Work Text:
It's being moved.
More than from one cage to another; a collar is latched around its throat and a leash clipped to the collar. The hands that touch it are not gentle, but it doesn't fight. It knows not to fight. Fighting just means pain, and less food, and sometimes even worse.
Too much disobedience gets you killed. It remembers the screams, remembers the smell of burning flesh.
A lava drip is not an easy death.
It is docile. It keeps its head ducked, hair falling in its face. It used to have braids, it thinks. The before feels like a different person's life, but it remembers braids in the corner of its eye. It had enough honor for that, once.
Now it has none. Now it follows at the end of a leash, eyes trained on the netherrack and cracked hooves tripping against the hard ground.
This is where it belongs.
It's harder than normal to find one of the piglin trading groups today. There are normally a few around the crimson forest just outside of his portal, but today Phil has to go about a mile down the bastion road before he finds one. When he does, he almost turns back.
He needs health potions though, and ender pearls, and it's cheaper and easier to get them from piglins than anywhere else, so he lands lightly in front of them. He keeps his eyes on the leader, not the poor bastard chained and leashed in the back.
Piglin culture, as far as he can tell, is all about honor. There are a hundred ways to gain honor and just as many to lose it, but there are only a few ways to lose honor so thoroughly that your braids can be cut and you can be sold to anyone, even outsiders. Phil's only seen a few, and it makes his skin crawl every time. Something about the eyes. They look mostly dead already, like the zombies that wander the Nether. This one has the same look, when Phil glances at him. His entire face is turned to the ground, stringy pink hair falling in his face. Phil's surprised it hasn't been shaved.
“You want?” The leader asks in broken Trade. Phil shakes his head, refocusing.
“Nah, mate. Just pearls and potions.” If he starts saving random piglins, he won't stop, and then he'll have a dozen strays in his house, which would be hell. He’d have to talk to so many people. Besides, some of them have probably done bad shit, like killing babies or bathing in virgin blood.
He's off his game with haggling, spending more than he planned, but he still doesn't expect it when the chained piglin shuffles forward and a lead is pressed into his hand.
“Yours,” the lead piglin proclaims. Phil opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it again. He's not as familiar with piglin culture as he maybe should be, but he's pretty sure denying a trade after it's been done is grounds for a fight. Even if it's just Phil saying he doesn't want the goods, no need for repayment. And Phil doesn't want a fight.
He takes the lead, dips his head in farewell, shuffling back a few steps before actually turning his back on them. They do the same.
And then Phil is alone. With a silent, enslaved piglin. Who is apparently his.
“Fuck,” he swears.
It takes awhile to get back to the portal. He can't fly, obviously, and he's pretty sure the piglin would keel over if he went faster than a sedated shuffle.
Not that he wouldn't try to keep up. Phil gets the feeling he wouldn't even complain.
Phil keeps hold of the lead because he's pretty sure it'll confuse the piglin more if he lets it go. He has no intention of keeping a slave, but that doesn't mean he can just spring it on the guy.
After what feels like hours, the swirling purple of the portal is in sight and Phil can't help but pick up the pace a bit. The piglin keeps up, although he stops well away from the portal, not quite straining the lead, but pretty damn close. Phil frowns, looking at him
“We gotta go through, mate. We can get you fixed up on the other side.” The piglin stares at the ground. Phil looks between him and the portal and swears.
“Right. Fuckin’- zombie shit,” he says, mostly to himself. He doesn't come to the Nether without a couple gapples in his pack, because he's not an idiot, and he shoves one at the piglin.
“Eat that,” he says in Trade, miming the action. The piglin doesn't do anything for a long moment, and Phil has a second to wonder if he's going to have to choose between forcefeeding or building a temporary house in the Nether before the piglin finally takes a bite. Phil waits long seconds for him to swallow and take a second bite before leading them through the portal. It should be enough to hold, although Phil has no idea how it’ll work long term. Hopefully there won’t be a long term though.
