Chapter Text
Ranboo held very, very still. The piglin with an axe at his throat was equally still. She didn’t try to talk to him. Hadn’t since she’d caught him, and then he’d stared uncomprehendingly, heart rabbit-thumping out of his chest, the one time she did try.
The thing was, Ranboo couldn’t actually speak piglish. He was sent because he had the best chance of escaping if and when thinks went south. He was trying very hard to not escape too early. The axe made blinking very tempting. He knew where the portal he came in through was. His wings burned, weighed down by glares. Or maybe that was just the heat of the nether. They were probably equally dangerous.
He hoped that the axe being held at his neck and not in his neck meant that one of the piglins could speak common. He hoped that his desperate putting together of clues was correct, that the axe piglin had called for a translator when she’d grunted at a piglin with matching braids. Four across their scalps, tied into buns at the nape of their necks.
Ranboo would bet… well, not money, and maybe not his life, since he was kind of betting his life already, but a couple desserts or easier missions that the hair was related to rank. The piglins with four braids across their scalps had more weapons. Piglins flittering around doing odd tasks had two across the tops of their heads. The ones with one braid on top and one braid coming from under the neck… those were scariest. Ranboo had only seen two with that hairstyle. All of them had extra braids along the sides, each styled individually.
The thing was… Ranboo’s uniform clearly said that he was a courier, sent for peace. But only to someone who knew Avian regalia. Mom had tied extra knots into his shawl for other Enderians to read, if he ran into any on the course of his mission. There wasn’t anyone who knew piglin customs enough to do the same.
If Ranboo succeeded, that might change. If.
The blade at his throat wasn’t encouraging.
Ranboo was praying that someone here would be willing to listen. Finding this village had been a challenge. Showing himself here was a gamble. He’d followed the last set of escaping Piglin prisoners, the ones rescued by two humans. They’d led him here.
Hopefully that meant one of the humans was still around to take his message.
He might be safer if this was a medical base, rather an genuine Nether city. He might be in more danger. His future Empress-in-law said Piglins were at their worst with something to protect.
Ranboo was just trying not to die.
“Are you here to steal, spy, or trade?”
He jumped. The axe moved with him, rather than let him impale himself. How much skill did that take? Was that a good sign? Maybe Ranboo should’ve just blinked away. Wait, no, someone was talking to him- “None? Of those?”
The human blinked slowly, bloody eyes unnerving. “If you’re here for shelter-”
Ranboo shook his head quickly. The axe strayed away slowly. “No, no, I’m not- I’m safe in the Empire. I’m not running.” Was that how the piglins had acquired their two humans? People running from the Empire? Was that why they had attacked?
“Then why are you here?” The translator had an accent. Drawling and very calm, still threatening. How long had he been here, for an undercurrent of lava in every word?
“Parley,” Ranboo rushed out, before those eyes could narrow and the axe could return. “I was sent to offer a treaty. The Emperor wants peace, if you give a Concubine and stop the raids, he’ll withdraw the troops.”
The human narrowed his eyes anyway. He glanced at the axe-wielder and snorted something. She snarled back, but she holstered her axe and left.
Ranboo didn’t feel especially safer with her gone.
He swallowed.
“Sit down, kid,” the translator rumbled. “Tell me what the Emperor’s offerin’.”
Ranboo lowered himself shakily, wings tense to keep them away from the netherack dust. There was no sun here. Shelter didn’t protect from the heat. He fixed his eyes on the three braids adoring the translator’s head, watching their face without risking more eye contact. He’d memorized the treaty offer, even written it down for himself just in case.
He started talking.
*
The parley offer from the Avian Empire came through the portal nearest to Wither Skull. They sent word with their quickest pair of warriors and the few Crimson Raptors that hadn’t already been worked to exhaustion coordinating for war efforts and funerals and rescue missions.
It took two days for other Bastion leaders to gather. It was dangerous to have so many leaders and seconds in one location, Winterlance knew that well. All of them knew it well. But Avian soldiers had yet to make it this far into the Nether, held back by the Bastions charged with protecting the portals and killed by the Nether itself.
The hungry Souls in the Soul Sand field were indiscriminate with their feeding. Overworlders didn’t know what to look out for.
Until such time as the Avians stopped trying to kill any Piglin within reach, they would continue that way.
“Do you think the treaty request will be reasonable?” Lavabrace asked under her breath. She was Winterlance’s own second, had finished the last of her Caretaker trials only a week before the war began.
“I think speculating will only lead to disappointment,” Winterlance muttered back. He finished setting up the last chair for the council table. Getting to the meeting area early meant it was their responsibility to make sure it was ready when the others arrived.
Lavabrace frowned. She changed the array of hoglin jerky, something she’d brought because she knew that all of the Caretakers and Bastion Leaders and Seconds would need the sustenance. Even splitting workloads, it was hard to hunt when your warriors were defending your borders, and your Caretakers defending your children.
She didn’t continue her questions as others began to arrive. Hopes and doubts like that were for the ears of their own bastion. Winterlance taught her that long ago.
*
“They want us to give up one of our own?” asked Blazecaught from the Soul Sand Battalion, voicing the room’s disbelief.
“That’s what the messenger said,” Witherscore of the Wither Skull Bastion said. Snorts of dissent carried from the council.
“And what do they say they’ll be doing with this sounder member?” Ironghast of Reclaimed Ruins asked.
“They want to keep them as insurance,” said Technoblade, second of the Wither Skull Bastion. “If we restart the war, they kill the hostage.”
“Are we getting a hostage in return?” Dauntless, second of the Hypixel Bastion.
Technoblade shook his head.
