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Techno is on a battlefield, fighting in a war, when the whispers start.
At first they’re indecipherable; soft, layered murmurs filtering in with sharp, hissing ‘S’s being the only sound Techno can pick out from the rest. Then they continue getting louder with every step he takes over this tough, grassy ground, occasional words like ‘seek’ and ‘search’ arching over the rest of the mumbling before dipping back down.
He doesn’t have to question what’s happening for long before a single word is collectively uttered by all of the voices that makes his blood run cold.
‘Soulmate,’ they whisper as one, then lapse back into separate phrases, but it’s enough to set Techno on edge as he halts, stock-still in the middle of the battle raging around him.
The sounds of swords clashing, bodies falling and arrows hurtling overhead almost quietens as his thoughts overtake the noise of the battlefield and that of the voices ricocheting around his mind. He has a soulmate? And it’s somebody on this battlefield at that, if his knowledge of the whispers is correct.
They supposedly start when you come close to the person you’re soul bonded to, leading you closer through their rise and dip in volume. Essentially, it’s like a more serious game of hot or cold, ending when you make physical contact with your soulmate and finalise the bond between you two through the marks that form wherever you first touched skin on skin.
That means his soulmate is somewhere on this field, fighting in this war with him — or possibly against him. That also means they’re a soldier, like him, and that plus having a soulmate causes its own problems…
You see, people with soulmates aren’t allowed in the army because soulmates have shared pain. There’s no bleeding or bruising or vomiting but the pain mirrors from one body to the other, and vice versa, wherever one soulmate was hurt. There’s no medical evidence to show that your suffering is because of your soulmate but if you have a soul mark, you’re kicked out immediately.
In wars like the one Techno is submerged in, one arrow can down two soldiers if they’re soulmates which leads to less men fighting for the cause and, therefore, a more likely loss.
Techno also intends to leave this battle when it’s over and go and fight elsewhere — the Blood God is required in many places at a time — but his soulmate would have to desert the army (and face the death penalty if caught doing so) to join him.
All in all, Techno muses, this has to be one of the worst positions to be in when you find out you have a soulmate.
A winged shadow from above passes over the coarse grass and onto his knee-length, black boots, breaking his chain of thoughts. He’d recognise that blackened outline anywhere.
It’s on wanted posters that’re plastered onto walls and hung up next to his own; its description spreads by word of mouth through taverns like lice; it’s tossed around in the army too, many having the hope of fighting on the same side as the myth of a man. ‘The Angel of Death,’ the voices whisper frantically.
Techno’s head snaps upwards and he draws his sword from the sheath at his belt, squinting into the skies, trying to pinpoint where the man is. The consistent murmuring of the voices is really not helping…
A flutter of feathers from over his shoulder sends him spinning on his heel, shocked at the Angel’s speedy and invisible descent. His eyes greedily absorb the man: from his flowing green robes and blond half-up half-down topknot, to the sleek onyx wings mantled behind him and the katana sheathed at his back.
“Hiya, mate,” the man says, his voice light — even jovial — despite their predicament. “How’s it going?”
Techno snorts a breath of air out through his nose at the benign small talk the Angel of Death is trying to engage him in and decides to shut it down. He’s here for a fight, and this one might actually last longer than a few seconds — a great feat against the Blood God. “Well I dunno if you noticed, Angel, but we’re kinda fighting in a war of attrition, so we’re not really going anywhere,” he quips back, tightening his grip on his trusty sword.
The Angel laughs, his whole face involved in the action, from the crinkle of his eyes to the dimples in his cheeks. “I s’pose not,” he agrees, reaching over his shoulder to draw his katana free from its sheath. “We should probably crack on with trying to change that, then.”
And that’s all the warning Techno gets before the man is lunging forward, forcing the other to move as his sword thrusts into the space that Techno had just occupied.
A sharp grin takes over his normal stoicism as he twists away from another well-aimed stab. “Oh you’re on, bird brain!”
The fight continues like that, with them swapping fiery retorts at one another every so often and with swords clashing as the midday sun beats down on them relentlessly. The voices continue whispering venom in his ears but the fight helps to distract him, keeping his concentration elsewhere. He can focus on the soulmate stuff later.
“Are ya getting tired, Angel?” Techno mocks as he slips his sword through a gap in the blond man’s defences. He manages to nick a deep line across the other warrior’s thigh, pulling back just in time to parry another blow to his neck.
