing even more so when Quackity doesn’t deny anything straight away. “He’s not the Blood God.”

Tommy’s face manages to drop more than it already had. “What?” he says in a small voice.

Quackity lets out a weak chuckle and shrugs, shoulders drooping. “Say hi to my roommate, guys. This is Techno,” Quackity says, eyes crescents and lips tucked away pursed. He tries to pat Techno’s arm and ends up just keeping it there, too heavy to lift back up. His gaze falls down to Wilbur’s hand tightly clamped over his still bleeding arm and winces, grimacing. “I’m really sorry- I can’t, I can’t move right now, your arm-”

“It’s alright, as long as he’s okay,” Wilbur says before turning away, squatting down and pressing on his temple. He blows out a breath. “I feel like I’m about to pass out, but I’m not sure if that’s because of the blood or because of this fucking bombshell you decided to drop on us today.”

Tommy crouches down near his brother and eyes him worriedly. His bracelet jangles quietly and Quackity looks at the small wooden carving he’d made for himself. Probably in denial, Quackity would guess, the way Tommy looks over but immediately turns back to Wilbur. “You good, Wil? Should we call for the doctor?” He stands and takes in a breath, biting his lip. Before he can say anything, Bad hurries over from where he’d gone off for a crate and practically handles Wilbur to a sit, beginning to wrap a spare shirt around his arm.

“We can get it properly dressed later,” Bad says, handing Wilbur a banana. He adjusts his grip on the fabric and wraps it around Wilbur's arm, tugging tight. “You should eat. For replenishment.”

“Thanks, Bad,” Wilbur whispers, letting Tommy silently take the fruit from his hands and peel it for him.

Bad gives them both a small smile and glances over at Quackity. “Anytime.” Quackity tries to give him a smile back.

Following after Bad, George approaches them, looking down at Quackity. “You’re the Blood God,” George says plainly. Ever the eloquent man. He lifts his goggles and rests them on his head, raising an eyebrow. “Sapnap had all of us gathered here to tell us you were taken by the Blood God, wanted us to go look for you. He was convinced you were dead. Dream didn’t even believe him until the Blood- he, your uh, when he came to the square,” He winces. “Sorry. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Shut up, George,” Sapnap shakes his head quickly. Honestly, Quackity would say he looked ill, a sick colour to his skin. “It looked fucking weird, he came over and took Quackity before disappearing,” Sapnap says, hands digging into his crossed arms. They tense and he releases his grip to run a hand through his hair, face fixed into a frown. “You’re the Blood God. Fuck, no, no. You can’t.”

Quackity bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was trying to keep you guys safe.”

“I don’t even know what to think,” Karl says, coming up behind Sapnap with Dream. Dream goes over to Sapnap, muttering low a question Quackity’s hearing is too hazy to hear right now. He turns to face Karl who looks at him with concern, eyebrows together in worry. “You… are you okay? You’re really… you’re really the Blood God.”

You’re really the Blood God. Quackity deflates. “And now you all know, thanks to the Purge,” he mutters. Isn’t this counter productive to their goals? Couldn’t they have just let him live a human life? They probably don’t think he deserves it. Not that he disagrees, but this doesn’t have to be the one time their ideals match.

Techno hums under him, otherwise immobile. “Could be worse,” he says, volume barely a whisper. “I could be dead.”

So he wakes up and makes another insensitive comment instead of something heartwarming. Quackity snorts despite the fear. Too soon. His heart feels like it’s been ripped apart into pieces and crumbled near his spine. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Is it really a joke if it almost happened?”

Quackity’s retort dies on his tongue with Bad’s, “You guys good over there?” Quackity thought it’d been directed towards him but Bad’s turned to Sapnap. Sapnap stares right at Quackity, eyes wide and terrified. Did I do something? Quackity frowns, almost getting up before Techno flinches under him from his movements. He mumbles Techno an apology before looking up again, Sapnap not having torn his stare away from the two of them.

“Sapnap, what’s-”

Before Quackity can get his thoughts together, Sapnap runs off. Without a second delay, George quickly follows suit, running past the other gathering townspeople and right on Sapnap’s heels. They both disappear to the street as they cross right. Dream’s… standing there, facing where they left before turning to the square.

To his left, Tommy leans back, looking off at the direction Sapnap and George had run off to. “What’s up with them?”

“Left his oven on at home,” Techno mutters, still quiet but loud enough Tommy visibly startles hearing his voice.

From a couple feet away, Dream laughs. It sounds careful, a small hah compared to his usual loss of composure. “I don’t think we have an oven,” Dream says, scratching the back of his neck.

“What?” Karl says. “Yes you do, I’ve literally been to your house before.”

Dream shrugs again, hesitant. “…I don’t cook much.”

“Won’t have a chance to after today,” Techno says, breath hitching and exhaling in pain. Dream turns his head, shoulders shaking a little. He adjusts his mask, running a hand through his hair.

“You know, you’re pretty funny,” Dream says.

“Someone had to be,” Techno replies, earning a squawk from Quackity.

Loud, rushed footsteps clack against the ground as Niki runs in the square looking dishevelled, stopping only when she sees Techno loll his head over to face her. Quackity gives her a low wave. She’s breathing heavily, equally relieved and confused as her eyes land on Techno’s very much breathing body. “You’re alive?” she blurts out, Bad’s eyes almost bulging out in sudden fear- what can one possibly mean, you’re alive?

Techno only laughs lightly, coughing in pain. He gives her a slow blink when he realizes he can’t really move his hands to wave. “Technoblade never dies,” Techno mutters, leaning back into Quackity’s arm. Quackity snorts.

It gets a small smile but she’s shaking, clutching something between her hands. “I- I had a ticket for you,” Niki says. She adjusts her skirt that had been slightly displaced in her hurry. A crow swoops down from its perch on the bell tower onto her shoulder, cawing softly. Petting the bird, Niki sighs, gulping and wiping at her eyes. With a relieved laugh, she looks back up at Techno. “Heavens, I was terrified. I really thought… I thought you died.”

“Sorry,” Techno jokes. “You’re gonna have to hold onto that ticket for a little while longer. I’m not going just yet.”

“Hopefully not in my lifetime. I’m glad you’re safe,” Niki says, giving him a smile before buckling down into a frown, lip shaking. After a short beat of consideration, the ticket clutched in her hands raises. She chucks it. The ticket hits the side of Techno’s head with a thwack and Techno lightly flinches away, huffing.

“Ow.”

The ticket is a fair shade of brown and Quackity gently picks it up. It’s been a long time since he’d seen the red insignia in person, he thinks. Smells of incense. “I’d like a refund, actually,” Quackity says, holding it up for Niki to take. She comes over and gently grabs it from his hands, tucking it in one of her pockets. The crow on her shoulder hops down and pecks at Techno’s shirt.

Niki bites her lip. “Techno told me you were here to hide, lord,” she says. Quackity makes a face.

“Don’t call me that.”

Aware of his sudden unease, Techno redirects the conversation back to himself. “This is the worst escort I’ve ever seen,” Techno cut in, whiny. “You wound the severely injured person instead of delivering the ticket on a silver platter, then you ignore them. Terrible service quality. I’m disappointed in you.”

Niki laughs and rolls her eyes. “We can’t all be like you, Techno.”

“Maybe you should.”

With a shake of his hand, Wilbur stares between someone who he knows only as the town’s baker and someone he thought was the Blood God. “I’m speaking for all of us here- are any of you going to explain why Niki knows- who are you, exactly? If you’re not the Blood God?” Wilbur starts to ask before directing his question to Techno. Techno shrugs in response.

“Techno.”

Tommy sinks onto the stone behind Wilbur. “He’s not the Blood God,” he repeats to himself, both hands covering his face and muffling his words. “My life is lie.”

“He’s my roommate,” Quackity supplies. “Niki’s an angel.”

“Non-mortal solidarity, gotta stick together,” Techno mumbles, and it’s then it properly hits Quackity they’re actually talking about this. With his friends. In the middle of this town he’s been overlooking for the past few decades.

“You’re actually the Blood God,” Wilbur says, awed. It precisely hits the strange discomfort of it all, words sounding all weird and fake on his tongue. It might feel better to get stabbed, Quackity thinks, stomach turning. “Like- you. You’re the Blood God.”

“Quackity’s the Blood God,” Tommy whispers.

Tommy knows now. Years of hero worship all laid out in front of his eyes as a bed of falsity. Quackity sighs. “What else is new?”

“Your eyes are red,” Bad says in an almost questioning tone. Well, that’s not supposed to stay like that. Quackity gently presses the pad of his fingers to the lid of his eye. It’s almost scalding. He blinks and looks to Techno for confirmation it’s dark again before he faces the group.

No one seems to know how to react. They stare at each other awkwardly when Karl gasps. “You don’t have your beanie on!” Quackity hands fly to his head. They’re going to- they already know. His hands meet hair, fluffed up and messy- sticks, dirt, and other bits of whatever cling to it, and he ruffles his hair to shake them off. He lets out an exhale. They already know.

It’s okay to talk about it, so he does. “I don’t,” Quackity says, notably tired but smiling up at Karl. “Live up to your expectations?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Karl says, letting out a light laugh. “It’s really pretty, though. You look… fake. Not in a bad way, you look off.”

“Like a god, yes,” Quackity says. “I know.” Except he isn’t boasting, isn’t shouting something about being the best or challenging someone to prove he’s better. He sounds defeated.

Wilbur squints at him. “It’s more than that. It’s like… I don’t know how to explain it, it’s really hard to look at- or look away.”

“I know how to explain it,” Tommy says, piping up the loudest he’d been since Quackity arrived. “It looks like shit. Probably smells like it too, I reckon. You wear that fucking beanie everywhere. You’re disgusting.”

Silence.

Quackity bursts out cackling.

Of course. He falls backwards in a wheeze that’s accompanied with a pained inhale as his lungs protest. Techno makes a small huff and Tommy looks at the two of them with wide eyes and around the group in slight awkward expectance. Wilbur ruffles his hair with his intact arm. Everyone else starts to laugh, someone’s on the ground cackling as the adrenaline finally dies down and leaves them almost delirious. Tommy gets a little more confident by the second but still deflates when he remembers.

Then Wilbur pokes fun at Tommy and the two of them shout at each other, Bad trying to get them to calm down, Niki laughing, Karl draped over Bad and contributing to the noise- Quackity looks up at the sky and sighs. He shuts his eyes and lets the sound of laughter, banter, fill his ears as he lays smack middle of the town. He’s going to sleep. He’s tired, okay? It’s been a terrible day. Techno’s safe. They’re safe. Quackity can worry when he’s not on the edge of passing out.

The last thing Quackity feels is someone lifting him up and walking somewhere off from the square. He’s held against a white shirt before he fully succumbs to the heavy feeling of dark warmth.

Chapter Text

There are no entry or exit wounds on his vassal’s body. Blunt force to his chest. A few fractured bones, a newly blossoming bruise. His lungs hadn’t been damaged. The blood on his person isn’t his own- it had a foreign, sickly ashy smell to it making the Blood God turn away when he’d first come in contact with it. The god is told his vassal hadn’t been hurt beyond a few blessings and as quick as the Goddess of Healing had arrived, she’d left with an enchanted flower petal placed to melt on Techno’s tongue and a dismissive word that barely reassured the Blood God's worries.

The Blood God is unsure how long he’d been here. Light comes up and shines down from the broad windows to delicately blanket over his vassal, settling between the lashes of his shut eyes. The room is silent.

The god continues to linger around Techno’s bed, restless. Still Techno’s eyes stay closed, imitating death’s calmest embrace, but his body is warm and rises with his breath. Some ends of his hair stick to the side of his neck, still matted in blood. The Blood God hovers his hand over the pink strands and lets the browned red melt under his palm, seeping into his skin. He grimaces on how it feels, heavy and sticky with pain. He places his hand on Techno’s forehead. He’s better but still feverish, condensation clinging to his temple.

Along his ribs and front, the purpling and yellow edges of Techno’s bruises had mostly faded, his skin regaining much of its original colour. The Blood God had watched intently, visibly seeing it fade with a much more unconcerned goddess sweeping her arms over his torso and mutter a blessing.

“This is part of the bond,” the Goddess of Healing had said to him rather than a greeting. He’d walked after her closely, frowning. “Do not ask for my presence here if an event like this reoccurs. The Blade would have been fine with any other help, call for a nursing aide. If he was not, you would know. This is a promise and link you have forged- he is no longer a mortal, Blood God.”

It doesn’t stop him from being worried. The Blood God knows, logically, he is well but Techno has barely been around for a few years and he doesn’t know how much different the impact of a lethal strike to the chest will differ from a mortal to a nonmortal.

The Goddess of Healing doesn’t look up at him when he keeps inquiring and she doesn’t when he hovers over the two of them, a crease making a home in his forehead. “You cause enough trouble for me with your silly wars,” she mutters, hands working quickly. She dips her fingers into a bowl of water that swirls without prompt and turns a blueish hue, heating. “I can assure the Blood God his vassal is going to be fine regardless of his endless badgering.”

“It is not badgering,” the Blood God says, carefully watching the bowl. Her soft hand tilts up Techno’s chin and holds a small bowl to his lips, letting the warm water pass by his lips. The Blood God narrows his eyes. When the goddess holds out the empty bowl for him to take, he does so, fingers curling over the rim. “He’ll be okay?” he asks again.

To her credit, she doesn’t do anything but let out a short exhale. “The Blade is already okay. This is only for making his recovery easier,” she tells him. The goddess straightens up and looks down at him pointedly. She has no irises. “If he was not, you would not be speaking with me.”

Very reassuring.

The Blood God reaches out and places a hand on his vassal’s chest. If Techno stops breathing, the god wonders, does he too die with his vassal’s last breath or will he have to hold on and suffocate?

Behind him, the wide doors to the chamber open. He turns slowly to see the Goddess of Death walking in, the black fabric flowing behind her suspended in the air. A tiny group of crows follow at her feet, some flying up to perch on her arms. “I heard the Blade was injured,” she says, passing by the Blood God with a hand tracing past his back. “Poor boy.”

There is no response. Undeterred, the goddess goes to the side of the large bed and rests her hand over the vassal’s body and for a second, the Blood God is afraid she was here to take him. He freezes and locks his stare at her hand, following it as it raises to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Lady Death catches his eye. “I am not here for anything else but my personal wishes, Blood God.”

The Blood God grimaces and sinks into himself. He knows, he knows. She doesn’t pay him much mind, though, sitting at the edge and brushing Techno’s hair back with the lightest touch. “Techno is okay,” the Blood God tells her. If she can tell it’s more of a reminder he’d been echoing to himself the entire time he’d been there, she doesn’t show it.

The goddess sits gracefully on the side of the bed and nods. “I know. It is not time for him to go yet,” she says with a small smile. The Blood God isn’t quite sure what to make of it, but he nods back and she seems satisfied enough with that. One of her crows flutters from her side to land on top of Techno’s chest, turning its little head as it looks down at his face. The Blood God outstretches a hand to create a barrier and it sidesteps away, its small head pulling away.

Together they sit in silence until Techno’s hands twitch where it lays over his stomach, making the slightest swallow and an inaudible hitch in his breath. The Blood God stands immediately. When he turns, Lady Death is gone without a trace she’d been there at all.

Slightly rough fabric itches against the back of his neck.

When Quackity comes to, the first thing he sees is Wilbur sitting on a low stool across from him and chewing on his lip, eyes narrowed as he stares off at the cream white walls. In his hand he spins a metal fork around, the silver shining as the light reflects off of it at times. Quackity blinks and watches him before his eyes travel around- it’s a small little room with posters and other papers hung up all over the walls, a slight crackle from the fireplace. Beside the fire is Techno, mostly covered in a wide, thin blanket with pink hair fanning out from the top to down near his back.

Wilbur mumbles something incomprehensible again. Wincing as he raises himself up, Quackity pretends to cough, clearing his throat. Wilbur startles. His fork drops slightly off rhythm and it fumbles from both hands as he tries to get a grip on it. When he does, he stills unnaturally and his expression goes from the wide-eyed panic back to his furrowed worry.

Quackity shuffles in his place on the floor, elbow digging into the fleece blanket. He doesn’t know what time it is. How long has he been out? “Good morning,” he offers.

