Beauty In Broken Things

by SourGummyWyrm

Summary:

When a man's crimes are stained so heavily in blood that the ink smears and page tears under the weight of it all, how could he seek to atone? And if he's not even himself, not fully aware of every sin etched upon his skin, what could he do to try? Is it even possible?

An emperor's duty is to their people, but Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis was only ever loyal to himself. Now, he no longer has that. The gods themselves sook to replace him. They succeeded, but at what cost?

Philza Craft is a therapist specializing in childhood trauma. His latest client only opened up when he managed to learn of their favorite game, a visual novel about finding love and committing treason against a terrible tyrant. Now he is that tyrant. He does not know everything, only that there is not a world where he lives.

Silver linings are all that stand between him and the gaping abyss.
...
TL;DR Philza replaces a tyrannical emperor and has to navigate ruling a kingdom while avoiding assassination attempts, somehow turning his harem from murderous to obsessive in the process. Yet, for all his efforts, he still cannot assure his own survival.

Notes:

So, I don't know if anyone saw, but mending broken hearts is on haitus while I figure out what I'm, like, doing with it? It was not thought through enough before I started writing, I'll tell you that. Of course, I still wanted to complete my trifecta of isekai.

This is the new final piece of the trifecta, Philza centric and filled with future pain and smut. Definitely going to move faster on the smut front than the other two, but it still follows the wonderful vibes of getting worse before it gets better. Gotta adore that.

Hope you like this first chapter! Turned out way longer than I expected.

Trigger warnings: Character death, character undeath, panic attack, gruesome depictions of death, mentions of torture

Chapter 1: What Is Death But A Beginning

In Ancient Greece, those who died by lightning strike were not given a proper burial, their demise seen as a punishment by the gods. Phil doesn’t remember where he learned the fact anymore. Only the thunder crackling outside reminds him of it at all.

Could have been from a client. Or maybe he learned it to share with one instead. So much of the media he consumes nowadays is dictated by the kids he so lovingly tries to help heal, sitting upon his office couch. In his opinion, there’s no better way to get a child to open up than showing interest in them.

Not that it always works, nor that he always has time to do so. His schedule is packed tight, almost every day of every month with few breaks. There’s nowhere he’d rather be than here. Yet, that same schedule strangles out his free time.

Time spent without a client grows increasingly rare. Phil refuses to admit why he’s overworking himself though. It’s not healthy, he knows. In fact, he’d argue he knows better than many, being a therapist who usually discourages others from the same thing he’s doing.

Albeit he works with mainly kids so overworking usually isn’t a problem. Kids don’t tend to have a lot of work. School work, homework, both take a while but it also ends soon and school at least has mandatory breaks. Phil has no mandatory breaks. A benefit of being able to make his own schedule.

Phil rubs his eyes, leaning back into his chair. His last client left an hour ago and he’d finished up his notes half an hour after. By all means he should leave. Yet, thunder rumbles again and he resolutely stays indoors. What a silly fear, Phil muses to himself.

Fear doesn’t care if it’s silly though, still rattling about his chest. It’s fine, he always makes his way home eventually. He rests his eyes from his screen, wandering about the rest of his office.

Soft colors, softer furniture. A plush couch covered in blankets and pillows with still more extras piled in a basket beside it. A single chair in case a guardian comes as well. Clean shelving organized with toys, baskets, and books on common mental illnesses in children.

Dark wood making up a coffee table with a kinetic sand box, a few papers still littered over it covered in childish scribbles, and a small pile of crayons not yet put away. The drawings only bring his mind back to the program on his screen. 

Pushing himself around in his chair, Phil finally stands. He grabs at the drawings and crayons, sliding them where they belong, and smiles at the scribbles of hair and many scrawled hearts. One of his older clients had done them.

Jamie, age twelve, a young girl who only recently joined his roster. It had taken til her third session to get a word out of her, and only then it had been over a romance novel he’d forgotten to take home. She finally spoke.

Not about the novel itself, but she’d reluctantly asked if he liked romance stories. Conversation had been stilted until Phil had gotten her favorite novel out of her. The same visual novel still sat on his laptop. Then it had been a problem to get her to stop talking about her favorite characters, fun lore details, and rants over the main villain who she hated so much.

Obviously, Phil had to learn more about this story she so loved. A couple months later they've made great progress towards her comfort, scratched the surface of the traumas that sent her to his office, and he’s developed a burning hatred for that same villain.

Unable to stop himself, he lets his eyes trail back to the screen, the ending scene sitting in wait for a key input before it moves on. It’s by far one of the more gruesome endings for the emperor. Uncensored gore splatters across the main hall, a man finally made mortal again shredded limb from limb by a pack of angry dogs.

Kind of concerning that this is Jamie’s favorite game but it’s hardly the worst thing one of his client’s have been into. She seemed more interested in the various love interests anyway. Philza reaches to his keyboard, hitting the spacebar until the credits skip and he’s booted back to the main screen.

‘ God’s Favorite Must Die: A Paradox Of Love And Longing ’, or Love Paradox as Jamie says other fans call it, is quite the game to behold. The magnum opus of Blue Cherry Gaming, and the only game of theirs to have any sort of popularity. Phil can certainly see why this one struck gold.

The game is not without its flaws, bugs, and glitches. Hell, it can hardly be called a ‘visual novel’, only keeping that title because of how it’s formatted. Not that Phil’s played many visual novels, only a couple others that were short and simple for reference of just how insane Love Paradox really is.

Six love interests when most games only tend to have two or three, a branching storyline that somehow fits nearly thirty endings, and new game plus, which unlocks after beating all the routes and has only gotten squealed over by Jamie. Phil hasn’t made it that far yet, having just reached his fourth ‘win’, but Jamie chats about it enough that he basically has.

It’s basically a harder difficulty that comes with extra lore, scenes, and unlockables for the in-game gallery, which means the game technically has even more endings than it already did. No wonder the full completion achievement has been done by less than 3% of players. It would take months .

More thunder rumbles in his ears, goosebumps tearing up his skin. Phil shudders, clutching the edge of his desk, and tries to push it out of mind. He clicks open his gallery, not in the mood to start yet another playthrough. He’s already done a dozen or so if he counts the bad endings.

Various sections splay out the gallery. Organized by love interest, then time, with a noticeable exception being the entire section dedicated to the various brutal ways the emperor dies. Whoever made those art pieces must’ve really wanted to make a horror game instead. 

Phil may just be spacing out but does the thunder seem to be getting more frequent? He stands from his desk, shutting down his laptop and slipping into his, thankfully waterproof, backpack. His phone and keys rest in his pocket.

Home, he just has to make it home. There he can get his headphones, turn on music or a documentary or something, and drown out the thunder. If he can’t hear it, the storm doesn’t exist. Phil takes a deep breath and counts to ten.

Lights off, door locked, the rest of the building as eerily silent as it always is. Phil hikes up his raincoat hood and steps out the back door. Rain pours from the sky, forming rushing rivers towards drains. Massive puddles cover nearly the entire lot.

Flooding on the roads will probably be a hazard. Phil’s town wasn’t built for heavy storming, one this bad may as well be a once in a lifetime opportunity. He chooses to focus on these musings and not the ominous flashes of life overhead.

Keys fumble into cold, wet hands. Water soaks through his sneakers, a poor decision made this morning when the storm had been only a drizzle. Phil damn near scratches up the door of his car trying to fit the key into a lock he can barely see.

Really, it’s inevitable. Standing next to a metal object, another one in hand, in such a terrible thunderstorm? Fear forgotten under frustration, Phil barely notices his skin tingle. A bitter metallic taste fills his mouth. When he breathes, it’s a terrible scent of burning batteries.

Pain bursts in his veins. A ball of fire and metal and hell weighs in his chest. He falls and his vision whites from pain. He breathes and his mind drifts away. He exists and he is already dead. A short, painful thing. Only a moment yet feeling as though it will forever be seared into his soul.

…

Phil - Philza , a voice whispers- does not wake up , so to speak. He’s human, he’s familiar with waking up. Sleep weighs heavy on him each morning, leaving him groggy and fumbling until his brain catches up with his body. This isn’t that.

Waking up is a slow arduous process that fights to get him back in bed the whole way. Phil’s own personal war of attrition each and every day. One he usually wins. That’s how he knows he hasn’t woken up.

It makes sense, he didn’t exactly fall asleep either. Death brushes over his skin, an odd clarity able to pinpoint every moment of his death like watching a movie frame by frame, but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. Phil expected more panic to this whole thing.

That’s how it usually works in fiction. Die, wake up, freak out about dying, the whole thing. Instead he’s left with the oddest feeling of being a spectator to his own demise. He idly pokes the memory. It’s… displaced. Like he’d dissociated through the whole thing but somehow kept a perfect recall.

‘ Philza, ’ that voice whispers again, more insistently this time. Phil cracks open his eyes. No, not his eyes. With that same odd clarity, he recognizes that he no longer has eyes. Or limbs. Or much of anything. Just… a consciousness floating in something that cannot be comprehended.

‘ Fix it ,’ it hums through his soul, ‘ help them. Save them. ’ And Phil can only wonder how, who, and why. He cannot ask. He has no mouth, no face to convey his blunted confusion. There are no words that could match how much yet how little he feels.

‘ Be better than he ever was .’ A feeling of warmth encompasses him. Eternally watching eyes slip from him, gaze heavy but attention drifting. More words flood the space yet none meant for his ears. The syllables that make them up are impossible, incomprehensible.

He feels more that hears thankfulness, bitterness, and a tiredness that comes only from moderating a terribly stressful situation. Phil tastes the five entities in the other than him, more than him. It’s… the best word he has for how he perceives them anyway.

Bitter pulls tighter, lashing with reluctance to part. The warmth leaves. Phil feels himself moving, for forever and a moment, until he’s warm again. A different warmth. A campfire instead of a hearth, unfamiliar and wild. It is not Thankfulness. It is not Tired.

One of the other two. A tinge of desperation, the ache of a last resort. It stands alongside freedom and light. Phil tries to categorize them into something he can understand. A head he does not have aches in moments of trying, all his efforts falling apart, a message in a bottle torn away by the sea.

Like waves, the heat increases and increases. That familiar warmth from the Bitter one drifts further away in a solemn goodbye. He tries to reply, feels as though he must. Not a sound leaves him.

Yet the Bitter lightens, something like melancholy, and Phil’s succeeded anyway. The voice returns, soft once again. He barely hears its words as he too drifts. Distantly, he can only wonder what message may be written in his bottle.

‘ Good luck, my Crownsoul Crow .’ Three impossible beings look down upon him. Just like before, Phil does not fade to sleep. He disappears all the same.

…

Only now does Phil comprehend the beings he saw as gods. Gods that his soul doesn’t belong too. The realization crumbles that wall between him and his emotions. What should have been, the panic and despair of dying when he hadn’t even been able to get married and start a family or even finish that stupid game, doesn’t return. Phil knows he should feel it.

Just knowing doesn’t bring back what they took. He… should be upset by that. Phil’s brows knit together, confusion and frustration digging grooves in his sternum. He’s not. Phil’s more upset that he can’t feel upset at them. That’s one hell of a paradox.

Right, no use feeding a paradox. Phil grumbles wordless syllables, cracking open reluctant eyes to a sleek glittering canopy, painted a rich viridian green. Beneath him is an impossibly plush mattress he sinks into. Thick blankets tuck around his frame.

This isn’t his room. Considering the recent events, that’s less of a surprise than it should be. Still, his heart leaps in his chest. A sense of wrong crowds around his ears. Phil chokes at the unfamiliar panic brought about by something he can’t even name.

He tries to rise but his limbs don’t respond. Static bursts down his limbs, pins and needles being an understatement compared to the patchwork of sensation clinging to his skin. Muscles twitch without any sense of coordination. It isn’t even wild flinging. That would require some kind of movement.

Apparently that’s too nice for Phil. He just has to stare blankly in quickly mounting frustration at the hanging canopy that blocks his view of the rest of the room. It couldn’t at least be sheer?

Minutes pass with feeling slowly returning to him. He kicks off the blankets, struggles to sit, and shoves the blankets in a rough circle around him. The hands that move about aren’t his own. They’re smooth, with longer fingers and a wider palm. A light tan tints his skin. Oh no, his ghostly pallor, whatever will he do without it.

“One, two, three, four,” Phil mutters, counting his fingers and toes. He taps each finger to his thumb, repeating the pattern in an attempt to calm his heart. It doesn’t get rid of that wrong wrong wrong .

“Ten, nine, eight, seven.” He reverses the pattern. Counting backwards is harder for the brain, it distracts easier so it can calm in a pinch. Or not. Basic grounding techniques aren’t going to cut it for this apparently-

Peep . Phil’s teeth click shut, head shooting up at the high pitched, clearly distressed noise that belongs to a dove, not coming from his own mouth. He raises his head, pressing his palm to his lips.

A warble rumbles from his throat, nervousness teeming from the sound. Closed lips and warm skin muffle it best they can. Alright, bird sounds. Phil can work with bird sounds, this is fine. The peeps are cute even.

Why is his brain interpreting emotions from them? Phil doesn’t know anything about birds. He can’t even tell the difference between a raven and a crow on a good day. On a bad day he gets confused by pigeons.

Really, by pigeons! And they’re everywhere in his city. Birds make zero sense and now he is one . Wait- does that mean he has wings?

Unfamiliar muscles flex as Phil jerks around, smacking himself in the face with his wings. The momentum of the other sends him tumbling onto his side. Directly onto his wing.

“FUck,” Phil bites. He scrambles off the, apparently sensitive as fuck , wing. The familiar sensation of a newly forming bruise heats up the area he landed on. It fades far more quickly. In moments, the pain is just a memory.

“ Fuck , wings. Bird wings on me,” Phil mumbles, “Sure, why not? Die, meet god, meet several other gods, wake up as a bird man. At least I still have toes.” A stressed laugh rips from his mouth.

“Gods, is this a nest then? Do bird people even sleep in beds?” He shoves himself back to his knees. Moving with wings is clumsy, half explaining what his problem was earlier. If he doesn’t think about it, they insist on staying limp weights, only following when the muscle doesn’t allow them to stretch any further.

Several embarrassing thwacks and a couple more barely-there bruises eventually get them tucked enough out of the way to look around. His wings twitch incessantly at his back. Pins and needles on wings is not a feeling he ever thought he’d experience and never wants to again.

Nest , that same part of his brain interprets each warble and peep chitters. The wrong around his ears lessens, pacified by what’s apparently a calming location for bird people. Pillows and blankets scatter about it.

Each one feels purposeful. Not because it’s neat but because his brain insists that’s where each and every one belongs. All different patterns and textures and materials, blended together by instinct alone, and all in varying shades of green like an off-color sea.

Various bits of gold, silver, and gems hide amongst them. His hoard, he’s so delightfully informed. Not like the others, the ones that aren’t good enough, just these ones. These ones are special.

Yet for everything that is there in the circle of comfort and warmth, it feels empty. An ache in his chest that doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Apparently, random bird instincts can explain hoards and nests but not ‘how to use wings’ or ‘why does this make me feel sad and alone?’.

Phil sniffles. His hand flies to his face, wiping at tears staining his cheeks. A warble cracks out of him. It’s not a sob, just a desperate cry for whatever is missing, whatever can make this feel less empty.

More tears fall, a sick gratitude at being able to cry. If the gods won’t let him mourn for the life he lost, he can at least cry here and pretend that’s what caused it. And if his mind refuses to truly accept that… Phil can keep pretending.

He falls forward over his knees. Wings cocoon him, blocking out what little light there was. Phil presses his hands to his eyes until spots begin to dance behind his eyelids. Tears escape past the wall he tries to form.

Time isn’t real beyond the wall of the canopy. A world out there very well exists, marching along while he cries and cries for a loneliness not his own, but it does not feel real. How can any of this feel real?

A trill calls for someone, anyone to come and release him from this. No one responds. Phil sobs harder. His breath shortens, chest tightening while oxygen makes his head light. That odd clarity that only comes when he panics tells him he has to calm down or his instincts will keep him panicking until oxygen deprivation causes him to pass out.

Yeah, like it’s that easy. Phil’s breathing stutters in an attempt to huff at his own stupid advice. ‘Just calm down!’ Please. He didn’t get a psychology degree to give out half baked, terribly advice like that. Phil can do much better than that.

Driven by a low current of spite beneath the crippling desperation, he forces himself to unscrunch. Each breath is a fight to get through. Phil blinks away tears but his vision barely clears. His hands dig into the nest, shaking and tugging and aching with the force.

Five things he can see, start there. This is his favorite grounding technique, he uses it all the time, it should be a habit. It should be . A sob chokes from his throat. He sways, leaning forward, elbows locked.

One, there’s an embroidered throw blanket right beside his hand, he’s pretty sure the details are various bones to mimic flowers, a skull in the center. Two, a small scar on the back of his new hand by the second knuckle, split and pink. Three, a blanket that’s obviously just a deep blue laid out beneath all the others.

Four, a pillow covered in pearls, probably fake and definitely with a terrible texture. Five, the headboard is a pale white wood, a dark red etched into the engravings on it. He can’t figure out what they’re supposed to look like. Squiggles? Runes? An image? Just cool looking? Most headboards are just cool looking.

Another warble leaves him, the panic waylaid by a bit of confusion over the odd patterning. Phil chokes down another breath. Next are four things he can feel. He’s got this, he can do this.

There’s that stupid pillow again, he has to reach out to touch it, laying his entire chest down and proving whoever he is now has great flexibility. The pearls are smooth individually but form an awful bumpy texture.

His new feathers are a second thing, silky and clean. He can feel his own breathing hammering away- but that doesn’t count. Another blanket, a soft, fluffy fur colored black like a panther, that’s three.

Phil takes another pillow for four, rolling onto his back to crush it to his chest. It’s plush. The fabric must be silk for how smooth it is. The pattern is incredibly hard to pick out in the low light, a barely brighter green forming creeping vines. He has to wipe his eyes again to get a better look. Squinting makes his head hurt more.

Now three things he can hear… nothing. Just himself. Phil manages to hold his breath, counting to ten, and all he hears is his heartbeat. It reminds him of being in a soundproof room.

With his pillow clutched tight, he rolls again. This time he uses a trembling hand to pull at the canopy. It’s cold to the touch, as if it’s been kept in a freezer. He shuffles to the edge of the bed. Each movement of blankets against more blankets in the nest is so loud.

Opening the canopy doesn’t cause noise to return. Duh, he’d need magic to somehow make a canopy soundproof. Then again, divine intervention traded his soul into the body of a bird man so magic is definitely real.

The knowledge his breathing is calming is brushed away in favor of new realization. Instincts settle under his self-soothing. Magic is real. Could Phil use magic then or is that just a good thing? Then again, he has wings . He should totally be able to use magic.

A flat rug cushions the floor but does little to protect his feet from it. Phil shivers, tucking his wings closer around his shoulders. The pillow is dropped in favor of pulling the thin silk robe back up his shoulders. It also does little to help.

Whoever willingly keeps their bedroom this cold is a monster. Or it’s winter. But he’s wearing silk and has a pearl pillow ; they can afford to run the heater all night. He scowls, dapping more at drying tears.

Stumbling to his feet like a newborn fawn, Phil nearly overcorrects and falls back on his ass. Wings, sensitive and also heavy, noted. Actually walking is somehow much easier in comparison, his wings obediently folding into place without much thought. Another instinct? An actually useful one at that.

Darkness paints the room in shades of grayish blues just beyond the edge of the bed- and then a flicker. Phil’s arm twitches. Sparks burst into life, lighting candelabras and wall lights with a lick of flame. Dozens of candles keep the room in a dull glow.

Fancy aesthetic pinterest boards come to mind, rooms lit only by low lights and candles for reasons he still doesn’t understand now that he’s seen it in real life. The shadows cling deep into the corners. This room must be a pain to clean.

Roughly octagonal walls make up whatever room he’s found himself in, thick curtains covering every wall. The bed itself rests on a high platform, about two feet off the ground with no obvious stairs, and a chandelier covered in chains of glittering gemstones overhead. Phil can already see himself falling flat on his face with that platform.

Carefully, he inches up to the platform. Phil dangles a foot below the ledge, testing for invisible stairs. Which, admittedly, sounds crazy even in his head but hey! Magic! It could happen. Alas there are no invisible stirs at the side he picked.

At least it’s only two feet and not more. He hops off the ledge, knees bending easily and feet not even hurting at the impact. Take that Phil’s old shitty joints, he’s got new limbs now that can handle a little hop.

No tables or bookshelves or any other surfaces give him any clue to which way is out. Presumably, it’s past one of the giant curtains though. Surely the gods wouldn’t shove him in a massive birdcage, right? Right. Totally. Phil ignores how his heart tries to pick up pace again.

He approaches one of the thick, curtain covered walls. Blackout curtains, he can see now, and such a perfect pitch black that if it weren’t for the golden ropes hanging between each one, he might not be able to tell where the corners are. Phil reaches out.

Magic strikes again. His fingers don’t even brush the curtains before the ropes move on their own. They loop in the air, splitting the curtains and pulling them back to allow light to spill into the room. Instead, Phil’s hands jump to his face to shield his eyes to the sudden brightness.

Blinking back spots, Phil squints through the revealed windows. Massive things, the room nearly twenty, maybe thirty feet tall and the windows being as close as floor to ceiling as they can manage while still remaining arched. Like really big gothic Victorian era windows. Or, at least, Phil thinks that’s the style.

And then his eyes focus on the world beyond. A kingdom stretches out as far as the eye can see. Buildings built upon buildings, crossed with bridges between levels, a spider web of life he can barely see from so far away. Much closer is the expansive grounds around him.

Phil’s in a castle, he must be. Though he can only see the roofs, apparently in the tallest tower as he walks slowly about the room. Growing ivy wraps about the other towers he can somewhat see. A tree grows from one. Its branches reach out into the distance and just barely scrape…

Scrape a balcony. Phil’s balcony now. He pads quietly over frigid marble, high winds rustling through his feathers, breath punched from his chest in awe and an odd satisfaction. Phil clutches a little harder at his silk robe. The winds threaten to rip it from him, the tie around his waist struggling to compensate.

Orange and red leaves form an eternal fall, so very unlike the leaves of the weeping willows back home, which never manage to reach these vibrant shades. Phil reaches out, tracing a leaf. The edges are impossibly sharp. Like a knife, Phil thinks.

Yet more marble forms a barrier stopping Phil from falling with the exception of a section just opposite the door. Nothing sits there. A trill leaves his mouth, something clicking that he could jump from there. Jump and fly away. Fly and feel nothing but the wind in his feathers, in his hair. Feel nothing but freedom.

It’s the open air beneath his toes that stops him just before that instinct, yet another terrible one right below whatever tossed him directly into a panic, causes him to leap into the abyss below. Well, less the abyss and more the black roof tiles but still.

Backpedaling hard , he flees back into the safety of the bedroom. His wings twitch, feathers fluffing to catch the last remnants of wind as he passes through the entryway. The instinct calms though. Good. Phil prefers himself un-splatted.

Although with the wings he could theoretically fly like it was asking him too. There are definitely better ways to go about it than plummeting from hundreds of feet in the air though. Especially for his first time. Phil highly doubts that any amount of instincts would make flying easy.

Standing opposite the balcony is the only door in the room, an archway to a much smaller balcony lacking any railing at all. Beyond the balcony is a much wider room. More marble patterned with spider lilies and creeping vines, a sitting area off near a wall, bookshelves along the nearby wall. A desk sits on the other side, piled with papers in what look like golden folders.

Easily most notably is the complete lack of stairs. Or ladders. Or literally any other way down that isn’t dropping thirty feet onto the carpet. Why do the ceilings have to be so damn high?

“You got to be fucking kidding me,” Phil trills, all bird noises and no syllables. He can’t jump! He’ll break a leg! But he doesn’t have any other way down. Does he even need to go down?

Phil chews at his lip. No, he can’t stay up here forever. Since he does have access to the rest of the building, he can see a door from here, he’s definitely not in a divine bird cage. He’ll have to feed himself eventually.

Well, he got his wish of a better place to practice flying at least? He ruffles his wings experimentally. The conscious movement is janky, unlike the smooth ones those instincts make. Spreading them out reveals just how long they are.

Listen, the room he’s in is hardly small. Even spread, he could fit another three sets of wings on the end and not reach the walls. That being said his wings are still at least, what, twenty feet long? More? Is that normal? 

…probably? Birds have pretty long wings compared to their body. Phil flaps carefully. Wind rustles his hair, his much longer than normal hair that he’s not going to think about right now. It’s unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

Before he lets himself think about the actual intricacy of flight and how the fuck he’s supposed to make that work, therefore siking himself out, Phil steps off the ledge. He expects his stomach to sink. The sudden weightlessness. Like riding a roller coaster.

He remains perfectly steady, which throws him off more than anything else could have. Feathers flare, catching the air in a smooth glide to the floor. Phil flaps once before landing to break his momentum.

Or tries to. Really, it’s his best effort. He jerks back up, bobbing, and hits the floor hard . Phil’s legs give, knees banging into carpet covered marble, landing on his wrists more than his elbows. Pain strikes up and fades just as quickly.

“Ow,” Phil mumbles in the way a person only does when they’re not sure something actually hurt or not. He flaps his wings again in childish complaint. It makes him feel better. For that reason alone, the action isn’t silly.

Peeling himself from the floor, he rubs at his face where the rugburn should sit. His fingers brush through a neat, short trimmed beard. It traces along his jawline and over his chin. No mustache to make it a nice full beard though. It’s still more hair than Phil usually has. He’s more the clean shaven type.

Growing it out is just so itchy for him. He’d much rather not go through all of that. Not that he has one though… he’ll probably keep it, if it looks good in the mirror. Speaking of mirrors, he should get back to exploring.

The doors in front of him open as he approaches, a deep black wood carved to look oddly like twisting intestines if he looks too close. Just past them is not the hallway he’d expected. 

Instead he finds the single largest closet he’s ever seen. Honestly, it looks like it was ripped directly out of a clothing store, racks making branching pathways and formed from what look like specially grown trees. A dressing station that he’s seen on tv shows about nobility sits about  halfway down the main ‘hallway’.

A platform to stand on while servants dress them surrounded by three body length mirrors. Phil stops at it, peers further down to another arch where he can see the start of smooth tiles. A bathroom? He glances at the platform by his feet.

It’s easy to hop up onto it, gathering his wits to look his reflection in the eye is harder. Still, Phil forces himself to look up. A stranger looks back at him. He didn’t expect to look exactly like himself, seeing his hands already disproved that, but this is just… so different.

Comparing heights is hard to do but Phil is mostly certain he’s gained a couple of inches. His shoulders are wider, stronger looking, though that’s easily explained with having to carry around those hefty wings. The dark feathers remind him a bit like a crow and grow more than just from his wings.

He traces his face, high cheekbones and a strong jaw, up to where they appear to grow from his temples. They flick down when he touches them. If he focuses, he can move them independently too. That is not a feature on birds. What the fuck.

“Good morning, Emperor Momentus-Mortis.” Phil does not jump at the sudden chorus of voices. No, because he definitely noticed them and- and no, no he didn’t. Several unfamiliar hands grab at his clothes, undressing him before he can think to protest. A distressed sound dies in his throat.

The people, mostly women, are dressed in long robes as well, crossed in front of them and tied with a ribbon around the waist. Attached is a stretch of fabric not unlike a waist apron but covered in far too much embroidery to be practical. Their hair is all in identical buns, faces kept carefully neutral.

Despite that, he can feel the anxious energy spark in the air. Phil focuses back on his reflection before it can add to the sense of wrong and send him spiraling again. He’s in a fancy room, they’re just servants. It’s fine.

Scars litter his body. Before, Phil had had a couple from just generally living his life. A scratch from a cat on his cheek, a bald spot from when he’d dropped a firecracker on his leg and burnt himself pretty bad, dozens of knicks from learning to whittle. None of those ones remain.

Across his chest, several criss cross as if someone tried and failed to dig out his heart. Two dots on his neck mimic a god forsaken vampire bite . There’s a long thin one on his hip as well, cutting down his thigh. Phil’s eyes snap back up.

Don’t look at your dick while there are strangers in the room. Even if he’s swiftly covered up not long after. Lotions are then lathered onto his skin, smelling of pine. All the while fabrics rustle behind him and an outfit is chosen.

Hell this is so awkward . Another trill catches in his throat but Phil swallows the unfamiliar sound down. He stares hard in his new eyes and tries to ignore it. They’re blue at least, just like his hair is blonde and both are similar to his old coloring.

Kind of, except not really like him at all. His hair is too golden, as if actually made from solid gold, and his eyes are more of an unnatural electric blue than his old grayish color. A ring of vibrant red hugs his pupil. 

Really, the only thing this body has in common with his old one is his hair type. Both have straight hair, with no curls whatsoever. It even appears to have the same level of general volume, which is to say none at all. He just woke up and he may as well have used hairspray to slick it back.

Which really just adds to the whole ‘hair made of gold’ thing and- oh, the servants are leaving. They go quickly, without a word and without a glance, taking the nervous energy in the room with them. Phil takes the opportunity to actually touch his hair.

Soft, smooth, definitely not actual gold despite appearances. Phil drops the strand, turning back to the mirror again. They’d dressed him in layers of robes, looking closest to a kimono but noticeably off. Least of all because he’s pretty certain kimonos don’t have so many layers.

Incredibly thin layers, yes, made of sheer fabric each with its own embroidery that only form a full image of a flock of flying crows when carefully layered together. Phil shifts and the fabric flutters, giving the illusion that the image is actually moving. The layers are mostly white to make the black crows stand out.

Three of them are green, however, adding layers of foliage around the hem like threetops and putting two stripes up along where they all cross. The only solid piece of fabric is also black and wraps around his waist.

It itself, however, is decorated with several cords of gold, tied tightly around to accentuate this body’s waist. They lead to what appears to be a spiderlily, colored green instead of red, and made entirely of emeralds. How it all holds is a mystery.

And if Phil’s being honest, it all looks more familiar than it should. The face, the wings, the clothes, and that name the servants had said. ‘Emperor Momentus-Mortis’, a fancy name that sounds a bit silly in his head. It feels like he should recognize it all.

Preoccupied by all those thoughts, Phil leaves the closet. Sitting beneath the balcony he’d lept from is another set of doors that the servants had escaped from. Just to the right of it is another mirror edged in swirling gold. A small table holds a pillow, and a crown.

Or he assumes it’s his crown. It’s more like a circlet, meant to sit about his forehead. It too is made of gold and covered in emeralds, forming yet another set of wings separated only by a circle of diamonds in the center. Several other gemstones hang from it.

Sitting on at the left of the door is a wide brimmed hat on a similar stool and cushion. Phil sets the circlet on his head, then grabs the hat. If it’s here, he’s supposed to wear it. It’s not something he’d usually wear. White, green stripes, awfully familiar.

Maybe he’s been silly but it only clicks once he looks back in the mirror again, the full ensemble finally acquired. Phil should slap himself for not realizing it sooner. In the mirror, a too familiar face greets him, leveled in a terrible resting bitch face.

Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, the ruler of the aptly named ‘Empire Of Souls’ and primary villain of Love Paradox, dying in terrible, gruesome ways in each and every route for his crimes. A cruel man. He’s a lot more attractive in person.

Wait, fuck, that means Phil has a harem now. Wait , more important, that means Phil is going to die . By the time the game starts, the revolution is already underway, with the leader joining the harem to find the special macguffin that removes Sanguinis’ immortality. Then all they have to do is figure out how to kill him.

To kill Phil. The gods put him here to die.

“Fuck me,” Phil whines, pressing his hands to his eyes. Then snorts. A distressed noise made of more delirium than honest amusement. Fucking is the least of his problems. Sanguinis supposedly used his harem fairly often, if not terribly well.

He reluctantly pulls his hands away, eying the doors in renewed trepidation. Phil really doesn’t want to leave the safety of the rooms now. Any hunger dies in his stomach under the realization that being ripped apart by wolves, beheaded and having his spine removed out the stump, being forced to eat shards of metal and burning coals until they tear him apart from the inside, all of it.

All of it could very well be his future and more. Phil never finished the game. From what he’s heard, even the bad ends are filled with Sanguinis’ demise. The only difference is what happens to the main character alongside him. Kidnapping, torture, execution for treason, obsessive love interests snapping.

Love Paradox is not a world filled with soft love and happy endings. Each route only has one ending that could be anywhere close to fairytale, yet another reason he’d been lightly concerned over Jamie’s interest in the thing. But that’s realistic. Life does not end at happily ever after.

Neither will life end when he walks out those doors. Phil has to leave eventually. He can’t force the gods to put him back because they’re gods. He can’t kill himself and hope he’s sent back, Sanguinis’ immortality should still be in effect. He can’t go into hiding either, Sanguinis is a very public figure.

Phil has to make the best of this. Fuck, he doesn’t want to. His hands shake, wings mantling behind him, and the tufts of feathers on his head pressed down against his scalp. He may feel nothing for his first death but he is apparently still very capable of fear.

Just because he’s immortal doesn’t mean his life can’t be made hell either. Sanguinis is still very capable of feeling pain from being burnt alive or tortured as the game proves. It… it doesn’t make him want to go outside.

Yet he forces numb feet to continue forward. He could try and change the ending to not involve his death despite that being the entire point of the plot. Phil would just have to atone. But how? How can he atone for a kingdom set to ruin, citizens suffering under the guise of maximum efficiency? How can he atone for slaughter and death and the abuse of a son?

How can Phil atone when he doesn’t even know the depths of Sanguinis’ crimes? The revolution is already underway . The hero may very well be in the castle already.

Ominous doors swing open, he continues to walk. A butler, aged with long white hair and heavy wrinkles yet standing strong as a wizened soldier, steps in front of him. Phil stops. More accurately, his legs lock in place.

“Good morning Emperor Momentus-Mortis, my respects to the Crownsoul Crow, eternal king of kings,” The butler bows low at the waist. Phil thinks they’re a butler at least. Their outfit matches the uniforms of the ones in the game, just like the servants who’d dressed him.

“Will the young master, Crown Prince Theloquin, be joining your imperial glory for the morning meal today?” They do not straighten to ask the question. Nausea threatens to take him off his feet.

Right, Theloquin, known better as his preferred name ‘Tommy’. Sanguinis’ poor abused son who took the first opportunity he could to take revenge, helping the hero strip his father’s immortality. It’s his most notable action by far and telling in his willingness.

“Yes,” Phil answers, lips moving on their own. He always felt bad for Tommy, seeing so many of his clients within the poor boy. A terrible home life, lashing out in every way he can to try and escape the suffocating presence of his father.

“Yes, he will join me today,” Phil repeats, stronger. That’s a silver lining to this all. Phil is now Tommy’s father, not Sanguinis. If nothing else, he can try and make the fourteen year old’s life a little bit better before his inevitable demise.

“And of the harem, your imperial glory?” The butler straightens, eyes kept solidly on the floor. There is no nervous energy, no fear, just the calm routine of a man whose been at this far longer than he should have.

Great question. How about fuck no? Which harem member the hero chooses quite literally determines how Phil dies. Well, except for Techno, Sanguinis’ favorite general. He’s not a part of the harem. Still a love interest though… for some reason. Probably because Sanguinis wanted him in the harem but had too much use for his fighting skills. Honorary membership.

“Not today,” Phil denies, pauses, “though one may join me for dinner, our newest member.” Which, if the game has already started, will be the hero. If not… Quackity? If he remembers right, Quackity had been the newest before the hero.

“This loyal butler will inform master Wilbur.” Huh, Phil doesn’t recognize that name and he knows the names of all the harem members- Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . You can name the hero . Right. Can’t just have them called ‘the hero’ in real life.

Wilbur must be the hero then, the main character. Philza’s personal murderer, wrapped in silk and gold.

“Dismissed.” Phil waves the butler off. Sanguinis’ resting bitch face hides his panic, even as his feathers try harder to flatten into his skin. By Wilbur being here at all, Phil’s life is already forfeit.

And somehow, he has to make the best of it.

Notes:

I think this is by far the worst start any of my characters have had. Wilbur got an obsessively adoring landscape to navigate, Techno got poverty and a child and three exes who want to kill him, and Philza has a harem of people plotting to kill him and a son who actively helps their endeavors. They're like,,, three points on the same scale.

This fic is going to feel a lot different from the other two, I can already tell. I don't know the exact vibes of my fic until I'm already writing it but this first chapter is telling. Definitely not to the crack levels of Wilbur and Techno... I actually don't know about the techno fic. I need to work on that. The 10k chapters are just intimidating to write ig. I did this to myself.

Moving on, I really hope you guys enjoy this new concept! One part smut, one part political intrigue, and two parts angst. A deliciously perfect cake.

No voting system or video game system in this one btw. The flavor of this one is made of blood and tears.

Now onto writing the next chapter, I really wanted to write that breakfast scene but didn't want another story with 10k chapters in it. 7k is much better... kind of... 5k is the goal. Enough for my brain but not too much, you know?

Chapter 2: Past Sins Cannot Be Avoided

Summary:

Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, a man who's life is not worth living. A terrible, awful man who could have left the world a better place by dying young yet survived far longer than even those who sook only to destroy him. Now, Philza is him.

Phil tries his best, he really does. Therapy is a lot harder when the face you wear is the same one that hurt your clients so severely. It doesn't get any better when he decides to observe a training session between his new son and his favorite love interest, General Techno Blade. His work is cut out for him, that much is obvious.

Notes:

Teehee :>

This hurts so beautifully, the complete opposite vibes of isekaibur. I love it so much. Really stretching those angst muscles.

TW: Implied/referenced child abuse, mentioned minor character death, past sexual harassment, murderous impulses, past torture

Black wood must have been Sanguinis’ favorite, probably because it’s near impossible to stain and a man does not become a bloody tyrant without more than a few stains. Phil does not know the amount of people who may have died at this table. He is privy to enough to realize he doesn’t want to know.

Phil sits at the head of the table. It’s the only one of the chairs built to accommodate wings, lacking the tall back studded with diamonds. Even if he wanted to sit elsewhere to be more personable, it’s nearly physically impossible. Not that Phil tried very hard.

Claws tap out a nervous beat on the wood. Yes, claws. He’d realized only after starting to fidget that his nails naturally ended in a sharp point. They must not be very sharp claws, having failed to tear the blankets in his panic, but they were still more claws than nails.

He resists the urge to pick at the embroidery of the runner or delicate lace placemat. No need to unravel anything. Phil keeps tapping, running his tongue over his canine. They’re sharper than they should be, like a vampire, which is neat. Another distraction.

Nerves really do stretch a few minutes into what feels like hours. The butler had only left at most five minutes ago. That’s what the grandfather clock standing against the wall of the room says at least. Phil can’t stop himself from glancing at it again.

Servants standing nearby stiffen, at his beck and call and clearly terrified of him, of Sanguinis. That’s fair. Love Paradox didn’t exactly downplay Sanguinis’ terrible behavior. He knows as well as they do of his temper. Any wrong mood could very well turn them into a stress toy for the lord, losing their life over a single wrong word or action.

It’s yet another thing Phil will have to change. He’ll need a list for all of them at this point. The list could be titled ‘things to change for survival’, though ‘things to change because Sanguinis doesn’t believe in ethics’ is also a good title. Phil really doesn’t need death as a motivator to be better.

Death is still a really good motivator though. Phil can’t deny it’s at least part of the reason he’s doing anything at all. Fear and his sense of ethics will get him far. He bites back a stressed laugh for fear of looking insane. Not that Sanguinis isn’t already insane.

Only one other chair is pulled out along the table, the one directly to Phil’s chair. He sneaks a glance at it, folding and unfolding his hands, wondering just what Tommy will look like in real life. His game character was usually half obscured in shadow from sneaking around to help the hero. Though there is that portrait in the main hall.

As if summoned by that thought, the doors to the dining slip open. It’s not at all the dramatic fling that Phil had been accustomed to. Rather, they’re genuinely pushed open by a boy nearly too small to do so on his own. Is that like an instinctive magic of Phil’s then?

Golden hair derails that train of thought before it leaves the station. The exact same shade of gold as Phil’s new hair but impossibly fluffier, a shimmering golden cloud atop the child’s head. A white ribbon ties it back into a short ponytail to reveal wide sky blue eyes. That same red ring within them.

The child does not wear a robe like Phil’s. Instead, he wears something more fitting of Victorian English royalty. A white shirt with frills and lace and a distinctive red cravat, matching the equally red and gold corset the child wears. Small wings still covered in a thick layer of fluffy white down stick out on either side.

“Greeting Father,” Tommy bows, low at the waist just like the butler had. Dead eyes, complete deference as he stares at the floor. Phil distantly realizes that he may be forgetting to breathe.

‘ Flock ’ Phil croons, noise light and breathy, given on the exhale. Tommy’s wings fluff at the barely audible sound, shoulders tensing. The wrong evaporates. This is what he’s been missing . Phil sighs.

“Good morning,” Phil manages to get out actual words, “How was your rest?” There, a simple question. Phil’s not so far gone to ignore the massive elephant in the room that is the ugly brown and green splotched bruise across Tommy’s jaw. He swallows down anymore sounds.

“I rested fine, Father. All work was completed prior to then,” Tommy answers. That wasn’t exactly Phil’s question. And all work completed? He sounds more like a worker drone than a child. A whine builds in Phil’s chest.

“Are you in pain?” Phil can’t quite look away from the bruise. Tommy, no- Theloquin since Phil isn’t supposed to know that name, is too young for such a grotesque injury. One that Phil would bet Sanguinis is responsible for. 

“Yes Father.” Tommy finally pulls from his bow, eyes and wings kept low. A terrible sound echoes through the room. Tommy flinches, stiffening at his own reaction. Phil’s claws dig gouges into the table. Okay, so they are sharp.

“You may sit.” Phil needs to change the topic of this conversation before this bubbling pit of anger reddening out his vision makes the situation worse. Maybe it has since he already made Tommy afraid. Then again, he also knows that many traumatized kids are more afraid and angry than they are anything else. With the face of an abuser, he shouldn’t expect anything else.

His child, because this child is his like every client he tries to protect is in some way his, sits as soon as the last word leaves his mouth. Careful motions maneuver him forward, the chair pushed in by a servant. Phil is oddly reminded of prey attempting to avoid a predator’s attention.

Actually, it may be too soon to claim, but Tommy might be gray rocking. He makes himself as small and uninteresting as possible to try and make Sanguinis bored with him. It’s commonly used with narcissists, which Sanguinis definitely fits the requirements for. Smart kid.

Plates are quickly set in front of them. Silver lids are pulled off before the servants disappear so quickly they may have never even existed. Before Phil sits the single largest fruit and yogurt parfait he’s ever seen laden with blueberries and strawberries.

Tommy gets a spinach quiche that may just be more spinach than egg, or meath. Phil watches Tommy robotically take a bite, unable to hide a light shudder of disgust. Not a fan of spinach then? So why eat it?

Because Sanguinis might have forced him to. It’s hardly an uncommon behavior, seen in all types of parenting, but with the extra stressor of Sanguinis being an awful person. Denying anything of the man has cost others their lives. Tommy only floats past death by being the only heir.

Skewering a neatly cut strawberry on his claw, Phil pops it into his mouth. The burst of sweetness soothes yet another new part of his brain.  He hums around it. Tommy chokes down another bite of spinach he so obviously hates. Phil looks between his parfait, far too big for one person, and Tommy.

“Eat this,” Phil offers, keeping his voice soft. He sets a handful of strawberries on the edge of Tommy’s plate. His reward is a flicker of eye movement. It’s the closest Tommy’s gotten to looking at him since entering the room. Progress.

“As you wish Father,” Tommy enunciates clearly. Seriously, he sounds more like a robot than a fourteen year old. But he at least does pick up one of the cut strawberries and eat it instead. Small wings twitch.

‘Yes, good, feed flock ,’ Phil’s instincts hum. Which, honestly, how the fuck did Sanguinis manage to be such a shitty person when Phil’s up to his ears in happily humming ‘Elytran’ instincts, making him feel just a little bit high. It feels impossible to even think about negatively impacting Tommy. Not that Phil would otherwise.

“How are your studies going?” Phil asks. It’s a common question he asks of most of his clients, which Tommy now technically is. School tends to be a safe place for many. Albeit, now that he’s actually said that out loud, Tommy might think differently…

“Without issue, Father. You teach well, even if I struggle with such simple things.”  Tommy’s freehand inches towards the bruise on his face. He catches it and drops it back into his lap before it gets close. A strawberry hides the resulting grimace.