Phil’s house usually feels like a good size when it’s just him in it. Add a full-grown piglin and it feels much smaller, even if he’s clearly underfed.
That can be his first project. The gapple probably helped a bit, but starvation doesn’t tend to get solved that easily. He can make broth though. He’s got some bones from the last chicken he slaughtered, he can make something rich and salty. Maybe some bread too? Not too much, but he’s clearly been fed, so Phil won’t have to do a full starvation diet. He could probably even add some chicken to the broth, maybe a few vegetables. He’s got some fresh carrots for sure.
He realizes as he’s pulling out a pot and a cutting board that the piglin is standing exactly where Phil dropped the leash; just inside the door, eyes on the floor. The only bit of life Phil has seen from him so far is when they first came through the portal. He’d looked up with wide eyes, then down, then all around them. Phil imagines it was a shock, even if it was night out. There were still stars shining in the darkened sky, and grass underfoot. Even with hooves, that would be a new experience.
That life has mostly disappeared though. He’s staring at the floor like he doesn’t actually see it, and doesn’t twitch when Phil clears his throat.
“Come sit,” he says, stumbling over the words. Trade speak doesn’t have a lot of the words he’s going to need, and he doesn’t know that he has the right vocal chords to actually learn piglin. He motions at the piglin though, and he seems to understand, carefully coming closer.
“Sit,” Phil repeats, pointing at the kitchen table. He has two chairs at least, although he doesn’t realize until the piglin is in one just how undersized they’ll be. His knees aren’t quite by his ears, but they’re too close to his chest. It has to be better than staying standing though, so Phil nearly goes back to cooking, until he remembers something. The piglin still has that fucking collar around his neck. It looks like it’s rubbed the flesh raw already, and Phil sighs, holding his hands up as he steps closer.
“Okay, just let me-” he mutters, mostly to himself. The piglin doesn’t move, but it’s in the way a prey animal doesn’t move when a predator has it in its sights. Phil unfastens the collar as quickly as possible and tosses it and the leash towards the door. He’ll burn it later.
“There,” he says, and this time he does go back to cooking.
He has bread already, and a simple broth doesn’t take too long. He toasts the bread with some butter and sets a plate with that and a bowl of broth in front of the piglin, who doesn’t look up from studying the wood grain of the table. Phil sets a spoon in the bowl.
“Eat,” he says, hoping he won’t have to spoonfeed the guy. He’s assumed responsibility at this point, but he really doesn’t want to resort to force-feeding anyone.
He turns away to get his own bowl, with slightly more chicken and vegetables in it, and sits across from the piglin, slowly taking a spoonful of soup and sipping from it. The piglin’s eyes dart to him, then back to the bowl and slowly, like a glacier moving across the ice, he brings the spoon to his mouth. Phil smiles, mostly to himself, and keeps eating his dinner.
“Name?” he asks, pointing at the piglin when they’re both about halfway done. The piglin draws his hand back, leaving his spoon in the bowl. Phil frowns.
“No, eat,” he says, pointing at the bowl, then back at the piglin. “Your name is?” The piglin picks up his spoon again. Takes another bite. Phil waits a few seconds before he gives up on his hopes of communication. Clearly that’s fucking doomed.
The piglin makes it through most of the soup and all of the bread, which is all Phil could really hope for.
Of course, then comes the next problem.
The piglin is filthy. His hair is greasy and some of it looks matted, his clothes are basically rags, and Phil is pretty sure the skin underneath is several shades darker than it should be. He needs to get cleaned up, and Phil isn’t entirely sure he has clothes that will fit him.
Granted, anything will be better than what he has. It takes a bit of searching, but he ends up finding a pair of pants and a shirt that are a few sizes too big for him. He has no idea where he got them, but they’ll do for now.
“Okay, shower time,” he says, not bothering to even attempt to translate that. He clears his throat, and this time the piglin turns his head to look at him. There’s a bit more of a light in his eyes now, like the food maybe woke him up. Or maybe Phil is just imagining it.
