Chapter Text
It’s a slaughter, that’s the only word for it. Merciless, blades flash down, biting through skin and cleanly breaking bones. Blood sprays, heady and unnaturally warm. It stains Techno’s skin, his clothes, his hair, seeps into his weapon. Guilt has yet to set in, not so long as he keeps moving, he can put it off a little longer.
He takes another step, another thud as his boots hit the ground one after the other. He sheathes his sword, raises his crossbow instead. This is easier, less messy, faster. Slotting arrow after arrow into the bend of his bow, even as tears gather in his eyes. With a whispered word of prayer, the arrows fly outward. Tiny arrowheads of light pierce through his opponents, envelopes them and wrings them dry until they are nothing but a husk. He keeps moving, if he keeps moving–
Betraying orders would be so easy, it is easy. He’s seen too many friends fall under their enemy’s hands; he wants them back. If the Generals let him fight on his own, none of their soldiers would have to be lost. No one else would have to die. Not if Techno had anything to say about it.
Not his fault, the screaming isn’t his fault. It’s not his choice, not anymore. He threw in his lot, there’s nothing more he can do now except help where he can. He can’t even do that though, eyes riveted to the beings that aren’t too far off. They’re risking their chances by fleeing the battlefield entirely. They’re running, hoping, but their opponents are better shots than them, and the ones that run fall, picked off like runts of the pack.
He doesn’t know them, not really, he doesn’t make it a habit to associate with the soldiers that often. Their lives mean nothing. Just turn around, and he can attest to not being aware of what was occurring. Just ignore the screams and the wet glide of a blade and keep fighting, save as many as he can–
There’s a gash in one soldier’s side – he can see him through the chaos. Parrying left and right, clutching at his stomach that bathes the dark royal uniform a glistening red. His collar is different to Techno’s, the difference between the Generals to the foot-soldiers’. It takes up most of his attention, so he can see the panic etched into his face.
It’s not a good position, not good at all. This is no good, and it’s all his fault.
The soldier breathes in, gurgles, and promptly spits the blood from his mouth, offering him a red stained smile despite the tired fire in his eyes. He insists that he’ll be fine, Techno’s not so sure. No, this can’t happen, not when it’s all his fault, and the man doesn’t even know. All of these battles are all Techno’s fault. He’s trying, but he’s just not good enough.
All his fault, all his fault, all his fault. He tries, fighting his way over to solider, staying on his left, fighting for his weakness, trying to help. But he fails. He gets wrenched away and back into the roaring chaos. He’s glad Philza hasn’t joined this fight. The King is back at their camp, with the rest of their army. Safe. He’s not here, not here to witness Techno’s failure.
The flash of a green cloak nearby. Someone screams, the Green General has joined the fray. One solider falls, then another.
All his fault, all his fault, all-
Something slams into the back of Techno’s head. The world goes black.
Techno opens his eyes and groans.
His skin is slick with sweat, his hair stuck to his face, his heart pounds erratically in his chest. The sheet beneath him is twisted, blankets tangled at his feet. No grabbing, kicking limbs in sight. This is not good, not at all. Techno runs his hands over his face, quietly disgusted when they come away damp. His ribs throb angrily at his side.
The shackles around his wrists are cold. There’s one on either side, and they attach to a pole embedded unto the ground behind him. Techno stills as they rattle. He gives a light tug. Nothing moves.
It seems he’s rather stuck. Not in one of the healing tents back at the main camp, then. He’s somewhere else.
The tent smells of old animal skins and off-herbs. Blood and something burnt and smoky. Most of the Arctic Empire’s war camps are over at the beach on the other side of the fighting. Here, he’s in the woods somewhere.
Somewhere that’s not with his army. Somewhere that thought it suitable to chain him down. Muted sunlight streams through the tent entrance, coating everything in a soft beige light, and Techno gets to his feet. His chest hurts. Despite the thick, oozing smell of healing herbs, clearly none have been used on him. His nerves feel like they’ve been set alight and his bones ache.
There’s blood on Techno’s face. It’s dried and flaky. The rest of him is also drenched in blood. It’s down the front of his shirt, his trousers, his boots. They’ve taken his cape, and his sword, and his crown, but still, Techno holds his head high, and waits. Waits for someone to come. Waits for something to happen. Just, waits.
The steel cuffs feel heavy and tight around his wrists. Perhaps a little too heavy. It should be a familiar weight, by any means, Techno has been in chains more than enough times, but it’s not. It feels foreign, as if he’s never felt anything like this before, which is ridiculous, because he has. Maybe it’s some sort of different metal. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a choice. The chains feel enforced with something stronger than average metal, as though these people perhaps know what they’re dealing with, who they’re dealing with.
