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“What’s your name?”
Big, brown doe eyes look up, red-rimmed.
The air is stale; walls bleak concrete to muffle sound. A pathetic bed in the form of hay and a threadbare blanket covering it takes up a corner. Directly opposite is a drain.
The cell reeked of death.
Brown eyes blinked, lips wobbling.
He crouched lower till he sat against filthy flooring.
“You can call me Phil.”
A smile, hopefully real enough.
Another blink.
Knowing he won’t get anything without a push, he fluffed his feathers.
It was dark in the cell, only a sliver of moonlight sneaking past stubby bars in the top corner. It wasn’t even a full moon, only a crescent of pale rock to illuminate.
But it was enough.
The light caught, pale white reflecting off glossy feathers.
A gasp.
His smile turned softer, this time confident it was enough.
“Do you wanna pet ‘em?”
When he had first entered, her eyes were dull, lidded. Lifeless.
They were bright now, shining with a glimmer of light.
She nodded.
He gave a small laugh. “Here,” he extended a limb, puffing feathers further to be more approachable.
She was careful, trembling hands, small and weak, softly petting his wings. There were scars on her arms, calluses roughening too young hands. The ridge caught and pulled a feather out.
“Hey hey, it’s alright,” he hushed, curving his eyes to reassure a panicking child, “They have to fall out sometimes, see?”
He points at the broken tip, “It broke, so I’ll have to take it out for a new one to grow.”
She looks less scared, shoulders relaxing a tad, but still sorry.
Careful to not touch, moving slowly, he takes the broken covert and gently, so gently, tucks it next to her ear.
“There, now we match.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she rubbed them before they could fall.
Instead, she beamed, skin gaunt and teeth yellowed, but it was the brightest expression he’s ever seen.
“Thank you!”
Her voice was hoarse, scratchy from thirst, and it broke in the middle.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, knowing his smile twisted with sadness.
She laid back, a tattered dress covering her sickly form, a smile resting, feather framing her face.
He never got her name.
“C’mon fellas, don’t you think this is a bit of an exaggeration?” A relaxed voice said.
A slap of skin and grunt, “Nah, me and my mates deserved that reward, in full.”
A run of the mill dispute over money, Phil’s seen it a thousand times.
Just like those past instances, he stayed hidden, providing help to neither party. That wasn’t his job, he’d fulfill his role soon enough.
“I actually liked this shirt,” came the response, aimed at himself rather than the five men surrounding him.
“Yeah?” the leader jeered, nodding to the rest of his crew, “Too bad we’re gonna ruin it.”
“Indeed.”
Faster than the leader could react, an axe cut his skull. A spray of blood bathed the young man, a few strands of hair straying from a bun.
Pink hair. Cool.
The other four quickly charged, battle cries for their comrade ending as abruptly as the first.
A kick, swing, and bash.
As quickly as it started, it ended.
“Oh, hey.”
He glanced up from where he’d crouched over the bodies, wondering if there was a newcomer for him to collect.
“Didn’t think you’d forget about me, but then again I did get a new haircut,” came the voice again. From the bounty hunter. Towards him.
Sky blue met crimson red.
“Hey,” came from smiling lips, crooked and lopsided.
Phil did as he usually did when confronted by the living.
Wings snapping open, he could only catch the widening eyes, shock settling in, before he disappeared entirely.
He stumbled, eyes hazy, seeing only red, red, red-
That wasn't new, he thought with a giggle. That's his job after all. Ha, like anyone would want to be a grim reaper.
"You don't even get a scythe or any benefits."
He laughed again because his Lady already took care of that. He laughed again, at the thought of asking for time off. He laughed until he realized that wasn't his voice.
"Don't tell me you went mental on me already," the voice joked, a timber he only heard briefly before his baby bird flew from the nest.
Phil found himself grateful there was no need for oxygen, his vestigial lungs frozen from the minute he heard his voice.
It was so long ago now, he should be in his thirties…
"Wil…"
It was quiet, it was too quiet. The dead couldn't talk, after all.
"Surprise," a charming smile spread, but those eyes, fuzzy as his vision was, were sad.
The scent of rust settled deep, coating hands and lungs each.
"Ma, please just take the damn pills."
"And I'm telling you, I just need my canvas! You don't even know what's in those things."
A humph.
"Maybe, but I bet my left foot it'll keep you breathing."
A mother and daughter, both aged with white hair and the other well on the way with a salt and pepper complexion.
The family continued to bicker, and he took in the room, not usually in charge of those who had the luxury to die in comfort.
As expected, the room was quaint; creaky footboards weathered from age with walls a pastel green where various paintings hung. Supposedly the paintings of the mother.
There were various plants, flowers, and herbs that he recognized, but the majority were of an old man –the husband perhaps, and the daughter. Some were full body, most headshots, but they all smiled, capturing happiness in endless expressions. Mischievous, smirks, grins, winks…they were encaptivating.
As something that seldom encountered genuine joy, it was curious to see how one face could express so much.
"Alright, fine! Quit yer yapping, I'm taking the damn pills," the mother snatched the cup, downing the pills and washing it down with water.
The daughter grinned, mischievous like her twin portrait, "Wasn't so bad now, was it?"
A scoff. "Make me one of your pies and I'll feel better."
"Only because I know you'll sleep through it," she called back, creaking floorboards following her descent into the kitchen.
The mother yelled, though Phil didn't pay attention as to what. It was time.
“Honestly, that old hag is going to get a heart attack, I swear…” Anne pittered through the kitchen, opening and closing wooden and weathered cabinets in her search for medicine. The walls were covered in sun-warm wallpaper, crinkling in its age. A lone bulb illuminated the scene, highlighting the shadow that suddenly took place on the small table.
A glance had her frozen, a cup in one hand and a bottle of pills rattling in the other.
The man- death, smiled.
On any other person, on any other human, she would have been comforted. It held calm certainty, a reassurance you couldn’t find often.
But Anne was old, and she knew faces. Death might be some non-material nonsense all it wants, but it can’t erase the pain she recognizes in those eyes.
Can’t erase the pain that grows inside her chest.
“I… I’m not making my pie, am I?” It wasn’t a question, and the already lidded eyes hooded lower, tilting its head down.
A sigh, loud and startling big black wings to puff up like Ginger when she got caught in the rain.
God she’s gonna miss that damn cat.
Anne pulled the opposite chair out, dropping her weight and taking amusement from Death’s attempts at regaining composure.
It was quiet, the feathers shuffling back in order while its host kept statue still.
“No one ever expects the parent to outlive the child, hm?”
Anne kept still too, unwavering against the full flinch Death gave across her, wings spreading as far as the tiny kitchen allowed, bright bright eyes wide.
“Guess Death also has favorites,” she chuckled, waving down the shocked ball of feathers, “Don’t worry, takes one to know one and all that.”
She shared a bitter smile, letting her own pain show through. Wouldn’t do to get Death pissed at her when she knew the ache.
It calmed, though there was a stiffness to the shoulders, defensive against a dying old woman.
Anne snorted.
“Well, I never thought I’d be the same, but goes to show the world really doesn’t give a damn.”
She barked a laugh, feeling her energy seep with every exhale. Anne rested her head on her chin, skull growing heavier.
“Haaa, I really was looking forward to making that pie… god knows when you get berries that cheap…” she murmured, drooping more and more until she folded her arms, head following closely.
It was hard to keep her lids open.
Throughout her rambling, blue eyes slowly shrank, going back to their previous position. There was less light than before.
Well fuck, Anne didn’t mean that.
Deciding she might as well go out trying to help out a cosmic being, she spoke her final words, “Chin up, can’t go wallowing around… I know Ed would never let me down if, if I couldn’t feed the fuck’n chickens ‘cause he left…” Anne slurred, taking the last few breaths she’d ever take.
Huh, she’d get to meet Eddie again. Well, someone’s gonna get a big whooping for leaving her.
Anne exhaled, weak lips twitching into a weak smile, close to reuniting again.
She left a body, a mother, and a faintly envious angel.
Angel of death he may be, Phil was no better than any of the hundreds of lives flickering in and out of life. His flesh was real, blood warm, and easily sunburned. Lungs reached for oxygen and his body relented, heart squeezing and pumping. His body could feel the sun and the wind’s harsh bite, so similar to a human’s.
Skin could break and split, pimple from sudden chill, tense and crinkle.
His Lady had wished no further alienation of what was Hers, She loved dearly and deeply. It took a few tries, but she managed to instill that warmth into all of them, to share laughs and comfort.
He was one of those attempts, and it showed.
Phil could hold his breath for the rest of his duties and his complexion wouldn’t purple, leave a wound unattended to bleed for eternity until mended, or more often, leave his eyes open, unblinking, the soft flesh unneeding of the moisture.
So easy it could be to pose as one, except for the unending exhaustion clinging to his very essence. It would take more effort than possible, than worthwhile.
Instead, Phil took his given body and tended to his duties.
He worked to forget.
The problem with being so similar to humans is there was no way to change his appearance.