Right, fuck, Sanguinis tended to be very hands on with his son, and not in a good way. Phil should have thought of that before speaking. He bites down on a strawberry himself. Strawberries, truly the best way to hide emotions.

Phil needs to readjust his strategy. Or, more accurately, he needs to develop a strategy to begin with. While he’s only played a fraction of the game and only knows a bit about Sanguinis and Tommy’s backstory, he could still use it to figure out where to go from here.

Schooling is out. Does Tommy have any hobbies? He enjoys exploring with his friends, though Phil isn’t supposed to know about his friends nor the fact Tommy leaves the castle. As for things Tommy does inside the palace…

Nothing comes to mind. As far as Phil is aware, Sanguinis turned this palace into an absolute hellscape for Tommy. Nothing in here sparks any good memories. His only safe space is when Techno steps in to train him in combat because Sanguinis isn’t feeling like wailing on his kid that day.

Which is yet another thing Phil can hardly bring up in a conversation because Tommy would never admit to preferring Techno over Phil as a father. Or could he? It’s the only topic he can think of that’s anywhere close to ‘okay’.

Tommy is looking at him when Phil looks up again. His child - fledgling fledgling fledgling - stiffens but does not break eye contact. Phil tries his best to smile warmly. He has no idea if it works.

…

Something’s up with Father. Not something terrible, Tommy can tell by the lack of blood on the dinner table, but something . It was in the air the moment Tommy walked in the room. An imperceptible shift.

He’d wanted to run back to his room the moment he stepped foot in the dining hall from that alone. Unfamiliar shifts never go well for him. Tommy can deal with anger, disappointment, or excitement from his father, even if it hurts. But unfamiliarity? The last time Tommy missed a cue, he nearly died.

Actually seeing his father after rounding the ridiculously tall tables and chairs didn’t make him feel any better. Not for the first time, it had nothing to do with those stupid instincts instantly picking up and screaming about ‘flock leader’ and ‘predator’ in equal measure.

Tommy, like always, fought to keep the reaction down. Not that it really matters, he’s certain Father picked up on it. Father had instantly leveled him with a stare heavier than a mountain.

Mind racing, Tommy tries to figure out if he'd done anything wrong, carefully following their usual routine. Nothing came to mind. All his studying was done, his training completed, and Tommy hadn’t even cried out when Father kicked him across the jaw. He’d done well for one.

Of course that means things would instantly go wrong the next day. Father, fuck- no he needs to stop being formal to the bitch in the safety of his own head. Sanguinis is never happy when he’s not causing pain. Tommy doing good yesterday means today will be even worse. He knows this. Or, well, he thought he did.

So then why the strawberries? Tommy sticks another in his mouth, sweeter than anything he’s been allowed to taste before. Sanguinis is a picky bitch and never hands out his own food. Except today. It’s not poisoned either because Sanguinis hates the taste of poison.

It’s… honestly, it might just be nice of Sanguinis to have the treat over, like a reward. Tommy’s never gotten a reward before. Maybe the off feeling is Sanguinis being in a good mood towards Tommy for the first time in his entire fucking life?

Please. Tommy’s got fourteen years of experience under his belt, he knows that’s never going to happen. He sneaks a look at Sanguinis, who carefully picks through his parfait. The very one that, until today, he’d never let Tommy touch.

Red rimmed eyes meet Tommy, the blue and red together burning into him like it always does. Sanguinis smiles, all mockery and silent questions. Tommy bites back a flinch. He pulls his wings closer to his body.

“Father, will you or General Blade be teaching me today?” Tommy jumps for the topic. Yep, he was just looking to ask about the schedule. No disrespect here Mr.Father-man-sir.

A low hum leaves him, pondering. Tommy keeps eye contact now, knowing that dropping it might be worse than keeping it depending on whatever mood Sanguinis is in today. The weird one. The one that let out that quiet sound.

‘ Father, Flock, Safety?’ instincts whisper in his ears, stupidly tentatively hopeful over one stupid croon. No, Tommy smashes them down, aided by the much stronger instincts screaming that that man is a predator . He brings nothing but pain .

“General Blade will do today,” Sanguinis decides. Cold relief floods his veins. Good, Sanguinis got his fill of Tommy yesterday. Tommy always learns better under Techno, and he doesn’t hurt nearly as much!

“Do you enjoy learning under General Blade?” Sanguinis levels the damning question at him. Relief freezes into dread. Oh, oh it showed. Fuck his relief showed and now Sanguinis is going to punish him for daring to think Techno is better than him at anything.

“Father is the best teacher this stupid son could ask for,” Tommy deflects hard . Which might be a bad decision, hard to tell. Sanguinis gaze hardens. Tommy tucks his wings further against his back. Best he can do is make them a smaller target.

“That’s not true,” What, “you are not stupid,” Sanguinis denies. Tommy agrees out of habit alone, it’s always the safe option. That’s new. That’s very new. Tommy doesn’t like this at all .

“Nor is that an answer to my question. You will not be hurt for speaking your mind.” Sanguinis massive wings sweep behind him, adjusted casually. He nearly laughs at that. Tommy barely managed to bite it back. It’s just, wow, Sanguinis really fucking said that.

‘Not hurt for speaking’ Tommy’s ass . Opinions do nothing but get him hurt, that’s why he’s not allowed to have them around Sanguinis. He can’t really say that out loud though.

“General Blade is an experienced teacher, I learn a lot from him,” Tommy tries instead. Sanguinis tilts his head, considering his answer. Tommy holds his breath, fork strangled in his head, and prays to Prime that this answer works.

“That’s good,” Sanguinis nods, “I’m glad.” Whew, that was close… and too easy. That was way too fucking easy, where’s the other shoe? Sanguinis smiles again.

“I will observe your training today, if you don’t mind,” Sanguinis states. Questions with him are rarely actual fucking questions. Fuck . Tommy bites his tongue. He hates being right, being right hurts .

Sanguinis goes back to his parfait, seemingly not expecting a response. Tommy still takes care to nod before taking the out and burning a hole into his disgusting, protein filled quiche Sanguinis always insists he eats in the morning ‘for his own health’.

At least he gets a few strawberries today? Silver linings. Tommy just needs to focus on those. They’re all he has.

…

In Phil’s defense, Techno is his favorite character in Love Paradox, though his second favorite love interest after Schlatt. How does that work? Schlatt ranks about .2 points higher on the sexy scale. 

Unfortunately, that doesn’t change the fact that he really didn’t think this through. Tommy was obviously uncomfortable with him inviting himself in! Then again, when he’d gotten to his office that Sanguinis spent so much time in, he couldn’t bring himself to be as repentant as he should.

A couple hours of staring at fantasy financial reports, almost wishing he broke under the weight of his father’s expectations and became an accountant, and trying to figure out what the fuck Sanguinis was doing with the tax system would do that to anyway. Being reminded by the same butler from the morning that it’s time for Tommy’s combat lessons was a welcome distraction.

Seriously, all Phil got out of his floundering is that Sanguinis’ taxes are stupid high. And he already knew that! It’s one of the many things the revolutionary army complained about. Well, ‘many’ is the wrong word. The game was more focused on romance and murder than the revolution itself.

Deep breaths. Getting upset will only make Tommy more nervous and he doesn’t want that. Phil shifts, focusing away from that bullshit and on his surroundings instead. He’s stood on the training grounds, Tommy warming up in front of him.

Flat packed dirt warms under the afternoon sun, not quite the burning summer Phil’s used to back home. He’s mostly spared the heat anyway by the tree he rests underneath. The white wood stained red in places makes it easily identifiable as a bloodwood tree, reluctantly Phil’s favorite. It’s a tree that bleeds. That’s just cool.

Question, is it smart to stretch in a corset? Phil knows it’s definitely not okay to work out in one. Stretching is a different question though. Which leads to his second question, is Tommy planning on working out in a corset? Unacceptable.

Glancing about, seeing no one except dummies on sticks, Phil calls out.

“Theloquin, come here, will you?” Saying Tommy’s actual, legal name kind of hurts. It’s just… Phil’s seen a lot of fancy names and that once is up there. Near Xryxistal, pronounced ‘Crystal’, but not above it. Tommy jumps out of his stretch.

“Yes Father?” Tommy bows. Phil waits for him to straighten, which makes for a very awkward five seconds. Even still, Tommy remains focused on the grass at their feet. That would be a good place to start. Get Tommy capable of meeting his eyes. A perfect first goal.

“Turn around? it’s not healthy to work out in a corset,” Phil asks. And Tommy’s stiff again, what did he do wrong? His son reluctantly turns his back to Phil and- oh! The wings. Phil’s wings were sensitive as hell when he fell on them. They must be a weak point.

Well, at least he trusts Phil enough to not tear out his wings like Sanguinis has probably done at some point. Phil will take literally anything he can get. He takes a steadying breath, eying the fancy laces.

Tommy flinches when Phil’s clawed hand brushes his back. Phil winces, correcting himself, and tries his best to untie the corset without touching Tommy again. It’s hard. Whoever tied this corset did it tight with a complicated knot.

Ripping it off instead looks steadily more appealing the longer Phil struggles with it. If he thought five seconds was awkward, try an entire minute of fighting a knot. How he gets it off is a mystery even to him.

A breath of air leaves Tommy as Phil pulls the corset from him. Phil folds it in his hands, taking a step back from the trembling child. His wings brush against the bloodwood tree.

“Thank you, you can continue now,” Phil hums. Tommy spins, bows, and flees back to his warm ups. A soft coo leaves Phil’s lips, all fondness and joy. Worry does spike just a little when Tommy nearly trips. He catches himself, pretending as hard as he can that it never happened.

Several more minutes pass in relative peace. Phil slips to kneel, enjoying the soft breeze between his feathers, and Tommy doesn’t even seem to notice. Not that Phil’s doubting he noticed. It’s more that Tommy deemed the motion harmless. One day, he hopes that every motion will be harmless.

Nothing could have prepared Phil for seeing Techno in person. No amount of collectables or in-game sprites can really compare or properly show off the experience of having such a behemoth of a man walk up to him and take a knee.

Techno is easily six and a half feet, maybe seven? The second tallest character in the game behind Foolish. His shoulders are wide, straining at every shirt he wears and only accentuated by the singular pauldron he wears as part of his uniform. ‘Barrel chested’ is an understatement. 

Large pink curls flow from his head, pulled over one shoulder and held by a bloom of roses in a low ponytail, the end of which brushes the grass. Scars dot tanned skin. Piercing gold eyes burn into Phil, defiance incarnate.

Phil stands to greet- fuck, shit, fuck . His knees give out, blood rushing to the only location it isn’t needed. Phil thanks the stupid fucking gods that put him here that the robes hide how hard his dick got just looking at Techno.

He catches himself on those incredibly wide shoulders. Impressive muscles tense beneath his hands and Phil is a stupid as simp who can’t help but lightly squeeze those traps. You know, it’s suddenly feeling quite hot. Is it just him or is the air thinning?

‘ My Mate, ’ He chirps, wanting. Phil can’t help but feel incredibly fucking thankful that Techno probably doesn’t understand bird sounds. He can’t be acting like this. Sanguinis literally molested this guy daily, he can’t .

“General Blade,” Phil tries for casual, “You will be training my son today.” He pulls back and does his level best to lock his knees. Wow, his heart is beating fast. Forget crow, or he thinks he has crow wings, his heart is making him think ‘hummingbird’.

“Yes, Crownsoul Crow Philza, as you require,” Techno agrees. He stands and oh jesus he really is tall . Just look at his eyes, look respectfully at his eyes and not those thin hips connected to wide thighs that could crush his skull like a grape no- damn- fuck- stop .

Crownsoul Crow Philza! What an interesting nickname, or title? Unclear. Only Techno ever called Sanguinis it and it’s the only reason why Phil knows that the emperor’s middle name is his first name. It makes Phil not an impossible nickname.

God that’s a great ass. He kneels back down and tries his level best to be as not horny as possible. There is a child just, right there. A child who is also an elytran. A child who definitely heard Philza say that fuck .

‘ Sorry ,’ Phil whistles in birdsong, the word translating with a thought. Tommy fumbles the practice sword he’s holding. Techno steadies it, setting his own hand on top of Tommy’s, and covers the action by leaning forward to speak with him.

Sparring between the two goes… well? He thinks? There’s two sides of Phil watching the fight. One has only experienced battles in superhero films and has no idea what’s going on beyond ‘swing sword look cool’. The other is nitpicking their footing and pointing out every single insignificant flaw in their stance.

One swing leaves Tommy’s side open and that side knows before Techno notices and takes advantage of it and it’s weird . Phil shouldn’t know this shit! And he doesn’t! But he does? How can he both know and not know something? Thinking too hard makes the answers slip from his fingers like sand.

He takes a steadying breath, focusing on enjoying the fight rather than critiquing it. Techno is vastly more skilled than Tommy, obviously leading the fight with how he huffs out suggestions with each failed attack. A few bounce off the little armor he wears. 

The pauldron, a piece strapped over one thigh, and what looks to be a solid half a chest piece. Fabric in between stretches beautifully over his muscles. White fabric darkens with dirt and thins with sweat.

From a distance, Phil can only imagine the skin so tantalizing revealed by the wettened fabric, jaw aching to get his teeth into it. Wait, shit, no, he’s fucked up again. Move on, Phil. God, he’s such a disaster.

Before he messes up again, he focuses on Tommy. The kid is doing well. Each movement is trained, if rough. He lacks stamina, already huffing only a few minutes in, but he uses his wings well. Occasional flaps boost him to move faster than he’d otherwise be capable of.

Could Phil do that? He rustles his feathers. Something in him says ‘yes’, and he imagines he’d go much faster than Tommy with his larger wingspan and all. An image of bursting ahead and splattering someone like a runaway train filters through his skull.

Phil grimaces. No part of him enjoys the mental image of turning someone into a blood stain on the ground. Even if he doesn’t doubt Sanguinis did. Ugh, no wonder the gods replaced that bitch.

A yelp rings throughout the training ground, Techno’s boot meeting Tommy’s chest and sending the child sprawling. Feathers prickle at Phil’s back. Instincts squeak ‘ danger’ . There’s no danger, Techno does not glance at Phil before offering Tommy a hand up.

In fact, he shifts in front of Tommy so Phil can’t even see if Tommy takes the offered hand. Not dangerous at all. He’s helping flock, making sure that bastard Sanguinis can’t get upset over Tommy accepting help. When Techno moves, it’s as if Tommy got himself up.

“Will you be sparring today as well, Crownsoul Crow Philza?” Techno asks from a distance, still half in front of Tommy. A familiar protective stance Phil’s seen on many occasions.

Great question too. Phil considers it for about half a moment. He has no practical experience controlling Sanguinis’ strength, no experience at all with fighting, and is trying to ignore how the thought of getting his hands on Techno is making him breathtakingly horny.

“Not today, mate,” Phil denies. He’s really giving his self control a workout with that one. He can not be trusted to stay here. Legs somehow rise steadily. With a final smile in goodbye, Phil flees the training ground with his last remaining brain cells.

…

“Please tell me I’m not the only one who thinks Sanguinis is acting fucking weird,” Tommy pleads at his side. Techno stares after the man in question and can’t help but agree. Weird.

Sanguinis never turns down a chance to spar. Techno’s obligated to ask, preferring the warning the asking gives over Sanguinis randomly jumping him. Apparently, he looks pretty in blood.

But he just… turned down a spar. Very casually, with no titles or excuses. And he called Techno ‘mate’. Techno tries to remember the last time that word left his mouth and pulls up blanks, maybe the first time they’d met? It’d been airy then, disbelieving, then Sanguinis had gotten angry and the rest is history.

Pretty decent history then, since Sanguinis had single handedly shredded the illegal fighting ring he found Techno in, becoming his seventeen-year-old self’s hero. He’s not Techno’s hero anymore.

Ghosts of hands brush over his skin, digging hard into his muscles in painful awe. No, Techno would never consider Sanguinis a hero. A hero can take ‘no’ for an answer, would stop pressing and pulling and hurting. He shudders.

“No, that was weird,” Techno agrees. Sanguinis had only touched him once. That should be a good sign but it’s just off putting when combined with everything else. He hadn’t even grabbed particularly hard.

All he’d done was lean his hands against Techno’s shoulders, squeezing softly once before straightening and continuing on, not a single salacious word to be said. He’d watched them fight without heckling.

“He called you ‘mate’ too,” Tommy reminds him. Yeah, he knows. It was kind of weird. Mate is, reluctantly, better than anything else he’s been called. Honeybuns, sweet cheeks, princess… yeah, he’ll take ‘mate’. At least ‘mate’ can be said platonically.

“I know Tommy,” Techno mutters, still staring. Sanguinis is never that respectful, did something happen last night? Techno didn’t hear anything happen. Last he heard, Sanguinis had gone peacefully to bed sometime around four am for his daily nap. Must be nice to be immortal and not need sleep.

“No, but like, he called you ‘my mate’ in like,” Tommy trills, an inhuman sound only Elytrans can make. Or, well, so Techno assumes. Sanguinis did hunt down every other winged hybrid long before his birth.

“And that means?” Techno drawls. A pit forms in his stomach, mind drifting to the other connotations ‘mate’ could have. He doesn’t want any of them. He doesn’t want Sanguinis touching him at all.

“Dunno,” Tommy tilts his head, “I think it’s like… a marriage thing? But for hybrids. Means he loves you and shit. Never heard him say it before.” His face scrunches up, turning to look after his father.

“Honestly, I never heard him make most of these sounds before. I kinda assumed he could cause I could but like, this is the first time it’s happening. It’s weird.” Tommy continues to ramble but the words fade to meaningless babble.

Love… Techno knows love in a peripheral sense. The same way he knows magic, unable to direct it beyond internal empowerment, and the way he knows family, a fragile thing he can’t bear to say aloud near Tommy. It has always been careful, creeping.

Never has it been something he’d consider with Sanguinis, neither feeling it for him nor thinking Sanguinis could feel it for anyone else. Perhaps he’d once had a crush on his ‘hero’, if that counts. Techno won’t delude himself into thinking Sanguinis felt even that much back.

Someone who loves you wouldn’t tear bloody gouges into your skin for a sick sense of amusement, delighting in each tear and scream, complimenting how beautiful he looks writing in pain. Someone who loves you wouldn’t leave you feeling grateful that they never went further than burning touches in the wrong places.

If Sanguinis could love, there wouldn’t be that sinking dread that, one day, he would no longer enjoy the chase of trying to ‘seduce’ Techno. It wouldn’t leave him with the knowledge of rape being more likely with abandonment. Techno refuses to believe that is any form of love.

Yet he still claims to love Techno, or at least his instincts do. That soft, high-pitched chirp of earnest joy escaping before Sanguinis could stop it. A noise he’s never made before and may very well never make again.

How dare he? Rage boils in Techno’s chest, refusing to fear that monster who has the gall to claim love. How fucking dare he ? Sanguinis does not get to feel love for him, does not deserve Techno’s reaction of pulled heartstrings and desperate denial.

Too many of his thoughts circle around that man, he does not deserve any more of Techno’s time. He would rather die trying to feed Sanguinis to his hound army than grace that man with even a fraction of the attention he demands.

Leather creaks beneath his grasp. Metal threatens to permanently bend under Techno’s anger, the practice sword not built to withstand his strength. Techno knew Sanguinis was cruel. Yet, to be so cruel as to see it as love?

“Techno?” Tommy prods Techno with the tip of his sword from a distance. Smart move, Techno nearly cuts the wooden practice sword in half with his dull metal one before he gets control of himself. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Are we going to the library today? I need to catch up on my history,” Tommy offers. It’s as much as out as Techno could get. The library is their personal safe haven. Sanguinis never bothers them while inside. Perhaps even he values the rare tombs so much as to risk his sadism damaging them.

“Not yet. Stretch and give me five laps,” Techno orders. But he can’t go inside right now. Magic and anger bristle alongside each other, enticing him with more and more energy. He couldn’t stand sitting still right now.

Techno adjusts the heavily damaged practice sword in his hand, definitely needing to be thrown away with the large handprint now embedded in the handle. His eyes drift to the practice dummies. May as well work off some energy.

Notes:

I know this one hurt you guys out there, I had to take a couple breaks while writing when certain scenes started to hit real hard. It's beautiful but god *damn*. Like eating sour candy, that immediate hit before you can stomach it. That's how I know I'm doing a good job though so... *shrug*

Take care of yourself folks, drink water and shit. God knows I need to. These, what, 12k? 13K? words didn't write themselves, that was like two days at my computer there, though a lot of it was getting distracted.

Nothing more to say from me. Comment your favorite part and prepare for smut Real Soon. One cannot have a harem of hot men without fucking at least one of the hot men. I say expect it in the next chapter or two.

Chapter 3: A Series Of Incredibly Poor Decisions

Summary:

A harem serves one main purpose, entertain the emperor however he sees fit. For Sanguinis, this often resulted in pain, leaving many aching and scarred. Whether that pain was physical, sexual, emotion, it doesn't matter. Torment was his joy. This is what Wilbur expects, walking into the hall for his first evening meal with the devil himself.

But Phil cares not for pain or suffering. He does not want to hurt anyone, and he is tired. Wilbur is just doing his job, doing what he can to not bring Sanguinis' ire, not knowing his tormentor is already dead. There are many things Phil should not do for that reason alone.

Yet, again, he is so tired. From the panic of the morning, the stress of meeting with Tommy and Techno and knowing what has been done and what will be done, it has pulled him tight. And then Wilbur, possibly the least hurt by the man he now possesses, is here. He is here and Phil's instincts are suffocating them and Phil... he can't fight off the tidal wave.

Things go predictably.

Notes:

Welp, turn on the music and call this a speedrun because we're already using smut. Guess that's what happens when your premise involves the harem being a *literal harem* and everyone starts out as a legal adult.

I accidentally made like 80% of the chapter smut though. It's my first time really writing smut between two people (since that Philza thing I did in More or Less Myself was just masturbation) so go easy on me? Ya boi needs practice.

TW: mentioned past abuse, dissociation, smut starting at '"What did you have in mind?" Phil asks' and ending at the end of the chapter

Would have gone longer but this thing is already 5.4k words. Which, woa.

In the hours he’s been gone, the dining hall has been changed impressively far from what it was just that morning. Once covered in shades of green and white, blues and golds have taken their place. From the tablecloth to the wall art to the flower and diamond centerpiece spilling over the long table. Phil tries to recall if he walked to the right room.

No, he’s pretty certain this is the same room he was in this morning. He took the exact same route. Phil has several questions on how they did this and no answers. Wealthy people are just like this it seems. Stupid moves of extravagance are at the bottom of his list of concerns right now.

Much higher is figuring out Sanguinis’ law book. Then above that is making sure none of the harem members kill him. Finally, at the very top, are all his concerns over Tommy’s mental state after his terrible childhood with Sanguinis. Phil would kill the guy if he could.

Sighing heavily, and trying not to wince as the servants lining the walls tense at his apparent exasperation, Phil makes his way to his chair. There’s another… ‘seat’ set up nearby, about five feet from the table and clearly brought just for this occasion. It matches the change in decor.

Blue velvet sits with gold diamond designs, a guitar sat on top of it. It’s not technically a chair because it’s just a cushion on the floor. Still, he’s reminded of period pieces of musicians playing from their knees.

He sits, idly glancing at the cushion every now and then. They don’t make him wait long. Sanguinis had quite a temper so if they think he’s in a bad mood, it makes sense to expedite everything.

Wilbur struts into the room with practiced steps and a purpose, swinging his hips enticingly. He looks every bit the main character, and harem member, he’s supposed to be. And by god does that mean a lot.

Perfection is not something possible to achieve. As much as people strive, they can never brush that ever moving finish line. Yet, Phil can’t help but think he finds a little bit of perfection engraved into Wilbur’s skin.

That pale skin, dotted with freckles, perfectly smooth as if he’s lived a life of untouchable nobility rather than squalor. Long lashes frame dark eyes, cheeks tinted with a delicate but natural flush. Thin silver glasses only accentuate them further.

Dark brown hair falls over his face. It wisps around, lighter than a cloud. His bangs only barely obscure one eye, partially tucked back over frilled ears. Yes, frilled. Like… like the fins of a fish.

Blue scales climb over his shoulders and behind his neck, shimmering like sapphires. The pinked edges of gills stand out on his neck and along his rib cage. Wilbur kneels on the satin cushing. Long legs bend smoothing, delicate fingers grasping the neck of the guitar.

Nothing is left to the imagination in his outfit either. The harem uniform was scandalous as art and only worse in real life. Only a couple layers of nearly sheer fabric wrap around his hips, pinned low by a teardrop brooch glimmering with gold and lapis. If Phil looked hard enough, he could probably make out the exact dimensions of Wilbur’s dick between those smooth, thin thighs.

‘My mate, ’ Phil croons, nearly oblivious to the food appearing on the table in front of him. Truly, the epitome of a romance main character is to be effortlessly attractive yet having enough traditionally plain features to remain ‘unaware’ of it. Wilbur truly fits that role perfectly.

“Greetings, your imperial highness, our Crownsoul Crow. It is my personal pleasure to be with you tonight.” Wilbur bows forward in his kneel. The guitar held against his chest, providing a mockery of modesty, impedes him only slightly. Phil is going to fucking implode .

“A pleasure to have you,” Phil hums and those are human words right? Yep, they sound like human words. Admittedly the difference is quickly becoming muddled but they got to be human words. Wilbur can’t understand Elytran words. Bird words. Fuck.

“May your pleasure only increase with your entertainment tonight,” Wilbur murmurs. If Phil didn’t know any better, he’d say Wilbur actually was completely deferential to Sanguinis. Unfortunately, he’s now reminded of that one collectible where Wilbur has stomped his head into a bloody paste in a rage. One of the neutral ends where Sanguinis killed his love interest first.

Delicate hands begin to pluck a familiar tune. It’s a song Phil’s heard many times throughout his hours playing, being the background music whenever a scene is meant to be a romantic interaction between Wilbur and one of the love interests. 

Food goes into his mouth that he barely tastes beyond the recognition it’s steak. Yeah, it’s probably a Michelin star meal but Phil can’t rip enough of his focus away from Wilbur to enjoy it. Wilbur, who keeps his head bowed slightly, watching his own fingers dance along the strings.

It takes four songs and half of Phil’s plate before he realizes there’s only one plate at the table. Phil blinks, eyes stinging less than they should after being open for a solid twelve minutes or so. He scans the table. Yep, the only plate is his own.

Did Wilbur get to eat before this? With the format of Love Paradox, it is understandable that it hardly mentioned the intricacies of day to day life as a harem member. Beyond the singular scene just like this that ended in Sanguinis delighting in mocking Wilbur’s efforts, there weren't exactly any scenes revolving around food.

Maybe that one where Wilbur snuck into the kitchens to get a treat to bribe Tommy and his friends with, if that even counts. Probably not considering it was a glorified fetch question. Phil pushes peas around on his plate.

The fifth song begins to draw to a close, Phil considers his options. He could just ask. Wilbur probably wouldn’t lie about this, even if he lies to Sanguinis about everything else. Then, he could just deflect though. It’s worth it to try.

“Wilbur,” Phil calls into the brief silence between songs, “did you eat before coming here?” He prods his remaining steak. Don’t stare at Wilbur, that will stress him out. Everyone from the servants to Sanguinis’ own son flinches beneath his stare.

“Of course not, your imperial highness, our Crownsoul Crow,” Wilbur denies, “I would not disobey you like that.” It’s meant to be assuring, Phil thinks. Really, it just does the opposite. A sinkhole opens in Phil’s chest, gaping and empty.

‘Feed, provide, our flock is hungry.’ A half broken warble escapes him, new instincts immeasurably distressed by the implications of it all. Warmth floods behind Phil’s eyes. He cannot cry, he has a task far more important than that.

“Come closer, will you?” Phil asks, turning towards Wilbur again. He catches the tensing of thin shoulders, fins flicking briefly turning to a state the game always referred to as confusion or hesitance. Wilbur gently sets the guitar on the ground beside him.

Now, the medium of a visual novel doesn’t allow for the best action scenes, nor a lot of movement in general beyond the implied. Phil is a pretty reasonable person. Whenever Sanguinis beckoned someone over, he always assumed they’d walk. You know, like just about anyone would.

Wilbur crawls. Head down, back bent, on his hands and knees across the frigid marble floor while wearing glorified lingerie. Phil swallows down a sudden burst of heated anger that this is what Sanguinis was having his flock do? Unacceptable!

He summarily ignores the possessiveness inching around his bones along with it, pushing it as far down as he can, knowing that it’s unfair of him to feel. Wilbur, the rest of the flock, they’re people. They do not belong to him. He takes a deep breath.

“Yes, your imperial highness, our Crownsoul Crow?” Wilbur implores. Phil is also going to ignore the completely different heat nestled under his skin caused by Wilbur kneeling in front of him like this. Seriously, this must be some kind of superpower.

Dark eyes glance up at him through long lashes, a lascivious smile curving his lips. Wilbur tilts his head to bare his neck. Phil’s instincts lock on the expanse of unmarked skin. A freckle nestled just beneath the curve of his gills makes his mouth water.

“Try this,” Phil offers. He stabs a slice of steak onto his fork, holding it out for Wilbur to take. Pretty pink lips part. Phil catches the barest glimpse of calculation on his face. Wilbur hides it well but Phil knows Wilbur.

Maybe not as well as some, it’s not like he’s gone down every dialogue tree, but he knows enough. That’s why he’s set on edge when Wilbur softens his smile. Wilbur dips his head back down, bashful as can be.

“I could never intrude on his imperial highness, our Crownsoul Crow’s meal like that,” Wilbur denies. He chews at his lip, biting pink into red. Phil would really like to kiss him. By god , he might explode if he doesn’t.

“Please, I insist.” Phil waves the fork a little, making sure he doesn’t accidentally crush it in his hands, which he doesn’t doubt Sanguinis could do. It should not be as hard as it is to hold back. Phil blames the sheer amount of blood pooling in his dick.

Another glimmer, there and gone. Wilbur leans forward on his knees and wraps his mouth around the fork. That, uh, huh. Okay. Phil was expecting him to take the fork but this also works.

Considering everything he’s put together about Sanguinis since meeting Wilbur ten or so minutes ago, he’ll take what he can get. Phil would prefer Wilbur sitting at the table eating beside him but baby steps. They’ve been beaten bloody for trying.

The next bite goes down without argument. And the next. And the next. Phil slowly feeds Wilbur the rest of his plate, letting himself enjoy when Wilbur starts to sway. Lashes flutter, Wilbur growing sleepy and weighed down with good food.

Probably the best food he’s had in a while . Phil bites back a frown at the thought, unwilling to shatter the delicate atmosphere. He has no doubt that food is a problem in the empire, no suffering dystopia is complete without people scavenging for scraps, and yet Sagnuinis eats the finest of meals.

Sanguinis doesn’t even need to eat, he’s immortal. He also doesn’t need to sleep, to Phil’s knowledge, which is why killing him in his sleep was never an option. Just another thing to fix. Maybe he can open this world’s first food bank.

‘Good provider, Flock happy. ’ His instincts hum warm in his head, forcing him out of his newly gained bad mood. Phil coos in place of a sigh. The claws of his free hand dig into his thigh to prevent himself from reaching out to pick through, preen , Wilbur’s hair.

His incredibly soft looking hair. Everyone has soft hair but Phil, this isn’t fair. Yep, focus on the unfairness and nothing else . Phil is in control and he’s doing just fine . Not going to make any bad decisions tonight.

But he does give in to wipe a smudge from beside Wilbur’s mouth with one of the embossed napkins. Wilbur, master actor, does not tense beneath his hands. The new crease in his brow is not as easy to hide.

A clatter, the fork placed haphazardly on the now empty plate alongside the napkin. Phil carefully returns his hands to his lap. He ignores the need still gnawing at his skin.  No molesting flock, bad bird brain.

“Will there be any more entertainment tonight, your imperial highness, our Crownsoul Crow?” Wilbur asks, still kneeling at Phil’s feet. Phil banishes the immediate, visceral horny thoughts from his mind. His hands drop, trying to casually grab at his thighs, which really isn’t possible.

“What did you have in mind?” Phil asks. A tilt of his head, genuine curiosity. No thinking about Wilbur squirming beneath him at all, head tilted back, pretty tears staining his cheeks from too much . Nope, none of that. Definitely not.

Wilbur leans forward into Phil’s legs, spread for comfort, and licks a long line on the fabric over his dick. Copper blooms in his mouth, biting his tongue hard. The pain is momentary at best but clears his mind a little.

This is a bad idea, a terrible one, a breathtakingly horrible idea. No matter what any mate or flock instincts might be screaming at him, these people were abused heavily by Sanguinis. Physically, emotionally, sexually, all of the above.

Even if Wilbur is the newest and, as thus, least traumatized by Sanguinis in person, that doesn’t erase the fact he’s suffered at the hands of Sanguinis’ policies too. Phil can’t just fuck him. Not when Sanguinis did so much bullshit.

“May I be of service to you?” Wilbur drops the title, nuzzling into Phil’s hips. And he… he… he can’t tell if that sound is his self control snapping or if he just broke something. Phil is not immune to making bad decisions.

Magic clears the table, following Phil’s whims even when he has no idea how the fuck to do any of that consciously. Careful hands pull Wilbur up. Sanguinis’ strength comes in handy, lifting Wilbur easily even if it means he has to pay extra attention not to paint his skin in bruises or claw marks.

Phil stands, spreading Wilbur’s legs with his body. Wilbur arches, hands gripping the table edge, and it’s… performative. Honestly kind of off putting. Phil much prefers his partner to actually enjoy their time with him.

Fine. He’ll just take that as a challenge then. Phil smiles, brushing Wilbur’s hair from his face. It’s just as soft as it looks. Wilbur smiles back at him, no amount of skill hiding the expectations in those eyes, expectations Phil will gladly tear to pieces.

Ducking his head, he licks along that freckle on Wilbur’s neck he noticed earlier, blowing cold air over it. Wilbur shivers under him. His skin tastes sweet, like eating honey.

He gladly sucks hickies along Wilbur’s neck, trailing his way down to his collarbone, nipping at where the bone presses against the skin. Red marks then lead up the front of Wilbur’s neck.

Phil hums against his adam's apple, enjoying Wilbur shudder, breath noticeably heavier. No pretty noises yet. Sanguinis didn’t enjoy noises coming from his playthings unless they were crying. Phil bites a little too hard at that thought.

Kitten licking teeth marks, he hums his apology. He traces Wilbur’s jawline slowly. Gentle as can be, he guides Wilbur’s head up to finally taste those pretty lips, soft and sweet as the rest of him. Phil could get addicted to this flavor, to this feeling. The heady haze of instincts clouding his reasoning.

It’s only a peck at first. Wilbur gasps all the same, as if shot. Phil dives back in before his lips can close, licking his way into Wilbur’s mouth. The shudder has turned to a low, constant trembling, needing Phil’s arm wrapped around Wilbur’s thin waist to stop himself from falling back.

Wilbur’s mouth burns, filled with what dinner must have tasted like and an underlying taste of what can only be Wilbur himself. Phil doubts dinner was half as heavenly as his mate in his arms.

A whine, the first noise from his lovely lovely mate, is barely audible in the air. Wilbur’s teeth snap closed with a tight gasp, surprised at the betrayal of his own voice, and Phil is nice enough not to laugh.

“It’s okay, we’re just going somewhere a little more comfortable… and private,” Phil hums. The presence of the servants in the room grates on his senses. No one is allowed to witness his mate so open and vulnerable but his flock. Servants are not flock.

Sanguinis really shows the only good thing he’s ever done for the world, letting Phil heft Wilbur fully into his arms with ease. Wilbur flails at the sudden position change, but only for a moment. Quick witted as ever, he recovers, analyzes, and wraps his arms around Phil’s neck to keep towards whatever goal he has in mind.

Phil croons, his beautiful smart mate. Magic drifts from him again, guiding him more than his senses out of the dining hall and towards the first empty room it can find. The walk is hardly five minutes. Five minutes too fucking long .

The room is some kind of sitting room, maybe. There’s a couch in it with soft cushions and that’s the only thing Phil really registers about it. He kicks the door closed behind him.

Careful nudging moves Wilbur’s arms so Phil can sit him on the couch. He steals another kiss from his mouth, which falls open far more easily now that Wilbur knows what he wants. Phil clutches at Wilbur’s head like a lifeline.

Such soft hair, such a beautiful mate. He croons again, muffled into Wilbur’s mouth, memorizing every little part he can. Phil’s body burns hotter and hotter beneath suffocating fabric. Or maybe he doesn’t. He can’t bring himself to care, let alone notice.

He stands above Wilbur. His mate is taller than him, making the angle less awkward. Phil drops his hands, tracing his nails down Wilbur’s neck and grabbing along his shoulders.

Lower means kneeling and Phil kneels with gratitude . It means breaking the kiss but that is a minor loss when Wilbur’s chest is right there . He chirps a warning before pulling at Wilbur’s knees.

Wilbur still yelps anyway, suddenly pulled forward on the couch until Phil is practically caged between his legs. The closeness is good. Much easier to lean forward and attach himself to Wilbur’s navel, near where the highest bit of fabric is tied. 

A half bitten off moan comes from Wilbur, his hand pressing against his mouth to muffle it further. Phil immediately chases what made such a delicious sound from his mate. His hands rest at Wilbur’s rib cage, thumbs brushing his pecs and fingers splayed over his gills.

Pecs which are looking very delectable right now. Practically untouched. Now that just can’t stand. Phil licks around Wilbur’s nipple, teases the other with the tip of his claw. Wilbur muffles another high pitched sound.

There you are. Phil grins into Wilbur’s skin. He sucks and nips and teases his way back to Wilbur trembling, struggling really. The muscles of his jaw strain to keep back every little sound Wilbur wants to make. Phil coos, how adorable .

Figuring out the brooch is beyond him at the moment, and is really just insulting Phil with its presence. Getting it off would be… Phil huffs and takes the easy way out. He uses his claws to tear through the thin layers. He draws another breathless sound with a trace of Wilbur’s gills before dropping.

Sheer fabric pulls off to reveal what Phil could practically already see. Wilbur dick, flushed pink with blood and straining. Precum dribbles from the head. Ah, so that’s what the growing wet spot on the fabric was about.

Mimicking Wilbur’s earlier actions, Phil drops his head and licks a long line up Wilbur’s dick. By his experience, precum is usually kind of salty, but like the rest of him Wilbur is so very sweet . He coos happily.

“Let me hear you,” Phil chirps, a tad pleadingly. Once in Elytran, once in English, or maybe a mix of both. Either way, it gets Wilbur to freeze and take his hand out of his mouth. Phil snatches it by the wrist.

One small adjustment later and he’s rubbing his thumb soothingly over the sharp pink bite marks caused by Wilbur’s teeth. Teeth that are even sharper than Phil’s new set.  Maybe if he asked, Wilbur would dig into Phil’s neck with them, marking him permanently and forever?

Shuddering in pleasure at the mere thought, Phil gets back to work. He needs to prove himself to his mate before he can be marked after all! More sweet, delicious precum fills his mouth as he sucks in the head of Wilbur’s dick.

Wilbur tenses, for some reason. Phil hums in question but all he gets is Wilbur’s thighs tensing around him. That doesn’t do much against Phil’s newly gained iron skin. His shoulders and wings stop any movement.

Wait, what are his wings doing? Doesn’t matter. Phil’s free hand grasps at the base of Wilbur’s dick, pumping up as he bobs down. He keeps a rhythm, or tries to. Wilbur trembles and moans above him all pretty-like.

Between that, the wonderful feel of Wilbur’s dick in his mouth, and the haze of instincts fluffing out his wings and guiding him along, Phil starts to lose time. Time doesn’t matter when he could instead be pleasuring his mate.

Up, down, up, down. Hand removed as Phil deepthroats all the way down, tip of Wilbur’s dick scratching the back of his throat. It moves further down, fondling Wilbur’s balls instead.

“I…I- your highness-I, gonna cum,” Wilbur fumbles around the warning, hips stuttering up into Phil’s mouth. Phil doubles his efforts, hollowing his cheeks. He hums around Wilbur’s dick and-

A high pitched moan, closer to a shriek, Phil’s mouth flooded with warm and sticky cum, cloying like honey. Phil moans in return, pressing all the way down and holding himself there. He swallows every last drop. Then, he waits a little longer.

Only when it’s clear that Wilbur’s just panting and his dick begins to soften does Phil pull back. He licks around the inside of his mouth. He’s so hot, so warm it burns, burns, burns , but mate needs rest.

Phil pushes back up, resting his elbows either side of Wilbur's head, and sets his forehead against Wilbur’s. Wilbur’s eyes remain screwed shut, watering around the edges. Phill croons.

“ Philza ,” he corrects, brushing back Wilbur’s hair. He clicks in the back of his throat several times before eventually managing to get his name in English . Silly instincts, mate isn’t an elytran. Mate isn’t even an avian!

“Wh-?” Wilbur manages, cracking an eye open. He startles at the closeness. Phil can feel his heart jump, pressed together as they are. He chirps only comfort. It’s okay. Phil won’t do anything.

“Call me Philza.” Phil manages it first try. Though his throat rumbles oddly and it’s squished between a few chirps. Wilbur tries to look away but Phil’s wings mantle. Look at him, he’s so big, he can protect mate so well.

“Philza,” Wilbur repeats. Phil preens, trilling happily at hearing his name , albeit his full name, from his mate . He dips down, nuzzling into Wilbur’s neck. Wilbur must feel his smile against his skin and gills.

“Isn’t it…isn’t it your turn Philza ?” Wilbur purrs, adapting quickly. A giggle leaves Phil. His mate is so cute when he’s confused, even when he tries not to be. He nips at the edge of Wilbur’s gills.

“Do you want it to be?” Phil asks. He buries a hand in Wilbur soft, beautiful, perfect hair. Wilbur goes easy with it, letting Phil better lick along the edges of Wilbur’s gills. They must be sensitive with how pretty he reacts.

“I- I want what you want.” Wilbur can’t hide the shake in his voice, the hitch of breath at the end. Phil hums, trying to draw up his reasoning skills from wherever they ran off to. Wilbur’s dick twitches in interest against Phil’s thigh. That’s answer enough.

“Flip over?” Phil coos. He steps back. Wilbur, his silly mate, starts to turn over in the chair. Phil clicks, picking his mate up again, turning about, and sitting with Wilbur straddling his lap. Wilbur makes a startled noise.

Phil chitters in amusement, teasing his mate with pokes and prods along his side. Wilbur squirms. Yes, Phil knows his mate is ticklish. It’s yet another perfect feature of his. Phil doubts any part of his mate could not be perfect. Even those silly violent parts that left him splattered in blood.

‘ Mate protects, ’ Phil warbles happily. He tugs Wilbur forward in his lap, nuzzling between his pecs. Claws scrape along Wilbur’s hip bone. One hand wraps around his hip, marveling at just how fragile his mate looks when Phil knows how strong he has been. The other has a much different goal in mind.

One he rethinks last minute, that tiny part of him not a haze of instincts and love realizing there’s a couple problems with it. He has claws and no lube. Phil leans back, tracing patterns onto Wilbur’s skin, and holds his hand in front of his face. A frown pulls at his lips.

“Philza? Is something the matter?” Wilbur asks tentatively. Now, there might be a couple solutions to his problem, maybe, probably. That requires thoughts Phil doesn’t have. He just goes with the first one that springs to mind.

Phil bites off his own claws one at a time. The loss of protective ability they grant is far less important than not accidentally tearing up Wilbur from the inside. Wilbur tenses on top of him again.

Giving them a one over, Phil hums happily. Very good, this will do. Now to solve his other problem…

“Suck.” Phil lifts his fingers to Wilbur’s face, tapping against his lips. That, oddly, causes Wilbur to relax a bit, then tense right back up. If Phil thought Wilbur was already pretty, the effect is doubled by seeing those soft pink lips pull around his fingers.

Biting off his claws was the right move, the tips of his fingers touching the back of Wilbur’s throat. His fingers, while decently thick, fit easily in Wilbur’s mouth. His mate is tall, but thin, so it makes sense. Sharp teeth scrape against Phil’s skin.

Wilbur suckles at his fingers, wetting them. Performatively at first before something in Wilbur’s eyes clicks and he focuses more on getting them properly wet. Phil tries to figure out what that was. He knows . He knows his mate. Thinking is… hard. He stops trying.

Properly prepared this time, Phil traces the rim of Wilbur’s hole, settling himself back against Wilbur’s chest. He idly kisses and sucks at the skin by his mouth, sinking in one finger. Phil’s breathing deepens.

