Most people assume there is such a thing as avians, a hybrid species that is far from common and some even say finds no heritage in the Overworld at all – tracing its lineage back to what lies far beyond the void. Those people are wrong.

One can not be born with wings, can not find themselves lying in the crib with delicate feathers of dow on their backs and an ingrained instinct of flight.

No, wings are a gift from the gods.

They are a trophy, a prize. A symbol of commitment and faith between an acolyte and its patron. They are an extension of your soul, which is usually granted three lives by a merciful universe now claimed by the gods and forged into one life devoted to them alone. Yet the wings are your reward.

They are a badge of honor worn with pride, open and free. Do not trust one who has tucked their wings away behind their cloak, and who would conceal their existence from the world. For they carry a shame that even one's gods are not allowed to see.

Technoblade got his wings when he was seven, at the same time he met Chat. Both were granted to him as part of the Blood God's blessing.

Small and tiny they were then, unable to bear his weight. Techno liked them still, rich crimson feathers that got darker as you got further down the wing with notable black tips. Getting used to them took a while. It was as if he'd suddenly grown an extra arm, an extension of his body that he could control effortlessly without thought. By the time they had grown strong enough to carry him though, spreading wide to easily engulf the rest of his body, he was more than used to them.

He used them to fly far above the world, watching everything below shrink into vague nothingness. He used them to shield himself in battle, deflecting sharp arrow tips with a swipe of his wings. He loved them, more than anything else in this world he loved them.

He loved them.

Before Phil, Techno did not think he could have loved anything (or anybody) else as much.

Phil was the first person Techno met who also had been blessed by the gods. Lady Death took care of her angel. His feathers were jet black, a sheen of purple that caught the light in mesmerizing ways. Techno would preen them and stop simply to hold them, angle them, watch that iridescent magic at work. Phil would always laugh when he did that.

Then they switched places, Phil's gentle fingers brushing through his own feathers with so much care it almost made Techno's heart hurt, tight and constricted and full of so much love he didn't know where to go with it.

That's why there are seemingly impossible choices that become scarily easy to make.

Phil is on the ground, bleeding. His fingers are slipping, struggling to keep inside the organs threatening to spill out. Within a blink, Technoblade is at his side.

"Tech-" A cough interrupts Phil's attempt at speaking his name, more blood slipping from the corner of his mouth. Internal bleeding, Techno registers. Insides torn to shreds. Phil has minutes - if not seconds - left.

And he knows. He must know. Because through the pain and exhaustion on his face he forces a brittle grin, teeth stained red. The fluttering of lashes, eyes deep-set with mirth. As if in an instant, Phil is recalling every moment they ever spent together and it eases his grief, making it easier to accept his fate. As if it pleases him to be able to die at Techno's side.

Techno can hear it in his voice when Phil falls against him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave you so soon."

"You're not," Techno says, fingers firmly clenched against Phil's shoulder. As if able to hold him any tighter than he already is. "You're not leavin' me, Phil. I won't let you."

"It's okay." Phil smiles. "I'm not scared. I know she's waiting for me."

They both know Lady Death will be ready to enclose Phil in her embrace with tenderness, with fond guidance. With her everlasting love.

(That doesn't mean Techno is ready to let him go)

Time slows to a crawl, a horrible syrupy-sensation. Sand trickling through the hourglass as if gravity itself fails to exert its power. Closing his eyes, the noise fades, the cold fades. The feeling of Phil heaving and dying in his arms fades.

Techno is standing in its atrium just as unsure as he had when he was a child.

The Blood God never fails to intimidate. The prying eyes of Chat watch him from the stands, a million pinpricks of light staring at him from the dark. Technoblade's head is quiet, because when he's in his patron's domain the voices do not linger within the confines of his mind.

They jeer and taunt and scream at him from the sidelines as Techno steps forward to face the god he serves.

It stares down at him, the lack of discernible features making it hard for Techno to tell if it experiences any real emotion regarding his presence. Is it happy to see him? Disappointed? Angry that he'd be bold enough to make demands?

Does it care what happens to him either way?

It descends on him, it engulfs him. It swirls around him in a mass of vindication and when it speaks it bursts his eardrums.

"Are you sure?" it asks, not needing verbal communication to see his thoughts and know why he came. A touch lingers on the base of his neck – part comforting, part threatening. It waits.

"I'm sure," Techno tells it. "Take them."

"You know what you traded in when becoming my conduit," the god reminds him. "A single life, so easily lost. Wings to flee that danger with." It sounds almost sympathetic. "All things in this world are made to be equal, Technoblade."

"I know."

"After this, you will no longer be equal."

Without hesitation it digs its claws in and drags them down, tracing the edge of his spine. Techno screams, his knees buckling from the sheer pain that slams into him and when he falls the Blood God follows, never allowing him an inch of respite. It continues to carve into him, carve out of him the wings he was given.

Its nails close around bone and wrench, pulling it loose from his shoulder blade with a sickening crunch. He bleeds like a mortal again.

It hurts like nothing else in the world has ever hurt, and Techno still thinks it is only a fraction compared to the hurt he'd feel over Phil's death, thus making this more than worth it.

When he opens his eyes he's back, and Phil is still cradled in his arms, head tilted to the side and expression blessedly free of pain in his unconsciousness. The wound that would have claimed his life has closed, not a trace of it remaining.

And instead, there is blood pouring down Techno's back, two warm trickles sticking to his clothes. Matching twin wounds on either side of Techno's spine. The wings he wants to instinctively wrap around himself are gone, leaving behind only a twinge of phantom pain.

The wings were part of his soul.

Where they were taken, emptiness remains.

Phil stirs, just a little. His brow creases and clouded blue blinks open to stare at Techno. Confusion plain as day. Techno pushes their foreheads together so Phil might not notice the sacrifice he's made in his name.

There will be room for guilt later. There will be a time for Phil to curse him over an exchange that will always read to him as unfair.

But for the moment, Techno cares only for the steady heartbeat he can feel in Phil's chest falling in tune with his own.

And he knows that regret is the one thing he will never be cursed with.