Chapter Text
Wilbur's sure of a few things in life.
He's pretty sure that Puffy, with white curls spilling out from under her scarf, a warm smile, and who lives on the edge of their village – is a witch.
Or at least some kind of fairy, because when eating her cookies that she eagerly offers to everyone, it's hard to believe that they were made by an ordinary human.
(Which didn't mean Wilbur would ever say no to her. Her warm pastries were still worth a potential witchy poisoning.)
He's sure that the girl he used to see at school, with fiery red braids, must be really ill. Because anytime he walks past her, her face turns almost as red as her hair, shifty eyes fixated on her shoes.
He's absolutely sure Tommy ate all the leftover bread a week ago. Tho his brother stubbornly denied all the allegations, the crumbs under the sheets of their bed indicated something else.
And he's just as sure, that they're still going the right way.
Definitely.
And this is what he repeats to himself as they pass another unfamiliar tree, when the grass beneath their feet turns just a bit too green – wild and untouched, when the surrounding trees start to thicken, shielding away the sun to the point, where Wilbur can't tell how much time has actually passed.
“We're lost,” Tommy sighs, against all logic and Wilbur's assurances.
He's still following him, slowly, like the unhappiest little duckling. But his energy has clearly worn off, even tho that usually seemed almost impossible, especially in the mornings.
But apparently, even he isn't immune to the overwhelming boredom.
He abandoned his (only slightly) oversized shoes a long time ago, stepping onto warm grass with bare feet. An old habit, which he never quite seemed to grow out off.
Wilbur stops abruptly and Tommy bounces off his legs like a very tired, grumpy ball.
“No, we're not.” He turns to look at his brother, who rubs his nose with a grumble. “It's just... We're taking a shortcut.
“Your shortcut is shit,” Tommy states, very maturely, showing off his tongue to emphasize his point. “You have no idea where we are.”
“Of course I do,” he says.
Because maybe, if he repeats it enough times, it will eventually become true.
The problem is – Wilbur's genuinely sure, that they didn't stray away from their usual path at all.
At the edge of the forest go straight, then left, and left again, only slightly away from the main path – straight into a clearing overgrown with wild raspberries, hidden between bushes and trees.
But when they filled their basket to the brim and Tommy managed to eat at least twice as many berries by himself, Wilbur turned back and suddenly something was... Wrong.
Though the trees still looked the same, old and unmoving, there was suddenly something strange and dense in the air. Like hot air, flooding him with a strange, unnatural warmth.
He quietly convinced himself that it was just a promise of slowly coming, hotter days.
But the farther they walked towards where their usual path should be, the more the forest seemed to thicken, enveloping them like a thick curtain. And with each step, it seemed more and more unfamiliar and wild, uncontrolled. And suddenly it dawned on Wilbur, that they shouldn't be here.
Wherever 'here' was supposed to be.
His fingers tighten on the handle of their basket.
Tommy, unsurprisingly, seemed to stay completely unaware of the feeling of sudden unease, hanging around them. Now, keeping a bit behind Wilbur, he jumps from one tree stump to another.
(Wilbur doesn't want to think about what made those trees fall in the first place.)
“I'm bored,” he declares. “I want to go home.”
Wilbur doesn't answer, running his fingers over the bark, old and rough.
Until a strange shiver passes through him, when his fingers slither over deep, long cuts in the wood. They really shouldn't be here.
Tommy apparently sees the lack of response, as a clear invitation to keep talking.
“Wilbur. I want to go home.”
Wilbur grunts softly.
Suddenly, the grass beneath his feet looks too green.
“Wilbur.” His brother comes closer, this time tugging on his sleeve. “Wilby. I'm bored-”
“Can you shut up for a moment?” Wilbur snaps, turning abruptly, eyebrows drawn and chest squeezed with fear and-
Tommy, clearly taking his words as an insult, crosses his arms over his chest. But then the fabric of his shirt, far too big for him, slides down a bit, revealing fresh bruises on his wrists.
Clumsy and pale, by far not the worst Wilbur has ever seen, but his face softens immediately, as a sudden wave of guilt hits him.
“When did you get that?” He asks, and Tommy hastily pulls on the sleeve.
“Yesterday,” he mumbles, trying to sound almost nonchalantly. And maybe if Wilbur didn't know him so well, he would fall for it. “When... You know.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Tommy shrugs.
But his eyes seem a bit more glossy than a moment ago, as he nervously runs his bare feet over the damp moss.
