Chapter Text
The Sky was a murky gray. One that spelled doom for all who dwelled under it. The howling winds carried the brewing smell of bloodlust far away from the dark stone walls of the castle. A greedy King sits on a shallow throne crafted of blood and bones when he calls for his men. The dark stones echoed as the bearded hateful man clambered into his armor and ordered his horse to be waiting for him outside. A conquest to take the wild. To hold magic in its mangled twisting form in the palm of his hand and crush it. To cage life at its very core and control it for selfish means. This king would not be the first to fall to the siren song the Moores sang. A twisted melody only jilted souls could fall victim to. He would not be the last wretched man to walk that hall and wear that crown of forsaken, crumbling, ruin. The ticking gears of fate began to churn, and unbeknownst to the King, the shadow of death followed him.
— — —
The sky was a bright color. It's warm orange and red hues escaped into the atmosphere, fading into the brilliant blues that existed only above the clouds on dreary days like today. A blossoming beryl light, vibrant in its pale shades. The air was wet and tacky after the storm the night before. The clamminess would priest into tomorrow as well, even if it didn't rain tonight as it was predicted to. As was the way of Early March in the Moores. Rainy, muggy, and just barely crossing the threshold of spring, the rainwater was still chilled, and the grass still frosted over in the morning.
The damp humidity hanging in the air was clinging stubbornly to Phil’s feathers as he rhythmically beat his wings. Regardless, He couldn’t help but love days like this. Despite how dirty Wilbur would get by rolling in mud, or how Technoblade would curl up under his blankets and sleep the day away. Or even how the lukewarm dew would stick to his primaries and leave him feeling congested as it was now. For all it could be worth, he loved the morning after a rainstorm.
Because despite its flaws, on days like today, the beauty of the horizon was his and his alone. Elytrians are the only fae able to fly above the reaches of the clouds. Phil just so happened to be one of the only remaining few. Despite the heartache, maybe it was worth it to be up here. Where most Avian's could only skim the treetops, and glide rather elegantly about the land. Phil could fly, truly fly. The wings of bug-like fae would freeze long before the clouds could be brushed against, and spells could not make it through the clouds completely, and to the sky above. But Phil? Phil could and often would trace designs into the clouds. That he knew his son's friends on the ground would enjoy. His flights spanned hours of the afternoon, he was content with the few birds that could make it, and the wind as his companions. He was happy flying alone, despite how the back of his brain begged for someone to enjoy it with.
Flock! Flock it cried- it begged. But Phil could not give his boys wings. And he wasn't ready for them to be Flock not yet, he needed the perfect opportunity-
Phil saw his ability as a gift. A blessedly sweet, small freedom he had. One he wished he could share, but not one he would sacrifice. Because here he could stretch his limbs and feel the wind on his face. See what the gods had painted for only their eyes to see, and now his. The cascading shades of blue reminded him of river rapids, sprouting forget-me-nots, and bellflowers. The dark indigos prompted memories of deep oceans and underwater cave systems. White ivory clouds drifted above were spun like silken candy floss. That was what he had the grace of seeing, and that was what made Phil love days like today.
The wind would hug him like a long-forgotten friend as if he hadn’t flown just yesterday evening. It was pushing and pulling as he drifted in its currents. A relaxed smile on his face like he’d done this a thousand times. He likely had. The comfort of the sky was far too wonderful to fully keep track of, and he had long since stopped trying to.
The days of his youth when his wings had grown in, he had tried. Kept a journal of painted sketches and treasured sights. Trying to match the beauty of his private horizon. The futile effort was lost once he filled up the book. The drawings are beautiful but did not capture just what lies above the clouds. Phil has since stored the book away in his home. To collect dust and remind him of his adolescence. He hadn't seen the leatherbound book in many years.
A few crows tried to flap their way up to him. Struggling with the tireless effort as the wind urged them downward. He chuckled as a few brushed against his cloak, which flapped in the wind elegantly. Its pine green colors are like a beacon for the blackbirds. Or maybe that was his hat, stripped and only hanging on by a strap.