“Uh, come,” he says, motioning. “You clean?” That’s not quite right, but there’s not exactly words in Trade for ‘I would like you to shower now’. Downsides of a functional language. The piglin stands and comes to stand within arm’s length of Phil, seeming unsure. Phil motions him into the little bathroom and reaches out to flip the shower on. The reaction from the piglin is immediate; he flinches violently backwards, knocking against the wall, then goes to his knees, and Phil doesn’t know how to recognize more than a few words in piglin, but he knows what begging looks like.
“Shit, okay, hold on,” he says, turning the water off and raising his hands. “It’s okay. I turned it off. Uh. Apologies?” Fuck, he has no idea what’s wrong with the shower, but that’s fine. He can deal with it. He’s so good at dealing with it, in fact.
He manages to get them out of the bathroom and the piglin seated in the chair again. He’s quiet now, head down. Phil’s pretty sure he’s shaking though.
“Okay, let’s try something else,” he mutters, finding a bowl and a couple washcloths. He fills the bowl with warm water and soap, sets it on the ground and kneels next to it in front of the piglin.
“Clean,” he says in Trade, dipping the cloth into the water and rubbing it against his own skin first, just in case the water was what freaked him out. The piglin is clearly watching carefully, but he doesn’t move when Phil reaches out and touches the cloth to his arm.
“Clean,” he says again, moving the cloth gently. The piglin still doesn’t move. Phil breathes out a sigh of relief. He can do this, at least.
It takes at least an hour to finish, and he has to dump the water six times, but by the time he’s done, the piglin is looking much better, clean and dressed in clothes that mostly fit.. Phil didn’t wash his hair, but he can get that taken care of later.
He stretches a bit after dumping out the water for the final time.
“Okay, time for bed,” he says, eyeing the piglin. After the shower, he’s a bit nervous about giving him the bed. Especially since he only has one. A pallet should be fine, and he can put it close to the fire. It’s cooler in the house than in the Nether, a thick blanket and the fire should help.
It takes more time to get the piglin settled, and by the time Phil falls into bed, he’s exhausted. Maybe when he wakes up this entire day will be a bad dream and he’ll go get some pearls the old-fashioned way.
It is comfortable. It doesn’t know how, but it is comfortable, here in this overworlder’s bastion, on a pallet of soft almost-furs in front of a fire that glows an orange just off from lava.
It can hear the overworlder in the other room, making soft snoring noises. It doesn’t know why it’s comforting to be able to hear him. Probably because it is warm, and full, and it was cleaned by a person with gentle hands and eyes as blue as soulfire.
It isn’t supposed to look at the eyes of people. That was one of the first things it learned when its braids were cut. Never look at people’s eyes, never speak. It does not have a name anymore, no matter how hard it clings to the name that was once the only thing it was called.
It pulls the almost-fur tighter around its shoulders. It had been cold, and the overworlder had noticed, even when it had thrown a fit in the small room. It had thought-
The lava drip had been like that. A small room with a hole in the middle of the floor. The overworlder had fed it, but he had seemed annoyed when it wouldn’t say its name, even though it knew that was a trap. It doesn’t have a name. It’s good. It knows this.
The Overworld is so empty. It doesn’t want to be left alone here, with a roof that is open and studded with tiny lights. If it is going to be here, it wants to stay with the strange overworlder who cleaned it with gentle hands and fed it good food.
With that settled, it closes its eyes. It can figure out how to convince the overworlder that it is useful later.
Phil wakes up slowly, right up until he hears movement in the rest of the house. Then he’s on his feet and opening his door, hand on the knife he keeps by the door. Luckily his door opens inwards, because the piglin is kneeling just outside it, head down and hair hanging around his face. Phil blows out a breath and runs a hand over his face, setting the knife down.
“Right. How about some fuckin’ breakfast, mate?”
He doesn’t give the piglin coffee, because that sounds like a disaster, but he plates them both some eggs and sausage and toast, plus some orange juice. He has no idea if piglin are allergic to anything, or morally opposed to pork, but the piglin digs in readily enough, even if Phil has to prompt him to actually eat when the plate is set down in front of him.