Techno’s mouth feels dry and swollen in his mouth, parched. His throat aches for water, and he sort of dreads what he may sound like if whoever has captured him wants him to talk. Whoever captured him. Whoever bested the strongest warrior in all of the Artic Empire, if Techno does say so himself. He tries to think back to the fight. He had felt a shift in the air as people fell around him. He brushed his fingers against his earlobe. Bare. They took his earring, too.
Techno’s chest hurts. His lungs feel wet, and it sort of hurts to breathe. His wrist throbs to the same pounding beat of his heart, and every time he shifts, his collarbone sends a twisting, sharp pain down his spine.
The Green General. The name comes to him in a spark and does not install the amount of panic in Technoblade as maybe it should. The man is famous throughout the kingdoms, Artic Empire and beyond. The Green General. As fast as a whip, as lethal as a snake. Techno remembers heading to his quarters one night near the beginning of the war, and pausing, as he heard two archers discuss the strengths and weaknesses of both himself and the renounced General.
‘I heard he took down an entire troop of archers with just an axe.’ One had said. ‘There are stories about him slaughtering an entire village by the time he was ten years old.’
‘Does he have magic? Must have, to do shit like that.’
‘Dunno. But rumours don’t just pop up from nowhere. They’re threads from a tapestry of violence.’
Techno wants to snort. A bunch of shit, that’s what those rumours were. The Green General was mortal, as far as Techno’s concerned. And as long as one is mortal, they have weakness.
The Green General has rumours, has infamy. Techno makes his name on the battlefield. Those off of it know very little about him, and those from their neighbouring kingdoms know even less. The soldiers at camp keep it hush, eyes glimmering despite the warfare like this is some fun little secret, like he’s some sort of secret weapon. They avert their gazes when he brushes past, but he feels eyes following him all of the time, as though he’s some sort of supernatural wonder.
These people know nothing about him. Techno can use that.
Something seems off. Maybe it’s the howling wind caught in the valley, across the ridges of the mountain range, or the lack of people around the tent. It’s large and open, clearly not meant for holding prisoners, which is foolish then, as why is Techno here? Or maybe it’s just the absence of Philza, the King who brought him in, housed him, taught him, had kept him alive all this time.
There isn’t anyone left to ask.
Neither is there anyone to ask for guidance or knowledge, not that there are any tombs or statues or temples on the battlefield to pray to. There’s nothing. Nothing but the scorched sun and the bustling and shouting of voices that are just out of Techno’s earshot, thick with an accent that is not his own. Not from his Empire. Outsiders.
Techno cracks open an eye when he hears the sound of shuffling feet down the side of the tent. He sucks in a breath and lowers his hands into his lap, tucking his knees up closer from where he sits crossed-legged. He waits, feeling a tremor of some sort of emotion colder and sharper than hunger curl in his stomach.
Grey-blue eyes stare brightly at him as a young boy, maybe seven or eight, steps through the entrance of the tent, his blond locks of hair framing his face, some strands in his eyes.
Techno stares at the kid.
He blinks back at him.
His skin is pale, almost sickly, Techno notes. His tunic is old and frayed at the bottom, looking like it hasn’t been washed in a while, and is far too big. A child in a war camp. That’s a first. His eyes are wide, looking down at Techno with something akin to bewilderment.
“Hullo.” Techno attempts croakily because there isn’t very much else to say.
The kid is scampering out of the tent, leaving a fume-cloud of dust in his wake before Techno can even finish the greeting.
Well, then.
When the footsteps return, the light pitter-patter of the kid’s feet is accompanied by a thud-thud-thud of what must be boots. Someone older, someone stronger. Techno pulls himself up, takes a breath.
He won’t be daunted.
The man who enters first is tall and broad. He has dark green hair swept back and tucked around his ears and dark eyes that seem to look everywhere but at Techno directly. His face is like lead. Stern. Domineering. Techno’s eyes stray to the longsword tucked neatly at his side, then up to the flash of medals emblazoned on his grey uniform like springing golden arrowheads. A lieutenant, perhaps.
Someone older.
The first thing that Techno can feel about the second man is his stare. They both pause, and his skin prickles under the other man’s gaze; heavy, sharp cold.
Calculating. Feline.
He is all sharp lines and jutting angles, like someone tried to stretch him in all the wrong places and now he’s just a little uncanny in a way that he can’t quite place. A high, tightly collard green uniform with a front full of silver buttons, dirty blond hair and a pair of small green eyes. A green so bright it looks unnatural they’re almost venomous.
Someone stronger.
Techno’s not frightened of his eyes, no. They seem to stare right through him, as though trying to find the soul beyond. It’s a little unsettling, but there are no brutish scars or loss of eyes to throw Techno off. He looks, well, normal.
This is the Green General.
