Chapter Text
1.1 Bloody Hands
The court is all austere light and hidden shadows, the jury absent. Chaos and Order sit high above, the observing Gods all uniform in their small forms. Blood is reduced to a pitiful human size, his form kneeling. Combat forced to watch, held in his seat by powers beyond him.
“Speak, child.” The voice has no echo, matter cannot affect their power.
The chamber is so bright, he could look into the suns of thousands of realms and it never burned like this. “I have nothing to say,” Blood bows his head, sitting on his knees.
Chaos and Order are the Origin, the beginning, the end. Judge, jury, and executioner, their decision was made before Blood could even commit the crime, because it is fate; he always had and always will end up here. “The verdict is delivered.”
He is guilty, he knows it himself. The crime was kindness he shouldn’t have had. He can’t bring himself to regret it either.
Combat knows what they’ll say, everyone does. He screams fruitlessly, he has not been granted permission to make sound. Blood lowers himself further, prostrating himself to the Origin. It’s all futile.
“God of Blood, it is decided. Suffer mortality, the celestial will no longer welcome you.”
There is no snap when the decision is made. Chaos and Order stand, everyone in attendance does the same. It is not a voluntary movement, it is to be pulled by the neck. Blood keeps his head on the ground, nobody dares to look the Origin in the eye, but it’s not their gaze he worries about now. He closes his eyes.
Blood wonders what Combat’s last memory of him will be, will it be him bowing his head in fear?
1.2 Sworn Combatant
Death takes Combat back to his palace in the Abyss, Life follows. He's in a rage, gasping for air he doesn’t need. “How could he be so stupid! He should have defended himself!”
Death sits while Life approaches to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. It’s silly to think a defense would have had any impact on the Origin’s decision, still, Combat is in denial.
But he’s alway been quick, fast to pick up a sword, to deal the first blow. In a moment of desperate realization, he says, “I need to find him.”
Life guides him back to sit opposite Death, Death and her share a look of understanding. Death starts first, “You know what happens when one is banished, don’t you?”
Combat gives her a withering look, “I do.”
“Well let me repeat it because I don’t think you do.” Death bites back, after all, Blood was her friend too. “Blood has been punished with mortality, he will be reborn as a human with no memories.”
Combat knows this, but knowing it doesn’t mean he must accept.
Combat clenches his fists. Death continues, “he will not know you, and even if you could recognize him blanket in mortality and stripped of his powers, no powers below the Origin will allow him to remember,” she warns, taking a deep breath. “And one day when Blood is old and frail he will die, and refused reincarnation. I assume you will be given his dominion.”
There are countless worlds, each with their own hundreds of thousands. It would take so very long to find Blood. He was the God of Combat, he didn’t have any power over Blood’s new mortal life. “Still, I have to find him.” Combat is seemingly unflinching in his conviction. “I must try.”
“Among the hundreds of thousands?”
“Yes.” His voice wavers. He turns towards Life, where she has sat in silence for most of this conversation. “Life, please, you must have felt him when he was born, right? You know where he is.” It comes out more like an accusation than he intended it to be.
Life shakes her head. “Apologies friend, I don’t know where he is,” she lies.
“Fine, I will find him myself.”
1.3 Honest Child
When Life and Death leave Combat to mourn, Life immediately grabs her hand and teleports them to the house where a newborn Blood sleeps.
“I lied.”
Death smiles. “I know.”
“You fear his confidence is misplaced,” Life says aloud, confirming what she knows Death belives. Life had never seen Combat so certain, and Death only feared for the mortal lives who would be in the path of his vengeance.
“He has never known mourning.”
Together, they then approach a bassinet by the window. “He’s adorable,” Death says. The baby’s blond hair is an untamed mess. “What do you think his name is?”
Life walks around the room, picking up a piece of paper, “David Ambrose Godfrey.” They both choose to ignore the meanings behind his names, they fear what it means.
“Beloved, hello, little one.” Death moves a few stray pieces of hair from his forehead, waking him with the lightest touch.
1.4 Blood Iron
In this world, there are many ways to achieve immortality.
Some go about it through brute strength. Collecting totems obsessively with unknown consequences. Others dedicate themselves to a higher power, praying that at the end a God will take pity and return them to youth. Though, most ideally, immortality is a gift.
The greatest dancers dipped in eternal youth or the wisest scholars being granted an ageless mind. The Gods had their favorites among the humans, and it was clear that being in a God’s favor would bring the most reward.
Technoblade joins the tournament with one story in mind.
Cornelius was the only other human to have ever been given immortality by the God of Combat, Technoblade is seeking the same thing. Just like anyone in his small town, he is a child raised on the same near-mythical stories. Cornelius is his kingdoms’ Hercules.
The tournament promises praise from the local government and some funds. But truly, it’s just the next challenge to add to his collections, crafting his portfolio to impress and achieve the greatest feat of all.
He fights with a singular determination, a deep seated need to see his rivals cut down by his blade. It is old fashioned even by the most conservative minds, but by the end it is a battle to the death.
Competitors get to watch ongoing matches, see the last moments of one, while the bloodlust of another. A withdrawal is not seen as a shameful thing here.
As expected, Technoblade proceeds to the final match. Opposite him, is Claudius, an outsider to the kingdom, one who’s clearly just in the tournament for the money. It’s a greater challenge now than it was in the beginning of the tournament. Annoyingly, he’s been injured in the previous rounds against physically stronger opponents.
