Chapter Text
Pain.
Agony.
Suffering.
These are his fate. Unescapable, unshakeable, unavoidable. Tommy is destined by the gods to shed only tears of desperation and sadness, to only bleed crimson drops of his life.
It wasn't always this way. Once upon a time, Tommy had a loving family. Two brothers who teased him and pushed him around but loved him nonetheless. A father with marvelous obsidian wings that spanned wide enough to cover his entire family in their feathery comfort. A mother who held important power in her hands and strove to always use it for good.
But every fairytale has a dark twist, an unhappy ending, a progression to the villain's side of the story. Tommy's mother was forced into a realm in which she could never return to her family, a pact made with her fellow deities to ensure the balance of the universe. Tommy's father was heartbroken and retreated to his room for days on end until Tommy forgot what the feeling of his embraces felt like. Tommy's brothers reacted in equally dissimilar ways. Wilbur, the eldest of the three, became sharper, hitting Tommy with words and fists alike, leaving bruises on his skin and in his mind that their father never saw and that their other brother elected to ignore. Technoblade, that very brother, retreated into himself, silencing his words and dedicating himself to hunting and sparring alone in the backyard or reading in the solitude of his bedroom.
Tommy was left alone with the abuse of a brother, someone whom he trusted with his life, until months later, when their father began coming out of his room, lingering in the house itself, dragging his fingers along the spots where his wife and their mother had stood or touched so long ago. But to Tommy, his father was unrecognizable to him, and when Tommy's own onyx wings grew in a year later, Tommy never imprinted. A fact that broke his father's heart and set in stone how fractured their family truly was.
When Wilbur began packing one day to leave their house full of warm, frigid, and distant memories behind, Tommy packed his own bag. Together, they left, putting aside their differences, to escape the house that was no longer home and hadn't been for over two years.
Never did Tommy fully forgive Wilbur, but part of him always wanted to. But as they established and built the hot dog van, created the nation of L'Manberg from the ground up, Tommy saw that Wilbur was no longer his brother. Despite the blood that ran between them and the desperation Tommy felt at trying to cling to his familial ties, Wilbur proved himself to never again be the same boy Tommy grew up with and loved. Power and loss had changed Wilbur, made him more possessive, greedy, and self-absorbed to the point of self-ruin.
And when the time came, Wilbur made the wrong choice and destroyed all of Tommy's hard work along with him.
Pain.
Agony.
Suffering.
Family should never make the members of their tight-knit community feel such distraught, and part of Tommy blames part of his misfortune on his Mother, even though he knows she had little control over what the other deities desired, despite being a goddess herself. Mostly, Tommy blames two people, though, for his miserable life: Wilbur, his own brother, and Dream, the man who had it out for Tommy since they first met those few years ago.
Dream… just the name— no the word itself, makes Tommy's limbs lock up, the blood flowing through his veins freeze, and the breath in his lungs tremble. Especially now, as Tommy sits trembling in the unforgiving cold of the bleak landscape that is his Exile, with threats of Dream's unpredictable visits looming ever-present in his hopeless future.
Long ago did Tommy give up on wishing, futilely hoping that someone would come to his rescue. To finally see past Dream's convoluted lies and tales of falsities, and save Tommy from the ill treatment that it is apparent no one but Dream is aware of. At this point, Tommy himself can't even see the difference between the truth and the carefully crafted words that Dream tells him. What's worse is that Tommy believes it all, whether it's fact or fiction, Tommy scarfs it down like the starving worm that he is, devouring anything that could possibly keep him satiated. He's desperate for attention and connection, and the small instances of warmth that Dream shows him that seemingly overshadow the burns and cuts Tommy has also received from him.
And Tommy, deep down in the small part of his heart that he has managed to protect from the wars and betrayals and injuries, knows it. He's just too far gone to see.
"Tommy."
His own name comes to him as if blown in by the wind that guides the waves and chills his bones every day and night. It indeed sends shivers down his spine, because it wasn't the wind that spoke his name.
Hesitantly, Tommy peeks over his wings, which are as dirty as the ground Tommy sleeps on, which he is using to conserve what little warmth he manages to keep against the cold breeze. There, not far from Tommy, is the man-monster himself, the devil to Tommy's hell, and the warden to Tommy's prison, but also… Tommy's sole companion now that Ghostbur and Friend left him alone. He's… Tommy's friend, because why else would he be the only one who visits? Why else would he give Tommy food and hugs sometimes? Why else would he tell Tommy to be better and show him how?