He wore mundane clothes. Scrappy and well-loved. If you squinted at the seams, you could tell it was messily hand stitched. Like someone had been forced to learn as they went. He’d never fancied the use of a spinning wheel, too loud, it made the clothes feel...wrong in a way his very being forced him to acknowledge. Besides They were a lot of work when he could just buy fabrics and hand stitch them together himself. The sleeves of the off-white button-up were black, stained by Ink. Wilbur had borrowed this shirt; Phil really should have guessed it’d end in stains of some sort. The siren always had trouble…keeping out of trouble. Much less keeping a shirt clean on his passionate endeavors.
It didn’t really matter though. No matter what trouble his
S̶o̶n̶s̶
friends got into, Phil would always be there for them. Whether it was Wilbur needing to rant, or Techno wanting to go out and hunt the mindless mobs that wandered the Moores. He fixed them a meal at least once a day. The boys barged into his home, with a light knock and a fond glint in their eyes. The two lived so close to him. Their little shack was only a 6-minute walk from Phil’s very own Nest. A hot second worth of flight. It was hard not to
Take care of them
and be friendly with the two. What was a meal or between
Family
friends anyway?
Just thinking about home made him hungry. He hadn’t eaten that morning, instincts clawing at his brain to go flying before anything else. He indulged them of course, he usually did. Flying was always a welcome experience, for both his hindbrain and his conscious one. Itching the deep-rooted urge to feel the untamed winds bend, curve, and obey his whims with only a flap of his dark wings. But he knew better than to push too far, and go somewhere he wasn't meant to be. Mutual respect was shared between him and the wild drifting gales, for Phil could not fly without it. Phil knew not to grate on its leniency, there were some things he wasn't meant to touch, some places he wasn't meant to reach. He was ok with that.
He tilted his shoulders, his wings following suit. The feathers adjusted themselves as he went, instinctively altering their positions, to keep him in the air. Phil swept large and wide, turning back towards his house and away from the setting sun. The wind ruffled the feathers around his ears playfully. The emerald earring displayed pridefully, jangled gently against his neck.
Phil gradually started to descend, falling under the clouds and out of reach from the bright afternoon sky, and warming sunbeams. Greeted by the foggy grey air, The sooty color of the clouds dull the hue of the world. Phil was sure about it now, as insects started buzzing around him as he got lower. Another rainstorm was on its way.
As he flew he took in the wondrous sights the Moores held. Their towering trees grew from magical roots and enchanted soil. Creeks clicked and clacked on rocks and stones as water drifted downstream. Wild fauna, and mystical flora sprouted from every crack and crevice. Moss and lichen decorate the ground and climb up trees. Weeds and flowers sprouted from rock faces and cliffs, and lilypads danced in the waters of ponds and slow-moving waterfalls. Ivy sprouted up tree bark and reached out to brush the tips of Phil's wings like a friendly greeting.
Many fae were inside their homes. A jarring amount of mud had soaked through the layers of moss and foliage. Leaving a lot of plants, items, and generally everything around, to be coated in the brown muck. But even the hues of grey and brown that had settled on the Moore's, it was still an enchanting sight. As Phil flew, he saw many who were making the most of the drab dewy day.
Eleveish folk, earth, and water fae were going about their business. Along with various amphibious and fish-like fae. Some of the younger sproutlin’s we're making mud cakes near the flooded river. One of which was trying to start a mud war. Some of the adults were Walking about and doing their chores and attending to their shops. Some draped In cloaks and others dared to go without. Many waved as he flew overhead, their parents coming to attention and half-heartedly smiling or waving as well, as he passed. He waved back at them with a pleasant smile.
Phil huffed in a relived way, he could finally see his home, as well as his neighbors. Wilbur was outside rolling in the mud like a young child (though he was 17 so technically still a child) just as Phil had predicted he’d do earlier. Siren fae was inclined to love wet areas, just like most fish-like fae. Wilbur had gone on a rant all about it the first time he waltzed into Phils' home sopping wet and tracking in mud. (The rule that he had to shower before coming over had been erected the fifth time it happened)
Techno, his ‘twin’ (that wasn’t really his twin), watched on from inside. Poking his head out through a window to watch his brother. Wrapped in a fluffy red blanket that Phil was half sure belonged to him. He waved at both of them. Only Techno returned the gesture, Will was far too busy having fun to even notice or acknowledge Phil. He didn’t mind, Will would come by later to hang out. They both would if tradition kept its way.
