Chapter Text
The door of the meeting room was a crack open. Technoblade could hear his advisors as he approached.
<Going out for drinks just seems a bit lame? But I can’t really come up with anything else.>
<You’re really overthinking it.>
<Yeah. Why does it matter what you do? Isn’t the point to spend time together?>
<Usually, yes, but… I’ve been wanting to ask if he’d like to make it official. It should be something special.>
<Go to a gambling hall? Witherbrand enjoys a game here and there->
Technoblade pulled the door open and entered. <No betting shifts or rations, soldiers.>
Thornwhip, Thunderbite, and Flamelance looked up from their conversation.
<What were you talking about?> Technoblade asked as he took his seat at the table.
<Oh, nothing>, Thunderbite said dismissively, averting her eyes. <Just trying to think of... things... to do..?>
<...Alright then.> Technoblade decided not to pry. His advisors were entitled to their own lives. <Be careful about gambling with Witherbrand, though. He counts cards.>
<Noted, sire.> Thunderbite was still averting her eyes. Weird.
<Flamelance, you’re successfully married. How did you go about wooing your man?> Thornwhip asked casually. Thunderbite made a strangled noise.
<Food>, Flamelance shrugged.
Technoblade looked from advisor to advisor. <Wait, is this about->
<Sire!>
The door to the meeting room slammed open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Witherbrand stood in the doorway, panting, an untidy stack of parchment in hand.
<I’ve just received report-> He stopped to gasp for air.
<Slow down. Breathe>, Technoblade ordered. His hand made its way to the hilt of his sword. <Do we need to take arms?>
<No, sire, we, we’re not under attack.> Witherbrand was clutching his papers, white-knuckled. <Not yet.>
<Then sit down and explain>, Technoblade said, letting go of his sword. <Your hurry is alarming.>
<The situation is alarming!> Witherbrand responded, falling into his chair. <Spies. Seen within the walls of the bastion.>
<What!?> Thunderbite exclaimed, abruptly standing. <Who dares- How-!?>
<Calm yourself>, Thornwhip said to Thunderbite, who sat back down. <Let him talk.>
<It’s endermen. They’ve not been spotted directly, but there have been sightings of teleportation particles.> Witherbrand slapped the report onto the table.
<Why does the End want to spy on us? Don’t we have good relations with them?> Thunderbite furrowed her brow. <I thought the meeting with the delegation went well.>
<Enderman spies doesn’t necessarily mean spies of the End kingdom>, Thornwhip answered. <It could be The Council.>
<That would make the situation even more dire>, Witherbrand added. <If it’s The Council, it could be anyone.>
Flamelance looked between Thornwhip and Witherbrand. <Who is The Council?>
<They call themselves information brokers>, Witherbrand said. <Essentially, a group of enderman spies, up for hire- We’ve employed their services ourselves for Overworld intelligence. Even though they’re endermen, they’re not affiliated with the End Kingdom.>
<The End King allows a spy circuit to operate independently from the throne?> Flamelance asked, baffled.
<While technically citizens of the End, they are fully based in the Overworld, and therefore under nebulous jurisdiction. Interference could be interpreted as overstepping>, Witherbrand explained. <I don’t think Sage wants to risk a diplomatic conflict, not when The Council has established itself as a fully neutral party.>
<Okay, so if it’s not the End, then who? Who are they working for?> Thunderbite demanded.
<That seems obvious enough>, Flamelance said with a shrug. <The Antarctic Empire.>
Technoblade felt a tight squeeze in his chest.
<Why them?>
<Who else? They’re the only kingdom we’ve had recent conflict with.>
It was an uncomfortable feeling. Like a fist around his heart.
<You think they’d mount an entire counterattack in an foreign dimension just because of a few raids?>
<Has it slipped your mind that we took their emperor? >
<Following all fair procedure! He willingly submitted to becoming a bloodboon, they have no right to be angry about that!>
Or perhaps it was more like a knot in a cord pulled taut. Tense. Strained.
<Overworlders don’t see things the way we do. They put ridiculous amounts of emphasis on bloodlines, especially for royalty. They might be planning a rescue mission for their old emperor on principle.>
<Bedrock above and below, why? He disgraced himself to the highest degree, he’s not worthy of the title anymore just because of some bloodline->
<Even if the nation doesn’t care, the little princes might be wanting their father back->
<Sire?>
Technoblade blinked. The room came back to focus. Thornwhip was looking at him expectantly.
<Among all of us, you know the most about the Antarctic Empire and their customs>, she said. <Do you believe they’re behind this?>
Technoblade steepled his hands and took a long breath. There was still a tense coil in his chest, twisted and tight.
<I find that doubtful.>
Everyone was looking at him; looking at his crown, gleaming in the lantern light, looking at the bone mask that hid his features.
<It’s true that the nation as a whole would welcome back a captured emperor. Overworlders are more likely to see their leader submitting to servitude as a noble sacrifice, rather than dishonour. He’d likely even be able to reclaim his position as emperor.> Technoblade paused for effect. <Which is the exact reason I don’t believe the Antarctic Empire will organise a rescue mission- Or rather, that Crown Prince Wilbur would do so.>
Thornwhip raised a brow.
<The prince?> Flamelance asked.
<I’ve spoken with Philza at length about his family. While he doesn’t want to admit it - blinded by fondness toward his firstborn son, no doubt - it is clear to me that the crown prince is a greedy and ruthless young man, coveting his father’s throne since he was a child. Even if he has yet to be officially crowned on account of his age, Prince Wilbur is now the de facto ruler of the entire nation.>
<He is as good as emperor, but only as long as Philza remains out of the way>, Thornwhip concluded.