“It’s late afternoon,” Wilbur says offhandedly, trying and failing to relax his face. He purses his lips. “Are you okay?”

Good question. Is he okay? There’s an ache in Quackity’s limbs and he doesn’t want to think, addled from the exertion of his efforts. In the back of his head there thrums the ever-present insistent chant for blood that’s only been encouraged since seeing Wilbur’s flow heavily from his flesh. It’ll be a shorter resting period if Quackity had blood. His gaze lowers to Wilbur’s bandaged arm and looks away, swallowing hard.

Cat’s out of the bag.

Over a century’s worth of keeping his past close to his chest come tumbling before him. A century is not a lot, but it’s more than he’d thought he’d have and less than he wish he did. Wilbur sat in front of him looks almost hesitant to speak to him, visually awkward and walking on eggshells. Considering everyone else’s reactions at the square, he isn’t too keen on finding out how they’ll be with him.

“I’m alright,” Quackity tells him. “How’s your arm?”

Wilbur shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “It’s fine. You needed it,” he says. It was more of a statement than a question, but Quackity nods anyway. Techno needed it, he rationalizes, but he still feels guilty. No warning or anything to Wilbur, who had blind trust in his actions.

“Sorry about that,” Quackity whispers. Wilbur clicks his tongue and gently prods at Quackity’s leg with a socked foot.

“I said it was fine. What was that out there yesterday, anyway? That’s not- that’s not normal, is it?” Wilbur asks, going back to twirling the fork in his hands. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and stares, thoughts racing behind brown eyes searching as if there’d be an answer hidden on Quackity’s person.

Quackity gave Wilbur a half-smile. “Would you believe me if I said I blacked out and have no recollection of what happened? You wouldn’t, Wilbur.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” Wilbur says. The fork spins in his hand. It stops suddenly and Wilbur points the prong-ended side towards a lump on the other side of the floor. “What happened to him?”

That’s what Quackity would also like to know as well. He’s reassured by the way the blanket rises and falls draped over Techno, but it doesn’t help much. The Purge. They’ve found Techno and did whatever that was yesterday- a threat? A warning? A promise? “I’ve made a lot of choices in my time,” Quackity says simply, the side of his eyes wrinkling as he smiles again. “A mishap, you could say.”

“Seems like a fucking big mishap to me,” Wilbur says, raising an eyebrow.

“Recurring theme,” Quackity says, waving him off. “Things haven’t been looking so great as of recent.”

Wilbur sinks into his stool. Absently, he twangs the fork and it makes quiet tings, its ringing echoing short. “How recent is recent?” Wilbur asks.

Heavens. How recent is recent? Quackity huffs and looks up, considering. What, being here with the looming threat of the Purge which had already been around for a little longer, he’s been pretty well off and successful for most of his existence besides a couple hiccups. Due to his current circumstance, there’s very well a chance he might be dying soon. Perhaps he’ll see Lady Death again. That’ll be an awkward reunion.

Acceptance is easy, Quackity thinks. He’s a bit tired of being afraid. That doesn’t stop him from being afraid, but it stops him from caring about keeping secrets. If he’s lucky, Wilbur won’t pry more about the… mishap.

“Few centuries?” Quackity throws out, deflating a little with the weird, uncomfortable relief of telling Wilbur something he’s guarded so close even two days ago. He fully deflates when he realizes the past few months lying would catch up with him. No shitty haha I’m leaving to a different city and never coming back, so long conversation with them, only slightly shittier haha I’ve been lying to you since we’ve met, I’m actually the god you’ve been worshipping! Quackity sighs before pressing on. “Kinda depends if people want me dead or not. I don’t want to alarm you but being a war god doesn’t exactly make you a peace mediator. Not everyone’s keen on keeping me alive.”

Wilbur’s face looks comical. Is it worth dying for? Maybe not, but Quackity will take it. “What,” he breathes out.

Quackity snorts. "I've lived here for over a century, Wilbur.” Wilbur gapes openly. The fork drops from his lax hand which jerks him enough out of his stupor, closing and smacking his mouth shut.

"The Blood God came around a few decades ago,” he says, lilting at the end making it more of a question.

Quackity hums, narrowing his eyebrows. “That… was also a mishap. I may or may not have set off a raid on accident a few years in, couldn’t just leave the town to fend for themselves. It- it doesn’t matter.” He waves himself off. “I only started coming to town properly after I met Karl. I wasn’t supposed to be seen, but he found me in the outskirts of the forest during my patrol and took it upon himself to tour me around.”

Wilbur still seems hung over on Quackity's previous words. He shakes his hand and makes a face, dismissing Quackity’s story. "Hold on, what do you mean, a century? How old are you?"

Quackity opens his mouth and immediately shuts it. "Uh," he says. "I don't know."

Wilbur shakes his head, putting his hands up. "Give me a rough estimate," he pushes.

"Maybe a millennium," Quackity suggests as a joke and gives a half-smile half-grimace to Wilbur, whose jaw drops with bulging eyes and the weirdest high-pitched dying wheeze. Okay. He has to admit, this is pretty funny. "Or two.”

“What?” Wilbur says, barely above a whisper.

Unprompted, Techno’s voice rumbles from their right. Awake. Quackity swallows and turns his head over to where Techno lays. He lets out a long breath he hadn’t realised was building up in his chest, coiled with the rest of his worry. "More like seven," Techno whispers hoarsely, body still and having haven’t moved. "I've been around a bit less than that.”

Thanks for the subtlety, Techno. Quackity raises his eyebrows. “Seven?” he says. “I was thinking it was at most six. Man, I’m getting old,” he says, looking off into the distance. He snickers. “I can barely remember the time without having you around, Techno. I miss it,” Quackity teases, “Though I suppose teenage Blade himself was also a pretty nice era. Shame to see how he grew up.”

Techno huffs, slightly coughing at the end. “Fuck off.”

“You’re half unconscious from injuries. Don't curse at me.” Quackity catches a sight of Wilbur’s face. “You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just- gods, I can’t imagine this not being weird,” Wilbur says, blowing a breath through slightly closed lips. “I really… this is so out of left field, holy fuck, seeing you two interact.”

Seeing Techno in the same room as Wilbur is weird, too. He’s told Techno before he’d probably like Wilbur in the safety of their cabin, talking about their similar sense of dry humour. Techno had nodded along, commenting here and there but mostly quietly listening. He would never meet Wilbur. Here they are now, though. Quackity’s sure how his previous status as the Blood God is going to affect it but he’s going to prefer to not find out. “Not much to it,” Quackity shrugs. “I’m the Blood God.”

“Right. You’re the Blood God. You said he’s your roommate?”

“My roommate,” Quackity nods. He feels Wilbur’s curiosity only grow and he wants to explain, vassal on his tongue, but it fails on him. “One of my closest friends,” Quackity says instead. It clearly doesn’t help much. Wilbur opens his mouth again and Quackity glances around for an out- it was just the three of them. “Where’s Tommy? School?”

Wilbur looks at him unimpressed but lets him change the topic. He leans back in the stool and makes a little laugh, raising an eyebrow. “After that shitshow yesterday? No. Tommy’s asleep in the other room.” He glances over at the door with its white paint peeling off at the bottom edge and stands, sighing. “I’ll go fix breakfast. Do you…?”

“We’re fine,” Quackity says. Food won’t do much for him- at least human food, born from the ground and water. He scoots over to a seat near Techno and leans back on his arm, slightly wincing at the ache. “I’ll be here.”

Cautiously, Wilbur nods and leaves the living room. After a few moments, Quackity can hear the telltale signs of a water kettle boiling and the stove turning on, ticking into a fire. Techno drifts in and out the entire time as they wait, waking occasionally with little mumbles before falling silent. Quackity considers going outside. The voices are excited about that.

Hungry, they say. Hungry.

Without much else thought, he pops his head into the kitchen and tells Wilbur he would be back shortly. He is out the door without hearing a reply and stumbles around a street he doesn’t know all too well, quickly dashing around town away from eyes and is out of the walls within minutes. He hasn’t been outside without a hat in so long- he feels naked. Too vulnerable, a hand going to his head and realising he didn’t have a hat.

He catches his reflection on a window that has its curtains drawn. A killer in a human disguise. He bares his teeth as he sprints, running his tongue along the sharp almost canines of his teeth.

Blood for the Blood God.

In the nearby outskirts of the forest, he finds an unlucky deer and it dies in moments. He kneels by its corpse and lets the still-hot blood soak in his hands, feeling it seep under his fingernails and the crevices in his skin. Temporary relief. He tries to ignore the high chirping noises from the branches above him. This is fine. This is enough. He tries to convince himself, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths.

He is okay.

He is covered in blood. Numb, he walks into the stream nearby and lets the water turn from a pretty pink to clear before he exits. It’s cold. Pressing his hands to his limbs and torso, he tries to squeeze all the water from his clothes before walking back through the town. It doesn’t help that much, but he’s okay.

When he comes back to the small building, Tommy is in the living room on the blanket Quackity was lying on earlier, staring with wide eyes at Techno, who stirs as Quackity comes in. Quackity finds Tommy’s nonchalance in the square was a hundred percent running on shock and adrenaline and nothing else. Now that the reality of it has set in, he’s found it really isn’t setting in at all.

Tommy startles. “You’re back,” he says. Quackity nods. Not a second later Wilbur’s by his side before leaving and returning with dry clothes, placing them into Quackity’s hands. Wilbur doesn’t question why he smells of copper. He lets Quackity into the other room where there’s a small desk with Tommy’s books placed on one side and paper on the other, a blanket sprawled over the floor. Wilbur’s guitar is leaned against the wall, a couple seemingly full boxes next to it.

Quackity raises his sleeves to his face. They smell like blood. He used to always smell like that.

There’s a small puddle forming under him, so he makes quick work of peeling off the wet clothes and puts on the dry ones he’d been offered. Wilbur’s sweater is too big on him and hangs a little lower past his hips, pant legs rolled up to keep from being stepped on. He bunches it up and picks up his clothes, exiting their bedroom and comes to sit near the fireplace, putting his clothes on the stone in front of it to dry. Techno seems fully present now, talking to Tommy with slow movements. “I’m not the Blood God,” Techno repeats not impatiently. He cares after his hair patiently, carefully running the comb through the lower end of the strands.

“You- I gave you gifts!” Tommy sputters. “I called you the Blood God!” Techno shrugs as if to say, yeah, I know, and Tommy looks distraught between being angry and being embarrassed.

“Everyone did. It’s okay, Tommy.”

The reddish stains on his jacket don’t look too good in front of Wilbur and Tommy’s fireplace, Quackity thinks blankly, looking at his laid-out clothes. He rolls them back up and tucks them to the side. He turns to Tommy with a grin, mouth closed. “Techno’s just a bitch,” Quackity interjects. “He likes the gifts, so he takes them.”

Tommy jumps again. He looks up at Quackity with big eyes. Big Q, he mouths before his lips turn down into an exaggerated face of fear, an aborted choking sound coming out of him. Techno stops with the comb midair and lets out a deep sigh before continuing. “That’s not- whatever.”

Quackity pats his shoulder. Techno seems to be okay and judging by the way he shakes him off, he’ll be fine. “Denial is the first stage. It’s okay, Techno, I support you.”

Techno rolls his eyes and lets out a huff of a laugh. Tommy looks like he’s on the verge of tears. “There’s no way you’re the Blood God,” Tommy whispers, dragging his hands down his face. “You? You? You’re a fraud. You’re- urk.”

A fraud. There he sits, the Blood God himself, in a pale grey sweater that reeks of human and playing pretend with his worshippers. How much more of an uncomfortable situation could one god make? “I’m not a fraud, Tommy,” Quackity says, words thick on his tongue. “I joke, I perform, I create friendships, but you know what I also create? Power. Organized bloodshed. I check the perimeters and health of this town. I keep the forest safe. I keep the land protected.” He pats the teen’s head. “Thanks for praying to me every night.”

“You heard that?” Tommy cries. “No, there’s- there’s no way! You’re fucking with me.”

“I knew Wilbur was like a brother to you,” Quackity says, cooing. “I’ll make sure to keep him safe for you, Tommy.”

“No, you didn’t hear shit!” Tommy hisses. “What the fuck- no, forget everything I said! I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d ever hear it-” his face crumples and his hands come up in front of him. “Please, please, please don’t tell anyone about what I said about them. I’m sorry I said I thought you were stupid. I don’t know if you can tell if I’m joking or not but to clarify, I was joking. It was rude of me, I take it back.”

It was funny and it remained funny any time Tommy had mentioned Quackity in his prayers, the kindest sweetest things from asking the Blood God to keep the town protected to asking about his day. He plays dumb and makes an offended noise. “Hold on, you think I’m stupid? What the fuck? I was joking about hearing your prayers earlier, but what the fuck is this about? Tommy, do you have something to say to me?”

Tommy’s genuine fear slowly washes into something of confusion, then quickly anger, eyebrows furrowing and his mouth going square as he screams. “You dick!” he shouts, hitting Quackity with a fist. He lets out a screech. “You didn’t hear anything! Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, you aren’t the Blood God! I don’t take shit back! Stupid ass bitch, you’re so fucking annoying oh my god I hate you so goddamn much you annoying ass prick!”

“No, you’re not getting out of this,” Quackity shouts back. “You called me dumb! I won’t take this from someone who can’t even be called a baby in comparison to the time I’ve spent on this plane!”

Tommy screams into his hands. Quackity bites the inside of his cheek, not wanting to burst out laughing at Tommy’s embarrassment just yet. “I’m- you’re not my Blood God!” Tommy spits out, whining into the heel of his palm, fingers digging into his eyes.

“I don’t want to be your Blood God either!” Quackity retorts, crossing his arms. “Sucks to suck, loser. L.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I was stupid or feeling particularly masochistic the day I pledged my life to you,” Techno deadpans.

Seething, Tommy spins and points aggressively at Techno, who puts his hands up innocently. “He’s my Blood God!” Tommy shouts, the blush of his reddened face spreading to his ears and neck.

“He’s my vassal!” Quackity returns, matching his volume.

“The old lady next door already yells at you enough, don’t add to her stress,” Wilbur scolds when Tommy cries out again. He walks by and whacks the mop of blond hair with his free hand, outstretching a mug of tea to Quackity with the other. It smells weakly of jasmine. Quackity wraps his hand around the hot ceramic ignoring Wilbur’s panic –“It’s hot!”– and hands it to Techno, who holds it against his chest and closes his eyes. Wilbur deflates, dumbfounded.

Fixing his hair with both hands, Tommy scowls. “She loves me. I am a delight to be around. Suck my balls, Wilbur.”

“That’s what your mom said to me last night,” Quackity says. The moment it leaves his mouth, Tommy goes through all five stages of grief before eventually settling on a crying laughter, groaning as he slides his face into his hands.

“How- how are you the Blood God?” Tommy whispers. “I don’t want you to be the Blood God.”

The corner of Techno’s mouth twitches. “Neither does the Purge.”

“Not if I can help it. No one’s getting rid of me,” Quackity says half-jokingly, weakly tapping at his chest.

From his quiet observation, Wilbur shifts forward in his sit, face wrinkled in focus as if trying to figure something out. “What’s the Purge?” he asks. There’s the subtlest curl of Techno’s fingers tightening around his mug and Quackity laughs awkwardly, glancing at Techno. They… he shouldn’t talk about this, should he?

“It’s… a mishap.”

Tommy cuts in before Wilbur can inquire further, loud and unabashed. “How are you going to fight them? You don’t even know how to use a sword,” he asks, genuinely concerned.

One of the few possessions Quackity had brought with him to this realm was his prized sword. It had a shiny opal-coloured blade that looked prettiest painted red. Not that he used it much anymore, though he might have to. Wilbur covers his face with a hand and blows out a breath muffled by his palm. “Tommy,” he says, dragging out the last syllable. Tommy doesn’t get it, confused and glancing at Quackity for help.

He takes pity on the kid. “Tommy, I lied to you. I know how to use a sword,” Quackity says, saving Tommy from whatever he was about to say. His mouth closes, opening once and twice before settling on biting his lip.

“Oh.” He slouches, looking at Quackity with big round eyes. His jaw slowly drops. “Have you… killed someone before?”

Has he killed someone before, what a question. Techno snorts. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” Quackity tells him.