Bracing for the frigid air, Tommy unfurls his wings, wincing at how they crack and ache from being curled up around Tommy for so long. "Dream!" Tommy's voice cracks from disuse and the dry air. Winter is quickly arriving, rolling in like a dark oncoming storm, casting away the beauty of autumn with the bareness of December. "You're back!" Tommy stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping over his ratty shoes as he rises off the ground. Dream was only gone for a few days, but Tommy felt his absence strongly. Not having anyone to talk to makes Tommy feel as if he's alone in this entire world, which perhaps he is, because in Exile, nothing other than himself and the occasional rabbit lives in the quiet.
Dream nods as he walks over to Tommy, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. "Indeed, I am. I see you haven't done much around here in the meantime," he says bluntly as he looks around the small "camp" Tommy has set up. It consists of a roughly constructed tent made of a thin sheet full of holes that does nothing to combat the daily wind and nightly chill, and a few chopped logs arranged around an unlit firepit. Tommy hasn't had the strength to collect more wood and flint to light it since the cold set in, making his joints and wings lock up.
A flare of embarrassment and shame rises in Tommy at Dream's words. If Tommy was capable of doing more than shivering violently for what feels like hours at a time, he may have collected supplies or started a fire. "Sorry," Tommy mumbles as he stops in front of Dream, feeling like a tiny child rather than the tall, lanky teenager that towers over the intimidatingly familiar man in front of him.
Dream smiles at Tommy. "Don't be, Tommy. I know you can't help it." Dream's eyes scan Tommy up and down, lingering on Tommy's messy wings, the midnight black feathers lying in disarray and threatening to fall to the unforgiving ground. "You're a mess, aren't you?" Dream scoffs disapprovingly, reaching out and flicking a loose feather away. Tommy's wing twitches, and he watches the dark feather float to the ground like a leaf dropping from its branch.
"Sorry," Tommy says again, not knowing how else to respond. A wave of self-consciousness cascades over him with icy precision, washing away the joy he felt at Dream's return and replacing it with disgust at his unwashed and dirty state. "The water's too cold." Tommy glances at the sparkling cerulean lake in the distance. Not yet frozen over, the water is still too frigid for Tommy. The cold in Exile is worse than anywhere Tommy has been before. Even the wintry weather from back home, before Tommy left with Wilbur, didn't compare to the hollow, biting spirit of the cold here away from the warmth and friends Tommy had grown accustomed to.
"Excuses," Dream mutters under his breath. Tommy shrinks under his piercing gaze, his wings pressing against his back as Tommy instinctively tries to make his body as small as possible, to escape the judgment he can never escape. But at least Dream is talking to him, paying attention to Tommy, sparing him glances and words alike.
"H-How have you been?" Tommy tries to change the subject, make small talk, and return to Dream's good side. Maybe then Dream will bring Tommy another blanket or food like he occasionally has done in the past. Or maybe he'll stay longer without taking the measly collection of supplies Tommy has somehow managed to gather despite the all-consuming desire to simply curl up on the nearly frozen ground and give up, returning to the dirt and the worms like Tommy is destined to.
Dream chuckles, the sounds deep and rich, coming from Dream's armored chest. "I've been good, Tommy. Better than you, it seems. But don't pretend to forget you know the routine," Dream admonishes. He points to a hole in the distance, a little way away from Tommy's camp. "Everything in the hole."
Tommy looks at Dream, knowing that he expects Tommy to follow the order. And what else can Tommy do but obey? Without even thinking, Tommy's feet guide him over to the hole, Dream keeping pace with him as they walk over. He knows what will come next, the explosion, the fire, but Tommy trusts Dream nonetheless. Dream just wants to help Tommy become the best he can be, to improve. It's his duty as Tommy's friend to help him become more independent and self-reliant as much as it is to punish Tommy for slacking off these past few days.
Silently, as no words are needed anymore, Tommy drops his wooden pickaxe, small collection of rocks, and the one apple he managed to find into the hole. Weeks, if not months ago, Tommy would have had far more to relinquish to Dream's mercy, but now, he owns practically nothing other than the tattered clothes clinging to his body.
Wasting no time, Dream reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter, springing a flame easily to life with one flick of his thumb. With his other hand, he pulls out a single stick of dynamite and lights it before tossing it into the hole carelessly, without a second thought. Such a normal occurrence this is for Dream, destroying any progress Tommy makes, but it's for his benefit.
The explosion is small, but the force of it still sends Tommy to his knees at the edge of the crater, heat licking at his exposed skin. Feathers and hair singed slightly, small rocks digging into his bare knees and shins, Tommy sits on the ground, numbly watching as his few possessions catch fire and burn within mere instants.