The Angel hisses at the pain and pushes harder against their criss-crossed swords. Techno plants a foot firmly behind him so he doesn’t slip and also urges his sword upwards, trying to force the man back.
“Oh, fuck off!” His rival shoots back without heat, looking him in the eye through the crossed swords before disengaging and trying to take a quick jab for Techno’s abdomen.
He doesn’t feel the sword pierce his clothes but the man must’ve got a hit in somewhere as a pain in his thigh makes him wince. It's not the worst pain he's ever felt though, so he soldiers through it (no pun intended) and swipes at the Angel's feet.
“Are you going easy on me, Blood God?” The Angel of Death goads, nimbly hopping over the attempted hit and sending one straight back at Techno. “You can do better than that, surely?”
Techno grunts in response, a droplet of sweat rolling down his cheek. He flicks it off but before he can think of a cool comeback to say the Angel sighs loudly, like a horse huffing, and grits out, “Shut up.”
“Jeez, I didn't even say anything...” Techno frowns, lunging with his sword and being stopped again with a clash of metal ringing out as their weapons meet.
The Angel shakes his head, as if getting rid of flies buzzing around him, then he grimaces rubbing a finger against his temple. “Never mind…”
“Headache?” Techno guesses, pausing for a second to swipe off the sweat beading on his brow.
“Sorta. Anyways, it doesn’t matter.” The Angel fights in a more determined way after that, dodging blows by a hair’s breadth, using riskier moves and laying more dependence on his wings to hold his balance.
The rhythm from before is upset, and Techno also has to rely on his strength and speed to combat the risks his rival takes.
It seems like their fight could go on forever until the Angel uses a beat of his wings to launch into the air and cover the little space between them swiftly, pointing his sword downwards, towards Techno’s neck, as he lands.
Using his fast reaction time, Techno pulls up his chunkier sword to meet the slim katana, catching the middle and pushing it to the side. The Angel goes with his blade, unwilling to be disarmed, and is sent rolling over the cracked ground with a slam.
Techno rushes over to stand on the katana that’s still wedged in the blond man’s grip so it can’t be used. He looks down on the other warrior, sprawled on the dirt with black feathers littering the ground beside him and his wings crooked, as if broken.
The Angel groans, covering his eyes from the sun with one hand and moving his other from the hilt of his sword to his ribs. “Nice one, mate,” he relents softly, letting his head drop fully to the ground, exposing his neck.
He expects to be killed, Techno realises. “See you later, Angel,” he replies quietly, denying the man any time to understand what that means before he smacks the hilt of his machete sword into the side of the blond’s head, knocking him out cold.
He stays standing there for a second longer, watching the man and wondering what he should do. He stays a second too long.
A sharp pain explodes in his shoulder blades and he drops to his knees with the pain. He wasn’t watching his back and those few seconds was all it took for somebody to take advantage of that.
Another slam of pain digs into his head and he realises somebody must’ve got him in the head too as he slumps to the ground and his eyes slip shut.
***
Techno wakes up to an intense pain in his back and the voices still whispering their unintelligible words and phrases. He groans and rolls over on the hard cot, before realising that he isn’t in his own bed.
He bolts upright, reaching around under his pillow for the knife he usually keeps there but it’s not there either. That cements it: he’s definitely not in his own tent back at the army camp.
He’s still wearing his clothes from the battle, which makes sense, but the sleeves of his shirt have been pulled up and his weapons are gone from their hiding places. Arching his back to crack it, he looks at his surroundings.
He’s in a small canvas bell tent with big crates of medicine stacked all along one side and his cot on the other. It’s clear he’s in the medbay having been seen to by an army doctor — the flag for the army he’s fighting for is hung up in the corner, a pretty obvious sign. A second later, a flap of cream fabric, used as a door, is pulled back and a medic enters. “Oh, you’re awake!”
Techno hums passively, rolling his white shirt sleeves down, self consciously covering his battle scars. “You mind telling me what happened?”
The medic man paces over, carrying several rolls of bandages and some other medical equipment that Techno knows he doesn’t need. “Sure! The group that dragged you back from the field last night said they found you and the Angel of Death knocked out a metre away from each other.” Last night? He remembers collapsing at about midday… so he was out there at the whim of any soldiers for half a day? He thought at the time somebody hit him in the head but it wouldn’t make sense not to kidnap Techno when they’ve knocked down such a key player in the war. How did he black out then?