It was not a matter of vanity, but anonymity. Normally Phil didn’t stress over that particular worry, as he was given control over his visibility. Normally, because he’d slipped up and was currently facing the consequences of his action.
“Something tells me you’re running away from me,” came the voice of the particularly stubborn human responsible for a life’s worth of stress.
His words did bring a stop, unable to let the slight go. Phil was not rude. “I don’t know what you mean, mate. I’m just doing my job.”
Phil couldn’t see his face, still turned away, but he still gave his usual smile, hoping to satisfy.
But as it usually did, his smile still hadn’t reached ‘everything will be ok if you shut up’ levels of comfort, and so the bounty hunter continued.
“I don’t know, I distinctly remember waving to you at the lake.”
The same beach where a kidnapping had gone wrong, blood slowly soaking the dirt.
Defeated, Phil turned to give proper conversation with the vagabond, fulfilling just a tiny part of his mind, curious as to the vague familiarity coming from the other.
“I was called, there are billions of humans and thousands who die.” There was no point hiding his nature, if their previous rendezvous were of any hint, then his sudden disappearance at confrontation would give it away.
Then again, humans always came up with the most curious justifications, Phil thought with melancholy twined in fondness, brown curls jumping to mind.
A bark of laughter tugged his focus, and he followed the sound.
Twice Phil had seen him, yet he never stayed long enough to analyze. The long pink hair that was prominent both times was tied up and hidden beneath a red handkerchief, edges embroidered with gold silk. His complexion was darker than Phil’s, evident of his travels, but rich with a pink undertone. He was dressed in straight, dark denim pants tucked into boots, supposedly a shirt underneath the connected cotton shawl covering his torso.
The hunter let out a chuckle, catching his gaze.
Phil didn’t mind, per se, but it was certainly new. His habit of never blinking unnerved most humans, not to mention his gaze never truly caught another, distant and focused on the ghosts of his past. Particularly one.
Either way, he was caught off guard when the other continued, eyes diligently keeping focused, “I guess I can’t really expect you to remember a brat ages ago, huh?” He spoke softly, almost in a murmur. As if speaking to a horse close to spooking.
Then again, Phil was acting like a particularly skittish mare.
Instead of acknowledging his avoidance of socializing, he tilted his head in a silent question. The human wasn’t going to stop his pursuit, and if his acquaintance with the undead was anything to note of, then Phil was going to run into the nomad sooner or later. Might as well get familiar before it wound up twisting into a scheme for eternal life or whatever bullshit.
Thankfully, the pink-haired human agreed, humming before answering. “Twenty-three years ago, I remember opening my eyes to a bloodbath. A cult, in the name of serving Death and his mightiness,” the words fell with the same grace and cadence as they did before, no intake of breath or raise of pitch. It was as if Phil was in the midst of a conversation about his hobbies and career.
“She prefers Lady,” Phil said absentmindedly. There were plenty of sacrifices he’s collected, cults as big as hundreds to a small family, all in the name of some dark entity, but rarely did any of them touch on his Lady.
There was no stopping death.
The other man dipped his head in apologies before continuing, “I was a runt back then, and covered head to toe, save for my face. We were raided by a slaver.”
For the first of this evening, he looked away, eyes fixated at the sky.
“I knew I wasn’t going to last long, but apparently, the guy acting guard had some heart problems, because the next thing I knew he dropped like a stone.”
The more he talked, the clearer Phil’s foggy memory cleared. Glimpses of a dark night, a small cage stuffed, forgotten in a corner of a carriage.
Dark eyes deadened with acceptance.
“And then you appeared, sitting next to me, just watching,” wine-red eyes snapped back to his. “He was strugglin’, even reached for you, before it got quiet. It stayed like it for a while, and I was so sure I was next, so I waited.”
He smiled, amusement curling behind his eyes. “When you moved, without ever looking once back at me, I was afraid you’d forgotten. So like any reasonable child that just got kidnapped from a cult, I asked-”
“Am I next?”
It was late, and the mood hid in the shadows, making the night darker. Phil was even harder to see, even with bright eyes, bright hair, and bright skin, the dark mourning robes loosely wrapped hid his body from sight. His regular hat was adorned with a veil, obscuring him from others and from the world. Phil never hated or loved his wings, but it felt right to keep them wrapped around him, another layer to display his grief.
Maybe it would comfort those who came to his side, personifying all that seemed like death, or maybe it would do the opposite. A final reminder of their passing. Phil didn’t care.
It was a tame ending, a heart attack. No blood.
He was grateful.
Phil was dissociating while waiting for the man to say his final piece– though it mostly contained profanities at his person and his apparent employer, when the question broke him from his reverie.
It was easy to ignore the man’s indignation, instead taking note of who spoke.
A small child, wrapped in dirty rags he assumed once were white clothes, looks up at him. He was obviously a victim, trapped and locked inside a cage that provided no more freedom to stretch an arm.
The darkness muted colors, but Phil could see they shared a similar glint.
Lifeless, dead, flat eyes. A deterrent to most people, warning of effort and trouble not worth meddling in.
Silence ringed the dark night, the man had finally died.
It wasn’t the boy’s time yet, had many years left in him, so Phil didn’t bother with formalities. He wouldn’t remember.
“Not yet, mate,” he comforted, contorting his lips into something resembling a smile. He’d never get it right, but for sharing his pain, for surviving a tragedy, and to continue living, Phil would put in some effort.
It was child’s play getting the cage unlocked, though the kid was frozen in place.
“Die for no one but yourself, alright?” He patted their head, fingers meeting fabric where hair supposedly hid beneath. Maybe he was shaved.
They shared the quiet comfort, waiting until the boy nodded, and Phil strained his smile once more before leaving, going to deliver another human to his Lady.
Whether or not the boy would get out of his attacker’s grasp was of no concern. Interfere he may, but even he was ignorant of the consequences. The boy would survive, that’s all that mattered.
“So you escaped after all…” Phil cut off, surprised at having recognized anybody. He wasn’t privy to what happened after the clock stopped ticking, and creating ties to a human wasn’t appealing anymore.
Witnessing something from his past– a person, a living thing– had many conflicting emotions rushing through him. Phil was used to dissociating for days, sometimes years at his worst, letting the interactions flow through him, comfortable in the knowledge they needed only a witness, if not someone who listened. There would be no one who would be suspicious, as there wouldn’t be another reunion to question whether the lights were still on.
To have an anchor to his existence, even if only brief, was disconcerting. It’s been so long since Phil let himself exist…
A huff caught his attention, once again stealing his focus. “Yep, and I’ll make sure to be the most difficult bastard to kill.”
A surprised laugh escaped him, catching both him and his acquaintance off guard.
“Well then, I guess we won’t have to meet again for a long time, hmm.”
Faster than the other man could process, Phil left in a flash of feathers.
“C’mon darling, just one last push, there you go. That’s it-”
Phil stood in the corner keeping to the shadows. Not that it really mattered. Until the time came, he’d keep himself invisible.
Ignoring the sounds of labor, Phil examined the room.
It was dark, just only lit by a few candles here and there, the night shadowing the rest of the room. A dresser stood next to the bed, where two women squatted next.
Presumably, there was a midwife to help deliver the baby, but no sign of another partner to be found. No pictures or remnants of another person.
“There we go, that’s it- oh.”
A piercing scream shattered through the grunts and screaming of the mother, the midwife going quiet as she prepared and cleaned the infant.
At least she wouldn’t be alone.
Quickly losing strength, the mother pulled herself up and into the bed, exhausted and sweaty, but her eyes held a glimmer of excitement for the child she'd just delivered.
“Please, let me see, I need to make sure they’re- they’re alright.”
There was some fussing, the nanny cleaning fluids, and wrapping a soft blanket, before the newborn was delivered to the mother.
“It’s a girl, just like you said.”
The mother wrapped careful, loving arms around the baby, reverent in her touch.
“You’ll take care of Lucy, right?” The words were alarming by themselves, but the gaunt cheeks made apparent with the flickering light, weakened limbs, and pale skin lead to only one conclusion.
The midwife stiffened, gathering Lucy before she could slip from the mother’s dying arms. ”Miss Racheal, hold on. I can still help you, please wait a second longer-!”
Phil and Racheal ignored the frantic midwife, and he finally caught her attention.
Her skin, glimmering orange from candlelight, slicked with sweat, sagged, muscles relaxing and losing tension. “I always knew I wasn’t going to last, but so soon?”
The bed dips from where he took a seat, but it’s hardly noticed where the nurse has started chest compressions. There isn’t anything to say, time continues to move forward, uncaring.
“At the very least,” Racheal took a breath, chest heaving with choked sobs, “She’ll live long enough for the two of us.”
She didn’t expect an answer, nor would she want one. Phil wasn’t a prophet, but Lucy would live close enough to death that he can’t pinpoint whether that wish will prove truthful.
“Thank you, grim reaper, for sparing my darling.”
Racheal closed her eyes, leaving Lucy and the midwife to scream in sorrow.