"Tommy," Dream's cold voice echoes out across the empty landscape. Tommy looks up at his friend, who now looms over him, appearing as a giant might to an ant and staring down just as mightily so. "You're not hiding anything again, are you?" Tommy shakes his head no. He had already learned his lesson when he dared hide materials away from Dream's routine check-ins, and he isn't going to lie to his friend once again. Amusement and content gather at the edge of Dream's mouth, his lips curling into a pointed smirk. "Good. Wouldn't want this to become even more complicated, would we?" Again, Tommy shakes his head, and Dream nods, ending the matter.
Tommy looks back down at the pit in front of him, wondering for a brief moment just how exactly he got to this moment in time, alone with a man who is both enemy and friend. It took a while, Tommy realizes, beginning truly, all those years ago when Tommy first came here beside Wilbur. When they both immediately began working against Dream, his plans, his friends, and his legacy, turning Tommy and his compatriots into a ragtag army and Dream into the villain that would serve to haunt the rest of Tommy's narrative. It was their fault Dream became so bitter, wasn't it?
A hand plants itself in Tommy's dirtied and unwashed blonde hair, not yanking or tearing, but carding through the oily and clumpy locks. Tommy can't help but sink into the kind touch, embracing the only source of affection and comfort that brings itself willingly to the shores of Tommy's misery and banishment. Another hand soon starts sliding over Tommy's wings, and an instinct flares in Tommy's mind, screaming at him not to trust such a hand near his precious limbs. But Tommy pushes the voice down, ignoring how similar it sounds to his own, and hesitantly leans back into the equally unfamiliar and all too familiar touch.
Behind him, Dream smiles down at Tommy, watching at the blonde trusts him so blindly with his wings, something any and all avians are protective of. Dream pinches a feather between his fingers and rubs it, watching at Tommy stiffens then sags back, as if he and Dream usually do this. With a smirk, Dream tugs the obsidian feather out. Tommy winces and flinches, but does not draw away. The smile gracing Dream's face grows.
"You know, Tommy," Dream says casually, "I like you better broken. Makes you much more… cooperative," Dream lets go of the feather, one that is about as big as his forearm, and watches it drift to the cold ground. It reminds Dream of Tommy's father, a man who has both irritated Dream and aided him in his plans. A man who has not expressed much concern in his youngest son since Tommy's exile.
Dream returns his gaze to Tommy, whose shoulders are tight now, the anxiety rolling off of him in palpable waves, but Dream can see through the cloud of worry. Past the veil is the trust he so carefully crafted in Tommy, all the walls he forcefully broke down, and the warmth and presence he replaced them with. There's still some rubble left blocking some of Dream's efforts, but with a little more time and blows, Tommy will be Dream's and only Dream's.
The man clad in armor pinches off another feather, then pulls another without any sense of remorse.
- - - - -
Agony.
Suffering.
Remorse.
These were what he felt on a daily basis. Phil was destined to hurt after his wife was called back into her godly realm, and he was left alone. But Phil wasn't alone, and it took him far too long to remember the three gifts his wife had left him.
By the time he did, it was too late.
Wilbur was angry and rebellious; he didn't forgive Phil for leaving them when they had just lost their mother. Even if their father was lost in the darkness of his grief, his sons were wallowing in their own, as well.
Technoblade was distant, speaking to no one but himself in the solitude of his bedroom behind a closed door that muffled whatever words he whispered to himself. He, like his father, retreated into himself, lingering on the edges of thoughts and vision, but never fully appearing.
Tommy, though, his reaction was possibly the worst and most heartbreaking for Phil to experience. His blue eyes that shone so brightly when Kristin was around were dampened with sadness and pain. They looked so similar to Phil's own, but whenever Tommy looked at him, it was as if he didn't recognize Phil. Tommy never again sank into Phil's hugs or let him run his calloused hand through his gold curls. Neither did he play with Wilbur nor read with Technoblade. All at once, the relationship each member of the family had with the others was ruined, seemingly beyond repair, and Phil couldn't tell whether the reason was his response to Kristin's absence or her departure.
Then, years later, Wilbur and Tommy left, too, and Phil felt as if his world was crumbling even more. He understood their reasons for wanting to escape, but no father wishes their children to go, especially not after such a monumental fuck-up that he had never been able to repair after years. Nevertheless, Phil let them leave, something he wasn't given a choice about when Kristin was called away.
