【生肉搬运】鸟雀Passerine 第三章(4)
Two years later, on the cusp of his tenth birthday, Tommy asked Technoblade the same question he’d been asking since they met. Will you train me? This time, Technoblade said yes.
Time unfurled like unbound parchment, rolling off into the distance without Tommy’s notice. They grew together, him and his king brother. Taller and broader, stronger and smarter—more Wilbur for the latter, if Tommy were to be honest. Wilbur’s duties took him from Tommy more often than not, but that was alright, too, because Tommy had Techno. They would spar and talk until Techno was inevitably called back to the king’s side, but by then Tommy was appeased. The days he was alone were the worst, but mostly indistinguishable in their monotonous quiet.
On one of those days, he found himself drifting aimlessly through the castle. Halfway down a vaguely familiar hallway, he heard something that had been sorely missed since his mother’s death. Music.
He followed the sound to a door that was slightly ajar. Tommy held his breath as he looked through the crack, and then lost his breath altogether when he found the source of the mournful melody: Wilbur, tiredness etched into the slope of his shoulders and the skin under his eyes, strumming his guitar, cursing as he missed a note or two, but still continuing, still playing, still soldiering on. And with him was Technoblade on a sweetly-keening violin, his scarred hands moving gently over the strings, his bow arm moving fluidly through the air. Both of them had their eyes closed, so completely lost to their own music, and Tommy knew—deep in his gut—that this was a world he could never breach. And so he closed the door and retreated to his silence.
Time unfurled like unbound parchment, rolling off into the distance without Tommy’s notice. They grew together, him and his king brother. Taller and broader, stronger and smarter—more Wilbur for the latter, if Tommy were to be honest. Wilbur’s duties took him from Tommy more often than not, but that was alright, too, because Tommy had Techno. They would spar and talk until Techno was inevitably called back to the king’s side, but by then Tommy was appeased. The days he was alone were the worst, but mostly indistinguishable in their monotonous quiet.
On one of those days, he found himself drifting aimlessly through the castle. Halfway down a vaguely familiar hallway, he heard something that had been sorely missed since his mother’s death. Music.
He followed the sound to a door that was slightly ajar. Tommy held his breath as he looked through the crack, and then lost his breath altogether when he found the source of the mournful melody: Wilbur, tiredness etched into the slope of his shoulders and the skin under his eyes, strumming his guitar, cursing as he missed a note or two, but still continuing, still playing, still soldiering on. And with him was Technoblade on a sweetly-keening violin, his scarred hands moving gently over the strings, his bow arm moving fluidly through the air. Both of them had their eyes closed, so completely lost to their own music, and Tommy knew—deep in his gut—that this was a world he could never breach. And so he closed the door and retreated to his silence.
第十三章快把电动棒关掉
