Chapter Text
The boy did not know what a birthday was.
He only knew that today hurt more than usual.
The cupboard was too small for him now. It had always been too small, but at three years old his knees no longer fit properly against his chest, and his ribs pressed painfully into the wood whenever he shifted. The air inside smelled of dust, mildew, and something sour that never quite went away. His stomach burned, empty in a way that made breathing difficult.
He had learned early not to cry. Crying made it worse.
The door had opened earlier that day. Light had spilled in, blinding after hours of darkness. Large hands had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the floor. He remembered the sharp sting of impact, the sound of something breaking—maybe a plate, maybe his lip—and the familiar word spat at him with disgust.
“Freak.” Then again. “Boy.”
Those were the only sounds meant for him. He did not think of them as names, but they were the closest thing he had.
When they threw him back into the cupboard, it was harder than usual. His head struck the wall. Stars burst behind his eyes. The door slammed shut and locked, sealing him back into the dark.
He curled inward, small hands clutching his thin shirt. It was cold. Cold was normal. Hunger was normal. Pain was normal.
What wasn’t normal was the way the darkness seemed to *press back* this time, as if the cupboard were shrinking around him. His chest felt tight. Breathing hurt. His vision swam, the blackness becoming heavier, thicker.
He did not know words like *wish* or *magic*. But he thought something all the same. *Anywhere else.* Not a place. Not a plan. Just desperation.
Something answered. It did not speak. It *pulled*. The world tore.
---
When Technoblade felt the disturbance, he was crossing a frozen expanse north of Greece, boots crunching against snow older than most civilizations. The Voices had been quiet that day—watchful, murmuring, distant. He welcomed the silence.
Then reality flared. Magic detonated in front of him, raw and uncontrolled, ripping open the air like a wound. Ancient, instinctive, *wrong*. Technoblade’s hand went to his sword immediately, body shifting into a battle stance honed over centuries. This was not divine magic. This was not godly magic. This was *survival magic*.
The light collapsed inward with a sound like air being crushed, leaving behind a small shape that hit the ground and did not move.
Technoblade did not advance at first. He waited. The snow hissed softly as residual energy dissipated. No enemy emerged. No spell followed. Only the wind, and something else - Blood. The scent reached him a moment later, sharp and alarming. Not fresh battle blood. Not ritual blood. A child’s.
Technoblade moved. The boy lay face-down in the snow, limbs limp, clothes far too thin for the cold. Bruises mottled exposed skin—old ones layered beneath newer ones, yellowing and dark, a map of repeated harm. His breathing was shallow, irregular. Too slow. Technoblade knelt, pressing two fingers to the boy’s neck. The pulse was there, but fading. The boy was bleeding internally. Starved. Exhausted. His magic—small but ancient—was fraying at the edges, burning itself out trying to keep him alive.
The Voices surged.|Leave him.| |Not yours.| |Weak.| |Unworthy.| Technoblade ignored them.
He drew his sword and cut cleanly across his palm. Divine blood welled immediately, glowing faintly against the white snow. He pressed his hand to the boy’s back, channeling power carefully.
“Don’t fight it,” he muttered, though the boy was unconscious. “I’m trying to help.” The reaction was instant. The boy’s magic surged up like a cornered animal. Not attacking. *Assessing.* It brushed against Technoblade’s power—vast, controlled, lethal—and felt no threat. No intent to dominate. No hunger to consume. Only a single, overwhelming desire. *Live.*
The magic made a decision. Power snapped into place with a force that staggered even Technoblade, the air cracking as blood magic carved a bond into reality itself. Symbols flared briefly along his arm and vanished. The boy gasped, back arching as wounds sealed, breathing stabilizing. The snow beneath them darkened, stained with divine blood and something older.
Technoblade froze. He knew what that was. “…You have got to be kidding me,” he said flatly. The boy’s pulse steadied. Color returned to his cheeks. He did not wake, but he was alive—truly alive now, anchored, protected. Bound. Technoblade withdrew his hand slowly and stared down at the child.
A blood adoption. Chosen by magic. Accepted by power. He exhaled once, sharp and disbelieving. “Well,” he muttered to the silent snow, “guess I’m a parent now.”