Wilbur just looks at him for a bit. And suddenly, as he always does in moments like these, Tommy seems so small again.
He's much taller now, he surpassed most of his peers since last winter. But it doesn't change much.
So Wilbur just sighs, reaches his free hand towards him, because that's the only thing he can do to stop from grabbing his little brother, holding him close and never letting go.
“Let me see.”
Suddenly, something else shifts in Tommy's eyes, something less sad but just as horrible and disastrous for Wilbur. The corners of his mouth twitch slightly.
And before Wilbur can even stop him, Tommy bolts in the opposite direction – bare feet on grass and a wide grin on his face.
“You have to catch me!” He yells back, laughing almost hysterically.
“Tommy!” Wilbur follows him, dunking his head under low branches. “We don't have time for this!”
Wilbur is faster.
He's faster, older and looking at Tommy – definitely smarter. But that doesn't matter in the wild depths of the forest. Even when he can keep pace with his brother, Tommy slips out of his grasp, leaping over roots and dodging thorny bushes with almost bizarre grace.
Wilbur curses under his breath, as he bumps his shoulder against another tree.
“Tommy, for fuck's sake!”
Tommy looks over his shoulder, judging by the look on his face, probably to stick his tongue out at him.
It's his first mistake.
His second mistake is his hands, too occupied with holding onto his own shoes to provide any actual damage control.
The third one is that he never learned to look under his feet.
His laughter cuts off, abruptly. And without it, the forest suddenly feels oddly silent.
Wilbur catches up to him in seconds, the basket slipping from his sweaty palm, dropping sideways onto the hard ground.
“Tommy?” Wilbur grips one hand on his forearm, quickly helping him sit up. “You're okay?”
He glances over him, his reddened hands, scratched nose, dirty cheeks. All in one piece. A bit dirty and battered, but still.
He exhales, slowly.
“I told you not to do that.” He quickly brushes the dirt off the front of Tommy's shirt. “But no, why would you listen to me, sure. And now you... Oh, Tommy.”
He rests his hands on his brother's cheeks, running his thumbs gently over them.
And before he's able to say anything else, there's a soft, quiet sniffle.
Oh.
Oh, no.
“Hey, it's okay. Don't-”
He smiles, trying to push down his own panic, and there are tears already gathering in Tommy's eyes. He moves a little closer.
“Come on, now.” He runs his hand over blond curls, shaking off as much dirt as he can. “It's okay, just don't.”
And then there's one, quiet sob.
“Please, don't cry,” he pleads.
And suddenly, like on command, Tommy starts to cry.
His fingers tighten on the front of Wilbur's shirt, like he's not sure if he wants to push him away or pull even closer. Warm tears smear the dirt on his cheeks.
Wilbur regrets ever leaving the house.
He's scared, hungry, and so close to crying himself, that he has to focus really hard on keeping his voice from sounding too shaky, as he slowly strokes Tommy's hair.
“Come on, now, you're fine. Calm down.”
Tommy doesn't seem like he wants to be calm. In fact, he looks like it's the last thing on his mind.
He sounds so pitiful, that Wilbur's starting to suspect, that maybe after all, his strange anxiety spread onto him as well.
Tommy sniffs, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Then he breaks the silence with another sob.
Wilbur sighs slightly, pulling him closer. Tommy rests his forehead on his shoulder.
“You-”
Wilbur doesn't finish.
Because there's a quiet, rustling sound somewhere behind him.
At first, he just wants to ignore him.
Tommy continues to wipe his nose on his shirt, his jerky breaths slowly turning into hiccups. And when he shifts a little, Wilbur can better see the scratch on his nose, leaving tiny dots of blood behind it on their sleeves.
And maybe, that's what he would do.
If not for that strange, overwhelming feeling.
It's almost like a breeze of warm air in winter. Not bad in itself, even soothing on cold skin, but so out of place, to the point where Wilbur recoils.
Then, he turns slowly, a broken scream dying in his throat.
Wilbur, in the course of his objectively short life, felt the presence of Death near him many times.
When he was younger and his father took him hunting for the first time and carefully showed him how to properly hold the crossbow.
Snow creaked softly under their boots, and his father was smiling at him, even when he didn't have the strength to load it himself. Even when he cried over a dead squirrel, vowing never to pick up a weapon ever again.
(Wilbur doesn't remember the last time he hesitated before shooting. And some small part of him wonders if his father would be proud if he ever found out.)
