Ah, people who commented I love you so much! You make me happy!
Some additional trigger warnings apply for this chapter: derealization/disassociation, gaslighting, and animal death
For the first time in what seemed like eons, Technoblade felt comfortable. Painless, his back pressed against a pliant softness while a blanket covered his shivering body.
A soft touch traveled along his brow, wiping sweat away with a wet cloth. His stomach had knotted together with faint traces of nausea, but the telltale effects of a healing potion kept the worst of it at bay. It actually came close to feeling nice.
Cracking his eyes open revealed an indistinct shape moving above him, gently brushing the hair out of his face. There was a tight pinch in Techno's soul but he ignored it, finding his head hurt too much to question it. Blinking drowsily, he licked his lips. "Phil?"
The shape stilled then laughed with a deep amused rumble. "Try again, pet."
Everything came crashing into Techno at once, the memories flooding back. His muscles tensed but they couldn't move, held against the mattress like lead weights. His feverish mind scrambled to catch up.
"Shh, it's alright," the man shushed him, noticing his distress. "I'm right here. You're fine." Their hand was put on his shoulder, a hollow gesture of fake comforting. Yet somehow a small part of him registered it as such anyway, reveling in a touch that wasn't meant to harm him for a change.
If Technoblade's tongue hadn't felt stuck to the roof of his mouth he might have told them that their presence was what he was worried about. As it was he grunted out a noise of annoyance.
They sighed. "Don't be petulant. You should be grateful I'm taking care of you at all." Their nails dug into his skin slightly, hovering on the edge of hurting him. "You should thank your master for being so good to you."
"Your fault," Techno managed to slur. He was sick because they had left the wound to get infected, refusing to treat it in the first place. Them trying to help now was nothing but a mockery if they were the reason he felt like throwing up to begin with. Their grip tightened, shifted until it was curling around his throat. Their other hand dug into the ripped open brand with one prying finger, tearing a scream from Techno's throat.
"You're not allowed to lie to me," they hissed with unexpected venom. Techno's mind swam with pain as they continued to poke at the wound, scrape at the skin. "You brought this upon yourself by being bad and the fact I haven't thrown you out like the ruined piece of trash you are only reflects on my benevolence. I'm the one who decided to keep you and patch you up despite your useless state."
Technoblade could barely think through how much it hurt but he shook his head, trying to raise his hands to push them off but being unable to, muscles locked up and unyielding. He knew it wasn't true. They did this to him. Their thumb pressed down on his airway.
"You hurt yourself with your stubbornness and this is how you repay my kindness?" they insisted.
"You hurt me," Technoblade forced out, adamantly. The hand that had been probing the injury grabbed his arm instead and dragged him off the bed he was lying on. Techno hit the ground with his shoulder first as they threw him down, cramps shooting through his back. His eyes were squeezed shut against the colorful spots dancing across his vision but he couldn't even find the strength to raise his head and look at them.
He hadn't felt this weak and helpless since-
The tribes mostly tolerated his presence.
Technoblade looked too similar to them to be considered an outsider, yet too different to not obtain a measure of distrust from the other piglins. To avoid ruining that fragile sense of truce, he stayed mostly to the edges of their communities, never entering the bastions or their small villages on the reaches of the Crimson Forests.
When hunting parties went out he would follow them, careful to trail far enough behind to not be perceived as a threat. His tiny hands were good for climbing, he was nimble and fast so it was easy to outrun the worst of the mobs in the Nether. But they were still dangerous to him if they caught up, strong enough to easily overpower him.
They could not overpower a group of hunters.
Technoblade was a good decoy and the hunters usually rewarded him with some food for his troubles. An equivalent exchange which made the blood thrum in his veins. Once, a brute who had taken a particular liking to him had handed him a sword made of chipped metal and Technoblade had held onto it ever since, emulating the moves he had seen the fighters make, learning to defend himself.
He dug into the red-veined rocks until his nails chipped and his fingers bled, clutching gold pieces to his chest. As bad as it made him feel to give them up – some innate instinct urging him to hold onto the pretty shiny pieces forever - he could trade them for more food, for clothes or armor, for anything he needed to survive.
And when he got tired he would simply curl up into some nook or cranny, making his body as tiny as possible. The warmth of the lava running through the ground radiated from the stones and lulled him to sleep.
The same terrible feeling of numbness came over Techno as it had when the boy died. A tiny little corner in his mind opened up so that he could retreat into it - hide in it - while this terrible thing continued to happen to him. It didn't hurt in there, it couldn't touch him. He wasn't even in his own body anymore, disconnected from reality and weightless.
It felt safe.
Their foot connected with his stomach and all Technoblade did was curl into himself a little tighter, trying to force down a small whimper. The man kneeled and grabbed his wrist, pushing him against the floor. "See what happens when you don't listen? See what I'm forced to do?"