His thoughts get interrupted by the doctor, who’s still chattering away. “Apparently they took the Angel straight to the cell block, for questioning.”
They both know that means torture — a method that Techno disapproves of no matter which side the recipient is from. Partly because he’s had it inflicted on himself, and partly because it doesn’t work; the victim doesn’t necessarily tell the truth, they just tell the torturer whatever they think wants to be heard. “I did ask if he needed treatment but the higher-ups denied him any,” the doctor finishes. “Oh, and you didn’t seem to have any major wounds, just a bit of bruising here and there.”
That doesn’t address the full-body ache that weighs his limbs down, even if some of it is muscle cramps, but he presses on anyway. “Good. And what news is there of progress now their main soldier is out of action?” Techno presses himself up off the cot, swinging his legs over the side and wincing at the spike of pain in one thigh, while stuffing his feet into boots, and grabbing his red cloak and weapons from the stool by his bedside.
The doctor leans over the crates and slides one of the lids off, not looking at Techno as he rummages inside. “Last report I got was of movement towards their encampment and a severe drop in the other side’s morale.”
Techno hums again before lifting himself up gingerly and bidding farewell to the medic, secretly grabbing a few rolls of bandages on the way out of the tent. He reasons that he might need them later on, but really he knows he took them because he’s going to visit the Angel. He distinctly remembers the impact of the man’s wings against the ground in a broken bones kinda way rather than bruised.
On the way to the prison block, a constant stream of greetings from lower ranked soldiers follows him. He doesn’t pay them any more attention than a quick nod though, partly because he’s limping from the invisible pains of the battle and partly because the voices hammering on his skull are getting louder again with every step. It’s getting harder to concentrate.
Maybe that means his soulmate is in the same army as him? That would be a positive, he thinks hopefully, but they’d still be a weakness in Techno’s high-built defences. He’d have to watch his own back and somebody else’s to make sure his soulmate isn’t getting hurt or kidnapped to use against him.
Sounds like a lot more effort than it’s worth.
Techno has half a mind just to leave right now. He’s fulfilled his end of the bargain (bringing victory closer to his side of the war) and he’d rather not know who his soulmate is. Maybe they won’t want him anyway, he is a heartless killer — even more so than the other soldiers.
It might be better if he just leaves now, but he wants to see his rival before he departs — just to check he’s not dead, nothing more. He tries to forget the bandages stuffed into an inside pocket of his cloak.
***
The prison block is an ugly place, rushed boxy buildings with no windows and heavy duty doors to stop the escape of prisoners. There are a few empty cells, Techno realises as his eyes adjust to the dark, but the filled ones hold prisoners with downcast faces and broken bodies. Tortured.
A stab of pity writhes in his chest. It could’ve been him in this position if he’d been found by the enemy, sprawled next to the Angel of Death. He decides to show the prisoners mercy rather than torture implements.
By the time he reaches the Angel’s barred room, he only has one roll of bandages left. He catches himself hoping it’s enough to wrap the man’s wings then curses his unreasonable sympathy.
The man himself is curled into a ball on the floor, knees tucked to chest, his wings crookedly trying to hide his body from the world and his skin pulsing with purple bruises. His blond hair is sweatily stuck to his forehead and neck, and he groans when Techno bangs his fist lightly on the metal bars.
“Still got that headache?” Techno drawls, grabbing the keys from the hook outside, unlocking the door and slipping through. He has no doubt that if the Angel tries to escape he can shut the attempt down fairly quickly, so he doesn’t lock up again once he’s inside.
In truth, he also has a headache from all the voices bouncing around his skull, having got louder since he entered the prison block. He pays them no attention.
The throbbing in his back is harder to ignore.
“Come to gloat, have you?” The other man mumbles from his place on the floor, shifting slightly with a wince so he’s in some semblance of a seated position.
Techno takes the final roll of bandages out of his cloak pocket and drops it onto the dusty floor in front of the other warrior as a peace offering. “No, actually. I came to see if you’re alright after our fight.”
The Angel pokes his head up with an incredulous look. “Why?” he says, squinting suspiciously at the white bandages.
“‘Cause that’s the decent thing to do, and heaven knows this place isn’t decent at all,” Techno replies gesturing around the cell, with its pot at the back for relieving oneself into and the ratty blanket in the corner for sleeping on.