When he was still in school, that one, especially harsh winter.
He still remembers Niki, how her eyes would wrinkle when she smiled, how she sometimes grabbed his hand, as they waltzed shoulder to shoulder, down the icy stairs.
She was born too early; always too petite, too frail. Her pale skin would fit better between the silver, gold, and fancy dresses, than with working in a small, simple bakery.
No one was surprised when she fell ill.
Wilbur remembers how quiet the school got for days after, with one, empty desk.
When he got sick himself, no less than six months later.
That fateful summer, when suddenly half of their village started to bend in half with a cough, dark spots covering their palms and arms, a fever that never seemed to go down.
Wilbur remembers how he laid in bed, eyes glossy from the heat and cold piercing his body, listening to the distant ringing of the cemetery bell.
It never seemed to quiet down that summer.
His mom was sitting by his bed, brushing her fingers through his hair, mumbling a quiet prayer under her breath.
(She was the only one not scared to touch him.)
And one night, when he closed his eyes, he almost felt a cold breath against the back of his neck, icy fingers brushing against his temples. And when something in his chest tightened painfully, they vanished, leaving behind only the unpleasant warmth of his fever.
He was one of the few to survive, only with ugly scars on his arms to show for it.
(After that, his mom always seemed to pray more often.)
Wilbur felt the presence of Death. Uncomfortable in its nature, ugly and inevitable part of life.
But now, for the first time, he's staring directly into its face.
It's almost human, with sharp features, pale skin, and a straight nose of a man.
And feathers. Growing out of his cheeks, intertwining with golden hair, eventually shifting into wings – huge, probably bigger than Wilbur himself, stretched behind his back like a dark, gleaming cloak.
And claws. Long, almost black fingers tipped with sharp talons, spilling from under green sleeves – fancy ones, with beautiful embroidery, shining like gold in the sun.
The clothes seem more fit for a noble man, rather than a monster.
A monster, staring at something behind Wilbur's shoulder with big, piercing blue eyes.
Tommy, face tucked away against Wilbur's chest, sniffs.
The monster digs his claws further into the branch he's sat on, leaning forward as if to get a better look at something behind Wilbur's back.
'Something', that, apparently, is Tommy.
Wilbur gasps, frozen, head tilted up, staring at the creature between the leaves. And softly, as quietly as he can, he whispers:
“Do not move.”
Many times before, Wilbur wished his brother would be a little better at following orders.
Mainly on those days, when he's forced to take him with him to the market, and Tommy always finds a way to slip out of his hand, disappearing in the crowd of people.
On those days, Wilbur only swears softly under his breath, as he swims between people in search of familiar, blonde hair. Now, he's very close to crying.
Tommy almost immediately pulls away from him, his face puffed up, mouth open as if to protest.
And then his gaze follows Wilbur, and he freezes, eyes wide in mute, choked shock.
“Hush,” Wilbur whispers, flinching as the monster tilts his head slightly. “Quiet.”
Tommy seems to lose any motivation to protest this time, because he only nods, face impossibly pale.
They stay like that for a moment, blue eyes staring into Tommy, until finally, he sobs again.
Quiet, almost inaudible to Wilbur himself.
Wilbur swears under his breath.
The monster twitches at the sound, dark feathers ruffled. And he leans a little more towards them, and Wilbur holds his breath, waiting for-
A quiet, shy chirp. It's something between a confused pigeon, and the scariest sound Wilbur has ever heard in his life.
And it sounds weirdly familiar.
He opens his eyes (he doesn't remember closing them), and once more looks up at the thing, peering down at them from the branches.
There's something, that on a human, could almost look like worry; pale eyebrows frowned, ruffled feathers covering flushed cheeks.
And as he tilts his head, blonde hair falls over his shoulder, Wilbur realizes something.
Slowly, he stands up, with Tommy still clutching at his shirt so hard, that for a moment he feels like he's about to tear it with his fingernails. He takes a step back, facing the branch.
Wilbur doesn't know much about wild birds.
About as much as can be learned by years of scaring them off from their field and patching up the old scarecrow.
But he knows enough to recognize the call of one very, very confused parent.
“It's okay.” He pulls Tommy a little closer, letting him cling to his legs and look directly into those cold, blue eyes. “It's not yours.”
And for the first time, the monster looks away from Tommy, now staring directly at Wilbur.
They stay silent like that. Even the wind fades, as if embarrassed by its presence in this strangely intimate moment.