---
The child did not wake right away. That worried Technoblade more than if he had screamed. He carried him through the snow for hours, adjusting his grip whenever the boy’s breathing changed. Every so often, the child twitched—small, sharp movements, like he expected pain even in sleep. Once, his fingers clenched painfully tight in Technoblade’s cloak, and no amount of careful shifting made him let go. Technoblade stopped trying.
The Empire rose out of the ice like it always did—black stone against white, brutal and unyielding. The gates opened without question. The guards did not comment. They *did* stare. Technoblade ignored them.
Philza saw them from the moment they crossed the threshold. He didn’t speak at first. He simply walked closer, eyes scanning the boy with a healer’s precision and a father’s quiet dread. His wings flickered into visibility for half a second before he forced them back. “…He’s small,” Philza said finally.
“Yes.”
Philza reached out, then stopped himself. “Is he—” “Alive,” Technoblade answered. “Barely. He was bleeding when I found him.” Philza nodded, jaw tight. “Kristin’s not here.”
“I know.” They moved inside. Warmth replaced the cold gradually, stone halls holding heat the way the outside held ice. Only then did the boy stir properly, a soft sound leaving his throat—half breath, half whimper. His eyes opened suddenly. Green. Wide. Immediately afraid.
He scrambled backward with a sharp, broken sound, hitting the edge of the table and curling inward, arms raised to shield his head. His breathing went fast, uneven, like he couldn’t get enough air. “No—no—” he said, the words slurring together. “Don’—” Philza froze.
Technoblade lowered himself to one knee instantly, hands visible, voice steady but low. “Hey. Stop. No one’s touching you.” The boy didn’t seem to hear him. “Didn’ mean—” the child whispered, eyes squeezed shut. “Be good. Be—” Philza swallowed hard.
Technoblade shifted slightly, putting himself between the boy and everyone else without blocking the exit. “You’re not in trouble,” he said. “No one’s mad.” The boy cracked one eye open. He looked at Technoblade like he was trying to decide whether this was a trick. “…Hurts,” he said quietly, one hand pressed to his ribs. Philza moved then, slow and deliberate. “I can help,” he said. “But I need to touch you. Is that okay?”
The boy stiffened at the word *touch*. Technoblade didn’t look away from him. “You don’t have to,” he said. “He’s asking.” Silence. Then, barely perceptible, the boy nodded. Philza’s hand was warm. Careful. He didn’t use magic yet—just presence, grounding first. The boy flinched anyway, breath hitching, but he didn’t pull away.
When the healing came, it was subtle. Pain easing rather than vanishing. The boy sagged a little in relief, shoulders dropping. “…Warm,” he murmured. Philza let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. They sat like that for a while. Eventually, the boy looked up again. He studied Technoblade’s face intently, as if memorizing it. “…You red,” he said. Technoblade blinked. “Yeah.”
“…Scary.”
“That’s fair.”
The boy considered this. “…No hit?”
“No hit.”
Another pause.
“…Promise?”
Technoblade did not answer lightly. “Yes.” That seemed to matter. The boy’s gaze drifted, eyelids heavy again. “Name?” he asked suddenly. Philza tilted his head. “Yours?” The boy frowned, confusion creasing his brow. He searched for something that wasn’t there. “…Freak,” he said at last. Then, quieter, “…Boy.” Philza looked away. Technoblade felt something sharp twist in his chest.
“That’s not your name,” he said. The boy’s fingers clenched. “Is,” he insisted weakly. “No,” Technoblade repeated. Not angry. Certain. “That’s what people called you. That’s not the same thing.”
The boy stared at him, unsure. “…Then what?” he asked. Technoblade hesitated. Names had power. Even he knew that. “You don’t have to decide now,” he said finally. “But you’re not those things.” The boy nodded slowly, processing. “...Okay.”
His eyes fluttered shut again, exhaustion pulling him under now that his body wasn’t screaming anymore. Without asking, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead into Technoblade’s chest. Technoblade stiffened. Then, carefully, he rested a hand on the boy’s back.
The child slept. Philza watched them quietly. “...You keeping him,” he said after a while. It wasn’t a question. Technoblade didn’t look up. “Yes.” Philza nodded once. “Alright then.”
Outside, the snow continued to fall. Inside, for the first time in his short life, the boy slept without fear.