“Out of necessity,” Wilbur reasons.

Quackity thinks about all the raids he’d sent out to towns murdering thousands on a lazy afternoon, bored out of his mind and indulging a few non-committed prayers that hadn’t expected him to come. He’d been scolded on numerous occasions from other immortals including his fellow war gods; they were jealous, he’d snicker, grinning at Techno’s equally smug face. Lady Death hadn’t been impressed. “Of course,” Quackity replies.

Tommy frowns. “You shouldn’t kill anyone,” he declares. His voice rises in volume quickly, shaking his head aggressively. “You can’t.”

The voices mock Tommy.

Blood for the Blood God.

“Be quiet, Tommy,” Wilbur says not unkindly, and Tommy mimes zipping his mouth shut and shrugs. He looks small despite his height, tucking into himself and hugging his knees close to his chest. Last week, Quackity would’ve gone to him and try to tip him over. A loud cackle and whine, Tommy would’ve fought back. Quackity would’ve let him win. It wouldn’t have risen any questions.

Quackity looks back at Wilbur, resigned. He leans into the wall behind him. “The Purge is going to kill us. I don’t know what will happen to this town. I want you two to leave,” Quackity says. Like ripping off a bandage.

“I’m staying with you,” Wilbur says immediately, standing up straighter.

Quackity frowns. “No, you’re not.”

“Not like there’s much I have to my name,” Wilbur says, scoffing. “Let me fight for you. For myself.” Tommy’s eyebrows knit together and his mouth immediately opens to no one’s surprise. Quackity imagines the metal clasps undoing themselves and ripping apart.

“We have a ton of shit, what do you mean?” Tommy says, grabbing Wilbur’s arm, alarmed. “This is the first place we’ve ever considered home.”

Wilbur’s mouth twitches as if he has more to say but nods his head, swallowing. He reaches a hand out and ruffles Tommy’s hair. “You’re right,” he says, quieter than before.

There’s a small cough before Techno speaks, breathing in slowly. “We’re not abandoning you guys. We’re handling this,” Techno says. His eyes droop with exhaustion. Quackity wants to ask him with what strength is he going to try to fight the very people who’d put him in this situation. “But you should leave. They’re certainly not leaving this town- I was a warning. This place is next.” Quackity turns sharply towards him.

Wilbur shakes his head insistently. “I’m going to help. This is our home, too.”

“Wilbur.”

Wilbur’s back straightens and he slams his hand down on the table, voice rising. Tommy flinches. Wilbur flips his hair back, swallowing heavily. “No! I am not going to stand back while this place- while our friends are in danger. I’m coming with you, Quackity. I am fighting. You can’t stop me.” He could stop him. Quackity absolutely could stop him. He can’t tell if Wilbur knows that or not, but as Wilbur looks in him the eye, challenging him, Quackity’s fairly sure he doesn’t really care.

He doesn’t look away from Wilbur’s eyes and comes up with a weak denial. “You aren’t coming with me.”

Death is familiar to him; Death was his first friend, holding his hand and working with the blood he’d spilled to form his existence for good. After the infinite number of lives he’d taken both in protection and in merciless attack, it would be an understatement to say he or Techno wasn’t well acquainted with the music of death. There is no hesitance to sing and dance on a stage, raising a chalice of crimson wine to a thundering crowd.

That being said, Quackity wouldn’t like to see Wilbur’s dead body on the battlefield. It’s ridiculous. Millions- millions of deaths and yet now he hesitates. Too much time out in the woods with only clay under his nails, he sneers. The Blood God has softened. He has seen plenty of his soldiers and some individuals he might even call friends die before- they’d joined a hymn amongst those that guided them home. There hadn’t been much to say but burning letters and flowers, acknowledging all that came with his duty as a war god pertained and moving on.

Quackity remembers seeing Valor’s eyes, sunken in with the eternal strength of his confidence still present behind the decay. An air to his stature with armour fitted to his body, he remembers seeing the other god swiftly making his way past ruined grounds. He gave orders in a deep, commandeering voice leaving no room for disagreement. It had been the last time Quackity had seen him. A month later he’d been announced dead, body a hardened ash buried under dead soldiers’ corpses. It is scary to be told of your own mortality- an immortal god, faced with a mortal’s blessing? Quackity had burnt a letter that night, containing two sentences and nothing more or less.

Death is familiar, no matter what form it comes in and who it takes, no matter how shaken up Quackity had been with the initial news. He could try all he wants to pin it his fear all on an absence from battle, but it was the way Valor’s vassal etched himself into his memory that still haunts him to this day, appearing alongside hidden figures in prayers and taunts when he closes his eyes. There Purpled is again and again, sitting in front of him with his gaze trained onto his hands. He’s shaking, disturbingly unsettled, voice almost gone.

“I’m all alone- I’m all alone. There isn’t anyone there, Blood God. There isn’t anyone there, no one’s answering me.”

When Quackity blinks, Tommy is there instead. He looks up at Wilbur with wide eyes, purple diminishing to return to Tommy’s light blue, clinging onto his brother’s every word. Quackity has been selfish for a long time. He wonders if he can afford another greed.

Wilbur scoffs. “And what army is coming with you? With what soldiers are you going to be in battle with? You need men. Let me fight. There isn’t any other logical choice, don’t be fucking stupid, Quackity. Bring me with you. You see my point, right?” he asks, directing the last question to Techno. Techno doesn’t move, head tilting down to face around the floor.

Tommy blinks. “Are we going to die?” he pipes up.

The tension breaks and Quackity looks at Tommy, momentarily startled. Wilbur’s frown shifts. His answer is already out before Wilbur has the chance to open his mouth. “No,” Quackity says. “You’re not going to die.” He sees Techno in the corner of his eye. Techno turns his head the slightest bit in a silent question.

Quackity remembers the hand at the edge of his cloak, fingers digging into the red fabric. He turns back to Purpled and tells him no.

Instead of a pleading face, Tommy’s affronted, pushing against Wilbur’s, “You’re going somewhere safe, Tommy.” He blows out his cheeks big with air and sputters.

“What- no, I want to fight too, Wilbur! You don’t even know how to use a sword you prick, I should be the one fighting. I’m prepared and everything!”

“You’re still young.”

Tommy crosses his arms. “You’re barely older than me. I can fight. Take me with you, Big Q. Please?” he says, turning to Quackity with a pleading face.

He almost laughs. Kid doesn’t even want him, the Blood God, to kill anyone, but he could do it himself. Take him where? Their tiny dirt patch in the middle of a forest to fight against an evenly matched opponent one at a time? He’s never going to fucking make it out there. Maybe it’s a good thing people would still trust him to lead their way into war- that’s what he’s here for, right? War?

You’re a war god. War exists in its purest form through you. You cannot exist without war. The world is better without war and at peace. This is why the Purge is after you.

An edge of the black, charred log falls off from where it was hanging onto the rest of the wood. Fire licks at the soot-covered walls of the fireplace.

With a heavy heart, Quackity stands up. Tommy’s voice dies out behind him and Wilbur’s shouting quiets too, two stares watching his back leave to the other room, door closing behind him.

Techno comes into the room after a while to find Quackity sitting by the window. He was staring out at the view of an opposing building, posture straight as it always had been. Techno closes the door behind him with a click and walks to the middle to stand behind Quackity, a familiar presence behind his back. A century ago he would’ve been at his side instead, arms crossed over his chest in service. “I’m still mad at you,” Quackity says.

“Yep,” Techno replies.

Quackity stares at the patterned curtains on the faraway window. “I don’t want you to die.”

“I know.”

He turns his head slightly, fixing his gaze on the floor. “What happened yesterday?”

“There was a small group,” Techno says. He sits down and groans quietly as he leans back against the wall, placing his arms around his chest comfortably. “Found me at the base of the mountain. Heard them coming. Didn’t hear the third one. They weren’t trying to kill me, just incapacitate. Told me to tell the Blood God the town was next, or you should give yourself up first.”

Quackity swallows with his breath. “There wasn’t a way out?”

“Maybe, but there were people from the town nearby and I wasn’t going to take chances. If anyone else gets hurt, that’s my responsibility. I can handle a couple nasty injuries,” Techno replies. He stares out the window, too, humming.

“You want to confront them,” Quackity states. Now, hangs between them silently. You want to confront them now.

“Yes.”

Quackity stares at his hands. “We need to prepare,” he whispers.

Techno laughs before coughing out the last bit of his exasperation. Quackity glares at him. "Do you really think we have the time? It's us or this entire town, the country- Quackity, we can’t afford to be selfish."

Fucking rude. "I think I have the right to be selfish once in my life."

“Once? You don’t think this hasn’t been a common occurrence?”

Quackity snaps his head up. His nails dig into his palms. “It was for our safety.” Techno rolls his eyes.

“Sure.”

Quackity stands again, frustrated. He runs a hand through his hair, gesturing with his arms. Techno lifts his chin. “I’m sorry I wanted to forget it, okay? All I ever did was cause harm and stir upset- you saw how fucking crazy I was to kill back then. I still am,” Quackity says. He stalks over, hands clutching the ends of the sweater. “You felt it, you were part of it. Maybe the Purge had a point. Maybe I’m just- maybe there’s something else that happened and I can’t deal with this. How are you not affected?”

“I am,” Techno growls. He slowly stands using a hand against the wall for support. He pushes a finger at Quackity’s chest pointedly. “Don’t put words in my mouth. It was as terrible time, and you know what? I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

And he shouldn’t, but Quackity raises his voice, hissing through his teeth. “Why wouldn’t you? Are you stupid?”

Techno’s mouth turns further down. He shakes his head. “You were created because of that. I’m here because of that. The war would’ve been a mess without us.”

“And yet. You saw what happened afterwards. You saw everyone else- they were right. Lady Death had it under control.” His hands feel rubbery. There is blood falling from his palms, a fountain he can’t control. “I shouldn’t have been there.”

When Quackity looks back up, Techno is still facing him. He moves his gaze away. “I would’ve died in that village.”

That was millenniums ago. Quackity barely knew his role in the worlds, navigating through the sudden expectations and war he’d been thrust into. The village was set alight, someone who pushed the bonfire into the neighbouring homes. Quackity remembers fighting through the heat, laughing in the blood-induced haze as he made his way through each person holding their sword against the new war god that smiled down at them.

He met a pink-haired soldier. For the first time in his then short existence, Quackity had stopped with the sword above Techno’s head, staring down curiously at the one person who hadn’t moved at all, ready to welcome Death’s embrace.

Quackity doesn’t turn. “Maybe you should’ve.”

He wants Techno to be mad. He wants Techno to get upset, he wants Techno to cry, he wants Techno to tell him to leave and never come back. But as he always is, Techno stays calm, slowly blinking at Quackity’s quiet desperation, never relenting. “Maybe I should’ve,” he softly whispers. “But I didn’t.”

Quackity stares at Techno.

“I’m going to the cabin,” Techno says. He adjusts his shirt and opens the door. Quackity follows behind him numb, the two of them ignoring the two brothers sitting by the fire turn at their noise. “I need to grab my things. If you’re insistent on staying here, be my guest. But I’m not running away this time.”

Valor’s vassal grabs his wrist. There isn’t much effort to it, a loose hold that anyone could easily slip their hand out of, god or not.

“Blood God,” he says, hands cold unlike the burning of a soldier’s. “I would like to speak with you for a moment.”

While the Blood God does feel sympathy for him, the fear that is instilled in him hoots and howls at him manically upon seeing the physical proof and result of a broken bond between a god and their vassal. There is not much time, he reminds himself, the clock ticking away at the back of his head, voices chanting alongside its impending blow. “I have to go,” the Blood God says, shaking the hand off. “I’m sorry.”

“For a moment,” the vassal says again. “I need somewhere to go- I can do anything under your orders. I’ve nothing to do here. My god has been killed and my fellow worshippers are stuck in this damned cycle. There must be something you need. You- you’ll need all the protection you can from the Purge.”

“So I’ve heard,” the Blood God replies, gritting his teeth. “I can’t help you.”

“I am begging you, Blood God,” Purpled speaks again, low. “Take me with you.”

“No.”

He cowers. “I can’t take this anymore,” Purpled says. His head bows down further past his hunched shoulders, chin nestling into his sternum as he murmurs to himself inaudibly.

There are many things the Blood God needs to attend to, but he stays anyway. For a friend and partly to satiate a guilty curiosity. “I was told you would die in a bond, sharing the tie of a life,” the Blood God says quietly. He doesn’t remember what it was like before Techno. He can’t imagine his breath disappearing from being heard with his own. “You’re still alive. I didn’t know the bond could be broken.”

Purpled takes a heavy breath and looks up with widened eyes, shaking his head with a wet laugh. He coughs and breathes in erratically. “It’s not, it’s still there,” he says, tears running down his face. He raises one hand and taps it aggressively at his chest, hiccupping a cry leaning towards a shriek. “It’s so- it’s so cold here alone, I can’t breathe, there’s no one there- he’s not there.” The Blood God stares in horror, watching the vassal sink fully onto the ground and whimpering, head jerking to the side.

“It would be easier to be dead,” Purpled whispers. “I wouldn’t be alone.”

The God of Valor and his vassal had been around longer than the Blood God has. He’d met them at their peak, both arrogant smiles and all self-assured- perhaps the greatest pair the Creator had brought into the teething, truculent worlds before the Blood God had come to be, vermilion rage meeting controlled balance. He remembers Valor laughing at him. He knew Purpled from before any human had heard of the Blood God’s existence.

Purpled shivers at his feet. “I wish I was dead.”

“No,” the Blood God says.

The two stay there, one silent as the other repeats and repeats himself to one of the only beings that would listen to his broken record. Eventually, Purpled’s hands uncurl from the red fabric as he passes out on the ground, forehead slumped against the marble.

The Blood God picks Purpled up and places him comfortably, and deposits him on a small bed of grass near calendulas that had begun to bloom not long enough ago.

By the time Purpled opens his eyes, the Blood God would be long gone without a trace to hide in the mortal realm.

Quackity stands there staring down the street where Techno had gone, hand ghosting over the doorknob.

“Quackity?”

He turns to see Dream at the other side of the street quickly approaching, making little quick steps towards him. “Quackity,” he says, before blanking. “You’re awake.”

Quackity nods before saying audibly, unsure, “Yeah.”

“You two are staying with Wilbur and Tommy?”

The street to his left is as empty as it was before. “I don’t think so,” Quackity says. The heat from the house warms his back and he gently tugs the door closed to keep the air in. His hand lingers on the metal handle. He considers it- there isn’t anything else to be done here and he doesn’t want Wilbur to come with him, nonetheless Tommy. He turns to Dream. “No.”

“You can stay with us if you want,” Dream offers. “I’m sure the other guys won’t mind.”

Quackity looks at him hesitantly before back at the house again. He’s not sure if he should go home- he should go tomorrow, at the very least, to prepare. No matter what route he’s going, he still needs something at his side to work with. Glancing back at Dream, the man is a picture-perfect figure of patience. Quackity wonders if he’d taken the news any worse alone or if he just didn’t care. It… wouldn’t be bad, to stay at their place. “If you’re sure,” Quackity says, quickly grabbing the shoes set out by the door and tugging them on.

They’re over two thirds of the way there when Quackity belatedly realises he’s left clothes rolled up leaning against the stone of the fireplace. He was walking around town dressed in Wilbur’s clothes like hand-me-downs. His breath skips as he stumbles on a rock, looking at the threaded fabric and wonders if he’ll be able to return them in person.

“I’m home,” Dream calls out, arm outstretched to keep the door open behind him for Quackity to follow suit. Quackity pauses at the doorway. The house is unusually silent. What would’ve been George’s and Sapnap’s bickering -though Sapnap’s would quiet- Quackity could hear before entering the household was replaced with nothing. It’s tense. A rather somber looking George comes out from the mouth of the hallway, eyebrows furrowed.

“Dream, where did you- Quackity,” George cuts himself off. His face twists up and he glances subtly down the hall where the rooms are. Quackity doesn’t follow his gaze, keeping his eyes on George who swallows hard. “You’re… also here.”

“Sorry,” Quackity says. George had left, yesterday, without a word running after the other resident in this house. “Is Sapnap okay?”