The blond snorts. “The people aren’t either,” he agrees bitterly, alluding to his torturer. He reaches out for the bandages, uncurling from the tight ball and shuffling so his back is resting against the grey wall, his wing still splayed out oddly. Techno watches as he fumbles around a bit, trying to unwrap the white roll with shaking hands.
“Well I’d like to think I’m a bit better, ‘specially since I owe this army nothing.” Techno takes a step closer, crouching down, with empty hands spread upwards, “Let me help with those.”
The Angel sighs and rolls the bandages across the floor to Techno, maintaining the space between them. He weakly raises an arm, accepting the support previously offered.
Techno slides easily into the gap under the Angel’s arm, feeling the other man’s hand tightly grasp the material of the cloak on Techno’s back, and snakes his arm around the Angel’s shoulder, being careful to avoid touching the crooked, feathery limbs.
As soon as the Angel’s hand makes contact with the red fabric, a tingling twitches under the skin there, like pins and needles.
The touch is removed immediately, hands hastily retracting as the two separate, stumbling back to opposite sides of the cell as if burnt.
Techno frowns, shocked at the inexplicable sensation, and peers over his shoulder in an attempt to find the cause for his tingling back and itching skin but there’s nothing there.
The voices in his head, which were ascending in volume with every step on the walk here, rise to a cacophonous crescendo, so loud it forces Techno to his knees with his hands covering his ears, before they fall into a collective silence. Only a single voice remains, its metaphoric mouth moving to utter a final word, ‘Soulmate,’ before withering away along with the rest.
He tentatively peels his hands off his ears and basks in the silence, recovering from the pounding noise of hundreds of voices all speaking at once, clamouring for attention over the rest.
The peaceful bliss that engulfs the place where the voices used to hide is broken by a breathy laugh from the other side of the cell. “My headache’s gone,” the winged man, his rival, the Angel of Death, his soulmate , says. It’s not even that funny, but the two laugh, long and loud, the air filled with Techno’s deep chuckles and the blond man’s higher pitched giggles.
Techno finds himself thinking the universe picked correctly in that moment.
It makes sense for them to be soulmates, now he thinks about it. They’re both killers, both warriors, both lonely (or maybe that’s just Techno…).
It explains why he blacked out after he knocked out the Angel and why his body throbs without any clear surface injuries; shared pain would do that, though it’s worse for the one who actually got injured. It explains why the voices, who’d only ever said soulmate-related words and phrases before, said the man’s battle moniker when they first met. It explains why his rival said ‘shut up’ to thin air during the battle. He was speaking to the voices.
He can’t believe he missed all the signs that so clearly pointed to his soulmate all along. Gods, he’s so stupid! Everything suddenly makes much more sense, it’s like he’s awoken the truth and found in it the missing pieces of the jigsaw.
When their chortling finally peters off, the blond man rolls up the sleeve of his dirtied, green robe, exposing several lines of scar tissue — and it’s only now that Techno realises he doesn’t even know the man’s name, only his battle pseudonym. It didn’t matter before, when they were only acquaintances, but it does now that they’ve found out their souls are entwined together by the universe. The Blood God and the Angel of Death, who would’ve imagined!
He hikes the sleeve up further, and as it reaches the bicep— there! A spiky crown, not unlike the ones Techno’s seen monarchs wearing, sits on the blond man’s shoulder in bold, black ink. A plush cushion encompassed by thin wire-work draws attention to the emeralds smattered into the base band, all drawn delicately onto his the skin. A soul mark. His soul mark on the other man’s skin.
That confirms it; they’re soulmates. The confirmed knowledge sends a wave of shock and numbness rolling over Techno as he stares, dumbstruck, at the mark that acts as evidence.
The blond man runs a reverent thumb gently over it, as if worried it will smudge if he presses too hard. “It’s beautiful,” Techno whispers before he can stop himself, his mouth loosened by the shock of finding his soulmate.
“It represents you,” his soulmate replies earnestly, pinging the compliment straight back and turning twinkling blue eyes to Techno, whose cheeks heat at the praise. It shows a sneak peek of the real man under the lethal mantle of blood and grime. It speaks of the kindness he’s able to freely give to the people he cares about.
