Chapter Text
Once upon a time, in the world of gods and men, there was a railroad line.
(A railroad line, on the road to Hell.)
And on this road to hell, on these metal tracks and worn down dirt, there are the lilting trails of a melody.
(It’s an old song. It’s a tragedy.)
We sing it anyway.
It starts as most songs do, on a quiet note. It starts with a man who would give the world, and the two people who loved him enough to give it back.
It starts with Technoblade.
Technoblade was a fighter, and a farmer. He had hair his brother would teasingly call pig hide, rose stained strands tied up to his head. He had eyes that looked like they would kill you, until you spoke to him and all he would talk about was the growing rate of potato harvest. He had a laugh as rare as rain, not so impossible, but like treasure all the same. He had a voice deeper than the ravines Phil would warn him about, like thunder in his chest. He had scars he wore with not so much pride, but acceptance, and a heart more precious than any golden apple.
And he was dead.
His brother had found him, bloodied in his field, and wept. He burned him on a small pyre, a coin under his tongue and flowers in his hair. Hydrangea and lily.
Several people came that day to pay their respects. Wilbur didn’t recognize any of them, not that he would be able to past the angry sting of tears in his eyes. Smoke burned into an orange sky, soot and ashes soon blown away by the wind. The mourners leave in a steady trickle. Wilbur stands alone by the seared stone.
And he curses the gods. He calls them by name, cursing each and every one of them. The musician, now left without his other half, screams his laments into the air. The winds whip around him, the trees entranced by his cries. He dares them to take him as well, to strike him for his insolence.
The gods are not cruel. They do not care enough to be cruel. They do not hear the musician’s pleas. His words fall on deaf ears and whistled breeze.
Wilbur is left miserably alive. He gathers his guitar, picks himself up from the harrowed nest of leaves and soil he's knelt in, and looks to the south.
A piercing noise interrupts the gauze in his ears, a shrill tone and the scratch of metal. He sees a hint of railroad tracks, abandoned and rusted, and echoed by a train. Like shadows and night, a monstrous creature of steel, it soars past him, deafening in its call. There is wind that blows in its wake, but his hair is not ruffled, and his jacket stays still. It goes fast enough to steal the breath from his lungs, and then it’s gone, and he stands by an empty track, half dusted over and lifeless.
It did not come for him. But he will follow it.
The tracks stretch on for miles, and then some. It winds and goes and disappears into the woods, into the mountains and hills and valleys. It stretches on into eternity. Wilbur breathes in the fog and dirtied musk, wipes the grime off his brow, and follows the railroad track, down on the road to Hell.
But he was not the only soul on this road.
No, fate has other plans.
(On the road to hell, there was a railroad line.)
And there is a survivor looking for his friend. With a striped hat and sungold hair, he lived the world with stories lined on his face. He’s walked far, with aching soles and wearied back, but a smile twists his lips.
He arrives at an overgrown farm.
He arrives at a quiet home, with furniture dusted over and a bed that’s not been slept in. He arrives at a field, and he arrives at a pyre. His shoes step over the grey smear of ash, and the dying embers of a great fire.
He arrives at the place looking for where his friend once lived. Instead he finds a grave. It is empty now, and not a soul to be seen. No one sees the smile drop, nor the man fall to his knees. Trembling hands curl around singed lilies, somehow untouched by the fire.
The brother had cursed the gods. The friend now utters a prayer.
Philza cups the flower, nestling it back into the wood and stone. He picks up his hat, closing wearied eyes for a second before he turns, catching on a glint by the outcrop.
He approaches the tracks, and once more a faint whistle calls. He hears it sing, like a warning and an invitation both. He looks back at the wisps of smoke rising from the oak, and the flowers in its cradle, and he walks down the railroad track.
(That will take you to your final destination.)
And they walked. To where the sun doesn’t shine, and it’s always gray. Where the mine and the machinery and the stink of rot wrap around you like chains and toil.
They walked the way down to Hades.