His house sat comfortably in the mountainside. A sloping, thin, ledge led to the ground. Though Phil never needed it. Always flying in and landing on the platform he’d carved out for himself and his front door. A giant dead oak tree wrapped up the side of the mountain. Its long branches curved up even further, providing a makeshift canopy from their togetherness. Phil knew the tree was long since hollow. His nest had originally resided in the cradling of those branches. But when the old maple tree started dying, he began moving into the cliffside. Not wanting to have his first home collapse in on itself with him in it.
He flapped his wings a few times to straighten himself out and gently glided to the front stoop of his home. Easily opening the weathered oak doors with their copper handle. Slipping inside of his humble abode. His feathered appendages folded behind him to better fit through the door frame, coming to rest comfortably on his back.
The warm tones of his home wrapped him up in their comfortable heat. The soft stone edges made up the frame of his home. Pale driftwood made up his floor. Which had a few rugs splayed out on it. Larger furred animals that Phil had hunted on the outstretches of the fae wild. Where the creatures were just as beastly as the center, but not nearly as sentient. (Phil had tried talking to one too many, and had gotten just as many scars from his efforts)
Phil slipped off his shoes by the door, the floor was warm, welcoming in its own right. Phil shut the door behind him with practiced ease, before venturing further into his home. The smell of dew was less prominent here. Pine and ozone the most identifiable smells lingering in the air. Copper and honey linger under some of the folded blankets on the couch.
A cooking area was set off to the side, with stone counters that looked like they had been cut from the walls of the cave. A living room is pushed to the left. Warm, homemade armchairs and couches with fluffy blankets surrounded a fireplace, which was pressed into the wall. A stack of available wood and fuel sat against the far wall. A short pine table sat in the middle of a stretched-out bear skin rug.
A hallway leads further back, with a bathroom. which was really just a wooden tub to be filled with heated water, and an enchanted seat (A toilet in modern slang). Across the hall, there was Phil’s room. Its wooden walls hold heat in and the similarly patterned floor kept his feet from chilling in the morning. It was the only room other than the front one that had any windows(the front one which connected to both the kitchen and the living room with its open floor plan) the rest of the room's beings lit by magic lanterns hanging from chains. Or small oil lamps clinging to the walls next to the doors.
His bed was crafted especially for him. While most Avian's had circular beds because of their nesting habits, Phil’s wasn't an avian and had a significantly larger wingspan than them. As such needed a larger bed. The whole thing was shaped in a circle, blankets intertwining with his friend's hoodies, pillows preened feathers he hadn't bothered to discard in the moment and treasures his instincts had insisted he stashed there to keep safe.
His wings itched a great deal. The dew sticking in uncomfortable places, and the grime of the wind playfulness clinging to his wings. Phil sat himself down in the center of his nest. Then with practiced ease, he reached for his feathers. Curling his wings in towards himself. He slid a hand to understand the first few dark irredentist feathers and started working his way through. A shiver spiked through him every time he reached into his more delicate feathers. A slow tedious pace was necessary when preening but that didn't mean Phil wasn't oh-so annoyed. Especially when he couldn't properly reach the back side of his wing. The feathers in just the right (or wrong?) position to prevent him from fixing them.
They'd always been like that, never properly cleaned because of their place on his wings. Preening was supposed to be a familial task, but he had no family to do such a thing. He was forced to settle with the surface cleaning he got from taking a bath, though it left him feeling dirty, and parts of his wings itchy. Having someone preen his wings was a huge show of trust and familiarity. It allowed the hindbrain to accept them as a flock member or a lover. His brain would jump to conclusions if someone else did it. Either interpreting it as a threat or immediately claiming them as flock So he'd just have to endure the itching.