Muscles hug even that little of an intrusion. Hot, tight… too tight. Wilbur hasn’t untensed since Phil asked him to suck. He frowns into Wilbur’s skin. But if he doesn’t relax, it will hurt. Phil can’t hurt his mate.

“Relax,” Phil croons. Wilbur takes a deep breath and, bless his wonderful mate, tries his best to relax. It must be hard. He has to fight every instinct that knows of Sanguinis only as a threat, a predator. Phil warbles softly. Wait, idea.

Letting out a quiet birdsong in merely instinct, low chirps forming a tune. Wilbur likes music, Phil hopes it will help. He pumps the finger in and out slowly. Patient, Phil tells himself. Patience for mate.

Slowly, another finger joins, marked by a slight change in tune. His mate tenses only slightly. Bitten lip muffling a moan, Wilbur’s hips push back against the intrusion. Good, very good.

“Doing so good for me,” Phil interrupts his song to hum. He laughs softly, pulls himself together, and keeps singing. Wilbur sobs over him. That’s one sound he can’t muffle, and maybe he doesn’t even realize it.

Phil pulls out his fingers and, after a moment to enjoy Wilbur shaking, presses back in all three. Wilbur curls over him, breathing deeply and choking around delectable sounds. He spreads his fingers.

Wilbur’s ass strains around the intrusion. It must have been a bit, or perhaps Sanguinis never bothered to care. Phil whistles. Wilbur is Phil’s mate now, and Phil will always care. He removes the hand holding Wilbur’s hips.

Free from Phil’s iron grasp, Wilbur bucks back into Phil’s pumping fingers. His dick bobs between them, rubbing precum over Wilbur’s belly and staining Phil’s robes. The robes he’s… still wearing.

That just can’t do, he clicks. He doesn’t even bother thinking of removing Wilbur to redress. While the gold thread does give him some resistance, his claws cut through the rest of it like a hot knife through butter. Shreds of very expensive fabric fall to the wayside layer after layer.

He pulls his fingers from Wilbur’s ass, minimal self control audibly creaking at the whine echoing directly into his ear. Phil shrugs off the robes as quickly as physically possible. Magic banishes them to hell. Or something. Or somewhere .

A sigh leaves him, the cool air of the room soothing his incredibly heated skin. Phil lifts Wilbur with his clean, clawed hand, spitting into his dirty one. A shudder wracks down his spine.

Delicious friction makes his head light. One, two pumps to wet his dick with spit and far more precum than he was expecting. Phil gasps into Wilbur’s chest. Self control, mate first, even if his dick aches for more.

“Your move,” Phil stutters, breathing uneven as he becomes painfully aware of his own desperate need. He drops his hands to either side of the chair, digging in. Claws immediately tear at the fabric. Wait, his claws have already regrown on his other hand? Not important.

“ What ,” Wilbur bites. It’s the clearest word he’s spoken since they got here. Phil trills, struggling to reply. How to explain… He shudders a deep breath.

“You move,” Phil corrects, “Fast or slow as you’d like. Don’t wanna hurt you.” God, he sounds drunk. He feels drunk. His head is so fuzzy . Nothing makes sense but everything makes sense because the only thing that matters is his flock.

Wilbur swallows hard, Phil feels it in his chest. Thighs tremble where they straddle him. Phil tries his hardest to stay relaxed and pliable. His efforts are immediately ruined by Wilbur reaching back to grab Phil’s dick. A whine pierces the air.

‘Please, please, please.’ Phil’s hips stutter against Wilbur’s grip. No, no he has to stay . He has to be good . No hurting Wilbur by going too fast too soon, not unless he asks. Phil holds his breath.

The tip of his dick finally pops past Wilbur’s rim. Wilbur moans into his ear, Phil groans back, helpless to do anything at all. He doesn’t know his own body as well as he should, he can’t take control. As much as he would like to give and give. Not right now. Let Wilbur set the pace. Let Wilbur set the pace.

Every inch is excruciating to hold through. Phil sets his head in Wilbur’s neck and bites , trying desperately to ground himself on anything. He does not expect Wilbur’s eyes to roll back, legs turning into jelly and causing him to drop the rest of the way down. 

Phil moans hard into Wilbur’s neck, hands snapping to his waist and holding, hips stuttering up into that burning tight heat. He barely remembers to let go, panting over the bite mark. Wilbur’s is nothing but desperate moans above him.

Even when Phil gets himself back under control, Wilbur continues to roll his hips down, fighting against Phil’s hands to ride him. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Lava broils in his veins and Phil… he doesn’t see a point in self control anymore.

All Wilbur can do is sit there and take it. No movement can break Phil’s grasp nor fight off his strength, lifting and lowering Wilbur with ease. Phil thrusts into him, no rhythm, just lust and need and want.

It’s messy, it’s fast, and it understandably doesn’t take long when Wilbur already came once before and Phil’s been trembling with need since before they even got to the sitting room. Phil bites into Wilbur’s shoulder.

Thrust once, twice, Wilbur’s cum splatters against both their chests. Phil cums to the sweet song of Wilbur practically screeching in his ear, siren’s voice twisting around his human one in a noise that would burst the eardrums of anyone else. So perfect. So wonderful. So… why is Phil just thinking this?

“So good,” He coos into Wilbur’s ear, “So perfect for me. You did so well. My lovely mate, my wonderful siren.” A shaky hand pets over Wilbur’s hair, riding his orgasm with each slow rock of hips until Wilbur is whimpering.

“Love you so much. Couldn’t have done any better. Thank you for relaxing for me, you were so perfect. So soft, so sweet, such a wonderful musician, such a perfect mate,” Phil rambles. The words feel right.

Because since the moment Phil entered this world, fully embracing instincts he didn’t fully understand, they were already true. He does not need to understand to know that. Phil wraps his wings around the both of them, letting Wilbur slip into a warm slumber, full and content.

Notes:

See, this chapter is actually really fucking funny if you also know Wilbur's point of view. Wilbur was expecting the Sanguinis who pulled him into the castle, who he's fucked maybe twice at this point, but to whom he's heard many stories about from the other harem members. He was expected hard, fast, and bloody with no concern for Wilbur's own pleasure.

Instead he gets Phil. The result is that Wilbur could power a city with his confusion and Phil is so deep in the sauce he's made a newer, better Mariana's trench. It's like... a skill. Wilbur spends most of this chapter either angry, scared, confused, or horny, usually a mixture of two-three of those. By the end of it, he's pretty sure he got drugged at some point and it was all a hallucination.

Cause it's only been one day since Phil got here (three chapters over the course of one day? Wild) and no one knows yet that he's different. Until now. Kind of funny that Phil's being outed by the way he fucks.

Anyway, we'll get back to your regularly scheduled angst- I mean programming, definitely programing, starting next chapter! Drink some water and have a good day!

Chapter 4: A Rose's Thorns Hurt Only Enemies

Summary:

Actions have consequences, even when we mean the best. Phil has made some poor choice but he tried his best to limit the splash, being soft and kind and everything that Sanguinis never was and, now, never will be. But defying expectations can be just as distressing as keeping to them. He never wanted to cause any harm.

Wilbur feels harmed. Everything he knows about Sanguinis is being testing only a month since sneaking in, how can his assassination go to plan when things are up in the air like this? He really wishes his best friend were here, she could always make him feel better. But maybe he has the next best thing.

Notes:

Two chapters in one day? In this economy? It's almost like I accidentally wrote 4k words of smut and still desperately wanted to get the next few scenes out. Good thing I cut it though or chapter three would have been like 10k words.

This one's all from Wilbur's point of view! We'll meet up with Philza in the morning (next chapters) and get to focus a bit more on the 'convincing the revolution not to kill me' part where Phil jumps between tryna get closer with Tommy and trying to understand Sanguinis' cruel and unusual methods of lawmaking. He really has his work cut out for him.

Hopefully this chapter assures y'all that, just because Phil got to bang a harem member, doesn't mean that he has it easy. Because he doesn't. :)

TW: Thoughts of self harm, vomiting, mentions of past trauma (physical, sexual), implied/mentioned past abuse (financial, emotional, physical, sexual), violent tendencies, dissociation but in a bad way (not Wilbur), heavily implied dub-con

A pleasant ache hums in Wilbur’s muscles as he wakes, warm and nestled beneath soft blankets. What would otherwise set him off as weird is initially brushed off under the weight of it. A part of him feels far more whole than it has in a while.

It’s the lack of hunger, he lazily concludes, blinking slowly at the simplistic floral wallpaper. The aches in his muscles don’t resemble the constant hunger pains that have long since gone numb at all. Odd since he’d had to skip dinner last night. Meeting with the bitch hardly leaves time to… eat…

He met with Sanguinis last night. Memories shuffle back into place in his skull, impossible things that should have been a dream or a hallucination or an illusion or anything but real. That’s what he’d convinced himself was true.

Wilbur shoots up in bed. Bed . An actual bed in one of the dozens of unused guest rooms, four posters and an actual frame, not just a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor that left every Harem member with a crick in their spine no matter how they tried to arrange them.

Blankets are kicked off, forgotten as his mind races. When was the last time he’d slept in a real bed? Never? He couldn’t afford one under Sanguinis’ laws and harem members weren’t allowed furniture. In his haze of confusion, his anger slips and muddies.

No, no it’s fine. It was a hallucination. Wilbur just… got drugged and slipped off into one of the rooms where he collapsed. Sanguinis fed him personally last night and, unfortunately, is largely immune to all sorts of drugs. Nothing short of insanely expensive, hard to come by potions bother him at all.

Certainly makes his job a pain in the ass. Wilbur huffs a laugh, strained. He stumbles to his feet, legs giving out. He catches himself on the mattress. If this is a guest room then… he scans the area, spotting the standing mirror that practically every room has. Bingo.

Just a hallucination after all, Wilbur isn’t freaking out and trying to confirm what happened at all. He’s not going to see anything out of the ordinary. Wilbur solidly ignores how much he struggles to walk on weak legs as if he’d run for miles. Well, that or… nope.

Deep breaths Wilbur. Nothing happened, he’s just checking on his appearance like he does every morning. Appearances are important after all. Looking ugly could have Sanguinis cut off his head. It’s happened before! It was even a public beheading. Yes, there’s the anger. He’s angry. Not panicked, confused, or a little scared.

Gold is cold, Wilbur grasping the mirror’s frame to steady himself both physically and mentally. Only once feeling somewhat returns to his legs does he open his eyes to look at himself. All his worst fears are confirmed.

Purple hickies dot his skin from Sanguinis- Philza’s near obsessive attention. They scatter down his neck, over his gills, and across his chest. On his shoulder, one the clear shape of teeth sits. It’s still pink in places, skin cut open by sharp teeth only to heal in the night. The only thing neat is his hair.

Quiet memories of clawed fingers scratching against his scalp come to Wilbur unbidden. Unwelcomed too, he does not fucking need that right now. The memories of pleasure dotted with pain, rather than the other way around, are fucking up his head enough as it is. He does not need to know that Philza knows what aftercare is.

Just- why him? Wilbur rubs his cold, bare shoulders. He’s always cold in the palace, everyone is. Marble hardly helps keep heat and his harem uniform can barely even be considered clothes. Wilbur shudders. In a moment of weakness, he remembers his old coat, abandoned before ever stepping foot on the palace grounds.

Niki still has that coat, probably. Wilbur hasn’t been able to see her yet despite getting here a month ago. He misses her. She’s his best friend and he really wants a week old cookie that would otherwise be thrown away and a shoulder to cry on.

Maybe not cry but still. His mind drifts back to the question at hand, digging his fingers into the bite mark like it might go away. All it does is buzz pleasantly under the pressure. Damnit, his eyes water. Damnit .

Everyone knows that Sanguinis is not kind. Never in history has that man been anything but a monster. Wilbur came to the palace to kill him for that reason alone. Spies and his fellow harem members have fed him all the information he needs to survive this place, to learn how to get into it to begin with.

That first night with Sanguinis had been a nightmare, pain that only stopped when Sanguinis got sick of him crying. Now he’s had his second night with better warnings on what kind of behavior that sick bastard enjoys. Wilbur pauses in his mindless pacing.

None of it had worked. Carpet is soft beneath him as he drops, crossing his legs. Nothing that they’d said had worked, or maybe it had? Sanguinis, no Philza , he gave Wilbur an order and that’s one rule he can’t brush off. Philza had been kinder this time.

Kind… so very kind. Each touch had brushed against his skin like something precious, formed from glass and shined to perfection. Philza had called him perfect. He filed back his sharp edges to become something almost soft.

Wilbur twists back in the mirror. Imprints of hands stain his hips, prodding them sending that same pleasant fuzz through his spine. Soft, but bruising. Kind, careful, considerate, letting Wilbur set the pace when it became too much.

As if the emperor he’d learnt to tiptoe around throughout his time here had ceased to exist. What changed? Is Wilbur now his favorite? Bile burns the back of his throat at the thought. Fuck that. He’d rather die.

It’s too cold to keep sitting, Wilbur starts to pace again, mind racing trying to figure out any other kind of explanation than a monster amongst monsters taking a shine to him of all people. It can’t be the arson that got him. Even if… even if the emperor had first noticed him when Wilbur was standing beneath the flickering flames of an ancient abandoned building.

Fuck, no no no. He needs a distraction, now, until someone realizes he’s here or he sucks it up and walks back to the antechamber naked. Wait, how did he get here? Surely, Philza didn’t carry him. Sanguinis- Philza would never.

But he also cleaned Wilbur up. Clean with neatened hair and no terrible wounds that will keep him from waking the next day. Clean with the memories of feathers encasing him in warmth and comfort and love.

He barely makes it to the trashcan in the room before throwing up. Distress racks his body, activating his shitty gag reflex and too full stomach, sending the too rich food back where it came from. Wilbur heaves, gags on the burning in his mouth.

“Fuck,” He mutters to the empty room. Damn, he ate too much last night. But it had been so delicious, so filling, and he really had no idea when the next time he’d be able to eat would be. Harem members do get one meal a day but it’s barely enough to keep them going. Snacking on grapes for the rest of the day does little for hunger pains.

Really, all it did was make him develop a burning hatred for grapes. Wilbur coughs, eyes watering. He tries his best to spit out the flavor of vomit. Maybe he’d have to eat them today. No, vomit tastes better than those things at this point.

Silver lining, at least he isn’t writhing in pain. The fact he can move at all is a blessing. If Philza had been anything like he was supposed to be, Wilbur would have thrown up all over himself as well. He rises to his feet.

Fuck it. He’s going back to bed. Wilbur turns to go and immediately spies a selection of items he’d somehow missed on the bedside table. Okay so ‘somehow’ could easily be explained by the panic but shut up about it.

Reluctance cannot begin to describe what he feels walking towards those things. On top of folded fabric rests a silver tray, ladened with a bowl of sliced strawberries, bananas, and blueberries to make a fruit salad. Next to it, a pastry of some kind Wilbur’s only glimpsed when Niki got a big order.

Usually, seeing one of those meant that they’d be able to afford food for the next couple days. Next to it is a glass, a glass bottle of water standing on its own behind everything. Wilbur eyes a folded paper in front of the glass with trepidation.

‘ Sorry about your clothes. Enjoy your morning - Philza’ is scrawled on it in swooping handwriting that could only belong to the emperor, nevermind that he signed the damn thing. Beneath it sits a little doodle of a crow. A doodle.

Philza fucking doodles . Wilbur crushes the paper at his hand, throwing it as hard as he can. It smacks against the wall. Unsatisfied, the empty glass goes next, shattering in a sprinkle of shimmering danger. He only feels mildly bad for the poor servant who has to clean that up.

Wilbur’s mouth is too dry and disgusting, and his common sense unfortunately too strong, to throw anything else on the tray. He tosses the fruit salad and pastry on the bed and tosses the tray instead. The bang and clatter of metal feels very nice.

He drains half of the bottle, it sloshes uncomfortably in his empty stomach but soothes his throat so he’s taking it. Fuck the emperor. Fuck his stupidly heavy meals. Fuck all his decadance and greed and sadism and contradictory fucking attitude.

Eating slower keeps him from losing anymore desperately needed sustenance. Prime, the sweetness of the berries is almost orgasmic after nothing but crackers and cheese with the occasional slices of ham. Wilbur refuses to be grateful for it on principle.

Niki’s pastries are better than anything the emperor could provide as a rule, even a week old, so Wilbur tosses it directly into the trash. It has nothing to do with him already feeling on the edge of uncomfortably full after a fruit salad. He’s not ashamed of it. Everyone feels that way.

It’s just that not everyone even gets to taste a fruit salad. This is the first time he’s ever had a strawberry at all. Wilbur takes a deep breath, lets it go. His anger lowers to a simmer in turn.

“Pull yourself together Soot,” Wilbur reminds himself, patting his cheeks. Speaking his codename out loud in the palace is dangerous but he doubts any servants around will rat him out. If they even recognize it. No one within the palace ever gets to leave alive.

Clothes, Philza gave him clothes. Focus on that. Wilbur will get dressed, go to the antechamber, and rest in the glorified conservatory that is the ‘Rose Garden’. Maybe the other harem members can offer a fraction of the support that Niki does. Fuck he misses her. 

Just a few more weeks and he can safely slip away with Toms’ help. He just needs to get a little closer to the Crown Prince, cement his place in the palace a little bit more. Philza’s weird behavior means nothing for his plans. Nothing at all. It’s fine .

Wilbur is instantly suspicious of the clothes upon touching it. He’s grown familiar with the light, airy feeling of the ‘fabric’ he’s usually forced to wear, making him feel naked if he’s not actively reminding himself it’s there. This is… silk? Right? It’s similar to the texture of the napkin Philza wiped his face with.

That napkin was silk, practically everything that the bastard owns is despite most people being unable to afford to even look at the stuff. Wilbur growls, really wishing he could just siren song Philza to hang himself and be done with this. But no , he has to be blessed by the Sky God, god of freedom , making him immune . Fuck that straight to the nether.

Unfolding the clothes reveals it to be a dress, Wilbur doesn’t care the actual name, straight from the emperor’s wardrobe. Listen, if Philza wants him to call it anything but a dress, then he should fund schooling or some shit. Wilbur’s family was poor . They couldn’t afford private tutors.

Pastel yellow fabric shimmers under the light. Tree branches reach out, the trunk trailing down the side, dotted with pink petals morphing the scene into a sunset. Wilbur growls. Of course Philza wears fucking paintings.

All Wilbur can be reluctantly, so very extremely reluctantly, grateful for is that the high neckline will cover most of his hickies and all the bite marks. Wilbur scratches his secondary neck gills. He really misses his coat, and his sweaters. Even the thinnest, oldest, scratchiest ones. All of it. He wants to go home.

But he can’t go home until that bitch is dead. Wilbur refuses to let anyone else deal with that fucker’s blood staining their hands, ruining them forever. It’s his sacrifice to make. He steadies himself, slips the dress over his head, smoothes down the small ties opposite the tree trunk. Silk is terribly soft against his skin.

Only a set of sandals remain on the nightstand and he is so tempted to ignore them despite the glass now littering the marble floor. Sure, he hasn’t been allowed to wear shoes since getting here. Sure, he’s pretty sure he’s lost all feeling in his toes permanently. And sure, he also misses his ratted old boots where the sole is held in place with old thread and a dream…

Sure, the emperor burnt those since Wilbur didn’t have another pair to walk to the palace with. The only thing he'd really saved was his coat. He’d had the foresight to give it to Niki the night before despite how… how exposed it made him feel.

Wilbur snorts. Funny how he’d felt exposed then and, now, he’s more used to wearing practically nothing than this stupid dress. Wilbur shoves on the sandals to spare his toes the near frostbite.

Fuck the emperor, fuck this palace, fuck that uniform, fuck all of this. He storms from the room. The halls are as lifeless as they always feel. The servants are neither meant to be seen nor heard to Wilbur’s knowledge. Makes them great spies but also turns every room and hallway into an eerie abyss.

The antechamber isn’t much better. Just a room laden with too many riches and a plaque boasting the beauty of the emperor’s roses. Wilbur settles his mask into place. Unfortunately, spitting on that stupid plaque isn’t allowed. First thing he’s going to do when Philza dies is deface the damn thing. It mocks Wilbur every time he enters.

Magic double checks his identity in some manner he doesn’t really understand. Wilbur isn’t a mage, he barely knows the runes to start explosions and even that was trial and error and a whole lot of stealing. If he were a mage, he would never be here.

Because he’d be dead, buried in the emperor’s actual rose garden. Kristin is the only one spared that fate, the last imperial mage of the Silver Tower. No one knows how though… Something to ask if he ever gets to meet the lady.

Eventually, it lets him in. The walls split in two, sliding into the floor to reveal the Rose Garden. A rush of instinctive anger burns through him glimpsing at the place. He’s being fucking trained to hate it, he swears.

Grape vines curl around the many pillars in the garden, more a long hall with a glass roof and criss-crossing beams holding even more grape vines. Either side of the pillars are the dozens of blankets and probably hundreds of pillows they sleep on. The marble floor beneath his feet is a perfect shiny white.

Down the center of the room sits their only source of drinking water. An elegant fountain, a statue of swans, with constantly flowing water. Again, it’s fueled by some magic bullshit.

That’s it, the only things in the room. Usually holding much anger, Wilbur rushes to the fountain for the first time since he really got here. He ignores the calls from the others. Dipping his hands in, he chugs.

“Woah, woah, woah! Not too much newbie, you know what happens.” Schlatt, the bastard, grabs him by the armpits and pulls him back. Fuck him and his strength and Wilbur’s willowy fucking body he is going to kill someone.

Wilbur glares at the fountain because it is clearly at fault here. If only Philza hadn’t laced the damn thing with regeneration potions, this wouldn’t be a problem and he could drown the bitch in it. What a waste of fucking money.

“Bite me,” Wilbur growls, fins flaring. So what if drinking too much causes withdrawals? At least then those stupid hickies would be gone. He struggles against Schlatt, safe to be as much of a bitch as he’d like within the Rose Garden’s walls.

“Damn, what’s got your panties in a twist,” Schlatt huffs. He adjusts his grip, trapping Wilbur against his chest with one stupidly thick arm and hauling him towards the pile. Bastard throws him onto a pillow pile.

“Better question! What the hell are you wearing and where can I find one,” Quackity bounces over to him. An accurate description because ‘walking’ isn’t really possible on all the blankets and shit. More like ‘tripping’ really.

“Fuck you,” he bites, “long story. Don’t like it.” Being smooth and silky doesn’t make him like it anymore than its mere presence. Philza gave it to him so it will burn . He’ll mark the runes in his blood if need be.

“Triple question! Is it why you tried to drown yourself in the swans?” Charlie pops up in front of him just… out of nowhere. Dude swims in the bedding, if that’s even possible. Are they all going to gang up on him now.

“Please don’t, I don’t want to bury another rose.” Yep, that’s all of them. Foolish sits beside Wilbur, bearing the weight of his glare when Wilbur fishes his face out of the pillows. He’s too breathtakingly angry to feel bad about Foolish’s unfortunate gardening adventures.

“Had dinner with the bitch supreme last night.” Wilbur borrows Toms’ nickname for his father. He tosses himself onto his back, ending up mostly in Foolish’s lap. Like always, his skin is warm as the sun. Wilbur’s reminded of the few times he got to sunbathe on ocean shores before ending up in the nether pit that is the Empire of Souls.

“Youch, you’re looking awfully in one piece for something like that,” Schlatt helpfully comments. Wilbur flips him off. Tries to. He doesn’t bother to see before cursing. The arm over his eyes is all that saves him from going the rest of the way insane.

“Why does that have anything to do with stealing clothes?” Quackity asks. A head leans against Wilbur’s stomach, probably Quackity’s. Boundaries don’t really exist in the emperor’s personal sex club. 

The question does nothing but remind him of all the ill fitting bits of the outfit, tailored perfect for Philza. Too short, riding up his thighs, with the shoulders too wide and the waist not quite thin enough, a gap in the back for wings Wilbur doesn’t have. At least there’s no hickies on his back.

“Didn’t steal it,” Wilbur admits grumpily. He drops his bird down, grabbing at his hair and tugging. Foolish stops him from pulling his hair out. Rude. He shifts his arm to glare but lets much larger hands tangle in his own.

“Gardening Legislation, Rule Five, Subsection two point three. Roses are not permitted to wear, own, try on, or otherwise interact with clothes, accessories, or costumes not provided directly by the current reigning emperor, Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, the Crownsoul Crow,” Charlie recites. Wilbur once again revisits his theory of Charlie being some magic golem experiment that gained sentience.

“So either you stole it and are lyin’ to us or going to convince us that the fucking Crownsoul Crow gave you that Qipao,” Schlatt summarizes. Is that the dress’ name? Nice, Wilbur is going to forget that now. Thanks.

“Well… he did give me the dress,” Wilbur mutters, “and the shoes. And these stupid fucking hickies.” He tugs at the high collar, careful not to elbow Quackity in the head. Schlatt kneels beside him for a closer look.

Wilbur is even more uncomfortably reminded of one of his first few nights here, completely unprepared for the sheer tension that comes from living in the palace. Schlatt had pulled him close and whispered secrets into his ears until he slept. One of them is that Schlatt now feels more comfortable on his knees than in a chair or a bed. That he’s forgotten how to be anything but a Rose.

He wonders, still, what that will mean when the emperor is dead. What it will mean for all the roses who are slowly forgetting what lies beyond the palace walls, for the servants who’ve lived here for generations. The revolution will win.

What happens after?

“Bullshit,” Foolish, of all people, deadpans. It shocks a laugh from Wilbur’s symptom, always does. Foolish is built like… like a big, warm gardener. Someone more at home covered by rabbits than here. Listening to Foolish curse takes Wilbur out.

“It’s not!” Wilbur wheezes, forces himself to calm, “It’s not. Let me tell you I fucking wish it was, wish I could claw off my fucking skin honestly. I don’t think drowning in the fountain would cut it.” 

“Just admit that you stole the damn thing,” Quackity scoffs. He headbutts Wilbur’s stomach the best he can without getting up. It does jack shit. Wilbur really does elbow his head this time.

“Dunno, you got any bite marks to prove it?” Schlatt asks casually. Charlie pounces before Wilbur can free his arm from Quackity’s monkey ass grip. Wilbur slumps, held in place entirely by Foolish’s arms. Charlie fumbles and tugs at the ties Wilbur didn’t even bother looking at.

“Careful! Don’t rip it,” Foolish warns, “You and Quackity might be able to try it on before we have to toss it.” Charlie slows down his pace at that. Fair, they must be desperate for actual clothes at this point. The longing in Foolish tone is telling.

“Just burn it now,” Wilbur moans into his hands. Schlatt just laughs at him like an asshole. Not fair that he’s the only one used to not wearing clothes- Wilbur winces at his own thoughts. Okay, no, that’s really mean. It’s not Schlatt’s fault he’s been stuck wearing that stupid uniform for nearly a hundred years.

Maybe over a hundred years, depends on when demons become adults. Wilbur hasn’t had the opportunity nor reason to memorize every hybrid’s age. That’s the business of the bartenders who care.

“What- no! Feel the texture Wil, this thing is worth loads,” Quackity protests. He’s probably planning to hoard and sell it ‘when we get out of here’. Wilbur appreciates his confidence in Wilbur’s skills. Even if it’ll take at least half a year before he can stumble into the vaults to find that stupid artifact to kill the bastard emperor.

“Got it!” Charlie cheers, peeling the fabric from Wilbur. He chooses to regain enough of his motor control to help them pull it off. Yay, he’s naked again. Funny how it only takes a month for that not to matter around these guys. Foolish is still nice enough to curl him closer to his chest as if Wilbur has modesty anymore.

“The fuck,” Schlatt so intelligently replies. Wilbur snorts, rolling his shoulder out to show off the red bite mark clearly in the shape of the emperor’s unique teeth. Literally everyone else has scars that match. It doesn’t take a genius to memorize the shape when it’s permanently carved into your skin.

“That, huh, you weren’t lying.” Schlatt presses gently against the mark. It sends another tingle of too pleasant feelings down his spine. Apparently, he’s too fucked out for that to matter. Not that Wilbur needs the reminder.

“I told you! I was given the dress, and the sandals, and even a fruit salad with strawberries . Sounds insane, I know, but fuck man, it’s true,” Wilbur complains. Murderous impulses rising.

“Like a fucking fairytale,” Quackity wonders. He slides down, resting more against Foolish’s leg than Wilbur. 

“Storytime! Give us all the details,” Charlie demands. Who is Wilbur to deny? Especially not when a gleam of dark curiosity rests in their eyes. Wilbur sits, moves to one of Foolish’s thighs rather than his lap, and pulls a blanket over himself. It only half covers the very obvious hand prints.

Damn pale ass skin, makes him bruise like a fucking peach. That’s the phrase right? Wilbur wouldn’t know, he’s never had a peach. Not important, it’s storytime and the denying that means being exiled to the other pile, so lovingly called ‘Snowchester’ because the other half of the room is somehow nine times colder than this side. Magic, probably.

“Okay, so, I was called to provide entertainment by Jeremy, that butler guy?” “I thought it was Jason.” “Shut up Quackity. Anyway, entertainment. I was supposed to play the guitar while mr. Crownsoul Crow eats and I starve. No I didn’t choke down those grapes, bite me,” Wilbur starts.

“Got a few songs in before he interrupts me, which I was expecting. We all know he’s shit at patience when there’s something he wants and he knows he has the power to take it. I crawled over to him, you know, like a good boy.”

Schlatt snorts, getting the very obvious jab at him. At least they can all joke about their very serious problems.

“The insanity starts immediately because he feeds me. I tried to deny it but he was insistent. I got handfed like half his plate, felt like my stomach was going to pop. Kind of did, threw up this morning. It’s fine . Foolish if you do not look away right now I will personally test how well gold does against siren teeth.”

Pity is a terrible thing even when it’s laced with understanding.

“And, you know, I try to recover after. I take some initiative to ask if he wants more entertainment, anticipate his needs before he tosses me against a wall.”

Charlie, the usual receiver for such behavior and not force proof despite being a slime hybrid no matter what he’s convinced himself of, giggles.

“Let me tell you, it worked. Bastard was into me but who isn’t? I prepared myself mentally, though I don’t think preparing myself physically is possible, and sort of just hoped I’d still be able to use my gills properly after he was done. That man picks me up by my arms and sits me on the table and starts leaving these.”

Wilbur doesn’t get to gesture at his hickies because Quackity got bored and started tracing them. He is going to purposefully ignore the fact Quackity did not need to release a claw to do so. It’s a stress reaction.

“I know this is going to sound impossible and I thought it was too. Like, it goes against literally everything we know about Sanguinis but- just- he kissed me!” Wilbur’s cheeks burn.

“Not even for the last time either. He choses privacy and takes me to some fancy tea room and kisses me again . Then he gave me a blowjob and I accepted that I was hallucinating because reality, this could not be. Except hallucinations don’t give you hickies or bite marks.”

“Guys, he treated me so softly . You’d think he was holding porcelain with how gentle he tried to be. These bruises on my hips? Yeah, they were only left when he lost himself because he’d orgasm’d after giving me two .”

“I think I passed out at some point but I remember drifting? I think he cuddled me but I’m trying to repress that memory. He definitely cleaned me up though considering I don’t smell like sex right now.” Wilbur’s nose wrinkles. “Woke up and there was food and clothes on the table. The end.”

Charlie claps as if he’d just witnessed a top tier back alley play. Quackity has decided bones are for losers and slumped forward against Wilbur, sandwiching him between the elemental behind him and the dragon hybrid on top of him. And Schlatt…

Wilbur doesn’t like that look in his eyes, hollow and reminiscent of that same first few nights, those quiet admissions. That place his head goes when the world gets too loud and all he can do is try to weather the storm. Weather Sanguinis temper knowing that his scars would one day fade. Fade and leave no evidence of the crimes upon him.

“Schlatt?” Foolish beckons, taking Wilbur’s voice when words fail him. He doesn’t like to think he’s becoming attached to any of the Roses. Wilbur knows he’ll have to leave when the job is done. As hated as Sanguinis is, one can’t assassinate an emperor and get off scot free.

But he can’t stand when Schlatt looks so empty. Less a person, more a rose, slowly forgetting how to be anything else.

“Schlattttt,” Charlie whines, pouncing at him, “can I wear the Quin-piano now?” He wraps his arms around Schlatt like an octopus, quite literally boneless. Schlatt doesn’t immediately snap out of it. He never does.

“I thought it was Queue-Pad Thai,” Quackity jokes, sighing into Wilbur’s skin. It feels oddly like betrayal that his mind goes to Philza doing the same damn thing . He fists the blanket. Sirens don’t have claws, Wilbur would really like some right now.

“I heard Quincenera-Polly.” Foolish joins. He leans forward, warping his thick arms around both of them. Anyone who says elementals are willowy are lying to you. Wilbur’s evidence is one very thick gold elemental taller than most rooms back home.

“Dress,” Wilbur deadpans. Quackity bursts into laughter, curling into him. Wilbur pulls his arms free, adjusting himself better to hold the dragon hybrid. He tucks his chin over Quackity’s shoulder.

It was easier to free himself from Foolish’s grip than Philza’s. No, but then, Wilbur already knew that. Knew that the moment he willingly got the emperor’s attention and had his wrist nearly cracked for his efforts. How could that be the same man?

“He was kind to you?” Schlatt marvels quietly, having not heard a single word they said. Charlie holds him tighter. Well, as tight as someone who also doesn’t really have stereotypical muscle tissue can hold. It’s a miracle that Charlie outwardly looks as humanoid as he does.

Funny how five words can turn a room silent. Foolish squirms under the weight of it, never liking how dead it makes an already eerie palace feel. Wilbur tries to start talking. Stops. Tries again.

“Yeah…” His skin itches, pulling apart at the seams, “he was.” If Wilbur had to pry every scale loose from his body one by one to rid himself of this feeling. If he had to pull out his teeth. If he could never sing again.

He would.

Notes:

Yeah, Phil does *not* have it easy if this is their reaction to him being nice. Admittedly 'nice' means 'fucked Wilbur softly and left nothing but love bites on him' but compared to Sanguinis, that makes him a fucking *saint*. Then again, anyone is a saint next to that man... His crimes are numerous and worthy of more lightning bolts than the gods can throw at him.

Wilbur gets angry when he's confused and distressed, that's where the muderous impulses come in. He's never *actually* killed anyone... yet. He's just planning a murder, that's different. Oh, before I forget!

Hybrid List:

Philza: Elytran, a species of avian native to the void filled realm of the end, believed to be the first one to leave.

Tommy: Elytran, the only other one alive after Sanguinis decided other feathered species didn't deserve rights.

Quackity: Dragon, specifically a gold dragon, like Tommy in my other thing. Couldn't make him a duck with all other avians dead.

Charlie: Slime. more slime than human. Can secrete his slime past his skin but has been... 'taught' not to do so.

Schlatt: Demon hybrid, the oldest. They live for upwards of 1000 years and become and adult at age 20. Schlatt has been here for nearly 100 years.

Foolish: Elemental, but like periodic table of elements, specifically gold. Invulnerable to most damage. Sanguinis used to delight in seeing him bleed because so few can make Foolish do so.

Techno: Piglin hybrid, a brute. Brutes are usually aggressive but Techno was aggressively *cowed* by Sanguinis since he was a teenager. Yes, Sanguinis is a cradle robber. We are glad he is dead.

Oh, and Foolish's 'gardening misadventures' were him being forced the bury the bodies of roses that Sanguinis' was tried of. No one gets to leave the palace alive.

Chapter 5: Fear Thyself And Let It Consume

Summary:

Regret can sometimes feel like a constant thing. Every missed opportunity, every word unsaid, everything a person never got to do. Or, in many occasions, everything done that time cannot take back. Once an action or word goes out into the world, no amount of wishing and praying will let it be taken back, now free to cause pleasure or harm in equal measures.

Phil has many regrets and he has only had the role of emperor for but a day. New instincts roll about in his skull, pushing and pulling and encouraging him to do things he really should not. Under the stress, the pressure, the desire, he had snapped. Now he's aware and he cannot change the past.

All he can do is move on, try to be better in the future. Easier said than done.

Notes:

Ya boi is on a ROLL with this one. We're finally back to Phil and his Hearts of Iron IV roleplay. Unfortunately, while he is a doctor, it's a doctorate in psychology and our poor bird brain nearly failed out of history. So he has no historical knowledge of politics, no practical experience, and he most certainly *isn't* a political science major.

Poor man, going to struggle so hard. I love that for him.

TW: Minor self-hate, Implied/referenced Child Abuse, Implied/referenced minor character death

Wow, that's surprisingly few for this story's taste /j

Suddenly, curling up in a hole and dying doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. Compared to Phil’s actions last night, nothing seems quite as bad. He’s supposed to be atoning for Sanguinis’ sins! Not fucking the man most directly responsible for his death! A man who literally can’t say no . It was terrible of him to even think of, let alone actually do.

Phil admittedly spent most of the morning languishing in his nest in abject misery and trying to figure out how he ever thought that was a good idea. By the time he pulls himself out, breakfast has already passed. So no seeing Tommy today.

Unless he wants to force Tommy to be in his presence. Quite frankly, that sounds like a terrible idea. Then again, isn’t Phil a master of those? Yeah, the time he spends alone did little for him in understanding his own thought process. So what if they were instincts? Phil isn’t an animal. He should have been able to control himself better than that.

Dressed again in his crown, silly hat, and a heavily layered robe mimicking a bamboo forest, Phil flees to Sanguinis’ office in shame. His wings sag behind him, betraying his mood. The servants avoid even looking at him. It stings.

He doesn’t want them to avoid him, he doesn’t want Tommy to be hurt, he wants all the characters in Love Paradox, now people truly suffering beneath Sanguinis’ hand, to be happy and free. He wants to live .

The door opens, letting him into the office. All Phil can do now is survive. Survive and try to make the world a little bit of a better place, made much harder by no one trusting him not to snap. Blood stains his hands and he had no choice in having it there.

Exhaustion clinging to his bones is truly a testament to how much he’s suffering. Sanguinis is immortal and invulnerable up until that macguffin thing is destroyed, he should be allowed to be tired. Phil calls bullshit.

No one dares follow him into Sanguinis’ office. When the doors click shut, he is completely and utterly alone. Technically, the butler is right at the entrance should Phil need anything, if that even counts.

Instincts sing in his head about how happy he made his mate last night, completely opposite of his actual mood. Jagged edges marking where he ends and these new feelings begin. Feelings which are an ethical nightmare .

Clambering behind his new desk, he hides his face in his hand. Being in love with a client is possibly one of the worst things a therapist can do. Getting too close to a situation changes how you approach it, completely ruining the fact that therapists are supposed to be a supportive third party. 

Mild protective feelings or empathy is fine. Phil worked primarily with kids and teenagers, it’s rather impossible not to feel something for them. But love ? A curling, nearly obsessive love trilling in his chest? That’s bad. That’s really fucking bad.

Although, maybe this was doomed to happen from the start. Sanguinis had a pre-established relationship with these guys, Phil is now Sanguinis, and it’s not like the gods are letting him keep anything but the memories of his old life. The attachments Sanguinis never wanted now doom his efforts.

New approach. He can’t just stop feeling, that’s even more unhealthy, and nor can he really successfully give therapy to someone without their consent. Consent they can’t give because who would trust a word Phil says? But, surely, he can still use some of his hard earned, licensed skills.

“Not therapy, just support,” Phil whispers, uncertain of just how soundproof this room is. He fumbles around the desk’s drawers. Papers from yesterday sit in two neat stacks, finance reports for the palace in one and finance for the rest of the kingdom in the other. It’s telling that the budget for the palace is easily three times the budget for the entire empire .

‘Ruling by fear’ is inaccurate with how angry the citizens must be at Sanguinis. ‘Ruling by eldritch horror’ might be more accurate. If Sanguinis weren’t literally blessed to be emperor by three separate gods, Phil imagines he’d either already be dead or the empire in ruins. As it is, they’re already close enough to the latter.

Paper in the third drawer on the write, ink and pen on the table. A dip pen, formed of swirling blue glass. Thank god Phil actually knows how to use one and there wasn’t, like, a quill or he’d be screwed. Quills make no sense.

Okay, time to make a plan. Phil scrawls out his thoughts along the page, that same looping handwriting his new hand insists on taking. What a discovery to have made last night when he decided to leave a note for Wiblur. Nothing like his old chicken scratch at all.

First of all, no pushing boundaries, which means he has to be aware of the incredibly terrible situation everyone is in. No one in the harem can say no to him. That does not mean he gets free reign of their bodies and lives. Mating instincts get no opinion there.

Last night is not getting a repeat if Phil has anything to say about it. No matter how warm and fuzzy those instincts want to make him. He needs to get all of that under control. Maybe there’s a book about it?

Yeah, a good part one to the plan, since the first bullet point is more a rule than anything else. Research everything before changing things. He notes down a few topics. His new biology, the current state of the empire, the harem’s rules. All things he only knows the bare bones of from Love Paradox.

Jumping directly into things he doesn’t understand can only go poorly. Even ignoring the elephant in the room, the financial reports alone proved that. He barely recognizes half the things they’re spending money on!

“Maybe I should move into the library for the foreseeable future,” Phil muses. After that, part two would be increasing the general standard of living. Education, healthcare, financial aid, all that lovely stuff that makes the economy run and the people happy. Oh, and making sure the money reaches the people, not just his own pockets.

What even is the current income tax? Something to find as well. He makes a note of it. If he does a good enough job, the revolution will have no more reason to kill him. Hopefully. Hopes and prayers and all that.

Part three is interchangeable with part two, good to work on them simultaneously. Phil needs to make the harem, plus Tommy, plus Techno, plus the entire palace really, less scared of him. Making them like him would be great but…

He’s not an idiot. Hate and love may be opposites of the same coin but that does not make flipping the coin any easier. Before love, he needs them to at least tolerate him. In this case, tolerate would preferably mean ‘not abjectly terrified of him’.

Even if that means having to let them go. They are people, not Phil’s to keep. No croon of instincts drawing an unnatural upset at the mere thought of them ever leaving will change that. If the harem, Techno, even Tommy want to leave him by the end of this, so be it.

And his end goal… Phil pauses, thinks, a single drop of ink staining the paper. What is the end goal of all this? To make the world a better place? To save his own life? Does it even matter ? It doesn’t.

Under the weight of sins he never asked for, his will does not truly matter. The gods hammered that lesson hard when they stripped all emotion from his past life, leaving him unable to mourn everything he worked so hard to achieve. Even now he works under them.

‘ Be better than he ever was.’ A phantom of warmth, the embrace of a god. Yeah, Phil can do that at least. He takes a deep breath, and sets the pen down. Then he folds the plan into an origami crane to keep on his desk. You know, just in case someone snoops and starts asking questions he can’t answer.

No weird divine plans here, not at all. Just an origami crane sitting all pretty atop an obsidian paperweight carved to look like an eye. Which, kind of odd. Not the strangest decoration by far though.

That award goes to the crystal adorned skull sitting on the shelf behind him, allegedly the skull of the king Sanguinis had killed to take the throne. Or his own father. Really, it was never considered important to specify how Sanguinis got the throne.

Right! Okay, onto part one of that plan, research. He’s already learned a little bit from his couple hours the other day but, understandable, his highly stressed state of mind was very confused. Phil should probably be concerned he’s adapting so fast…

Phil will instead choose to be grateful because that means he can drown out the sweet sounds still ringing in his ears with bureaucracy. Maybe he can answer his question about income tax.

Funding is never fun to figure out, nothing you do will make everyone happy so all you can really do is try and go with what works. Sanguinis, clearly, never tried. Phil’s organized a few events, mostly for schools, which is not a lot of experience but enough to understand some of the lingo here.

Yes, taxes are really high. He really did not miss that yesterday. The population compared to the amount of money the empire is making would not make any sense otherwise. Hunting down the exact number takes a little digging.

88% is not the number he should have found when doing so. That’s just highway robbery, who can even survive while barely keeping a tenth of their income? No amount of minimum wage makes that number make sense. Not that Phil thinks Sanguinis would even mandate a minimum wage but still.

How much money would a person even have to make to survive under that? If they made 100k before taxes, they’d only keep roughly 12k of that. That cannot be enough. The people must be starving! Phil’s slashing that immediately, as soon as feasibly possible in fact.

…how does he do that? Does he just, like, tell someone? What’s the process of doing that… Does Sanguinis have a court he doesn’t listen to? Phil kind of remembers a ball scene he always skipped over after the first time, that could be it. Maybe he has to call a council of elders or some shit like that.