Phil takes him around the property to do chores too, because leaving him alone in the house seems like a bad idea, and it feels rude to stay silent the whole time, so he keeps up a conversation.
“Feels rude to not call you anything, you know?” he says while he’s mucking out the stables. He doesn’t even know why he has goats. They’re just a pain in the ass, butting him in the knee while he’s scooping their shit.
“You don’t mind if I give you a nickname, do you?” he asks, glancing over where the piglin is standing next to a wall. Phil had thought about telling him to sit, but figured he wouldn’t get hurt like that. Predictably, the piglin doesn’t say anything. “I’m gonna call you Dave, okay?” he pauses, leaning on the pitchfork so he can lift his shirt to wipe at the sweat on his face.
“You Dave,” he says in Trade, pointing at the piglin. He’s pretty sure that’s confusion on his face, but he doesn’t say anything. Phil shrugs and goes back to the stalls. Only a few more and he can get started on the garden.
Dave actually looks interested when they move outside to the garden, although he spends a few extra seconds peering at the sky before stepping outside. It’s a sunny day, with a blue sky uninterrupted by anything but trees for miles. Phil had settled away from town on purpose, and now he’s grateful for that. Having a regular stream of people around in combination with the piglin sounds difficult, to say the least.
“Here, these are weeds,” Phil says, pointing at the intruders. Dave is watching closely. “We pull them out so they don’t kill the other plants.” He yanks out the weed, holding it up to show Dave, then motioning at the neat rows of plants. He’d worked hard on laying the garden out, and he likes to think it shows.
Dave leans over slowly, pointing at a weed. Phil nods encouragingly, and the piglin uproots it, careful to not so much as touch the surrounding plants. Phil grins at him.
“Perfect! Good,” he says, tossing a thumbs up for good measure. Dave nods and moves further down the row, slowly and methodically pulling up plants and tossing them in the same pile Phil has.
He helps carry water too, after they’ve finished weeding, and after Phil ducks his head under the pump to wash away some of the dirt and sweat, he does the same thing, coming up spluttering and wiping at his face. Phil can’t help but laugh- he looks like a drowned rat.
“C’mere,” he says, reaching up and gathering up Dave’s hair so he can weave it into a quick and easy braid. “There. Out of your face now, mate.” He steps away and Dave reaches up a hand to feel the braid, and suddenly he has an expression that Phil can’t quite name, but would call devastation if he could. Phil abruptly feels like there’s a conversation happening that he doesn’t understand, but he knows he put his foot in it.
He doesn’t know how to fix it though, so he just stays still, watching. Slowly, Dave drops his hand. Slowly, his expression goes back to more of a familiar blankness, although when Phil turns to lead the way inside the house, he thinks he sees Dave reaching back up towards his hair out of the corner of his eye.
The second try with the shower goes better than the first. Phil gets in first this time, feeling like an idiot standing under the water while Dave presses against the door. He finishes quickly and shrugs on new clothes before hunting for something for Dave. He’s running out of clothes. He’s got a robe that should close around him though, and Phil leaves that in the bathroom for him before going to the kitchen to start dinner.
Cheese sandwiches, maybe, with tomato soup. That should be easy on the stomach, while still filling. Then maybe he can start altering some clothes to actually fit Dave rather than just going through shit left in his closet from who knows what.
Dave appears halfway through making dinner, hair wet and hanging down his back. The robe mostly fits, thanks to how fucking skinny the piglin is. Clearly whoever was feeding him wanted him alive, but didn’t care about much else.
It looks like Dave had tried to clean his hair while leaving the braid in, resulting in a tangled mess. Phil sighs and adds it to the list of things to deal with after dinner.
“Sit,” he says, pointing at the chair, and Dave obeys easily. Dinner doesn’t take much longer, and Phil serves them both, giving the piglin a bit larger helping of soup. He clearly needs more calories than Phil and it hasn’t made him sick yet.