He wanted to. oh, how he wanted to invite his boys into his nest. But he couldn't risk the possibility of his hindbrain rejecting them.
An even quieter part of his mind whispered;
coward
and his hindbrains muffled offense at the thought of ever hurting his own hatchlings just made Phil push the thoughts away.
S҉o҉m҉e҉h҉o҉w҉ ҉r҉e҉j҉e҉c҉t҉i҉o҉n҉ ҉f҉r҉o҉m҉ ҉t҉h҉e҉ ҉b҉o҉y҉s҉ ҉s҉e҉e҉m҉e҉d҉ ҉l҉i҉k҉e҉ ҉a҉ ҉w҉o҉r҉s҉e҉ ҉f҉a҉t҉e҉ ҉t҉h҉a҉n҉ ҉t҉h҉e҉ ҉c҉r҉i҉p҉p҉l҉i҉n҉g҉ ҉l҉o҉n҉e҉l҉i҉n҉e҉s҉s҉ ҉h҉i҉s҉ ҉h҉i҉n҉d҉b҉r҉a҉i҉n҉ ҉s҉c҉r҉e҉a҉m҉e҉d҉ ҉a҉t҉ ҉h҉i҉m҉ ҉t҉o҉ ҉f҉i҉x҉.҉ ҉H҉e҉ ҉c҉o҉u҉l҉d҉ ҉b҉a҉r҉e҉ ҉h҉i҉s҉ ҉i҉n҉s҉t҉i҉n҉c҉t҉s҉ ҉g҉r҉a҉t҉i҉n҉g҉ ҉a҉t҉ ҉h҉i҉m҉-҉ ҉b҉u҉t҉ ҉h҉e҉ ҉c҉o҉u҉l҉d҉ ҉n҉o҉t҉ ҉b҉e҉ ҉t҉r҉u҉l҉y҉ ҉a҉l҉o҉n҉e҉ ҉a҉g҉a҉i҉n҉.҉
Leaving his room with a huff, Phil absentmindedly took note of the other spare bedrooms dotted around the hall, he enjoyed company often, so he might as well have the space to house them if they so wished. A small room with a rail board washer and soap in the far back. Thicker linens and clothesline the shelves of that room for winter. (A few were missing, having never left his nest last spring or found their way into the Twin's house)
But that was enough thinking about his lovely floor plan. Phil was hungry. He trotted up to the kitchen and started to fix himself a meal. The sizzling of the bread on butter distracts from the everpresent Itchiness. Phil easily flipped the bread onto his plate. Adding the various pre-prepared food items to his sandwich. It was delicious, as usual. He’d just been going to clean his plate when a knock came on his door. It's beat reminiscent of the ‘shave and a haircut’ rhyme.
Phil smiled; he could recognize the knock pattern anywhere. The strong smell of sea salt and honey could be smelt through the thick wooden planks of his home. Seeping through the imperfections in the wood. He huffed and trudged over to the door feigning exasperation as he opened it.
They're stood Wilbur, freshly clean (still sluggishly dripping water off his hair), and Technoblade. The smell of Honey, and Salt is even more overbearing now. He sneezed suddenly as Wilbur rushed by him. Phil’s eyes followed him as he flipped onto the couch and snuggled up with a particularly soft one.
Techno came up behind him, grunting under his breath about how he’d wanted that blanket. Before giving Phil a hug and a greeting and settling in the armchair nearest to the fire. He smelt like he always did, a metallic stinge of copper mixing with fresh apples. Good his boys were content.
Phil grinned at the familiar scents. An elated feeling built in his chest just at their very presence. His s̶o̶n̶s̶ friends were here. Their comforting smells intertwine with the shared space of Phil's home. Honey-glazed apples and the striking smell of copper machinery eroded by the ocean greeted him when the brothers were together.
Phil smiled and served the...dinner? Late lunch? Early dinner? It had taken a while to cook the meal. Though he hadn’t needed to go through the trouble of cooking for two more people. Phil always made enough to feed them; they came over for a lot of meals. (Phil had a hunch Techno could smell his cooking from their house)
The day went by quickly after that. Full of witty banter, petty fights, amazing food (cooked by Phil himself), and even better stories. Whispered into the world for drowsy eyes and listening ears. Words and tales and short symphonies crafted for only two to hear. Retellings of great adventures long past, or songs of lighthearted first loves. The hours faded by and before Phil knew it, Wil and Techno were on their way out the door.