“Sapnap’s fine,” George says before Quackity’s even done with his sentence, shoulders rising. George, at the very least, looks the opposite of fine. Quackity’s not going to press, though. He shouldn’t push his luck.

With a shallow breath and a small smile, Quackity nods. “Okay,” he says. “Is it okay if I come in?”

The split second of hesitance on George’s face appears before Dream answers instead, smoothly pulling him in by his arm. “Of course you can, I literally invited you. You can stay the night.” He shrugs off his coat and finds one of the racks on the wall to hand it up on before turning to walk across the room, accidentally hitting his foot along a couple scatted pieces of clothing.

He doesn’t make it far. “He’s what,” George hisses. He’s whispering, clearly not intending for Quackity to hear. And he wouldn’t, granted he had a typical hearing for any human creature. Perhaps he should inform George that whispering isn’t going to keep unhear from him in the near premises.

“He was at Tommy’s, I offered,” Dream says, voice low. It’d probably be more awkward telling them he could hear them, so Quackity politely busies himself by fully stepping in the house and closing the door. He turns his attention to the sword on the wall- full circle, Quackity thinks, touching the handle with a hand. He knows, now, it belongs to Dream. He wonders if it’s tasted blood. It will, soon, Quackity muses.

Clothes rustle behind him. “Are you stupid?” Quackity hears George whisper through gritted teeth. There are no stares at his back, hushed voices only directed towards each other. “Are you actually this stupid? Dream.”

“George,” Dream replies in a much peppier tone to George’s incredulity. “It’s still Quackity. He’s our friend.”

“Yeah, our friend that- whatever.” Quackity turns. George glances at him, opens his mouth, and closes it, sighing. “You’re telling Sapnap that he’s here,” he tells Dream. There’s a short agreement from Dream before disappears into the hallway, the sound of a door clicking open faintly audible. In a moment, George stands at the frame from the living room to the kitchen and clears his throat. “Can you sleep on the sofa?”

Quackity could pass out anywhere. He could not sleep, too, but he doesn’t want to jeopardize Techno’s recovery. “The sofa’s good. Thank you, George. I know it’s not particularly easy for any of you,” he says softly. George blinks and nods, swallowing. With a duck of his head, he turns his back to enter the kitchen.

“It’s the least we can do.”

Chapter Text

The wooden clock on the fireplace’s mantel gives Quackity’s thoughts company as it ticks in the background, Quackity himself lying on the floor of the living room facing up at the ceiling.

He should be with Techno right now, Quackity thinks. Even if he is scared. He doesn’t think preparing, whatever that would be, would do much but delay or worsen the inevitable. Techno definitely knows it. Quackity’s seen before and again the Purge would not hesitate to fight for their peace.

Peace. A funny little thing that they’re so adamant can exist without war. Maybe Quackity’s recluse and distance from his role has proved that. It is ironic they drag him out of his life now to return to the state of hostility.

But he hasn’t led a war in years. He hasn’t killed anyone or ordered anyone to kill in years. He hasn’t been the Blood God in years, whether more shameful to him as a god or as someone who’s stepped down from the position- and now they come just as he’s fully welcomed a human lifestyle. Looking to kill the Blood God.

He died a century ago, Quackity wants to shout, He’s gone. I’ve denounced the crown.

But he still needs blood. He makes do on animals, blood red alcohol when he is desperate - tangerines when that wouldn’t work, Techno confiscating his belongings - and ignoring the stabbing pain of voices too unlike prayers chanting for a kill. He busies himself with his ducks to go along the enchanted borders protecting both the town, Techno, and himself. Nothing about the Blood God would’ve been able to slip past the walls, something he’d learnt to do as a favour from Trickster himself.  He’s been the opposite of a war god, but his powers thrummed quietly with his daily life. He presses a blessing into coins at the market buying jerky, hoping Death would reject a little someone from her hands. He - accidentally, he didn’t expect gifts in return - accepts directly his friends as worshippers. Quackity isn’t exactly human, despite removing himself from the brunt of it.

He’s removed himself- Quackity hasn’t been in war in decades. He hasn’t done anything- he hasn’t done anything. Why should this town have to pay for his past mistakes? Quackity doesn’t want to fight. To fight is to prove to them that yes, he isn’t afraid to participate in more bloodshed. He doesn’t want to remember and relish in the feeling of freshly spilled death around him, breath oozing out in wounds too big to clot, because fuck, he won’t be able to stop. If Quackity does anything now, that’ll ruin whatever he’s precariously built up. There is no world, Quackity thinks, that he has the control needed. Not after years of abstaining. One step back into his original duties and he won’t be able to return. He’s the Blood God. He doesn’t want to be- he doesn’t want to die.

Valor comes to mind when he thinks about returning. The wound of shock and the loss of a fellow- fellow friend. The haunting memory of Purpled’s stiffness after death painting a stupid picture of Techno in his mind, appearing sometimes when he’d rest. He doesn’t want to die and leave Techno behind. Unless they kill Techno, too, which isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

War isn’t fair.

It’s not that he doesn’t like war. He is war. Quackity knows the battlefield like nothing else in the world, perfect navigation with a sword by his side even blind. He should know best about what’s unfair, from warfare to strategies, tricks, to raids that were never important enough to risk lives. He is a vital part of war. He is its movement.

He is also a part of life and a part of the creatures he now lives alongside. He is the sound of drums through the heart and bends wounds into scars, warmth and protection from sickness, the blush from overwhelming emotions and touch.

He’s Quackity.

Quackity’s friends might- no, will die if he doesn’t do anything. They die if he does something. They die regardless. There is no other end to this story. He has read this story a thousand times over with other people and other battles. It is the same ending he has written, the sword he uses as a pen which had stuck to his hand like glue.

The people this time around feel a little more different.

Quackity sinks into the sofa and rolls off onto the floor as his hand twitches, fighting the urge to pull himself up and running to Techno.

He can't fight- surely he can't. This is all a ruse. If he proves he won't incite war, if he proves he's only Quackity now, if he proves he's not the Blood God, surely they'll be content. Right? But he knows there is no way with the Purge. He doesn’t doubt they want to rid of him no matter the cost. Risks. If Quackity exists, he’s a threat.  Nothing is ever concrete without death involved.

He’s tired.

Maybe this is just karma, Quackity laughs to himself, feeling delirious. A war god unable to fight his way out of a war, nonetheless talk. This was Fate.

He’ll go home tonight, he decides. After settling things with the boys and getting himself together. There was a couple ducks in the attic he needed to attend to, a sword and an amour set he hasn’t touched in years that he should polish. A visit into the woods- it would help Techno get some rest in his system. Quackity owed it to him. He wouldn’t be here without him.

Yeah.

If this all really were to be Quackity’s last few moments, he thinks it would be nice to spend some time with Techno.

The small shrine at the back of the living room stuck out prominently ever since he found out it was there, a shiny, golden bell sitting in the middle amongst a bunch of stones. Quackity remembers the first time he saw it, nose twitching and trying to control the amused smile trying to spread on his face. There was a drawing of Techno beside it like a proud parent showcasing their kid’s work. The worst little thing Quackity’s ever seen, scribbled in pencil and coloured wax. It was unforgivably dreadful compared to the careful, detailed pieces painted under artists that’d dedicated their lives to master their craft.

There were a fair number of paintings among other gifts he’d received as the Blood God. Quackity and Techno would look over them every once in a while, carefully going over each piece and if one really stood out to both of them, made sure to keep the artist in mind as war spread to their country. As thanks, even if their favourite was one of the stupidest looking fuckers in the world. No one needed to know that.

Quackity rolls his tongue around his mouth and twiddles with his thumbs, mind running a million miles an hour. It’s hard to get his mind to shut up normally, a background thrum of prayers he’s not sure is more or less than before everything yesterday happened. It’s all sort of muddy.

In the short hour or so Quackity’s been in this house, Dream continues to be nonchalant about the whole situation as he initiates small talk a few times and George seems to be dealing with it outside of their short interactions. Sapnap is nowhere to be seen and George brushes it off, telling Quackity he’ll come around. You haven’t even come around, Quackity thinks. What makes him think Sapnap would? They’ve talked about the Blood God before. They talked shit about the Blood God together. He knew Sapnap had a clear… something going on with who he was. Quackity didn’t think it’d ever come up.

He cringes. He’s said a lot of weird things about the Blood God- it was funny, sue him.

The clock hands moves another increment to the left again and Quackity bites his lip, turning another worry in his mind with his arms crossed across his chest. When the minute hand points towards five, George walks in the room. He stays quiet, an unsure step from the hallway at the farthest side of the living room, thinking Quackity can’t hear.

“What’s up?” Quackity calls out cheerfully.

He hears George make a noise from being startled before clearing his throat. Footsteps near him and Quackity turns his head from the clock to look up at George, who frowns. “What are you doing upside down?” George asks.

Quackity hums in response, shrugging as much as he can with half his back hanging off the couch. “It’s comfortable,” Quackity tells him. “You wanna join?”

George shakes his head. “I’m good. I was going to make dinner and I wanted to see if you, you know. If you need to eat?” George asks bluntly, the unfinished because you’re not human lingering in the air. George has seen him eat food plenty of times. Quackity has taken more than enough joy in eating the food all three of them had hidden away in their cabinets.

Quackity shrugs again. “It’s nice,” he replies. “I don’t technically need it, but it’s a nice to do. It helps.”

George stares. His fingers almost unnoticeably clench and unclench around the doorframe he has it resting on. "O...kay," he says, eyeing Quackity. "Would it help now?"

It might help with normality. It would be nice to sit at the table and eat, get something that won’t entirely settle anything in his mind but taking an offering to ease the constant demand for fulfillment. It would be an absolute wreck, but it couldn’t really get worse than this- thinking about it more, Quackity would definitely appreciate having a dinner with them. He should probably apologise. “Yeah,” Quackity replies. “Something good. Decadent. From the market.”

George makes a face. “Fuck off. You’re just getting what I make,” he says, his previous awkwardness melting into a dirty look. “I don’t care if you’re a god or whatever, we’re eating fish tonight. Don’t complain.”

Quackity’s going to complain one hundred percent. It had been the two of them and Karl after Quackity had followed him through his delivery route, waltzing into the house with no shame and demanding food. George deserved to get bullied, to set the record straight; that dry abomination was almost more torturous than this entire situation. Quackity could call it barely seasoned enough if he was feeling charitable but it was definitely overcooked, having become too intimate with the frying pan it’d been sitting on and evaporating all its flavour like George’s hopes and dreams for a career in cuisine. Karl had been over the moon calling George a terrible chef, in stitches on the floor. Quackity had been horrified.

Quackity snorts. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

When George calls him for supper, he’s already there where he normally sits, eating without any care if anyone else was at the table or not. Quackity goes to sit in the seat he knows Karl usually goes to, the fourth chair that matches with the rest. He’s too focused on judging what the fish looks like – the skin isn’t leather hard this time and it’s visibly less dry than sand – while trying to see if he could poke at least a little fun at George’s cooking, or if it still wasn’t a long enough time for any of them to process it. Discomfort with Quackity being a god aside, he’s got a bullying-George agenda that hasn’t been fulfilled this week yet.

Across from him sat Dream, quietly eating his food while doing his work. Quackity’s eyes go past Dream to the empty chair next to him. Sapnap hasn’t come yet. Quackity can hear him a little down the hallway in his room, the smell from the kitchen masking most of Sapnap’s scent suppressed by the multiple layers of wood-

His eyes backtrack.

The usually masked Dream has his face out to the world, humming softly with half-lidded eyes over the piece of paper in front of him. The skin, blossoming from the middle outwards reaching to all sides of his head is wrinkled, thick skin that is drawn and taut like clumped wax. A scar, and a dreadfully large one at that, covering his entire face. Dream places the paper down after a moment, a frustrated breath at his lips.

Green eyes look up at him and Quackity blinks back, so, so lost. George lightly huffs in amusement in the background. Dream turns his head in question before his eyes widen just the slightest in realization, hand gently going to his cheek. “Wow, Quackity. I know I’m hot, but you don’t have to stare,” Dream jokes before snickering to himself. George rolls his eyes.

On Quackity’s part, he’s frozen. Look- Quackity’s seen a lot of different people and a lot of miracles. Maybe it was stupid of him to assume Dream didn’t have a face, since Dream was just a human after all, but the mask reminded Quackity of others in his life he just… forgot people with faces wore masks. This, admittedly, makes more sense than what he’d assumed without even thinking about it.

Shame creeps behind Quackity. He hasn’t been able to shed off everything from his past no matter how much he loves feeling free as a human. It’s the little things that get him, from trying to stop referring to himself in third person to talking with an elderly person of the town too casually he gets a scolding nudge from Bad. Quackity’s mistaken that the same man at the front gates of the town would greet him with a bow of service too many times before catching himself, scurrying inside with a sheepish grin.

Quackity doesn’t say anything but Dream barrels on after posing with a smug face, sticking his tongue out at a George who asks him what smashed mirror he looked in this morning to think he was ever hot in his life. He stabs at a slice of potato and pops it in his mouth. “It’s not an insecurity thing,” Dream says in explanation with a full mouth, gesturing to his face. “If I don’t wear it, I’ll burn really badly. Or, worse than I already do.”

“You said you were blind?” Quackity asks.

“Ehh,” Dream says, making a so-so motion with his hand. “It’s not like everything’s gone, it’s blurry. Colours, light. I can still see it, even if it hurts after a while. Sometimes I can read things if it’s big enough to make out the letters. But it’s easier to just say I’m blind- and I really can’t see anything with the mask on anyway. Visually, at least.”

Quackity nods. He’d assumed Dream had been blessed with some other form of sight- fuck, that’s the thing that screwed him over. Definitely holy soldier material.

He brushes off his thoughts as he sees Dream close his eyes slowly and blink them open, squinting again at the paper beside him before properly giving up, blowing a light raspberry. Quackity tilts his head, considering. “Do you want to see if I can heal your eyes?” Quackity offers.

Dream bristles a little. His eyes narrow before relaxing again as quickly as it’d happened, taking another bite of the potatoes. “No thanks,” he hums.

He doesn’t say anything else.

“Alright.” Quackity shrugs before finally picking up his fork. He looks down at his plate. It looks good and it comes apart without having to saw the poor thing. He puts it in his mouth and chews. “What the fuck?” Quackity exclaims. George looks up, pretending he hasn’t been watching Quackity closely the entire time and raises an eyebrow. Quackity elaborates, taking another bite. It’s- it’s good. Sure, it’s not top-notch melt-in-your-mouth perfection, but it’s good. “It actually tastes like a fish this time. How much did you practice the past month? Did you only fish for the past weeks? Be honest. There’s no way you improved this much in such a short time. You were a hopeless cause.”

“What part of don’t complain did you not get?” George says, bored as he always is before laughing manically. He chokes on his food before leaning back into his chair, pointing at Quackity. “I can’t believe you and Karl ate the whole thing last time- you thought I couldn’t cook! You idiot! You think I would feed you decent food after you barged into my home? You don’t deserve that luxury. Thanks for the compliments, dumbass. I’m telling Karl you liked my food.”

Quackity still has his fork in his mouth when he reaches over the table, jostling the plate of roasted vegetables as he threatens George to meet his deathbed. Dream only tells them to stop and that they’re going to ruin the food, what the fuck, he’s trying to eat dinner over here.

Obviously that doesn’t stop either of them. They bicker until the water pitcher falls over when Quackity stumbles from George’s push and hits his elbow against the handle. George and Quackity kept screaming, now joined by a surprised Dream, hands going to grab at the pitcher before it crashed onto the floor. It’s at this time Sapnap walks in with a half-drenched Dream who only sighs, turning to Sapnap with a disappointed look on his face. “Fish for dinner," Dream tells him. Sapnap nods without a word, eyes trained down as he goes to pull his chair out to sit down.

"I could smell it," he mutters.

Gracefully, Quackity sits back down into his seat and takes the fork out of his mouth. It’s quite unfortunate that Karl’s seat is sat right in front of Sapnap, Quackity thinks as he picks more of the fish into his mouth. Whatever tension he’d broken just earlier with George starts to rebuild itself as Sapnap’s silence permeates through the air stronger than anything else and the room dissolves into Dream’s occasional hum, his leg shaking under the table.