“I’ll brush your hair out when we finish, mate,” he says, taking a bite of sandwich. He’d burnt his a little, but it just adds flavor, really. Better for the guest to get the good one. “You’re gonna catch a fuckin’ cold with it wet like that, we’ll do it front of the fire, see if we can’t get it to dry out.” He waves his sandwich in punctuation before stopping himself. Dave hasn’t flinched, but he has gone still, staring down at his soup. Phil looks away. He’s not good at this. He should really just go to town and see if the clerics or someone will take Dave in. Fuck, he named the poor bastard Dave. He really shouldn’t be trusted around people.
He keeps up that line of thought through the rest of dinner, right up until Dave stands and picks up his own bowl, then points at Phil’s. Phil blinks up at him, at the first show of initiative he’s seen the piglin take. Curious, he hands over his dish and Dave shuffles to the sink, only hesitating a moment before turning it on and starting to wash the dishes. Phil stares at his back, broad, with hunched shoulders, and wonders if he maybe isn’t entirely fucking this up.
He gets Dave seated by the fire once they get the kitchen cleaned up and brushes through his hair until it’s shining, no tangles in sight. He braids it then, a sturdier one than earlier, since Dave apparently won’t want to take it out. When he finishes, the piglin looks like new, with clean hair and clothes. He still needs some filling out, but his cheeks maybe aren’t quite as hollow as they were.
“Let’s see what we can do about clothes, mate,” Phil says, mostly to fill the silence. He’s pretty used to it, living alone, but it feels different with someone else here. Dave doesn’t do much more than watch as Phil pulls out some old clothes and starts the painstaking task of ripping hems and adjusting each one to fit someone much larger. He has to sacrifice a shirt to expand another, but by the time he’s done, he has a couple of likely candidates that fit well enough when Phil holds them up to the piglin’s shoulders.
He’s straining to see the stitches by the time he’s ready to admit defeat, and he’s pricked his fingers more than a few times, but he has a usable shirt. Or at least Dave does.
Dave is clearly falling asleep sitting up, and Phil winces as he pushes himself up.
“Sorry, mate,” he says softly, and the piglin starts back awake. “Go to bed,” he says, pointing at the pallet. Dave blinks at him slowly, then slowly curls up under the blanket. Phil has to bite his lip from laughing at how much he resembles one of the village cats curling up in a sunbeam.
Sleep comes surprisingly easy that night.
It has a name. Another name to hold close to its chest. The overworlder had called it a name and he hadn’t sounded derisive or upset. It doesn’t know what he had meant by it, but it is greedy and selfish and terrible and it will take the name.
He had braided its hair.
It doesn’t know if he knows that braids are for people, but once again, it is selfish enough to not tell him. There is no telling what overworlders know, after all, he could understand. And it can’t argue with him, not with someone who is a person, who provides and guards and trades all at once. Of course, he has to, living alone, with no clan or tribe or bastion to help him.
It seems lonely.
Now it’s here, but it doesn’t know if the overworlder wants help. He had allowed it to wash after dinner (and using water instead of coarse gravel had been strange), and had allowed it to pluck the strange plants from the ground, but it doesn’t know if that was helpful or not. It is useless in this new place, unable to help in a way that means anything.
It can learn, though. It used to be good at learning, when it was a person, and maybe it can still learn this, how to obey and be good and understand. It knows a few words of his language, after all.
He says two of them often, and they don’t sound like orders, but it doesn’t know what else he would mean by shouting about sex or calling it a sexual partner. It’s terrible, but it doesn’t want to take initiative when it comes to those. It can pretend to not understand, for now. Until he makes it an order.
It pulls the almost-furs tighter and revels in the gentle warmth of them, closing its eyes and allowing the snores of the overworlder to lull it to sleep.
The next few days pass surprisingly peacefully. Phil had been worried, in the back of his mind. He doesn’t tend to do well with having people around for long periods. There’s a reason he lives far enough from town that not many tend to show up at his home.
