Written for the birthday of the lovely bunfloras over on Twitter. They allowed me to steal this prompt :D
The battlefield is mayhem.
Technoblade can't hope to keep track of it all from down on the ground, which makes it all the better that he doesn't have to. He finds reassurance in the beating of black wings, Philza's form rising far above it all. With him up in the air, Techno does not need to worry about his back ever being exposed. He doesn't have to hold a single thought for lines of enemies beyond what he can see from a glance. Phil would notice them, pick them off with his crossbow, and alert Techno of those that slip through or get close enough to form a threat.
In return, any fool bold enough to aim their own arrows to the sky is quick to find Techno's sword buried in their stomach.
It's a dance they have perfected, synchronicity that would have others suspect the magic of a telepathic link. Two beings working so perfectly as one, you'd think the Goddess herself has connected them through ties of stardust and soul.
(and perhaps it would not even be too far from the truth, but there's no need for others to know that)
However, synchronicity might only be one step removed from predictability. A pattern that could be exploited. So Techno would blame himself afterward that he did not see an ambush coming.
The opposing army has fallen back, fewer soldiers in his outright vicinity to target giving him a clearer picture of the ground stained in blood. One man tries to come at him from the front, their attack sudden and not very well thought out. Which means it's no surprise to Techno when another tries to charge at his unprotected side at the same time, hoping to take advantage of the blind spot if they both advance.
Techno does not shift focus, not even when the battle cry from the soldier behind him is cut off into a strangled yelp. Techno turns and there Phil is - of course he is, Phil is always there in his peripheral, covering any vulnerabilities Techno left exposed - pulling his dagger from between the man's shoulder blades.
They stand there facing each other for a moment, grins a permanent fixture, streaked with gore and camaraderie, the eye of some horrific storm. The world narrowed down to nothing but Phil's brilliant blue eyes crinkled in amusement.
And then a rain of arrows plunges towards them.
Techno has just enough time to see them descending, to conceptualize in his mind the wave coming towards them and the fact that this was a trap. A way to get Phil to touch down on the ground, pulling the Angel of Death down to the earth among fellow mortals. Then his vision is cut off by black feathers, the familiar shape of Phil's wings spreading out in front of him as the man throws himself at him, arms around Techno's shoulders. Shielding him from the folly.
Phil's body shakes as each arrow hits him, twenty thuds at least - metal digging into flesh and feather. His mouth opens in some kind of smothered sound muffled against the fur on Techno's cape, fingers clenching against him until it almost hurts.
Phil pitches forward the next moment, the force of the onslaught bending his spine. Techno stumbles and falls, still stunned and unprepared to catch his weight. Phil lands on top of him, pinions draped out like a blanket.
Techno lifts his head and sees the arrows jutting out of Phil's back and wings like a damn pincushion.
There's warmth seeping into his clothes, and Techno needs a tic to realize it's blood. Phil's blood. The avian's arm twitches, bracing itself against Techno's chest like he wants to attempt to push himself up. Techno grabs him before he can.
"Phil!" He can't keep his own voice from coming out pinched with panic. "Don't-"
Phil opens his mouth but it immediately devolves into a cough, wet and gurgling, lips becoming tainted with more blood. If even one of the arrows slipped between shoulder and spine, it could have pierced through his lungs.
Not that it keeps Phil from trying to speak.
"There's more," a choked inhale, "more of them coming from over the hill. Techno-"
"I know." Gently, doing his utmost best to move Phil as little as humanly possible, Techno pushes his friend up enough to slide from under him. Phil's forehead falls against his chest, another shudder running through him when his wing spasms painfully. Techno swallows, guilt already a heavy constant presence in his gut. "Don't move, okay? Just… I'm right here, Phil, I'm right here."
"Yeah…" Phil sighs, blinking up at him for a moment with unfocused eyes.
Somehow Techno manages to free his legs from under him, leaving Phil to lean on his elbows instead, unable to bend even his own. A few arrows have found their home there, piercing through Phil's shin and the back of a kneecap. The majority have lodged themselves into his back and wings though, nestling almost delicately between ruffled feathers stained with blood. Every time Phil breathes, his ribcage expands. And every time that happens, the projectiles shift inside him. Phil's jaw is set tight, claws scratching at the ground a little in a clear attempt to conceal how bad it hurts.
For Techno, the sight is one of nightmares. One that sets anger burning inside his gut like a flame, edged on by the voices screaming for retribution. Even without their encouragement, Techno feels the overwhelming urge to pay back the person who has done this, so they might receive the suffering they've caused Phil a thousandfold.