He gave them each a hug. Waving goodbye as they yawned and descended the stairs. He wished for a moment, to ask them to stay. To have them join him in his nest. So, he could watch them, protect them. So, he could preen and reach all the little feathers in all those unreachable places. So, they could officially be a flock. (Because the unspoken thing between them has always been a familiarity. A loving protectiveness that went beyond friends and was closer to flock- to family.)
But Phil would have to wait. They were tired and they had things to do tomorrow. He couldn’t make them indulge his protective and overbearingly sappy bird instincts. (Because he’d seen what happened when Avian's welcomed someone into their flock. They were a clinging mess to the new member(s) for hours) e̶x̶c̶u̶s̶e̶s̶-̶ ̶e̶x̶c̶u̶s̶e̶s̶!̶ ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶o̶w̶a̶r̶d̶-̶
Maybe he could ask them tomorrow? It’d have to be in private. It was personal and the world really didn’t need to know. Not unless the boys wanted them to… Not unless the boys accepted his offer. He hoped they would, he wanted ever so desperately for them to agree. He hoped he hadn't given them a reason to refuse.
Phil climbed into bed, worming his way into his sheets. Spreading his wings to accommodate his position. He brushed away the feathers that had come from his earlier preening and wrapped the blankets around himself. The cushion springs squeaked faintly underneath him. But he didn’t notice. The world just faded away as he slipped into the dream world. The scent of honey and apples hung in the air pleasantly.
— — —
Phil woke with an intense feeling of wrong lingering in his bones. Every light in his room had been burnt out, the wicks of the candles snuffed, despite the lack of a draft. His mind and magic screamed at the brewing, gut-wrenching, dread. The perfect unison was unusual. It only encouraged Phil to go faster. With far less care than usual, Phil got dressed. His Laced boots only half-heartedly tied up as he rushed out his door
He was greeted by the sight of the midnight sky smeared a hellish orange with fire. Stained with a repulsive Stygian smoke cascading from the high-reaching ever-greens. His eyes sharpened as a fierce determination settled on his shoulders. His wings shot up, launching him into the air with a crack like lightning. His eyes immediately searched, as he flew closer to the Scalding inferno. Crows and ravens alike followed behind him. A shadow fell over the land as he went. It was only a few short seconds when he found who had caused the firestorm to rage upon the lands.
Men, covered in iron and steel ransacked homes and scorched farmland. Greedy eyes soiled red by bloodlust and air-borne embers. Chasing frighted fae children and killed farmers who stood to protect their lands and families. Pixes captured in iron cages, avian wings clipped. Phil had seen plenty.
He drew his wings in sharply. Breath caught in his throat. Then he plummeted like a bird of prey. A few moments. The wind howled in his ears. Anger matching Phil's own. His wings snapped open. gaining enough momentum to glide along the battlefield. Snatching up soldiers. Burning his hands along the iron plating. Dropping them into the spiraling infernos they had made. The clang of steel echoed. The muffled thwip of arrows. A haunting melody rang out. The tree line obscures the singer. Phil dropped another squirming man. He knew that voice. Wil and Techno were here. Phil's hands burned. But a smirk still lit his face. The crows had descended just as he had. Pecking out the eyes of iron-clad men. The forces of man were drawing back. But the battle had not yet been won. The glint of pink hair confirmed his question. Techno had a trail of corpses. Encrusted in red. Phil’s Son split through the enemy. Pride swelled up in Phil. He swooped down. Distractedly dropping the soldier too low. Now having to try again.
That's when Phil spotted him. The Greedy king perched on an armored horse. Far from the battle- like a coward. Phil's eyes narrowed. The moonlight made his eyes shine coldly. This man. This man had hurt his sons. Endangered his home. Threatened everything that had come to matter- The soldier squirmed away as Phil rose off the ground. Predatory gaze locking on the king. Heavy wingbeats lead him there. Looking like a force of nature with each fluid movement. Before he knew it- Phil was hovering over the man. Still, the king's eyes held greed, even when confronted with an angel of death.