They eat together for a few minutes in a painful state of strained politeness. When Sapnap’s halfway through his plate, Quackity sets down his fork. Immediately, he hears George take a big intake of breath and Sapnap stops chewing. Dream turns to him.

“I’m sorry I lied to you guys about the whole- you know. Blood God shit. I didn’t want to hurt you or anything, but there wasn’t any other way to be close to you,” Quackity blurts. He curls his fingers and releases them, licking at his lips. All he wants is for Sapnap to know how sincere this is. “I wanted to be your friend but I needed to keep you safe. If anything happened to you guys, that’d be my fault- it is my fault. You guys are my friends- you’re like family.”

Sapnap hiccups at that, leaning down further to the table. Quackity couldn’t even see the tip of his nose anymore. He looks at Sapnap, unsure, but continues on regardless. He has to get out everything he wants to say before he can’t. “I know you don’t like or agree with the Blood God and it hurt me to lie to you all. Sapnap, especially, but that’s not an excuse. It was a sacrifice I made on your behalf and I’m sorry for not telling any of you for my own want to be… you know. Here. It was selfish of me. And I’m not very good at all this yet but I really do love you guys.”

Quackity reaches his foot underneath the table and nudges it against Sapnap’s with a little smile on his face. “I love you, man.”

A beat. Sapnap swallows wetly, shoulders shaking. His exhale is rough and hoarse, hand coming up to rub against his temple and he lets out a laugh that changes to a whimper. “Gods, you’re just like Callahan.”

Dream’s jaw clenches and he frowns at Sapnap, confused. “Sapnap?”

Sapnap’s chair scrapes loudly across the floor as he stands, visibly upset. He doesn’t look to Dream, mouth pushed up and chin wrinkled. That’s definitely a bad cry. Quackity is suddenly very, very afraid. He fucked up. “You’re not supposed to do this,” Sapnap shouts, voice weakened with a sob not fully formed stuck in his throat. He looks up, eyes red and puffy. “You’re not supposed to be my friend. If anything happens, that’d be your fault? Do you even know what you’re saying? Do you even- are you fucking kidding me?”

“He’s just trying to apologise,” Dream says before turning to address Quackity. “It’s not your fault, Quackity, it’s-”

Sapnap cuts Dream off. He gestures at Quackity, pleadingly. “Nothing would’ve even happened if it wasn’t for the- him.” It’s vague and Dream’s not any less confused, but George suddenly gasps. His hand goes to cover his mouth, eyes blown wide. A tear slides down Sapnap’s face, a terrified relief. “See? George got it. You weren’t… awake that night.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” George says. “We would’ve helped.”

Sapnap squeezes his eyes shut and stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

“Can I ask what’s going on? Who’s Callahan?” Quackity asks, hesitant. George avoids his gaze. Dream finally puts together the pieces, face in hands as he put his elbows onto the table. Sapnap’s shoulders fall and when they make eye contact, Sapnap looks afraid. Quackity’s heart drops thinking it’s directed towards him but it’s not- Sapnap’s looking into his eyes, desperately searching for something.

“You said the Purge is coming?” he whispers. “Like a group of people who want to kill the Blood God. For peace.”

What?

There wasn’t a faster way to blank Quackity’s mind. “How do you know about that?” Quackity asks, quieter before standing up to meet Sapnap’s level. Sapnap doesn’t look him in his eyes. Quackity can feel his vision start to burn. When he glances at the other two at the table, they both look puzzled, concerned. Quackity’s voice is low when he turns back to Sapnap. “What do you know about the Purge? Why?”

Sapnap doesn’t have anything to do with the borders. He couldn’t have. Quackity has been with him for extended periods of time after the initial news Techno told him, he knows Sapnap’s busy working and he’s never caught sight of him in the forest. Right?

Sapnap’s hands are shaking far too much to look healthy, face twitching as his mouth opened and closed. “There was a story that he told, fuck- Callahan, he brought us here- I’m sorry,” Sapnap says before pushing his chair back even further. He’s pale, swallowing visibly. He swears. “We were just finding a place to live. It was a story. I was six. It wasn’t meant to be real and now everything- he fucking tricked me. He was just a fucking idiot and I’m stupid and I didn’t do anything and Dream-” He slams his fists on the wall behind him. Dream flinches at the noise. Sapnap keeps blubbering, shaking his head insistently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to hear your conversation yesterday. I didn’t think it was real. I didn’t- I should’ve said something. It’s my fault, I’m sorry, FUCK!”

Sapnap runs the side of his body against the wall as he rushes out the room in tears, a framed photo falling from its place hung up. The sound of his bedroom door opening and closing sounds loud in the space he’d left behind, all three of them staring out the doorway of the kitchen.

The room is silent.

Dream stands up and disappears after Sapnap. George stares numbly at the table in front of him. Neither of them speak.

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Quackity eventually mutters, not bothering to push his chair back in. George doesn’t acknowledge him. He exits the house without a goodbye from anyone, breathing in quickly, feeling scatterbrained.

An hour later, Bad finds Quackity sitting in the bell tower. It’s a beautiful day, really. The sun was just about to set over the horizon behind the mountains down south, the perfect background to be angsty to, as Techno called it. Bad makes a little noise in greeting and lightly punches at Quackity’s shoulder, who tries and fail to look presentable. After a short apology and a thanks for taking care of Wilbur, Quackity doesn’t speak. He lets Bad talk to him instead, the words coming in and out his ear before Bad stands up. Quackity thinks he’s just going to leave before he holds out a hand. “Come with me to the church. It’s really nice there, you’ll like it.”

“Bad, no offense, but I don’t think I should,” Quackity frowns. He’s been perfectly happy not going anywhere near the building, practically jogging on his way to the town postal office when he’d have to pass by it. He coughs, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring down at the ground. “And you don’t need to offer anything, you know? I’m, uh, I’m right here.”

Bad blinks and looks down at the basket in his hands before his little smile turns into a laugh. “Do you want one?” Bad asks, taking an apple and holding it out towards him.

Quackity takes a deep breath and places his hand on the apple. Before Bad can pull away, he brings his other hand up to sandwich the apple and Bad between his palms.

“Thanks, Bad,” Quackity murmurs. He doesn’t do anything. He just feels the coldness of Bad’s hands against the warmth of his own.

Bad’s smile turns all wobbly before he grins widely, lowering his hand to loop his arm around Quackity’s. “That’s it- we’re going. I don’t care if you don’t want to come. As your friend, I decide what we’re going to do, and I want you to come with me!” Bad sings. “There won’t be anyone there tonight, but I have the keys so it’ll be all good.”

It’s a difficult task to walk down a set of narrow stairs while linking arms with someone else – especially someone much taller than you – but they manage, skipping their way down a familiar route to an unfamiliar building.

This shouldn’t be this terrifying of an ordeal as it is. The last time Quackity has stepped foot in a proper place of worship was well over a century ago.

He’s not quite sure how to feel when he walks in and everything looks just the way he remembers. Not remember as in any specific layout, but the surge of assurance and flow that comes to him. Energy. Prayers and voices whispered into every nook and cranny of the building. He breathes in deep.

While he’s still, Bad heads to the front and sits at a pew. Beckoning Quackity over, he pats the seat next to him. The basket gets placed down to the side at Bad’s feet as he starts to point out the interior, starting with the giant glass murals on the walls.

“It’s really nice in the evenings. It’s super busy in the mornings and afternoons, but it calms down over the day,” Bad tells him as he sits down. “Oh my god, it’s the prettiest thing during sunrise because of all the glass windows and all the shadows are all colourful. It still looks pretty without it, but who am I kidding?” He snorts.

Quackity nods. It’s fairly spacious for a town of this size. There are a bunch of other baskets, packages, candles, the whole assortment at the apse. It’s an awfully bigger pile than what things Techno occasionally brings home, which amounted to a small collection hardly anything in comparison to what Quackity used to get. It’s strange, looking at the altar. There’s a big golden bell hanging above from the ceiling, a long string letting it be rung from below.

One of us.

Quackity adjusts himself in his seat. The insistent anxiety of not belonging here really presses in on him and he pushes the sleeve of his sweater into his face to ground himself before flinching. It smells like Wilbur. He groans. He wants to drop by and pick up his own clothes back but then he’ll run into Wilbur and Tommy and he really doesn’t want to go through another mess today.

Not acknowledging all of Quackity’s internal dilemmas, Bad keeps on talking about the church as if Quackity really cares about the time of day is the best to come visit. He cuts Bad off from his rambling about the importance of keeping the doors shut during the night to prevent animals from seeking shelter in the church, even if they’re cute and deserve a safe place to be. “Why aren’t you being weird about me? Today’s been… hectic, to say the least, and all you’re doing is just telling me bullshit like you usually do,” Quackity asks.

Bad ignores the insult towards him and shrugs. “You’re still Quackity, aren’t you? You’re the same person. You didn’t suddenly become the Blood God or anything,” Bad says. He knocks his shoulder against Quackity. “It’s you.”

He stares at Bad. Plus the weight of being a literal god, sitting in a church that was built a century ago in honour of him. Quackity, the one many of their friends and Bad’s himself worshipped figure.

Bad keeps smiling at him. What was he expecting? This was Bad. Quackity turns away and smacks his mouth. “Sure, Bad.”

"You would never hurt me," Bad continues, crossing his arms across his chest proudly and tilting his head. "If you're anything like the Blood God I grew up following, then I'm honoured to say I've become your friend. Heck, I’m honoured to be your friend because you’re Quackity. You’re one of the kindest people I know. Even if you are a bit much sometimes."

"Yeah? How am I a bit much?" Quackity snorts. “Is it my ass? Bad, we’re in a church. That’s sacrilegious. You’re not allowed to do that.”

“Shut- Quackity!” Bad shouts, voice echoing in the large room. He hits Quackity’s head not unkindly, sticking out his tongue. “I’m being nice! Stop it, you’re the one who even brought that up- arrgh! See, this is exactly what I meant!”

Quackity pouts, cupping his face with his palms to push up his cheeks. “Do you want to be more than friends, Bad?” Quackity says in a high-pitched tone, pretending to swoon. “With a basket of apples and a handsome face, I might have to say yes. I’m a simple man, what can I say?” Bad whines and punches at his shoulder. Quackity dissolves in giggles and clears his throat. “Thank you. I’m glad to be your friend, too.”

Bad beams.

They chat for a while. They talk about a lot of different things before Quackity mentions he’s quite a lot older than Bad, who startles before processing it.

"Is there anyone you miss?" Bad asks after a while. Quackity takes a breath with an answer of not really on the tip of his tongue before it dies. He doesn't have to lie. To himself or anyone else. When he looks back at Bad, he smiles and Quackity lets go of his last inhibitions.

There's a lot of people he misses. So, so many. Some dead, some alive, some out there in a purgatory existence. He misses not quite… friends, but people he knew, nonetheless. He thinks of four eyes hidden behind a green mask, a bright childlike personality giving away nothing of his origins dating back to the Creator. His favourite chaos gods, the Goddess of Mischief and the God of Deception, Trickster himself. Justice, one of the Furies. That one poor servant in between them who, the last time Quackity’s seen them, didn’t quite realise what was going on. Mediator, who’d rush to see if he could change Quackity’s mind about a certain fight before anything happened. Luck after their initial strained friendship when she’d scared the shit out of him, emerging from the dark after a long battle with wide white eyes staring into his soul. Fate, while being a mean son of a bitch, who reassured him when he’d first came to be a god.

He tells Bad the names that stand out to him and eventually comes down the line to the last two, wondering if he wants to say them aloud. "Then there’s Lady Death and her traitor of an Angel. I spent a lot of time with them," Quackity says, and Bad nods along seriously.

Quackity, talking about old deities and holy beings to his very human friend, both acting like Quackity was talking about his former classmates or something. He starts laughing at the absurdity of it all, which makes Bad crack a smile, too. Quackity sighs, pushing his thumb into the palm of his other hand. "Yeah, I miss them. She was always there because I was, you know. It felt really strange not to be seeing her every day at first, counting my losses and wins. I love you guys, but I don't think I'll ever be able to feel complete in one place."

Bad hums and pats Quackity's knee. It's nice. “It’s not the same, but sometimes I feel like I’m missing something from my life, too,” Bad says, smiling softly. His hands are held loosely between his lap, feet flat on the floor he keeps his gaze on. “One day I had it, and the next- poof! Suddenly it disappeared. I don't know when or where, but a someone. Out there somewhere. I might live here, but I try selling on the road as often as I can. I’m still searching for them.”

Quackity stares at the giant stained-glass murals on the walls. Techno stands tall on a rocky hill, sword pointed high above him and pink – though with red glass here, the artist using a simple palette – flowing behind him in the static wind.

It took a long time to find him.

"You'll find them," Quackity whispers. "Fate works in funny ways."

Fate. War gods were always tied to him in human stories or beliefs, but Quackity was far from familiar with his work. Besides the few number of times Quackity could list off in his head, Schlatt didn’t say much about how he did things. Secrets he has to hold to keep things balanced, he said. He never particularly cared to be nice or sugarcoat anything, sometimes plainly telling Quackity he was going to have a shit day but at least his hair would look attractive soaked in blood.

Quackity wonders if Fate has bothered to check where he’s been hiding all this time. If he’d known about the Purge if he’s watching what’s going on. He’d shown up a few hours after Quackity had learnt of Valor’s death, unusually solemn but saying nothing other than a condolence.

What a shit role to be in.

“I’m sure we’ll both be okay. I have a good feeling about it,” Bad announces.

The sound of the bell tower ringing outside marks another hour that’d passed in the evening. He should go home. "Yeah?" Quackity breathes out.

"Yeah," Bad nods.

Chapter Text

They arrive in the evening.

“Humans wear these?”

“Yes, my lord. I believe humans call them ‘hoodies’.”

“Really. Humans are so… distasteful,” Trickster bemoans, staring in disgust at the blue thing in his hands. Gingerly, he brings it to his face and sniffs at it, recoiling slightly. “Why does it smell like this?”

His vassal looks at him and shrugs.

Tommy has spent the last three hours wandering the streets around town. He’s not looking for Quackity per se, but he’s not not looking for him.

The sun’s gone by now, the sky letting go of the last remaining shades of red that didn’t warm him against the faint breeze that made him shiver in the mustard yellow sweater he has on. He picks at the worn-out edges of the sleeves, lint sticking to the cotton.

Tommy feels a little bad about trying to convince Quackity to let him fight – though he still wants to, he’ll wait until Quackity’s feeling a bit better – and sending both Quackity and Techno out of the house. Talk about awkward. So he set to apologise and to just clear his head a bit with the cool air of the coming winter. Wilbur was probably sleeping by now. He’d been drained since yesterday and didn’t say much at all when Tommy told him he was leaving, only a mumbled, “Don’t badger him too much,” coming from under his blanket.

On his side, Tommy keeps his sword in a little makeshift scabbard that gently hits against his thigh on his left. It’s a comforting, never-stopping pat as he walks, reassuring when he hears a noise that startles him. It turns out to be a rat, a window opening, a cough.

Quackity's probably gone home. Wherever he lives, where… Techno would be.

When everything's settled, Tommy's going to force Quackity to let him meet the Blood God again. To compensate for all the shit Quackity pulled and is going to haunt Tommy until he dies. He lets out a shaky breath because holy shit he's barely had time to think in the past twenty-four hours and he met the Blood God but like Techno-Blood God not Quackity-Blood God and he knew Tommy's name and had the necklace he made on and they talked in his living room and he's on a first name basis with Techno- How crazy is that?

He’s about to turn and circle back to start over his cycle when he spots people down the alleyway- that was new. Tommy finds himself walking over curiously when he realises not only were there people, but new people, and he calls out to them before he can think about what he’s doing.

“Sup?”

The tall one with the weird hair and funny glasses looks back at him and gently taps the shoulder of the other person. “There’s someone talking to us.”

“I was ignoring him,” the short one says, groaning.

“Be careful, my lord.”

Tommy blinks. “Uh- hello?” he calls out again.

“And who are you?” the short one spits out, glaring. He turns to the side and rolls his eyes. Wildly unnecessary. Tommy’s being chivalrous right now, though Wilbur did say he did get overzealous sometimes. He wasn’t now, though. “Ugh, a human child,” the guy mutters under his breath. “What does it want?”