Sanguinis was an absolute monarch, a tyrannical one, by definition. He has to have a court hiding somewhere that deals with all the stupid laws he puts into play. Though to get the empire this bad, he probably killed anyone who disagreed with him. Which means Phil is going to have to deal with a bunch of yes-men.

“Maybe I can just replace them?” Phil questions the air. Nothing’s stopping him, but that can be said about literally everything. Phil’s actions right now have next to no actual consequences for him beyond his crushing guilt and sense of morals. He should at least meet with them before dismissing them.

Who knows? Maybe it’s not that bad. Sardonic laughter bubbles in his chest, as if anything involving Sanguinis is ‘not that bad’. Please. 

Phil should find a notebook so he can make a note of everything he has to change. Diving back into the financial report, it really does seem like everything has to be fixed from the ground up.

Establish actual funding for public services for one. The list of things Sanguinis actually pays for for the kingdom is terrifyingly short. Food, fabric, policing, done. That’s it. That’s the list.

Healthcare? Who needs it? Education? Why bother? Sanitation? Amenities? Keeping public buildings up to code? Phil can’t even find a single library listed and yet there’s a complete breakdown of every last gram of food and individual needle given to the police listed.

To think he thought there’d be something actually helpful within all that paper. Sanguinis’ empire should be dead . No wonder nearly the entire population is trying to overthrow him, only stopped by the blessings of three actual gods turning him into a glorified nuke in a playground.

Claws scratch at the side of his head, likely marring the sides of his ‘crown’, not that he cares. Slashing taxes shouldn’t do much to the funding issue, considering he can easily just take from the palace’s twelve figure budget. There are a few income sources from trade deals as well.

Which are being funneled directly into the palace for some reason . Who even needs this much money? Nobody. No ruler should be making multiples of billions a year while their people starve. Phil growls, low and unnatural.

Right, okay, yeah, that budget? How about he moves 80% of that to the rest of the kingdom. He’ll still be a multi-millionaire and the people might learn what a library is. Though he doesn’t doubt literacy is in the ground…

Free classes at the libraries for those who don’t know how to read? Or just don’t put an age limit on the elementary schools, everyone deserves to learn. Wait, but how would he even staff the elementary schools? Are there, like, tutors he can hire? He doesn’t know.

A headache grows in his skull, pressing against his temples. So much to do, so little time, so little ideas. Maybe starting a food bank would be a simpler place to start. There are bound to be some warehouses he can convert or abandoned buildings to revamp.

“Except none of this is simple, because why would it be?” Phil sighs, resting his head against the now paper covered desk, financial reports covered in notes and circles and lines. Half formed ideas on how to even begin fixing this glorified gordian knot.

“Right, okay. Deep breaths. Start small, start at step one and go from there,” Phil assures himself. He stands, shuffling the papers into a mockery of order. Time to go to the library, find some books about the history of the kingdom, maybe a law book? Would the royal library have a lawbook?

But where else would it be? In Sanguinis office? Phil glances around at all the unopened shelving units, the parts he can see covered in expensive knick knacks with bloody pasts. Yeah, that’s a question for later.

He’ll just… find a book on Elytrans. In the library. Take a break. The gilded grandfather clock standing near the door tells him he’s already been in here for… four hours? Damn, time really flies when you’re trying to ignore life.

About half an effort goes into making himself look ‘presentable’ by any meaning of the word. Comb back his hair, preen a stray feather that got squished at some point, pull his layers into the odd gradient pattern the servants did. Perfect, neat, good.

‘ Find mate? ’ that part of Phil he’s trying to classify as a separate thing for his own self control asks. No, he’s not finding any of his ‘mates’. He’s going to the library. A trill rubs the back of his throat, warming his chest. Odd sign but he’s suffocating in this office so too late to turn back.

“Greetings, your Imperial Highness, Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis,” the butler greets just like before. Phil bites back a wince at his new ‘full name’. He’s just going to- the butler is the first person to neither stiffen nor flinch when he raises his hand.

“Dismissed, just a walk,” Phil excuses himself. Finding the library in the palace shouldn’t be too hard, right? He was able to find the dining hall no problem. So long as that wasn’t a fluke, he can probably go anywhere Sanguinis has been just by trusting his feet and his… instincts.

Is it possible for an animalistic hindbrain to feel smug ? If not, Phil’s going insane from the stress. Both are somehow equally as likely. It’s fine. He just has to balance trusting his instincts enough to get around but not so much they take over. Simple!

…

Not simple, not simple at all . Well, okay, finding the library was fairly simple. It only took Phil ten minutes and most of that was the sheer size of the palace at play. Golden doors, a plaque Phil can’t read, and silent hinges letting him into the library.

Magic must be at play in the library, or else the palace is even larger than it seemed from above. Towering bookshelves stretch hundreds of feet above, with walkways and ladders and platforms only meant to be reachable with wings. Phil cranes his neck back and can barely see where it ends.

Blue swirling magic is partially responsible for that. It sits in a haze, glittering like the sun peaking through ocean water as seen from below, shifting with each wave. Papers and books fly past him all on their own, organizing and reorganizing themselves.

Dark corners stop him from seeing just how wide the room is, though Phil feels it may be just as wide as it is tall. A library easily fitting an entire village within itself. Lanterns marking the way making it all the more familiar.

“Woah,” Phil breathes, entranced by the gorgeous display. His wings itch to spread, to propel himself in the depths and get lost in the knowledge all around him. It’s only the fact that he face-planted again this morning that keeps him from doing so. Maybe once he learns how to land from thirty feet up.

“Greetings, Crownsoul Crow,” an unfamiliar voice greets. Phil startles back to himself, wings pinning behind him, creating a sudden gust of wind that knocks a few books off course. He spins about to see yet another bowing servant.

Wait, not a servant, not a regular one at least. Their dress is too fancy, fabric of a magenta toned purple stitched with fractal patterns of nearly neon green, silver, and gold that hurt his head the longer he tries to comprehend them. A set of goggles sits in their hair. Gemstones of impossible shapes hang on chains that almost look like spiderwebs.

Definitely fancy enough to be a named character. Phil curses the little time he’d gotten to play Love Paradox because who the fuck is this? Techno’s route had a few library scenes but this guy never appeared. Is he the librarian? Whose route is he in? Charlie’s? Foolish’s? But why them and not Techno, the scholar?

“Hello, Archivist,” Phil greets back, the title feeling right in his lips. The Archivist pulls from their bow, revealing their face. A placid smile rests on them, calm and faker than a barbie doll, uncomfortable in a way as incomprehensible as the rest of them.

“What are you requesting today, my immortal lord?” The Archivist asks with a barest tilt of their neck. More of a twitch. Mismatched eyes squint a little, yet no emotion can be picked from their glassy sheen. One a mid-toned brown, the other a vibrant green that seems to melt and swirl in time with the magic above.

“Personal study,” Phil answers after a moment. What the fuck. Who the fuck. Why the fuck. Many questions, no answers, only a slow spinning and the sudden knowledge of what sunshine tastes like… fuck it.

“Who are you?” He breaks and asks. No one can blame him! Just then, as if to mock him, something in his brain clicks and looking at the Archivist no longer hurts. It doesn’t make sense but he can somehow comprehend the incomprehensible.

“The Archivist, Karl Jacobs. These are my archives, just as you requested. Permanent access, forever,” Karl explains without explaining jack shit. Phil nods. Sure, why not. No more questions of whatever eldritch creature Sanguinis hired.

Walking away is the only safe move so walk away he shall. Phil will find what he needs on his own. The moment Karl leaves his sight, the knowledge of the incomprehensible leaves with him. Seriously, what the fuck .

Getting lost amongst the shelves is a much better alternative, glancing at the titles and trying to figure out the rough organizational system. He’s not a librarian, or an Archivist, so he doesn’t have much experience to draw from. Most libraries are sectioned by genre, that’s the depths of his knowledge. The genre he needs is law.

Climbing ladders, falling on his ass after gliding down from small heights to floors below, Phil finds all sorts of genres both familiar and not. Romance, whatever counts for ‘sci-fi’ in this world, magical history, books specifically on elves, dragons, slimes, the end, all sorts of hybrids.

No, not just ‘books’, entire sections dedicated to them, seemingly organized by color to form a rainbow of unfamiliar books. Rune crafting, ancient history so old it uses a dating system so outdated it has a reference book magically superglued to every shelf, potioncraft, witchery, sorcery, myths from all kinds of societies yet to ring a bell. As if all of time is held within these walls.

Phil could read for millenia and not find an end. He dodges a school of origami fish, rolling off one platform and onto another. Sanguinis’ feet are silent the whole time. No matter how Phil moves, not a single sound echoes in the silent library.

“She calls out, yet her voice is lost to the wind and the snow. Her crew is beyond her. Only a whiteout burning her eyes, her fear for their very souls, that they might be the next lost to this dreadful haunted mountain. A monument to pain.” Except for a voice.

A cadence of a story teller, deep as it recites the book in hand. It pulls Phil still. What a wonderful voice, warm and fairly monotone, managing to perfectly carry the tension the story demands.

“Wait, why even climb a mountain if this Leora,” “Elilenora.” “Right, Lenora knew it was haunted?” Tommy’s voice rings out. Phil distantly recognizes the teller’s voice as Techno’s. The presence of his sun draws him forward, wanting just a glimpse since he hadn’t been allowed this morning.

It won’t hurt anything, not pushing any boundaries for a moment’s glance. Phil will confirm Tommy is in one piece and nothing else. Looking should be fine. He keeps up the reassurances, tip-toeing out of one section into another long hall reminiscent of the entrance. 

A railing protects anyone from falling off. Thin cords dotted with crystals make him reminiscent of fairy lights decorate it. Below, strung between the two monoliths of knowledge, a corded mesh sits. Blankets and pillows cushion several reading nooks along the mesh.

Tommy and Techno rest on one of them. Techno lounges with a book in his hand, Tommy laying half on his chest, wings squished behind him. Both are so very relaxed. Far more than their last meeting, finally allowed to be themselves.

‘ Flock! Join!’ His instincts goad. No, don’t join, they don’t need him ruining their good mood with his presence. Phil swallows back any coos or chirps building in his throat, keeps his wings tight, and refuses to feel jealousy over such a silly thing. A good thing, even. Techno is the father Tommy never had.

Exploring their relationship was a decent part of Techno’s route after all, little looks into who he is beyond a war machine. His relationship with Tommy played as sweet. And it is sweet! Tommy asks every question under the sun and Techno answers with love and patience. Two things Sanguinis was never capable of.

Phil would gladly be both if he were allowed. No, Phil forces himself to take a step back, roughly shaking his head. That’s the instincts talking. He barely knows Tommy and Tommy doesn’t know him at all. Tommy only knows a man of pain and suffering.

Gold eyes lock onto him, sensing the movement. The noise cuts out, Phil has been found and he’s ruined it , just like he thought. He looks back down at them. Wide eyes, lips sealed shut, looking for all the world like children caught stealing from the cookie jar. Except there’s too much fear for it to be just that.

Smiling hurts. Phil does it anyway. A calm, warm smile meant to be as unintimidating as possible. He nods down at them then flees. Back to the shelves, far away from them so they can relax and be free.

They will all be free one day, they just have to wait for Phil to get everything in order. He will make it possible for everyone to be safe, free, and healthy. It’s the only thing that matters anymore.

…

Nerves drum beneath Tommy’s skin, heart pounding and wings trying to mantle against Techno’s chest. Look bigger, be bigger, more dangerous. Shock lingers in the air. It’s never nice to see the bitch supreme himself show up out of nowhere.

Actually, there are no circumstances where it’s nice to see Sanguinis. Tommy can’t think of a single time where meeting his father hasn’t been accompanied by an all consuming dread, premature exhaustion clinging to his limbs. Each breath is deceptively calm.

“Relax, he’s gone,” Techno assures him. Burning warm hands scratch the back of Tommy’s skull, Techno always running hotter than a furnace. Tommy trills out his nerves. Relaxing back, regardless of how warm and safe Techno feels, is not that easy.

“Why was he even here ?” Tommy whines. He covers his face, squishing his eyes closed. Sanguinis stares back in the darkness, never safe in the dark, never safe when he can’t be seen. Can’t protect himself in the dark. Tommy shudders.

“I… don’t know. Maybe researching new ways to be a tyrannical dictator?” Techno jokes. Tommy tears his hands away, fleeing the ghost of his father, and glares. Not the time. They could have been seriously hurt then! Techno is strong but no one is that strong. Never strong enough to stand up to Sanguinis.

“Bladeee, we could have been hurt! I don’t want you to die,” Tommy protests the mere existence of that joke. Feathers flare against unmoving muscle. He balls his hands, refusing to admit he might be shaking.

“Theseus, if I lived my life terrified of you father, I’d probably die immediately. And Technoblade never dies so that’s not allowed,” Techno brushes it off. Bullshit. Tommy knows Techno is scared of Sanguinis. Everyone is. He’s seen Techno tremble just being brushed past before.

“He didn’t even do anything. Just… watched us a bit and… left,” Techno trails off. He glances back up at the ledge. Right, the bitch supreme did leave without doing anything. It slowly clicks in Tommy’s mind.

Sanguinis just left. He stood there for a bit, nodded, and left. Doubt claws the sides of his skull, unable to toss aside the possibility of the archives playing tricks on him. But, no, The Archivist, Karl Jacobs, isn’t so cruel. If his father’s image is here, it’s really him.

But the last time Sanguinis stumbled upon them being close, Tommy ended up with three broken ribs, a shattered thigh, and Techno couldn’t walk for two weeks. Only quick application of healing potions put his spine back together.

He still has scars from where bone ripped through skin. Tommy growls. It’s not fair. He’s not even allowed warm hugs and soft things, only able to steal them away in moments he won’t be missed. 

“I hate him,” Tommy mutters, turning into Techno’s side. There goes his good mood. Warm tears burn his eyes, forced to bite back sniffles out of habit since crying is apparently oh so loud and annoying .

“I hate him too,” Techno commiserates. Protective arms wrap around him, caging him in muscles more akin to iron than flesh. Unlike any time Sanguinis has touched him, they don’t feel like a cage.

A huff, pulling Tommy full on top of Techno, tucking his head protectively into the brute’s neck. Quite chuffs rumble from Techno’s chest. Undoubtable afraid, but stronger than Tommy has ever been. Stronger than he ever will be.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair . Tommy hate hate hates that man. He wants to tear him limb from limb, rip out his wings, spill his blood and- A sob racks from his chest. He wants his instincts to stop trying to label that man as flock .

Father is not flock, has never been flock, and has made it clear he never will be flock. It’s a rejection Tommy has felt for nine years . He got it hammered home after trying to sneak into the- into Sanguinis ’ nest and getting kicked across the room. A three day coma should have made it clear.

‘ Want flock ,’ Tommy chirps, the closest thing he has right in front of him. Except he’s read the books, he learned every bit he could about himself to make sure Sanguinis could never hurt him again. His parents are supposed to activate his flock instincts.

No matter how much Tommy wants him to, Techno doesn’t count . His mom is dead, Sanguinis hates him , and it hurts so much . Fat tears roll down his face. Fear and anger and grief for a life he’ll never get.

‘ Lonely ’ he warbles. Always so alone no matter how many servants are around. Techno is a soothing balm, yet as fleeting as autumn leaves. The moment he leaves, the gnawing hunger wraps its teeth around his throat again.

Because Tommy doesn’t have a flock, or a nest, or a family . And he never will. Tommy’s chest heaves, fighting the rising shame that he should be over this . He knows all of this already. He’s fine !

Except Techno is safe. Techno traces patterns between his wings, sending every attempt to pull himself together back into hiccuping tears. Techno is warm, and heavy, and safe … like a father should be.

“I’ve got you, he’s not here. He isn’t hurting you,” Techno mumbles weak assurances, knowing as well as Tommy that isn’t true. He hurts and hurts and nothing can stop it. But at least Techno tries. 

And a childish, weakly hopeful part of him wishes that Sanguinis would too.

Notes:

Tommyyyyy, our precious baby Theloquin. Only 14 yet so many pains upon his shoulders. Thankfully, he has two fathers on either side of him, he just has to realize Phil is There and Not Going To Hurt him which... easier said than done. It's going to take quite a bit of evidence before people accept that 'Sanguinis' has changed.

I mean, that's something that always kind of bothered me in other isekais. Like, yeah, letting the mc run around freely *is* fun but like... either no one notices a change or everyone notices, shrugs, and proceeds not to comment on it. I can only think of a couple where that isn't the case. Well, not counting my own I guess.

Prepare for even more writing posted very soon because I am on a *role*. Possessed by the DILFza gods I say! Possessed!

Hybrid List:

Philza: Elytran

Tommy: Elytran

Quackity: Dragon, specifically a gold dragon, like Tommy in my other thing.

Charlie: Slime. more slime than human.

Schlatt: Demon hybrid, the oldest.

Foolish: Elemental, but like periodic table of elements, specifically gold.

Techno: Piglin hybrid, a brute.

Chapter 6: Sow Seeds Of Misery, The King Decrees

Summary:

Understanding is key to change. Understand yourself, understand the world, understand suffering and seek better things. To change without understanding is to walk blind into an unfamiliar void and only pray you do not fall. For this reason, Phil seeks to understand. Effort gleans answers. But answers are not always kind.

Do not ask questions you are unprepared to hear the answer to. Fear is a killer. But Phil is not afraid, he is angry, righteously so. With understanding lifts a veil hiding the worst parts of the world. Without it, he starts to see the darkened blood seeping into every crack, festering an infection through society that threatens to strangle it hold.

How does he even begin to clear an infection? First, he must drain it. But to even do that, he must find the source of the cause, fumbling blind for bleeding wounds that all blend into one. The only real question is which domino will fall first.

Notes:

Woah, another two in one kind of day. Truly, I am spoiling you guys with this angsty, smutty fic, but you love it and I refuse to apologize for my sins. If god is kind, he must surely be dead, for a world like this could not exist in his presence.

This chapter has another smut in it! It's in the last pov, which you can really just skip if you're not here for that. I double checked and there's nothing before or after that would leave you absolutely clueless come next chapter. Well, maybe the last line? But I can always clarify at the beginning of chapter seven, and I will! Promise :D

TW: Implied/referenced torture, implied/referenced abuse (emotional, mental, physical), Self-hate, objectification, dissociation, casual acceptance (and expectance) of abuse, implied/reference starvation, implied/reference self harm

And a gratuitous masturbation scene but that doesn't quite fit into the rest of the tws listed.

An ancient tome bound in animal skin, thick with yellowed pages and embossed along every edge with swarms of pecking crows, sits upon Phil’s fancy new desk, the supposedly self updating text a dull red he’s choosing to believe isn’t blood. Small gold lettering along the spine date it to have existed since the very start of the kingdom’s history.

Every law ever set into play rests within it. Sections organized by topic, laws no longer in effect grayed out, and divots in the pages telling which ruler set each law. Just looking at it, Phil knows his old body would have crumpled under the weight.

Most people would crumple under the weight actually. He’s not sure the exact measurements but it’s thicker than a human skull and must be at least thirty pounds. Why it was just sitting in the back of one of Sanguinis’ shelves, he’s unsure.

Several library books scatter around and on top of it, making flipping the page a bit of a chore as he rearranges his references. A world history book, taken with a grain of salt and practically only used for the names and dates within considering how inaccurate it must be, written under Sanguinis rule and all.

One book about common magical artifacts, immediately answering several questions about the financial reports. A few on the different aspects of monarchies from different authors from different kingdoms to at least try and avoid bias. And, of course, a dictionary. He doesn’t know what half these terms mean, sue him. At least some have to be inventions of this world.

For example ‘Magicarpus Hyporigority’ is directly referenced in one of the laws, specifically stating that those with the condition, or anything similar, are not to be killed for it. Which, wild that that has to be said. 

Phil referenced the dictionary, almost equally as massive and making him glad Sanguinis chose to have a ginormous desk rather than anything practical, and oh look, there it is. It’s a medical condition that causes a person’s magic to be incapable of being drawn back into their body. This often leaves them frail and sickly. Oh look.

Quite similar is ‘Magicarpus Hyperrigority ’, causing magic to be incapable of leaving the body. There’s no law about that one. Notably, the law about its’ sister condition is grayed out.

Canceled by Sanguinis if the seal is correct. Worrying implications, add them to the list of things to solve because no one should be murdered just because they have less than optimal genetics. Like, what the fuck.

‘What the fuck’ is quickly become a too common phrase in his vocabulary. Phil should find some new curses to use. Unimportant, back to work on figuring out what laws exist here and how to go about changing them. Understand, comprehend, destroy. That’s the plan.

Laws are written out far more complex than they really need to be. Amendments after amendments written out chronologically, one after another. Those grayed out and those still active are identifiable only by color. It’s a mess of tiny lettering.

The worst feeling in the world is scouring through every last detail of an important sounding law only to look to the next one, double check the color, and realize it was canceled by King Nominus in the 13th century, briefly revived in the 15th century to get dozens of amendments, and canceled again at the end of that King’s reign.

“Don’t hit the table, don’t hit the table,” Phil mutters quietly. Headbutting the table would be a great way to get his anger out but he refuses to harm this incredibly important book. Suddenly, he understands why it was exiled to a corner.

In each section, there’s a large section dedicated specifically to Sanguinis making new laws, many with only two or three amendments if necessary. None of his laws are canceled. They just compound on eachother, even if it makes no practical sense and is contradictory.

“Who cares I guess, dude could break the law on a whim,’ Phil grumbles. Hours of scouring only gives him a strained back and aching eyes. The butler comes in at some point, asks about dinner and the roses. Phil panics so hard he denies eating dinner at all . Then back to reading.

Two days pass like this, though he takes care not to miss breakfast with Tommy again. Both times, he gives Tommy some strawberries. Both times, Tommy keeps up halted conversation and utter compliance to a ridiculous degree. Neither mention the library. Oddly, it feels a bit like bribery each time he feeds Tommy.

For the sum total of his efforts, he gets a list of incredibly ridiculous laws that all could work as a jumping off point for getting the empire underwraps. Each has their own section in his, soon to be origami, notes. ‘Religion’, ‘Military’, ‘Palace’ and ‘Tax’ laws.

Religion carries a series of laws about defining worship, religious gatherings, and the taxes and fees applied to both. No religion is outright banned but they might as well be with how much money they have to shell out. Anything that could possibly be considered a religious service is taxed to all hell.

Everyone involved in a service has to pay a fee to the empire to join, then the person leading has to pay another fee, then there’s a per-hour fee, which is taxed at the same 88% rates so that leaders only technically get paid, and there’s a fee that scales per square foot of land taken up by the service. He’s mildly surprised they don’t have to pay per word said.

Practices can only happen during certain hours or that’s a fine. No more for an hour at a time unless you pre-rent the time with the palace. No more than thirty people or that’s a fine. Want to provide food or water? That’s another fee.

Hell, there’s a fee to be paid for each chair provided in case anyone wants to sit down, even if the organizers personally owned the chair! Made it with their bare hands! Phil folds the religion section into an origami duck and sets it aside before he accidentally lights it on fire with his mind. Magic can probably do that.

Deep breaths, there’s more to come. Next is the military section, which finally explains how Sanguinis has any people under him at all . It also explains a tiny bit about the financial ledger but he’s choosing to ignore that.

To put it simply, all military personnel are outfitted with a magical device that doesn’t let them leave the border. All military personnel are then stationed at the border. They cannot, under any circumstances, let anyone cross the border. However, they also can’t attack foreign entities without Phil’s permission.

Kind of sounds a bit like how a prison works to Phil. No one can leave, but people can come in whenever, albeit by loophole here. If anyone tries to flee the country, the military is magically bound to keep them from leaving. How can Sanguinis even keep up that many deals?

By Phil’s incredibly basic magical knowledge, deals are supposed to be binding and strenuous to power. That’s the trade off. The dealmaker gives a chunk of themselves away and the contractor follows the orders in return for it. Yet Phil feels no strain at all.

If Sanguinis is strong now, Phil can’t imagine how powerful he’ll be when he doesn’t have tens of thousands of people sapping at his strength. The thought is… Phil shivers, rolling his shoulders and stretching his wings. Yeah, uncomfortable.

Just for theming, he turns those notes into an origami sword. Phil only mildly stabs the duck with it for its sins. The duck knows what it did. Seriously, what fucking bullshit is this. Ha! New swear!

Now how bad could palace laws be? They were written by Sanguinis, Phil really understands why everyone hates this guy so much. Like, he had some knowledge through Love Paradox but it hits much harder when he’s reading through all these laws, painfully aware they affect real people.

Phil didn’t know before now that it’s literally illegal for any servant, harem member, or member of the imperial family to leave the palace grounds for any reason unless specifically given permission by the emperor. Like, the kind of illegal that ends in death.

They don’t even get a swift death either. Several options are listed for potential punishments from crucifixion to a glorified iron maid to getting eaten by rats . And for what? Taking a step outside? 

One of the amendments under it further restricts harem members specifically from leaving their chambers unless their presence is requested. Which means practically every scene in Love Paradox is illegal in at least four different ways. Not as surprising as it should be.

A game about assassinating the emperor breaking in-world laws? Yeah, no shit. Phil’s just… incredibly disappointed this law exists to begin with. One of his top picks to do away with. It’s easy and giving the harem members more bodily autonomy is incredibly important to him.

Last, well after making an origami butterfly, is the aptly named ‘Taxes’ section. Basically a miscellaneous list. Ridiculous fees litter down the page. A fee per square foot of gardening space, even if it’s within your own home. Fees for collecting rain water at all, and a separate fee according to the amount collected.

Because clearly uneducated citizens are capable of controlling the weather. Then there are the transportation fees. Own a bike? A fee. A wagon? Horse? Donkey? Llama? Fees. There’s a fee to leave the city and enter the city. Some buildings require fees to even get into.

Sanguinis’ nonexistent healthcare laws don’t just stop at not existing either since why would he do that when he could make people pay for existing? Birth a child? A fee. A fee on every birthday even, as a present. If you can’t pay the fee, then it seems that’s how Sanguinis chose to bolster the military.

Not to mention paying to die is now a thing. Fee to reserve a space for a gathering, fee to purchase a spot to bury, fee for cremation if you want that instead, fee for religious blessings required to make sure the corpse doesn’t come back as a zombie, fee if it does become a zombie.

Fee, fee, fee. That word is losing all meaning. Phil massages at his temples, painfully aware that this must be only a fraction of what’s within the book. He closes it for the day, and turns back to the half finished note page.

Quick, practiced hands press folds into shape, slowly forming an origami hat to give to the duck. A sinful hat for a sinful duck, stabbed by a sinful sword, and friends with a sinful butterfly. Damnit, now ‘sinful’ is losing meaning. Death to whoever invented language. Shakespeare? Probably Shakespeare.

Even accelerated healing and goldy blessings can’t stop tension from settling into his joints after a solid thirty combined hours pouring over a lawbook. More than that… maybe closer to forty now? How long was he at it today?

A little before lunch so yeah, closer to forty. The math doesn’t matter enough to register in Phil’s aching mind. Math was one of his favorite subjects but not that much. Really, the only thing Phil was ever interested in in school is the brain and helping others. That made for some pretty mediocre grades.

Lingering aches still bother his wings even after folding them back into place. The desire to fly goes ever stronger, nearly beating out common sense. Maybe tomorrow, Phil promises himself. If he can manage to get to bed without headbutting the balcony, he’ll do it.

“Greetings, Your Imperial Highness, Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis,” the butler acknowledges him as he leaves, “will dinner be available today?” Phil watches him bow with thinly veiled exhaustion.

“Just call me Philza mate,” He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “but yeah, may as well.” To his benefit, the butler doesn’t falter. He’s right alongside Karl in acting somewhat normal around Phil. Not that Karl really counts on precedent.

“Of course, Your Imperial Highness, Philza. What of the harem?” The butler straightens, carrying on through what may as well be a memorized script. It probably is. Hell, it’s probably titled ‘how to survive Sanguinis’.

Great question though. Phil’s tired, he doesn’t need to eat but by god does he want something to eat, and if he has to read one more amendment including the phrase ‘in exclusion or inclusion of’, he may scream. How badly would rule one strain if he says ‘yes’?

“Schlatt?” It’s more a question than an answer. Listen… Listen . Bad idea? Objectively yes. Subjectively, Phil has been here for four days and he kind of wants to meet his favorite character. Sue him. He can control himself!

“This royal butler shall inform master Schlatt.” He bows again, quicker this time, and leaves. Phil is already regretting his decision but, like, meh. Who can really blame him? Anyone who ends up in a video game is practically morally obligated to meet their favorite character. It’s human nature.

Elytran nature? Person nature? Something like that. Phil rubs at his eyes, doing little to dispel the mild dry eye. Not enough of an inconvenience for the healing factor or emotional stress getting to him?

Now to re-find the dining hall, wherever it went. May Sanguinis’ instincts guide him because avoiding it for two days has wiped all conscious memory of the route. Phil takes a glance down the corridor. Let’s see…

…

Bets between Roses are pretty commonplace. There’s nothing to do in the Rose Garden but eat grapes, fuck, and wait so it’s basically their only form of entertainment. Bets can be anything too. Whether or not the bet is even survivable is meant to be part of the fun.

Schlatt has survived a lot of dumb, misplaced, and uninformed bets before. From stealing a hairpin from the Emperor to breaking out of the Rose Garden to hide all the salt in the kitchen, neither of which ended in no less than two dozen lashes and a shiny new golden tooth.

Admittedly, this bet is pretty far up there for their standards, being given by Wilbur is part of the reason. New Roses know the least about the Emperor’s whims and that palace’s rules. His inexperience is obvious everytime he ‘sneaks’ out of the Rose Garden.

In comparison, Schlatt is anything but a new Rose. He’s been here the longest, memories of what lies beyond the palace walls only a faint memory tasting of ash. Scars stain his skin, fighting valiantly against anything that tries to smooth them. Not that Sanguinis ever cared much.

He did at one point. It might have just been a delusion though, replacing his own hands with slightly thinner ones, massaging balms over his skin in an attempt to feel comfort during a time when Roses hated each other and everything else. While parasitically close now, the current state of the Rose Garden is much preferable.

Gold teeth ache against in his jaw, having been lost many times and stuck back in by cruel hands just as many. They ache with regret at having agreed to it. Yet, he was obligated to. Can’t say no to a new Rose like that.

Doors to the dining hall tower above him. Schlatt’s knees ache from standing, far more used to crawling along the floor. Flashes of memories, pikes shoved through his skin to force him to crawl. He picks at the deep round scars.

They might get renewed after this, Schlatt muses. Out of all things, being bet to hug the emperor has to be one of the worst ideas he’s ever heard. Quackity had said it when Schlatt’s voice had died on him.

Maybe if they stopped doubting Wilbur, they wouldn’t be here. But it was so hard too. Schlatt was desperate not to believe his story and somehow just as desperate for it to be true, to believe that those delusions of kindness and grace might turn out real. If it isn’t?

Well, he was already low on hope. Losing a little bit more won’t kill him, not when there’s magic at play to make sure Roses can’t end their lives unless in Sanguinis’ presence. Even then, Schlatt doubts he’ll be allowed.

One of the curses of being a well trained pet. Despite what Wilbur thinks, that’s what it means to be a ‘favorite’. More pain, more lashes, the skin of his arm smooth from being torn off and replaced time and time again, and never being allowed to die. Choking on his own blood and bile and continuing to survive.

Gentleness isn’t a part of it, it can’t be a part of it. Schlatt takes a steadying breath. If it is, he doesn’t know what he’d do with himself, nor what he’d do to others. It scares him. He drops to his knees.

Crawling is a comfort, head dropped to not even glimpse at Sanguinis, staring at the backs of his own hands. One smooth, discolored from the rest of his body, and the other marred with thin scars from the many times the bones had been plucked free to make pens. Schlatt still has one tucked away somewhere in the Rose Garden.

Frigid marble is a balm to struggling nerves, dulling the occasional spark of old, forgotten pains. Muscles push and pull at a calm pace. Not too slow to be punished, not so fast to be shamed for his eagerness. A careful pace learned through trial and error.

Being forced to move like this must have been embarrassing at one point. It certainly was for all the others. Teaching them is always an exercise in patience, though one Schlatt took on with a bitten tongue because their survival is more important than their comfort. Now though? Now his knees ache to be walking.

Walking isn’t something he does much in private either, which might be why. A bad habit of his. He discourages the others from it but it’s so easy to slip into that space a little bit too tired and hurting to figure out how to stand up.

Velvet greets him for once when he finally makes his way to his usual position, lacking much memory of the trip over, and that’s a bit of a surprise. Schlatt usually doesn’t get a pillow. Those are reserved for the newer, less trained Roses. He’s grown used to the constant aching cold of the marble.

Does Sanguinis think he needs to be retrained? Schlatt’s heart skips in his chest, biting his tongue to try and stop his breath from hitching, pushing back memories of ancient stonework and burning silver scarring his skin. He’s not dumb enough to ask.

At last he sees Sanguinis again. It’s been a week and a half since he was last called, which is pretty long for his master. Usually, he gets called at least twice a week. About as much time in between calls as it takes for his wounds to mostly scab over in fact, leaving fresh pink lines.

‘ Like little guides just for me .’ The mocking tone is seared into his brain. Schlatt blinks away the memory again, realizing he lost time when he sees Sanguinis already a quarter done with his meal. Which is… is he just supposed to sit here?

Eye candy isn’t the worst role he’s taken on, though it is an undercurrent in everything he has to do. It’s usually never the end all be all of his tasks. But his master hasn’t spoken to him yet. All he does is stare.

Schlatt rolls his shoulders back, puffing out his chest where thin gold chains line around his ‘impressive’ tits. He can do eye candy though. Just sit still, zone out, stare back at Sanguinis as alluringly as possible until he’s addressed. Unless his master is just going to crack his jaw open without warning. Equal possibilities are important to consider.

Master is tired today, those hundred years of experience tell him. Sanguinis rarely shows much of anything unless he’s in the height of sadistic pleasure so figuring out his expressions is a skill.

A weight sits behind his eyes, a slight line up his brow, and the barest flake of skin where sharp talons scratched at his temple, already healed. It might have something to do with the whispers. Schlatt’s well versed in whispers, yet another manner of survival.

For one reason or another, Sangunis holed up in his office over the past couple days, only seen when getting dressed or the twenty minutes he spends at breakfast with Theloquin. It’s making the servants nervous. Rumors of him planning to kill his own son or institute an even stricter law he otherwise couldn’t figure out fly about plainly.

Plainly if you know where to look. Charlie actually knew before Schlatt, which made an oddly familiar pride warm his heart. This newest group of Roses truly has potential to survive the harsh conditions

If they can ignore that little voice that tells them it isn’t worth it. What is their life worth when they will never leave? Where bloodshed is an amusement and torture lurks around every corner? When the only time they’ll step into the courtyard is to be buried amongst the rose garden?

Questions he couldn’t answer for Quackity, fresh from having the scales of his wings plucked, or Foolish, who had to bury a set of twins that tried in vain to protect each other. The questions he can’t even answer for himself.

“Schlatt, will you come closer?” Sanguinis beckons, voice light. Pins stab along his spine. Light tone, likely a more casual affair, like carving out his breasts for tomorrow’s meal or perhaps picking through his bones for later refining. Maybe cutting off his ears? No, that seemed more like a one off interest than a regular thing.

“Of course, Master,” Schlatt purrs. He hardly recognizes his own voice, a tone only taken in Sanguinis presence, but a change he’s reluctantly used to. Drop the register, add that grit more fitting for the native language he only gets to use in secret, and maybe put in a rolled r for flare.

“Why do you sound like that?” Sanguinis asks before he’s even halfway there. Muscle memory keeps him moving even as the base of his skull freezes over, wiping out his train of thought in a blizzard.

“It’s all for you, Master,” Schlatt chuckles, nothing amusing. Does he not want Schlatt to speak anymore? Or is he going to have to figure out a new voice? No, this is terrible. Schlatt barely remembers how to stop speaking like that in Sanguinis’ presence.

“I’d rather you not,” Sanguinis hums. Right, okay, no more speaking. That’s doable. Schlatt kneels at Sanguinis’ feet, much more comfortable on the marble than the cushion. A hand reaches out.

Pausing mid air, Sanguinis staring at his own hand in contemplation. Surprise? Master sighs, low and heavy. Schlatt is a good boy, he remains still and acts as though nothing is happening. All pain is temporary.

It nestles harmlessly between his horns. A soft warmth, contrasting against how cold every inch of Schlatt’s skin always is. Demon biology, meant for lava baths, not marble but Schlatt knows better than to ask for anything. Foolish asked to garden, now he buries the corpses.

Sanguinis tilts back his head, and Schlatt goes along, not in the mood for a broken neck. Being forced to meet Master’s eyes might be worse actually. Even if the cold blue seems warmer, a sky just before sunset that he rarely gets to witness through the Rose Garden’s stained glass windows. He grins, all teeth.

“Eat?” Master phrases it like an offer but it can’t be. Schlatt’s mouth waters at the rare steak stuck to the end of Master’s fork, held a bare few inches from his face. When’s the last time he got to eat meat? He thought he was banned.

The carnivore in his mind takes the wheel before he can second think. Being a primarily meat-eating hybrid truly makes the instincts desperate for even a chance that this might be real. Wilbur’s story suddenly seems like it could be true. Hand fed by the emperor, what an experience.

Flavor explodes over his tongue. Juicy, chewy meets that tears easily beneath his coyote-esque teeth, spilling a little past his lips as the fork is hurriedly pulled out. It barely occurs to him he’d nearly bitten through the metal.

Years of experience stop the satisfied groan from leaving him. Master doesn’t like the noise. He lets his eyes slip shut instead, trying to chew slowly to savor this while he can. He fails.

Hunger reignites in his stomach, a feeling he thought he’d lost forever ago. Schlatt takes every bite offered without question. It’s a lot, so very much. Nearly the entire steak, a careful part of him notes. As if Sanguinis chose to eat everything but it.

Living on the edge of starving for close to sixty five years means that, at least for his species, eating the entire steak isn’t nearly enough. That infernal part of him that always gets him in trouble begs for more. Tear into Sanguinis for it if he has to.

Tear into himself . He’s done it before on the worst of nights. When everyone else is asleep, baring his arm and chewing until he reaches bone to try and make the ache go away. Laying his arm in the fountain for hours so it could heal. Expertly hiding how the side effects made him feverish and unsteady.

Just about ten years ago, he’d stopped feeling at all, now it’s back. Schlatt feels the desperate hunger threatening to tear him in two. He’d cry over it if he didn’t know better. Oh.

Oh . That’s what’s going on here. Sanguinis noticed, didn’t he? Master knows everything, of course he’d notice this. Schlatt swallows the last bite, resting back on his haunches. Don’t lean forward, master prefers to see his tits, not have them hidden against his knees.

No better time than now to do the bet then. Punishments always helped to take the edge off, sharp burning pains drowning out the dull hunger pains. He just needs to… Schlatt curls his toes, stretches his feet, tenses each muscle going up his legs. Right, he knows how to stand. He’s not incompetent.

“Now, if you would- oh! ” Sanguinis mumbles, cut off as Schlatt stands quickly and wraps his arms around his master’s chest, locking his arms just above the joint of his wings. He can’t quite hide how wound up the touch makes him.

Tension makes it hurt more. Relaxing now would really be smarter, even if that means he’d fall over without the conscious awareness of his legs. Oh, and he should definitely let go before master gets too mad.

“ Schlatt ,” Sanguinis says… pretty intensely. Not a familiar kind of intense- a loud trill echoes in Schlatt’s ear. Master sweeps forward, plucking Schlatt easily from the ground, settling them in the same chair to let Sanguinis curl around him.

Curl! An honest to the gods, wings bumping the table, head buried in Schlatt’s chest curl. Like Wilbur and Foolish do except a million times more dangerous. Each feather brushing him is a reminder that they can be used as knives and he is not safe here.

“I was just going to ask if you were still hungry . No need to be so stressed out about it. You don’t have to do anything at all for it, okay? Just sit there for me,” Sanguinis coos. Now hold on there. Wilbur didn’t say anything about these bird-elytran noises.

Logically, Schlatt knows master had to be capable of them since everyone’s heard Theloquin make similar sounds before. The order to ‘sit’ clicks in his head, falling boneless.

Sanguinis’ sounds are a lot different from Theloquin’s, because he’s an adult and all. Fuller, somehow. Brighter in tone, ringing happily through the room, not at all befitting of a tyrant drowning in a sea of blood and bone. Since when did he actually make these sounds?

Again, master shows off his strength, effortlessly turning Schlatt around without any input from him. Not that Schlatt can get his limbs to respond at all. Hard to ignore orders hardwired into his skull. Both convenient, can’t ignore an order if it’s instinctive to follow, and inconvenient, since Schlatt can’t exactly stop doing it whenever.

“You eat as much as you want, okay? All of this is just for you,” Sanguinis chirps. Several trays are set on the table, as much meat as Schlatt could physically consume. Pounds of it making sinful promises.

And all Sanguinis does is cuddle him from behind, cooing happily into the side of his neck. Strong arms wrap around his waist, holding him in place. Foreboding wings make sure the only thing he can see is them, a quiet threat, and the meat in front of him.

He swallows, letting his master press the first bite to his lips. What the nether kind of test is this?

Not a test at all, apparently. Schlatt obediently eats everything before him before being sent back to the Rose Garden, untouched and unharmed. Even stranger, he feels full , energized. Schlatt doesn’t know the last time he’s had this much energy. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

Magic finally being free from keeping him alive just makes it worse, pushing incessantly against his skin to be used. Schlatt stumbles into the Rose Garden and falls into the nearest pillow pile. Just like Wilbur, he’s swarmed.

Just like Wilbur, he talks .

…

Phil sits on the bedroom balcony that night, feet swinging in the cool breeze, roughly estimating the distance between him and the roof tiles before. That dinner was… almost a success.

General tiredness fuzzes the edges of his mind yet some mixture of his immortality and invulnerability don’t let him sleep. Or just general insomnia from stress. All of the above.

On one hand, Phil gave into the instincts when Schlatt randomly, and without clear reason, hugged him. On the other hand, it didn’t end with them fucking. By god was it a close thing. That’s at least a half a point in favor of his self control.

It would be a full point if his dick hadn’t betrayed him. Phil flops back against the marble, staring at the stars and trying to will his erection away. They’re really pretty stars, so much clearer than anything in the city. More fitting of a picture than anything on a planet with an atmosphere.

Swirling purple, magenta, and blue glitters above, dotted with unfamiliar constellations. As much as he tries, he can’t pick out a single familiar one. No big dipper, no Orion's belt, no gemini. Nothing.

Not helping distract him either. What kind of insanely high sex drive does Sanguinis have? Admittedly, he does manage to keep up with five people regularly, and Techno irregularly to which the thought actually blunts the mood. Doesn’t do away with it but the protective instincts crowd away at the horny.

Terrible implications there, for Phil right now. He is just… never going to not get hard in the harem’s presence, is he? Unless he’s wrong and just making assumptions. More motivation to find an elytran biology textbook.

Cold air nips at his superheated skin. Phil huffs, thwacking his wings against the marble in annoyance, getting barely more than a sting before his healing factor kicks in. Can’t be horny if he’s annoyed.

That’s a lie, yes he can, and he is graduating with honors. If only he could ignore it and go to sleep… Phil chews his bottom lip. Maybe if he deals with it, he can rest? Relieve tension? He just has to try not to fantasize about anything. Go through the motions and all.

Phil scoots back from the ledge, fleeing to the safety and privacy of the nest. Even if no one will see him up on the balcony. He’s not big into exhibitionism. Nestling into the dark and quiet of the nest makes what he’s about to do a little less heinous.

Fabric falls to the wayside, giving Phil his first real opportunity to explore his new body in full. The nest is too warm for a shiver but he does anyway. It’s… interesting to look down and see someone wholly unfamiliar.

Wings splay behind him. Phil runs a hand across his collarbone, squishing at strong pectorals. Each scrape of claws sparks another shiver down his spine. Beneath, new muscles he’s never had before sit. Sort of like another set of pecs but smaller with no nipple, designed to suppose his wings.

A sharp gasp leaves him, the skin sensitive, shifting restlessly as his wings flutter behind him. His dick gives an eager jolt. Phil slides his palms lower. A pudgy stomach with love handles and a trail leading down even lower. Strong muscle rests beneath the fat.