Surprisingly, though, Technoblade stayed for a while longer. He and Phil awkwardly occupied the house together, struggling to not bump into each other and engage in brief conversation. However, after a while, they began to warm up to each other, more like roommates than father and son. Years of regret and guilt on Phil's part and Technoblade's deep hidden loneliness helped repair Phil's relationship with one of his sons, and when the other two called Technoblade away to help in their affairs, Phil didn't fear him leaving. Phil knew Technoblade would return.
When Phil traveled to L'Manberg at the request of Technoblade, who spoke of insanity on Wilbur's part, he never expected to murder his son or partake in the end of a government. Wilbur forgave him in the end, it so seemed, but Tommy… Tommy looked at Phil with horror and betrayal, and Phil just knew that he would never be able to fully heal the harms he had dealt to his youngest.
It is a truth as sharp and unforgiving as the cold Phil trudges through. Holding his cloak closed against the merciless wind with one hand and clutching the reins of his horse in the other, Phil walks through a forest that isn't located too far from the Arctic, where Phil had traveled from. He's been hunting all day, storing up for when a blizzard inevitably hits, leaving him and his son stranded in their remote cabin. This forest, so far, has provided Phil with only a couple of apples. No wild animals in sight, even though they should still be preparing for the oncoming winter.
Phil continues forth, blinded by the hope that a cow or pig will suddenly wander across his path, but nothing other than a clearing appears. The sudden plain isn't too large— Phil can see across it to where the woods continue— and there is a lake to one side of it, the likely frigid water churning in the breeze.
As Phil turns, surveying the area, hoping to see an animal that made this journey worth it, otherwise, he'll only be returning with the few rabbits and chickens he caught previously, he freezes in place. There, halfway across the field to his right, is a tent. If it can be called one. The battered sheet flaps loosely in the wind, barely a gust away from ripping off the supports entirely. And in front of the tent, not inside, is an indiscernible, huddled figure, clutching itself for warmth.
Concerned, Phil wastes no time in hurrying towards the person, practically dragging his tired horse along. In only a minute, Phil reaches their camp, consisting only of the tent, a few log stools, and an unlit fire.
"Hey," Phil speaks, his voice seeming too loud for the space, "are you alri-" His voice dies. Lost to either the wind or his throat, whisked away before they can emerge or be heard. Because the figure, trembling from cold or pain or both, is none other than Phil's youngest son.
Tommy.
Tommy and what's left of his wings.
Curled around him, Tommy's wings that looked so similar to Phil's own— another similarity that the two of them painfully shared— are not only crooked and bent, broken in ways that can't be obtained by falling, but also plucked to the point of bleeding, leaving only a couple of odd patches of obsidian feathers left among the blood. A few feathers lay fallen around Tommy, but otherwise, Phil doesn't know where the rest of them went. What could have done this? An animal? Tommy himself? That option makes bile rise from Phil's gut, burning his throat.
At the sound of Phil's voice, Tommy slowly lifts his head, turning around, confused as he searches for a voice he swears he hasn't heard before. When his washed-out blue eyes land on Phil, Tommy stills, staring at his father with only faint recognition that mostly stems from the massive wings hanging from Phil's back.
"Phil?" Tommy whispers, his voice hoarse and quiet, barely discernible from the wind rustling the nearby tree branches.
Phil, not Dad. When was the last time Tommy called Phil Dad? Shaking the thought away, Phil focuses back in on the moment, gazing sadly at the dried tear stains on Tommy's sunken cheeks, the trembling shoulders and wings, and the dirtied clothes and skin. "What… happened to you, Tommy? Your wings-" Phil's voice breaks.
Tommy is in worse shape than Phil has ever seen him, but the sight and state of Tommy's wings have Phil reeling the most. Phil may have been in the room when Tommy's wings burst from his back in a shower of panic and blood, but he was also a reason his youngest son and sole heir of his wings, never imprinted. That doesn't mean Phil doesn't understand the importance of wings, though, to an avian. They are a pair of their prized possessions, a symbol of freedom and independence. For them to be broken so badly leaves Tommy stranded like a baby bird, unable to fly, let alone make it off the ground.
Tommy spares a quick glance down at his wings. "He said it was necessary," Tommy rasps, as if that explains the entire situation to Phil.
"Who did, Tommy?" Phil questions with increasing worry.
"Dream," Tommy states bluntly.
Phil stares at Tommy like he is the one unable to recognize a member of his own family, his own flesh and blood. Tommy returns the unblinking look, and Phil realizes with dawning horror just how much Tommy has changed over the years. No longer is there the boisterous, stubborn, and charismatic son Phil had to chase around the house to throw and wrestle into bed every night.