He took the king into his arms. Grunting at the sizzling pain of the iron on his hands. He rose far higher than he had. From below all, one would see is two smudges surrounded by crows. A long shadow draped over the battlefield. The King squirmed. Old lungs struggling with the altitude. They rose ever higher.
He dropped the king. No hesitation, nor regret as the man cried out. A hand-shaped like burn already forming. Iron to the skin was not a kind feeling. For a moment there was silence as the king fell. Perhaps that is why Phil heard it. A cry of pain. From a voice, he knew. The wind's oppressive noise roared in his ears. His head swiveled to look. In the distance, Phil could see his son, on the ground. An armor-clad man standing over him. Wilbur had been hurt . An instinctual animalistic growl came from the back of Phil's throat. His pupils sharpened into slits.
He flew. Perhaps faster than he ever had. The seconds felt as though they dragged on as the soldier inched ever closer, But Phil made it. He ground against the earth, tearing up dirt as he used his entire body to obscure Wil from the man's view. Ripping grass from its roots. His wings puffed up protectively. Fingernails digging into the soil. The soldier tensed. Wilbur whimpered in pain.
Phil jolted forward. His wings lashed out, as his magic whipped around like a crazed beast. Snaking around the man's throat like a python. Little was left of the man who had dared. (But if I described it all. Well, this fic wouldn't be allowed to be rated T, now, would it?) Blood would stain this patch of land for years to come. And far past the years of this story. The smell of death would haunt the soil and taint the food.
The battle tapered off as Phil wrapped Wil’s wounds. A sour look crossed his face when Techno told him of the retreating soldiers and the still-breathing king. But Phil's posture relaxed when he was told how few casualties there had been on their side. (The few that had, would have funerals. Buried under the willow, pink dogwood, and red oak trees. Their memories whispered among soft tones of the morning. Respect for their sacrifice.)
The sun just began to rise as the bodies of each person were carefully buried. Even the enemy. The soft sounds of magic chimed in the wind as some older fae worked to put the fires out. The bustle of a new day began, just as Phil’s movements grew exhausted. He nudged his two boys toward home.
It was a victory. They went home smiling. Fretting over Wil and confining the poor guy in a cocoon of blankets. Then mothering Techno, until he too ended up a burrito of soft throw blankets. The back of Phil's mind echoed lightly. That this was right when both boys fell asleep wrapped in Phil's wings on his couch. The fireplace crackled gently as his fingers raked through both boys' hair. Content for now. Pushing the anxiety away. Everything was fine. The King would surely be dead soon. If not already. What could the new one does that Phil and his family couldn't defend against?
— — —
The king had been rushed back to his home. All medical treatments they could find were boiled, bought, or grabbed with little haste, then brought to his bedside. Healing potions, natural remedies, ointments, regeneration potions, salt scrubs, they even begged a reluctant mage to come in and help the man. All to no avail. (Upon failure the mage had been burnt at the stake for ‘conspiring against the king’ The crackle of the fire only just hid the screams of an innocent man.) Every time something would start to look up, it would quickly spiral into a failure, snuffing the hope that had been growing among the courtiers. Many Left the king worse off than before and settled with his fate. Death loomed over, their ever-present shadow growing more obvious as the moon lowered against the horizon.
The kingdom entered preconceived mourning, Weeping more for their future than their dying king. The King had never bore any children with his wife, she had refused to have intercourse with a man she didn’t love, and he had refused adoption in fear of getting a ‘freaky fae creature’ instead of a ‘proper’ child. Though the people hated their king they loved their queen and feared what the royal court would do with her upon the king's death. Which wicked man would take the throne? Would they be worse?
In his dying hours, the King had an idea. He brought around all his court members and knights to his bedside. His wheezing voice struggled out of his throat. The summoned people leaned in closer to hear what the old man had to say.