He squishes himself. Admittedly, he was rather chubby before but the undeniable strength beneath is new. It extends to his legs as well. Thick, powerful thighs hiding their abilities in a soft exterior. Fat gives easily under the press of his fingers.

Coarse wisps of hair along the posterior of his legs. A hitch of breath, scraping up the inside of his thigh. Phil rubs along it, the transition from hairy outside to much more smooth, sensitive inside. He swallows thickly.

The new dick between his legs is massive, a miracle Wilbur could walk the next day and making him wonder if he should’ve stayed behind to help just in case. Just another layer of guilt.

No, no thinking about the harem or Techno or how pretty Schlatt was, quiet pleased sounds leaving him with every bite, sitting in his lap. Not while doing this. 

Pleasure provides a good, immediate distraction, finally touching himself. His fingers strain around the circumference. As wide as his wrist? Thicker? Proportionally long, though trying to estimate makes his eyes cross.

Slowly, he slides his hand up. Even dry, the pleasure makes him shudder, needy needy instincts trilling in the back of his throat. Precum dribbles from the head, just a bare bit wider than most the length, yet a little bit smaller than the base. Phil squeezes, sliding his thumb through the growing mess.

A moan trips from his mouth at touch. Curiosity manages to pull his hand back, a barely formed memory of how painfully sweet Wilbur had been. Phil licks his hand clean, expecting a salty flavor.

It’s not. He has no idea what it is, but it’s not. Maybe… spicy? No. Just… leaving a tingling heat in the back of his mouth when he exhales. Phil spits in his hand, half trying to get rid of the taste, half not caring. 

Without any other form of lube, it isn’t much help. Phil doesn’t need help, he just needs this to be over with. He grips hard at his dick. Each pump leaves him a little more cross eyed.

Like months of a dry spell rather than only a few days, his hips jumping to meet his hand. A nigh unnatural sensitivity, or normal for elytrans. Phil moans. Thoughts flee his head.

Claws rake along the bottom. They trail a vein all the way to the base, Phil bucks hard into the friction. As he gets lost in pleasure, his mind starts to drift.

Schlatt really looked so pretty back there. All pliant and trusting in his arms, making those shy sounds, embarrassment twitching fluffy ram ears against his head. Phil had longed to run his fingers through them, nip the edges, soothe kisses over the existing nicks.

His tail was adorable too. Patting against Phil’s stomach, just as soft looking. Phil groans. Is it as soft as it looks? Sensitive? Could Phil press his mouth to the base, run his fingers through the fur, and watch Schlatt fall apart?

Watch sharp teeth bite at his mouth to keep back his sounds, the same ones he tried so hard to hide. Let him give up. Let them dig into Phil’s throat instead. His eyes roll back, hips jerking as he cums.

Sticky cum paints his stomach, his chest, and lands on the blankets. Phil rides his way through it, wings puffed back and presenting. His chest shudders as he comes down. Breath huffs from him.

The lack of hands to press down pretty offered feathers leaves him cold, unwanted, and alone. Phil pulls his hands off himself, dick softening and no longer an angry red. Fuck, he just said he wasn’t going to think about any of them.

What does he do? Fantasize about Schlatt falling apart in his lap. What a joke. Phil flops forward, uncaring of the mess, and traps himself in the darkness of his wings. His nest is big enough that no configuration is too long or wide to brush the sides.

Big enough for far more than just him. Big enough for the flock that doesn’t want him, and understandably so. Phil groans, beating back those stupid instincts with a mental stick. From breathtakingly horny to depressingly sad, what a shift.

A shift supported by his own emotions just a little. The shame of giving in, of objectifying Schlatt like that, even in the safety of his own mind, rankles. He really needs to get his mind off of things.

Maybe it’s time to learn to fly? He could teach Tommy. Just him, the son he’s trying to stop flinching everytime he moves, and no mates to speak of. It’s a great idea.

Just one that leaves the elytran inside of him feeling so crushingly alone.

Notes:

Were you prepared for Schlatt's pov? My beta readers weren't and I was actively telling them about him before I even wrote it (but, like, in a good way). There were a couple tears, a lot of rage towards Sanguinis too, but apparently I made up for it with Phil getting hot an heavy so we vibe.

I hope this chapter flows well. It's a lot of worldbuilding and exposition in the first pov, even if I'm just going over the basics of what Phil learned, but I needed to give Phil a base of knowledge before he goes about fixing them and you guys needed to learn too! It makes a lot more sense now why the revolution exists.

Like, yeah, Sanguinis is an abusive asshole but so were quite a few rulers and they didn't get assassinated. Their shitty decisions have to affect the populace. So, here's how Sanguinis is fucking up the empire as a whole in more detail. I'll try and avoid any other large chunks of lore going forward if y'all don't like it. Even if you do, a lot of it will be brought up as the situation calls for it. We just needed an understanding of the rough state of the empire right now.

Hybrid List:

Philza: Elytran

Tommy: Elytran

Quackity: Dragon, specifically a gold dragon, like Tommy in my other thing.

Charlie: Slime. more slime than human.

Schlatt: Demon hybrid, the oldest.

Foolish: Elemental, but like periodic table of elements, specifically gold.

Techno: Piglin hybrid, a brute.

Chapter 7: Whispers Of Freedom Lie To Your Heart

Summary:

Learning to fly is a difficult task, something so instinctively understood yet so dangerous to get wrong. No other Elytrans exist to help, but Phil refuses to let that be the end. He will help these people no matter the cost. Yet, the tasks left to do only grow by the day. Each even semi completed task only adds on several more. It's tiring, truly. An avalanche of responsibilities.

But he still wants to try. Phil drowns beneath the weight, head only sinking further beneath the surface, but he has to try. He knows with desperation that if he doesn't, nothing will change. They will kill him, the game will end, but is that so bad? Would dying truly be so terrible if he can at least change a few lives along the way?

Honey attracts more bees than vinegar, or so they say. Each act of kindness is isolating, fighting expectations and himself to remain kind, to help when no one wants him around. It all goes silent when Phil walks in the room. They don't want him here. They never will.

Phil's greatest weakness is that he never stops trying.

Notes:

Had to take a quick break while writing this to figure out the Quackity pov but it's okay! Got some bad news about my teeth( about 2k before insurance worth) and used all those negative emotions to fuel my writing. I think it turned out great!

This chapter did turn out longer than I thought it would though. I just felt unfinished after the flight lesson so I tacked on a Foolish POV, which really helped to round it out. Poor Phil trying so hard, truly. Makes you wonder if I'm ever going to give him a break. Will I? Well, "it gets worse before it gets better" *is* a tag. It's sitting *right there*.

But how could this possibly get worse Wyrm! I hear all of you ask? You'll see :)

TW: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse (mental, physical, financial, sexual), Implied/Referenced Torture, Self-Hate, Dissociation, Mild Suicidal Ideation, Potentially Explicit Hypothermia, Implied/Reference Starvation, Casual Expectance (and Acceptance) of Abuse, Mildly Explicit Panic Attack, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Mention of Drugs

Metal clatters against a porcelain plate, Tommy’s quiche immediately forgotten at Phil’s question. Phil raises a teacup to his lips, glaring at the offending breakfast item, glad that he can hopefully change that tomorrow since he figured out how to order tea. A nice, black tea with plenty of honey.

“Forgive me, Father, I am rather tired after last night. Do you mind repeating?” Tommy’s fledgling claws, barely peeking more than a centimeter past his fingertip, scrape against the table. His son stares down at them. Tommy isn’t quite sweating but Phil can tell anyway that he’s not used to asking questions.

“I thought it would be nice if we had a flying lesson today,” Phil repeats, “unless you’d rather not? I’m sure Tech- General Blade wouldn’t mind the usual lessons being reinstated.” There, an out. No need to answer yes.

“No, no. That’s alright Father. Thank you for your generosity.” Tommy’s head doesn’t lift. Robotic movements shove another bite of quiche into his mouth. Phil winces in time with Tommy. Not good enough of an out them.

“There’s no need to thank me,” Phil denies. He takes another sip of his tea, thinking. Okay, Tommy is clearly uncomfortable, which should be expected. A week of, at most, twenty minute long meetings is hardly enough to build the trust of most traumatized children or teens even when you’re an unrelated third party.

Which means he needs a related third party to help Tommy relax. Usually, he’d go with a relative in these cases, an aunt or uncle, usually someone who took the child in when their parents proved to be less than great. That’s not really an option since Phil knows of no aunts, uncles, cousins, or anything.

Except, technically, wouldn’t Techno count? He still remembers them curled up in the library in uncanny detail. Not to mention, it was a big part of his route that they were close. Who else?

One tends to be enough but, in this case, he might want someone else. Preferably, someone who can fly too just in case Tommy thinks Phil is going to drop kick him from the sky or something. The idea sounds ridiculous in his head. Still a chance Sanguinis would try.

Quackity then? A love interest Phil knows very little about but his sprite did have wings. It would make sense that, if allowed outside, Quackity could fly. He just… isn’t allowed to. Phil bites back a grimace.

A horrible existence, to be capable of flying yet kept from the sky. Instincts roil in his stomach, complaining at the mere thought, and for good reason. Even birds in captivity are allowed to fly. Clipping wings is considered inhumane in his old world and the birds there aren’t even people.

“General Blade and Quackity will be joining us today,” Phil informs both Tommy and, by nature of also being in the room, the servants. He feels a couple scamper out behind him. The dispersed air of their movements brushes against his feathers. Phil pauses. Wait. Are they that sensitive? That’s…  huh.

“Yes Father, as you say Father.” Tommy nods, wings giving a solid twitch against his back. Okay, the knowledge doesn’t seem to have helped. Maybe it will get better once they’re actually outside? Hopefully?

Breakfast passes quickly after that, yet slowly at the same time. It’s more Phil waiting on Tommy than anything else. He doesn’t need to eat and parfaits are looking less and less appetizing by the day. He’ll ask the chefs to make pancakes.

The moment Tommy’s plate is cleared away, Phil stands, watching his son jump to his feet. He’s… much smaller than Phil thought. For the first time, they’re actually standing side by side. Tommy barely reaches Phil’s chest. On the smaller side for a fourteen year old. Well, a fourteen year old human that is.

“Shall we?” Phil tries to break the awkward silence. Tommy just nods, falling into step beside Phil. Wings pulled tight, shoulders back, head down. Submission , Phil categorizes. Trying to remain small and out of sight without being ‘rude’.

Marble makes up the pathways of the courtyard Phil’s feet lead him to, another thing he’s quickly becoming sick of. Marble this, marble that, marble everything . What happened to a good old hardwood? Phil would kill for hardwood floors actually, anything but cold marble.

Large grassy areas are outlined with thick, healthy rose bushes, blooming in vibrant reds. Gaps between the bushes hold more pathways, curving through and around bush after bush. Like the Red Queen’s garden, from Alice in wonderland. Though he’d hope these flowers weren’t painted red.

Techno waits for them at the entrance to one of the largest grass zones. The marble breaks into ancient stonework, leading towards a twisting bloodwood tree, white bark stained red. Branches curl into each other, fanning out eternally autumnal leaves. 

“Good morning, Crownsoul Crow Philza.” Techno bows. Phil is going to scream. This was a horrible, terrible, poorly thought out idea. What was he thinking? Techno stands, hair having barely touched the floor.

“Good morning, General Blade.” Just use his title, not his name. Distance between him and Phil, distance . He trills quietly, strangled in his throat. Techno looks so pretty today. White top pulled tight over his muscles, a vest in place of his odd armor cinching at his waist, and deep crimson pants that do not need to be so tight. Holy hell.

Phil is going  straight to hell for these thoughts. God will not want him- okay, well, the gods of this world literally traded for his soul like a pokemon card but that doesn’t count . He takes a shaking breath.

“I see Quackity hasn’t arrived yet,” Phil changes the topic. He rips his eyes from Techno, that vest does not need to outline him so neatly. Focus on something else. No being horny in front of his son. Actually, huh, that does settle some part of his instincts. Not a lot, but some.

“The Rose Garden is quite far from here,” Techno shrugs, “No good routes between the two.” Phil doubts that. He can see the harem building, Rose Garden? That thing from here. The glass roof is quite distinctive.

“So you say,” Phil hums. Oh well, it’s not like he can measure the internal route, even if he’s mostly convinced Techno is lying. Let him. Everyone lies to Sanguinis here, at least Techno is lying to protect someone. His gaze lands on Tommy.

‘Okay? ’ He chirps at his son, realizing after a moment that it was not english. Tommy startles, only visible in a puff of feathers and flinch, blue eyes dart over, drop to the ground, back to Phil. Phil just keeps smiling.

‘Okay ,’ Tommy chirps back so quietly, Phil can barely hear it. Happy warmth bleeds down from his skull and pricks at his skin. A completely over the top reaction to his son chirping at him. At least it’s fairly harmless compared to the mating instinct.

‘Love you!’ Phil coos. The fuzz around his heart, feeling like it may explode, tamps down on the more logical part saying that it’s a bit soon for ‘i love you’s with any of these people. Except Tommy’s face just scrunches slightly.

“Apologies Father, I don’t know that one,” Tommy mumbles. Shame… His son feels shame at not knowing something, maybe just a little fear at the admittance, mostly just a lot of acceptance, awaiting punishment. Warmth in Phil’s chest freezes over into horror.

Tommy doesn’t know ‘I love you’. Well, to be fair, Phil wouldn’t have known either without the instincts bouncing through his skull. Except for Tommy not knowing means that Sanguinis either never taught him or beat love so far out of Tommy’s head that it no longer registers. Phil will find a way to bring him back and kill him himself .

“I’ll explain later,” Phil sighs. He’d like to explain now but Quackity chose to arrive so they should really get this lesson underway. Soft footsteps pad along the marble, quiet by nature of being barefoot, but still displacing the air against his wings. Phil turns to greet him.

‘Mate! ’ his instincts cheer, also taking the first opportunity for a distraction. The mental whiplash is a distraction all on its own. He resists the urge to physically shake it out of his head.

Quackity walks towards them quickly. Dark hair absorbs all of the sun’s light, short on the sides and long in the back, seeming to be made of the void itself. Thin scars wrap around equally thin limbs, marking spiraling patterns like a snake coiling around its victim. 

Phil finds himself drawn to an odd lichtenberg scar on Quackity’s chest, a much warmer red tone against his tanned skin. That wasn’t on the sprite. But, at least, the wings Phil remembers are.

Gold scales glimmer and shine with every shift of muscle. Talons sit on the points of the clearly draconic wings, the thin membrane of them a paler yellow to the scales. Phil’s almost robbed of the sight of them by chains straining over his body.

‘ A walking birdcage ,’ his instincts trill in rising anger, recognizing what Phil does not. Quackity’s wings sit outstretched from his body, each twitch pulling further at already painfully tight silver chains. They make Quackity look smaller than he is.

His small mate, easily a foot shorter. Quackity kneels at his feet. Tiny, weak, and chained. Clipped wings in the only way a dragon can have them. Phil seethes . Anger, molten hot in his veins. Sanguinis would dare?

Invisible magic lashes out, only seen as it hits the chains. Black rot clings to it in patches. Quackity flinches, wings jerk. Metal snaps . The chains clatter to the floor in chunks where the rot takes them and turns them into nothing. Wisps of black as on the air.

Shit .

…

Aching muscles scream at Quackity’s back, the pain long since numbed now returning. It was easy to ignore with the chains on. No one mentioned the chains, even the newest Roses knew not to. If no one mentioned the chains, Quackity wouldn’t have to think about the chains.

He wouldn’t have to think about his wings constantly splayed out in offering, muscles protesting and atrophying under the lack of use and constant strain. It never helped the tiring nights. Potion laced water never fully took away a pain he slowly couldn’t remember how he lived without. It was normal . The chains were normal .

The chains are gone. Silver clatters against marble, only there for a second before magic erodes them again, wisps of black smoke and brimstone. Sanguinis’ magic, sharp daggers over his skin every time Quackity senses it, leaves as quickly as it comes. Sanguinis anger leaves as quickly as it comes.

Quackity can barely comprehend that anger leaving so soon. When Sanguinis is angry, it’s pointed, targeted, never without a goal. That’s why those under his rage rarely survive. Quackity’s wings shake behind him with remnants of magic dancing over his skin.

Agony rips through him. Freed muscles finally stretch, bringing only pain. Just like he forgot a life without the chains, the muscles have forgotten how to move without ripples of fresh, burning pain. Quackity can’t bite back his gasp.

Limbs refuse to move in any way, whether to stand and run or to press forward into Sanguinis’, begging him to release Quackity from each terrible spark. He brought this on, he can fix it. A horrible thought brought about only by his torn state.

Words mumble into his ears, meaningless syllables. Quackity tries to pull his wings back against his back, the movement they’ve been kept from for so long, but the muscles refuse to engage. Slumping provides him no relief. 

Does he even deserve relief? He must have done something to deserve this punishment, this fleeting hope at freedom torn away by his body’s traitorous reactions. Quackity’s chest heaves a silent sob, unable to get his vocal cords to work.

Cold skin presses against the scales of his shoulder, searing yet soothing. Quackity shakes beneath it. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts . Why does it have to hurt? What did he do wrong ? He’s been trying, he promises he has. Why can’t everything just be okay ?

“Quackity?” Sanguinis voice pierces through the fog in his head. An insane part of him thinks he might sound concerned . The dragon flame burning in his chest warms at the thought no matter how little chance it has to be true. Quackity presses up into the hand.

Funny how pain can drive a man insane. Even a dragon like himself, built for fire and war and an immortal life amongst riches, can fall to the veil of ‘too much too fast’. Quackity quivers, trying to pull his wings in again.

Just twitching the muscles sends another wave of agony. The muscles don’t want to move. All other thoughts are wiped from his mind except for when will this be over . Moments stretch into eternities. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Quackity begs, unable to do anything else. He squeezes his eyes shut, it does nothing. The hand at his shoulder slips down to his bicep, another hand settling on the other one, both so cold . Duck your head, don’t meet those eyes, don’t think stop thinking it hurts.

A hand rests against his wing, Quackity instinctively freezes, awaiting the tear of claws over the thin membrane. Except… it never comes. Even after all those seconds, minutes, hours? Lurid pain takes time out of his hands.

But then the pain just dulls . His mind clears, finally aware of his own babbling, teeth clicking shut to silence the noises he knows only annoys Sanguinis. Chilly fog settles into the nerves around his wings. Like… a giant ice pack. But less uncomfortable.

Dragons run hot, dragon flame in their veins and all. Yet, they’re also cold blooded. Cold fights with heat most days, struggling to keep up against the marble, let alone the zones specifically for cold weather hybrids. Most days he can never get warm. All he can do is cling to whoever is warmest at night and hope he doesn’t somehow develop frostbite.

Most days, that’s Schlatt. The demon hybrid runs just as hot but is warm blooded, lucky bastard, although all his time in the palace has left the guy in a near permanent stage of almost-frostbite. Basically, they’re both doomed to be uncomfortable as Nether.

But this cold doesn’t fight the fire in his chest. Quackity takes an unimpeded breath, mint valiantly trying to cover up that familiar brimstone aftertaste. Sanguinis’ magic works around his own, dampening the pain without getting into a battle of wills with a dragon.

Since when could he do that? Since when did he care to learn? Sanguinis is invulnerable . Quackity has it under some good fucking evidence that the bastard can’t’ feel pain so the fact he can numb Quackity’s makes… no sense.

“Quackity,” Sanguinis says firmly, “look at me.” Against his better judgment, Quackity looks up. Sanguinis stares back, raising a hand to gently tilt his head to either side. Frigid blue eyes burn over his skin. Talons scrape his unprotected lower jaw teasingly, knowing full well how easy it would be to pierce through, to rip it from his body.

“ What the fuck was that? ” Quackity breathes, voice shaking, uncertain what exactly his question is about. The glorified healing? The chains breaking at all? Even at his kindest, Sanguinis never went so far as to remove them. Quackity finally tucks his wings against his back. The cool relief persists.

“Perhaps I made a mistake,” Sanguinis hums. He pulls back, hand leaving Quackity’s jaw unharmed. Head unsupported, Quackity lets it fall back down. It’s odd to say he barely notices, lasered into Sanguinis’ words and the sheer novelty of how free his wings feel. Focusing on anything else is… hard.

“I should have considered that before bringing you out here but I didn’t. My apologies.” That soft, gentle hand brushes hair from over Quackity’s face. What- sorry? Did Sanguinis just say sorry? To Quackity ? When’s the last time Sanguinis said sorry to anyone ?

“You rest, don’t worry about anything else,” Sanguinis assures him, what the fuck? Quackity stiffens, swept up into Sanguinis’ iron-clad arms, unable to fight back even if he wanted to against the sheer strength. He stares into Sanguinis’ chest. White noise blurs out his thoughts.

He’s set back down on soft grass and the base of one of the many bloodwood trees. Quackity’s been told they all have stories but this one abandons him. Probably because he hasn’t been outside in a few years. Like, at least a decade. 

“Stay here for now. I wouldn’t want you to be hurt by a poorly done landing.” Sanguinis smiles at him. Closed lip, not showing any sharp teeth, and thin eyes nearly closing. It’s… fuck why is that cute? Sunlight glitters off golden hair. That man is not a fucking hoard, instincts . What the hell.

This is not Sanguinis behavior. It’s Sanguinis magic , no one else quite matches the heat burning in the back of Quackity’s throat with each taste of brimstone. So like, what the fuck? Is this possession? No, the magic is a one to one match. Just because he didn’t know Sanguinis knew these spells doesn’t mean he’s possessed.

So then what? Quackity stares after Sanguinis, shares a long look with Techno. The poor general seems just as discomforted and confused, if more mild. Techno jerks a sharp look in Sanguinis direction, the emperor’s back turned to talk to his son. Quackity just shrugs, shakes his head.

Nope, no magical interference that Quackity can tell, not unless Sanguinis fucked himself up. Techno’s frown deepens. Quackity tilts his head. Techno looks back at Sanguinis for a long moment, shakes his head.

Wait, really? He leans forward, flickering his eyes over to Sanguinis. Techno shrugs back, shaking his head again, which is somehow more wild than being bridal carried beneath a tree. Sanguinis hasn’t touched Techno at all.

Quackity had to check. Not even the Roses want Techno to join their number, knowing it wouldn’t make his treatment any better, just worse. So they have to check in on Sanguinis’ attempts at ‘seduction’. Except… Sanguinis hasn’t seduced Techno recently.

It’s hard to get exact numbers without moving too much and drawing the bastard’s attention. That shake could be ‘not today’ or ‘not in a week’. Judging but the lessened tension in Techno’s shoulders, even if he still refuses to be within five feet of Sanguinis, Quackity’s leaning towards ‘a week’.

Does that mean the emperor is finally losing interest in Techno? That’s… good. Quackity hugs his knees to his chest. He resolutely does not think of what just happened to him. Even if it lines up pretty well with Schlatt’s story, and Wilbur’s. Oh, Sanguinis probably carried Wilbur to that room.

Oh, Wilbur is not going to be happy about that. Quackity only barely is and that’s just because he doesn’t know how well his legs would work after all that. Even in his case of necessity, the skin Sanguinis touched roils in complaint. Goosebumps prickle, inviting him to scratch the feeling from his skin. Quackity doesn’t. He can’t. 

He can’t scratch, can’t question this, can’t think about this. Even if his honor as a dragon demands he do something about the demeaning behavior, he can’t . There’s nothing he can do. Quackity has to value his life over his instincts.

No hoard for him. No mate. No standings strong and proud. Sanguinis appreciates none of it. Quackity takes a deep, shaking breath, and pulls his wings even tighter. Focus on the novelty of free movement. 

Maybe if he’s good enough, one day he’ll be allowed to fly again. Bitter jealousy bubbles in his chest, Tommy taking his first few flaps, getting only a couple feet off the ground with his testing. Maybe one day. Quackity lies to himself because the lies are more reasonable than hope .

…

Freedom flickers between his feathers, offsetting that instinctual fear from that little part of his brain still more human than Elytran screaming at him he’s going to fall and die. Birds are physically incapable of fearing heights but Phil’s brain sure is trying. He focuses on the wind.

‘Calm, safe, calm, ’ Phil churrs, holding Tommy safely to his chest. His son clings to him for the first time in… well, possibly ever. If his instincts are right, he’s never held Tommy like this. Much less from a hundred feet in the air.

“That’s right, splay your wings, glide with me,” Phil encourages. Is he taking this entirely from that one hangliding class he’s taken? Yes, yes he is. Shut up about it. It barely works with all the changes he has to make for the fact he literally has wings right now.

“Are you sure? We’re really high up,” Tommy chirps back nervously. It’s the most Tommy’s dared to speak back to him. Wonderful progress. Phil is so proud of him. His grin aches at his cheeks.

“I’ll catch you if you fall,” Phil promises. He counts each beat of his wings, trying his best to keep a level altitude. It’s really hard to teach something his body just instinctively seems to know. Phil’s just glad no one’s gotten hurt so far. Unless you count his fuck up with Quackity, which wasn’t technically a part of the lesson.

Tommy spares him a glance, his doubt so thick that it hurts . Phil’s grin dies a little. No trust yet, only barely enough to question Phil at all. But it’s still progress. Phil can’t get discouraged just because it’s slow. People who recover fast are rare, if they are even truly recovering at all.

“Okay,” Tommy huffs quietly. Beautiful fluffy wings spread behind him, adult feathers slowly growing in patches of red and black against the white down. Down isn’t good enough for true flight, Phil’s certain, but Tommy should be good to glide. Baby birds can glide… right?

Welp, too late now to question himself and it’s not like he has another Elytran around to tell him what to do. Tommy lets go. Phil just gives him a little push so the wind won’t carry him right back into Phil’s chest.

A breath of relief leaves him when Tommy’s wings do manage to catch the wind. It’s awkward, Tommy’s first attempt leaving him struggling to maintain much altitude. Phil does his best to remain roughly level, landing first. It takes less than a minute for Tommy to make it a hundred feet down.

Phil moves quickly as Tommy approaches the ground. His son tries to land on his feet but, predictably, underestimates just how much force is needed and the angle necessary to properly land. Tommy tumbles directly into Phil’s arms. No falling on his face like Phil did.

“Good,” Phil praises, “A wonderful first attempt.” Before he can even recall his better judgment, he rustles Tommy’s hair. Tommy’s wings puff behind him. Mantled, startled, scared? Just a little. Then again, from Tommy’s point of view it was a barely controlled fall.

“...Thank you, Father,” Tommy speaks, straightening but not moving away. Not that he… probably can. Phil blinks, realizing he has an arm wrapped around Tommy’s waist like a vice grip. He clears his throat. Tommy backs up the moment Phil lets go.

“Landings are harder than they look,” Phil distracts himself with teaching, “Despite what would otherwise seem smart, you need to land with your feet in front of you, heel first. If you land too fast or at the wrong angle, the momentum will carry you into the ground.” 

Doesn’t he know that from experience, rug burn sucks even with a healing factor. Phil definitely didn’t practice going up and landing from his balcony several times this morning. Nope, not at all, that would be silly. But a smart kind of silly.

“Luckily, we are on grass, so the fall wouldn’t have been too painful even if I hadn’t caught you.” Which is exactly why he took them out onto one of the grassy patches. Even the idea of accidentally landing in a rose bush makes his skin prickle. Phil shakes the imaginary feeling from his wings.

“Thank you for catching me, Father,” Tommy bows his head, all professional once again. Phil coos, briefly missing the Tommy that clung to him in the sky and dared to speak back. Oh well, they’ll get there eventually.

“No need to thank me. I’ll catch you every time,” Phill assures. He bites back the last of that statement, that he’d never hurt Tommy. It’s not something he can say now. Phil is Sanguinis, and Sanguinis had no qualms of hurting any of his flock. Tommy wouldn’t believe him.

“Crownsoul Crow Philza, pardon the interruption.” Techno steps forward. Phil’s heart leaps in his chest, he bites his tongue off trying to remain any sort of calm. Stupid mating instincts. Shut up, he is not horny. Shut the fuck up. Wow, talk about mental whiplash there.

“Yes, General Blade?” Phil keeps his smile thin, reluctantly turning towards Techno and oh how none of that is good for his heart. Who let that man own a corset? That ‘vest’ has to be a corset. No vest outlines the waist that much.

“It is nearing the midday meal and young prince Theloquin does require a break,” Techno explains. Is it… is it that late already? Phil glances at the sky despite the fact the only time he can ever read from the sun is high noon and even that’s questionable. He didn’t think he was talking for so long.

“So it may seem. I lost track of time. We’ll break for now then, I’m sure Theloquin,” Ugh that hurts to say when he knows Tommy prefers otherwise, “has other studies as well.” Techno shifts when Phil’s gaze returns to him.

“Excellent work again,” Phil repeats. He keeps his hands to himself this time, merely a smile and a nod for Tommy. Consistent praise is important. Even if they don’t believe it yet. Phil needs to normalize that behavior before they start accepting it.

With a deep breath, he turns back to Quackity, who still sits where Phil left him beneath the bloodwood tree, seemingly picking at the grass. Pretty golden wings finally are allowed to rest behind the poor man. Legs tucked to his chest give him some form of modesty. Good. Very good.

The harem member looks up when he approaches, not moving from where he sits. It’s a nice breath of fresh air from the constant kneeling. Which is a little bit of a moot point since Phil immediately kneels in front of Quackity. What? He wasn’t just going to loom ominously over the man.

“How are you feeling, Quackity? Can you walk?” Phil asks. If Tommy needs to eat around now, surely Quackity does too. Phil can’t quite forget how he collapsed in front of him. The memory of Quackity crying out in pain will forever be burnt into his retina. It is so much worse in real life.

“I’ll be fine sir, thank you sir, I can try sir,” Quackity answers in quick, clipped words. Well that’s concerning. Isn’t Quackity supposed to be the designated mischievous love interest? This is not that at all.

And Quackity does try to stand. Even before he gets very far, Phil can see how his legs, far too thin and bony, shake like leaves in the wind. Phil rises alongside Quackity. The dragon hybrid leans hard against the tree.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself, marble is hardly soft,” Phil asks. Concern bleeds from every line of his body. Truly, Phil is developing a hatred for marble. It’s cold, hard, and such a bland pale color. No number of paintings or carved doors makes it any more interesting to his eyes.

“I’ll be fine sir, thank you sir,” Quackity repeats and, huh. Phil steps in front of him before Quackity can push fully off the tree. Dilated eyes, fuzzy at the edges, breathing stuttering, and Phil would guess a rapidly beating heart if he were to check. Quackity is just on the edge of panicking.

“No, you’re not fine,” Phil speaks softly, “you don’t have to be okay. I’ll keep you safe.” It’s a promise that Quackity has no reason to believe but one that gives Phil full rights to prove himself. Quackity doesn’t seem to fully hear him anyway.

Phil steps back, Quackity steps forward. Expectedly, Quackity also falls, terribly thin weak legs giving out. Whatever Sanguinis feeds the harem is clearly not enough. Yet another thing Phil is going to fix. He is going to have words with the kitchen staff after lunch today. Not their fault but by the gods who brought him here, he will fix this.

Catching Quackity is easy. Dragons don’t have hollow bones, and Phil knows they should be built strong. He doesn’t know any world where dragons are depicted as weak. Yet here Quackity is, light in his arms. Almost as light as Tommy even, and Tommy is fourteen. There is no world where that is okay.

“I’ll fix this,” He promises, knowing Quackity likely isn’t mentally there enough to register anything Phil says. Phil sweeps him back up, cradling Quackity against his chest like the precious mate he is. Like Phil could protect Quackity from the monsters in his own head.

He’s being stared at again when he takes another step forward, Tommy focusing hard on Quackity while Techno stares blankly at Phil. Smile, nod, move on. Normalize the moment so that one day it will be normal. 

“Shall we go then?” Phil walks past them, wings and head held high. He hears two sets of footsteps behind him, soft movements of silent conversation between the two. It’s unimportant. Focus on the heart beating against his chest. Fluttering, fast paced, and a tad too weak.

Fix this, fix everything, that’s what he was told to do. Phil agrees. Things can’t go on like this. Not because of his life, that fear that once kept him stuck in his new bedroom, but because of everyone else's. These people do not deserve their fates.

Even if it means downing the poison himself, letting death run through his veins in place of blood and finally, permanently, pull him under. Phil is going to help these people. He just needs to figure out how .

…

Foolish has always enjoyed gardening. It’s a little silly, he’ll admit. A tall elemental, magically powerful to extend his mineral form into such a large shape, yet one who oddly prefers taking care of organic life to his inorganic brethren. He distantly remembers a life before the rose garden.

In that life, he’d been constantly told how much happier he’d be if he went to crystal farming instead, a task much more suited to long living elementals. Crystals are so much less fragile than plants, than people. Oddly, Foolish feels they may have been right.

Perhaps in a world where he’d given up the plants, he wouldn’t be stuck here. Alas, the faces of those he’d once known wither and fade. If they even remember him at all, he will never see them again.

Burying the bodies of those who’d tried to flee really does drive home how impossible seeing any of them again may be. Even after a couple decades of doing so, has it really been nearly thirty years? Foolish still can’t get used to blood welling around his hands.

The rose bushes in the courtyard have never looked better since he was ‘granted’ his wish of being allowed to garden, a genie in a bottle he should have never awoken. It makes Foolish sick. The pain of what he’s been forced to do. The silver linings in the weak freedoms it allows to at least go outside.

He rakes a hand through Charlie’s hair, Foolish’s malleable form the closest they get to brushing. In a way, he’s pruning the roses. He huffs in weak amusement. Charlie’s tried to do the same, his body much more free to change if he so wants.

Alas, slime doesn’t tend to be hard enough to make a good hairbrush. Foolish doesn’t mind taking up the task anyway. Though it does make him wonder how any of them brushed their hair before Foolish got here.

Maybe they didn’t? Schlatt’s hair had certainly been matted, even if Charlie’s was okay since his hair isn’t technically hair. It took weeks, maybe months, to brush out the mess that was Schlatt. If only Foolish could have just cut the matts out. Unfortunately, Roses aren’t allowed to have sharp things.

Of course, he would know. Foolish had asked. He’d asked many things, though Schlatt had tried to stop him. But Charlie never asks things, he just knows on occasion, and Schlatt never had the bravery too. Which does also make sense.

Sanguinis never answers questions nicely, if at all. His questions about sharp things had him turn into a pin cushion. He asked to garden, he buried bodies. Foolish asks about the meals and he nearly starves. Eventually, he stopped asking entirely.

Curiosity kills. Foolish is somehow still stubborn enough to want to ask anyway. The only thing that stops him is the knowledge that these punishments don’t affect just himself. After all, the food ban had not just been for him.

“So the emperor’s acting strange, right? We all know something’s up?” Wilbur asks the room, head in Schlatt’s lap, mimicking Charlie’s posture but with a few more bones. Foolish scratches at Charlie’s scalp, semi melting the slime.

“I don’t know. I trust you both aren’t lying but… perhaps it’s favoritism? He’s had these moods before.” Foolish chews at his lip. Albeit, the mood never went this far. Leaving Wilbur able to walk and Schlatt warm and full. A healthier flush still stains the demon's cheeks. It’s almost enough to ignore the vacant gleam in his eyes.

“Foolish, listen. New I may be, an idiot I am not. I don’t need to be able to read in order to read a room,” Wilbur sasses. Such an attitude. Foolish hopes it doesn’t carry over to his interactions with the emperor. It must not, considering the lack of terrible wounds.

“He is never this gentle,” Schlatt adds. Not as vacant as Foolish thought, he corrects. A midway point then. Here enough to add on but likely not enough to truly remember this interaction. Once again, Foolish wonders when this behavior started. Has Schlatt always been like this? Did the emperor cause it? So many questions he’ll never get to ask.

“Okay. Even if that’s true, we can’t just assume anything. What if we’re wrong and it is just a phase? Or a test? I don’t want to…” Foolish trails off. I don’t want to have to bury you too . The words ring clearly, drowned out by the trickle of fountain water.

“My money’s on a clone,” Charlie chimes in, “not that I’ve met him but, like, it’s definitely a clone.” Wilbur snorts, still lively enough to laugh. It brings a smile to Foolish’s face.

“Since when did any of us have money ?” Wilbur snickers. Charlie giggles along with him, the laughter vibrating over his malleable skin. Foolish rests his hand against Charlie’s head, ceasing his ‘pruning’.

“Technically, a portion of the budget is supposed to go to the harem. His imperial highness probably removed that rule though,” Schlatt hums. It is? That’s news to Foolish.

“How much does crackers and cheese cost nowadays because we’re clearly not seeing any of that money.” He scrunches up his nose. Foolish isn’t the only one who glares over at the now empty platters scattered over the floor. The food they’re forced to eat like dogs.

“My bet is it all goes to the roofie fountain!” Charlie points at the fountain with one arm. Which, actually a pretty good guess. None of them know exactly how much a potion costs, except maybe Schlatt from the early days if he still even remembers those, since none of them ever had enough money to even look at one.

“Bet with what ?” Wilbur stresses. The siren lashes out, weakly kicking at Charlie. With all the lumpy blankets in the way, he mostly just hits unfeeling fabric. Not that the pain would register on any of their scales anymore. If there’s anything Sanguinis gave them, it was a killer pain tolerance.

“Uh, if I lose, you can top?” Charlie offers, shrugging. A laugh bubbles out of Foolish’s chest, slightly hysterical. Wilbur full on cackles , loud and beautiful and bright, free in a way none of them feel. It even inspires Schlatt to chuckle along. He so rarely laughs.

Traitorously, knowing he should wish better for the siren, Foolish is glad Wilbur joined the Rose Garden. Things are so much brighter with him around. Most Roses are terrified, and rightfully so, but Wilbur is just so full of life. For a few moments, Foolish can pretend everything is alright.

Laughter bounces around the Garden as if it’s more than just a glorified cage. Charlie seeps into the corners of Foolish’s lap, cold and a bit sticky but it means he’s happy and relaxed so Foolish doesn’t mind. 

He tilts his head back, basking in their happiness, and barely catches the door opening. His own laughter cuts out. Foolish feels them before he ever actually sees them. The door to the Rose Garden opens too slowly for anything else.

Elementals are incredibly empathetic hybrids by design, able to feel emotions in the air. It’s a holdover from when they’re young. Baby elementals lack limbs, just lumps of mineral indistinguishable from the dead stuff, waiting to grow strong enough to carve their bodies out.

Some elementals lose their empath abilities as they age, depending entirely on when their body’s stagnate. Generally, the smaller the adult elemental, the weaker. Not always but it’s a good marker. Foolish is quite the large elemental. Foolish only ever tried to strengthen his abilities.

In a palace where the wrong move, word, moment could spell pain and misery, it’s served him well. Before any of the others, even Quackity who can sense magic, he knows when Sanguinis approaches. Predators can hide their magic. No one can stop feeling entirely.

“Greetings, your imperial highness, Crownsoul Crow,” Foolish greets loudly the moment the door opens enough for him to ‘notice’ the emperor. His fellow Roses fall silent. All signs of life in Schaltt cut out, Charlie becomes solid again, and Wilbur’s soft joy hardens into a cruel rage. Technically, it’s hope. But Wilbur’s hope makes him oh so angry .

“Hello,” Sanguinis greets lightly. His footsteps should echo in the empty room, they never do. If Foolish didn’t know any better, he’d say Sanguinis felt nothing at all, face impassive. Sadly, he does know better.

Anger is a storm around him, so much sharper and violent than Wilbur’s ever is. It flickers around him, twisting and turning back in on itself. Quackity describes it like daggers. Foolish has to agree.

Unlike magic, figuring out the target of emotions is much harder. But, again, Foolish has tried his best to develop his skill well. The violent swirl of anger around Sanguinis is clearly aimed at… him… self?

“Forgive the intrusion, there was an incident . I’m merely dropping Quackity off,” Sanguinis explains. His voice and emotions darken around that word. ‘Incident’. An incident he must have caused, to explain the self hate. Except… why? Foolish forces himself to check on Quackity, even if the distance makes it hard.

No blood falls from his fellow Rose, though he’d surely see it first dying Sanguinis’ pale yellow robes a vibrant red. In fact, the only difference seems to be his lack of wingspan. They no longer stand ‘proudly’ either side of the hybrid.

Although Foolish would never willingly call that stance proud, feeling far closer to a crucifixion than anything else. Nights have been spent massaging strained muscles, using torn bits of blanket soaked in the fountain water to try and calm the pain enough to let Quackity sleep. A task he might not need to do anymore.

Golden wings tuck easily against Quackity’s back. They tremble, yes, but that must be from how terribly weak the muscles have gotten. Working out may make people stronger but the constantly pulled and torn muscle only gets weaker over time, made worse by how much more Quackity has to eat than the rest of them. Food he never gets.

Food none of them ever get. Not important, not right now. Foolish knows he isn’t the only one carefully watching Sanguinis cross the long hall. He knows he isn’t the only one trying his best to glimpse at those wings, trying to figure out why they’re free.

They’re never free, Sanguinis’ prizes never are. Unless it was an accident? But, no, then he’d be able to see the blood, right? The membrane of Quackity’s wings is a lot like the thin covering of skin and muscle over a skull. Wounds always look much worse than they are, bleeding grotesquely across the floor.

Sanguinis carefully, carefully , sets Quackity down only a few feet from them and there is no blood on him, on Quackity. The blood on Sanguinis could easily be cleaned with magic but he never makes their lives easier. It would still be marking a bloody trail all the way to them.

Hate continues to swirl around Sanguinis, tightened by anger. It spikes when he glances over the floor, at the wooden boards they’d abandoned expecting only servants to come clean them up. Sanguinis rarely comes to the garden himself.

Only two reasons why he ever does. Group punishment is one, which may very well be the case with how angry he is, or, and arguably worse, a… group bonding activity. They’ve willingly explored each other’s bodies before of course. Their entire job is essentially government mandated sex partners after all.

It’s just… it’s never fun or pleasurable when they do it because Sanguinis tells them to. He likes it violent, bloody, and does not care for their exhaustion or pain. Each event leaves the Roses more scattered than before.

They always come back together, clinging desperately for comfort eventually, but… there’s been more than a few lonely nights where they isolate themselves in separate corners of the room, unable or perhaps just unwilling to look at each other anymore. Foolish hates it more than anything. More than even his assigned gardening.

“Are all of you…” Sanguinis trails off, looking over them one by one. Foolish tries not to tense under that look. He’s pretty sure Schlatt’s the only one who succeeds. There might not be anything at all behind those eyes anymore. Sanguinis sighs, the sound echoing in the too empty room.

“Nevermind,” the emperor waves off, not bothering to finish what he said. To Foolish’s surprise, or mild horror? Reluctantly met hope? Sanguinis turns and leaves. They all track him crossing back through the room.

The emperor lingers momentarily at the door, tracing something on the door frame with his talons, and disappears without another word. It’s not until the doors shut behind him, locking them back in, that the tension dissipates. Silent questions linger in the air.

And then, somewhat predictably, Quackity begins to cry. The last of them to truly know how to. Except, maybe Wilbur, even if their newest Rose is too stubborn enough to do so just yet.

Foolish is the only one of them to know immediately that the tears Quackity cries are not of pain, not truly. Relief and grief and desperation stain the air. Muscles free to fly but knowing that under their treatment, they’ll never recover.

Quackity will die before he will get to join the stars. What a terribly cruel joke from the emperor.

Notes:

Teehee. This chapter is like 7k words, which is about as long as the first one. No idea what about this fic is inspiring me to write such long chapters but it sure must be *something*. Maybe it's the angst? It's probably the angst. I am enjoying the intercharacter relationships though, and the impossible situation I slapped Phil into.

Every time we're in Phil's pov, we get just a little bit of hope he's making things better. Then I swap over to another pov and show you guys how, no, it's not that easy. We wish it was but, unfortunately, he must suffer under sins not his own. It almost makes me feel bad. *Almost*.

But hey! We are making progress, at least a tiny bit with Tommy. Our sonboy is getting just a little bit braver. Albeit, only when like a hundred feet in the air and about to be dropped but still. Any progress is great progress with Phil's been clawing at the walls for any conceivable steps forward. Surely, three times the charm and now they'll start to believe Sanguinis is different, right?

Maybe I'm going to far with my mild dislike about how other isekais either don't mention the mc's change in personality or just accept it unquestionably,,, Nahhhh. We get pain and suffering and we *like it*.

I do have a question though. When is the dove considered dead? I don't think this counts cause all dead dove is only mentions of past events in this but like,,, I do wonder.