“Are you two new in town?” Tommy asks, his right hand slowly inching over to his sword. He takes in deep breaths, looking between the two. The short, pissed off guy has brown hair His tall friend, the nicer one of the two, looks peculiar enough they look strange standing together. Maybe taller than Wil. He’s got strangely coloured hair and a rainbow tie-dye shirt on that’s buttoned to the top. “I’ve never seen you guys before.” Tommy half hopes he never has to again.

“We are,” the short one – again – tells Tommy, a monotony to his voice like he couldn't bother holding a normal conversation. Tommy glances at the other guy who's looking back at him, one arm across his chest and the other behind his back. “Not for long. Business needs attending to, if you’ll excuse us.”

“Business needs-” Tommy stops himself from rolling his eyes, glancing between the two very confused. “What? You’re like, my age. Nothing exciting happens in this town, and I doubt it’d be with kids like you.”

“I am older than you,” the guy snaps.

“You’re fucking tiny. I doubt it,” Tommy says, narrowing his eyes.

He gasps. And people call Tommy dramatic. “I have been around this plane for millenniums. Mortal beings like you should be careful what you say,” he says. He starts to stomp over before his friend grabs him by his arm, watching the two of them carefully.

“Who talks like that? Gods, you’re cringey,” Tommy winces. He raises an eyebrow to the other person, who stares blankly back. “It’s not worth it man, you need new friends. Not Mr. God complex over here.”

“I’ll show you God complex,” the short one starts again. The other shakes his head and gives Tommy a painfully awkward smile as he tries and fails to tug his friend away, his entire face squishing into something ugly as he raises his hands to his face in unconcealed fear. Tommy raises an eyebrow, only a little unsettled as the first comes up to him. He comes up maybe a little higher than Tommy's shoulders, but he's certainly not intimidating.

Then he looks Tommy dead in the eye and Tommy thinks he might have to retract his previous statements. He grins and his smile looks off, a blindingly white row of unnaturally sharpened teeth. He vaguely reminds him of Quackity.

Tommy swallows.

The guy tilts his head to the side, all the while his pupils trained on Tommy’s own. He almost looks like he’s about to start sobbing hysterically, but Tommy doesn’t say that, gripped in a silence he’s not sure where it’d come from. “You should be grateful you even got to see a god in your lifetime. Not many people see the wrath of one, either, so really, you’re about… one in seven point five trillion, I’d say.”

“Oh, wow, that’s statistically improbable.”

It’s the first time the other guy spoke and the short one turns back, turning his palms up in a universal, “What the fuck, dude?” And if that doesn’t shout terrible synergy, these guys were clearly on something that Tommy never wants to touch with a ten-foot pole. Both of their eyes snap back to him when he coughs, staring him down. The short one side eyes the other, muttering, “Are you sure this is the right town? Surely we would’ve found the Blood God. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve made a mistake.”

“Hey, that time was an accident.”

“You were an accident.”

“Now, now, that’s not false but that is rude.”

Tommy’s hand slides back to his hip, just over the hilt of his sword. The weight of the steel against his thigh steadies his nerves, heart beating against his chest. They’re looking for the Blood God. What did Quackity say- the Purge? Were they part of the Purge? He can’t- he can’t let them kill Quackity. He won’t. “What do you want with the Blood God?” Tommy says, keeping his voice even.

The guy's expression doesn't change at all, only tilts his head ever so slightly and glances back at his friend. “The Blood God does protect this town? He’s here?” he asks, an eyebrow raising for confirmation.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “You have to leave,” Tommy says. He steps back and unsheathes his sword, gripping the hilt between two clenched fists, knuckles white with how tightly he held them. “Don’t try anything. No one hurts my friends and gets away with it.”

“You’re literally shaking,” the guy says, flat. He rolls his thumb against the pads of his fingers, looking at Tommy with something that stirs discomfort in Tommy’s stomach that he shakes his head, directing the tip of his sword at the guy. His friend starts to walk over before being stopped by a simple wave from the other. “Let him speak.”

Tommy glances between them and gulps. He can’t really fight, no matter how much Dream or Quackity has hyped him up. Quackity wasn’t even trying when they sparred. He pales. “You’re either on drugs or an idiot. I’m not scared of you, bitch,” Tommy says.

Tommy is terrified.

The guy steps back for a moment and Tommy lets out a long breath before inhaling and choking when the guy whips around. He stares at Tommy, considering, when he asks, “What's your favourite animal?”

“I beg your pardon?” Tommy says. The guy doesn't say anything, nostrils flaring and fists at his side. Just stares Tommy down until Tommy eventually squeaks out a, “Cow?” to which the guy scowls even further.

“A fucking cow, of course your favourite animal is fucking huge,” the guy mutters under his breath. “I was going to be nice, but that's fucking stupid. A cow, he says. For heaven's sake.”

Tommy frowns. “Hey, don't be rude to Henry's family-”

“You can have the Tubbo signature instead. See you in a bit,” he says, raising a bored hand. “Bonk.”

Tommy's mouth opens to question what the fuck he’s talking about, what’s a Tubbo, they will not be seeing each other in a bit he is going to leave- but before he can speak, he feels his entire body go blindingly hot then freezing, shrinking in on himself before promptly blacking out. He can’t move and there’s a pressing, terrible crick in his neck and he would hyperventilate if he could recognise his lungs, eyes rolling around in darkness.

Through the daze, Tommy can hear very faintly what they're saying as if they were submerged underwater. “Pick him up,” the guy tells his friend.

“Yes, my lord.”

Tommy thinks he can pick up the smell of his living room, wrapped around Wilbur’s fleece blanket when his consciousness finally let go.

The funny thing is, Quackity didn’t notice him at first.

He’s taking the quickest route home still thinking over Bad’s words and desperately hoping it’ll be true, walking past an alleyway when he sees a familiar head of blond hair among three. After ducking behind a barrel a long enough time to avoid being seen by Tommy, he peeks his head out to scan the area. There isn’t anyone he knows around- there isn’t anyone in general, really. There was an old woman going back into her house and the two teenage looking boys standing where Tommy had gone, talking to each other. But no Tommy.

It only comes strange to Quackity when he realises he can’t hear them. At all. There’s a hum of noise but it’s certainly not any type of verbal language, muffled and incomprehensible. He should be able to, considering he’s well within a listening radius. Still, it’s not that deep of a thought with a bigger focus of locating and avoiding Tommy. Quackity brushes himself off and steps out from behind the barrel, heading towards the two strangers to pass by them before belatedly realising two things.

Firstly, there aren’t many teenage boys in this town. There aren’t many kids at all, nonetheless ones near Tommy’s age. These two are strangers, and though visitors around the area aren’t rare, they certainly aren’t common.

Secondly, and more importantly, these strangers aren’t strangers at all. Or, person. One of them, the one with the mess of brown hair and slack frustration in his posture, looking up at his companion and shouting at him still inaudibly, how did Quackity not notice it was-

Quackity turns around as subtly as possible and slaps his face with the simplest mask he can sum up – heavens, he is tired – and tries to walk to the other direction.

By the time he spins on his heel the other two have definitely noticed and turning around didn’t help him blend in at all. There’s a hand that grabs his shoulder and Quackity forces himself to look back, raising an eyebrow. It’s the one he doesn’t know, black and white hair barely covering up mismatched coloured glasses. “Excuse me?” Quackity says in a higher voice, trying to hide behind the person to shield his face away from Tubbo. He can’t imagine the god won’t immediately recognise him upon laying eyes on him- even now, without seeing his face, he’s considering himself lucky he hasn’t been called out, but he doesn’t ever look gift horses in the mouth. “Did you need something? I don’t have any candy if you’re trying to mug me. Or money. I’m pretty broke.”

The servant- vassal? Trickster with a bonded vassal? Quackity’s struck with an odd grief. He’s missed a lot, hasn’t he? Quackity wonders if they’re bonded, wonders if he’d stayed Tubbo would’ve ran into the halls of his throne, brush past the statues of carbon copy soldiers and shove a younger version of this servant in front of them. “Look!” Tubbo would’ve said, centuries of complaining piling up to that moment. “Meet my vassal, his name is-”

Instead, the servant stares back at him blankly, not recognising him and looks to Tubbo, who narrows his eyes at Quackity. He feels like he’s going to sweat out the false smile, hoping he looks human and not-Quackity-like enough. “Sorry,” Tubbo says, deceptively light. “He must’ve mistaken you for someone else.”

“It’s no problem,” Quackity chirps and continues along. He swallows hard. Fuck, that was way too risky. He speedily walks away, the exertion from masking himself draining him.

“Stop.”

Shit. Quackity turns around. “I gotta go, buddy,” he chuckles, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb. “I can book in an appointment if you really want to talk-”

“Blood God.”

Well, he should’ve known better than to think he could dupe Trickster himself. Quackity sighs and melts back into himself. He opens his stance, raising a hand, clicking his tongue. “Long time no see, Turbo!” Quackity calls, half-smiling half-grimacing. “You got a new boy, finally got yourself that vassal?”

“That's Trickster to you,” Tubbo scowls, raising his eyebrows. He scoffs. “You are the Blood God. Where the fuck have you been?”

“You were looking for me?” Quackity says. He clasps his hands behind his back and leans back on his heels. “You should’ve just called! I'd always make time for you, Turbo."

Tubbo’s face twitches into something sadder before going back to his scowl, though less forced. He looks tired. “For the millionth time, it's Tubbo.”

Then there’s a knife at his neck.

It’s so quick and in a flurry if Quackity wasn’t literally built to kill he might’ve not dodged it with his lack of practice the past years, hitting the joint in the attacking arm hard. The servant’s other arm comes from the side and Quackity launches himself back. The dagger in the servant’s hand cuts through his sweater as he moves, just barely a few inches across his chest. Quackity snaps his hand. He smacks the side of the servant's torso with an arm and the guy gets thrown back, thudding on the ground near Tubbo.

Tubbo stares. He doesn’t move to help his vassal at all, not even sparing a glance at the poor guy. “Fuck, I forgot this wasn’t mine, I wouldn’t have done that if- how the hell am I supposed to explain this to Wilbur?” Quackity complains to himself, hands helplessly at the broken threads opening to an uneven hole exposing his bare arm under the fabric

A sharpened dagger flies past his face and Quackity looks to Tubbo’s now empty hand. Maybe worrying about Wilbur wasn’t the most pressing of concerns right now.

“What happened to you?” Tubbo seethes, bewildered. “You’re soft. You should’ve been able to dodge that.”

Quackity shrugs. “I wanted to get a good look at the dagger.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Tubbo says. He rolls his eyes and signals to his servant with his hand towards Quackity.

The servant doesn’t move.

“Ranboo,” Tubbo says sternly, glaring at him. “What are you waiting for?”

“The dagger- it’s gone, my lord,” Ranboo says shakily, holding up what remains of the dagger. Which is nothing aside from the hilt, a near perfect cut with the blade nowhere to be seen.

“Whoops, guess I took too good of a look,” Quackity says. Tubbo’s head snaps up and his face legitimately twitches when he sees the white, jagged blade spinning atop Quackity’s hand, still intact. It might be funny if it wasn’t Trickster himself. Years ago, Quackity might’ve feared getting turned into a duck or something but that seemed like a more pleasant fate than what lied ahead of him, if he’s being honest. Quackity tosses the blade up and grabs it cleanly between his fingers, blowing out an impressed breath. “Got a nice swing to it. Pretty, too, you never seemed to care for that when you were younger.”

“I am older than you.”

As if he didn’t mention it enough. Quackity makes an ah sound, nodding to himself. “I always forget, you never act it,” Quackity taunts. He tosses the blade once more before tucking it into his pocket, smiling. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Hold yourself, Blood. You’re not going anywhere,” Tubbo growls. He dissipates and appears before Quackity in an instant, grabbing a hold of Quackity’s wrist. He lets out a high laugh. “Do you know how long I have been searching for you?”

“Uh, too bad I’ll be leaving. Okay, bye,” Quackity starts, before being tugged back. Harshly, too. “That was unnecessary.”

“I have one of your servants,” Tubbo says, grip tightening around Quackity’s wrist. His eyes flash. “And if you want what remaining worshippers you have out existing in the world alive, you will listen to what I have to say.”

For a brief second Quackity blanks, ready to fully panic but he’s assured with the small tug of a bond at his soul. “Don’t fucking lie to me,” Quackity hisses. “Techno is fine and safe. Are you trying to start a fight, Tubbo? Because if I’m being honest, this isn’t really the reunion I was hoping for.”

Suddenly, Tubbo looks surprised- not an easy task, to take Trickster by surprise when he’s not letting his guard down. But he is, blinking at Quackity and shaking his head. “No, no. Not a fight. The Blade, you say? Really? He’s still alive, would you have that. I assumed you were both six fucking feet deep into the Netherworld and seeing you alone… You have to understand my hopes weren’t very high.” He lets go of Quackity’s wrist, body slowly morphing back into something a little more familiar to his usual style. His sclera overtakes his irises and his hair lightens, almost glowing with the bright gold. “Both alive. You look… different. What the fuck are you doing in the countryside?”

Tubbo had always been a bigger fan of Techno than Quackity. That still didn’t solve any questions, and he doesn’t particularly care to answer Tubbo’s. “Who were you talking about?” Quackity asks, frowning. “I haven’t laid any claims here.”

He doesn’t look impressed but he lets Quackity change the subject. “Just some human who insisted to save you,” Tubbo snorts, rolling his eyes. “Friends. Gods don’t befriend humans. He must’ve been delusional. That’s how it always goes- parasocial relationships nowadays, you answer one prayer and suddenly they think you’re their best friend. We’re not allowed to do that.” He scowls. He’s scowling a lot, more than usual. Or, more than he used to.

He keeps talking but Quackity hasn’t been listening to any of Tubbo’s rant, staring down the street where he thought Tommy had gone.

Tommy.

Oh, fuck.

He stares and for the first few moments, panics, because Tubbo doesn’t have his belt where he keeps his boxes. His usual colourful shawl and the simple leather holster around his torso that held the little containers, the ones that’d turn into any shape he’d will it to with one touch – gone. Instead, he’s donning a dark blue hoodie, not a box in sight. “It looks nice, doesn’t it?” Tubbo had said not long after they first met. He’d offered out an empty Tubbox to Quackity to see, grinning, serrated teeth in an all too-wide mouth of one of his other faces. “Has magic lining the walls. Can’t escape, can’t feel, only pure bliss.” He’d laughed, hiccupping. “See, I’m not cruel like you, Blood. I like to give them some joy before I crush all their spirits. You and the Blade just play with your food for torture’s sake.”

“How classy,” Quackity had said. The wooden box had multicoloured stripes painted over it, warm in his hand as he examined it. “Bliss. And they’re aware?”

Tubbo shrugged. “Hopefully, you won’t have to find out.”

When Quackity finally notices one of the pockets on the servant’s – Ranboo, if he heard correctly – has a suspiciously box-shaped outline to it, he moves over immediately. Tubbo doesn’t move to stop him and Ranboo only catches his wrist when he gets into his personal space, quietly peering down at Quackity’s anxious movements. “Let go of me,” Quackity says, low. Ranboo doesn’t answer, looking up to Tubbo.

Tubbo shrugs. “Go ahead, Blood,” he calls. The fingers around his wrist disappear immediately. Quackity goes to take out the box, Ranboo’s hands now patiently clasped together behind his back. He’s met with a small box of a slightly different design than he remembers- an obsidian cube felted with violet filigree, almost burning to the touch. Quackity holds it up to Tubbo.

“Get him out.”

“You’ll hear me out?” Tubbo says.

“Out. Now.”

Rolling his eyes, Tubbo comes over and plucks the box from Quackity’s hand. “We are talking later.” The box melts around his palm leaving behind only the bottom slab where a small, unmoving bee laid on top of it. Quackity gasps. He hasn’t even had the time to apologise to the poor kid, hasn’t let Tommy know how much he means to him. Oh, how many new things he’s learned and cherished by becoming his friend, the hope he’s given Quackity by simply existing as himself, just… Tommy.

Quackity lets out a choked sob and Tubbo gives him a steely gaze, cold and judgemental. “He’s alive, don’t shit yourself. He’s probably having the best time of his miserable little life,” Tubbo mutters, picking the bee up with a wrinkled nose. “Ew. Ranboo, take this from me.” He turns to Quackity. “…Are you sure you want him back?”