“I-hhhhh- I want one of you”
A short coughing fit. Wheezing and sputtering. A few knights backed up as flem flew from his mouth. Many made disgusted faces that they quickly hid. The king resumed speaking but not with hacking
“To kill the beast-“another cough “that did this to me”
The king tried to sit up, striving to force his body up. His lungs gasping for air, he slumped even further into his bed. The silk sheets pulled down, revealing his frazzled clothes and robes. The king continued despite this failure.
“To- to whoever succeeds- they will-”
The king's eyelids started to drift shut in exhaustion. He was not dead yet. Not entirely. He was far too spiteful to leave the land of the living knowing the beast that had done this to him lived on. Death waited, ever patient. The moon began to set among the falling stars in the west.
“They will take over the rulership of- of the kingdom.”
An additional cough accompanied his next sentence. Breaking his throat to pieces it sounded like a painful thing. A few winced, but most didn't. Holding no sympathy for the cruelty of the king.
“And will be wed to my wife- Leah.”
After a moment of silence, they determined he was done speaking. The knights and court members bowed stoically. Some clenched their fists in determination and others nodded only to placate the king. He finally slipped into sleep, His old bones basically collapsing under the exhaustion and going limp. Death waited eagerly for his spiteful heart to settle so it could force him to the depths of the tortuous underworld. But the rageful fire burnt on in the sleeping king, and so death stood and waited, not eager nor quite yet placated enough to end his suffering with fate still tipping its scales.
The court members flooded out of the room. Knights grabbed their weapons from the racks they’d been made to hang them on and followed after. An older Servant was cleaning the floor, scrubbing at it with a water-soap solution. But he wasn’t scrubbing now. Streaking soap marks implied He had been. Now he was just staring at the ground, his expression hidden. A knight rolled his eyes as he passed the scruffy-looking man. Stepping on his extended hand as he passed by. A cocky statement fell from his lips.
“Go on peasant! Clean!”
The knight and his friends laughed. Their chuckles faded away as the man glared after them. An idea came into his mind. His amber, pupils darted to the sleeping king. A smirk lit up his face. He stood from the ground. Revealing his appearance to anyone who looked. Though no one would ever look at a servant. The man already knew that fact well enough.
He was tall, dressed in the traditional servant uniform. An ugly, brown, stained smock wrapped around his waist. It was frayed at the edges as if it had been caught in a fire. His face had an unkempt stubble, spotty in some areas and singed in others. His hair was matted, mangy, and greasy. Clearly not well taken care of. His hands were callused and rough, from long hours of work. He was thin but muscular. Likely having eaten less since gaining this job, but somehow keeping up a thinning physique. Eye bags hung under his eye like purple stones. It gave him an unnerving, disgruntled look.
His eyes were Deep apricot color, sharp and almost menacing. The air around him smelt strikingly of alcohol. It was an old scent, rotten almost. Much like the man himself. Some would say he smelt of it because of his devious nature, or because of his heritage. Though it was more likely that he was stealing ale from the kitchen. A drunkard as the likes of his father.
Schlatt knew what to do. None of those Noble knights could achieve the king's quest, but he would leave before them. Win before them. A greedy glint shone in his eyes as the dimly lit fire danced about the room. The putrid amber of his eyes looked sickly with the uncomfortable hues of orange and red reflecting in them.
If he wanted respect if he wanted power. He had to kill a beast. He had to kill an Elytrian (as the legends of the creature warned) Luckily enough for him, he knew of fae’s weakness to iron. All he needed was a convincing ruse, and that would be it. He'd become friendly with the beast. Earn its trust and kill it in the night. Maybe gain a trophy from the creature to gloat over and tell stories to the courtiers.
He would be king before the end of the week. Schlatt couldn’t help the wicked smirk that stretched its way up his face. Too many of his jagged teeth sticking out and exposing themselves. But he either didn’t realize how ugly he looked or couldn’t find it in himself to care. He was going to be king. He was going to win. No fae, nor human could stop him. This was his destiny. This was his purpose.
What was the death of one in the long bloody trail kings were known to lead? He already knew the answer to that question.