Drink some water, expect more angst in the future, and lets hope Phil's first attempts to cause real change in the kingdom don't backfire spectacularly.

Chapter 8: A Growing Garden Must Be Fed

Summary:

Communication is hard, tedious, and can easily become filled with tension until something snaps. It is made even harder when the entire world is against you, and for good reason. It is not treatment Sanguinis doesn't deserve. Still, it drags down on Phil's mind, and being a therapist can only get him so hard when the demons are coming from both inside and out. It is not treatment he does not deserve.

Blood waters the soil outside, seeping into every crack and crevice. Every choice he makes is too little, too late, not enough, never enough, and he always has to do better. Still, he must start somewhere. And so necessities are met. Phil refuses to watch another child starve, unable to do anything but watch. That child didn't get better. The ones in his Empire will.

He knows they will. He just has to keep from breaking. Silver linings are important, every slight thing cushioning the weight of dagger sharp eyes. But he knows, deep down, he is failing. Anger, hate, it sticks to him like mud. It will never wash off.

Notes:

First of all: quick mention to my lovely beta readers, Wordy and Kattastic on discord. They really help keep me inspired and have wonderful ideas I occasionally nab to help chapters along. I'll provide a couple of examples at the end note. Wouldn't want to spoil things for those who actually read the notes!

Second of all: You may be sad to know, but this chapter is mostly from POVs other than Phil. I know! So terrible of me /j I've been told it's fantastic anyway though so we ball. That's just how the cookies crumble folks. We'll have more Phil next time promise, maybe I reward y'all with a bit more delicious smut. Throw a Technoblade on top of a Phil for once, yea?

TWs: Implied/mentioned abuse (physical, emotional, sexual), dissociation, objectification (of self), Casual expectance (and acceptance) of Abuse, Mentioned murder, Assault, Implied/mentioned starvation, Self-hate, Guilt, Dubious Consent, Implied/referenced Child Abuse, Politics, Blood, Dehumanization, Brainwashing

An old thought flickers through his head, remnant of that terrible dinner with Wilbur that caused a domino of bad decisions. Phil doesn’t know when the harem eats. He doesn’t know what they eat. He did see a small chunk of the palace budget allotted for them, which is still a massive number even when it’s such a small fraction, but nearly the entire thing goes to ‘upkeep’.

Phil thinks back on that number now. The portion set aside for food seemed tiny and not  just compared to the much larger numbers, it looked tiny in general. Even if he doesn’t know what food costs here. Surely, it should be more.

No, really, it should be more. Quackity was so fragile in his arms, muscles thin and lacking seemingly any fat. He looked like he’d been starved. It’s… disconcerting to say the least. No one else he’s met has looked like that, so Phil hadn’t thought the budget would be that much a problem.

He paces down the halls in search of the kitchens, deep in thought. Then again, who has he met? Tommy, but he’s Sanguinis’ heir so of course he’s fed decently. Techno is a general, he also has to be fed well. And the harem members? Wilbur’s new enough that the lacking food may not have set in just yet, plus whatever main character powers he has.

Then there’s Schlatt, who Phil knows was being starved and he forgot . Not for long, of course. Phil made sure to feed him plenty when they shared a dinner but, well, that budget couldn’t account for the carnivore’s needs. Discomfort roils in his stomach.

It’s going to be okay though, he can and will fix this. Phil just needs to talk to the kitchens, put in a few requests, and they’ll be doing much better. Simple, nothing to it. He takes a steadying breath.

Kitchen doors swing open for him, practically announcing his presence to the rooms of bustling chefs. He could do this through the butler, Phil reminds himself. No, he fights back, he needs to do this right. They might not believe the butler. If the harem is being underfed, it’s likely because Sanguinis told the kitchens to do so.

“Greetings to his Imperial Highness, Crownsoul Crow Sanguinis,” two busboys, or whatever equivalent there may be, halt in front of him, bowing low while the more important chefs and assistants bustle around behind them. Delicious smells fill the air.

A lot of food is being cooked, Phil can tell. But where is it all going? He’s only ever served one meal at a time, are the servants getting the rest? What about the days where Phil doesn’t eat? Where does that go? Is it thrown out when it goes bad? What the hell is the allocation system here?

“Hello,” Phil murmurs, barely heard over the clatter of a full speed kitchen, “just a few questions for me, and a few requests. Which is the head chef?” That’s how kitchens are structured right? There’s a big honcho and all their little honchos underneath? Phil’s never worked in a kitchen. Best he got was being a server at a bar and grill in high school.

“We will retrieve her, his Imperial Highness, Crownsoul Crow Sanguinis.” They straighten up, disappearing amongst the masses of metal, countertops, and bodies. Seriously, this amount of kitchen staff could easily run a restaurant. And they’re all for one person? Why ?

Well, for two people by technicality, and at least some of it must go to the servants, surely. The servants aren’t allowed to leave the grounds, how else would they survive? Sanguinis had no reason to starve them.

Not that there’s any reason to starve anyone. No sin could be too great to make them unworthy of even eating. Phil’s moral compass on crime does tend to jump from ‘therapy and rehabilitation’ to ‘castrate and kill’ depending on the crime though. Very little in between there.

“Your Imperial Highness, you have called for this Chef?” A woman approaches, bows. She… might be a demon hybrid like Schlatt, or perhaps a regular sheep hybrid, Phil isn’t sure of the difference. Horns curve back from her temples, less curly than Schlatt’s. More like two almost straight lines.

Coily white hair is pulled back tight behind her head, kept in place by a thick strip of patterned fabric. Two ears, less fluffy and more pointed, sit where more humanoid ones should go. Phil glances towards her feet but the wide splay of her pant legs stop him from figuring out if she has hooves. Does Schlatt have hooves? Phil wasn’t paying much attention.

“I did, yes. You are?” Phil leads. She straightens up, staring down at him with an iron expression. No fear, quite refreshing honestly. Endless black eyes don’t display any other emotions either. Which means Phil probably just can’t tell.

“Head Chef Puffy, your Imperial Highness, tenured as of three months ago,” She answers. Puffy… nope, completely unfamiliar. Phil smiles up at her, a nice name though. Matches her cloud-like hair.

“Good for you,” Phil chirps, “I just had a few questions about your operations here. Would you prefer to speak outside?” An ache slowly grows in his ears just standing here. Sanguinis' hearing is so sensitive . A whistling tea kettle might just take him out.

“Yes, you Imperial Highness. My eternal gratitude, your Imperial Highness.” Puffy bows again, hardly seeming very gracious despite her words. Rote words, read from a script. Phil fluffs his feathers. This is fine. Remain open, remain calm, and remain unthreatening as possible.

Most of the sound cuts out as soon as the doors shut, barely whispers that were once digging into his skull. Unnoticed tension in his shoulders fades. Phil sighs happily, rubbing lightly beneath one ear.

“Thank you for your time Puffy. I was wondering, what is it we’re feeding the,” what was their official name again? Right, “ Rose Garden?” Nailed it. It’s totally that. There were far too many rose motifs all over the display for it not to be that.

“We in the kitchens have been following your Imperial Highness’ orders to the letter, not a servant has strayed,” She explains promptly. Which… doesn’t really answer his question. Phil rethinks what he’d said. She might think she is though, he should have been clearer. Actually use that degree of yours Phil! Why is that suddenly so hard ?

“Of course, I believe you, Puffy. What were those orders, again? I seem to have forgotten,” Phil says. They’re not the exact words he means to say. He can’t forget something he never knew to begin with. Yet, the words leave him all the same.

“One meal a day, a charcuterie board of the finest cheeses and crackers your Imperial Highness allows us to source. A selection of sliced ham and beef is added to the board once a month, or when your Imperial Highness orders it so,” Puffy recites.

One meal. One . Of cheese and crackers? Phil stares at her, maybe more accurately through her. How… How is the harem alive? Like, genuine question because a person cannot survive off of just cheese, crackers, and grapes. Especially not when at least two of those people are primarily carnivorous.

“Ah, yes,” Phil says, more because he feels he has to fill the air. He smiles again, much tighter by the slowly bubbling rage in his chest. Fuck . Fucking cheese and crackers . No wonder Quackity looked starved! A few slices of meat a month is not enough for a fucking dragon .

“Silly me for forgetting,” he grits. Fuck no, fuck that . Changing that, to what? They all likely need specialized diets. Mostly meat for Quackity and Schlatt, seafood for Wilbur, Charlie can likely eat anything and Foolish- what do Elementals eat?

“Change of plans,” Phil claps, the sound startling even him, “bump that up to three meals a day, take the budget from wherever you’d like, I don’t care. Vary it up a bit as well. Look into dietary requirements for the Roses’ species, make sure they’re met.”

“But stick to less heavy foods at first, we wouldn’t want to make anyone sick. Except with Schlatt, he can metabolize through it all well enough. Perhaps Charlie? We’ll have to look into that.” Phil taps his pointer finger to his lips.

“This change is to be undertaken immediately, no need to wait. I understand the kitchens are quite busy but feel free to cut down on… whatever you’re working on in there. Just make sure the Roses, Tommy, and everyone else is being fed. Any extracurriculars can be cut.” 

“Oh, and before I forget! No more quiches for Tommy, he hates them. I’m thinking we do waffles tomorrow, topped with strawberries. Does that all make sense or did I speak too fast?” Phil winds down, blinking innocently up at Puffy.

Puffy stares back down, expression just as iron clad and unreadable as before. All Phil has to work off of is a repeated twitching of one of her ears. She nods slowly. 

“Understood, your Imperial Highness,” She trails off, “May I ask why the change of heart?” Now that sounds genuine, less prepared. Hesitance drags out the spaces between each word.

“I supposed… I looked back on myself, and saw nothing but horror and strife.” Phil’s words are mangled again, though the meaning stays the same. He is horrified by Sanguinis. He is Sanguinis now. That is why he’s changing everything.

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness,” Puffy repeats, weaker now. Phil doesn’t dismiss her, only belatedly realizing he might have too. He turns, leaves, and doesn’t look back even once the thought occurs. The increase and decrease of noises from the kitchen tell him enough to find the action meaningless.

Maybe to the library now? Oh, and to call a meeting with the counsel, he needs to figure out the state of that thing. There are expense reports for meetings after all, so it must exist. Phil doubts it’s in good shape.

He pauses by a window, blinking against the light. Library first though. Phil’s been putting off taking out that biology textbook. He can look for books on the other hybrids too. Not that he doesn’t trust Puffy to do a good job.

‘Provide! For mates!’ the bird in his head warbles proudly. It might be happier for this change than Phil himself, who personally sees it as too little too late. Preferably, they’d never had to have starved to begin with.

But look on the brightside Phil, he tells himself, this is your first major change to the world. We all have to start somewhere . In a world so terrible, now resting upon your shoulders, that’s the best you can do.

And so Atlas continues to walk.

…

This is a bad idea. Oh Prime, this is such a bad idea. To be fair it was hardly an idea at all, more a whim when he saw the door open and thought ‘oh hey! I’m already sneaking around the palace! Why not make things worse for myself?’ because clearly , Tommy is rubbing off on him.

Pressing himself further against the back wall, he tries to breathe around the servant’s uniform he selectively borrowed, waiting with all the others for the appearance of the Emperor. Such a powerful and terrifying man yet so rarely seen. Not often he deigns to flaunt himself near the poor.

Between Tommy’s descriptions and the heavily defaced statue in the square near his home, he thought he had a pretty good understanding of what the Emperor looked like though. Thought . Actually seeing the guy is much different. Far too dangerous when he, again, isn’t supposed to be here at all.

So maybe he was curious, okay? All he wanted was a glimpse of their glorious leader, the feathered fiend himself. Sue him! Or, like, don’t. He doesn’t have any money. He’d default on the payments immediately and die .

Now he stands invisible amongst all the other servants. Knowing glances given to him by them out of the corner of their eyes, all knowing he doesn’t belong but too attached to their own heads to point him out. No one wants to be blamed for letting an outsider in.

Really, the only threat in here is the feathered fiend knowing who he is somehow. There’s a snowball’s chance in the nether that any of the aristocrats recognize him, servants are out of sight, out of mind. Prime would sooner descend from the sky.

Pressure builds in the air, an invisible force pressing between his ears. He’s not the only one to feel it, not the only one to shift in discomfort, and certainly not the only one to look expectantly towards the meeting room doors. The Emperor’s presence arrives long before he does.

Two sets of doors are possible entrances into the auditorium. Today, the feathered fiend chooses the ones on the right. Judging by how both doors are looked at with unease, that’s not always the case. Of course he’d find a way to make people uncomfortable just by walking in a room.

And then stands the emperor, looking upon the room from atop the marble steppes. If it wouldn’t ruin his cover immediately, he’d glare daggers into the bastard, stick out his tongue. Not fight him. He knows that’s a battle he’ll never win.

Void black wings outline the man, more imposing and endless than the statues could ever properly show, thickening his presence the longer he stands. Robes of spun gold drip off his frame, edged in a bloody red detailing that could very well be actual blood. A shadow from his ever well known cap obscures his face. All he gets is a glint of a golden crown beneath.

Oh, and the impressions, of course. He didn’t know someone could have so much magic that their emotions prickle at his very soul, just another reason why this was a terrible, horrible, no-good idea. Frustration and anger not his own bores down on his head.

He drops his head as the feathered fiend passes. Not out of ‘politeness’ or whatever the fuck it may be, but because he physically can’t keep his head up . His neck strains, chin digging into his chest. One wrong move and he bites his tongue off.

Eyes sharpen the pressure into a point, the emperor stalling for a moment. The room holds its breath. He moves on without a word. By the time he can raise his head again, the Emperor is at the bottom of the steppes, four levels holding the two dozen or so members of the court.

At the bottom sits a throne. Not his real throne, the fancy one of gold and gemstones, but a throne anyway. Silk and velvet, golden decorations and probably more fancy runes carved into it than he’ll ever be able to steal. No doubt the throne is older than he is.

Emperor Sanguinis perches, no better word for it. Sitting on the edge of his throne, legs neatly in front of him, with the tall back practically forcing his wings to spread. No doubt a purposeful display. Worse, it works .

Works in making his breath stall and silence to ring louder than any words could manage. The Emperor looks upon the room, slowly jumping between each member of the council. It may just be fear talking, but does the Emperor glance back up at him? He can’t tell. He doesn’t want it to be true.

Fear also isn’t something he wants to feel for the Emperor. Funny how just standing here causes so much anger and fight to drain out of him. Like realizing that what he’s dealing with is a predator, stronger and tougher than he’ll ever be, cowing even the most violent of instincts at a glance.

“Greetings, great council,” the Emperor hums. He jolts, realizing that this is the first time he’s ever heard the feathered fiend talk. It’s not the deepest of voices. Light, airy, not at all like the crushing pressure still robbing him of breath. 

“Greetings to his Imperial Highness, The Crownsoul Crow, Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis,” the council chrouses. A group of the most powerful, well off individuals in the empire of souls, all cowing before one man. To think he once thought these people free. Not one of them can raise their gaze off the table in front of them.

Tension spikes, brought along purely by a thinning of the Emperor’s mouth. Even the smallest display of displeasure rattles everyone so much. He knew from Tommy the behavior he encourages but… it’s an entirely different thing to see the consequence. The difference being knowing and realizing the palace is a dungeon all on its own.

“Settle in, there are quite a few things to bring up today,” he continues. All at once, the council members shift a few papers from the stacks on the tables. Every decision provided before them. An advisory board in name only.

“But first I suppose I must ask, how many of you actually want to be here?” The emperor sighs. He flicks his wings, wind rustling paper, forcing the closet members to slam down on their copies or lose them. A laugh nearly leaves him, why would anyone want to be here.

Don’t answer that. He already knows this is a terrible decision. Besides, it’s not like he can just say that. A nervous murmur may just prove him wrong. Except… no one actually speaks up beyond that.

“Lady Veronica, Sir Sawyer, and Ledan Iris would like to leave,” a voice pipes up for them. His eyes snap back down to the throne. A man, one of the ‘Roses’ from the same group that took his father, slips from beside it, kneeling next to the Emperor on cold marble floors. A gasp snaps through the crowd.

“Thank you Charlie, anyone else?” The Emperor flicks a hand. Three people, who could only be those named, immediately stand and flee the room. Each walk with the gait of someone who knows this day may very well be their last.

Several more names are called out, always in sets of threes, halving the council by the time the remaining members get their wits together enough to shut up . Even then, the Emperor sits and observes.

What is he waiting for? He’s not the only one to wonder, to shift in discomfort as tension grows again. The vacant seats burn with unspoken bloodshed. Are they waiting for screams?

“Imperial Highness, I implore you. My fellow council members have done nothing wrong,” A brave, stupid council member speaks up, sequestered in the back. The nobleman sitting besides them startles, slapping a hand over their mouth with a nervous laugh.

“But, of course, we trust his Imperial Highness greatly,” the smaller redhead exclaims. The servant to his left sighs, used to the display. This is the legal system, it should not feel like a public theater. He’s watched back alley shows better put together than this.

The Emperor glances at the rose to his side, some brown haired man with roots stained a violent green. He’s pretty sure Tommy said the green one’s name is Charlie. Could be wrong. Is it? He’s definitely not distracting himself at all.

“Ledan Eret and Minor Lord Fundy,” Charlie, totally Charlie, addresses them. The Emperor nods. Oh, so he doesn’t even bother remembering the names of his own nobility? Figures.

“Great. Ledan Eret and Minor Lord Fundy,” how the fuck is that so much more threatening when the Emperor says it, “come to the front will you? No reason to sit so far back there.” The Emperor waves them forward.

Both stand, Eret far more sharply than Fundy, face schooled into a nearly mutinous expression. Why is Eret here if they hate the Emperor so much? Do they want to die?... Yeah, he’s going to ignore the irony.

Eret nearly stomps down the steps, or at least gives that impression despite their tall, thin heels. Fundy scampers behind them, back straight and practically sweating through his fox-themed robes. The front row is empty except for them.

“Ledan Eret, don’t worry about the others. They won’t die. I merely didn’t want to keep them here against their will,” the Emperor assures, a false smile resting upon his golden complexion. The room darkens. People know better than to believe him.

“Now, onto the first order of business,” the Emperor drops his gesturing hand onto Charlie’s head, “I’ve recently taken a look into the budget and noticed there are a few changes to be made.” Like what? Adding a third pool to the palace grounds? A fifth hot spring? Shut the fuck up man.

“The state of the Empire is sad and, quite frankly, underwhelming. What should be a great power has instead been relegated to a prison run by one man. My people lay starving while I sit alone at the top. For that, I have spent many days ruminating on ways to change.” Wait- what ?

“Many of my existing policies and laws are misguided, cruel, and nonsensical, bringing only pain to those I should protect. For that I bring out the first phase of many. I call them Food Banks.” His world narrows to the Emperor alone, his voice echoing in the quiet.

“These buildings are to be built nation-wide, offering free meals to the citizens without charge or proof of identity. I trust this system will not be abused. Any cases will be easily handled, though I doubt that will happen. I can afford to feed every beggar and street urchin in my lands for their entire lives just from my kitchens alone and lose nothing.”

“Of course, I do not know everything of my lands. It is impossible for one man to be truly omniscient. For that, I have you, great council. Suggest changes, point out blindspots, question me at every corner. This is merely a baseline, to create an empire already worth protecting. You are here to fill in the gaps.”

“This must be done, or I fear our home will crumble where it stands. Any questions?” The Emperor draws to a close, flicking his feathers again. No one saves the loose paperwork. He looks down at Charlie, happily pressing his head into the Emperor’s plan without a worry or thought. Despite what he knows of their treatment, he almost wishes his life were so simple. Surely, it can’t be as bad as they say.

“What the nether are you thinking Imperial Highness! We cannot give power to those wretched things in the streets! They don’t deserve your kindness, so why toss it out like some babysitter or nanny? Let them rot, as they deserve,” a councilman snaps. An old, withered man slamming his hands upon his neck.

The Emperor glares , reminding this man who clearly saw his earlier dismissals, or perhaps that speech, as weakness. As if he can’t feel the power the Emperor holds. He just stares at the councilman. Thoughts scatter in his skull.

“ Get out ,” The Emperor dismisses. The councilman tries to speak, but is cut off, “ Out . If you are not here to help , you will not be here at all. I will not have such beliefs as thinking people don’t deserve to eat within my palace grounds.” Each word seethes, hotter than the highest points of the Nether. The councilman vibrates in anger and fear.

“ OUT ,” The Emperor shouts . Magic snaps in the air, bodily throwing the man against the wall where it cracks. He slumps to the floor, unconscious, a bloody smear where his head hit marble. 

He doesn’t get to see the Emperor’s expression, only feel how that pressure pulls tight around the Emperor and his Rose. He can’t look away from the councilman so easily sent flying. Two servants step from the wall, dragging him out the door, careless of his injuries.

Which, fair. People who think people should starve because they have the nerve to be poor deserve what’s coming to him but- His neck is stiff as he forces himself to look back to the front. But that was terrifying . Hysteria bubbles against his throat, forcibly swallowed back down.

People aren’t supposed to just be thrown like that! Isn’t lifting people with magic supposed to be hard ? The Emperor is barely even phased. He can barely lift an empty wood crate on a good day and that still leaves him tired.

“Now, do we have any actual questions?” The Emperor asks, back to that simple expression that is now clearly a forced calm. He’ll never be fooled again. Fuck, no wonder everyone wants the Emperor dead. Maybe he’ll join the revolution after this, as a treat. They give every member half a pound of rice on sign up, he's heard.

Unless the Emperor isn’t lying about this ‘Food Bank’ thing, then it’s not really necessary. But really, free food for walking to a building? And getting untaxed income for working there? That has to be a trick.

“Imperial Highness, how do you intend to provide these ‘Food Banks’ with the required materials? There is barely enough available goods to fulfill food stalls quotas,” Eret asks. Judgment clinks to their words. See! A trick. The butcher next to his usual alley is a glorified dog fighting ring. Most of the meat they occasionally sell is probably rats in disguise.

“For now, it will be taken directly from the Palace’s stores. Once official locations have been cemented, I will change trade routes to bring the food there on a monthly basis, or every two weeks depending on the route and trade agreement,” the Emperor explains.

That sounds like it would work though. Why does that sound like it would work? He didn’t think the Emperor was serious . The Empire is running on fumes, spite, and unbridled rage, none of that speaks to a leader who knows what he’s doing. Not like Soot, who is quietly praised for fear of being called traitor and losing their head.

“Is… is that really feasible, Imperial Highness? The budget can’t account for this. My sector of the capital doesn’t have the funding for such an operation,” Fundy squeaks. He fumbles through the paperwork, probably looking for the one with his point on it. This wall is awfully comfy, don’t look over here.

“Five percent will be taken from the Palace’s budget, permanently, and given to the people. By my estimations, it should be more than enough. If you are ever in need of more, a simple inquiry will do. I am hardly hurting for money,” The Emperor drawls, amused by the question.

“Really Imperial Highness, just like that? I’ve heard of you, we all have, this is very unlike you,” Eret criticizes. Shut up Eret, if this is real then he’ll no longer have to break the law to hunt in the nearby forest or sneak into the literal palace to survive. Don’t ruin this for everyone.

“It is unlike me,” the Emperor agrees. He stands slowly, motioning for Charlie to stand with him. After a pause, the Rose joins, knees remaining slightly bent as if unused to doing so.

“But I’ve decided I don’t like myself anymore. Council dismissed.” The Emperor and his Rose leaves. No one tries to stop him. Not even Eret, vocal as they are, can think of a single word to say against that .

Tubbo gags when the air clears of his presence, regret still choking his throat. As soon as he can, he runs off to where he’s supposed to be, meeting Tommy and Ranboo behind the training grounds. 

He tries not to think of those final words.

…

Charlie’s not the smartest slime out there. Still, he thought that the council meeting went pretty well! Minimal bloodshed, Sanguinis only needed a little reminding of who these people are, and nobody even died. Wait, no, that’s actually pretty bad for Sanguinis. He has different standards.

Silly him, Charlie just keeps forgetting that Sanguinis isn’t like that! He’s much smarter, knows how these things are supposed to work. Charlie needs some more corrections. Or not. If he doesn’t say it out loud, Sanguinis won’t teach him!

Maybe he should say it out loud? It’s great stress relief for Sanguinis to teach him, even if it takes Charlie a while to pull back all his pieces from the walls. Sometimes Sanguinis even keeps a chunk in a jar. That hurts. But it’s okay, he needs it.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Sanguinis sighs. Charlie perks up. He was right! Sanguinis did think that was a bad meeting, good for him. It proves he can learn, just not well or fast or without repeated punishments reminding him of his wrong doings. Silly broken toys need reminders after all.

“Would my owner like to relieve some stress?” Charlie asks, like he’s supposed to. A bounce tries to force itself into his step, breaking those joints it takes so much effort to keep human. Bad bounce, don’t do that. He’s supposed to know better! Well, there’s a reason he’s not a smart slime.

“I think I might need that mate,” Sanguinis laughs, “that was much more stressful than I thought.” Pretty black wings flap, rusting Charlie’s perfectly formed hair that he still has to remind to flutter. One settles around behind Charlie. He doesn’t lean in. Sanguinis doesn’t like how cold he is.

“...owner?” Sanguinis asks, like he only just realized what Charlie said. But yeah! Owner! Sanguinis programmed it into him so Charlie calls him that. His owner. Good toys do as they’re told.

“Yes, my owner? What kind of stress relief would you like today?” Charlie replies. He can’t read minds. Slimes aren’t very good at magic. Even if they were, Charlie isn’t nearly smart enough to learn. Toys aren’t taught anyway, just fixed when they’re broken. Charlie is supposed to fix himself.

“What… Do you offer?” Sanguinis slows to a stop. Charlie stops with him, kind of forced to by the wing half hooked around him. He has to condense himself even more than normal to not touch anything! The fabric around his waist sags despite its tight tie.

“Hmmm, owner usually likes percussive stress relief. The walls around here are quite sturdy!” Charlie chirps, “or we could do the Rose kind of stress relief. I’m very good at not going goopy.” And he is! He’s all solid, but cold. It’s hard not to be cold.

“ Percussive ,” Sanguinis whines quietly, shuddering, “No thank you. And please don’t call me Owner. I’ll take Imperial Highness over owner .” Charlie bobs. Wait, no, not like that. He bobs his head , just that part, not the rest of him.

“Because I’m your toy and all toys have owners,” Charlie repeats. Sanguinis likes those words, he likes them a lot . It reminds Charlie of his place! As if he could forget that. He’s dumb but he’s not that dumb.

Feathers fluff around him, wings shaking. Charlie remains smiling, only as loose as a person would be even though he’s not a person, and ready for the Emperor’s decision- oh that’s not a decision.

Sanguinis sinks to his knees. Talon tipped hands press hard over his face, shoulders shaking in time with his wings. Charlie doesn’t question it, toys aren’t allowed to have questions.

He kneels down next to Sanguinis, because he’s probably supposed to. It lets the wing that was around him drop to be level with the other one, which has to be more comfortable based on how Quackity reacts to his wings being down. He shuffles a bit closer.

“Owner?” Charlie prods, just to remind Sanguinis that he’s here. Take out your stress on him! It’s his job. Toys need jobs, roles to complete, or they’re broken! Charlie doesn’t want to be broken .

A quiet sob rips from his chest. Oh… Charlie didn’t know Sanguinis could do that. He blanks a little on what to do. This has never happened before, there’s no programming for this! Uh oh. Now he has to think . Toys aren’t meant to think!

“ I can’t do this anymore ,” Sanguinis whines, “ I can’t. I just- I can’t .” Those are tears dripping from between Sanguinis’ fingers. Charlie sits back, watches. He doesn’t understand.

Many questions sit at the back of his mind, pressed down upon and suppressed because he’s not allowed to ask. He’s not allowed to think. All Charlie can do is watch. A toy will go on standby if it’s not being played with.

“Owner?” Charlie prompts again. That sobbing sound comes from Sanguini, a bit louder this time, like a button. He tilts his head, expression falling numb since no one’s watching. So saying that makes it worse .

“Owner?” Charlie repeats. Woah! He doesn’t squeak as strong arms grab him and pull him tight into Sanguinis’ curl. Slimes don’t have vocal cords. They just talk using magic. It’s neat, subconscious, and Charlie thinks it’s fun. He can make all kinds of sounds! Like a siren!

“Owner?” his voice isn’t muffled being pressed into Sanguinis’ chest like this since the words don’t actually come from his mouth. Charlie also doesn’t see out of his eyes, so he has a perfect 360 degree view at  all times. Oh, Sanguinis’ eyes are rimmed quite red aren’t they?

“Owner?” That’s a lot of tears. People need water to make tears, but Sanguinis is invulnerable so he doesn’t need to. Charlie could be wrong on that. Charlie’s wrong about most things, Sanguinis says so.

“Own-” “ Please ,” Sanguinis chokes out, “ stop calling me that .” Charlie falls silent. Huh, that’s really never happened before. ‘Please’, what a silly word. Sanguinis has never said it before, let alone allowed it to have any real meaning. Charlie doesn’t hum. He physically can’t without vibrating his skin.

“What would-” what what now then? “You like me to say?” Charlie asks, because even though he’s a good toy who knows not to ask questions, he’s also a toy who knows to listen to its owner. Even if Owner doesn’t want to be called that.

“Phil. Just Phil. Philza if you have to be formal,” Sanguinis- Philza? Tells him, pulling his face up from Charlie’s cold, slightly sticky because of his slime, shoulder. That’s Sanguinis’ middle name. Philza it is now! He’s not stupid enough to throw away the formality. That’s how a toy breaks.

“Yes Philza! I am at your service,” Charlie chirps. Philza holds him a little tighter, nodding. They sit there for a while, just Philza crying and Charlie sitting there like a good stress reliever, even if this is certainly a new method.

When Philza does stand, he takes Charlie with him, not shying away from his naturally clammy skin. The pose reminds Charlie of when he carried Quackity into the Rose Garden. More scrunched to his chest though. Charlie is a bit taller.

“Why?” Philza asks quietly, carrying him down the hall, “Why are you all like this?” Charlie perks up again. He knows the answer to this! It’s a familiar one most definitely.

“We’re specially trained by you Philza! You’re a great teacher for the Roses, and you programmed me well! Even if I need a lot of reminders,” Charlie answers. Another tear breaks past Philza’s waterline.

“Would you like to do something now? The usual options are still available!” Charlie offers again. It’s what he knows, safety. Toys don’t need to be kept safe, what is he thinking? Silly slime. He smiles brightly at Philza.

“No, I only want to do something you want to do,” Philza denies, kind of. What a rare occurrence, inciting Charlie to prove his worth as a toy. Philza doesn’t seem to be in much of a throwing mood right now though… hm. He can work with this!

“I want to do you,” Charlie purrs, like he was taught! Philza grits his teeth, hands tightening where they lay around Charlie. He’s hefted a little higher. Charlie tries to bear his neck for biting and-

Oh, that’s not a bite at all. Philza presses thin, soft lips against his own, breathing burning warmth into Charlie’s slime where heat rarely breaches. It’s a pain to be naturally room temperature when rooms are so cold.

Charlie stills. He’s never been taught to kiss, he knows he’ll do it wrong. Philza’s tongue sweeps over his lip, something he’s read about, so Charlie opens his makeshift oral cavity. It’s not as human as it could be. His insides are hard to shift from their natural bright green.

But Philza’s tongue is so warm , each breath shared between them. He feels himself melting, fighting to stop it despite how his control slips, his human-esque eyes slipping closed. It’s so easy to relax.

Is this what Wilbur felt when he was kissed? Charlie can see the appeal. A whimper escapes him, fingers melding together. If all of sex was like this, he can even understand why people would want it, might want it himself. But it’s not. Charlie knows that. 

He’s good at pretending though! Charlie pushes back, trying to form his own tongue. Too thin, wrong color, wrong texture, too wrong, all things he knows but struggles to change. Philza is making it so hard to think.

Philza pulls back, taking a deep breath. Charlie forces his eyes to reform, paints a blush over his face that’s the proper red instead of a sickly bright green. Anticipation, not fear , trembles his form.

Except-but- oh , all those words he’s said for all these odd, contradictory behaviors. Philza just sighs again, breath shuddering with a few more loose tears. Charlie blinks up at him. Did he do something wrong?

“No… You’re not into this. You can’t even consent.” Philza shakes his head. But… but he wants Charlie. Charlie can see with his special vision how hard Philza is. Why is he so sad? Why is he stopping? Why is he still so gentle if Charlie’s just a stress reliever?

No , Charlie is a toy. Toys don’t think. Toys don’t ask questions. Toys listen, and do, and follow their orders. He hangs on.

Unlike Quackity, Charlie doesn’t get brought into the Rose Garden. Philza stops in the amphitheater, staring at the doors, and eventually settles Charlie on his feet. A pat on the head, a soft goodbye, and Philza is gone. Charlie is remarkably not-splattered. A perfectly put together toy.

A toy that has to be broken anyway since Philza doesn’t want to use him, or maybe just not today. No, he asked questions. Charlie is definitely broken! He shakes his head, perking up like he’s supposed to , and walks normally into the Rose Garden.

“Charlie! Tell Foolish he’s stupid and that you can turn stone into gold with magic!” Quackity whines, held up nearly entirely by Schlatt, body still refusing to hold its own weight after getting his wings released. They’ve been soaking rags in the fountain trying to get his strength up. It hasn’t worked very well.

“You can!” Charlie chirps, turning his walk into a bounce as the doors close, “but gold is a lot different than stone. Big mountains turn into itty bitty pebbles. You could eat the earth and still be poor! And dead, cause the earth is gone.” Charlie dives into the blankets. 

“See, told you so. It’s a really bad idea, not impossible ,” Quackity cheers. He tosses an arm up, drops it just as quickly. Schlatt frowns, rubbing the twitching muscles that got pulled at the motion. Quackity is in a lot of pain. Philza’s pain spell didn’t last that long.

“Everyone shut up. Charlie, you were at a council meeting, yeah?” Wilbur interrupts, stumbling through the bedding. Wilbur isn’t supposed to know that. He hasn’t left the Rose Garden today. It’s soundproof too. Siren ears aren’t that good, silly Wilbur.

“I was! It was a bad-good one. Only a little blood, no one died, Philza got angry though,” Charlie summarizes. He pulls himself through the spaces between the bedding, coming up beside Wilbur to trip him into Foolish. Wilbur bounces off Foolish with a yelp. Charlie giggles. He’s great at that.

“Philza?” Foolish asks. Oh yeah, he would know that! Charlie needs to mention the name change first, then explain for Wilbur’s treason. Wilbur’s really good at treason. Much smarter than Charlie.

“Owner started crying when I called him Owner, so now I’m supposed to call him Philza, or Phil but that’s informal. Toys aren’t meant to be informal,” Charlie explains. Foolish’s face screws up like it always does when Charlie calls himself a toy, even though it’s true. Partially because of the strange name thing.

“Sanguinis can cry ?” Schlatt asks himself, but too loud because everyone else can also hear. Charlie bobs, that did happen! It was weird. It shouldn’t have happened at all, nope not at all.

“Good for him? He’s not special, so can I,” Wilbur scoffs, “I want to know about the meeting .” Charlie was going to get to that. He pulls himself out of the bedding, reforming to lay on top of it. Wilbur lays sideways between Schlatt and Foolish, not even trying to stand.

“Philza’s making this thing called a ‘food bank’, he said it was going to be free food for everyone, funded personally from the palace. He gave away five percent of the budget. Is that a lot?” Charlie rattles off. Schlatt chokes, fumbling with Quackity. Quackity hisses at him.

“Is that a lot? That’s- just for this project? He could rebuild the entire capital with that money.” Schlatt pulls Quackity back into him, the two warmbloods properly cuddling. Oooh, that is a lot. Charlie’s bad at math.

“ Free food ? Since when ?” Wilbur hisses, fins flaring. That’s really similar to what Ledan Eret said! They would get along. Both have similar ideas for the future of the Empire, maybe they could plot murder together over tea.

“Don’t know. Philza didn’t mention any dates, just told people to do their thing.” Charlie counts his fingers, making sure he doesn’t have too many. Briefly, he forms webs like Wilbur is supposed to have. Wilbur isn't fed enough to grow webbing. Nor is he allowed to swim enough for his body to consider the adaptation viable. Not anymore.

“He’s just… giving out free food. Just like that. That’s not like him at all!” Wilbur protests. Funny for him to say that, since he’s been advocating so hard for the Emperor having mysteriously changed. Has he? Charlie tilts. Yes, he has, he agrees now. That leaves Foolish as the sole naysayer

“Philza knows, he says he doesn’t like himself anymore, that’s why he’s doing all of this.” Yep, Charlie has the right amount of fingers. He wiggles happily. The other Roses digest that information just like the nobles did. Which is to say, not well.

“That- he what? ” The door slams open, drowning Wilbur out. Charlie startles, sticking himself in a blob on Foolish’s impressive back on reflex. All but Quackity jump to their feet at the echoing sound. Quackity still tries, held up by Schlatt.

Charlie peeks over Foolish’s shoulder, spying how the other Roses also clump together. Okay, they’re safe. What’s going on? 

Servants enter the Rose Garden. They only do that at meal time, but meal time is in the middle of the day, not the end. A long table is carried in, set in the center of the odd hallway down the center of the Rose Garden.

“What’s going on?” Quackity voices Charlie’s silent question because Quackity isn’t a toy, just a Rose, so he can do that. A servant breaks off from the group, not doubling back like the others once the table is set down. This is a familiar one! Well, they’re all familiar. The servants for the Rose Garden never change.

“Change in plans misters Roses, the Imperial Highness told the kitchens ‘n the kitchens told us so now ya get ta eat more. Three meals a day, no more crackers ‘n cheese for you lot.” The servant bounces happily on their heels, long tail swaying behind them.

“Change of plans?” Foolish mutters. “Three meals?” Schlatt questions Quackity. “Not more cheese and crackers,” Wilbur whispers like a prayer. It’s really silly how all that lined up.

“Enjoy your meal! The table is stayin’ in here but we’ll be back for the boards!” The servant hurries off as the last board is placed on the table, each one engraved with a rose and their name. Uh oh, Wilbur can’t read.

Each platter is different, which is why they’re labeled. Charlie peers down at them even as all the other Roses wait for the door to close, wait in silence, and then wait some more as if the servants are lying to them. They never lie! Not to Wilbur at least. Or Schlatt. Everyone has a soft spot for Schlatt.

One is clearly Schlatt’s. Thick cuts of steak, seasoned and just barely cooked enough to be called so, perfect for the carnivorous demon. Close it Quackity’s, containing basically an entire chicken, also seasoned to perfection but this time cooked all the way through. Dragons usually cook their food as they eat with third Dragon Flame. Quackity’s too weak to do that.

The one with fish and rice has to be Wilbur, and they even included a small bowl of sand for dessert, how cute! And Foolish has an amethyst geode. That looks yummy. Charlie himself has… huh, what is that? Charlie can eat anything but he doesn’t recognize it.

He plops to the ground behind Foolish, ignoring how the other Roses clump together and whisper about tests and things. Charlie knows better than to question Philza. This is from him, so they get to eat it! Even if it’s really weird he’s doing it now.

Unwilling to become human shaped again when he doesn’t have to, Charlie scales the table leg, and wiggles over to the glass bucket placed on his platter. Inside, a mysterious blue liquid swirls and glows. 

“Charlie!” Wilbur shrieks, only just realizing where Charlie is. He giggles to himself, hopping into the bucket and beginning to slurp. Oh that shits good . His surface vibrates, a warm fuzz suffusing all the way through. Like getting really drunk, or high, or both.

“Come on in, the water’s fineee,” Charlie drawls, letting himself float suspended in the liquid. Yummy, yummy liquid. Most things don’t have tastes for him, slimes lack taste buds, but he can still easily say this is the best thing he’s ever eaten.

With the shock of the food, questions of the meaning are easily forgotten. Drop a meal in front of a starving person and they’ll rarely ask questions. That holds true even here. Even Wilbur, the healthiest of them all, falls into the trap.

Quackity pulls his platter to the floor before tearing into it with talons and teeth. Schlatt nearly unhinges his jaw to eat his. Foolish munches easily through the amethyst, absorbing its magical bonds and spitting back out the sand that remains.

Charlie imagines it’s the happiest any of them have felt in a good long while.

Notes:

Right, to finish of that beginning note. Wordy jokingly mentioned that Phil okay to have a breakdown in the hallway, he deserves it, and then started cackling when I actually let him do that. Kat, meanwhile, consistently encourages me to add more smut and occasionally helps word things (like Phil's little speech in the council meeting, cause it's so formal and fancy. I struggle with formal and fancy, believe it or not).

Sanguinis is really fun to write you guys. He's so breathtakingly, stereotypically evil. And really powerful. I hope that came across in Tubbo's pov. I really wanted it to so I brought in an outsider and oh boy, Phil is doing *so poorly* yet so amazingly if you consider the conditions he's working under. Really, what Phil needs it to unionize. Against me.

I'm pro-union, I'd allow it. Unfortunately, he's a digital character in an angsty smutty fic and I am a real person, so I doubt I'm getting deposed anytime soon. Massive L to mr Philza.

Drink water, have a great time, and brush your teeth so you don't end up with medical bills.

Chapter 9: Bloodless Soil Beneath Our Feet

Summary:

No one ever said change isn't scary. When that changed is backed by a monster beyond all proportion, it only makes the situation more complicated than before, regardless if the change is good. Every action, no matter how small, is put under a magnifying glass. A single twitch in the wrong direction could send a precarious house of cards falling down.

A month crawls by unscathed, however, which should very well be an accomplishment. No blood has been split by Phil's misstep. Well, very little blood at least, none that would result in permanent consequences. There are no more bodies to feed the garden. That is good. Phil is proving himself different from Sanguinis, surely.

But doubt sits at every corner. The true main character of this story watches Phil like a hawk, ghosting every step and learning of every minute detail. Phil can pretend the people are relaxing all that he likes, they are still preparing for the other shoe to drop. When you begin to expect pain, it is much harder to forget.

Notes:

Update on the Techno-Phil thing I jokingly mentioned last chapter in this beginning note, it is going to happen. Not this chapter, it already had a plan, but it *will* happen. I did toss in a bunch of horny phil pov to make up for it. That poor man is... so awkward. And so horny. By god, I need to give this man some relief before he explodes. So I will! Next chapter! For now he suffers.

I didn't actually check how long this chapter is so I'm real interested in seeing what the number jumps up to once I post this. Anyway, onto the very important trigger warnings.

TWs: Mentioned/Referenced Abuse (emotional, physical, sexual, financial), Mentioned/Referenced minor character death, Mentioned/Referenced Child Abuse, Self-Hate, Depression, Dissociation, Casual Acceptance and Expectance of Abuse, Mentioned/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Stalking

Things in the palace are changing, slowly but surely. Shifts crawl along at a snail’s pace. Even in the face of massive changes, like three months ago when the kitchen staff was massacred and replaced for messing up the Emperor’s order, the servants adapt and overcome. ‘Normal’ is hard to change.

Really it just comes with the territory. Emperor Sanguinis is a fickle man but a fairly predictable one once a person comes to recognize what each immaterial shift in his mood means. To survive as a servant means to become a master at prediction.

Predict, adapt, and continue on as normal since, as it happens, the Emperor doesn’t change his whims often. He knows what he likes and he knows he can have it. If anything occurs to the opposite, doom is sure to follow.

But Wilbur doesn’t really have to worry about any of that. Other Roses aren’t as lucky as him, many people aren’t so lucky, but Wilbur has always been different. It comes with being a Siren, rare and coveted by many kingdoms. Siren’s Song could end wars, end regimes, if only the Siren were close enough to be heard. Weapons of peace or war depending on their whims.

If Wilbur’s family had taken him anywhere else, he’d likely be the coveted savior or servant of some unknown king. All his whims attended to and all his wants met. It’s not arrogance , it’s a fact. Very little in this world can resist a Siren’s call, their Song.

Except, of course, for Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis. By nature of ruling the Empire of Souls alone, his presence has meant that Wilbur gets none of that treatment he’d heard so much about from his parents. His presence means Wilbur keeps his head low, his extra set of teeth hidden against his jaw, and his voice quiet so his song doesn’t slip.

Sanguinis isn’t affected by any Siren’s Song, no matter how powerful. It’s made the revolution a bitch and a half to get going. In the Empire, the brave die first, then the loyal, then the smart. All that’s left is those few with the will to keep going. 