Wilbur holds his breath, hugging Tommy tighter. And slowly, he takes another step back.
And suddenly, as if stretched too far in the atmosphere of uncertainty, something breaks.
The monster that was the purest image of Death just a few minutes earlier, blinks suddenly, finally tearing his eyes away from both of them.
And something disappears from his eyes, like a weird fog Wilbur didn't notice before, and they seem even sharper, even more piercing in their unusual blue. And then he wrinkles his nose and-
Sneezes.
Quick and high, sounding more like a cat, woken up from a long nap, rather than something fully capable of killing them both with a single slash of claws.
He looks at Wilbur again, and he holds his breath as his gaze pierces him quite like-
“Are you lost?”
At first, Wilbur almost thinks he misheard. That some fragment of his terrified, panicked mind decided to play a little more with his emotions.
But watching Tommy pull back a bit and looking up with an equally confused expression, he quickly rules out that option. Although it sounds much nicer than the alternative.
So he just swallows, feeling the words die in his throat.
The creature, clearly unhappy with the lack of response, shifts slightly on the branch, sitting down.
Shoulder to shoulder against the tree, dark claws dangling in the air, as if they weren't the deadliest weapon Wilbur has ever seen.
“I'm Philza,” he adds, like they're having a normal, casual conversation. “But call me Phil.”
Wilbur, actually, would rather not call him at all.
In fact, all he wants right now, is for all of this to turn out to be some very strange, very realistic dream.
That he'll wake up in their bed, Tommy stretched all the way across and almost pushing him off.
That after a moment of hesitation, he'll stop thinking about dark forests, monsters that until now were just old bedtime stories to scare little kids.
That he'll quickly forget about the very same monsters, staring at him with frighteningly intelligent, conscious eyes, relaxed and almost indifferent face, like they're having an ordinary chat about the weather.
Wilbur blinks, and the surrounding trees don't turn into the walls in their room.
Tommy shifts in his brother's loose embrace, but doesn't let go of his hand, his fingers tightly clasped around it.
“Yes, we-”
Wilbur immediately covers Tommy’s mouth with his hand, hissing softly in warning and looking down sharply.
Philza rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and smiling in a way, that some naive people might take for kindness, delighted to finally get any answer.
“Hey, no need to stress,” he says, looking directly at Wilbur. “I must have scared you, huh?”
Wilbur doesn't answer.
Tommy nods as he licks the inside of Wilbur's palms. Wilbur pulls back his hand, wincing.
“You're disgusting,” he mumbles softly under his breath, forgetting that he should be scared for his life, just for one moment.
“Are your wings real?” Tommy, who doesn't seem to share his very understandable fear at all, stands on his toes to get a better look.
Wilbur's pretty sure that there's something offensive in that question, but Philza only laughs briefly, feathers puffing up.
“What do you think?”
The dark wings suddenly rustle softly, as Philza jumps down with an ease, dark claws landing on the soft ground.
And while Wilbur's still very unhappy about the closing distance between them, Philza seems less and less like a monster that devours everyone it meets instantly.
He feels more and more like something else, something much more important than a scary story for naughty children. Something much, much older, more powerful, for which even the forest falls silent and the branches shift out of the way to accomodate massive wings.
And much, much more dangerous, in this most terrible, cunning way.
Wilbur's pretty sure that somewhere beneath that unnervingly human smile, warmth in his eyes, there's something more menacing. Even if he can't see it.
His fingers tighten on Tommy's shoulder.
“What's your name?” Philza asks.
It is, objectively speaking, an innocent question.
Coming from Phil, it sounds like a trap.
He's pretty sure that whether Philza is, or isn't a bloodthirsty monster (or something else entirely), giving him their names is definitely a bad idea. Wilbur opens his mouth, as a lie easily sweeps over his tongue, quickly and-
“I'm Tommy, and this is Wil-”
Wilbur's hand tightens to Tommy's lips.
Maybe a little harder than he wanted, inadvertently digging his nails into red skin. But right now, all he can think about is his heart, beating heavily against his chest, the blood rushing in his ears.
He never wanted to skin his brother alive more than right now.
Phil smiles brightly. Wilbur feels his stomach tighten painfully.
“Wil. Take it easy, mate. I don't bite.” He laughs, like it's just a funny vision and not a very real fear. “Sorry for going all... You know, on you. It's because of...”
He makes a strange gesture, somewhere near his head, until he gives up, waving his hand.
