i like phil being near-immortal, and i like techno being near-immortal alongside him, but i think that it works better when their specific brands of immortality are different. u know?
so it goes a little something like this:
The first time they meet, Philza is still young. Not young, you understand, but young enough that he has not yet been cut down to stark and jaded utilitarianism. He sets out on a journey into the nether and feels a tug on his sleeve and looks down to see some wide-eyed little piglin child whose parents are nowhere to be found, and his heart stirs.
So he teaches him: combat and farming and life in the Overworld, all of the knowledge that he’s gained over the years. Raises the boy like a son.
It takes twenty years before war starts building in the neighboring empire. Twenty years before the piglin child — now grown, of course, but still so desperately young — offers his service. Like he wants blood on his hands, like he wants to make somebody pay.
Phil buries him before the war is over.
He’s lost people before, of course. So many people. But it’s been a long time since those people were family. He plants a tree on top of the grave, a tiny sapling behind their home — his home now — and makes a promise to himself to stop getting attached.
The second time they meet, the sapling is fully grown.
The soul that will one day call itself Technoblade comes gasping into the world again, trembling memories of wings and violence that flit around the edges of his consciousness when he’s suspended between sleep and wakefulness, and he grows up a fighter. Bruised knuckles and scars that crisscross his back and shoulders like delicate lace, and when he runs into a man who holds himself with world-weary poise and the same wings that have haunted Techno’s dreams, he feels a jolt down his spine.
“Sorry, mate,” says the man. “You just reminded me of someone I used to know.” “Oh,” says Technoblade.
They get four years together this time before Phil has to plant another sapling.
Techno lives through six lives before Phil’s certain that it’s the same man every time. There’s another voice added to the chorus in each one, another whisper in his ear demanding things of him; at night, his dreams are full of a man with long blond hair and gray-purple wings and cold blue eyes. The memories slip through his fingers like sand whenever he tries to get a solid grasp on them, but the surety with which he holds a sword can only come from years of muscle memory that he’s never practiced.
They say that ‘Technoblade never dies.’ And it’s a lie, but there’s some piece of truth in it: Technoblade dies, and then he comes home again.
There’s a room for him in Phil’s house, kept tidy and waiting in his absence. There’s a journal that Phil keeps, writing down the history of each new lifetime, so that when they find one another Techno will be able to remember. There’s a vault beneath the floorboards that holds bits and pieces of the lives that Techno’s lead, armor and items and memories. There’s a place for him in the world, and Phil keeps it carefully maintained for the next time he finds it.
One lifetime becomes ten lifetimes becomes a thousand lifetimes.
It’s never quite the same, of course. Techno’s a grown man, battered and beaten and bitter but still standing tall; Techno’s a child, tugging on Phil’s sleeve like he did so long ago and asking if they’ve met before; Techno’s already in old age, battle-scarred but determined to track down the man he sees in his dreams. Sometimes they raze empires together, side by side in a blaze of glory. Sometimes they’re content to simply live in one another’s company. Sometimes they don’t meet at all.
Phil’s journal becomes a library, his vault an archive. The valley he lives in goes from open grass to a dense forest of trees that are planted in far-too-orderly rows to be natural.
And for every life that Techno leads, Phil’s always the one to bury him.
I just finished all the trigun manga in 2 days because of goddamn Bigolas Dickolas and I have So Many Thoughts I am going to die if I don't write them down somewhere.
I've seen so many people go "this wasn't a good end for c!wilbur" and "it wasn't true to his character" "there is no growth!"
