Chapter Text
Philza (or Phil, as the mortals so lovingly dubbed him), is a man of symmetry.
Few things on the ground tempted him - centuries of idle wandering, countless time wasted fruitlessly searching for something to abide his time by as the world and its inhabitants were created and decayed, created and decayed, created and decayed, to the point where the mere thought of it made his temples throb.
For most of his existence, he was comfortable allowing himself to fade into obscurity. Though his wings never failed to garner the attention of any gawking human who saw them, he’d learned to stick to the background for centuries, friends an impermanence that would die as he lived.
He’d made a quiet home deep in the tundra, far away from prying eyes and unwelcome visitors with only a crackling hearth as company.
Time passed. He didn’t.
It was, in its own way, domestic. He built and farmed, but most of his time was spent staring idly at the door, watching for something he could not define.
And then, one day, gazing idly at the smoothed wood he’d so carefully carved and sanded years ago, it dawned on him.
His life was meaningless.
He had settled down without ever even getting riled up in the first place. All his time had been spent as a nomad, wandering from place to place with no objective, no purpose. Nothing enticed him, nothing gave him warmth.
He had numbed and frozen over without even touching the snow.
But there was one thing that he had long since learned could give warmth to him, something that made him thrum in the closest way he could place to feeling alive.
And it matched his towering wings, toes outstretched in the breeze.
Feet were a kaleidoscope of different measurements and features, each glowing brightly in the sheen of his eye and begging for his attention. He’d heard of humans having other forms of admiration for the foot, but this familiar warmth quietly unfolding itself was not that of attraction. It was an old friend, familiar yet changing, that remained despite everything else.
Their ends were calloused and hardened, yet they connected with the ground like a lover. Gentle grass caressing toughened skin in its own sweet embrace never failed to make him smile.
The middle skin, on the other side, was soft and smooth to the touch, unburdened by wear, pure. It was protected by the two ends, even as they grew.
And together they held upright a body, moving in their own melodic harmony as they stepped into the unknown.
He hears every step and smiles.
They mean something to him, to his purpose. Besides the massive pair of feet serving as his wings (he wasn’t that oblivious to whatever purpose he’d been given), he just knew that there was something special about them.
He loved them. He adored their twists and curves, and he wanted more. He wanted to know more. He needed to obtain more.
(Greed was a rare similarity between him and the humans that walked the earth. He couldn’t relate to much else.)
So what better way to utilize his interest than to turn it into a business?
Well… business was more of an exaggerated term. He’d rip the feet off a human, clean them up a bit, then sell them for cheap to anyone interested. It was closer to a traveling salesman, but business sounded cleaner, straighter. He practically was one anyway, with how fast he moved from one place to another.
He’d thought, briefly, about possible recruitment, but had quickly brushed off the idea. This wasn’t something most mortals could even stomach, let alone be skilled at. They’d slow him down.
He had his wings as company.
He didn’t need anyone.
Though now, walking down the coastal beaches near an old fishing village, it felt more clear now than ever that his reach was hindered.
To avoid the irritation law enforcement was more than happy to provide to him, Philza had mostly stuck to secluded areas to conduct sales - places less likely to look closer into the supposed morality of his products. While this strategy had most definitely saved him more than a few headaches, he could also begrudgingly see how it strictly limited his potential for growth.
This had become an issue he couldn’t resolve on his own, no matter how quick his flight and sales. There weren’t enough buyers, and not enough knowledge, and he wouldn’t let himself branch out.
He wanted the world to see, to understand, yet he was trapped in a cage of his own making.
Stuck.
The flick of a wave caught his attention as it lapped at his legs like a dog. Philza sighed, letting his footed wings curl downwards as he stared at the horizon, half - hidden by wisps of clouds swirled elegantly into its mix.
He’d arrived in the town a few hours ago on a rare non - business occasion, hoping to have a more diverse place to lay out his thoughts.
(Well, mostly non - business. The few who wandered far on the vast sands of the coast wouldn’t likely be missed much, would they? A bit of scoping never hurt.)
He uncrossed his legs, letting himself stretch as his mind drifted.
It felt bizarre, really. For centuries he had longed to move, to get away from himself, and now he found himself longing for quiet moments like this again, where he could feel something remotely close to full. It was indecisive. Erratic.
(And, though it’d never part his tongue, achingly human.)
“HELP!”
Philza turned sharply, wings tensed in anticipation, to spot a man stumbling down the beach in a panic. “By the Ender, someone get this lunatic away from me!”
The man’s frantic cries had attracted the attention of a growing crowd of people, which would normally be his cue to leave, but something in was curious. Maybe it was the sand beneath him or the ocean ahead, but he didn’t feel like shying away from prying eyes now.
Standing up, Philza made his way towards the man in as non - threatening a manner as he could muster. “Hey, what seems to be the problem, mate?”
The man turned towards him with a startled jolt, eyes scanning him with an ever - familiar wariness, before he reluctantly held up his leg. “Some maniac kid just tried to eat my foot!” He pointed towards a still sluggishly bleeding bite mark crowning his ankle with a grimace. “Piece of shit snuck up behind me. Said he wanted something that ‘tasted of sand.’ Hurts like a bitch.”
A pair of villagers came up behind him, dragging a struggling prisoner with them. A young man, early twenties, with softly curled brown hair and a guitar strapped on his back.
Surely, Philza thought, they must have the wrong man.
As if on cue, the young man raised his head up with a knowing smile. “If you hadn’t been so loud, it’d be hurting a lot less.”
And, well.
He couldn’t let this one go.