“Do you choose who dies? Can you kill with a touch? Dan said if you kissed someone, they’d instantly die.”
Messy curls obscured an innocent face, cherub in fat cheeks and big brown eyes.
It was also full of shit.
A hum, letting Wilbur know he wasn't buying it. Let him choose what hill he'd die on. "And I'm sure you aren't plotting, depending on the answer, right?"
"Of course not, it wouldn't be fun."
Both parent and child stared at each other, unwilling to back down.
Wilbur was getting better at manipulation and scheming every day, and he just passed his tenth birthday. Phil can already imagine the hilarious headache-inducing ploys a fifteen-year-old Wilbur will inspire, not to mention when he reached adulthood.
Normally, you'd assume children got mellower the older they got, but Phil has no hope he would deal with a compliant Wilbur.
Luckily, Phil would always be ancient, and with infinite, if not a bit inexperienced, patience to out-stare his kid, who still didn't even know the word fuck.
And just like he predicted; younger, brighter eyes looked away from his older, unblinking gaze, a pout decorating his face.
He was the champion of staring contests.
"He wouldn't get hurt, just a bit scared," miffed at his plans getting thwarted, Wilbur sniffed, raising his chin in defiance.
If there was one thing that sucked about parenting –of which there were many– it was the inability to laugh at his kid’s plotting without encouraging Wil's shenanigans.
Looking at him now, it didn't seem he was quite as successful at hiding his amusement. "Wil, you can't be terrorizing your classmates. It gives me a bad reputation."
"You don't give a fuck about your reputation," well there goes that milestone, "Yesterday the fruit seller was saying you worshipped the devil and you just asked me if I wanted strawberry or blueberry pancakes."
"I think we should avoid swearing in front of other children," was all Phil could say, because it wasn't like he was gonna start lying to his kid.
Seeing Wil's expression, pout deepening into a frown, he knew he had to address the problem before it got bigger.
Letting out a sigh, Phil lumbered towards the couch, patting the cushion to lure Wilbur along.
Once he was comfortable, Wil a warm weight to his side, Phil answered his initial question. "No to all, I actually have a lot less involvement in the actual process, believe it or not," he added when he saw Wilbur's brow furrow. "In reality, I'm more of a witness, accompanying someone's last moments, listening to their wishes, and comforting as much as I can."
Phil chuckled at the look of incredulity, "I know, but there are others that do a pretty decent job at it."
Continuing before Wil could prod and open that can of worms, he ruffled brown curls, "And that is also why you shouldn't pay gossip any attention. None of them are right, they're just scared of something that everyone will experience at one point."
Wilbur was quiet under his hand, eyes shadowed.
Maybe that was too much? Ten years seems old enough to conceptualize difficult topics, and Wil was quicker than most kids. Plus, he has the advantage of knowing the truth for so long.
Then again, this was the first time Phil ever decided to take up child rearing, so he could be majorly fucking up. Who knows? Not Phil, that's for sure.
Before he could provide another round of stilted parenting advice, Wilbur snapped his face up, sitting up so their faces could get close.
"Does that mean I can tell Dan he has a date with you on his deathbed? I'd be helping him get ready for your awkward hugs."
Phil barked out a laugh, head snapping back at the force of it. Brown eyes were bright again, sparkling with mischief.
He was still gasping for breath, not catching the somber look passing a young, not-so-innocent face.
"You really left a guy when he was pouring his soul out. Never thought of death as a heartbreaker," came the drawl from his most recent headache.
Taking a breath, Phil ignored the raging spirits of the soon-to-be-departed smugglers.
"And I don’t think I’ve ever met a more eccentric man."
“I thought it was encouraged to be honest with your feelings.”
“Most people are unnerved by my existence.”
“Most people don’t live in a cult before getting carted out to a fighting ring,” came the amused retort. He continued, mirth in his tone at Phil’s lack of response, “Plus, out of the both of us, I’m not the one who ran away from a social interaction.”
It was mid-afternoon, the sun hot and beating on his green kimono. Today's victims were animal smugglers, growls and snarls resounding from the discarded carriage. Four men, all close to their mid-30s were rounded up, tied up in ropes and knots. Surprisingly, there was much less blood than usual, at least for this particular vagabond’s victims. The cause of death remained to be determined, but going from the bruises blooming across the skin, Phil wouldn’t be surprised for internal bleeding to be part of the cause.
Either way, it wasn’t his place, and if this human really wanted a conversation with him he wouldn’t pursue this line of thought. “Guessing you’re more than familiar with lassos.”
A huff.
“Yeah, used to work my debt off for a ranch owner. Got taken up by other horse riders.”
Phil hummed, curious but not enough to voluntarily dig into. Perhaps the other man would get bored?
“It was after you opened my cage, got myself out there long enough to be more than skin and bones. Then again they managed to drag me back for enough bloodshed to haunt my dreams,” he continued, as if reading Phil’s mind.
The spirits had passed, silence playing out for the both of them, leaving Phil untethered to the land.
Just as easily he could leave; a flap of unseen wings and he could ignore the situation for a few more days, weeks if he got lucky.
Then again, Phil knew the more something evaded them the more humans worked to hunt it down, so maybe indulging the other would satisfy the curious need of playing chase.
A breath left his lips, knowing he’d have to play along. “So, what do you want?”
Blunt, but Phil dealt with death in every way, there’s no need to play down the truth– death is always honest.
The other had the most surprising expression, as if amused that Phil, after days of avoiding confrontation, was tired of pretending. “Wouldn’t put it that way, but if you insist…”
“What’s your name?”
“What?”
A frown that resembled a pout, chubby cheeks puffing out. “Your name,” the child sounded out as if talking to a dog.
“Why?” Phil really didn’t want to appear as similar in intelligence to an animal, but never has someone asked such mundane questions. There was always something of much greater importance, last wishes and thoughts that would tether the soul if not aired out. Never was there time for questions of his identity, and he was fine with it, he had a purpose to fulfill and he’d happily fulfill his job.
The child rolled brown eyes, and he found himself astounded at the panic manifesting inside at the thought of disappointing him. “Well, how else am I supposed to talk to you? You should always know the name of someone you talk to, or they’ll fade away.”
“Fade away, huh,” a tug at his lips, and he continued before the child could argue, “Well then, what’s yours?”
Another pout, this time more annoyed that he’d found hypocrisy in the young boy’s argument.
“Wilbur, now–?”
“ –What’s your name?”
The afternoon sun was hotter than ever, heating his skin underneath the layers of cotton and silk.
Hoping, praying, that the other would be satisfied, he answered before disappearing, heart uselessly beating a hard rhythm,
“Phil.”
“ – Is there something on your mind?”
He was startled, surprised at his own absentmindedness.
The angel answered quickly, “What’s in a name?”
It had plagued the blond the past few months, the meaning behind an identifier never holding importance when it came to his duties.
A laugh, deep and echoing from the abyss of the night, clouds blotting out the stars and moon.
Any other and they would crumble in shame and embarrassment, laughter far crueler, but the Lady was not any other, not within the realm of normality, She cannot be comprehended without changes to the soul innately.
Her laughter was rich with mirth, enveloping the witness with warmth and delight alike, a sense of pride bloomed under his breast at making such a beautiful sound.
"Where did this come from? In the past, you never gave it a second thought," the laughter had died down, but the tone was still full of mirth, a smile easily envisioned in the twinkling stars hidden behind clouds.
And She was correct, the angel had never put much importance on his individuality like his siblings, happy to continue his duties without distractions.
But…
She hummed, "Who asked?" Because of course, She knew, humanity's death was the only interaction he's experienced, uninterested in the living. She created him from stardust and metals, the first version being similar to a human corpse with added touches to fulfill his role easily. His Lady knew all of Her creations, Her fond heart bleeding vicious protectiveness over them.
He was quiet for a moment, formulating a response to encompass the sheer bafflement and subsequent curiosity that birthed from a human.
"They weren't nice, or kind. In reality, they wished nothing more than to wring my neck." He decided there was no way to dress up how the interaction went. "I learned many new insults,” he added, something close to grateful prodding from his chest because most humans didn’t take creative liberty when at death’s door.
Most not being Belle, a fiery woman who tried to kill him herself. She raged hot and quick, a firecracker is her passion-driven hatred. Belle was the most curious of his encounters, because while there were many threats to his person, none quite managed to put up a fight as she did, weakened as she was.
It was near the end, fatigue catching her limbs to drop, unable to fight against her wounds, that she posed the question.
“Why,” he had asked, in awe of how quickly a human’s mood could swing.
“To curse the bastard who took my life away,” she had responded, smile sharp and mean, eyes narrowed in the promise of pain.
Belle had died too quickly after that, the blond stuck in shock to give her anything, true or otherwise.
His Lady hummed, again, at his retelling, knowing and comforting.
“So you want a name to provide a furious spirit?”
He needn’t say more, knowing She would give him a name either way, but She deserved his honesty, more than familiar with his blunt handling of feelings.