They regard each other for another minute in silence, both still sitting on the floor of the cell where they fell after quickly untangling their limbs, taking in every aspect of the other before coming to a unanimous decision at the same time in their heads. “Let’s start over, pretend the last day and a half never happened and go forward from here?” The blond man says, the smallest hint of a question entering into his tone indicating doubt, as if Techno could ever deny the forgiving olive branch being offered.
Techno doesn’t hesitate to agree, letting out a relieved breath at not having to be the one to suggest it. “Sounds good to me. Call me Technoblade, or just Techno. And you…?” He trails off at the end awkwardly, leaving a suggestive silence for the blond man to fill with his name and inwardly berating himself for not being able to ask for it properly.
Luckily, the winged man catches his drift. “Philza, Phil to you.” He says that so easily, as if Techno is on better terms with him than everyone else, when in reality they were fighting against each other in a bloody war mere hours ago. He registers that he does want to get to know Phil better than anyone else does, and that only adds to the nervous butterflies beating their wings against his stomach.
“Let’s see yours, then, Techno,” Phil says, indicating the soul mark on his shoulder and then pointing to Techno.
Phil spins his hands in an encouraging ‘speed up’ gesture and Techno hesitantly drops his cloak to the ground and tugs off his shirt. He’s showing more than Phil did, all his scars laid bare for the man — his soulmate — to see, but he pushes down the worry and tells himself that trust is the first step in allowing his soulmate to get to know him better.
There’s an intake of breath from Phil, whose blue eyes are wide and in awe, fixed on his back. Techno strains his neck to see more than just the glimpse of a tiny dark ink cloud and gets rewarded with a full view.
Black ink soars across the landscape of Techno’s back, from his shoulder blade to his tricep, in intricate, swooping lines: an outstretched wing — like Phil’s but inked. Every delicate feather can be picked out from the rest with minuscule details that even an artist wouldn’t have been able to draw so delicately. Only the universe can create something so inherently perfect.
A breeze of air coming through the open door to the building sends goose pimples down Techno’s back so he quickly pulls his shirt and cloak back on and picks up the bandages still lying on the floor from before.
“Can I?” he asks shyly, nodding at Phil’s wings and holding up the bandages. He’s asking for the same trust he just shared to be reciprocated, hoping he isn’t pushing too far. The understanding that he caused some of those injuries makes him feel sick to the stomach. The idea of ever hurting Phil feels so completely wrong and foreign in his mind.
Phil nods carefully, trying to stretch out the closest one but hissing through his teeth in pain when he can’t fully. Techno feels a slight twinge in his back but no more and is surprised by the lack of pain for him while Phil is feeling loads. He mutters reassurances either way as he unwinds the roll of bandages and touches the broken wing.
It’s the first time they’ve touched since the soul marks appeared and the feel of the feathers between his fingers sends tingles along his skin like a current of energy. Being this close to Phil’s wings makes him feel powerful. The man must trust him a great deal, the wings feel so fragile, breakable with the wrong pressure placed in a few areas, and in this moment, he promises never to take advantage of that trust. He hopes he can trust the man back equally some day.
There’s dirt, dried and peeling, and lots of the feathers are crooked but the actual break in the wing looks clean, which Techno supposes is a good thing. He lingers for a moment, hand inside his cloak’s secret pocket, hovering over the regeneration potion he knows is only for emergencies due to its rarity.
He declares the moment an emergency in his head. If Phil doesn’t have this treated quickly then he might never be able to regain full movement of the limbs again nor fly — something he wouldn’t want for anyone, much less his newly-found soulmate.
He pulls the bottle of regen out and applies it generously to the area that bends outwards at an odd angle. Phil flinches at the cool liquid and his breathing becomes laboured in discomfort as it stings. (Techno barely feels a thing in comparison and the guilt from that alone is glaring.) “What’re you doing?” Phil asks, his voice ever-so-slightly dipping into panic.
“Applyin’ regen,” he grunts back reassuringly, tilting the bent bit back to its usual place so the regeneration will heal it correctly. Phil keens in agony, the high wailing sound echoing and making Techno freeze where he is, sending shudders down his spine.
It’s for the best, he thinks as he listens to the suffering cries and inventive insults of his soulmate dealing with the pain and feels a lesser stabbing in his back. He feels like he should be taking more of the pain, since he’s the one creating it, and he yearns to wipe the grimace off Phil’s face and get that grin from the battlefield back. He doesn’t know how to though, so he keeps wanting and he keeps wrapping bandages around the wing because it’s all he can do to help.