Chat is quick to chant their agreement.
If the first person he turns on - a soldier with bloodied sword and an empty quiver - visibly recoils in fear, then that could only serve as further encouragement.
Techno fights like a man possessed, his own few injuries forgotten instantly. There's too many of them, too many for him to risk even a blink of respite. He can't allow any of them to get close to his fallen comrade.
He won't allow it.
A task easier said than done. Their own forces have become outnumbered, the arrow trap only one part of a larger ambush as more enemy soldiers appear seemingly out of nowhere. Suddenly, Techno is not fighting two people but five. Enough that his counters aren't sufficient to keep up.
He raises his arm, prepared to catch another blade on his vanguard. But there's no need. An arrow buries itself into the owner's face, ripping through his cheek and mouth to have him keel down screaming. Techno turns in time to see Phil reload his bow by ripping another arrow out of his own body.
The tip of the bolt is bright red when Phil aims it next.
—
Helpless is simply not a word in Philza's vocabulary.
Perhaps common sense is not either, but with his entire body hunched over in pain and not much else aside from that managing to push itself past his dimming awareness, Phil watches as more of their own men fall. Watches as Techno finds his sidesteps getting just a little sloppier, his attacks a little slower.
As much as the rumors persist, Technoblade is no god but just a man. And if nobody steps in to help him, he will fall as a mortal would all the same.
Phil reaches for his pouch, only to find it empty. He has fired them all already. So a split-moment decision is made.
Grabbing a shaft sticking from his wing makes the arrow move and Phil lets go with a cry, every instinct revolting against the pain and its consequences. The tissue there is even more sensitive than any other, but it should prove less resistant. One shaky exhale before he tries again, knowing what to expect making it a little more bearable.
A little, but not much.
He pulls, feeling the sharp arrowhead dig into his flesh. The hooked design serves to make them harder to remove, especially without medical equipment. Really he should be waiting on a doctor or any other person who could do this without fucking him up any worse than he already has been.
(if he does this wrong, he realizes dimly, he will never fly again. If he tears something that can not heal, he will never feel the wind run beneath his wings again, will never feel it as Her embrace)
If he doesn't do anything though, Techno will die.
With a single, burning wrench he rips it free. The pain is bad enough to blur over his vision, wet and shaky. But muscle memory does not need eyes and Phil loads the arrow. He shoots, and the soldier that was closest to Techno crumples.
His friend turns and watches him, scowls. Phil knew he'd not be particularly happy with this.
He ignores it in favor of ripping another arrow out.
It becomes almost too straightforward. Blood loss, nerve damage, they're concerns Phil can push away into the haze of concentration it takes to aim. Fire. Tear free a new projectile.
Aim. Fire. Reach back to be able to get one dug deep between his shoulder blades and pretend to not hear the squelching noise of it shredding loose.
He coughs as he loads it, iron-tang on his lips. Fingers trembling too bad to pull back the bolt.
Aim.
Fire.
Fuck.
He reaches for another.
"Stop it!" Techno catches his wrist, squeezing hard enough that Phil lets go of the shaft automatically. "It's over, Phil. It's over, they're gone. We're safe."
It's only that last word that seems to get through to him.
"It's over?" Phil echoes, sounding in that moment so painfully small he can barely stand it. As he blinks, he looks and sees that it's true. It's true because Techno would never lie to him. And it's true because there's nobody else left standing except him.
Techno's hands find their place on Phil's face effortlessly, cupping his cheeks. he presses his forehead against Phil's.
"It's okay now. We're okay. I'm here."
And it's as if Phil had been waiting on that, keeping himself together with needle and thread until he can hear Techno's comfort before falling apart.
He sags forward - and into Techno's open arms, always prepared to catch him.
Overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion and relief, Techno's probably not very surprised when Phil buries his face into his shoulder and sobs.
"It's alright," Techno soothes him, fingers brushing over his temples.
"Hurts," Phil groans, exhales now short and ragged. Almost laughing, mostly crying. "It fucking hurts, mate."
"I know. I'm sorry, Phil." And such a simple statement says more than anything that if he could, Techno would gladly take all burden of pain from Phil's shoulders to carry it with his own.
But finally, somebody is coming, hurried footsteps and the cries of their allies not far off - and they might want to have a word about the tardiness of their forces at some other time. They might then worry too for the painful twinges of Phil's muscles, the way he can't lift his wings. If the price was one worth paying.
(always, Phil would say. For Technoblade, always)
All Phil cares about now though is the rapidly growing darkness taking up his consciousness, and how it doesn't even scare him so long as he has Techno's arms around him.