“Everything has a name, everything that interacts with the world, even you.” Even without words, he could tell She was smiling. “Even while wishing my demise, she saw me, and solidified my existence more than I ever bothered to.”
And she did, with rage fuelling her last moments, the angel felt more in tune with the cadaver that he possessed than he did in the past years. For the first time, he could feel the skin shiver into goosebumps from the cold of the desert.
“I want to commemorate her actions, but it would be easier to help other rage-fueled deaths if they ever asked,” he said with a smile, wry in a way he never could before.
It was a good night, another booming round of laughter echoed through the dry lands, deserted of anyone.
“So dutiful, I’d begin to think you’re a workaholic,” a lilt to Her voice, mischievous and excited,
“Philza.”
The next few weeks had shown no sign of the pink-haired vagabond. Phil didn’t take the small miracle for granted, moving from each person at a rate that was comparable before his naming.
Not that he could stall his appointments, but time and space were very wonky for an angel of death. Mathematicians and other scientists would probably tear up at the ease with which Phil could manipulate the space in which he existed, not to mention the wings that worked as his mode of transportation.
All in which to say time was fake in Phil’s eyes.
He knew it was inevitable to meet the nomad at some point, if not another encounter of carnage from his victims, then to listen to the man himself. It was not a matter of if but when, as most things were in Phil’s life.
Either way, a small alcove during a rainstorm was far from the circumstances he would’ve chosen.
“I’d offer you a seat but things are pretty muddy down here.” At this point, Phil wondered if humor was taken away from the other he would spontaneously collapse, unable to live on without sarcasm to fuel his interactions.
“Hey mate.”
“Hey Phil.”
He was probably gonna get fired at the rate he ignored the spirits, Phil thought as he once again ignored the wailing to cast an intense gaze at the other, unsure of how to address the usage of his name.
Which was ridiculous, seeing as he willingly gave it away. He could have easily left as he did many previous times.
Instead of looking at the mess of strings all tied up together that consisted of Phil’s emotions, he decided to satisfy his own curiosity for once. “So, what’s yours then?”
Even as easy as Phil left it to be teased for his ignorance, the other just gave a lazy smile and answered, “Technoblade, though you can just go with Techno.”
A flash, then a bang. Rain was a rare entity in the desert, but like everything in the tundra, when it showered, it did with all the extremes of a flood. Phil could already feel the flickering of life, many caught unaware, unprepared, or the wavering decision to stay indoors. Soon enough, Phil would stare at pale, cold corpses, blue lips trembling at the suddenness.
But currently, there was no flickering in the candle before him, Techno’s will standing strong against the flash flood. It was surprising, to find a determination to live, truly exist, and interact with reality. Aside from the obvious nature of the people Phil mostly conversed with, even before… it was rare to find a spirit so emblazoned with want.
Techno would be fine, he determined with a nod. There would be no need to worry.
The yarn of feelings only tangled further with the new thought, so Phil thought a tactical retreat would only be appropriate.
“Hey Phil, do you feel pity for them?”
The vague wording failed to conjure any confusion, the topic was discussed between parent and child far more often than any other family.
Again, Phil questioned whether he should have waited, but then he remembers his job, remembers how there is always something left unsaid that would torment the spirit of the deceased.
So he buckled down and contemplated the question, looking at Wilbur’s face for a hint of what went on in that brain of his.
The question itself wasn’t unfounded, there were plenty of reactions from the living that attested to a negative view. Even other angels didn’t stray from the occasional sympathy that wrapped their souls.
But narrowing the vast ocean’s worth of feelings that death brought upon both humans and reapers benefitted no one, and going off Wilbur’s face, it wouldn’t help in his case either.
Instead, Phil said, “Sometimes, if they were especially unlucky. There’s a lot of people who died young or just before a big decision.”
Wil’s face stayed blank, but the spark in his eyes dimmed a bit, lips twitched to show disagreement, even disappointment.
“But mostly I feel happy,” Phil continued, amused at Wilbur’s eyes widening.
“Don’t tell me you’re gonna start running around and start actively taking everyone’s soul.”
Phil laughed, eyes crinkling at the confusion in his eyes. “Nah mate, haven’t lost enough marbles to get there,” he shifted, knowing Wil was paying closer attention than before. “Nah, I just know one thing no one else remembers, and that’s my Lady awaiting us all.”
He’s mentioned it in the past, his job so entwined with Her it’d be impossible to separate them without tearing his soul in the process. However, Phil is aware that Wilbur mostly took that piece of his existence as fictional, an additional piece to let a younger version sleep without fear of the dark, both temporary and permanent.
It was funny, how out of all the potential fictitious facets of Phil’s life, it was his Lady he took as unbelievable.
Even now, he saw that hope shutter with something akin to frustration.
He smiled. “She’s not a story Wil, She’s as real as I am and just as patient. Everyone will see her, even you and me.”
A frown, looking just as similar as it did at five years old, even ten years later. “So everyone gets to live their happy ending, even if they were the worst in their lives.”
“No one is a monster, and no one deserves the punishment of one,” Phil retorted quickly. “And it isn’t a happy ending, Wil,” he added, when it looked like he was ready to start a row.
“It isn’t a happy ending,” he repeated, “But everyone deserves comfort. There isn’t a test that begins at birth to determine how good you did at life, so yeah, I feel relieved that everyone gets the chance to meet Her.”
It was quiet, the song of dancing fire faint.
Wilbur’s face went back to its blank slate, a skill he learned when Phil wasn't looking, and it hurt him just as much as it comforted him. Even as he believed his words, Phil knew more than anyone how cruel humans were, and how vicious they could get if they whiffed a hint of weakness. It was only unfortunate he couldn’t protect for any longer from the whispers that followed Phil.
The tension in his body fled, and brown curls bounced to cover Wilbur’s face, but his voice was strong when it came out. “Tell me about Her again.”
Relief couldn’t describe the sheer wave of gratitude that washed over Phil, happy that Wil wouldn’t be in so much denial when the time came, hopeful that there wouldn’t be so much fear.
Phil knew he wouldn’t get to see Wil by his side forever, there would be a moment when he would have to say goodbye and listen to his regrets, but as he shared Her traits, he couldn’t help but be grateful.
Never, in the hundred of years of his existence, did Phil ever envision the reality of Wilbur’s death.
After all, what parent expected to kill their child?
She was waiting for him, and he wasn’t surprised.
“Finally here, thought you’d never come.”
Phil didn’t make it a habit to remember faces, not on purpose, but from how faces blurred and faded easily from his mind, each feature slipping away as easily as eels in water.
This one, he would never forget the look in her eyes, even as the color evaded him.
“You’d expect for them to leave me to die of infection after what I did, but I guess the possibility for another overrode that.” She laughed, loud enough that birds would have flown if they could hear.
Instead, Phil was alone in his shock, though he didn’t let anything show.
She was alone, wounds ripped open by her fingers. Pale digits were marked bright with red, glimmering vibrant in the dying sun. Her nightgown was stained similarly, fabric bunching right where her stomach should be. Curly hair was matted wet against sweaty skin, unwashed from neglect of her caretakers or by choice.
Another laugh rang, this time choked with sobs.
“I loved him, so much, I never- I’d never hurt him, I swear,” lips trembled around the words, stretched thin in the ugliest frown as tears beaded down her cheeks.
Phil preferred to stay a good distance away from his patients, never a fan of touch.
He strode forward and gently held a trembling hand, gripping hard enough to solidify what little was left of her presence.
She gripped back with twice his force.
“He wasn’t supposed to be there, I didn’t mean him to get hurt,” she continued, voice loud and muddled with grief. “I didn’t want to kill my sweet boy!”
Silence settled after her confession, heavy with grief and hunching her shoulders.
The sun fully set, and only a glimmer of moonlight highlighted the tears on her face, blanketing both in darkness. A faint shimmer glimmered from her fingers.
“It doesn’t matter now, I’m going to hell either way.” She laughed one final time, and for once Phil regretted never talking much during his session, wanting to reassure her.
She was gone in the next second, his hesitance costing her peace of mind.
While there was regret, he couldn’t help to feel relief too, because it meant his Lady welcomed her.
The next morning, a maid opened the doors to a horror scene, and her scream frightened a group of crows into flight.
“What’s your favorite color?” Techno asked, not looking up from where he cleans a dagger.
Phil ignored him, eyes gazing into the corpse.
He waited, getting his bearings together to wait him out. With the frequency that Techno had killed, it was miraculous that he didn’t catch Phil sooner. Having a bounty upwards of a million, depending on who cashed out the reward, did not make an easy life on the road.
There had been glimpses, from retreating reapers that hadn’t noticed him yet. One would think the chances of forgetfulness– in part of the reapers– would be few and far between. Once in a blue moon, some would say. But the average person was not Techno, and his fingernails had blood buried too deep to ever be clean. Most killers would have regrets, but Techno cast those aside in search of his stranger.
And now, with the angel’s name in hand? There was no piece of him that regretted what led to it.