Tears sting Phil's eyes, and he quickly blinks them away, not wanting to break down right now. Not when Tommy is so obviously in need of help. "Did you let him do this?" Phil asks, his pitch rising in desperate hope.
"He said it was necessary," Tommy repeats.
A flare of anger rises in Phil's chest. He takes a few steps toward Tommy, who doesn't react, just stares tiredly up at Phil. Closer now, Phil can see just how extreme Tommy has lost weight, as well as the blue tint to his lips and purple remnants of bruises gracing his skin. "Tommy, this wasn't necessary at all. He broke you." Phil struggles to keep his voice even.
"Dream was helping me. He's my friend," Tommy states with a straight face.
Phil looks at his son with blatant disbelief. "Friend? Tommy, he has ruined your life so much! And friends don't hurt other friends, let alone break their fucking wings!" Phil's own wings flare slightly, the feathers roughly in suppressed anger. Tommy doesn't respond; he just keeps looking at Phil to the point that the two of them are suspended in silence, waiting for the web to be cut by one of their voices snapping the string. Phil shatters the quiet with a decision that may be rash, but is right. "Come on, I'm taking you home, Tommy."
At this, Tommy begins to look worried, a hint of anxiety clouds his eyes. "I can't leave. I'm exiled. And Dream will be worried when he comes back," Tommy glances around at the bleak landscape, as if he expects Dream to suddenly manifest right there before them.
"Fuck Dream. You're leaving. End of discussion," Phil states, his restraint to yell and swear violently hanging intact by a weak thread. He offers a hand to Tommy, who doesn't take it, then grabs Tommy by the armpits and lifts him up to his feet. Tommy is far too light, even for someone as strong as Phil, but instead of lingering on the thought of what that means, Phil swings Tommy into his arms and carries him baby style over to his horse.
"Wait, Phil-" Tommy protests, beginning to squirm in Phil's hold, but then cries out in pain as he moves his wings.
"Shit, stay still." Phil holds Tommy firmer, trying not to bring his son anymore pain or discomfort.
But Tommy doesn't stop squirming, even as it grinds his broken bones agonizingly together. "No! I can't leave! I can't leave!" Tommy rants, panic setting in over him.
Not wanting to have Tommy fling himself out of his arms, Phil lowers them both to the ground, the cold surface immediately bleeding through the fabric of his pants, chilling his knees. The moment Phil sets Tommy on the dying grass, the young blonde tries to scramble away, but Phil grasps his flailing arms and pins them down to his sides, holding Tommy mostly still.
"Tommy," Phil raises his voice, trying to catch his son's attention. "Tommy!" Frantic, faded blue eyes lock onto Phil's bright ones, the color of a sea on a spring day. Phil takes a deep breath, calming his nerves and urging his voice to come out even and calm. "You can't stay here anymore. I am taking you home, and I'm going to clean you up and bandage your wings."
Tommy shakes his head emphatically. "No, no, no," he mutters, his eyes distant, as if considering some horrid future if he were to accompany his father away from Exile.
"Yes, Tommy. Yes. I won't…" Phil swallows the lump in his throat. "I won't fail you again."
"He won't be happy. He'll be sad I left him," Tommy rambles, not hearing Phil's words, his sincerity.
Phil sighs, his patience running thin. Once again, he lifts Tommy into his arms, careful of his broken wings and thin body, all of Tommy's bones as brittle as the feathers he lost. Immediately, Tommy tries to struggle again, but his movements are sluggish and weak. All of his energy is gone, and the only thing Tommy is able to do is accept his fate, allowing Phil to carry him over to his horse and somehow manage to get them both on. Tommy being still the entire time, limp in Phil's hold, is somehow more unsettling than his unnerving stubbornness to stay in the bleak and cold landscape of Exile.
"Ready?" Phil asks, looking down at Tommy, who is propped carefully in front of Phil on the horse in a position so his weak form will not crumple or fall off the horse while riding. Tommy does not answer; his gaze is locked steadily on an indeterminable point in the distance, paying no more attention to the real world.
Phil nods as if Tommy answered him, and snaps the reins, digging his heels into the horse's sides, and sending the steed galloping forward at a fast but comfortable pace.
Soon, the father and son leave behind the barren meadow and woods that marked the miserable Exile Tommy was subjected to, and that Phil once again was too late to save him from. Phil can only hope that he can make up for his transgressions and help Tommy heal, both physically and mentally. Because if the wings are a sign, it shows that whatever— or rather whoever— did it caused more damage than what's on the surface.every word left unspoken, Phil's mind supplies agonizing sentences to mull over in quiet contemplation.