It was true. C!Wilbur is a bit of a coward. I'm sorry, but he is. And here, here he grew a bit. He said his apologies. He said his goodbyes. And now he goes home. It takes strenght to realise that a place is not good for you, and by staying you are doing more harm than good. And you cannot tell me that there was anything else for Wilbur on that server other than Tommy. But here's the thing: Tommy doesn't need him. He wants him, sure, it's his brother, but Tommy has had a life without him. He has gone through stuff and he has fought and hurt and healed and fell and stood back up. And while I'm sure Wilbur loves Tommy, Wilbur doesn't need him either. What they both need is space to heal. So Wilbur goes home. Goes to the opposite of his limbo, to the warm vastness of the desert, and he'll figure out who he really is behind all the trauma and l'manburg and all that. Who he is when there is nothing more to fight for or about, when he can just be. I'm sad for Tommy, truly. But to pigeonhole Wilbur into a "Tommy's caretaker" role is to take stuff away from both of their characters.
That's really the thing that annoys me the most. This "But Tommy is alone again! Wilbur left him on a beach just like Dream" Yes he is alone. But here's the thing. You are not evil or abusive for removing yourself from a situation that harms you and where you are not comfortable or safe. You are not bad. Dream was a fucking psychopath who enjoyed the abuse he put Tommy through. Wilbur is a mentally ill dude who desperately needs peace and safety. If I'd change one thing, i wish the offer for Tommy to join him would have been on the table. I would have wanted Tommy to refuse, but i still wanted the offer. But overall? I think it was great.
And you know what? I'm glad it was silly. I'm glad it was fun. Because they ALL talked about how it felt like the smp lost some of its magic due to how big and serious it has gotten. I'm glad that it was a bit silly and fun. Fucking Utah. I liked it.
As soon as I see that jacket again in the first episode I WILL burst into tears like a big ol baby ;A;
things sherlock holmes has canonically done:
scrapbooked the hell out of his newspapers
put on a hat that was too big for him
giggled
cried because lestrade was nice to him
got all sappy and romantic by smelling a rose
let a puppy lead him on adventures
“impish mood”
lit his pipe with an ember from the fireplace because he thought it looked cool
feel free to add to this
i would like to propose a new fanon part of cwilburs design: a small cut in his face, from when ctommy hit him with the sword :)
瞬発的に衝動的に描くなんて自分でも驚いている
それほどに影響力があったんだなと実感
筋斗雲って呼べばくると思っていた子供の頃がなつかしい
I was surprised at how quickly and impulsively he drew, and I realized that he had such an impact.
I miss my childhood when I thought that if I called him Nimbus, he would come. I picked up some sticks from around the area and seriously wondered if I could improve my Nyoi-bo, and I seriously tried to see if I could learn the levitation technique if I tried hard enough…
If Will dies first, it is obvious Hannibal would cannibalize Will’s flesh. Hannibal mourned Mischa by eating her, and he would do the same for Will; to consume and eat and incorporate is part of grieving. But what would Hannibal do with Will’s bones? He’d eat the marrow, maybe make soup from them, but what of the calcified parts that remain, the parts that can’t be eaten?
I don’t really see him just keeping them around or displaying them, something stagnant and to be ogled. Burying them in the family plot in Lithuania makes sense because Will is family, but it also requires Hannibal to go back to a place he can’t go. Hannibal could cremate the bones, but then what? Spreading the ashes doesn’t seem like something he would do; he can’t know what happens to them. Keeping Will in an urn on his desk or a shelf also feels out of character, a memory collecting dust.
What if Hannibal had Will’s ashes pressed into pencil lead? There are ways to compress ashes into something that could be written with or drawn. What if Hannibal draws Will with his own ashes, commemorating him in a completed cycle. Sketching the man with his own remains. Remembering Will as he saw him, recreating moments they shared from Hannibal’s mind palace. Having Will live forever in depictions of himself. Hannibal would never be truly left behind. And Hannibal would sharpen the pencils as he always had; he isn’t unfamiliar with taking a blade to Will. Shaving off a layer but keeping him sharp.
Displaying and keeping art made from Will’s ashes would mean so much more than a reconstructed skeleton or an urn on a shelf or a plot that would become overgrown with weeds. He could draw Will in motion, alive, as he wished to remember him, and create moments and memories they didn’t get to experience together.