Techno was in the middle of pulling his hair up again, the hunters good enough to last longer than a minute, when the angel’s eyes shuttered, the hazy fog leaving for slightly more clarity. There was never crystal focus, as if there were matters that pulled the blond’s mind in every direction. Seeing as he was an angel of death, Techno wouldn’t be surprised if there was truth in the comparison.
Blue eyes quickly secured the area, a pleasant little oasis with cacti surrounding them, before they snapped back to Techno.
Clarity or no, that gaze was sharp.
“Did you say something?” Sincerity filled his tone, not that there was a chance of anything else. Techno may have only known the guy for a few days consecutively, but he’s quickly caught the distaste for untruths the other has.
Time has passed since that first brief meeting, red blooming on cacti, promising of fruit soon. All the while, Techno has yet to push back the cloak of politeness Phil wields like a sword. Answering questions if prompted, but otherwise, Techno grew to learn nothing of the other.
Most would have given up, not wanting to piss off something that was intimate with death, but so was Techno. If he was to get taken out by a vengeful angel of death, who was he to deny fate?
The angel’s head had tilted curiously, wondering over his silence.
Fuck it.
“Where’d you go?”
His tone distinguished the intent of the vague question, and seeing Phil’s face shutter, he also understood.
Just as how there was an ever-present fog to blind Phil’s sight, Techno noticed small fidgets and ticks the angel performed. While he isn't a stranger to the behavior, more often than not fiddling with a dagger when idle, the movements Phil performed were as if he were listening to Techno, even as he kept quiet. Really, the only reason he ever even noticed was because Phil would ask to repeat himself, enough that he tested it out a few times.
Techno let the angel consider his options, cleaning his blade until there wasn't any visible blood showing. Whether he lived or died was in the hands of a death deity, he'd consider that a pretty good deal, especially when he knew the other opportunities to cease were far worse.
"What do you know about me," broken out of bleak thoughts, Techno caught the angel's gaze.
Azure eyes were clearer than usual, a smile uncomfortably pulling at thin lips. It reminded Techno of the other horse riders who celebrated his birthday– the day he'd arrived at the ring. The only affection allowed was in secret, intimacy beaten out of them until it became an unknown.
"I know you're responsible for people dying, probably have a hidden form… Don’t really believe the touch of death but,” he shrugged. Sure, half of the rumors everyone went off of were bullshit, but there was always truth in rumors. Enough characteristics repeated and there was something underneath.
Phil's eyes crinkled, though there was no happiness gleaming. "Our role in this world is misunderstood and the fear around death hasn't painted us in a pleasant light."
He settled down, mimicking the blond who sat on orange dirt. The dirt that would sneak inside his pants was a worthy sacrifice at the prospect of knowledge of what was basically regarded as mythical creatures.
So what if he was a nerd, no one was alive to spread rumors.
"Lady Death, She is a pleasant and forgiving Lady. Really, you're lucky to be able to live your life with Her waiting at the other end," he said with another smile, genuine in its awkwardness.
A higher being, huh? "So you're more like her foot soldier?" Techno mumbled, clearly not quiet enough by the snort Phil let out.
He ignored the comment, though his next comment was more wry. "She created us because She loves you, and saw how much of humanity died with regrets."
A buzz quickly filled Techno’s head, silent for once.
Not noticing or caring, Phil continued, "We appear at someone's deathbed because everyone has something to say, pleasant or not. Our association with death is not because of cause, but because of comfort."
The buzzing receded, thoughts quietly trickling back in, enough so Techno noticed the twitch that pulled the angel, almost a flinch.
"... So you can't kill people?"
Phil laughed sharp and loud. His smile followed. "She made us in the image of you, whatever you can do, we follow."
"So we're both broken."
Silence, oasis empty of movement and echoing the gentle wind.
There was too much pain in this angel, Techno noticed. From the very first glimpse, first interaction, the angel's pain was visible in the mourning clothes worn, the veil obscuring everything except for grief-crinkled eyes.
He should know. Hurt sees hurt.
Whether it was a good idea to rip the proverbial band-aid off wasn't of importance, it was obvious someone had to pull the blond into the present. Techno won’t ever say it out loud, but the angel had saved him. Not just from the literal cage he was locked in, but he’d seen this pitiful child and gave him purpose. He’d let no one take that away from him, reserving that right for the blond sitting in front of him.
And like dawn, a slow smile stretched, and Techno was hit full force by the angel all those years ago, body forever frozen in time.
“I guess we are, hm.”
The sun rose and fell, the earth revolved and time followed each spin, distancing Phil further and further from the emotional confrontation.
“You can’t taste spices?”
Surprisingly, it had gotten easier after that.
“That is completely not what I said.”
Phil had expected for the sappy talks to continue, or even for Techno to drop him completely now that his curiosity had been sated.
“How could you even cook with your weird taste buds?”
Their next reunion was dreaded, wishing there wouldn’t be any foolhardy bounty hunters attempting to take down Techno for at least another month, though it was half-hearted at best. Phil wasn’t as idiotic as the bounty hunters, and he was aware of Techno’s skill when it came to combat. It didn’t surprise Phil when they were reunited a mere week later, a party of mere three members.
“My curry will have you eating your words and the whole pot.”
Instead of the invasive poking under the assumptions of unearned trust, or an indifferent back blending into the horizon, Phil was greeted with a smile before Techno settled back into cleaning gore off his axe.
“Wanna bet on it?”
Surprising, but Phil decided to follow his lead and proceed with his duty, welcoming the lack of change.
And now?
“Where do you store all of that?” Techno asked, a look of annoyance and fascination clashing his features.
“Same place where I hide my wings.”
It was nice, this camaraderie that settled over the two. Techno wasn’t perturbed by the casual familiarity Phil has settled into when it came to his responsibilities, and in turn, he doesn’t judge Techno’s violent tendencies. If anything, it amuses Phil, the sheer nonchalance Techno adopts after a gruesome battle.
In time, Phil could consider this man a close friend, perhaps.
“Hold up, time out,” Techno interrupted, movements jerky, “You have wings? How has this not made itself into the conversation- do all other reaper-therapists also have ‘em? And what do you mean ‘same place I store them–’ what other place is there?”
Phil leans away from the bombardment of questions and flailing hands alike, surprised.
Techno wasn’t a reserved fellow, nor really prudent in any way. In fact, he was shockingly candid, a trait that seems rare in humans. He was honest of his feelings and thoughtful of his companions. He was emotionally aware enough to know when to push and when to let the silence settle. There were moments where it surprised Phil at how familiar he could be for only knowing each other a few weeks at most.
However, Phil has never seen this much excitement energizing his movements, curiosity making wine-red eyes sparkle whiskey against the setting sun. Techno had a library of information tucked away but never babbled so freely. There was a careful and methodical output, Techno measuring each word before presenting it to outsiders. The man in front of Phil was possessed by a childish wonder, freely sharing his inquiries. The usually apathetic face was lit up and broadcasted exaggerated expressions without care.
“–then again you didn’t refute angel so I guess I should have taken it into account, but there’s so much added onto the rumors that I took it as an evolving form of mythologizing where it would serve more purpose for the common people–”
It was, refreshing, to see that spark of wonder, curiosity winning over manners. Phil wasn’t created with this drive in mind, never able to experience it. Once, he was able to see it, before it all went to shit, before brown eyes had their light die…
Mourning the continuous ramblings of an excited and surprisingly scholarly– though looking back, the way Techno held himself and the bickering they fell into should have hinted of a stint in academia– he interrupted, chuckling as he asked, “Wanna see ‘em?”
Phil was aware of Techno’s quick reflexes and had caught him numerous times at the beginning of many scuffles that led to his summoning. Sure, he had been impressed, but he, more than anyone, was also aware that skills like that didn’t come from thin air.
Now? Well, at least he’ll be able to empathize with any future victims, because the focus of those eyes had almost sent a shiver down his back. It only further prodded memories at mischievous eyes that he did not want to review.
He patiently waited for Techno to gather his wits, fluffing his wings in preparation as the other swallowed.
“You’re serious?”
“Of course,” he smiled, “They’re not sacred, just bring a lot of attention.”
It wasn’t a question of whether Techno wanted to see his wings, the answer was obvious in his childish glee not a few minutes ago that possessed him. Whatever hesitation he was struggling with now was his own to deal with, Phil was going to see that face crumple at the taste of his curry either way.
A minute passed. “It’s not, like, y'know- personal?” The adorable question was said with equally adorable shuffling. Never in his existence would Phil think Techno as shy, and yet here he was, not meeting his eyes and fiddling with the rag he used to wipe off gore.
Restraining his urge to tease, Phil tried not to poke fun “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure, would I?” Going by the slight frown– it was a pout, but Phil will leave him his dignity– he didn’t do a good job of it.
Techno clicked his tongue and met his eyes. “Alright alright, I don’t know fancy angel customs, half of what I even know– or used to know, was based on rumors piled on top more rumors.”
Phil let out a giggle, bringing his wings out of hiding instead of giving a response.