“Turn him back, Tubbo. It was kind of funny at first, but you can stop insulting my friends now,” Quackity says, dropping his fake crying and glancing at Ranboo’s hold on bee-Tommy and resisting the urge to come soften his grip. “How would you feel if I insulted Ranboo, huh? Said his glasses looked weird? Ask why he’s dressed like a colourblind hippie who tripped into a paint factory? Why does he hold things like that? Genuinely.”

“Go right fucking ahead, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard,” Tubbo shot back, flicking a hand at Tommy without looking. “There isn’t much not to insult.”

Ranboo pouts, adjusting his glasses. “Aw, come on, I’m not that bad, I even asked Jack-”

In a snap, human-Tommy lands on the cobblestone with a big thud. He groans as his head lolls back, eyes squeezing shut at the sudden light and noise. “Wil?” he slurs, trying to twist away from the too-much-going-on senses. There’s drool running out the side of his mouth, face slack against the stone and occasionally twitching. “’s cold out… Where’s ev’ryone gone? Dream? Big Q?”

Quackity rushes over to the ground, brushing away the thought he’s have done this twice not even twenty-four hours later. “I’m right here, Tommy, right here.” He kneels down to gently pick him up, grimacing. He glares at Tubbo. “What the fuck’s wrong with him?”

“He’ll be fine,” Tubbo dismisses. He looks at Tommy and hisses- actually hisses, eyes pulling back and tongue thinning like a snake. He meets Quackity’s eyes. “I fulfilled my half of our deal. Answer me. I have prayed and I have requested your presence for decades and you never showed. Not a single fucking peep, Blood God, and after all those years I stumble across your magic in a barren wasteland with rumours a certain missing, thought long gone god was apparently residing. What have you been doing? Have you forgotten about the Purge? The rest of us?”

He’s interrupted by Quackity’s shushing. “Dude, you’re gonna wake Tommy up,” Quackity stage-whispered, tucking Tommy’s head into his shoulder. The kid snuggled in closer, hand weakly curling into Quackity’s jacket. Quackity glances down before sighing, adjusting his hold on Tommy before nodding his head to the street where Tommy’s place was. “Let me drop him off at home first, okay? I’ll answer whatever you want me to. He’s had a long day.”

“I’ve had a long day,” Tubbo shouts. “If you don’t-”

“If you don’t shut your mouth, Trickster, you will be finding out what it’s like to be the abandoned half of a bonded tie. I could do worse but thank Lady Luck I’m feeling generous tonight.” His arms shake around Tommy, the palpable heat from his face familiar in all the wrong ways wanting to tear apart every string of magic under Tubbo’s flesh. He feels dizzy, voices more insistently pushing against his mind demanding blood as they glow behind his eyes. “I am not asking. We are bringing Tommy home and then I will answer your questions.”

Ranboo bristles, hands already at his sword. He only drops them when Tubbo makes a rest signal with his hand. Good. He hasn’t forgot what Quackity’s capable of. Tubbo huffs, straightening, neutralising his face. It washes back into one of a youthful teen’s, a high faint dusting of a blush from the cold air and brown hair just above his eyes. “Have it your way, then. We are going to follow you there. You’re not getting out of a deal with Deception of all people, Blood, I hope you know. Don’t be a fool,” he warns.

“Same to you. I would’ve thought that Trickster of all gods would know better than to anger the Blood God and his Blade.” Quackity’s teeth grind against each other before he shrinks, an uneasy smile taking over his face. His voice quiets and lightens with a laugh, hugging Tommy tighter against him like he’d disappear if he didn’t. “Come on, it’s this way. It should be easy to recognise, eighth one down with the blue walls. You can’t miss it.”

When they make it to their front door, a half-asleep Wilbur quickly wakes up as an unconscious Tommy gets pushed into his arms, barely grabbing him in time. Quackity runs past him, leaving two teenage boys at the door that Wilbur has never seen in his life. “Good evening,” Wilbur says, overwhelmed with the rapid sequence of events. Tubbo doesn’t spare a glance at Wilbur, walking in briskly following Quackity to the bathroom where he was putting his head under the cold running water of the sink tap, Ranboo filing in behind them. Wilbur can hear them shouting from across the flat.

“I’m fucking- occupied! Leave me alone. You can stand outside the bathroom, don’t just watch me- that’s weird as fuck, man. Privacy.”

“I said we would follow you. I’m not letting you disappear off the face of the living world twice.”

“What- where the fuck would I even go from here? There’s no windows- no, I am not shoving myself down the toilet. Do you know how unsanitary that is? Get out. Out! Why is Ranboo holding a knife? Is that- is that my old knife? Aw, you’re so- BRO- THAT’S NOT WHERE KNIVES GO, WHAT THE FUCK-”

Wilbur goes back to his room, bringing Tommy to his mattress and sits next to him, resting his hand on Tommy’s back. He presses his face into his other palm, wondering when he’d wake up from this dream.

When the three of them come out of the bathroom, Wilbur peeks out the bedroom door and eyes them warily. Quackity pats his hands dry, hair dripping water onto Wilbur’s ripped up sweater.

“Sorry, Wilbur. About everything,” Quackity says, sheepish. “I was going to go home but I, ah, ran into some people. We’ll be off now, just needed to bring Tommy home. And I wanted to grab my clothes. I’ll have Techno fix your sweater when we’re not under the threat of imminent death.”

Wilbur looks between the three of them and nods. “Right,” he says, faint. “It’s alright, Quackity, don’t worry about it. I’m sorry as well. You two are…?”

Tubbo pushes past Quackity, looking up at Wilbur with squinted eyes. “God of Deception, Trickster. You are housing two gods under your roof. If you say or do anything to cause harm to me or the Blood God, I can promise you the Netherworld has a special place made specially for idiots like you.”

“This is Tubbo, he once ate an entire field of flowers and threw up on my carpet out of spite. Don’t let him fool you, he’s a sweetheart,” Quackity continues brightly. “And that’s Ranboo.”

Ranboo’s eyes light up as he looks down at Tubbo, hands clasped together behind his back. When he smiles, his ears perk up, eyes scrunching. “You’ve done that as well? You never told me. We have so much in common, my lord.”

Tubbo stares blankly ahead. “If you ever utter those words again, you are going in a personalised Tubbox and I’m burning off my limbs so you won’t ever be able to come out of that hell no matter what horrendous fate commands me to.”

Wilbur gawks.

“He loves me,” Ranboo says, turning to smile at Wilbur.

“The door is that way.”

“Yessir.”

Tubbo won’t shut up on their way up the mountain. At first, Tubbo had complained with “We can fly” or “Ranboo can literally teleport us” but Quackity makes up some flimsy excuse about checking around the area just in case because he didn’t want to face Techno. Now he has to deal with not only Tubbo himself but also the depressing chore of picking up three broken ceramic ducks on the way up, gathered in Ranboo’s arms per Tubbo’s insisting.

Quackity purses his lips, skipping around an uprooted log. He interrupts Tubbo’s rant. “Did the Goddess of Death tell you where I was?”

Tubbo follows Quackity’s steps and huffs. “So she did know. You think if I told her I had something important to see the Blood God about, she'd let me know,” Tubbo says. He quiets, spinning the card in his hand before scowling again. He catches the card between two fingers and makes it dissolve into dust, crossing his arms across his chest, stomping on the dirt path. “Of course she knew where you were.”

“How did you find me, then?” Quackity stops and catches Tubbo's wrist. Tubbo clucks his tongue. His hand entirely disappears from Quackity's grasp and reappears at his side, shaking it off. He walks past him, Ranboo carefully watching the two interact silently.

“Like I said, your magic. Maybe if you weren't fucking broadcasting your location to the entire world I wouldn't have been able to find you,” Tubbo hisses. “Border concealment. Real classy, Blood. What compelled you to think taking it down would be a good idea?”

“It wasn’t on purpose, dick. I'm not an idiot,” Quackity replies just as short. “You know, you taught me this shit. It's on you, if anything.”

Tubbo eyes him. “You don't exactly fit the image of the perfect student.”

“If the teacher’s all pissy, how am I meant to learn?” Quackity retorted, laughing when Tubbo looked far more offended than called for. “It worked just fine until recently. Well… you know the rest.”

Tubbo doesn’t say anything at that. Nothing to say, bitch. That’s right. He’s Quackity, border concealer extraordinaire. “I couldn’t track you down,” Tubbo admits at last, letting out a long breath and his fists unclench. “I didn’t try, at first, and by the time that some of us did try, you were long gone.” He sniffs awkwardly, nose high in the air. “We thought you were dead.”

“Now, I don’t die that easily,” Quackity starts.

“Neither did any of the other gods,” Tubbo responds just as quick. “Awfully ironic some of them. Cruelty’s kicking her grave right now with what the Purge did.”

Heavens. Quackity doesn’t really want to know, but he asks anyway, clutching his blue jacket in one hand- still slightly damp, the lingering smell of blood almost dizzying. “There are… more gone?”

Tubbo snorts. “I wouldn’t have come to find you if there weren’t.”

“Is everyone…?”

“What- of course it’s not everyone. We’re not incompetent, we’ve managed ourselves well enough too.” Tubbo rolls his eyes. “I’m, uh, glad to see you’re doing alright as well.”

“Aww, Tubbo, you’re gonna make me go soft here.”

“Any softer and you’re going to fucking decompose on the spot, boss man,” Tubbo says, looking around. He has a full body shiver, shaking his head. “Really, this is the worst timeline. I don’t need to see the Blood God, the Blood God fuss over a human child. Horrible. I wish the Purge got to me first.”

Quackity’s lip twitches, turning away. Whatever, he’s Quackity now, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. “Yeah, and they probably will if we don’t stop them.”

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t fucking know, Tubbo, what is there to do now?” Quackity says, frustrated. He’s already had this conversation a million times. He’s sure Tubbo has, too. "What fucking else is there to do? You tell me."

“You're the Blood God,” Tubbo hisses back. “You've had years. I thought you'd have a plan by now.”

“Well I-” Quackity blinks. “I don't.”

Tubbo stops in his tracks. “Seriously- What have you been doing? It’s been years,” he asks, incredulous.

“Your mom," Quackity responds, flinching at Tubbo's fuming glare. "Sorry. Mum.”

Behind them, Ranboo makes a terrible noise trying to cover a laugh and Tubbo’s head whips back to glare at him, too. He flips him off before gesturing around them, an appalled, confused frown on his face. "What, have you just, I don't know, been frolicking in the fields picking flowers for the past fucking how long? A century? Over that. Are you telling me you've been doing nothing?”

“I've made friends," Quackity says blankly. “Made a cabin. Worked on some projects. I've settled.”

Tubbo's eye twitched. "You've settled.”

“Yup.”

“You're shitting me. You’re the Blood God, fuck, we need you. You can’t not be a war god. You can’t not be a god. Do you know how many commandments you’ve broken?”

“Look, Tubbo," Quackity says. “I’m being serious. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. I made a name and a new life for myself. Techno too. We were trying to stay under the radar and it just… worked out like that, alright? It was easy. It is easy. I haven’t actually done anything as the Blood God since I left. All that bullshit with laws and order for gods, the killing, everything I was made for- I don’t, man. I know it’s strange and I still do feel fucking strange like I’m faking it but I’m doing good. I’m okay. I’ve settled. What I want right now is to fix whatever the fuck is going on and go back to this if- if I can.” He swallows. “If I can’t, then you can gloat all you want. If we’re alive, that is.”

They stay silent for a beat before Tubbo blows out a breath, kicking a rock on the ground hard enough it shoots out and imbeds itself into the trunk of a tree. “Well this is just fantastic, isn't it? The Purge has been on your ass for however long and you decide to become what- Quackity, that human said? Masquerading around as a human. An imposter. You do realise how fucking stupid this all sounds?”

“Yeah.” Quackity notices another shard of white ceramic and picks it up, sighing as he shakes off the dirt and looks to locate the rest of the body. “Let’s get back to Techno, and we’ll make a plan from there.”

Chapter Text

As the cabin comes into view all lit up and glowing behind the faded white curtains, Quackity wonders if Techno has cleaned up the broken plate he’d dropped, or if he hadn’t stepped into the kitchen at all. The echo of pain reverberates in his chest and Quackity takes in a deep breath, tired. He wants to go to the kitchen. He’d like a drink to push all his thoughts away, bury them all under an extremely poor but somewhat functional substitute for-

Blood.

No, voices, shush, away, away.

There no longer was the sinking weight in his limbs after his predicament with the deer earlier – by predicament, he’d killed the thing – but he’s starting to regret giving in all at once to the voices, even if he had to. Now the slight tremor in Quackity’s hands return without the sureness of his own restraint. Instead of small, individual voices prodding at him is the cacophony of bloodlust weighed by every death he’s taken. Reunited in rare moons, the inseparable bond between them turning into a handful of interactions over the last century. He didn’t miss this.

Behind him, Quackity can hear Tubbo and Ranboo muttering to each other. He hadn’t bothered to listen in, tuning out the words as soon as “commandments”, “banishment”, “Holy Order” came up from their voices.

“I almost couldn’t recognise you. You always liked the official side of things, and now you’re telling me to relax. A mortal lifestyle by the Blood God himself,” Tubbo had said earlier, calmer than he’d been initially as two thirds of a shattered duck disappeared between his palms. He’d laughed, looking close to tears. “This is fucked up. Truly.”

Which year would it be Quackity still would’ve laughed at his present self? A few decades, centuries, millennium? Each word he’d spoken would be carefully chosen, the amount of detail into every prayer for help he’d consider and bless his power to. Soldiers he’d acquire, the oaths he’d received and delivered. Quackity would’ve never even imagined dreading the voices, instead flowing with their motives and energy as one in synchrony, an undeterred river heading towards to total the flimsy dam trying to contain them.

Techno.

The two following footsteps fall silent as Quackity freezes in front of the cabin. Quackity can only stand and contemplate all his life choices at his own front door for a grand total of three seconds before Tubbo pushes him aside and kicks down the door.

“There isn’t a lock-”

It falls with a crash. Quackity winces as it breaks in half against the risen floor where the front entrance cuts off to separate the doorway and the house, door splintering along the wooden grain creating sharp edges. That’s that for that door.

“Uh – force of habit, sorry,” Tubbo says with an apologetic smile. “I’ll make sure to fix that later.”

Clutching onto his jacket, Quackity hops over the completely avoidable wreck and past Tubbo, the blue fabric still slightly damp and smelling like metallic wet fur. His two frankly uninvited guests follow suit behind him, not as carefully stepping into the house. The door disappears under Tubbo’s hand in a swipe, leaving the doorway clear and letting all the cold air in.

They’re greeted with the soft heat of burning firewood and the faint, lingering scent of chamomile tea insistent behind the smokiness. Quackity grabs at a piece of clothing hung up in the hallway - a coat he and Techno shares. It’s big on Quackity's frame, swallowing him up in the dark of the night during patrols along the border. He raises the navy coat to his face momentarily and takes a deep breath, letting his mind go quiet for a second, away from all the stimulus and washed blood drying on his body.

Ah, dirt. The sweet earthiness of this shitty existence. Mm. Quackity’s half-sure he just inhaled a bunch of soil directly off a folded sleeve. It’s right up in his nostril.

Quackity’s wrenched away from the peace of mind as Ranboo bumps into his back, moving away quickly as they both startle. He flashes Quackity a quick apologetic grin, unmatching coloured eyes shifting uncertainly as he adjusts his glasses. “Whoops, haha, don’t mind me.”

“No worries,” Quackity mumbles, trying to snort out dirt. In front of him, Tubbo raises his chin appraisingly, humming. “How do you like the cabin, Tubbo?”

“It’s quaint, I’ll give you that.”

The kitchen is dark, but light emanates from the living room with a low repetitive grating sound muffling quiet mutters between two people. Quackity quickly goes over his mental checklist. He’ll apologise for what he said earlier, explain the new company, and discuss a plan that won’t involve the death of anyone they know. If it all goes according to his wildest hopes, he can go back to being as Tubbo had so kindly put it, a “fucking coward”. Happy ending for all the troubled individuals. No more Blood God, no more Purge, no more war on his shoulders.

Quackity wants to bash his head against the ground and disappear.