Techno pulls himself up, tightens his fist in the hopes that no one will notice the way they tremble like a rabbit in a snare. “I really thought you’d be taller.”
“And I thought you’d be harder to kidnap, and yet here we are.” The General practically purrs, and Techno yanks again at the chain that ties him to the ground. He tries really, really hard not to think about how small he feels, how his throat begs for water and his ribs ache with the insistency of a barking dog.
He’s covered in blood and dirt, he’s tied down, injured. These people, his enemies, that stand before him are well dressed and smart and in control The difference between them stretches out, like a giant chasm that threatens to swallow him whole. Techno stretches out and smothers the divide with his foot. He can’t panic. He mustn’t.
Panic is the first sign of weakness, Philza had told him once. Panic shatters logic, and instincts won’t keep you safe when you go up against men that like to play god. Panic and you’re dead.
Technoblade shrugs. “I like things that keep me on my toes. Tends to make things less boring.”
“And the days out here are quite boring,” The General agrees cheerfully, then claps his hands together. “I hope we can make your stay here as interesting as possible.”
“I do like interesting.” Techno agrees. There’s blood on his teeth, staining his lip pink, nestles in the side of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. It’s in his mouth, tastes saccharine. “You know what else I like?”
The man in the corner - the one with the green hair - stiffens, but Techno pays him little mind. He’s obviously not the one in control here. He may have the fancy badges and medals that speak of victory and skill in battle, but with the way that the General commands the room, it’s obvious that he’s the one to look out for. He’s the main threat. He probably doesn’t even need the medallions and prizes and trophies.
Techno indulges himself in the mental image of the General having a vault in his tent, every night he gets out his war medallions and polishes them, with just his misty breath and a cloth.
“What?”
“Water.” It may be stupid to reveal such a weakness, but it was bound to come around eventually. Besides, better to come off as nonchalant than uptight. Show them that he isn’t effected.
The General smiles. “Oh, of course, of course.” He pauses, wets his lips. His eyes gleam in the half light. “After you answer a few questions, though.”
There’s the catch. Techno leans forward, brings his bound hands up to flick a stray strand of hair away from his face. He juggles what he said for a few moments. He’s second only to Phil, back at the Empire. He’s one of the war Generals, and on the war council. (Techno is the only one there that’s not over the age of sixty and owns less than 40 acres of land. A bunch of snobs. He relishes in the fact that Phil himself hates them all most as much as Techno does.)
The General must think he’s Philza’s weakness.
But a weakness would break. A weakness would blubber capital secrets and war plans and strategies. A weakness would cower.
Techno’s never been one for cowering. He puts his head up.
“I’m not going to tell you anything.”
“Not even for some water?” The General coos, and Techno hates that he’s touched a nerve. “The soldiers have lamb on the menu tonight. Char-grilled and tender. I’m sure I could rustle you some up if you could-… I don’t know; let’s say, tell me when your army is next going to strike.” The man stalks forward until he’s standing right in front of Techno. He can see his reflection in his shoes, distorted and stretched.
“I’m not an idiot.” Techno says tartly.
“Pity.” The General huffs. “It would make things so much easier if you were.” His tone is empathetic, but he knows better.
Techno says nothing, swallows his anger. There is a time and a place for it. For now, he lets it smoulder, hot and sparking, in his chest. He will keep it there until he needs it.
“Come on, you’re King Philza’s… ward? Kid? Ally?”
“How about friend.” The man behind the General pipes up, and Techno spares him a quick glance. His eyes are narrow.
They know nothing about Philza, he thinks hotly. Absolutely nothing. If they dare to try to touch one hair on his head–
“Friend,” the General parrots, like he’s trying out the word for the first time, rolling it between his teeth. “Huh.” He crouches down. “Friends like secrets, don’t they Sam?”
“They do.” The other man says again, rather unhelpfully.
The General doesn’t make any sort of indication that he’s heard him. “So how about it, friend of the King, got any secrets to spare?” His voice is tempting, overly sweet like brown sugar and figs, but there’s a refined edge to it. This man knows what he wants. Techno’s not a strategist, not like Phil or Eret, but he knows a taunt-laced trap when he sees one.
And that is exactly what this is.
Techno grits his teeth so hard he can hear them grind together at the back of his mind. “Go to Hell.” His mouth shapes the words before he even realises. He draws back the remnants of moisture in his mouth and spits at the ground beside the General’s foot. The man sniffs, non-repulsed, and squashes it with his shoe.
“Oh, how I was hoping you’d say that. I do love when I can make these things entertaining, you know.” His face hovers next to Techno’s, his hot breath fanning his face. His eyes – bright green – are the same colour as the stripes on Phil’s hat, only colder, sharper. They don’t come with the wizened kindness that Phil brings in everything he touches.