There’s a throbbing ache in his sword arm, and a shallow but present cut on his calf. At this point all he wants to do is sit down. Claudius though doesn't seem to share his pain. Even though his armor is just as scuffed, his chin is still held arrogantly high. The matches he won earlier now hold no weight on his shoulders. Technoblade is only a little bit envious.
Technoblade tries to meet his opponent’s eyes, as is customary and polite, but immediately Claudius avoids his eyes. It’s bizarre. All this bravado only to shun some eye contact. The king begins the match, they circle each other. For how crowded the tournament has been, the crowd is silent, patiently waiting for champion to arise.
This time, Technoblade does not receive the grace of first hit.
Claudius is a horrendously good fighter. He lunges, and parries, and defends as if he knew the styles Technoblade trained. As if he trained the very same ones. Technoblade can’t attack without leaving himself wide open to a well placed lunge. It’s tedious work.
They come together and grab each other's sword hand, pulling them close. Technoblade can only hope he can grab hard enough for Claudius to let go of his sword. It doesn’t work. Techno doesn’t know if his exhausted mind is imagining the slight “huh,” coming from Claudius, as if he was surprised about the fight Techno was putting up.
It’s annoying how he can’t tell if it's for a valiant effort or a disappointing performance. He looks down at their feet in exhaustion. Claudius is only wearing leather boots. Impressive to have lasted this long in the tournament while fighting those with iron boots.
Technoblade steps on his foot. Hard.
And suddenly the wonderful sound of pain, cursing in a familiar tongue he doesn’t understand. Claudius falls back and finally, Technoblade can point the sword to his neck.
But rather than the look of anger, or disappointment, or exhaustion, Claudius smirks.
Then a blinding light. A cunning laugh.
“Congratulations.”
The air stills, and the people around him freeze, literally.
The voice echoes in the open field, bouncing in his skull. “Now, answer me this,” the light that was once Claudius asks, “like humans, do Gods live?”
“Did you kill Claudius?” Technoblade can’t even fathom what’s happening.
He hears what’s possibly a sigh. “No, now answer the question.”
“Were the Gods ever alive?” Technoblade asks in answer.
There’s a silence, the world is too quiet in this halted moment. Empty, just him and the God.
Technoblade just bested a God in combat.
“How dare you,” the God says, but he doesn’t sound particularly angry. It’s teasing, like there’s an inside joke he can’t yet understand. Too soft, too intimate.
Maybe he even sees the hint of a smile’s shadow in the blinding light. “Farewell, Technoblade. May sickness and age forever elude, may the honorable death find you soothed.”
1.5 Combat Critical
When Combat returns to the Abyss, Life and Death await him in all their lovely splendor. He gives them a grin, he’s feeling particularly proud of himself today.
Obviously that doesn’t last when Death immediately deals him a look. “They know what you’ve done.” Her tone is flat, tired, resigned. Combat thinks she might have expected it.
“They knew before I even did it,” he gives them a flourished showman’s bow, after all, he still found him. Combat has finally gotten the upper hand.
Life keeps her hands close to her body, crossed in the opposite hand’s sleeve. “I don’t know what will happen to you. The punishment is… severe.”
“They’ve already done plenty to me,” he scoffs, “today I just saved the one I loved, how could I care for anything else!” Combat retorts, an angry smile on his face.
Life looks down, like she doesn’t want to say what she has to. For the countless lives Combat had to wait to find Blood a worthy adversary, to finally be able to keep him as safe as possible, to keep him existing, was worth any price imaginable.
Life pulls out an envelope from her billowing sleeves. “The verdict is delivered,” she says, holding the envelope out to him with both hands.
The pair bow in unison, and Combat tries to control the shake of his hand as he grabs it.
“We will miss you,” Death says.
“And watch over you,” Life adds.
Combat remains determined. “And one day, I will return. I will return with him and it will all be well.” Combat steps back from the pair, opening the envelope, as if it didn’t decide his very existence.
Combat,
You have disappointed us once again. We give you exile, and we take your memories of the one you love. Learn the life dazed in loss you don’t understand. Only if you learn to accept and let go, will you be allowed to return.
We hope to see you return to us, child. We do not wish to lose you like we did your other half.
“I am exiled, without memory,” he finally says to the anxious pair. He can’t even muster the energy to be surprised, after all, it is a merciful punishment by all standards.
“Are you to become human?” Life asks, her voice sure not to betray the horror she surely felt at the thought.
“No, I think I get to keep Godhood. They want me to learn how to let go. They want me to give up on him.” The words roll around in his head, the paper is so tangible in his hands yet it’s still hard to comprehend. Godhood without identity, how ironic.
“You will be a God without a domain. It will be hard to foster worship,” Death says, matter of fact as always.
Combat doesn’t need to be told what’s difficult, he knows it all. “Don’t worry,” he tells her, hoping his confidence is believable, Blood was always the witty one between them, “I’ve been told I’m very charismatic.”
Life gives him a soft smile. “Very.”
“Do you want us here when you descend?” Death asks. Her dress shimmers as she steps closer, doubt seeps through.
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.” He looks around his home. The little souvenirs they’ve gathered, the weapons he collected. “The descent is the easy part.”
“So they say.” The pair bow their heads, far too similar to the human mourning habit, and finally, they leave.
It is all heartbreakingly simple, he walks to their balcony, and steps to the very ledge. They’re watching him, the Origin sees all.
“I am Combat, God of the duel and the battle; and I accept my exile.”
He falls.