In all the instances he’s shown his wings, more often than not awe is the first emotion to light up their face. Sometimes they kept that innocent awe, children mostly, but Phil was familiar with the greed that quickly clouded humans. It wasn’t always, but he knew the world wasn’t easy, especially with the few that had their hearts tainted with the horrid treatment leading to a cycle difficult to break.
In part, Phil was unconsciously bracing for something similar. Techno had the eyes of a scholar and the hands of a hunter, a lethal combination to put anyone on alert. He’s had his share of humans who vied for the unknown, the perceived divine, planning and capturing until he was weak and surrounded by red and flesh–
“Dude,” a voice called, “Am I seeing the aurora fucking borealis?”
Confused– and grateful, so grateful– Phil brought forward the appendages to take a look at the feathers.
They had a mind of their own when it came to coloration, but most of the time they agreed with a simple black, maybe an iridescent shine if they felt vain. Currently, each feather seemed to take that iridescence and pumped it into maximum capacity.
The sun was still a few hours away from sleeping, so the dying rays had reached his wings and scattered across the feathers, creating an illusion of moving light fragments. Just like Techno, his wings never really held still, so the occasional ruffle, shuffle, or jerk distorted and shifted the colors to bring the display to life, breathing in time with Phil’s lungs.
He spread them wide behind him, taking the chance to stretch them out. “Nah mate, they’re just shiny right now. Light’s making them all glizzy and shit.” He let out a sigh, grateful to be taken out of the memory. Looking up, Phil felt something unravel from his chest and had an easier time breathing.
Techno had that awe, that childish awe, unashamed and unblinking. It was soothing, seeing such fascination cross his face, just as interesting as his earlier mania. The expressions started a curiosity that Phil refused to acknowledge for the time being.
(What other expressions could he make?)
Techno’s body is presented and lived in, showing of his battles and skill in the scant scars his face bore. He was tall and loomed over most, weaponry only aiding on that front. Intimidation was the natural reaction to seeing Techno, someone accustomed to death. Adorned with a smile and awe stretching his lips, Phil couldn’t think of anything other than adorable.
For the first time since stumbling into him, Phil was thankful for meeting Techno. Maybe even lucky, if he felt emotionally open enough. Loneliness was familiar, a blanket that suffocated and draped over his back for the longest of times. There were moments where it lightened, folds unraveling at the brief interactions of some parting words, but it always came back.
After the disaster of his past, where his shoulders were finally free of that weight and then came crashing back down like a train, Phil wasn’t keen on having a repeat. The brief respite had made the loneliness worse, now heavy with the knowledge of what it’s like to be free.
It wasn’t any better, Phil knows that he has problems, but the fear was rampant and paralyzing.
And then a pink-haired vagabond decided to befriend him, took a glimpse of the mess inside, and didn’t hightail it the opposite way. Here he was instead, looking at the closest manifestation of himself without greed tainting his vision.
Phil wasn’t lying when he said it wouldn’t be personal, but that’s more because Phil has a wildly complicated relationship with his self that boiled into “not that important.”
Wings were personal to his brethren, and they wouldn’t be caught dead repeating the actions Phil did. The intimacy from wings was a byproduct of the way his Lady created them– he wasn’t the only one who didn’t view the flesh as his. While angels and humans shared the same corpse, their minds were different enough– by time, job, and values, that there was a disconnect to the gift of their Lady.
That is, except, their wings.
Their wings were not only practical, letting them traverse the land without ever risking tardiness, they were very obviously not human, distinct in their otherworldliness.
Suffice it to say, Phil isn’t a model example of how an angel acts.
“Right now? Is that cause of the lighting or can you control the appearance of your wings,” the last bit Techno emphasized, raising a pink brow to prove his point.
“No, they sorta have a mind of their own? They choose their own appearance, usually, they’re black.”
Phil then went on to listen to a rant on different feather coloration and how males usually donned brighter colors until he stuffed the pink-haired man with spicy enough curry to stop him from being put into an impromptu discussion on gender and for the love of Lady Death Techno don’t drag me into your human concepts– corvids don’t fall under that umbrella anyway, ever think about that–?
“Phil!”
“Yes?” he responded, jumping a little from having the source sitting on his lap.
Wilbur only smiled. “If you don’t like eye contact, why don’t you wear a veil? I saw Ginnie's mom wearing one today.”
Phil felt his heart swell with fondness for his son all over again.
“Good idea Wil,” because it was– sure he was surrounded by death constantly but he never really got to see the traditions that followed after the fact– but he needed to correct a misunderstanding, “But that’s not why Ginnie’s mom wore one.”
Seeing how he kept Wil’s focus, Phil bundled them up tighter inside the cocoon of his wings. “Veils are to show mourning, and today is the day that Ginnie’s dad died.”
“So while I could,” and definitely will he has the best kid, “A lot of people will think I’m in mourning.” He doesn’t add that there will be more looks thrown their way, though there really isn’t anything Phil can do to ease their worries. “You shouldn’t use it other than its intended purpose,” he adds, knowing Wilbur will take this new information for possible schemes.
A huff, “I don’t need it, I’ll stare into everyone’s eye until they look away.” The words were said while doing said eye staring, going so far as to pull his cheeks down, inspiring a round of laughter.
And he never did.
“Been a while since I saw you wear that.”
Instead of battle bringing the two friends together, it was a simple accident they ran into each other. The chances of such coincidence are hilarious since he hadn’t even been near the body of the deceased, Techno jibed.
Phil had only smiled, unwilling to admit he’d notice the other when he was about to leave.
He looks up now, attention drawn away from the flower crown being constructed. His questioning hum was answered with a wave in front of Tech’s face.
“Ah,” he let out because he hadn’t even considered his attire before deciding to chat. Phil wasn’t even committed to the mourning traditions, never seeing a point to remember a date when the memories would haunt his every action, curled around his spine and squeezing when the haze of nostalgia blinded him. Really, it would have made more sense to avoid wearing that attire altogether, seeing as Techno clearly remembered what he’d worn so long ago.
The question wasn’t even a question, just a prod to test the boundaries of something so new. Techno, out of everyone, would understand his hesitancy, and the awkward handling of intimacy, and wouldn’t push. He was honest to himself and everyone else but understood the same couldn’t be expected from others, painstakingly aware that he couldn’t.
The truth simply was he missed brown curls, and the only other person who could understand that pain, even with only a fraction of the truth, was in front of him, with kind and non-expectant eyes.
Phil could see himself spilling all of it, the blood, the pain, and all the festering hatred that sometimes scared him. So easily, Phil would end up blathering his life story with giggles of hysteria interspersed. They’d end up inspecting the dark writhing mass that Phil had coughed up, his insides ringing hollow.
But after that?
He didn’t know.
Kind eyes as warm as the blood coating Phil’s hands wrinkled in concern, a furrow appearing between worried brows.
Some day, inevitable as it was, Techno would hear his sob story and he’d fill in that gap. However, that day wasn’t this one, nor any to come.
Throughout his panic-growing haze, Phil hardly took a breath, spreading incorporeal wings. Just as they flapped, he felt what little air left punch out at Techno’s expression. Panic and regret, so pure and abundant that it made him question if that was the last sight Wilbur saw.
“It worked! It worked! I can’t beli-”
“Shut up, unless you want to doom us all before we can even harvest the ingredients.”
“As if you have any room to talk, you wanted-”
“Guys where’s the rope-!”
Chittering voices jabbed the disoriented angel, woozy and weak from the summoning circle. Faint images of gold and red appeared like shitty film, distorted and warped from the incantations.
How the fuck did any of it work? Phil’s body was heavy, even more so under the weight of what seemed like a blanket obscuring his view, or maybe a hood? Maybe they consulted a raptor trainer.
He giggled at the thought. Usually, people tend to sway towards doves and shit… do doves get comfort in the dark?
Either way, Phil wasn’t a fan, and while the giggles grew louder, so did the thrashing– even going so far as to flap his wings to dislodge whatever weighed him down. It didn’t take long to realize his wings were the cause of darkness, pitch black as they appeared.
Yay, so he’s weak enough for his wings to come into play.
He let out a bark of laughter, muffled as it was. Ok, that’s enough, whether by luck or intensive planning, Phil couldn’t let these humans live to pass on the information. Bad enough that it worked, but leaving the captured victim weak was far more dangerous.
Humans knew enough to bring destruction but not enough to control it. It was very annoying.
Phil sighed, on one hand, grateful it wasn’t anyone else but also exhausted of the ensuing meeting his Lady would surely call. He’d probably have to keep one alive to make sure all culprits responsible are here and nowhere else…
He stilled, ignoring the screaming that continued. There was a life dying, of course, that’s how he’d even get summoned but–
That was eerily similar to a certain boy of his, his sun, his…
Phil gathered all his strength, preparing to overload the runes written down. They were in chalk, it’d be easy enough to–
Something jabbed his side just as he flared his wings.