Dave doesn’t grate on his nerves like most do though. He follows Phil throughout the day, does his best to help with the chores. He doesn’t speak still, spends most of his time with his eyes on the ground or turned away from Phil, but he’s decent company, overall.
Phil finishes a few more pieces of clothing for him, which is good because the piglin has started to gain weight, his shoulders and chest filling out rapidly with the amount of food Phil is making him eat. Phil’s not as worried about him getting sick anymore, which means he’ll have to make a trip to town for supplies soon; piglins can eat a lot.
It happens on the fourth day, while they’re feeding the chickens.
Phil is tossing out the feed on the ground, and Dave had actually ventured inside the little pen with him. Usually he lurks outside, but Phil wasn’t going to stop him. Barring him stepping on a chicken accidentally, it’s not like there’s a lot that he can hurt in the pen. Or can hurt him, for that matter.
“Help,” the word is almost too quiet for Phil to hear it over the clamor of the chickens fighting over a specific clump of seed, but when he turns, it’s clear who said it. Dave is pressed into the corner of the pen, and one of Phil’s more enterprising hens is pecking at the hem of his pants. Phil snorts out a laugh and shoos the hen away. She squawks at him, but runs over to barrel one of her sisters out of the way of the food.
“You’re okay, mate,” Phil says with a grin. “She was just curious, that’s all.” Dave’s shoulders slowly relax, and the entire interaction feels natural enough that it takes him a bit to realize that it’s the first time he’s heard the piglin say anything. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, just continues on his way, and is rewarded when Dave spends most of dinner looking thoughtful, then ends the night pointing at Phil.
“You?” he asks in Trade, and it takes Phil a moment to realize what he’s asking.
“Oh, shit, I never- my name is Phil,” he says, pointing at himself, thankful that Trade does have that sort of language, at least. Dave nods, apparently satisfied, and picks up the dishes to wash them. He’s taken on that chore for himself, and Phil isn’t going to protest. He never liked washing up anyways.
But hey, if the guy feels like talking… Phil drifts over to lean against the counter by the sink.
“Your name?” he asks, pointing at the piglin. Dave doesn’t look up from the dishes.
“Dave,” he says, a little more guttural on the ‘a’ noise than Phil and softer on the ‘v’, but still recognizable. Phil frowns.
“No, your name,” he presses, and the piglin nods.
“Dave,” he says, louder this time, and Phil gives up.
“Okay, fine, mate, you’re Dave,” he says, tossing his hands up dramatically. The piglin doesn’t flinch, and when Phil looks a little closer he's pretty sure Dave looks…amused?
So things are going well. Well enough for Phil to decide that a visit to town shouldn't be completely disastrous.
He doesn't use the collar and leash, obviously, but Dave stays almost exactly the leash length behind him. His eyes are either fixed on the ground or the sky when Phil glances back at him, so he doesn't say anything. Dave seems happy enough.
He does draw up closer when they get to town. Phil had made sure not to settle close to an actual city, but this place is big enough for him to get all the supplies he needs, and it gets to be bustling on market days. Thankfully, today is an off day, so the regular shops are open, but none of the stands are set up, and there are fewer people wandering the streets. Phil heads directly to where the chapel towers over the rest of the town, ignoring the looks they’re drawing. Apparently piglin aren’t common in this area, which makes sense. The closest portal is Phil’s, and he’s never seen someone else use it.
The chapel itself is probably the oldest building in town. It’s one of those old superstitions- erecting a chapel before anything else means the gods will bless the town. Phil’s not so sure that it works, but it’s good for right now.
Most clerics can work low-level magics at the very least. Phil knows he’s seen them do translation spells before, albeit in a different city, but maybe these ones will know how to do it. He’s not opposed to cheating, language-wise, if it means he can actually talk to his houseguest.
The inside of the chapel is cool when they duck inside, and Dave sticks close to him. The lights are dim, just candles and windows that are stained dark glass, thick carpets underfoot. There’s an altar at the front of the room with a loaf of bread and a jar of honey, a purple cloth under them and an enchanting table on the low dias, humming with power.