When Phil resurfaces from the waves of pain, clutching Techno’s hand like a lifeline, he smiles, and it isn’t quite the same as before, more watery with less creases around his eyes, but it’s there nonetheless which Techno is thankful for. “Thank you, Techno,” he croaks out, throat still hoarse from the raw chirps that roughly tore out of his throat minutes ago.
“No problem.”
He puts away the regen bottle and makes to disentangle their entwined hands but is stopped by Phil putting his other hand on top. Techno looks up and meets Phil’s eyes again, noticing the tears clinging to the lashes. “Mate, potions are expensive. You didn’t have to use yours on me.”
“I didn’t have to, no, but I wanted to.” Techno puts as much emotion into his normally monotone voice as he says, “That potion isn’t even a start on what I would do for you, Phil. Anyways, you can pay me back by not getting hurt again.” (They ignore the fact that Techno caused the broken wing.) The solemn moment ends as soon as humour is added.
Phil snorts. “I’ll try, mate.”
With Phil bandaged up, there’s only one thought running circles around his mind, a question: What now?
Phil is his soulmate and Techno is Phil’s, but what does that mean for each other? He can’t go back to his life of solitude, hopping between armies and only having a true allegiance to himself, because there’s another person who’s carved out a part of his soul he couldn’t reclaim even if he wanted to.
Phil can’t go back to fighting on the other side of the current war — Techno can’t bear the thought of him getting so injured again. It’s not even the fact that Techno would feel the other man’s pain, it’s because he just feels like he’s clicked with him so utterly and completely.
The universe has chosen correctly.
Techno isn’t thinking about the logistics of having a soulmate anymore, with all the possible pain that comes from sharing a soul and army desertion plans. Instead he’s wondering where they should escape to and what they could do with all the time ahead of them.
So, what now? There’s only one answer, Techno decides.
“You ready to leave?” he asks, never dropping Phil’s hand as he rises to his feet, helping his soulmate up with him. Techno kicks open the door of the cell, hearing it clang against the wall from the power behind his boot.
Phil is unsteady on his feet from the pain still weighing heavy on his wings, and leans on Techno’s shoulder as they wait for Phil to stop swaying. He looks confused and pauses before speaking with disbelief, “You're just letting me go? I’m not sure your boss would be happy—”
They really wouldn’t be happy at all, but what’re they gonna do about it? Techno looks his soulmate in the eyes once more. “Phil, they’re not my bosses anymore. They can try to stop me— us, if you're comin’ along too— but in the end they’re no match for the Blood God,” he says with a smirk, trying to loosen the worry in his chest with humour and put out the option of Phil escaping with him.
Phil snorts, eyes trailing to the floor in thought. Worry still shows in the lines of his face. “So we’re just gonna leave and… never come back?”
Techno nods. “I don’t know about you, Phil, but spendin’ time with my soulmate seems more important than some stupid war. Don’t y’think?” By the time they leave this world and head for the next, Techno wants to know Phil back to front and inside out, from the small things to the big. He wants to know everything— but does Phil feel the same?
Phil’s eyes find Techno’s black and white, digging into his soul to find the truth. He’s already heard it though. “Alright then. Where to first, Blood God?” Phil asks, using his moniker mockingly.
Techno’s mouth slowly curls into a grin. That’s all he wanted to hear. “Anywhere you want, Phil. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.” Another truth. He’d conquer hell to drag Phil back to the mortal plane.
After a pause where Phil lifts a hand to wipe something from his eyes, he replies softly, “Okay, you sap. Let’s get out of here.”
They hobble out of there together, once enemies, now turned into soulmates.
By the end of the day, there’s been a mysterious and inexplicable leak in the prison block and all the prisoners have escaped, including the mighty Angel of Death. (Many expect to see him back on the battlefield soon after but his name disappears into the wind along with the man himself, presumably carried by his wings.)
Along with the prisoners, one horse, called Carl by stablehands, had ridden off into the sunset, rumoured to have been carrying a man in a cloak and another person holding the former’s shoulders loosely, asleep.
Hours later and many miles away from the battlefield, Phil and Techno are watching the sunset, bidding goodbye to their former lonely lives and welcoming their new ones together with open arms.