He knew he was weak, would be even weaker with his jailbreak, but he would have been fine. Fine enough to take Wilbur out of here and somewhere else, fine enough to signal his Lady, another angel, anyone else to take care of this situation.
Instead, his knees met unforgiving rock, hands split open from keeping his brain matter from spilling.
He would have been fine, but damn these human cadavers for falling ill to poisons and toxins.
His hearing was muffled, the chorus of shrieks calmed to shouted arguments, discord causing strife but he could give less of a shit because Wilbur was flickering, he needed him, he needed to get him out–.
Warmth enclosed his hands, wet and heated. Flecks splattered across his face, quickly cooling against the frigid temperature.
Wil was somewhere underneath him, feeling even colder than Phil. He needed all the warmth he needed, he needed more, needed to comfort him.
Phil at this point could hear nothing, but that was fine, his wings were there, and he could sense the impending death of the enclosed humans. A stupid decision really, why would you cage yourself in with a predator?
Wilbur would need to eat, if he wanted to stay warm, Phil thought mindlessly as iron filled his mouth.
He never liked the sight of blood, he remembers when his little boy would shut his eyes while screaming for him. His cute pudgy face scrunched up, how he’d glare at Phil to make sure he wasn’t laughing.
More warmth covered his shaking form, viscous in its thickness. He’d be able to give Wilbur a hug, cocoon him in his wings, and let him warm up, and then–
His ears were ringing, his hearing coming back in the form of squelches following his footsteps. Periodically a moan rang from a corpse but he was– distracted.
Crimson… painted everywhere and anywhere. Droplets splattered high and far, splashes of red covering the entirety of the floor. His heartbeat was pounding, not quickly as he’d expected, but slow and heavy. Was this what a heart attack felt like? Maybe his Lady will excuse him for dying on the job.
The thought sent Phil into a fit of giggles, stumbling drunkenly towards the last life source.
When Phil was first constructed, built of stardust and rust just like the animals who would grow into humanity– he had no plans to develop a sense of ‘self’. He was part of the first line of angels. His Lady wasn’t one to dabble in creation, but she could see the fast pace humanity grew. In fact, Phil was one of the few angels who survived, the others being too apathetic to fulfill their purpose. To comfort.
Phil had watched as the new batch had life breathed into them, a new light shining in their eyes like stars.
He didn’t resent the younger generations, didn’t really feel much of anything really. They were fundamentally different in a way no one else was willing to acknowledge. That is, everyone but his remaining brother.
Once his Lady went about deconstructing the not-quite-rogue reapers, Phil had been the only one left, along with another named Azareth.
Azz was the only other angel older than Phil, though the difference was by mere minutes, he still likes to tease.
Such as he did now.
“How’s my little brother, yeah?” a noogie accompanied the remark.
Phil batted the other, hand whacking Azz with his hat from where it was knocked off. “With how often you point out three minutes, you’re left to wonder if you think that’s impressive in other areas, hm?”
“Phil” Azz exclaimed, scandalous hand covering a mouth, “Who taught you such words! My duty as your older brother is to take care of such brutes, no one gets to corrupt my innocent little–” He was cut off from the impressive rant Phil knew he could whip up, far too relieved for normalcy that Phil’s giggles of hysteria were broken by loud wheezes. A hot, fuzzy sensation spread from nose to eyes, sight growing blurry from the approaching tears.
It was silly, going to Azareth immediately as if he were some young maiden who cut off contact with her beau. Ridiculous, really.
And yet the elder kept a comforting hand on blond hair, letting long locks cover the red flush spreading across his nose. The tears would never fall, Phil has always been too stubborn (too broken) to properly cry. The older angel only wrapped an arm, providing comfort without being asked.
There was only one other instance where Phil had sought comfort from Azz, and it made the growing ball of repressed emotions strain harder from his throat. Of course, only Wil could make him run to his brother. He got so into reading these journals over psychology, been part of more than one “experiment…”
A soothing rumble grounded him, becoming aware of the itchiness of his throat. Whether it was from holding back sobs or laughter, Phil didn’t know, instead crooning back to Azz.
“You in there still?” he gently teased, continuing to pet him.
Touch was a big toss-up with Phil. In fact, Phil knows the myth of angels reaping souls with a single touch was inspired partly by him. He knows this because Azareth is invested in keeping track of Phil’s everchanging reputation, and was the one who shared the rumors to him in a fit of giggles.
Either way, Phil wasn’t a fan of skinship, except for the selected few that didn’t even fill up his hand.
Azareth, Wilbur, his Lady whenever they had tea, and included no one else.
So combine the general avoidance of touch, with a limited field of options to choose who were all busy or not alive, and physiology that naturally craved community, and you’ve got a cocktail of a touch-starved loner who keeps everyone at arm’s length.
Simply put, Phil was currently melting into Azareth, mind and body exhausted from the adrenaline wearing off.
“Just remember,” came a gentle voice, a voice Azz rarely donned. “Everything we know now, everything we’re familiar with, will die. Treasure it, just like last time.”
Phil caught a glimpse of a starry night, remembering Wilbur’s plea for comfort, to be wrapped in a familiar embrace of feathers and skin. In his final moments, his Wil wished to be held while his final breath was stolen from him.
He let his eyes close, thankful for Azareth because his presence meant protection for however long he needed.
“Wilbur.”
Any other day he might have been surprised at his own voice, sober and sharper than the current circumstances should find him.
Kneeling in front of Wilbur brought attention to how wet everything was. A glance down froze his voice.
It wasn’t surprising for blood to have smeared, Phil was drenched up to his elbows, but Wil was suspiciously absent of any wounds. His skin remained unbroken, but too pale, shivering, and he lay worryingly still, but the why was his life flickering–
“Ah, yeah, kinda flubbed it, though seeing you here means I still won.”
The cheeky smile had no effect on the still angel.
A sigh, quickly followed by a cough.
Phil panicked, jerked out of his stupor trying to calm Wilbur from his fit before he carked it by coughing to death.
“Why are you here– how did they–”
“I found them,” Wilbur interrupted, breaths still shaky but voice firm. “Saying shit about trapping ‘death’ and knew you’d get roped into it somehow. Thought some… preventative measures would be good.” Another smile, smaller, vulnerable.
“I know… I know you said to avoid all this shit– and I do! Would’ve again, but Phil,” he finally looked up, away from the black snaking through blood vessels into shining eyes; he’s never seen Wilbur so scared. “Phil, it– there was some scary shit. I don’t, I didn’t want–”
“Hey it’s ok, they’re all gone, I took care of it,” Phil soothed.
“One got away, went to some–”
“Wilbur,” Phil’s tone brokered no arguments, “It’s ok, alright? I’ll deal with it, just– just rest for a sec, yeah?”
He laid his forehead against Wil’s, muttering nonsense. Occasionally he’d pull away to give brown curls a kiss, never pulling too far away.
Although his voice hasn’t dropped the earlier steadiness, Phil’s mind was running a mile a minute, trying to figure out where they were so he could get Wilbur to a doctor, or an apothecary. The earlier drowsiness was practically gone, but he hadn’t gotten a chance to analyze where he’d been summoned to before the wards had horse-kicked his coherence to the astral plane. There was a chance he could summon another angel, but then he’d leave his poisoned son alone. Even if he was able to call for anyone, Wilbur could very well have–
“Phil.”
“Don’t worry I can–”
“Dad,” Phil opened his eyes.
He was panicking, his voice steady but the tremors wracking his body betrayed the terror at the possibility of losing his boy. Looking into hazy eyes, Phil could feel his throat constrict.
“Can I see the stars, please?”
His stupid, brave boy.
“Always.”
Phil spared a fraction of a second to the now dead captors, thankful he didn’t have to summon his wings, before he pulled Wil close, fingers clutching his boy as if he held on tight enough, he wouldn’t leave him.
Wouldn’t die.
A rainfall of feathers blanketed the family, curtaining the world from a grieving father and son.
Wilbur chuckled, weak but so childish it almost soothed Phil’s cracking heart. “Are you sure you can’t, can’t control these?”
Today, heeding his son’s wishes, they trapped a bit of the universe in each quill, blazing stars dotted everywhere. Galaxies were spread far, cosmic dust glittering in pinks and greens, reflecting back from dazed eyes.
They stayed reflected, but even the bright shine of stars glinting from Wilbur’s eyes was not enough to mimic the life that was held there.
Another season passed, winter procuring more deaths in the unflinching temperatures. The cold also meant it was foolish to brave the roads for traveling, yet alone going for bounties. Everyone was more vulnerable, and those that could bunkered down in houses and inns. It meant, wherever Techno was, he was free from any ambushes. At least Phil hoped he was.
Dying from hyperthermia wouldn’t inform Phil of his passing, and he’d be left wandering the lands for months before resorting to his Lady for answers.
He sighed, resting for a minute.
Most wouldn’t consider sitting on a rock with a blizzard displacing snow and dirt as relaxing, but most couldn’t last long enough to find the beauty of it. Sure, his hair would end tangled as all hells, but the wind settled Phil’s mind, taking up so much space that no other thought could be conjured up. His face has grown numb, snow grazing it with as much sensation as a shy caress.
