Bedrock was cold.

Very cold.

So cold that the coals burning in the corner of the room nearly crackled out with every breath too harsh.

A small room, a bunker of sorts, was filled with that cold chill, nestled away into the depths of the ground.

The discordant ringing of tempering metal hit the open air.

Metal on metal, clashing- clanging and sharpening- molting and re-tempering.

The noises vaguely echoed on the barren walls, and did nothing to pause the creator who brought the sounds into existence.

Clang- clang-

Temper-

Pause.

Repeat.

Onto the anvil- hammer sweeping down- brandishing each line of written book enchantment further into the depths of the sword, patting down the spell till even from a peripheral view, the sword made its purple glow radiant and abundantly obvious.

Things in nature have bright colors to warn of danger.

A warning that said, 'Come at me on your own peril.'

A warning that every peice of enchantment helped slather onto the sword in his hand.

The maker of that sword was just as brightly colored.

Pink hair swooping out of the harshly pulled together braid, elegant even in disarray-

Bright.

Bright color.

And a very harsh warning- with boundless strength behind his frame, body just as dangerous as the sword he dipped into the slack tub.

The sizzling of the cooling enchantments hushed the room, and Technoblade hunched over the anvil.

His colorful hair fell farther into his face, dull red eyes peering at the cracks that formed onto the anvil as his newly crafted sword sat cooling in the water.

He sighed.

He squinted.

He stood up straight.

Something was amiss inside of him.

Every voice in his head grew louder and louder the closer he got to finishing the newly sculpted sword.

Louder and louder- screaming with joy and ceaselessly parading around the fact that the sword wasn't for himself.

With a cautionary dip of his fingers into the water, he tested how hot the netherite sword was- humming when it was cooled before twisting it out of the slack tub with a graceful twirl of his hand.

He brandished it into the light- staring into the newly placed enchantments, holding it up to gaze at it's unfinished frame.

No handle yet attached, merely the bare blade.

Perhaps...

He wondered to himself.

Perhaps this would do.

He no longer knew why he was doing this.

It began as a baseless fiddling of his hands- then the burning itch and need to do something. Make something. Put his skills to use rather then sit and rest.

So he put himself to use. And a part of him knew how heavily influenced his decision was- but he started making it regardless.

Huffing- again- he stared at the rough edges of the netherite sword.

It needed to be sharpened.

So he did sharpen it.

He took it, he grabbed a whetstone, and he sat down and started to sharpen his blade.

Her blade.

The blade- fuck.

A disgruntled noise escaped him as he looked at the blade in his hand. Lithe, and dangerous, but crafted smaller. Specifically for her.

The whetstone made a rough noise against the netherite, farther grinding the blade, sharper and sharper.

Why was he even doing this.

He didn't need to do this.

Technoblade stared at the sword in his hand, still harshly stringing the whetstone across it, still making every last piece of it perfect.

She didn't know what that much gold meant- he knew she didn't. Because no one knows what that means and hands it out like a candy- she even said she was making golden apples for him- but he ruined the surprise and forced her present out early- so it wasn't meant to be a bag of gold and yet-

That other part of him- the direct and instinctual link to his hybrid side? Absolutely preened at the gift- so proud- so appeased-

As were the voices-

And he knew, he absolutely knew it had no sort of other motive- but his dumb stupid other half just decided that this means something, and burned his mind with the need to reciprocate kindness with kindness.

Thus his hands were working, and the voices raged in his head-

TECHNOPRESENT

SIMP SIMP

LMAO SOFT BLADE

SIMP

GO BACK TO THE RAVINE

They chanted-

PRESENT PRESENT PRESENT-

MMMMMM

MMM

GO SEE HER-

WE WANT TO SEE HER

He groaned- so fed up with just how loud they buzzed.

Red eyes squinted at the sword again. He hated to admit to himself that the smallest part of his own rational mind was fond of her attention. Not just the stupid fizzling hybrid side that brutally banked on instincts- but the side of him that thought about things. That took time to analyze things.

And think he did.

Thinking about how when he spoke to her he felt listened to. How he didn't feel drowned out by Tommy's yelling- how- no matter who she looked at, she listened to them and responded.

Which is probably why that gremlin likes to cling to her so often.

With a grunt he kept sharpening the sword, unaffected by the cold, cold bedrock air, and forcibly keeping the newly enchanted blade in his hand.

Despite everything, he couldn't find it in himself to relent to her will- to the eyes that stare through him, and pick and pull at all his actions. To the eyes that send a chill down the warmth of his back.

She listened.

Like Phil.

And he nearly- just nearly wanted to take the first step and trust her- but then he flinched in his train of thought, grinding his teeth together in distaste.

No.

No more strangers- he was perfectly happy with Phil, and Wilbur, and sometimes that absolute terror of a kid.

Or maybe it was the idea of them he still decided he was happy with.

With another slide of the whetstone, he finished sharpening, tilting the blade and watching the light catch on its glossy surface.

He didn't need to do this.

His hand tucked the whetstone onto the table. Nimble fingers reaching for a long cloth, smoothing it across the blade to remove any obvious blemish.

He sat there, polishing and rubbing until the blade shined.

He didn't need to do this.

Techno stood, trotting to his chest, searching, scavenging, pulling leathers strips out-

He really didn't need to do this.

The spare pommel rolled in his hands for a moment, already previously crafted in case he had use for it, and here it was. Ready to be used.

Why was he doing this.

He slid the guard on, then popped the grip in, before lastly screwing in the pommel. Tightening, and tightening, double checking and triple checking, before finally pausing to look down.

It was nearly flawless.

Pristine- and sculpted, etched with details- carved with enchantments. The glossy netherite surface shimmered this way and that, polished to a tee, and perfectly sized.

But it wasn't perfect.

Techno glared at the sword- seeing the way the guard was pure stiff material- nothing to soften holding it for long periods of time- nothing to stop the harsh bite of a hand hitting the top of the guard.

With a strong tug, he pulled the leather strips around the top guard- wrapping until he was sure a less calloused hand wouldn't be injured by bumping it.

Done.

He looked at the sword and saw it as complete.

A finished product-

He really didn't need to do this.

And yet he was. Even though he really didn't want to.

His other half nearly shivered in delight.

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P.s. everyone who comments on a sentence where its him talking about his voices is canon.

Have fun being in Techno's mind :)