A heavy hand suddenly grips the top of Techno’s hair, fingernails digging into his skull, curling against his scalp. Just tight enough for Techno to begin to feel the first pinpricks of pain. The General’s expression darkens when he gets no reaction, tightening his grip and making Techno squeeze his eyes tight shut.
The other man looks gravely on, his expression somewhere between apathy and anger.
“Sam, the chains. If you will.” Says the General.
He moves swiftly forward and unlocks the chains from their tether to the ground. Techno lets a half-formed noise escape him when the General suddenly yanks at his hair, gathering knots in his dahlia-pink hair; it’s somewhere between a growl and a shriek. He stumbles to his feet.
The General wrenches his hands back and almost sends Techno falling to his knees again. His rib throbs in complaint. He adjusts himself and sends a glare over to where the other man – Sam – stands beside the smothered dirt of where Techno had been tied up. He isn’t given time to gain his bearings as suddenly the General kicks the back of his knee and pushes him forward.
Usually, Techno would have wrangled out of the General’s grip by now, probably sending the guy slamming into the ground and reaching for the nearest weapon. Usually, he would slaughter these two without a second thought, because how dare they touch him. How dare they chain him up, treat him like he’s some ragged dog without a leash.
That’s strong, independent, confident Techno.
Weak, injured, hungry Techno lets him guide him forward, towards the flap in the opening of the tent. Techno closes his eyes as they brush past, wincing at the blinding sunlight.
A river of men march like a tide, left and right. A blur of grey uniforms and a cloud of dust in the wake of steel-capped boots. It’s loud enough so that all the voices lap together to make an indistinguishable jigsaw of words and thoughts and shouts. It’s all organised; their voices grate his ears. This is nothing like the camps of the Empire. This is – professional, brutal, cold – strong. Techno knows it is pointless to struggle in his current state, but he does anyway. It’s that or submit to whatever comes next in the General’s plans.
He draws Techno over to what he can only recognise as a whipping post.
He’s never seen one in real life before, the horrid things are banned throughout the Empire, but he’s seen them in history books. A ledger of tall wood that’s been hammered deep into the ground. Techno brushes against something on the General’s hip. He sees the smooth leather of horse reins.
His courage begins to fracture, as he tries to wrestle himself away. It’s a fruitless pursuit. The soldiers scramble out of the way like Techno has some sort of horrific disease of the Empire. If only he did have the Crimson Rush, he thinks grimly, viciously. They don’t have diseases that brutal this far south. Their immune systems would not be able to handle it.
He’s forced to his knees and his hands are out and bared in front of him. Shit shit shit shit shit- The click of cold cuffs around his hands is the only confirmation that Techno notes. The whole world is spinning around him. It’s too loud, too bright, too hot.
Clank, clank. Chains wrapped around the cuffs, Techno dazedly feels his arms being brought over his head as his wrists are tied far up towards the top of the post, so he can’t sit comfortably, but he can’t stand either. He can only kneel. Kneel, like these people are his superiors. Kneel, like he is a dog to be beckoned. Kneel, like these people can even dare to think about calling themselves his master.
“Maybe a few days out here in the sun will loosen your lips a tad.” The General kneels down beside him and grips his chin with a leather-clad hand.
Techno fights against the restraints and snaps his jaw at his hand, teeth glinting. He catches his canines on the leather of the general’s gloves, and attempts to tear some of the treads apart, but the gloved hand draws away.
He is only allowed one moment of triumph before the General takes off the glove, slow and steady, finger by finger. The whole camp seems to quieten at the display as the General reveals pale, slender fingers. With reflex that could rival Techno’s own, he lashes out and punches him square in the nose.
Techno hears the tell-tale wet snap of cartilage before he feels the sudden burning pain. Something hot and wet dribbles down one of his nostrils. Techno stares the General down and licks away the blood on his upper lip. He doesn’t break eye contact.
“No food or water, for three days.” The General proclaims loudly, still staring down at Techno. “We shall let this mutt fester his flees, if he wants to act like such a creature.” He gestures to someone that Techno can’t see, then someone is gripping the back of his head, forcing his neck down. Techno squirms and tries to bite again, when something dry and fabricated is shoved between his teeth. It’s tied tightly behind his head, just tight enough to be uncomfortable.
A gag.
I’m going to destroy you. Techno promises and the dizziness fades as the General’s back retreats. Drip by drip. I don’t need the King to get me out of here.
He mustn’t forget his roots. The Empire are a close people, they have to be when facing the harsh, long winters of the north, but Techno comes from the streets, where no one looked at him twice and he survived by scavenging and stealing and scrounging for scraps. He didn’t have anyone looking out for him then, nor does he now.
He has survived worse. He can’t rely on anyone but himself.
He sort of forgets about the kid entirely.