<Indeed. He rules as the crown prince and gets the throne as soon as he is of age, all the while reaping the sympathies of a pitiful son, his father torn away by the wicked enemy.> Technoblade shook his head in disapproval.
<What of the other princes?> Flamelance asked. <The bloodboon has a total of three heirs, correct?>
<Young enough to be in their milk teeth>, Technoblade dismissed. <They won’t be significant actors for a decade.>
Silence hung in the room.
<So if it’s not the Antarctic Empire, then who?> Thunderbite eventually asked.
<We cannot know for certain. There is no evidence, one way or the other>, Witherbrand mused.
<Should we tighten security? Add more guard patrols?> Flamelance suggested.
Technoblade tilted his head in thought. He weighed, then decided.
<No. That would alert the spies that we know of their presence. Better not to let them know that we know, but look after important documents and make sure conversations can’t be overheard.>
<We should make sure our military forces are at the ready>, Thornwhip said.
<I’ll keep our soldiers sharp>, Thunderbite grinned. <They won’t catch us by surprise.>
<Very good.> Technoblade laced his fingers together. <Very good.>
~
The landscape rolled by as Charlotte trotted down the netherrack trail. Farmhouses, mushroom fields, crimson forests. A well-trodden path, one where Technoblade could trust Charlotte to find her way without guidance. The hoglin knew by now: if she was steered to the rural roads west of the bastion, they were going to the flight range.
This was the first time in months Technoblade made the trip alone.
It was a strange sensation, Technoblade noticed. He was so used to riding this trail with Philza pressed against his back, observing the passing landscape, talking with him. Now the saddle behind him was empty, the air silent.
<Does it feel weird to you too?> he quietly asked Charlotte.
The hoglin snuffled.
Finally, the road led to a sheer cliff face. It had an entryway carved into it, with a little red fence and a sign that read <CAUTION! Experimental mine - Do not enter!>
Technoblade gave an amused huff at the sign. Last time he’d made the journey alone, this place had been just that: an abandoned mine. Now it was the flight range for Philza, a place of respite, of little freedoms, of powerful dark wings treading the air as Technoblade sat aside and watched.
He slid off the saddle and, reins in hand, led Charlotte into a small antichamber safe from ghasts and other dangers. He tied his steed to a fencepost and unbuckled a saddlebag. It was easier to just bring the whole thing with him.
His cargo strapped over his shoulder, he began to descend the staircase, counting each step. One, two, three… Ten. Ten was fitting.
He propped the saddlebag on step nine and took out a pickaxe. It was a golden one, unenchanted. Quick, but fragile.
...Philza had once called a gold shovel gaudy, hadn’t he? A gold pick was probably just as ostentatious, to an overworlder.
He settled the tip of the pickaxe carefully between the planks and pried them apart. The wood groaned, pegs slid from the holes, and thus step ten was disassembled without causing significant damage to the staircase nor the plank itself.
Then began the digging. Gold was soft, but netherrack was softer, easily giving way under the tool. With short breaks to reach down and move debris out of the way, Techoblade soon had a neat hole.
He propped the pickaxe against the wall, and returned to his saddle bag. He pulled out a small barrel, made of the same crimson wood as the staircase. The colour matching wouldn’t matter, in all likelihood, but Technoblade prided himself on being thorough with contingencies.
And that very day, contingencies were his sole mission.
Because while it was true that the Antarctic Empire was the most likely to send spies into his bastion, it wasn’t an absolute certainty. The Council was bought and paid, loyal to no-one, available to anyone. Maybe the End King wanted to keep tabs on him. Maybe some other overworld nation had been angered by raids. Maybe some piglin insurrectionist group was planning another assassination attempt.
Come what may, Technoblade would be prepared.
The barrel fit flush in the hole, which Technoblade quietly found very satisfying. He opened the lid and began to transfer items from the saddlebag into the barrel.
Dried hoglin jerky and water bottles. A medical kit for small injuries, healing potions for severe ones. A sharp knife. Bow and arrows, for both combat and hunting. A chain shirt, light enough to fly in. A large pouch of gold nuggets, to acquire anything unexpected. A backpack to carry it all in.
Flint and steel.
Technoblade loaded it all in, neat and compact. The barrel was only half-full, but the last of what he’d brought was also the largest. He reached to the bottom of the saddlebag, fingers meeting cool, glassy stone. He took out a brick of obsidian.
He stacked the obsidian bricks, one, two, three… ten. Ten bricks, under the tenth step. It rhymed, in a way.
The saddlebag was empty and the barrel was full. Satisfied with his handiwork, he screwed the lid back on, placed the plank he’d pried off back where it’d been, and hammered the wooden pegs halfway in with the pickaxe handle. The step would come loose by bare hands with some effort, but not from someone just using the staircase.
With that, the stairs were in appearance just like they had been before: unkempt and decrepit. The half-loose pegs wouldn’t stand out, not in a long-abandoned mine.
There was still stray debris on the step, from digging the hole. Technoblade looked at the broken pieces of netherrack, rough and irregular. He narrowed his eyes. With one sweep of his foot, he punted it all off the staircase, into the gaping abyss below. He could hear it faintly clatter, bouncing across uneven cave walls towards the floor.
He put away the gold pickaxe, threw the saddlebag over his shoulder, and began to climb back up the stairs. The echoes of broken netherrack tumbling into darkness lingered. He couldn’t tell if the sound came from down below or his own ears.
He had thought of writing a note. One last message, tucked between bricks of obsidian.
What could he possibly say? A goodbye? An apology? Some heartfelt confession of affection and caring? What words could he ever choose to leave to Philza?
Nothing.
If Philza came to the flight range alone, if Philza counted the steps and pried apart the wood, if Philza donned chain armour and strapped a bow to his back-
If Philza had ten pieces of obsidian.
If that day came, there would truly be nothing left to say.