“Welcome, children,” says the cleric, appearing out of the shadows. Phil jumps, and he knows his wings puff behind him. Fucking clerics.
“Do you need assistance?” The cleric asks, clearly looking them over. Phil abruptly feels like a child again, and he folds his wings behind him, standing up just a little straighter. Dave is doing much the same next to him, hands folded behind his back and head down. Apparently some things communicate across languages.
“Was hopin’ you could do some sort of translation spell between us,” he says, motioning at Dave. “We sort of ended up together and I only know a bit of Trade, and I don’t think he knows any Common.” If he does, it’s only a few words. Phil hasn’t noticed any hint of recognition. The cleric nods slowly, crossing his arms under his robes in front of him.
“Allow me to consult with my brethren,” he says, and disappears again.
“Fuckin’ clerics,” Phil mutters under his breath, then glances at Dave. “Sorry, mate.” Dave keeps looking at the floor.
When the cleric finally comes back, he’s got another one with him. This one is the oldest person Phil has ever seen. Their face is so heavily wrinkled and eyebrows are so bushy that Phil isn’t sure how they see, and they’re bent nearly in half, leaning on the first cleric’s arm to walk.
“You need a translation spell?” they say, peering up at Phil. Or he assumes they are. Their voice creaks at the same frequency as his barn door.
“Yes, uh, Honored Elder,” Phil says, wishing literally anyone else could speak for him. “We both know some Trade, but a better common language would be helpful, if you are able.” The cleric hums, head turning between them. Their wrinkles rearrange slightly, and they nod. Phil has no idea what the expression is supposed to be.
“There are none in this chapel who can do such a spell,” they declare, and Phil sags a bit. The cleric clicks their tongue. “There is a ritual that would allow you to understand each other no matter the language. It would bind you together.” They pause significantly. “It was most often used for couples entering into an arranged marriage.” Phil blanches, looking at Dave. He doesn’t even know if there are words for that in Trade. If there are he doesn’t know them. He can’t really ask permission.
“When you say bound together, what does that even mean? Do we have to stay together all the time?” he asks, stepping back. The cleric shakes their head.
“No, of course not, child. You may break the bond if you wish. As soon as you separate for more than a cycle of days you will no longer be bound,” they assure him. He pauses. 30 days. That should be fine, right? They can always go to one of the big cities later if they want to, get the marriage absolved and do the actual translation spell.
He looks at Dave again. If the piglin is going to stay, he needs to be able to understand what’s happening around him.
“Alright,” he sighs. “Let’s do it.” The cleric does something that could be called smiling, showing off toothless gums, then tugs at the one supporting them.
“Help me prepare, youngling.”
There doesn’t seem to be that much to prepare. Two goblets, two plain iron rings that Phil fetches from the blacksmith. The elderly cleric settles in a great chair on one side of the altar, Dave and Phil arranged in front of them. Dave looks confused, but not necessarily distressed. Phil assumes that will change.
“Hold hands,” the cleric instructs, and Phil swallows, but reaches out, catching Dave’s hand in his. The piglin goes still, but doesn’t pull away, just stands there. His hand is warm in Phil’s and strangely callused.
“Now don’t move,” the cleric says. They close their eyes, and start chanting, and Phil can feel the ambient magic in the room take notice. Dave clearly has noticed as well, ears flat against his head as he rocks back on his hooves. Phil squeezes his hand and he glances at Phil, then at the shadows in the corner of the room. They’ve started to move in an unsettling sort of way. Phil focuses back on the chanting cleric.
His brain sort of goes a bit hazy after a few seconds, and he can’t look away from the ball of light that’s slowly growing between them and the cleric. It’s beautiful. The cleric’s chanting has drawn away all other sounds, and when it finally ceases, the light breaks from the circle and washes over him and Dave, leaving him blinking away sparks and trying to figure out if all his shit is still attached.