His charge was a young man, naive. Dared to catch a nymph hiding in the midst of the raging snow and wind. Covered in thick gloves, a wool coat, and a long, winding scarf. For a brisk walk around town, he’d have experienced minimal discomfort. For an attempt to brave a snowstorm, he had no chance.
He was naive but surprisingly optimistic. Instead of the light dimming, his eyes shone brightly at the chance to meet his maker, as he’d shared. It was rare that Phil witnessed such excitement, and he’d cherished the interaction.
Jacob was his name.
Phil felt the tug, knowing the end of his rest was swiftly coming.
He sighed again, curious of the next person, whether they’d be as excited as Jacob had been.
Between a breath of laughter, he flapped his wings. The young man was an exception, not the standard.
Indeed he was, because Phil was currently listening to an older man bemoaning his demise, blaming person after person Phil would never remember enough to meet. And whilst the spirit was cursing out Henry, he met eyes with his attacker.
“Hello,” Techno greeted.
“How have you been, Philza?”
Her voice was soothing, more so when his name passed her lips. Phil was proud of his name, held it with high respect as it was his first gift, though he wasn’t above withholding his full name. It was one of the few items that were truly his. Philza. He wanted to protect it, keep it for himself and his Lady to share.
Even now, Her lilting voice softened the panic that arose at Her question.
“Awful.”
A round of giggles were let out, renewing with every breath taken. Phil was smiling, but he could not get rid of the slowly building dread. There was only one reason they were conversing at all, the meeting outside of their scheduled chats.
“Philza,” came a gentle reprimand, “we’re both aware of that. However, I’m not omnipotent.”
No, as much as he wished She could just read his mind, understand immediately at the sight of him, She was not responsible for the yarn ball that consisted of Phil’s brain.
He kept a smile, unsure if he could keep up any other expression as he said, “It seems as though my mind and my heart are battling for control.” She didn’t need him to explain how Techno had glimpsed at his soul, didn’t need him to point out how he’s shut his emotions off since Wilbur, didn’t need him to say how he feels his control slipping with how often Techno brings memories of Wil, of vulnerability.
She created him, and he was one of her first angels. There was no need to point out the obvious.
Her hum pushed along the clouds, cloaking him in darkness. “If they’re at war, does one need to win?”
Yes, he wanted to blurt out. Phil was always proud of keeping a level head, closing off his heart to avoid hurt. He’s seen what following emotions could lead, seen it in the passion and adrenaline filled slaughters, jealousy filled daggers stabbed through backs. Yes he wanted to confirm, because that’s how he’s existed for the longest.
Except for the raising of Wilbur. Feeding, comforting, taking general care and making sure he’d lived long enough to reach his adulthood had required him to open the door to his heart just a crack. Over time, Wilbur had flung the door open to have access to all of him, and Phil hadn’t stopped him.
He was happier for it.
But then Wilbur was dead– killed by his own father– and had broken his heart with it, gripping so tightly near the end the wounds were still bleeding. Phil wouldn’t survive another round of it, would lose himself again and he wouldn’t be able to find his way back, couldn’t.
His Lady giggled. The clouds parted once more.
“Philza,” Her smile showed in the glimpse of the moon, “Don’t tell me you’ve been around humans for so long you’ve picked up their habits.”
The words were teasing, and Phil laughed, nerves constricting his chest.
“Philza, there is more than one way to resolve a war, one without losing to either side,” She crooned.
Suddenly, Phil felt an overwhelming barrage of embarrassment overload his synapses. He’d repressed every mention of him, every memory of Wil’s younger years, that Phil had entirely erased the concept of compromise from his brain.
Suddenly, all Her teasing made perfect sense, Phil thought with hot cheeks.
“Thanks for your patience, m’Lady,” Phil spoke clearly, suppressing the urge to rush the words and flee.
Another burst of laughter flooded the snow covered lands. “I trust you found what you were looking for, correct?”
At his nod, he could hear the smile in her voice as she said, “Then go, my silly angel.”
Techno was quiet, patient in his knowledge there was a soul to comfort.
Phil, on the other hand, was decidedly filled with nerves, anxiously waiting for the end.
The older man was losing steam and his complaints were getting interrupted by sobs. Phil had an estimated time of two minutes max before the soul felt fulfilled to be taken into his Lady’s awaiting arms.
Even with his mind made up, it still didn’t ease the aching grip Phil’s nerves had on his throat. He was already naturally unnerving for most folk, his absent smiles, unblinking eyes, and the worst by far were his habit of laughing when tensions grew too thick. Wilbur had grown used to the habit, even had his own unabashed howling laughter, but the townspeople only added that quirk to the ever growing list of reasons why Phil was a cult member.
The urge to let out a giggle only intensified. Since when did he care about the townspeople?
Since you started caring for another person, a voice snipped back, suspiciously sounding like Azz.
Phil only smiled, seeing the spirit off as he finally disappeared. Whether his heart grew to be fonder of this human wasn’t the subject of today’s meeting.
“I’m sorry.”
Phil looked up to Techno, surprised at the apology.
“For what? It’s not like you ditched your friend,” Phil jokes, trying to come up with a reason for Techno apologizing.
A bark of laughter interrupted his musings, “C’mon, that’s not fair, saying that when I’m already close to my emotional quota of the week.” A hand covered Techno’s face, so Phil only had the slight wobble to the other man’s words to go off of.
Emotional quota…?
Going through what he said, Phil couldn’t hold his nerves any longer and felt his laughter burst free.
Gods, he was an emotional mess, the both of them.
“I’ll cheer to that,” Techno smiled, letting him know he’d let the words slip out.
Another bout of laughter.
“Do- do you wanna start over then? I dunno why you’re sorry,” Phil managed to spit out, feeling lighter than he initially was.
Phil took the time Techno was still recovering to take his surroundings in.
Wherever they were the storm had yet to pass, pristine snow still intact, muffling the world until it felt they were the only ones awake.
Techno had set up camp in a cave, campfire blazing hard enough for Phil to feel the warmth. The dancing flame chased shadows, silhouetting Techno’s frame in a gentle orange. His axe was cleaned, metal glinting a similar orange.
He seemed well, bandana tucked away to let pink locks fall freely, no bun or updo. The rare style softened his features, relaxing muscles in self assured safety.
Phil felt his heart unravel further. The time spent separated from the other wasn’t great, but the harshness of winter had inspired some anxiety over the other man’s safety. Fear of gaunt cheeks, pale skin, or blackened extremities. Seeing Techno well, other than a bit thinner and sporting eye bags, soothed his fears.
A cough caught Phil up with the present, chest no longer leadened.
“I mean, I know you aren’t the type of guy to, y’know, be open. You guard yourself, I shouldn’t have pushed.” The hand previously hiding his face moved to his nape, nervously tugging at the small strands. Red eyes flashed a clear scarlet, half hidden from the curtain of hair falling in front.
Phil was overwhelmed with the cuteness this man managed to exude while standing over six feet and being built like a bear.
“No, I’m not,” Phil said, amused at the wince he pulled. “But I also acted like a juvenile when I abandoned you with no explanation.”
And really, Phil’s still flustered by how childish he had acted. He’s a millennium old immortal angel who’s dealt with deaths far more disturbing than the possibility of maybe spilling the truth to a close regarded human. There were plenty of ways he could have handled it.
Then again, he’d been bombarded by reminders of Wil when he couldn’t even bring himself to say his name. Phil thinks his Lady will be proud of him when he gets back to Her. Phil doesn’t think he could ever forgive himself, but he’s missed Wilbur, missed the life he’d lived while raising him, living with him, seeing him become his own person.
Phil sighed, letting his sorrow pass through. “There were three people that I could entrust my sentiments to,” he focused to meet Techno’s eyes, putting weight into his words, “One was killed, but it has been brought up to three once more.”
He doesn’t think he can reveal the sword they hold, blade held steady over his presented heart. Doesn’t think he can ever explicitly divulge the amount of love he has for any of them, so much that he’d accept his demise at any of their hands. His Lady knows, as She intricately knows the atoms that make up his wings. Azareth found out when faced with a near comatose Phil, fixed in place with blood painting him and Wilbur alike. Wilbur had known, sometime during his growing years, and had asked the worst of Phil because he knew the angel –his father would never say no.
Techno, orphan of a cult, brought up in blood and sweat, hammering his body into a weapon until no one could hurt him anymore as they did in the past. Techno, who is part of a list that can be Philza’s greatest downfall, or how it's been so far, bring him such enjoyment of life he’s able to keep walking forward.
It is dangerous, having such devotion, even to so few individuals.
Phil hopes, prays, that Techno won’t take away too much of him when he leaves.
“That’s funny,” Techno’s voice had gone back to his usual timber, relaxed and assured in his response Phil had no choice but to watch him with sharp eyes.
The flame flickered, before blazing with more heat. “There’s only one name on my list.”