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Passerine Thcscus
Passerine | 3 Like carillon bells, the house of Augustus rings With the echoing hymn of my fellow passerine, they took to it Like a fox to a burrow, like an eagle to an aerie And my god, it's getting hard to even hum a single thing You were the song that I'd always sing You were the light that the fire would bring But I can't shake this feeling that I was only Pushing the spear into your side again See, my birds of a kind, they more and more are looking like Centurions than any little messiah And as I prune my feathers like leaves from a vine I find that we have fewer and fewer in kind, but My palms and fingers still reek of gasoline From throwing fuel to the fire of that Greco-Roman dream Purifying the holy rock to melt the gilded seams It don't bring me relief, no it don't bring me nothing that You were the song that I'd always sing You were the light that the fire would bring But I can't shake this feeling that I was only Pushing the spear into your side again And again and again When he comes a knocking at my door What am I to do, What am I to do, oh lord When the cold wind rolls in form the north What am I to do, What am I to do, oh lord “Passerine”, The Oh Hellos
Passerine | 5 Table of Contents Chapter 1 .................................................................... 7 Chapter 2 .................................................................. 27 Chapter 3 ................................................................. 63 Chapter 4 ................................................................. 92 Chapter 5 ................................................................ 150 Chapter 6 ................................................................ 182 Chapter 7 ............................................................... 233
6 | Passerine Trigger Warnings aftermaths of violence, assault, death, derealization, graphic depictions of violence, manipulation, panic attacks
Passerine | 7 Chapter 1 : like a fox to a burrow (like an eagle to an aerie) He must have had a life before this. A mother, a father, a home. Maybe sisters, or brothers. But it had been so long too long and now all he knew was this bloody game. His hands knew no other shape than fists curled tightly around a sword, swinging eternally, finding its mark through skin and bone. They all tried to run, of course. They built walls and cowered in corners, but he always found them. Sometimes, they begged. Sometimes, they chose to jump from cliffs rather than face his reckoning. And sometimes, they stared back at him with eyes as empty as his own and welcomed death with open arms. Those were the ones he envied the most. Technoblade never dies, they whispered around campfires and funeral pyres. He prayed that that wasn’t true. The voices led him to kingdoms and shires and towns —it didn’t matter what they offered him in return; the voices didn’t demand coin, they demanded blood. He fought for bold men and stupid men, greedy kings and starry-eyed rebels. He fought for armies doomed to fail and dragged them into the light of glory. He had lost count of how many allies he’d fought beside after a time, their names and faces had faded into the recesses of his hazy memory.
8 | Passerine And then there was the Angel of Death.

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