Instinct and self-preservation controlled him and Techno let go of any other parts of himself in favor of survival, thoughtless of the degradation that still burned its way through his psyche. He simply couldn't bring himself to care anymore. "Yes, sir."
The man stopped, stroked the side of his face and there were tears there that Techno hadn't even noticed he'd allowed to slip out. "I'm sorry," they said, voice so soft and sincere it made him tremble. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to hurt you. But you don't leave me any choice, do you?"
"No, sir."
Their touch became a tad more forceful. "No what?"
"I didn't leave you any choice," Technoblade reiterated. His chest was hollow with it, making him realize he didn't care if it was true or not anymore either. "I was bad. You hurt me because I was bad." It made a strange sort of sense, really.
They tilted his face to the side so he could see their pleased smile, their expression of almost pride. "Good pet." They retrieved another potion from their inventory, the pink fluid in the glass bottle splashing around as they waved it like a coveted treat. "Wasn't that easy? Do you want this?"
The pain was still running through his every nerve and Technoblade couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't stop staring. "Yes, sir."
"I'll give it to you. Do you know why?"
He waited, feeling the breath straining in his lungs. He couldn't answer because he was already far gone, distanced from himself.
The stranger uncorked the potion for him, pushed it to his lips and tipped it back so Techno could drink the cold liquid down and immediately feel the effect set in, relieving him. He wanted to sob with it.
"Because I care about my possessions. And it's important to me that I'll keep them safe. Do you understand?"
Exhaustion washed over him and Techno could merely nod as they pulled him up. His weight leaned against them, found some semblance of relief in their warmth. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift away.
The bunk was removed from his cell soon after when Techno started walking around again. The man checked on the brand's wound and commented on how nicely it was healing, bringing him potions at irregular times to stave off the pain.
Things were easier now that Techno could retreat into that corner of his mind he had created whenever the man came by. The voices were agitated, telling him that what he was doing was bad. But it was hard to believe them when there was so much less pain now. The master wasn't angry at him as often anymore, didn't yell or kick or pull.
They brushed his hair and braided it. Technoblade closed his eyes and tilted towards the motions, the pleasant scratching of their fingers against his palms.
The pit inside him grew a little wider.
"You need to sit still while I do this," Wilbur warned. He tugged at the strands and Technoblade winced.
"This is why I only let Phil do it-"
"I practiced though!" His brother's face scrunched up in utter concentration as he worked, pulling sections of Techno's hair to the side. The sensations were enjoyable enough, almost like being caressed. But Technoblade loved his hair and had spent too much effort growing it out to let Wilbur put a knot in it accidentally.
"Why do you even have it this long?" Wilbur asked then, voice fond and in wonder and Technoblade angled his head up a bit to see the sky.
"In the classics-" he started, but was interrupted by a snort.
"You and your classics," Wilbur laughed.
Techno tried to pull away but couldn't with his brother's hands still working on the braid, so he frowned instead. "In the classics, a warrior only cuts their hair when they're defeated in combat."
Wilbur hummed in understanding. "So you're never going to cut yours again?"
Technoblade grinned, widely and surely. "Nope."
The man did not braid it in the way Phil or Wilbur had. They were sloppy and gave sharp tugs. But merely the feel of having it tucked away again, out of his face, was a respite from the dirty tangle it had become.
He thanked them when they were done.
They brought him people to kill, bad people who had disobeyed the master, tried to steal from them or annoyed them. Technoblade crawled deeper into that corner, blocking it off with vile and dark edges. He watched the sword his master handed him sink into the prey's stomach as if he was watching somebody else. Standing on the sideline of the arena and commenting on the slaughter without actually being involved with it.
The one time he hesitated was when they brought him a dog.
Its fur was greyed along the tips, an oldness settled in every bone. Slobber ran from its mouth as the master brought it into the cell, jumping around at their legs for attention. It spotted Technoblade and trod over to him, sniffing curiously. Technoblade stroked it and got a happy bark in response as it nuzzled into his hand, begging for more pets.
Technoblade knew he liked dogs, though in his disconnected state he couldn't remember why.
The master told him the dog needed to die because it was old and didn't perform as well during hunts anymore. It had become useless to them. Technoblade couldn't help but question that cruelty, but only in silence. He would not voice his doubts out loud. His master was to be listened to.
They wouldn't hurt their pets without good reason.
Still, he couldn't bring his hand to move the blade.
They closed their own fingers around his wrists, guiding him through it. Making it easier for him. The dog yelped and kicked its leg and then it didn't do anything anymore and Technoblade hid deeper into that corner still. The gap was immeasurable and filled with guilt he could not comprehend.
"Would you look at that," the master said with glee. "With him gone, you're my new favorite pet now."