For years Wilbur kept his head down. He was protected only by the few laws in place preventing the hunting of Sirens, for there are other reasons than their power that people might want them. Sweet flesh tasting of honey and candy draws many gluttonous eyes. But Sanguinis didn’t approve of cannibalism.

Those laws are the only good things that Feathered Fiend has ever done in his entire Gods forsaken life. But it isn’t enough. One good deed does not change a life grown up surrounded by filth, by the starving and the abandoned. Good people left to wither and rot.

Walking the streets day by day, learning through years of experience how to pick out which will starve by day's end, slipping into a slumber where they’d never awaken from again. To look beneath layers of grime and figure out which fellow beggar will tear into you, clawing away everything you hold dear for survival, and which will break the little bread they can afford to give to a recently orphaned boy. Those ones never last long.

Nothing will change the daily memories of too thin children, teens, adults, with each of their ribs easily counted beneath a thin layer of skin and bone. Those who could afford enough to remain healthy and fat eyed with envy and… and anger. Sparks of anger that Wilbur saw and took as an opportunity.

People are afraid. Wilbur can’t change that anymore than the Feathered Fiend can atone for all the shit he’s put his kingdom through, letting those of the lowest levels rot beneath a withered fake sky. But fear is so easily turned into anger.

He cannot make them brave, but he can encourage that anger into hate and rage, aiming it at the target that’s most important. Wilbur can poke and prod until a wave of those who’d suffered by the unjust turn their sharp teeth and desperate claws onto the one person who actually matters in all this. The Emperor, a god taken flesh.

Revolution is not kind to those who fight it. Not when the war is fought by the broken and the damned. But those people learn to be kind to each other, infighting will kill them faster than any disease or rot. Wilbur will not let that happen.

And that’s why he’s here amongst gilded marble sinking cold into his feet, numbing his senses until he’s surprised his breath doesn’t come out a pale white puff. The thin fabrics barely covering him are still nauseatingly expensive.

Killing the bastard emperor is a crime no one will ever recover from, not a man blessed by three separate gods. To kill a blessed is to kill yourself. Wilbur wouldn’t let anyone else have golden ichor stain their palms, leaving him to walk into his own grave. Being given the title of Sanguinis’ favorite changed nothing at all.

“Puffy, darling! What are you doing out of the kitchen, hm?” Wilbur hums, slipping his way into the dining hall. He eyes the black wood table with no small amount of disgust. Void ridden wood, he could afford to feed the entire army for weeks with just a square foot of that table.

“Ledan Eret requested a buffet and my liege acquiesced,” Puffy answers, half distracted as she traces a glowing line down the length of the table, measuring, “I’m checking how much space I have to work with. None of the staff have done a buffet before.” Yeah, because the oldest got here only a month before her when Sanguinis killed them all.

“A buffet? What for?” Wilbur scrunches his nose playful, hoping to sit on the table. The feathered asshole would never let him if he saw. After all, ‘roses aren’t allowed furniture’ or whatever that dumbass rule was. He swings his frozen feet.

“You didn’t hear it from me-” this must be good, “but it seems the Emperor is choosing new council members and invited a few nobles to pick from. His current remaining council is among the guests. I imagine they’ll have to fight for their spots,” Puffy comments casually.

Oh yeah, Wilbur’s heard about the dismissals. Hard to miss as he sleuths around, chatting easily with Tommy, Junior General Ranboo, and all manner of servants who hide amongst the walls. Over the past two weeks, only three original council members remain.

It’s only three because Kirstin never comes to meetings, even though Wilbur’s heard she’s technically allowed, being the representative of the royal mages and all. Well and the only royal mage. Meanwhile the other two are actually participating, making their survival impressive considering the bastard’s current mood.

“A little warning but I’ve been told to make sure your needs are met for the duration of the buffet,” Puffy comments idly. She finishes her rough box, marking down the measurements on a scrap of paper. The sheep hybrid smiles at Wilbur almost pityingly before she hurries off.

Make sure Wilbur’s needs are met… he’s going to be invited? Suddenly, he’s all too aware of the thin covering twisting between his legs. Fuck, he’s going to showed off like a prized pet. 

Buffets may not be common but being shown off? That certainly is. Charlie’s literally a dog at the Feathered Fiend’s feet during council meetings. He was unfortunately in the crowd, albeit barely old enough to remember it, when Foolish was first shown off. The man had already been a Rose for years according to him.

They’re the only times Roses get to see the outside world again, paraded during festivals set up in celebration of the emperor and nothing else. Wilbur remembers how uncomfortable the whole thing made him. Foolish, gleaming beneath the light, leashed and dragged along the dirty floors. The Emperor hadn’t even held the leash, forcing another servant to do so.

A hand presses against his throat. Will that be him now? Not even collared, just tied and choking on leather straps digging into his skin? He takes a deep breath. It doesn’t matter, he can’t fight it, move on . He has more places to visit.

Like the servants’ quarters, sequestered away amongst hidden halls fitting in impossibly tight spaces using what always feels like an impossible amount of magic. Ranboo’s quarters are amongst them, no special area set aside for barracks. It’s not as if Sanguinis has more than two soldiers not along the borders to begin with.

Wilbur’s step is spry as he makes his way through a secret door, merely an oddly shaped shadow in a corner. Being well fed has given him more energy than he really knows what to do with. It’s one of the changes Wilbur’s been hearing about, and experiencing at that.

Four well fed weeks, just shy of a month, has affected them all differently. Wilbur may be energetic but that’s more a trick of biology than anything else. A siren who gets bloated and sleepy in the water is one who gets eaten by a shark or sandfish, or some other natural predator. All food gets turned into incredible amounts of energy instead. 

Schlatt and the others are less lucky. Quackity’s been turning most of his into weight, his ribs less visible but still nowhere near healthy. He and Schlatt spend most of their days sleeping, curled up into each other and letting off an impressive amount of heat. More Schlatt’s heat than anything else. Wilbur touched him and nearly got burned.

Charlie and Foolish tend more towards Wilbur’s side of things, kind of. Foolish has certainly had more energy, but that doesn’t say a lot when he used to spend all his time sitting in one place if not gardening, barely having the strength to move his golden body to stand.

Lastly Charlie, easily acting normal about it all, has also packed on a bit of mass. For a slime, that just means he stretches even further, now able to wrap three of them in a wet slimy hug, or barely peek out around Foolish’s back when he sticks. It’s… nice.

He gags, pausing in his walk. Attributing anything ‘nice’ to Sanguinis should be a sin. What, is he feeling guilty? That bastard doesn’t know the meaning of the word, only capable of giving out false hope to cruelly twist away. Wilbur refuses to get used to this.

Even if his fins have never felt stronger, less prone to ripping, and his jaw has finally stopped aching in a way he never realized it did, teeth scraping pleasantly against scallops and clams during meals. The occasional bit of coral almost masquerading as desert. He can’t get used to any of it. It’ll make losing all this all the worse.

Deep breath Wilbur, he’s dealt with worse shit in his life than the warmth that comes with being full. It only feels so much worse because it’s a good thing that he knows he won’t keep. The bastard would never allow it. Deep breath.

Back straight now. Walk like you belong no matter how much you clearly don’t, confidence is his everything. Unearned confidence that gets him upon a pallet in front of a crowd, ready to pull them into a frenzy. A few words spoken just right can do much more than anyone gives them credit for. He doesn’t even need his song.

Ranboo’s quarters are easy to find when Wilbur visits here so often, the servants quarters more than Ranboo specifically. He’s only going to Ranboo now because Techno is under too much supervision to ever be stopped for a nice chat. Even if Techno would surely know more.

All he can do is give sympathy from a distance for the one man who’s ever had the Emperor’s complete, undivided attention. Wilbur would personally rather die, thanks. Even if… at the time those hands had been so gentle. Bruises no longer sit at his hips but his skin itches all the same. It never comes off.

Wilbur slips into Ranboo’s room without knocking, scratching the doorframe’s runes on purpose to set them off and get the Junior General’s attention. He flops back onto the bed. It’s not as soft as the one in the guest room. Wilbur rolls onto the floor for the gall of thinking that.

“Uhm, Soo- I mean, Wilbur? Mr. Siren? Did you need something?” Ranboo asks, there in a moment. Teleportation must be fun. Ranboo isn’t truly trapped in the palace grounds, not when the Feathered Fiend never pays them mind. Now that’s something to be jealous of.

“Nothing big, promise,” Wilbur hums, “Just wanted to know how you’re doing.” His back arches against the floor on instinct, unused to anything that isn’t cold marble covered by blankets. Gods, it hasn’t even been more than four-five months, no wonder the others are so fucked up.

“How I’m doing?” Ranboo repeats. Wilbur smiles at the emphasis, good man Ranboo. He rolls onto his front and looks up at the Junior General, surely looking pathetic on the floor, which is kind of the point. Everyone underestimates him.

“Of course! Who else could I be talking about? Unless you have something to tell me?” Wilbur blinks innocently. Ranboo immediately looks away. Yeah, Wilbur knows their secret, even though neither have said it aloud. The tension rests in the air, a silent promise.

“No, nothing to tell you. I’m… doing good. Techno’s been having me run drills with Tommy, to give him more people to spar with. The young prince has gotten better at using his wings, those flying lessons must be going well,” Ranboo rambles. Flying lessons? Those continued after Quackity collapsed?

“And there have been a couple new recruits too, so that’s taken up a lot of my time.” The man, teen really, scratches at their skin. Half black, so dark it absorbs the light around him, and half an incredibly pale, albino white. Wilbur shoots on to his arms.

“There are more guards at the castle?” He demands, dropping most of the lofty tone he’s been keeping. Ranboo flinches, disappears in flecks of purple, and reappears on the bed. Wilbur rolls to sit, keeping the glorified voidling in sight.

“His Imperial Highness brought them in for the banquet since Tommy will be attending, and he wants the extra protection for his son. But, well, none of the border guards are allowed back in, so he had to get new ones,” Ranboo explains slowly. As if that explains anything.

“And that doesn’t strike you as odd?” Wilbur prods, narrowing his eyes, pupils narrowing to slits. It always fucks with his vision when he does, tunneling it onto one point. This time, the point is Ranboo, who tenses again but does not disappear. They have nowhere to go.

“...A lot of things have struck me as ‘odd’, sir. The Emperor himself brought the recruits to me, none of them are nobles. If they’ve held a sword, it hasn’t been legally, and at least one of them definitely has. Really, if I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought his Royal Highness walked down to the slums himself to grab them.”

Great, explain nothing. That bastard hasn’t left Palace grounds any more than the rest of them. Well, discounting one experience where he supposedly visited the warehouse where the new ‘food bank’ will be, but he doubts that. Eret would definitely lie to him. She never truly approved of his methods. As if they aren’t just as murderous as he is.

“None of them even have birth certificates so they have to be from the bottom three levels of the capital at least. I don’t… I don’t know why they’re here to be honest,” Ranboo admits.

“Who? And how many? I think they’d be great as new friends.” Wilbur falls back into his facade, smiling at the thought. Ranboo lets out a breath, tension leaving with it. A little guilt builds in Wilbur’s throat at making the teen so scared. Even if it’s all for survival’s sake.

“We had to get them new names, Karl helped. Purpled’s about my age, he came here with… I think his older brother? Punz? Then there’s Alyssa, she’s probably the best of the three, though Punz is the only one who seems to have experience. And last is Jack, a small group I know.” Ranboo counts off on his fingers, “but it’s enough to station one at each entrance.”

“That’s so fun! I’m glad you guys are finally getting some help,” Wilbur gushes. Jack’s here? Wilbur doesn’t have the greatest relationship with the man but Jack knows Niki . He can ask how she’s been doing! Has the bakery been doing okay? Has she been eating well? She must be eating better, no longer splitting what she gets with Wilbur since people refuse to hire someone as risky as a revolutionary leader.

“Yeah, it’ll be nice… I guess I just want to know why his Imperial Highness is doing this, not that I’d doubt him!” Ranboo hurriedly corrects, glancing at the walls as if the Emperor might be just around the corner. Wilbur pulls himself together.

“He’s only one man,” Wilbur shrugs. Ranboo’s gaze lands on him, hesitantly nodding. That’s the one thing he’s struggled to get anyone to believe, no matter how angry or frustrated they may be. Sanguinis is one man . A very strong man, but one all the same. He will die like any other.

Eventually, Wilbur has to leave, having gotten no more interesting news. He chats with the various servants in the other quarters, covers his tracks, and goes. All he knows is that things are changing in the palace.

Servants walk a little heavier, glow a little more. He occasionally catches movement in the halls, which is already far more than they’ve ever done before. There’s less tension in the air with each day that goes by and Sanguinis lashes out at no one.

He’s never lasted this long before. Blood soaked halls hunger for more crimson life to seep into their stones, a silent warning. Yet, he’s not heard of a single incident over the past month. A month .

Yes, things are changing in the Palace. Sanguinis is less snappish, softer, and if the whispers are true, even generous to his staff. Wilbur just doesn’t know if that’s a good thing yet.

The other shoe will always drop, and the consequences for this will be vile. Wilbur will have to pick up his pace before it gets that far.

…

Event planning is officially Phil’s least favorite activity, even lower than combing through legal documents trying to get a roadmap of how the empire is set up, or rather isn’t because Sanguinis is running the place into the ground . Seriously, how is any part of this thing standing?

At least this is something he has a little bit of experience in. Unfortunately, planning birthday parties and fundraisers doesn’t transfer horribly well to a noble banquet where he has to pick out new council members. Phil briefly regrets kicking all of them out.

No he doesn’t. They were all simpering sycophants incapable of saying no unless Phil’s plans negatively affected them too much. Then they got angry and started talking about how the poor don’t deserve rights. None of them deserve their station.

Though the council might be able to take over planning. Except there are two of them and the banquet is being held at the Palace, which neither two have great access to. Phil’s instincts roil at the idea of unfamiliar people having such control over his territory, even if he enjoys having someone stand up to him.

Instincts… he hates those too. Really his opinion of them shouldn’t be allowed to get lower and yet they sure are trying. Phil takes a deep breath. No. No that’s a bit much, he’s frustrated at everything right now, it’s not hate.

Fun fact, Elytrans tend to have more than one mate and the stamina to keep up with them. They’re naturally drawn to these mates by… fucking fate or something. Once they meet? All that stamina jumps to attention and they get to making a flock the traditional way.

Which explains why the instincts make him so damn horny and why ignoring them is slowly driving him insane. His mind can’t seem to settle between frustrated anger, unhealthy levels of self-hate, and what’s definitely a burgeoning case of depression he really can’t do anything about. Phil’s ignoring his instincts and it’s fucking with his mental state.

Except playing into those instincts would only make things worse, isn’t that grand? Phil’s skin buzzes, touch starvation settling in hard and fast, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Tommy’s stopped coming to breakfast entirely after realizing he won’t get in trouble for it. His mates hate him .

Phil digs his face into a hand, a stack of bound paperwork under his other arm. A distressed warble leaves him. Sad, why, want flock , it translates to in his head. Phil knows why . It’s all Sanguinis’ fault! He’s trying to atone so leave him alone.

His flock will come to him in due time, when they want to, and not a moment sooner. Phil can’t force them. That possessive, nigh-obsessive feeling blooming in his chest is bad and unhealthy. They’re traumatized. He can’t push them.

Unfortunately, repeating those words for the millionth time does little to get his instincts to finally believe them, emotions and logic at war with each other. Phil sighs, readjusts his package, and continues walking. Go to his office, then to the nest. The instincts are usually a little quieter in the nest.

Lost in thought, Phil wanders the halls, trusting his feet to carry him there safely like they have before. He really should get on to actually figuring out the layout of the palace. It’s been a month and he only has a shaky understanding of the distance between his bedroom, the dining hall, and his office. That’s just sad.

Marble hallways all tend to look infuriatingly similar. Phil’s going to add marble as a substance to the list of things he hates. White marble? More like white torture . The various array of fancy gold shit doesn’t make very good landmarks either.

Once, Phil tried to use them to figure out his way only to learn that the knick knacks get rotated everyday. Who even needs that much gold. The palace is huge and they’re doing it for every room? Growing violent urges make Phil wary of confronting anyone.

“Ah, greetings Your Royal Highness.” A voice snaps Phil out of his thoughts, accompanied by the sound of something metallic knocking against the marble. He blinks, nowhere he recognizes. To his right is a window showing rows upon rows of oddly placed rose bushes, but those seem to be the only bush the palace has. It really tells hims nothing.

“Hello Foolish,” Phil greets, recognizing the massive golden man on the ground immediately. Now that’s a character design that’s hard to ignore. He licks over his teeth, feeling his limbs begin to stubbornly tremble. Miles of smooth golden skin, gleaming so perfectly, formed into the shape of strong, thick muscles.

“What are you doing outside the Rose Garden?” He asks, latching onto the conversation topic to keep some level of control. Phil pulls his wings back tighter, trying and mostly failing to stop the puff of feathers. His eyes continue to trail downwards.

Mud sticks to Foolish’s calves and the bottom of his… ‘skirt’. Phil adds getting the harem actual clothes somewhere in his kilometer long agenda. Ugh, seeing them comfortable in perfectly fitting fabric will kill him.

“This Rose was gardening, Your Royal Highness, as you had allowed.” Foolish’s hands grab at his own thick thighs, easily thicker than Phil’s head. A feat made a lot easier by the foot and a half of height the elemental has on him.

Right, Phil remembers that. Foolish got painted in the softest light, a man who adored all of life in spite of what a cold metal exterior might have you believe. Yet his love was ruined when…

Oh… Oh shit . Did someone die? Foolish gardens because Sanguinis has him burying bodies. Fuck, that’s so stupid . Phil definitely just brought up bad memories. Why does Sanguinis have to be so much of an asshole?

A depressing croon slips past his gritted teeth, hardly even aware of the tension in his jaw. Foolish adores gardening. His route is literally all about it! Phil would know, it’s one of the few he got to play and it was so cute . Which… does remind him.

Isn’t there a greenhouse attached to the palace somewhere? Phil distinctly remembers Wilbur, well the player character , sneaking Foolish into it sometime late in the route. They’d… had to hide from Sanguinis, he believes, because they were out late at night. By chance, they ended up in a luxurious greenhouse unlike they’d even heard of before.

“I did,” Phil agrees quietly, far too late for his words to make sense under any other circumstances. A plan circulates in his head, a way to make up for his shitty behavior. Phil can only do so much so fast. This, at least, will be a balm to the wound.

“Stand up Foolish, you need not kneel in my presence,” Phil crosses the few steps between them, “I have something to show you.” He offers a hand. Despite his efforts to be small and unthreatening, Foolish flinches away from his claws. 

Phil waits patiently, mildly regretting offering his hand but finding it too late to really back off. He should get them used to touch that doesn’t hurt or they’ll never relax around him. Yet, Phil would rather die than step too far. A hard balance when every step leads directly off a cliff.

Reluctantly, Foolish’s much bigger hand settles on his own, dwarfing his palm and wrapping around his entire hand and wrist. A very flustered chirp rips from him. Molten lava douses his hand, except that small part of his brain still accepting logic knows Foolish is cold. Metal is cold, marble is cold, Foolish is cold.

But by god if Foolish’s hand is this big. Phil’s head blanks, refusing to finish the thought so hard that he bodily throws himself into what might be a dissociative episode. All he knows is that he dips beneath a fog made mostly of horny in one place and blinks back away in another.

There’s certainly some knowledge of inbetween. He knows his feet are moving, he knows how many servants they pass, and he knows every shift and flinch Foolish makes when occasionally brushing against Phil’s wings. It just refuses to register as important. Memory slips through his fingers like sand.

All that remains clear is Foolish’s hand over his own, the desperate plea of instincts he’s been so stalwartly refusing. It hurts to become aware again. Blue balling yourself is not fun no matter how necessary it may be. Phil balls his free hand into his thigh.

“We’re here,” Phil announces, genuinely unsure if he said anything or made any sound before this point. Foolish startles, so he might not have. He can hear the unspoken question of ‘where is here?’.

From the outside, the greenhouse looks like nothing at all. In game, it was a product of reusing backgrounds, which makes perfect sense. In real life, it’s just another stupidly identical hallway with doors that get off on being expensive and completely unnecessary. It doesn’t even look good .

Gold doors, like he’s making fun of Foolish for never knowing the greenhouse exists, are mounted with large carvings of some animalistic skull. Almost a pig, maybe a boar, but Phil knows next to nothing about animal bones.

Despite their weight, said doors open easily for Phil. Because Phil hasn’t had to touch a door once since getting here. It makes carting around paperwork a whole lot easier when he never technically needs a free hand. That’s more hands for books too! Like the book that told him about his stupid libido problem .

“Your Imperial Highness?” Foolish ventures. Right! He’s here for a reason, not just to marvel at doors. Phil pulls Foolish into the amphitheater, waits for what’s probably a magical disinfectant spray, and then steps out into the greenhouse.

Honestly anyone who thinks the in game drawings of the greenhouse could ever capture it are lying to themselves. Then again, Phil said the same thing about the Royal Library. Glass walls form a massive space, disappearing into mist in the distance, including up where he can only barely see it start to curve.

When the doors shut behind them, it’s as if the rest of the palace has ceased to exist entirely. Only humid air, overflowing plants, and planes of glass and metal. Phil walks to the edge of the entrance platform, distantly aware of Foolish beside him.

Is that a fucking river? Phil squints over the glass railing, spotting the twisting river carrying lazy water. Sanguinis built a goddamn river in his greenhouse. Phil has had a pretty decent view of the palace grounds while flying. There is no river leading into the greenhouse.

Then again, the outside view of the greenhouse is two or three moderately sized floors, not a godforsaken jungle stretching out as far as the eye can see. Oh, he’s sure there’s some level of organization to it all, Phil just has no way of figuring out what that system is. All he can do is pick out the edges of planter boxes.

“Forgive this Rose for his insult, but why has his Imperial Highness brought me here?” Foolish asks. Wow, Phil is really out of it, he forgot again why he was here. Okay, deep breath. Stay focused.

“Well, from my understanding, you enjoy gardening,” Phil starts. Foolish flinches so hard his hand slips away, taking a full step back from Phil before freezing. With his golden skin, he looks like a statue. Is he… is he even breathing?

“And I figured I’ve kept this from you enough. If you would like to help out with the greenhouse, you are free to venture between there, here, and the library for any reference materials you may require. I don’t imagine anyone has the needs of these plants memorized, I sure don’t,” Phil laughs. See? Harmless. No need to be terrified.

“I- many thanks to his Imperial Highness,” Foolish manages to stammer out. His knees hit the glass balcony hard , yet it doesn’t so much as scratch. Phil, in all his genius, fails to put two and two together. Math is hard .

Of course, the math does itself when Foolish takes initiative to nuzzle between Phil’s thighs, reminding Phil that these people are in fact a harem and, yeah, that is probably what Sanguinis would respect for thanks . Though, honestly, even that takes a minute to process.

Before anything else, Phil’s vision nearly whites out. A keen, more bird than human but equally as breathtakingly horny, rips from him. His skin lights aflame. In an odd call back to meeting Techno, his knees give out, forcing Phil to catch himself on Foolish’ shoulders.

Talk about making the situation worse. Foolish stills at the touch, giving Phil time to try and get the fireworks exploding in his nerves under control. Control, that thing he’s supposed to have as a full grown man with a doctorate in psychology. He grips hard to ground himself. For once, Foolish doesn’t flinch.

“That’s alright Foolish, no need to thank me,” Phil gets out. He is fooling no one with how strangled the words are, as if a hand is wrapped around his throat and actively choking him. Not that he would mind Foolish’s hand around his- woah okay no, stop .

“Merely trying to do something nice for you for once.” Yep, just keep talking around that blockage in your throat. Swallow a bit too thickly. Are his wings fluffing again? Yeah, why do they do that? Phil’s feathers puff up, unable to stop his wings from mantling, if that’s even the right word.

Right, it’s a mating display thing. Mortification does its level best to drown out the waves upon waves of horniness. All it gets to help is Phil’s stalwart refusal to do anything about it and iron grip on his own fucking heart. Speaking of grip actually.

Phil lets go of Foolish and steps back so fast he blinks and the edge of the glass barrier is digging into his ass. Yeah, the glass barrier for this platform that was twenty feet away from where he was standing, that one. About two feet to the left is the stairs down into the greenhouse.

He stares so hard into the glass at his feet that Phil’s surprised his magic doesn’t react and melt a hole where he’s standing. Maybe a nice fall a hundred feet into a river will cool off the heat pouring from his skin. Maybe he should have jumped back at a different angle and fell down that stairs. Both sound equally nice.

“Imperial Highness?” A meek voice tries to draw his attention back up but Phil’s not an idiot. He knows better than to give into temptation. All he needs to do now is leave before he does anything else stupid.

“Enjoy your time here, I trust you know your way around the palace to get back,” Phil rushes out. He trusts his feet again, continuing to stare resolutely at the floor. Out the doors, out the amphitheater, crushing his papers into a wrinkled mess if it weren’t for that binding. Even then they’re only salvageable.

Why do the gods hate him? What did Phil do to deserve this torment? If he has a breakdown in his office, no one is around to hear him.

…

It’s so warm. By nature, greenhouses are much warmer than the environment around them, a product of how the glass and metal structure is formed. Foolish doesn’t remember ever being this warm. Maybe before he fully developed consciousness, trapped deep beneath the earth.

But that… somehow doesn’t seem that important right now? Like, okay, he’s wanted to garden forever. Foolish hasn’t even known about the greenhouse before this point. He is excited… or he will be. Once all of that registers past, well…

What just happened? Foolish remains kneeling on the glass, staring at where Sanguinis had pressed so hard into the railing, leaning so far back that, for a moment, Foolish thought he might fall. Contained Sanguinis, an absolute mess.

Foolish traces his own face, feeling over the parts of him that pressed into Sanguinis’ pelvis, not even straightening his back from how he’d had to bend down even on his knees. That’s… what Sanguinis wanted.

Reading emotions means Foolish always knows what Sanguinis wants to some extent. He knows Sanguinis wanted him. It had hung so heavily in the air, clinging to Foolish in a thick layer of filth that set him on edge and made him wish he could squirm away from the emotions themselves.

He’s never wrong. His senses are never wrong. They weren’t even wrong this time . It’s as if a switch were flipped the moment Foolish actually acted on what he knew. Sanguinis had been excited, wanting, and grasping hard at Foolish’s skin.

Yet when Foolish had played into Sanguinis hands, willingly at that, which usually only excites Sanguinis more with that foul tasting pride and avarice, nothing had happened. Well, something had but nothing Foolish expected.

Sanguinis never backs down. The emperor could level countries on a whim, he has no need to back down. And this wasn’t even backing down . Sanguinis threw himself away, filled with mortification and self-hate so strong it overtook Foolish’s senses.

Questioning if Sanguinis doesn’t like him anymore is not the right move here. Foolish knows he does, he felt the interest. He slowly straightens his back, trailing his hand down to cup at his throat, phantom hands choking him despite the light touch. Foolish has no idea what’s going on anymore.

Twice a week he goes out and tends to the garden, painfully aware of the bodies buried beneath him, some as little as three feet. Usually, there’s another body to bury. Not only Roses get to go in the Rose Garden. No one who enters the palace ever leaves alive, nor even dead depending on how petty the Emperor is that day.

Not a single person has died in the past month. Foolish can’t even count that poor councilman who was thrown into a wall, nevermind how Wilbur even knows of the incident, because he lived in the end. If Foolish chose to forget, he could pretend he were tending to an innocent rose garden.

Anger and pain stops existing when he closes his eyes, letting his hands lead the way through his routine tending. Without the stench of blood and decay, it’s made even easier, allowing him to quietly try and forget. Now, there’s not even that.

Part of Foolish knows that’s a good thing. The rest feels bad for ignoring the deceased, the ones who may not have anyone left to remember them. If it weren’t for Sanguinis sudden peaceful streak, that wouldn’t be a problem.

Peace is not a problem, Foolish shouldn’t think that it is, no matter how terrible forgetting is. It’s not forgetting. He can never forget how well blood mixes with soil, how some bodies come pre chopped, limbs organized by planters. How fucking happy Sanguinis is to occasionally watch as Foolish’s favorite hobby is destroyed.

Remembering is a price paid only by the moral. Those who commit happily sin rarely care to recall it. What traumatizes Foolish is just another Tuesday for Sanguinis, there and gone in a moment of his immortal life. 

Yes, there is nothing wrong with Sanguinis’ sudden pacifism other than how off kilter it’s left himself and the other roses. The Emperor has begun to stray from them. Rarely are they called to meals, if then only to be fed and held like something special. That is not the way of the Emperor.

That can’t be the Emperor. Foolish’s eyes snap open, when did he close them? He feels stupid for fighting the other Roses on this, that something is wrong and different. It just felt so impossible. Sanguinis is impossibly strong, what could hope to overpower him?

A changeling? A fae? A spell? A god ? But it’s the gods’ blessings that grant him his strength, surely they must approve. Foolish climbs to his feet, leaning more on the railing than he’d like to admit.

On one side, the greenhouse stretches out enticingly. An innocent garden. One undoubtedly filled with magical plants perfectly capable of killing or eating him, but innocent in the lack of blood seeping into the soil. Wilbur wouldn’t lie to him. Foolish is the only one unlucky enough to be burying bodies. That’s why there’s so goddamn many.

But on his other side are the other Roses. A bitter laugh leaves him, disbelief at actually having his own story to tell about the Emperor’s odd behavior. And, well, they expected him back soon.

Nerves drum in his chest. Foolish gives to temptation, carefully making his way down glass stairs, obviously cut with some kind of crystal for strength. It’s a bit like a betrayal, not immediately reporting this.

It’s just that he can’t get the image of Sanguinis out of his head. Frazzled, hair on end and feathers sticking out, skin flushed red wherever it sits visible. Shaking hands, trembling knees that gave out at a touch. Shame of his own warms the inside of his chest.

 

Foolish almost understands what Sanguinis must be feeling, as much as he can understand any of the tyrant's thoughts. He just wants to stop thinking right now. Is that so much to ask?

Notes:

Yay! Upcoming event! A banquet! And the Philnoblade smut I promised, but that's unrelated <3

Poor Phil has to event plan, I feel so bad for him. This chapter feels like it's a bit on the lighter side compared to the others, and it probably is, but I'm also mildly sleep deprived as I'm writing this so who even fucking knows at this point. All I know is that Phil is making progress, Wilbur is angry, and shit's about to go down.

A meeting between Phil and the native nobility can only go poorly, lets be honest. The nobles are expecting someone a lot different and Phil has next to no expectations whatsoever. And no knowledge of social norms in this world. Oh well, at least he's the emperor! He basically dictates social norms, doesn't he? At least, I'd assume so.

Meh, more pain upcoming anyway, to make up for this chapter being 'light'. Seriously, I have many plans, it's gonna be great. Great for me, and maybe you guys since you seem to be thriving in Phil's misery no matter what form it takes. Today's flavor de misery is spicy with a side of lore.

Seriously what is Wilbur even doing with his life? Only good things, for me, again. Does any of this make sense? I dunno. To bed with me! For shame!

Chapter 10: They Don't Love You

Summary:

Nature cannot be fought. It can be pushed back, burnt and cut away at and torn up by the roots until only a haze of ash again. Yet, if left to rot, the forest will return stronger than ever. Ash will feed to soil to grow new trees. It will always outlast. Phil never stood a chance against the enemy that is his own mind.

Instincts are fickle things, easy to distract but they always come back. As the days pass, Phil loses himself to them more and more until even working becomes impossible. It was only a matter of time until another poor decision is made. A decision on both their parts, in fact. A man of feathers and void alongside a man of bloodshed and war.

General Techno Blade has never gotten to know his instincts, has never had the chance to learn. He slips into them all too easily. A connection is made, a new trauma is set. Things will never be the same. The real question is if they even want them to be. What is the truth in this web of lies?

Notes:

I love, adore really, unreliable narrators. None of my narrators are reliable, that should be kept in mind. Things can be misremembered, lies can be told, all that lovely dovely stuff. Some things just aren't known at all! Why am I bringing this up? Idk, what are you, a cop?

More angst next chapter! I'm so excited. This one is 7.4k words and there's not nearly enough angst, but it makes up for it in other ways ;) Next chapter though? Expect a thick soup of angst. Terrible angst. Things just keep goin downhill for poor Philza Minecraft. We cry for him, except we don't because we love it when he suffers.

TWs: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse (physical, mental, emotional, sexual), Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Self-Hate, Isolation, Implied/Referenced Self harm, Implied/Referenced Neglect

Spicy CWs: Dubious Consent, Biting Kink, Blood Kink, Crying During Sex, Sado-Masochism, Topping From The Bottom, Subspace, Subdrop

And a CW without a home: Being Rejected By Those You Love But Knowing And Understanding Why

A man can only spend so long indoors before he starts to become stir crazy, that Phil already knew. Staying indoors for too long only encourages the progression of depression by increasing feelings of isolation. The cold marble walls only aggravate the condition. Pure white, stealing all warmth, and truly providing no visual stimulation.

Phil has been trying to offset this the best he can over the last month and a bit. He hasn’t been able to make a trip off of palace grounds, far too many things to do, but since he figured out how to fly, he’s been attempting to make time for it every couple of days. It soothes part of his bird brain.

Not the part that screams at him to attend to his mates though. A different part he’d barely been aware of before he first ventured beyond the clouds and realized he could finally breathe.

He never realized how stuffy it was on the floor. How much thicker the oxygen was until the air began to thin and an energy unlike any other drew a giggle from his chest. Yes, it certainly helps to make the isolation less vile.

If only it was enough. Phil’s hands twitch beneath long sleeves, his outfit of the day specifically chosen to be light with only four layers, begging to dig claws against his near impenetrable skin. Only two days ago he was running from Foolish.

The itch has only grown worse since then, cheeks and ears permanently tinged red. He avoided breakfast just in case Tommy visits for that reason alone, not wanting a child to witness him like this, desperate for even a brush of his mates. Every hour, the urge to beg for it grows. Every hour, Phil denies himself.

Because the part he can't forget is that he doesn’t need to beg. With a word and a glance, he can have one of five people darting to his side to relieve him, just not because they want to. Consent is the most important thing.

Consent they can’t give so Phil will just live without sex. Even if his biology is fucking hardwired into it and his hands are shaking and he can barely fucking see what he’s working on anymore. Jerking off doesn’t cut it. It’s like his body knows the difference between his hand and his mates.

Maybe it does, since Phil also knows it isn’t the same thing. Unlike his body, he also knows the circumstances. Phil takes a deep breath. Cold air cycles through his lungs, burning over his skin. It probably isn’t that cold. He’s just superheated.

So over worries of isolation and the fact he literally can’t work right now , Phil is outside in one of the training grounds. He feels like a creep, lurking by one of the arched entrances, watching Tommy and Techno train. No, he straight up is a creep.

While this is the most he’s seen of his son, fledgling , in days, it’s also the most he’s seen of Techno since stumbling upon them in the library. For obvious reasons, Phil has given the man his space. Sanguinis efforts at seduction were very much just sexual assault. Unlike the harem, who Phil has to see at least once a week to check up on them, he doesn’t have to do anything with Techno.

General Blade doesn’t need to meet with the Emperor unless they’re at war. They are not at war. Phil has not seen him. Simple. Until now, where Phil can feel strings wrapped around his bones trying to move him forward. More strings tie him down and demand he watch.

Look at mate. So strong. Can protect us . Instincts whisper into his ears, cooing as if Phil isn’t Sanguinis, the walking nuclear bomb. His gaze is forced up from Tommy, trying his hardest to combat a much stronger opponent. Techno parries Tommy’s attacks easily.

Unlike last time, Techno has no practice sword. Wood smacks against his forearm, pushed to the side or blocked entirely without so much as a flinch. Quiet words mumble from him to Tommy.

Advice, Phil thinks with his lack of fighting knowledge, since he is a teacher and all. Each word filters through his sensitive ears but his brain refuses to process them, marking it as meaningless white noise. Wind whistles between archways surrounding the fighting ground.

Cold, mate warm, go to mate . But Phil knows better than to listen. He balls up his hands, still hidden beneath his sleeves, until he feels nails begin to cut into his palms. It’s not real pain, barely sparks, since it heals far too fast to even bleed. No scars will be left behind.

One move, a sweeping kick, and Tommy stumbles back, falling onto his sensitive wings. Phil’s breathing stutters as a vivid sensory hallucination strikes him. His hands, preening soft silky down feathers, picking out the old so the juvenile feathers can grow in properly. It’s not real. He never did this. Sanguinis sure as hell didn’t.

Yet his eyes water with a more innocent want. He could preen Tommy’s wings. Phil knows how in the same way he knows the layout of the palace by heart, he doesn’t but his hands will guide him. Phil forces himself to take another deep breath.

Phil should leave. The realization strikes him, a clock chiming for the hour. He should leave now before either realize he’s here, or maybe just acknowledge he’s here since he doubts they’re missing him.

Really, it’s such an incredibly common thing. People know when their abusers are around. The hypersensitivity is meant to keep them safe. The moment Phil stepped past the door, they probably clocked his presence and decided to pretend they didn’t.

Sanguinis might have stalked them so this could be normal behavior. God knows there’s more than a couple scenes in Techno’s route where Sanguinis materializes out of the aether- is he crying ?

A bloodless hand, cuts sealing the moment he removes his claws from his palms, presses over a wet cheek. Somehow, he can feel both the streak of warmth and the innocent feather down under his hand. He… he can barely tell which is real. That’s not a good sign.

If Phil were any more aware, he’d leave. He is pretty cognizant right now, fighting against instincts that want him to do anything but stand around, but he can’t do much. Instincts are too primal to just ignore.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Isn’t that the saying? Phil sniffles, wiping his eyes. Tommy is already off the ground when he looks back. Techno gives him orders, homework probably, but all Phil can focus on is the dusting of brown over pristine white and dots of black.

Preen fledgling, baby, claim fledgling as flock, why not flock? No. Do not touch the child without permission. That is the exact opposite of what he should be doing- wait Tommy isn’t actually flock? Phil cocks his head in confusion.

Then who is flock? His instincts have been calling Tommy flock all this time, but he’s not actually flock? Phil prods his instincts like a drunk man might do a wild bear with a stick. Apparently no, Sanguinis rejected Tommy as flock.

Mood swings must be a side effect of ignoring his instincts. It is not natural how fast he snaps from ‘breathtakingly horny’ to ‘depressed and wanting’ and now into ‘primal rage’. How dare Sanguinis reject a fledgling? People don’t do that.

Even with his mediocre knowledge on Elytrans and how they work, just listening to what his instincts have to say makes it obvious that children are adored . They’re almost equally as important as mates. Parents who reject their fledglings should not have been parents to begin with.

In his rage, Phil marches several paces into the sun. Light falls over his feathers, the warm sun contrasting the cold wind, and his hand nearly places over Tommy’s back just between his wings. Only nearly, thank god.

“Greetings, Crownsoul Crow Philza,” Techno interrupts sharply, bowing to hide it. Phil’s hand snaps back to his side like he’s been burnt, bunching at the fabric. His skin itches, itches, itches .

A croon, no- a chirp, still no- a croon , dammit why are words so hard? Phil nearly bites his tongue off in frustration, unable to smooth his face out even when Tommy turns at bows his head.

‘ Fledgling . Preen?’ Phil gives up and asks in bird song, human words be damned. The noises really rumble oddly against the back of his throat, he never noticed before. If it’s going to be so hard, he gives up. He has more important things to focus on than the English language. Is it even called English? Does England exist here?

“Yes Father, I will preen myself after cleaning. I assure you that every task will be complete,” Tommy assures him robotically. That… isn’t what he was asking. Phil should be more specific and ignore the fact he can see Techno’s face and chest in full now.

‘Help. Fledgling. Preen?’ Phil clarifies. His wings fluff behind him, feathers puffing out as if to show how good of a job he’s done with them. It’s surprisingly easy, if hard to get to the spots close to his back. Using magic clears that up easily though.

“I would not want to trouble you with that, Father,” Tommy denies, pulling his own wings tight against his back. Phil can see the misaligned feathers from here. A stab of annoyance hits his heart.

‘Flock. Want. Help. Preen. ’ Phil sets his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, feeling all too clearly the minute flinch of muscle. It kills him to feel it. So deep in his abandoned instincts, that flick may as well have been a gun pointed directly into Phil’s chest, pulling the trigger and watching him bleed out.

A meaningless whine leaves him, just on the edge of despair, of desperation. It rattles through his teeth. Phil refuses to let his hand tighten and the effort huts his fingers. Yet, he also knows he could rip Tommy’s arm off if he wasn’t careful.

“Excuse me Father, I will be late for my next tutoring session,” Tommy lies, bows, and hurries away. Phil knows he’s lying, he doesn’t know how though. Flock can just tell it seems. Tommy is his flock now. That’s it.

However claiming works, Phil doesn’t care. Tommy is his flock whether they go through the process or not. Phil’s hand flexes in the air for a moment, missing the warmth of flock, before it drops to his side. No more distraction from the terrible itching, aching, heat .

“Will you be sparring today, Crownsoul Crow Philza?” Techno asks the same question he had the last time they were on this field. Just like before, Phil knows it’s a terrible idea. He has no idea how to fight.

Just like before, he also can’t control Sanguinis strength. He’s not tried to use his physical strength but the last time he attempted to consciously do magic, a councilman nearly died. He’ll either accidentally kill Techno or get his ass kicked trying to hold back.

On the other hand, before he dies from embarrassment, shame, or regret, he’ll have experienced Techno’s hands on him. It’s not a lot of pros. Actually, it’s just one pro. There’s a lot more cons. Phil isn’t feeling very convinced by the cons.

“Perhaps we should,” Phil answers. Regret. Immediate regret. Why is he doing this? Oh right, he’s horny and desperate and gay . He cannot therapy his way out of this one. Phil’s psychology degree has nothing to do with bird instincts so he’s alone for this part. Wait, that was English . Silver linings.

“Whatever you want, Crownsoul Crow Philza,” Techno agrees. The words ring in his ears, immediately taken out of context. Whatever he wants? Phil pinches his thigh hard , willing the fabric not to tear as best he can. No horny thoughts, no horny thoughts at all.

“What shall be the implements of our spar?” Phil asks, apparently set to pretending like he knew what he was doing for no reason. It’s probably the shame. Phil is floundering so he’s going to pretend like he isn’t. Fake it til you make it.

“Whatever you want,” Techno repeats, taking slow steps back towards the center of the arena. Phil follows like a lost duckling. He doesn’t not stare at how Techno’s pants shift over his thighs, clinging to his waist and hips. Thinking is hard.

“Hand to hand?” Phil blurts. He’s an idiot, a masochist, he’s torturing himself . But, well, he is only doing this because he wants Techno’s hands on him. May as well go all the way. The touch might just soothe his instincts, right?

“...of course, Crownsoul Crow Philza,” Techno replies a tad late. Phil barely notices over the internal screaming roaring in his ears. He stands opposite Techno, barely a few feet from him, and doesn’t move. Techno shifts into what’s clearly a fighting stand and Phil doesn’t move. He has no idea what’s going on anymore.

Techno waits quietly, burning eyes slipping from Phil’s head to his toes, sizing him up. Phil can’t help but preen, instincts misconstruing silent strategy for want. He knows it’s not. Try convincing the bird brain of that.

All at once he bursts into motion. An early attack, trying to take Sanguinis down before he can react since he knows he’ll lose a full battle. Phil blinks, how does he know that? Techno’s kick sails past him, a miss. When did he move ?

Still mentally processing, a punch whistles right past his nose, Phil’s feathers scraping the ground from leaning back. Techno’s attacks are missing. Phil can’t feel his body. Well he can , in brief snippets that only distantly let him recall the desperate need to claw his own skin from his body and raging hard on.

Phil thinks this must be how a video game character feels. Limbs move of their own volition, guiding them through attack patterns that the player comes to know by heart. Not a shot so much as grazes him.

Magic reacts in turn, summoning shields and shifting the ground to cause small pillars of stone to scrape against Techno’s legs or arms or chest. It definitely feels like watching gameplay. Or an action movie, just in first person.

Each moment of control is barely enough to register what move he did, let alone get himself together enough to respond. The automatic motions take control. It’s… a cold terror seeping into his chest. Phil’s breath doesn’t hitch because it can’t .

No free will. Only doing whatever the controlling entity tells him to. Hate and fear rise in equal measure, bolstering him to freeze the next time he has control. It’s barely a flicker of lost time.

General Blade knows how to take advantage of a flicker. Phil goes down hard, just as Tommy did, landing on his back against the dirt. Techno’s knee quickly presses just beneath his ribs, a hand going to Phil’s neck.