“-what kind of holy soldier tries to murder a god directly in front of his vassal?”

“That sounds like something you might do.”

“Okay, but Squid’s not me.”

If Quackity was a better person, he wouldn’t be thinking about if Techno’s sounded happier without him there. Techno should’ve had enough of Quackity’s shit since forever ago; he must be so fatigued accepting every obstacle Quackity’s hurled at him without complaint.

Maybe he’s being dramatic.

There’s a quieter rumble and the sound of Niki’s soft laughter. Quackity tries to knock himself out of whatever weird state he’s decided on thinking in. “I wonder if he’s still out there,” he hears Techno say.

“I’m here,” Quackity calls out, coming into view of the new room. Techno’s sitting on the floor with his sword resting on a whetstone on the table in front of him, Niki curled up on the sofa with her knees to her chin. Clearly pleased to see Quackity in the way his face twists and stays quiet before sighing, Techno nudges the rag on the table aside with his elbow where it bumps into a sizeable pile of wooden tickets.

Oh.

Techno rests his arm where the rag had been, turning to lean his weight against it. Niki offers Quackity a wave.

“Welcome back,” she says to Quackity, a small smile on her face. Ranboo and Tubbo appear from behind him. Techno’s face widens in surprise. Niki freezes, narrowing her eyes. “…Welcome back?”

Tubbo doesn’t acknowledge her immediately, sharp gaze landing on Techno and analysing. “The Blade!” He waits a beat, then raises an eyebrow at Techno’s lack of movement before looking at Niki expectantly. Unlike Techno, she stands from the sofa and bows shortly, her hand tucking the stray locks of hair that fell into her face. Ranboo mirrors her, shoulders minutely relaxing the moment he does so. “You both really are alive.” Tubbo laughs incredulously.

“Trickster,” Techno states, squinting at Tubbo. He doesn’t spare a glance to Ranboo, who bows from behind.

Tubbo grins. “The one and only,” he answers. He looks Techno up and down, whistling. “You look shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Let me help,” Tubbo says brightly, clapping his hands. He holds his hands out with his palm facing up. In a moment of helplessness, Quackity looks at the ceiling to Tubbo’s empty hand and hopes the entire building doesn’t collapse on them again.

Nothing happens.

Tubbo looks to Ranboo, who startles and heads to the kitchen. As the sounds of cupboards opening and closing and an “Aha!” is heard, Tubbo crosses his arms against his chest, rolling his eyes. He mutters under his breath. “Vassals.”

When Ranboo returns with a cup – a shimmering wine glass, one Quackity acquired a few decades ago from a travelling trader – it’s snatched immediately by Tubbo. He flicks the side of the glass, and it clinks with a loud sound. Liquid forms from a swirl at the bottom, filling to the halfway point. He outstretches it to Techno. “Drink up.”

“I don’t think I trust that,” Techno says warily.

“Ranboo?” Tubbo says, voice not losing any of the cheeriness. Ranboo’s arm comes out and takes the glass, raising it to his lips and downing the contents in one go. Techno watches him, alarmed. The wine glass makes it way back to Tubbo’s hand and immediately, Ranboo’s limbs lock and he crashes backwards onto the floor.

Tubbo looks between the empty glass and a passed-out Ranboo with a frown. “Well. That’s not right.”

While Niki stands and hurries over to Tubbo kneeling over Ranboo’s face and trying to help them out, Quackity faces Techno. He’s… scared.

“Took you long enough,” Techno jokes, and Quackity laughs. This is Techno. It’s okay.

“Techno, can we talk? In private?”

Techno shrugs easily, grunting as he gets up from the floor and picks up his sword and scabbard. “You might want to talk to Niki, too. Said she had something to tell you.”

Easy. It’s all easy. “Alright, deal.”

“Tubbo’s here because of the Purge, and he doesn’t have a plan?” Techno confirms, shutting his eyes when Quackity nods again. He feels like his neck will stay stuck like this in its constant up and down agreeance. “Alright. Great. Yeah, that’s fantastic news. Great intel.”

“Hey, it’s better than nothing! Maybe we have a chance.”

Techno peeks up at him behind a strand of hair in front of his face. “You’re fighting?” he says, sounding slightly hopeful. Quackity wants to kick himself. He does.

His calf hurts where he struck. Techno hasn’t and doesn’t say anything else, letting Quackity take all the time he needs.

The kitchen is clean. The broken pieces of the plate are nowhere in sight and Techno has finished up the rest of the dishes – for what reason, Quackity doesn’t know, belatedly thinking of the fact the cabin could be very well gone in a matter of days. They haven’t been talking long; Quackity’s relayed what Tubbo’s told him. He doesn’t even want to start thinking about what Sapnap said.

“You know we could die, right?” Quackity says instead, trying for humour. It sits in the air, a thin string holding the two together lying on the floor. Techno’s gaze is on the floor. Quackity wonders if he could kick the sense into him – Techno or himself. “Death and all that shit.”

When Techno looks up, he’s giving Quackity a funny little look. You haven’t got it let? Quackity doesn’t to get it – doesn’t want in on the joke. He’s on the verge of it, a single stone skipping on a tepid lake to be stopped at any time, and they both are balancing him very, very carefully across the water. “Death happens to everyone.”

“We’re not mortal.”

“Going back to my roots,” Techno says, stretching. He yawns noncommittedly. “Didn’t seem very fair to the rest of the human race if only I got an upgrade. Gotta nerf me somehow.”

“Really, Techno?” Quackity says softly.

Techno leans back against the counter, crossing his arms across his chest. “Sorry, I’m an atheist. Lost faith in you a while ago,” he jokes without a smile. “Down with the Blood God. Death and all that.”

“Techno,” Quackity says. “Come on, man.”

Techno huffs lightly in amusement.

 “You can’t die,” Quackity says, aimlessly.

“I’ll try my best,” Techno replies dryly, picking up his scabbard from the table, putting it on and adjusting it comfortably. Familiarly. He slides his sword out. Quackity’s eyes follow an outline of a gold-traced enchant, remembering the blood it’d taken to make. Techno sighs. “I know this is hard for you specifically but I’m gonna be honest with you, Quackity, I don’t think both of us are getting out of this alive.”

No. “You’re more important than the town,” Quackity says immediately before biting his lip. He feels ill. “Well, the town-”

Techno waves his hand. “Ey, ey, let me get to it. The Purge is going to find us eventually, right? It’s inevitable. We’re the only ones running, and we’ll tire. They have all the time right now.”

“I want more time,” Quackity whispers.

Momentarily, Techno stops, looking over Quackity. “Alright. But you know what? I liked the time we had. I like the life I made. Quackity, I’m going to regret it if I don’t defend this place as long as I can. It’s served me dutifully in our times of need – my times of need, and I owe to it the protection it gave me and my friends. I think we gave it a good run, but we’re the ones being hunted. We don’t have a choice to back out, and I don’t want to live like prey for the rest of my life.” He looks away, looking somewhere in the corner as he chooses his next words carefully. “And I think… I think it’s hard to distance myself from you as your vassal.”

Thunder. Hard candies. Techno. Himself.

“Do you want to be bowed in service? I am your god. Listen to me.”

Quackity twitches in alarm and guilt. He messed up a lot, he knows. He hates the idea Techno’s stuck because of him when he’s not. “Fuck, you should’ve told me!”

All Quackity gets is a stink eye for his terrible non-apology. Techno shakes his head, shushing him. “Ey. Let me talk. I’m trying to, uh, communicate. I’m stating what happened. You saw me and took me in as your vassal, all that time ago.”

“You came with me willingly.”

“You took me in as your vassal,” Techno continues, not looking bothered at the introjection. He raises a hand every time he sees Quackity bristle. “We were just a god and his vassal for a long time. I know I’m not just your vassal, but I think we both forget. Understandably. I don’t just mean you pulling the god card the other day,” Techno says as Quackity. “Old habits die hard. I keep centering what I want with your needs. It’s easy. My life is literally tied to yours. I protect you as I protect my own life.”

Quackity nods slowly. “So?”

Techno takes in a deep breath like it pains him to speak. At least they have that one common ground left, if everything else is ruined by the end of their conversation. “It’s not about you. I tried to get you to stay for your life you made but I…” he trails off, squinting. “I still think it’s important for you, but this isn’t something I’m doing for you. I want to fight for this town, with or without you. I think I realised that as I came back here. It’s important to me.”

A high-pitched shriek cuts into Techno’s quiet murmurs. A burst of laughter from Tubbo and a cheer from Niki erupt in the living room. Quackity can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him, surprising himself as he does so. Techno blinks before rolling his eyes fondly, chuckling. The kitchen feels bigger. Lighter.

“Sorry, sorry,” Quackity says when he calms down, blowing out a breath. He smiles, sad, shuffling his feet. “I’m sorry for what I said at Wilbur and Tommy’s. And before that. I’m sorry for a lot.”

It doesn’t sound like enough, but Techno shrugs, content. He speaks. “I’m sorry for calling you selfish. Fair’s fair.” Okay, Quackity feels like he said much worse than selfish. “You just wanted me to stay with you. So did I. We both had our own ways of trying to say that.”

Deciding not to say anything else, Quackity nods, looking down at the table. “Does that mean if I leave, you won’t come with me?”

A soft, oh. “Are you leaving?” Techno says, hands detaching from his arms.

“No, I’m asking to understand,” Quackity says quickly. “That’s what you were trying to say, right?”

Techno’s shoulders relax. “Yeah,” Techno says, very simply. He nudges his elbow into Quackity’s, cracking a somber grin. “It’s home, I gotta. Either way, if I lose, I have to at least try. I’m a tryhard at heart.”

Home.

Quackity has barely been able to grasp what home was. He wonders how Techno sees the cabin, what Techno thinks of the village and the rarely spoken of orphanage he grew up in. What he’d say about the paint on their walls, and Quackity, the dumb fucker he is, sits there with a cotton-filled mouth and mind and thinks, would I die for my home?

“You good?”

He’s been silent for a long time. Quackity looks up at his home.

What do I do without a home to go back to?

It looks back at him with red eyes that match the ones Quackity was born with millenniums ago, pink hair tied neatly onto a bun on top of his head.

 “Great as we can be,” Quackity says. He straightens up. “Let’s protect our home, Techno.”

The smile he gets is worth every piece of fear that resettles into his soul, padded by the fierce proof that is his home, something that would fight for him without question.

The Goddess of Death has angels everywhere. They are a reassuring voice and hand in guidance, natural observers and empathetic carers. All of them are skilled in adaptation, patience, and compassion, scattered around worlds and constantly moving and aiding the passing lives. Along the newly dead animals and plants, wishes and spirits out of the living world, there are a lot of humans to account for.

Especially during a time of devastation. That always turns into a bigger responsibility. Drought, plague, floods. The list is long.

Niki hasn’t been an angel for long, so it was her surprise when she was sent on rotation to reside in this small town down near west, far away from the mainland where she was first assigned. She settled into routine easily and blends into the crowd, always keeping a careful eye on everyone. They don’t question her when she says she moved to try new things, accepting a new neighbour with open arms. There lies a small protection spell on the pendant of her necklace she never takes off. Her house gets decorated as years go by and she takes to new hobbies; baking, gardening, meeting new people around the town. She misses her friends she’s made before, both human and nonhuman.

Niki says this in a concise, two sentence explanation. Quackity’s heard some from Techno before, some he’d just presumed from prior knowledge. Ranboo nods empathetically.

Niki looks at Techno and Quackity and bites her lip anxiously. “It explained a lot of questions I had, you two at the square.”

As an angel of Death, Niki has responsibilities further than herself. These responsibilities never included more than a hold of hands and gentle assurances to cross planes.

A few days ago, she held over two wooden tickets in one hand for the first time.

Twenty-six wooden tickets fall onto the table. It feels like it should crack through the centre and break into the floor. They clatter against each other.

“Tickets don’t guarantee death, it’s preparation,” Quackity says, weakly. No one says anything. He sighs. “Does she know? Have you told her yet?”

That seems to irk Niki. “Of course Lady Death knows,” Niki says. “I tell her what’s important – but she already knew. I understand your and Techno’s situation, but I am still fulfilling my role as her angel.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that, I just – it’s been a while since I’ve seen Lady Death and she’s great, yes, of course! It’s just, you know, a little awkward meeting people you used to know. I like getting a heads up on things,” Quackity tries to explain himself, stumbling on his words and eyeing Tubbo. “I don’t have the greatest track record, as you might be aware. Still, it’d be nice to know before someone scares the shit out of me and trespass onto my property.”

“Me?” Tubbo raises his eyebrows. “As far as I’m aware, the town is a public space and doesn’t belong to anybody, nonetheless a forsaken god like you. Say, how does the Blood God protect a town and be a human at the same time? The people here aren’t that stupid, are they?”

“Oh no, it was Techno that was the Blood God.”

Tubbo recoils, utterly confused. “Excuse me, what?”

“Lady Death has always been watching over here,” Niki says, playing with the hem of her sleeve and gestures to the tickets. When Ranboo’s hand hover over a ticket, asking for permission to see, she nods. He whistles lowly. “I guess… this is why.”

Niki’s eyes begin to water, and she dabs at her eyes. “I wish I knew how to help better,” and Quackity’s heart breaks, watching her pick up a ticket and putting it away in her pocket.

“I’m going to do whatever it takes,” Quackity says, holding out a hand. She takes it. Her hands are warm. Ranboo lays his hand over theirs.

When Quackity looks up at the vassal, he’s got tears rolling down his face. “Sorry, you were crying and, yeah,” he chokes out, shaking his head. “Also, I think I should mention that I’m pretty sure my tripwires got set off like, a second ago.”

Quackity doesn’t know what that means. Neither does Niki or Techno, and the three of them watch Ranboo as he sniffles. Tubbo stares at his hands beside him. “The Blade? As the Blood God?” Tubbo mutters frantically. “How the fuck do you mess that up?”

“Uh, Tubbo?”

In one small, silent second, Quackity feels his vision cave in.

He feels small.

“No-”

Quackity gasps, hands gripping onto his sleeves, and he curls into himself.

“What’s going on?”

His insides swirl. He tries to open his eyes. Techno’s body pushes into Quackity as he stands on guard, sending Quackity to the floor. Logically, it isn’t far a fall, but Quackity feels like he’s hurtling. The hardwood slams into the side of his head.

“Check – the town’s border – Ranboo?”

Where there is no door to block guests, a small, ceramic duck waddles into the room and beelines to Quackity’s shaking figure. It falls against his back before hardening, then shatters with a high-pitched screech – nothing like Ranboo’s when he woke up, nothing harmless to it. Niki covers her ears and Ranboo pounces onto the duck pieces, containing it into several cubes of black void. Tubbo snatches up a cube and says something that physically hurts Quackity where the duck touched his back, burning.

He sees a red shimmering above Tubbo’s palm and sees it shoot off. Ranboo disappears after it.

“Let’s go!” Tubbo shouts, going to follow the red. He spares a glance at Quackity. “Come on! Fucking hell, you are useless – Blade! Techno – Blade!”

They disappear, too. Quackity bangs his fist against the floor. Is he floating?

The pain lets go.

He gasps.

“Quackity?” he hears Niki say.

He can’t orient himself very well, Quackity observes. When he brings himself up, he’s – fine, and as Niki checks over him.

He’s fine?

Quackity grows frustrated as he can’t get what’s wrong. Or, what’s right. Easy. Like there’s something… missing. Lighter. An anchor destabilising him. “You’re not dying on me, are you?” Niki asks, looking as haggard as Quackity felt moments before.

“I’m okay, are you okay?” Quackity asks, frowning. He stands and sprints outside before Niki can say anything, and she runs after him quickly. “Fuck, fuck!”

It’s dark out, the shade from the forest not quite reaching far enough to blanket over the front path of the cabin to make it disappear into the black. Quackity kneels onto the ground. Both his palms lay flat on the dirt, small gravel digging into his palms.

Every remaining border he’s maintained for over a century are gone.

“Get somewhere safe,” Quackity says, swaying as he gets up. “I’ll – we’ll be back, okay?”

Above the trees, the grey flurry coming from the town was visible against the moving lanterns inside the stone walls. More than that, there’s the sound of screaming, the smell of smoke, and the spinning glee-like anticipation of the voices dancing around the back of his mind.