Winterlance frowned. “That’s all they said? Give us one of your own or we won’t stop killing the rest of you?” He shoved a piece of jerky at Lavabrace before she could join the discontented babble.
“They were more diplomatic than that,” Technoblade corrected. “But that’s about what it boils down to. They want the war to stop, but they won’t just end the conflict.”
“Cowards,” Dauntless spat.
“Prideful night-keepers,” one of the younger seconds said derisively.
“We don’t have the means to keep this conflict going,” Blazecaught said, before more insults could be thrown. “We’ve lost too many sounder.”
“But to give up one of our own? Even if the conflict never reignites, it could be a death sentence.”
Winterlance wished the council didn’t go quiet when he spoke. That meant he was right.
“I could go,” Technoblade offered, once it became clear there would be no defense towards their sacrifice staying alive in the overworld.
“How would you do any better than any other piglin?” Dauntless scoffed. “Everyone knows it’s too cold there, they’re too fragile; we can’t send our best fighter to rot in their cells.”
“I’m a hybrid,” Technoblade said. The council went silent. “I’ll be better adapted.”
“How the blazes are you a hybrid?”
“The same way you’re a full blooded Piglin, Dante, don’t make me explain it to ya.”
Dauntless made a face.
“Avians don’t know how hybrids work,” Lavabrace cut in. “We barely know how they work, to be frank. Any intelligence they have, any spies that have managed to come back with knowledge - they won’t know to account for you. That can give you an advantage - but whatever special needs you have, they won’t know those either.”
Witherlance tried not to swell too terribly with pride. Lavabrace would be perfect for the Bastion once he died.
“I will deal with that as it comes,” Technoblade said. Winterlance stifled his pride for his Second to appraise Wither Skull’s. General Technoblade was young. Younger than Lavabrace, though taller. He had the first three Caretaker braids, the dutch and the twists, but the underside of his bun had no plait. Unsurprising. The fourth trial was the hardest, taking years to prepare for in peacetimes. A war offered no luxury.
“Does the Wither Skull Bastion have someone to fill Technoblade’s place, should we give in to their demands?” Winterlance asked, lingering too long on signs of youth that hadn’t been carved out despite General Technoblade’s scars. “Even if Technoblade can survive in the overworld - to ask such a thing is an insult.”
“I don’t think they care about bein’ insulting,” Technoblade said drily. “They want to feel like they’ve won, even if the treaty is admitting defeat.”
Blazecaught frowned. “How do we know that they will honor their own treaty? They started this war without declaration.”
“Isn’t it worth it to try?” Ironghast asked. He smelled of blood already, bandages turning despite his lack of movement.
“We should just finish taking them out,” Dauntless snapped. “Giving those creatures any quarter will just end in more death.”
“Anything we do will end in more death,” Technoblade argued. “This should delay it, at least. Overworlders care about their treaties.”
“Do they care enough?” Cut in Blazecaught’s Second, Crimsonbreath of the Reclaimed Ruins. “It’s no secret that their treatment of us was getting worse before the attacks began. They may not care, and even if they do, all that’s needed is one Overworlder settlement deciding that it’s not worth it to keep the agreed upon treaty.”
“You live as near a portal as we do,” Witherscore’s tone was warning. “The Overworlders don’t follow our governing structures, there are too many of them.”
“Which is why I don’t trust them!” Crimsonbreath snarled. “They will kill us if they’re ordered to by the leaders who have never seen a portal, let alone crossed one, and they will kill us if they’re not, hate clouding those who live in trading range.”
“And they will keep killing us if we don’t do something for peace.”
“We can close the portals.”
“They’ll build new ones. In areas we don’t have guarded,” Witherscore said. “Trade is that valuable, at least.”
“They won’t know how to survive,” Winterlance reminded. “They’re willing to trade with us because they don’t know how to survive getting resources themselves.”
Ironghast shook his head. “They don’t care that much anymore.”
Winterlance frowned. He wasn’t the only one.
“You’re ignorin’ the easiest stopgap,” Technoblade said. “If they want a prisoner, I’ll go. We need the time to recover, if nothing else.”
“And if it’s just a trap?”
“Then I take out as many of them as I can when they turn on me.”
No one liked that. Winterlance glanced at Lavabrace, who was running quiet calculations. Dauntless and the other young seconds looked upset. The older seconds, and the Head Caretakers - they were all running the numbers themselves too.
Was it worth the sacrifice of one if it saved the rest of the people? Would they be able to live with themselves if the forfeit was a farce? Could they bear the loss of a second, of a Caretaker in training, of a Caretaker three trials past?
“We shouldn’t say yes to this as it is,” Lavabrace said. “Technoblade- even if you are willing, we need clearer terms. We need to know if the Overworlders are willing to negotiate or simply to make demands.”
“We still have their courier,” Technoblade nodded at her. “We can send back a message requesting proper council.”
Unsaid was that they could not, would not, reassemble this council in an area that the overworlders could access. So then-
“Who will negotiate?” Witherscore asked.
“If the Wither Skull Bastion is sacrificing one of their own for peace, they should have the right to direct negotiations.” Blazecaught set his axe on the table, inclining his head. “If one from the Soul Sands were going, I would ensure I was in the room to argue for their protections.”
The slightest bit of tension fled from Witherscore’s frame.
“Ask to negotiate. And we will leave the decision of if their demands are reasonable to you.” The other bastion leaders gave Winterlance looks, but no one argued. Not even Hypixel’s second. If Wither Skull was willing to forfeit a guiltless piglin, their own Caretaker– they would decide what sort of death to send him to.
Technoblade was young. Young lost in Nether should be to the Soul Sands and the ghasts, not senseless forfeits to uncaring neighbors.