“Now drink,” the cleric instructs, motioning at the cups. Phil reaches out with his free hand and gives one cup to Dave, then takes the other, tipping the contents into his mouth. It’s wine, spiced with herbs that make his tongue tingle. It’s not good, but it also doesn’t make him gag, so he’ll take it. Dave makes a disgusted noise, but he’s also drank his down, so it’s fine.
“The rings,” the cleric intones, and Phil picks them up. The bigger one only fits on Dave’s pinky, and the other fits best on Phil’s thumb. Nothing feels different after they’re on, but the cleric seems expectant. Phil clears his throat.
“Uh, hi, mate. Can you understand me?” he asks, inexplicably nervous. He’s been talking at this guy for nearly a week, it’s gonna be strange if they can understand each other. Dave looks from him, to the cleric, then back to him.
“Yes,” he says, quietly. He ducks his head right after, like Phil is going to punish him. He breathes out a sigh of relief. He didn’t break anything yet.
“Okay. Okay, good. We can talk more when we get home- to the house,” he corrects himself. Home for him. He doesn’t know where Dave might want to go. He might not want to stay, after all.
“Thank you, Elder,” he says, turning back to the cleric. “Allow me to offer a small donation to the chapel for your efforts.” Most clerics won’t take fees, but donations are different. He fishes out a few coins and sets them on the altar, and then they can finally leave. He blinks when they make it outside, the afternoon light feeling too-bright on eyes adjusted to the dark.
He stops and gets them each a pasty from the bakery before they start on the road home, because it feels less awkward to walk in silence if it’s because they’re eating. Dave doesn’t say anything either, and Phil doesn’t know if that’s because he doesn’t have anything to say or if he thinks he’s not allowed.
This is too fucking stressful.
“Okay,” he says when they get home, sitting at the kitchen table. Dave sits across from him without prompting, which is still progress. “First of all, I’m sorry.” That feels necessary. He bought a whole person and then married him. Apologizing is the least he can do. Dave just looks at him.
“Do you want to go back to the Nether?” Phil asks, a little desperately. “I can- I can take you back to the portal if you want. You could go home.” He ignores the way something in his chest pulls at the idea. He’s gotten used to having someone else around. He likes having the piglin there. He’s funny, even without a shared language. Phil can picture them getting along all the better now that they can communicate.
“They don’t want me,” the piglin says, eyes on the table. “They cut my braids, told me I was without honor.” Phil kind of wants to hold his hand again. He looks like he might need it, but Phil doesn’t know. Dave looks up at him, actually meeting his eyes.
“You brought me home,” he says, intense. “You braided my hair, you gave me a- a task. I want to stay here.” He pauses, swallows hard enough Phil can see his throat move, and he looks back down at the table. “If you want me.” Phil breathes out. It’s his move.
He reaches out, leaving his hand palm up on the table. Dave looks up, then slowly places his hand on Phil’s. Phil squeezes it.
“Maybe we take this whole marriage thing slow, but yeah. I’d like it if you stayed,” he says, smiling. Dave smiles back, and they let it rest there for a moment, holding hands across the wooden table Phil built alone years ago.
He’s the one to break it.
“What the fuck is your name though, I can’t keep calling you fuckin’ Dave,” he says, and the piglin shakes his head.
“I’m not- that name is gone. I’m not a person, I can’t use it anymore,” he says, which is the biggest crock of shit Phil’s ever heard.
“Mate, you’re obviously a fuckin’ person. Just because some assholes said otherwise-” he pauses when it looks like the piglin is about to break a tooth with how hard he’s clenching his jaw. “Okay, we can table that for now, but I think you’re every bit as much a person as I am.” The piglin snorts softly, and Phil squeezes his hand again. He squeezes back.
“Maybe- if you named yourself, what would it be?” he asks, trying to keep his tone gentle. He doesn’t have much practice with it. The piglin- his husband- looks down at the table, but now it feels more like he’s thinking. Phil waits, patient for once. He can stay here as long as he needs.
“Technoblade,” the piglin says when he finally looks up. “I like the name Technoblade.” Phil grins at him.
“I think that’s a great name.”