“Never mind. It happens.” He glances back at Tommy, who's trying with all his strength to free himself from Wilbur's grip; moves his gaze over his scratched nose and hands.
“Here, let me see-”
He takes a step forward, reaching his hand toward them; all sharp claws and dark edges. Wilbur steps back quickly. Tommy's heels leave marks in the ground, as the boy struggles in his hold, clearly valuing his dignity more than his own life.
Phil freezes in place.
Then he blinks, slowly pulling back his hand.
And behind the storm of dark feathers, he looks almost... Ashamed.
Wilbur lets himself get thrown off only for a moment
Because immediately, Phil hums, nervously brushing the non-existent dirt from his arm.
“Yeah. I'm sorry...” He looks to the side, staring for a moment at the shadows between the trees, like he can actually see something behind them.
Now, up close and with a slightly clearer mind, Wilbur's able to actually take a good look at him.
Philza resembles a human to such an extent, that looking at him feels almost uncomfortable. Pupils a bit too large, fingers a bit too long, tipped with sharp talons. Something inhuman about the way he moves, with a bit too much grace.
His wings, dark and massive, droop slightly, almost touching the ground, relaxed.
Philza's not expecting an attack. He knows that they're not a threat to him.
Suddenly he hums again, a bit annoyed, like he just received bad news that he was expecting anyway.
“Yeah.” But when he looks back at them, his face softens almost immediately. “My son was messing with the woods again.” He sighs, like it's a perfectly normal, everyday incident that parents complained about. “Can I take you home?”
Wilbur, still processing the prospect of more than one monster in the forest, blinks suddenly.
“What?”
“It's our fault you got lost.” His gaze shifts to Tommy again, and there's a strange look in his eyes, that disappears almost as quickly. “And you do look like you could use some help.”
Wilbur's grateful that his hand still lingers on the mouth of his struggling brother.
“No,” he replies, maybe a bit too quickly, flinching as Phil's expression shifts. “No, thank you. We can handle ourselves.”
Philza doesn't answer for a long moment. Way too long.
Tommy's still unsuccessfully trying to bite Wilbur's hand off.
“All right,” Phil says finally, sounding surprisingly honest, tho not without a hint of disappointment in his voice.
Casually, he waves his hand at one of the trees.
Wilbur blinks and almost misses it; how the branches shift slightly, the grass suddenly feels a little more trampled, in such a minimal yet undeniable way.
He shivers involuntarily. Tommy's eyes just widen, looking from the woods to Phil.
“Oh.” He hopes his voice doesn't sound as shaky as he feels.
Philza looks at them once more, with a strangely melancholic smile.
“Come visit me again sometime. I get lonely.” He says it almost like a joke, although his eyes seem honest.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Tommy pushes his brother's hand away, tilting his head up to look at Phil.
“So we'll need to get lost again?”
Phil laughs and Wilbur feels a slight flicker of unease at how honest it sounds. The way he looks at Tommy, in that warm but almost possessive way.
“Oh, don't worry about it. I'll find you.”
Wilbur, oddly enough, doesn't doubt him.
He holds his brother's hand and pulls him towards the trees.
Tommy turns over his shoulder, taking one last look at Phil. He reaches out, waving a little too vigorously.
“Bye-bye, Mister Bird!”
Wilbur doesn't turn when Phil laughs.
***
He doesn't believe it, until he moves the leaves out of his way, walking into the field behind their house.
And for a moment, he's so surprised he lets Tommy slip out of his hand, staring at their house, looming in the distance.
He let them go.
Wilbur takes a deep breath.
Tommy, a few steps ahead of him, opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly stops, the smile slowly fading from his lips.
“We forgot our basket.”
In fact, it's the last thing Wilbur can think about at the moment.
And the vision of spending the rest of the day with empty stomachs seems less repulsive, than walking into their sure death all over again.
But before he can say anything, his gaze drops and-
He blinks, staring at the basket under the bush.
Their basket.
Filled with raspberries, even more than before.
Wilbur, knees buckling beneath him, bends down, lifting it off the ground. And in the daylight, a small rock gleams slightly between the fruits.
Tiny, covered with tiny pieces of shiny metal.
Tommy holds out his hand.
And before he can even reach for it, Wilbur turns abruptly, throwing the stone as far into the forest as he can.
And then he looks back at Tommy, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Never go back into that forest,” he says, trying to hide how his voice trembles, how his hands can barely hold onto the basket.
And it sounds both like an order and a prayer at the same time.