He’s panting, Phil is not. Sweat slicks Techno’s skin, Phil doesn’t feel like he expended any energy at all. Techno is hot , burning against Phil’s skin with thick lips parted for each exhale of burning air. Phil is- Phil is going to implode.

Let the ground swallow him up right now. If not, steal away his sense of identity so that shame no longer registers in his brain, just a white noise of thought. That shirt should not be legal, let alone slightly see through so that Phil can almost pick out hair across Techno’s chest.

“Do you yield?” Techno pants, pressing down harder on Phil’s neck. That same sense of clarity tells him he could say no. Phil could easily win this. Even if an instant kill isn’t in the cards, there are a million ways he could win this duel from the ground with his eyes closed. He won’t. He opens his mouth to agree.

Phil keens , high pitched and wanting. Every bit of desperation condensed into a single drawn out sound he couldn’t cut short if he tried. His dick is so hard right now. Phil presses up into Techno’s grip, thoughts scrambled to the wind.

Techno, beautiful and traumatized Techno, should rightfully jump off of the man who hurt him so much. But he doesn’t.

For completely inappropriate reasons, Phil is so thankful for that.

…

What. Techno doesn’t know whether to be vindicated or sick, or both. Both sound good. A pit in his stomach claws up his throat, disgusted by the idea that Sanguinis is enjoying himself. Of course he’d spar Techno just to get his hands on him.

Except that doesn’t make any sense. A familiar, instinctual reaction warms up his ears, body practically trained to be horny when in close contact with Sanguinis. It’s better than pain. 

Sanguinis doesn’t let anyone knock him over, let alone pin him to the floor like Techno’s doing. Nether, Techno shouldn’t be able to do this at all. Sagnuinis let Techno hit him, pin him, and even now is letting him squirm and wait for a response. If it’s a test, Techno’s already failed.

It doesn’t look like a test. Techno shifts, trying to dissuade the part of him that’s learned to purr beneath a heated gaze, and another high-pitched, breathy sound leaves the man beneath him. Sanguinis’ wings spread wide over the ground, pushing up into Techno.

Up with no strength, no real effort to get away, as if only to feel Techno’s hand press against his throat. Sanguinis’ adam's apple bobs when he swallows. If Techno looks really hard, he can pick out a flush over the bridge of Sanguinis’ nose.

 Just to test, Techno squeezes again, tips of his fingers digging into either side of Sanguinis’ thin neck. He… looks much more fragile like this. Loose robes make his limbs look so small, a strength to tear apart armies hidden beneath a soft layer of fat. 

“ Techno, ” Sanguinis whines, dipping into Techno’s first name. He squirms, head tilting back to show more of that sturdy, lightly tanned neck. Sanguinis isn’t panting, having expended no energy in their ‘spar’, but he looks like he might. Electric eyes fog at the edges.

“Philza,” Techno responds between slow pants. How can he not respond? Least of all because Sanguinis demands it. In all the time Techno’s known the man, never has he looked so… appealing . His jaw aches to tear into Sanguinis’ neck. Logically, he knows his teeth would sooner break.

“Please mate,” Sanguinis begs in that same high, strangled tone, like he’s trying so hard not to say too much. Is that… Techno shifts back, putting a little more pressure on his knees to free his other hand. A swipe of his thumb, wetness beneath Sanguinis’ eyes. So desperate he’s crying.

Techno shudders, breath he’d only barely regained punched from his chest. He should not be into this. Into his tormentor squirming beneath him, only fighting his grip so much to feel its presence. The knee in Sanguinis’ ribs only seems to edge him on.

“Please what ?” Techno asks, not sure he even wants the answer. Sanguinis’ hands jump up, grabbing with sharp claws at his wrist that only ghost over skin. A series of aborted chirps, trills, and warbles try to answer him. Techno freezes.

Words are clearly a struggle for the Emperor. Techno watches him try with an odd sort of fascination, watching tears well again in frustration the longer Sanguinis fails to make the words make sense. Sanguinis’ breath hitches, felt in his throat and chest in equal measures.

“Need you,” He manages, voice hoarse, lower. Not by a lot, straining against whatever urges force him into meaningless chirps. Techno’s dick twitches against too tight pants. Nervous energy and experience tells him to get up right now and run. 

Something far more insidious keeps him in place, that part of him that’s a Brute at heart, and whispers to make Sanguinis cry . Make him suffer like Techno did time and time again. To bite his skin bloody. To burn scars so that he’ll never forget just like how Techno is reminded every time he glimpses a mirror.

But he can’t, it’s impossible. More than that, the thought of sinking to Sanguinis’ level is sickening . Techno growls, Sanguinis falling limp and silent. He will never be like that man. Yet he can’t even get off the ground.

“ Techno ?” Sanguinis whispers. When was the last time Sanguinis said his name, when he was anything but General Blade? A beloved weapon? One broken and reforged time and time again? He doesn’t remember.

He shifts, moving his leg and his hand, changing from a pin to a cage. Sanguinis whines, head turning to chase his hand. A shot of something loud and heated courses his veins. Techno grits his teeth, drops his head, and bites . Tusks and teeth dig into skin.

A moan rattles against his ears. Skin gives but does not break even as he bites harder. It’s not enough. Techno pulls off, panting warm air over the shiny, spit slick pink marks of his own teeth. A marking to match one of his own, the scar dug against his thigh. 

“ More ,” Sanguinis moans, looping shaking arms around Techno’s neck. Not pulling, not pushing, not tossing Techno around like a glorified rag doll to play with. Limp, pliant, and wanting . Those terrifyingly sharp teeth pull blood from Sanguinis’ own lip.

Copper blooms against his tongue before Techno’s even aware they’re kissing. A mess of lips and teeth guided by little more than desire. Sanguinis’ blood is warm in his mouth, tingling his taste buds with an afterburn of heat . Techno groans.

Heat follows down his body in shudders, moving Techno to press more bites against tanned skin, trying again and again to no avail. A mess of pink marks, only barely beginning to bruise in a rare few places. His jaw aches at the force.

Not enough . Techno tugs back. Sanguinis keeps him in place for a few terrifying moments, head hugged tight into his neck before slowly letting go. He’s still shaking. When did he start shaking? Techno can practically hear the creaking of Sanguinis’ self control.

Techno rests back on his thighs, hands tugging at the complicated knot keeping those thin sheer robes together, made of a gold so pure Techno’s mouth waters. No amount of punishment has ever made his pigling side not salivate at the amount Sanguinis has. Maybe he’ll take this when he leaves.

Robes tear open to a lightly haired chest, soft with that signature layer of fat and surprisingly free of scars for its owner. Sanguinis is… plush for lack of a better word. He gives easily beneath Techno’s hands, even hiding the rock solid muscles from most casual touches. Techno digs his fingers in just to feel the end of its give.

Beneath him, Sanguinis whines at what would be pain for anyone else, hips stuttering up. A hard line brushes Techno’s ass. He knows what it is. With a grin near feral, he completely ignores it. 

Leaning back down, Techno gives it another go. He sets his sights on a perky nipple and bites . The flesh of Sanguinis’ breast is much softer than his neck, speaking to it being less vital than anything else. A scant few drops of blood hits him before the wound closes.

Groaning at the flavor, he peppers Sanguinis with yet more wounds. Each one lasts not nearly long enough. Each one punches a heated sound from the Emperor’s throat, moaning like a two bit whore. Techno laughs to himself at the comparison, nearly spitting out half a mouthful of blood.

It drips from his lips. A burning trail just as hot as it feels on his tongue. Techno swallows his prize, lifts his hand and is cut off. Sanguinis wipes his own blood from Techno’s face, scarlet red staining his fingers.

Fair is fair, Techno bites Sanguinis’ fingers. Nothing can hide how Sanguinis perks up in surprise, face finally flushing a reasonable shade of red, and collapses down from what could barely be called a mild lean. Techno sucks Sanguinis’ fingers clean.

Up he lifts himself, tugging Sanguinis free of his robes. Techno shuffles down, settling back on Sanguinis thighs instead of his waist. He takes a moment to observe the dick he was never actually forced to take. A silver lining.

He knew just from salacious ‘flirting’ and several forced eyefulls of Sanguinis’ tent that the Emperor was big but actually seeing it is a different thing entirely. Techno fingers barely meet around the base.

Sanguinis chokes on his own moan, bucking up into Techno’s hand. Precum dribbles from the head of his dick, a far larger amount than Techno thinks is normal, but then Sanguinis is never normal. Curiosity breaks through a haze of lust and anger and spite.

Techno moans , licking up the length of Sanguinis’ dick, the taste indescribable but leaving his mouth watering for more. Yeah, no, Techno needs this in him. He spits into his hand.

Quick pumps wet Sanguinis’ dick. Only belatedly does he realize he’s still wearing pants. Techno grumbles nonsensical words of frustration and his unfamiliar forgetfulness. Sanguinis strangles another heated sound when Techno pulls back.

“ Tech! ” And they’re only nicknames now? Techno can barely spare a thought to the oddness of it all, fumbling with trying to kick off his tight pants. All the blood in his body is going nowhere required for higher brain function.

Even when Techno stands to kick off his pants and underwear, Sanguinis remains splayed beneath him. For once, Techno doesn’t feel like a glorified piece of meat. Sanguinis just watches his face, smiling idiotically with eyes that would be hearts if that were at all physically possible. Techno… doesn’t want to think about the implications of that.

Distraction is easy to find. Techno drops back down, lines up, and slowly sinks onto Sanguinis dick to find he has gravely miscalculated. It should be fine. Techno is big, the dick is big. But fuck, Sanguinis is big .

A stretch near painful pushes at his rim, his eyes rolling back into his head. A sound he’s not proud of punches from his chest. Slowly but surely it forces its way in and Techno welcomes it with open arms. Pain and pleasure become a heady mixture in his veins, shocking his spine.

Pain… not something he ever thought he’d be into. Yet Techno bites his own lip bloody to muffle how desperately he needs more of this off colored pleasure-pain-pleasure as he slowly lowers himself.

Beneath him, Sanguinis bites into his hand. Blood stains around his face, hand mess of red, yet the emperor barely seems to notice. Finally, the head pops in, letting Techno sink a few inches as the worst of the pressure leaves. The stretch is beautiful .

Raw but beautiful, pushing against his walls in a way nothing else ever has and nothing else ever will, irreparably ruining him. Techno accepts this as true as he drowns his heat and pleasure and pain.

Whatever logic remains sinks him down slowly on powerful thighs, grasping at Sanguinis chest as a steadying force. Clawed hands hold Techno’s waist. He does not fear them now. Does not fear how Philza holds him, looks at him, praises him in breathy words and croons.

“ Perfect, mate, mine mine mine. ” It plays, a broken record in Techno’s ears. The man who blabs them is crying again, bruising Techno’s skin with the effort of remaining still. A sob fills the air every couple of inches. 

So Techno grins, sharp and feral beyond measure. His thighs, already shaking from exertion, he lets them give out. He bites into Sanguinis’ neck to muffle a scream. Sanguinis has no such thing stopping him from tilting his head back with a noise anything but human.

Full , so full. So breathtakingly full. No thoughts beyond the burn , filling him, rearranging his body to fit its needs. Moans, whispers, keens muffle into Sanguinis’ neck. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. Is he trying to speak?

Techno releases the skin, resting his forehead instead and looking down at himself. A ever so slight bulge distends his torso. He’s half a foot taller than Sanguinis, maybe more. How big can one man be? Sanguinis’ hips twitch against his will and the thought is violently punched from his skull.

Shifting is far too much yet not nearly enough. Techno grinds down to meet each aborted motion, licking and biting every bit of Sanguinis available to him. It’s too much . Too much, too much, too much. He might just be saying so.

Forcing himself together, Techno tries to rise, feel the slide of Sanguinis’ dick against abused walls. He gets maybe a couple inches before his legs give out on him. A cry bursts from his unmuffled.

It spurs Sanguinis-Philza- him to give in and thrust up into Techno. Pain-pleasure-too much- more , it babbles from him. Philza might reply, Techno can’t tell. It’s not important. His world narrows down to the burn within.

Each thrust could take a second or minutes or hours, not fast enough or too fast. Agony stretched out the time. Wonderful, perfect agony. Techno genuinely can’t tell how long he lasts.

He keens as he cums, painting over Philza’s bite marked stomach and chest. Philza doesn’t notice, might not care, and he doesn’t stop. Overstimulation hits hard and fast , giving Techno no time nor clarity. He might be crying. He can’t tell, he doesn’t want to be able to tell.

Techno, at this moment, wants nothing but more. If asked right now to become a Rose, he’d babble and plead and accept if only to feel this and nothing but this forever. Too much, not enough, wanting .

Maybe he cums a second time, maybe he just can’t tell the difference, piglins cum hard and cum a lot . Either way, he slumps over Philza and lets himself be used in a way he swore he never would. Techno’s never felt more complete.

Philza pulls him down hard one final time, pressing as deep into Techno as he can. When he cums it’s molten lava in Techno’s core. So very much of it pressing against his sensitive walls, plugged in by that too-thick perfectly long dick. He whines something meaningless.

Gathering will he didn’t realize he still had at this point, Techno lifts his head enough to rest his forehead and look down. The bulge against his abs has grown, distending as Philza just keeps cumming. He didn’t realize Elytrans could cum so much. Maybe not as much as Piglins. Techno can’t tell.

When it stops, Techno doesn’t want it to. That might be the only thing Techno wants that can be put into words. His muscles he’s so proud of have turned to jello, mind a slush, and moving seems just so hard. A nagging curiosity twitches his hand.

“ Fuck , Techno? Mate? You okay?” Philza asks… something. It has Techno’s name in it, that title ‘mate’ he’d been babbling so much. He’s probably supposed to reply. Techno moans quietly through closed lips.

“Shit, fuck, why did I do that? Techno ? Come on, say something.” He keeps talking. Techno gets his hand working, pressing over his new bump. A pleasing sigh burns through him, enjoying the tension of skin, vaguely aware that he knows he could hold more .

He chose his ass for a reason, even if brutes are intersex by nature, and he knew any other choice was a distinctly bad one. It just… seems so nice now. To see a different part of himself filled out, a new brood on the way.

Instincts… Techno doesn’t get lost in those a lot, or ever. He never really had a chance to even learn what they look like. The gold thing is obvious, mere common sense for anyone who’s heard of origin piglins, it makes sense that the hybrids would carry the trait. This is… new. Unheard of. Techno likes it, at least he does now . The future is so far away.

“ Techno , General Blade. Respond to me right now ,” Philza orders. It genuinely does click as an order. Techno, the brute, blinks and wonders why his sounder sounds a little scared. He settles into a place in his mind he didn’t know existed.

‘ Hi, here, sorry, ’ Techno chuffs. Brutes protect, protect sounder and protect piglets. Piglets he could have. Philza’s piglets, Philza who is strong and who’d bite him back, claim him, if he asked. Techno can’t really remember why he didn’t want that. Hadn’t Philza asked?

“...I don’t know what that means, mate,” Philza admits quietly. Mate! There’s that word again. Mate, like Forever Pairs? The ones who claim. Techno would love to be that. He squeals, face half pressed into Philza’s shoulder while he massages his abdomen. The bump is slightly squishy. It’s nice.

“Love you,” Techno slurs, tries to dig his teeth in to properly bite. It still doesn’t work. He pouts, huffing at the betrayal that is Philza’s skin refusing to give beneath his tusks. Philza stiffening up beneath him certainly doesn’t help.

“No, no you don’t. That’s not… that’s not you talking Techno. You’re just… fuck, let’s just get you to a bed.” Philza sighs. No? What does he mean no? Techno’s mind scrambles, missing literally every other word in all those other senses. The ‘no’ hurts. He kind of wants to cry. Piglins don’t have enough water in their bodies to really do that.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, ’ Techno chuffs. He’d keep repeating it if not for the torturous slide that quickly overwhelms him. Techno whines, slowly pulled from Philza’s dick. Cum slips out, trailing sticky lines down his thighs. He whines again. Techno doesn’t want it out.

Frustration builds and Techno voices his many complaints. He’s cold, not full enough anymore, and he aches from his toes to his hips. The bruises quickly developing on his waist are fine though. Techno wishes bruises could scar.

“Come on Techno, calm down. I’ll get you all cleaned up, I promise.” Philza keeps talking . That’s not enough doing . Techno cranes his neck, pulled easily to Philza’s chest, and offers himself up to be claimed by his sounder. Tommy is already sounder, his piglet, baby. Philza should also be sounder, forever. Never leave Techno.

Philza doesn’t bite him back. It feels like betrayal. Techno sniffles and clings and chuffs but he can’t change anything, only enjoy the heat and fullness and cold ache while it lasts.

When Techno comes back to himself, the only thing he feels is horror .

…

Post nut clarity is a thing, and a surprisingly scientific one at that. The rush of endorphins can really clear the mind, with serotonin even boosting the function of the brain, so people really do think clearer directly after… activities. Phil refuses to even think about them anymore after his latest moral failing.

Screw avoiding sex, he’s no longer going to consider it a part of life, maybe that will work. Just ignore how Techno’s wanton cries echo in his ears. Ignore the delicious bloat of his stomach from Phil’s cum and his cum alone. Shit, this already isn’t working.

Attendants shift nervously either side of the table he’s pretending to survey. A series of napkins, green with gold stitching, lay out before him. Each has a unique pattern and he swears some of them are in colors he couldn’t see before. Like an odd mix of green and neon pink that should just make an odd shade of brown. But it doesn’t.

Okay, the Techno problem. Techno said he loves him, Phil’s instinct fuzz with the warmth of the admission. However , Techno was also making inhuman, pig related noises and that means his instincts were talking. Phil has personal experience with the juxtaposition between instinct and conscious thought.

Which still means Techno’s instincts love him. That is the opposite of helping. In fact, that’s just making everything worse. Phil’s fine with Techno loving him in any other context. If this were just Love Paradox and he wasn’t Sanguinis, Phil would have already jumped ship for that man.

Randomly, Phil points out a napkin with an ice blue diamond pattern that might be dipping into the UV spectrum. That’s not the context though. Phil is Sanguinis and Techno just topped him in the middle of the training grounds for all to see.

Those topping efforts may have fallen apart during the end there but Phil still considers himself thoroughly wrecked, robes ripped and wishing Sanguinis’ healing factor were slower so the bites would stick around longer. He even let a bit of the dust stay around his feathers to feel the grit.

He sullenly marches his way over to his next set of decisions. Marble statues must be picked out from the art gallery and Phil has a hunch that they’re going to be depicting mostly Sanguinis and nothing else. Who even needs a room dedicated to hundreds of statues?

Rich people, how could Phil forget? This palace isn’t a museum, he hardly considers himself a collector. Apparently, Sanguinis was. That or the asshole just has a marble obsession. The latter is depressingly likely.

Marble aside, his thoughts trot back over to the Techno problem. It’s absolutely a problem of consent. Phil’s a therapist , he has a doctorate, he should be better than this! He should’ve left, not been pinned down. He had no reason to even go to the training grounds, a million other ways to find his way outside.

It’s not purely his fault. Phil knows, on a logical level, that he wasn’t thinking straight. Especially now that his head is clearer, the edges smoothed by their time, he recognizes that he didn’t consent. It may not feel like a violation but that means he can’t blame himself for it either.

Why is that so hard to accept? The human psyche is odd… is the lack of emotion he’s allowed to feel for his past life making this worse? Psychology definitely has a place in being an emotionally driven working area. Therapy especially involves many emotions and connections.

Connections he can’t recall, emotions he can no longer feel. It’s like he’s lost all of his experience. Phil sighs. Not important. Okay, it is but he can’t do anything about it other than curse out the gods in his head.

New question, why did Techno even do that? He hates Sanguinis and certainly knows the trauma of non consent. Revenge? Furthering the cycle of abuse is never good but Phil can’t think of another reason Techno would even want to touch him.

Maybe he didn’t see it as non consensual? Sanguinis has repeatedly propositioned him to the point of abuse, so there’s precedent even if Phil’s been avoiding him. That’s dubious at best though. Phil picks at the edges of his robes, a different set since his other ones got… stained.

Fuck he looked so pretty liked that. It might have been the pent up frustration but Phil was never more turned on in his life than when caged between those wonderful thighs. And he’s back on the horny.

Phil mentally whacks himself with a rolled up newspaper, picking up his pace. One interaction is apparently not enough. He doesn’t want to know what ‘enough’ means. Phil massages his temples, purposefully scratching his claws against his circlet of a crown.

Okay, yeah, Techno definitely saw it as consensual. Phil definitely remembers begging, and Sanguinis set up a precedent, and he had no reason to even think Phil was Phil . Avoiding Techno means he has no experiences with Phil being nice.

Even the harem got the occasional dinner with him where he held them nicely and fed them. Speaking of, Phil had no idea why they don’t eat with their own hands. The hand-feeding thing was an accident at first but now it might never go away.

‘ Provide, mates happy, provide, ’ His instincts chirp. Sure, got it, whatever. At least it’s much more innocent and easier to give into than… literally every other part of his instincts. 

“Ah- Greetings, your Imperial Highness, Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, excuse this lowly Junior General.” He’s stopped in the hallway by a gangly maybe-teenager and his group of three friends, “we were on our way to scout the banquet hall. Apologies for the interruption.”

Confused, he blinks down at Ranboo, then to his side as he realizes that it’s one of the new guards he selected, the nameless ones he found during a flight trying to steal from the palace trash. The audacity was commendable.

That same audacity has the guard who literally ran into him staring stubbornly into his eyes, her hair much wayvier after being properly cleaned. Before it was a matted mess. He’s impressed she managed to save as much of it as she has. It’s just long enough for a ponytail.

“It’s no problem Junior General Ranboo,” Phil waves them off with a smile. Ranboo startles, making Phil wonder if he’s supposed to know their name or pronouns. It wasn’t in any of the routes he played but it was a part of the character description.

“You’ve done wonderful things with the new guards. May I know your names? I don’t believe I caught those last time,” he turns to ask them. One with platinum hair and skin spotted with bright purple freckles sets his jaw stubbornly. Another, the oldest, and dressed head to toe in white looks blankly.

“I didn’ throw it,” The wavy-haired woman huffs. Her accent is so much different than anyone else in the palace, a breath of fresh air really. It’s thick, clinging to every word. Phil might call it a boston accent? Except he’s british and really doesn’t know what a boston accent sounds like.

Ranboo stiffens the way everyone in the palace does, the white garbed man rolling his eyes in exasperation. The purple one glares harder if possible. Phil shuffles his wings, letting the grit remind him and calm him.

“Very true, that’s why I’m asking now,” Phil laughs, genuine amusement bubbling in his chest for the first time in over a month. It’s light, airy, and a little manic. He bites down before he can go from ‘amused’ to ‘cry-laughing’.

“Kinda rude no’ ta introduce ya’self first, don’ you think?” She crosses her arms, standing tall. She’s about Phil’s height, maybe a few centimeters over. Phil nods his ascent. Fair point, he never actually did that.

“I am Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, but you may refer to me as Philza,” he bows his head, distantly hearing Ranboo choke, “And who might you be, my lady?” There, perfectly noble. Probably. Those things tend to be taught with tutors, not books. Phil also hasn’t bothered to look for the books.

“Alyssa, one of ya street rats, ” She hisses. Ranboo shoulders between her and Phil, fear painted clear across his face. Fair, knowing Sanguinis’ reputation. Phil still has to bite back a pout. He was enjoying that.

“Yes, your Imperial Highness, these are the guards Your Honored One has so generously welcomed into your home,” Ranboo blusters. He bows again, low enough that his position in front of Alyssa doesn’t matter, Phil can still feel the full force of her glare. Phil tries not to smile at her. She might find that mocking.

“Again, it’s no problem. Helping others is what I enjoy,” Phil answers honestly. The white garbed man shows the second display of emotion since getting here, snorting at his claim. Which is also fair.

“As for you two?” Phil turns to them, waving for Ranboo to stand up. The two turn, lock eyes, and spent a solid few minutes silently communicating. It could be an argument, or blank staring, they aren’t showing much emotion to tell either way. Phil waits patiently.

“Purpled, this is Punz,” the shorter, purple one replies, elbowing the white garbed man. Huh, that’s oddly fitting. Phil nods in greeting and turns back to Ranboo. The Junior General fiddles discreetly with their fingers, stopping the moment they feel Phil’s attention.

“Don’t let me get in your way then, enjoy the rest of your day.” Phil waves goodbye. He steps around the quartet of guards and continues down the hall. Remembering the thieves he hired makes for a wonderful distraction. There are many things to think about when organizing a banquet.

Blissfully, Phil doesn’t think about Techno for the rest of the day. Even if the memories hit him full force that night, curled up in a nest far too big to hold one man. He misses a flock he doesn’t have.

He misses his son, barely glimpsed today with dirty feathers. The son he hasn’t seen in days. The fledgling who needs him and doesn’t want him. Grit clings further into Phil’s own feathers, the mess the only thing they share.

Phil is alone.

Notes:

Listen I know many exciting and horny things happened this chapter but my brain is already fixated on the banquet next chapter. Nothing good ever happens at a banquet, or a festival, or the 16th of a month. Maybe I should get out a checklist of 'bad shit bingo'. That sounds like fun. Do you think I'd have bingo yet or would I have to go even further?

Let me tell you, Techno surprised me in this one. He took that smut scene in his own two hands and dictated how it would go. I was just expecting the 'topping from the bottom' part, really. Then he fell directly into a subdrop (instinct-drop? technically? is there a difference?) and also revealed he was a masochist. That second bit surprised me more. It was not planned but it certainly was *hot*.

Makes me wonder what other secrets are hiding within the other love interests. And about the consequences of this interaction. Phil is already having a bad time about it, Techno must be going through so much worse without even the theoretical knowledge of grounding techniques that Phil has. Techno is just flying directly into his trauma blindfolded.

Surely, this could not get any worse. Oh wait... :)

Chapter 11: Adoration, Affection, Doting, Passion, Warmth, Burning, Terrifying

Summary:

Love is a snake. It twists about, sinking it's fangs into hearts and injecting them with a feeling both burning and cloying. It can feel like dying or hum a warmth in your veins. Patterns of scales change between parents and children, between friends, between lovers. Love hides amongst the bushes and sometimes you don't even know if it's there. If it's true.

Love is soft. A silken robe, the press of fingers between hair, a kiss against a brow. A well worn blanket that endures the years despite everything that tries to tear it apart. It makes people strong, filling their cracks with sand and gravel and forming concrete in the broken. It is beautiful when you know it's there. It pushes people to do amazing things.

Love is terrifying. It's the uncertainty of knowing what's right and wrong, unable to comprehend that everything is okay. It's thick and cloying, burning scars into your skin. It can kill. Sometimes, we hate it for all it has done, for all it hasn't done, for the years it's been missing and the years that are ahead. Sometimes we don't even want love.

Love is not a perfect thing.

Notes:

This chapter was initially like 7k words but then it felt unfinished so I turned around and added another 1k words of extra angst. You're welcome! I know you all adore it just as much as I do. How could I send out a chapter that felt unfinished? I couldn't! It wouldn't be fair. Arguably, that fact made things worse for *Phil* but his misery is the entire reason we're here.

I'd say I've had my fill of angst now but that would be a *lie*. We've barely gotten started baby! The players are finally all on the board, though one party has yet to be named, and that means we can get into the nitty gritty. It truly does get worse before it gets better. Anyone who's doubting that tag needs to stop because your doubts only drive this story further down the cliff. You may get eaten alive by other readers for that transgression >:D

Dw though! It will get better! I feel like the more I say that, the less people believe me...

TWs: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse (physical, mental, emotional, sexual), Implied/Referenced Torture, Graphic Depiction of Injury, the word 'Puss', On Screen Minor Character Death, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Death, Graphic Depiction of Corpses, Starvation, Forced Amputation, Implied/Referenced Objectification, Self-Hate, Depression, Implied/Referenced Neglect, Severe Isolation, Near Ego Death

Banquets with the Emperor are a… unique affair. For a man who prefers routine and easy expectations, these gradious parties are the one place he really splurges. No Banquet is quite like another. Every public interaction is carefully planned to always be the oddest, often most uncomfortable affair possible. Today is really no different.

Of course it’s still ‘different’, even discounting the Emperor’s mood, which Schlatt has no idea if he wants to break so things go back to normal or if he wants it to stick around forever. Schlatt’s nerves spark with new energy from all the food they’ve been fed. His emaciated form has slowly been filling out and he doesn’t even remember what he looked like when things were okay.

Years of pain make it strange for how untouched he feels. No new blood has been spilled, his scars are all the same as before, and he can breathe without the subtle ache of bruised ribs or flayed muscles. Schlatt has no idea how to feel about that. The impression of his master’s hands will never leave him but for once he is without bruises to match.

Schlatt’s skin itches. He takes a deep breath, picking at the clothes the Emperor has ordered for them. Clothes he’s trying to ignore yet his mind keeps trailing back to them. They’re not uncomfortable exactly. Objectively, they must be pretty high quality judging by Wilbur’s reaction.

The difference between Schlatt and Wilbur is that Schlatt no longer remembers what it feels like to wear ‘proper’ clothes, the Rose uniform allegedly not counting. At least the tailors seemed to realize that. While their outfits are coordinated, they’re also unique to each of them.

For Schlatt, that means he’s wearing a long, flowy skirt that twirls at every movement, his top half covered by two bands of cloth on his front and back tied at his neck. The bands are barely wide enough to fully cover his chest. It still feels like too much. Each rub of silk against his stomach or calves makes his stomach roil.

Right, he’s trying to distract himself, not become a living doll in the middle of the banquet. Schlatt forces his attention outward. This Banquet is one of the simpler ones, strings of gold and diamonds strung about the ceiling, pillars, and tables like a massive spider web. Long tables piled high with finger foods dot the room.

It’s a stark contrast to the tables closest to the Schlatt, a set of five smaller ones seemingly personalized to each Rose. He’s tired to pick at his own. As the hall filled with nobility and the clothes got to him more and more, his appetite died. Now he lounges across their space.

A space specifically for the roses seeing as they can’t use any of the chairs. Blankets and pillows form nests for up to three of them, or one Foolish, to comfortably lounge in. A deep green carpet marks out their zone. It’s… he hates to say it again, strange .

“I don’t like this,” Quackity murmurs, as close to Schlatt as he physically can be without touching, not outside the Rose Garden. His wings tuck tight behind him, muscles having grown strong enough over the past month to at least do that. Schlatt can no longer pick out as many ribs as he used to.

“...me neither,” Schlatt admits, barely allowing himself to breathe the words. Nobles’ eyes linger over them, ogling the Emperor’s famous Roses, and all he can do is be thankful they haven’t been leashed this time. All they have is the required collar. Nothing more, nothing less.

Not even one of the bad collars, though a glance at Foolish, and Charlie seemingly comforting the elemental with idle chatter, shows that any collar is a bad collar. He’s as faded as Schlatt would rather be. The black band of  the collar sticks out against his skin.

Blood red dots the heart at the forefront, just large enough to be uncomfortable when Schlatt swallows, constantly reminding him of its presence. They have larger collars. Collars that are laden with gold so heavy they can barely lift their heads. Collars that spark with electricity at even a thought of wrongdoing. This collar is their simplest collar. He’s grateful they were allowed to wear it. He is .

“Why are we even here? The Emperor’s been ignoring us… Do you think something’s wrong with him?” Despite the fact Quackity is speaking so quietly the slow ring of piano and violin nearly drowns him out, Schlatt’s eyes snap to Sanguinis. Black feathers stick out from across the room. 

“Could be, didn’t Charlie think he’s a clone?” Schlatt jokes weakly. Sanguinis shows no sign of hearing them, chatting idly with a few noticeably nervous nobles. Tommy sticks close to his side, visibly bored from across the room. Schlatt doesn’t want to be here either, kid.

“Did he say that?” Quackity’s nose scrunches up, “Hold up, let me ask.” Quackity lurches forward, pulling into a semi-smooth stand and crossing to sit next to the wonder duo. Schlatt gives one last glance to Sanguinis and follows after. Wilbur doesn’t seem to notice, laughing with the only two nobles who don’t need to be here, the only ones remaining on the council.

“You think something’s wrong with the Emperor?” Quackity falls forward into the nest, the swirl of his low back dress keeping him strangely modest for a Rose. Foolish visibly startles, digging his hands into his knees. Charlie is as unbothered as he always seems. Schlatt settles on his knees near them. Cold escaping the blanket beneath him is soothing to his frayed, overstressed senses.

“I already said I think it’s a clone,” Charlie chirps. Fear must have been beaten out of him because he says that far too loud. Schlatt’s heart jumps to his throat. That’s already at least 30 lashes for even thinking it. Hopefully the emperor keeps his good mood after the Banquet.

“Clone would act the same,” Foolish denies, weakly tugging at one of the many thin chains hanging from his collar, “He could have annoyed the wrong fae and been swapped by a changeling.” Ew, terrible theory. Schlatt latches onto that before his brain focuses on anything else.

“Fae go for young kids, not immortal adults,” Schlatt points out. He hasn’t heard of a single case of a changeling above the age of one. Then again, he hasn’t heard a lot of things in the century or so he’s been alive.

“Mind control?” Quackity offers, flicking a wing. The spots the chains rubbed against his scales are healing nicely, grooves not nearly as noticeable. Schlatt also doubts that theory. Least of all because-

“Our glorious emperor is immune to mind control, haven’t you heard?” Wilbur adds his two cents, falling smoothly to his knees next to Schlatt, apparently finished schmoozing  with nobility. His eyes look heavy, tired.

“Yeah, we know, he’s damn near invulnerable right next to his fancy immortality,” Quackity grumbles into a pillow. Of course he’s immune to mind control. Master can’t be harmed by anything, making his behavior even odder because it must be coming from him , not an outside source.

“Could a spell have backfired?” Charlie asks, “No one can harm him, but a backfiring spell would be his own magic. His spells can still backfire, right?” Which… is actually a good point. Charlie shifts into Foolish’s side, their arms pressing together. A shock of fear hits him again.

They look to him for an answer. Schlatt blinks, wondering how he’s supposed to know something like that. Just because he was here first doesn’t mean that Master shared anything with him. Though if he used a little deductive reasoning…

“None of his blessings make his magic infallible,” Schlatt pieces together, “so I don’t see why they couldn’t.” He carefully chews his lip, sharp teeth a danger even to himself. While his skin has been toughening up with the new diet, he’s hardly at peak physical form. None of them are. It would take months, maybe even years of a strict regimen to get close. Malnutrition hardly disappears overnight.

“So then, some kind of mind spell? Like a lie detecting one or something to make him smarter? Of fucking course he would,” Quackity huffs, flicking his wings out in annoyance, the movement jerky but it’s nice he can even do it. Schlatt gives another nervous glance over the room.

“That can’t be true. He wouldn’t mess up something so bad his whole personality inverted. If that’s even possible, he would have done it before now. We’ve seen him mess with mind magic before,” Foolish denies. Though, by the look on his face, he doesn’t entirely believe what he’s saying.

“You can invert your personality with mind magic?” Wilbur asks, face screwing up. Schlatt’s once again reminded of how new the siren is. Most people don’t get to know what any magic is like, much less mind magic. Those in the palace are the few who regularly interact with mages strong enough. Even then, the majority of the mage tower was slaughtered, making Kirstin and their Master the only ones left in the Empire.

“It’s not a common side effect but it can certainly happen, a noble family once all got affected during a council meeting, resulting in their deaths when they tried to speak out against injustice, their fear turned to bravery,” Charlie explains. He’s far too cheerful for the subject matter.

“So your theory is that the man… what? Accidentally made himself a pacifist? You do realize how ridiculous that sounds,” Wilbur scoffs. The fins of his ears pin down, disbelief clear where Foolish is dotted with doubt. Schlatt drums a pattern against his knees.

“Do you have a better explanation?” Quackity argues back, “Is there literally any other situation where he has gone half as long without hurting anyone? Oh wait, you wouldn’t know. You’re the favorite .” Schlatt flinches. Wilbur freezes. Even Foolish reacts with a wince, though Charlie is as seemingly unbothered as always.

“Harsh,” Wilbur comments lightly. He stands in careful movements, not taking his eyes off Quackity all the while. Wilbur… smiles. But it’s not really a smile. No warmth reaches his eyes, no care beyond that slight tilt of lips, and it can hardly even be called friendly.

“Wait, Wil…” Quackity reaches out a hand, too little too late. Wilbur turns on his heel and pads back across their zone, settling by his table with a cold shoulder. He very pointedly bites into a crab claw. The claw breaks easily against his teeth.

Schlatt hates this. Roses are meant to stay together, to weather to storm this is life under their Master. Arguing only drives them further apart. Arguing is dangerous , threatening the careful infrastructure that keeps them safe . His breath stutters in his chest.

He floats adrift, surrounded by people yet feeling nothing at all. The thick blankets and pillows forming the nest beneath him fade to the familiar warm slick of blood. It’s not real. Schlatt knows it’s not real. It could be real, is the terrifying part. One misstep and it will be real .

Life is dangerous for a Rose, even worse for a Rose abandoned by its pack. Wilbur is abandoning them, he could very well die by doing so, pissing off their Master. Even if Master is acting differently for whatever reason. They’re not safe. They are never safe in the palace.

For the same reason he knows that well, Schlatt recognizes that something is terribly wrong, a twinge at the edge of his senses. He scans the room again, eyes flickering at every movement. He searches for… for something . Anything.

Tommy is halfway across the room. Sanguinis is not at his side, caught up in a circle of nobles who chitter at him like wanna-be piranhas. Nothing is visibly wrong with the kid. Following along his path with his eyes, Schlatt can even pick out General Blade sitting at the end of his route. General Blade who isn’t facing the kid.

None of the guards are, stationed as they are at the entrances and roving over the entire banquet. The hall is massive, and the number of guards in the palace is low. Five is a much larger number than two. Not enough , Schlatt’s mind whispers. Not enough for what?

Regardless of why, Schlatt stumbles to his feet, ignoring how his knees nearly immediately give. The other Roses might say something but he can’t tell. He can’t tear his attention from Tommy.

Standing is one thing. Walking is different, requiring his muscles to move in a way they’ve rarely done over the years. It’s barely a controlled fall as he moves towards Tommy. That feeling of wrong wrong wrong is all that propels him.

Eyes turn to stare at him, all but running towards his unknown goal. For once he’s barely aware of them. Or maybe he’s too aware of them. Burning, pounding into his skin, watching with contempt over his weak stumbling. He can barely breathe around their presence.

One step, two, the glint of something - Schlatt stumbles back, legs giving out. A scream echoes in his ears. Loud, sharp, filled with that same fear which haunts his everyday life. The fear of death.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sanguinis voice is cold, controlled, and easily heard over the chaos. The familiar smell of blood wafts into Schlatt’s nose, thick and cloying.  Copper fades onto his tongue. A smaller body, Tommy’s presses into him, something thick and soft and warm catching him from behind.

A wing, Sanguinis’ wing curls around him and Tommy, the Emperor himself standing between them and three figures. Chains of marble form from the floor, manipulated to spear through the shoulders of each figure, tying around their arms and forcing them to kneel. Blood drips down their newly made chains.

“ Fuck you! Glory to the revolution,” the figure closest to them spits, a long, thin blade stabbed into the floor in front of them. A Siran Blade, likely filled with poison and clearly aimed for Tommy. The acidic green liquid running up its core can’t be anything else.

“That isn’t what I asked,” Master clicks his tongue, “if the revolution were your reason, then there’s hardly a reason to go for my son.” His disappointment is visceral, literally flaying into the leading figure. Schlatt hears the thick slap of meat falling to the floor. The scream of pain rings in his ears. He sees none of it, Sanguinis tucking him and Tommy closer, endlessly dark wings blotting out their sight.

“Bite my ass,” The figure hisses with surprising venom considering the amount of pain they must be in. Schlatt can attest to how it feels to be flayed alive. It’s not exactly fun - dark magic circles the air, forming spears in seconds. Schlatt tenses to react.

Not that him reacting is necessary , the other two figures, mages apparently, dying in an instant and dispelling the magic. The crowd gasps and Schlatt doesn’t even know if he wants to see what just happened. A wet crack, a splatter, the thumb of something falling over, the crackle of marble reforming into the floor. It tells a vivid story for those who care to read.

“Guards, don’t let anyone leave,” Sanguinis orders. A clawed hand idly picks through Tommy’s hair, scratching at the child’s scalp like that will make him relax . Sanguinis turns towards him, cold eyes sweeping over them.

Oh , oh maybe Charlie was wrong. There is no regret in those eyes. Surely, if Sanguinis were inverted, there would be, right? A murderer inverted should be a pacifist. Yet the blood spilt across his face does not bother the Emperor at all. It drips slowly down his chin.

Whatever Sanguinis sees satisfies him enough to turn back around. Schlatt might just be distressed enough to mistake the tightening of his wing as a hug . His knees ache with such prolonged standing, legs trembling with more than just exhaustion, more than just fear. He’s suddenly so tired .

“Investigate the nobles, if any of them sent these… people ,” ‘things’, he clearly means ‘things’, “I want to know. I believe I’ll take this one to the dungeon myself.” Marble shifts, a bitten off groan of pain, and another thump as the only one left alive slumps over.

Several bird-like noises leave him then, nearly soothing in tone, understood only by Tommy. Wings shuffle and mantle against Schlatt’s chest. All that he can assume is whatever was said is not pleasant. Sanguinis turns to him again, the hard line between his brows softening.

“Schlatt, don’t let Tommy see this mess, will you?” Master asks. Schlatt’s not stupid, he knows it’s an order. He drops his gaze down and nods. Turning Tommy away takes little more effort than simply using him as a walking assist, both necessary and neither causing much complaint. Tommy doesn’t want to be here and neither does he.

For better or worse, he gets an eyeful of what remains when Sanguinis steps away. The remaining assassin sprawls forward on the floor in a puddle of blood, yet no more seeps from them, the thin smell of burnt flesh barely rises over the coppery scent. Cauterization, of course.

Patches of flesh sit by their side, torn from their thighs with cruel accuracy. That is a familiar sight at least. It would be smarter to look away then. Schlatt does not do the smart thing, looking at the corpse of one of the mages. Mages . He didn’t know any of those existed beyond the palace walls or the mage tower.

The corpse fell onto its’ side, showing clearly where the marble chains tore through skin and muscle and bone. Thin cuts stain their clothes, whatever colors they’d been wearing lost to the crimson red hue. And then there’s the head. Or rather, the lack of one.

A bloody stump is all that remains. Bone and a fleshy pink substance speckling over their shoulders and the floor. No eyes, teeth, or bones remain. The only bone Schlatt can see is the jagged end of their spine. He hugs Tommy tighter. He is not letting the kid see that.

During his observation, Master left. A dull ringing in Schlatt’s ears drowns out any attempts to figure out when that was. He takes a low breath, leans a bit further onto Tommy than he probably should, and walks him over to the other Roses. The few guards barricade the doors.

Everything else about that night becomes little more than a meaningless blur of fear, nausea, and noise. At some point he eats. At some point he falls asleep, wrapped in the other Roses and unable to tell when he even walked back over. Wilbur is curled tightest into his side and that makes everything okay. It has to be okay.

…

Nausea roils his stomach, kept only under control by the sheer rage boiling in Phil’s veins. He can barely think over it. The pounding of his heart drowns out even the thump of the would-be assassin’s body against the steps.

Stone steps, believe it or not. No marble here, only rough stonework, divots marked where thousands of feet have walked before. Fitting for the thin hall they inhabit, a spiraling staircase going deep into the earth. The walls are just wide enough to fit his wings. It almost feels specifically measured to Phil.

Perfect. Phil’s grin feels savage even to himself, hand tightening against the neck of the assassin, almost enjoying how his claws dig into their skin. It’s vile, sadistic, and he can’t bring himself to care. Only an odd self awareness notes that he’ll be disgusted by the actions later.

Hurt flock, make them suffer . His instincts whisper and, for once, they’re in full agreement. The next bump is a tad harder than it has to be. Phil’s anger is sustained higher than his disgust can fight up until he makes it to the landing floor of the dungeon.

Due to some unfortunate circumstances, Phil’s been to several funerals in his life, though the memories of crying over an open casket have been dulled and the trauma of losing someone too young wiped away. Each time, he’d been taken aback by how lifeless the body looked. Once, it had been kept so pristine it merely looked like they’d been sleeping. Only once.

Each time, he remembers almost gagging at how much perfume that had been used, only later learning it’s because they were too poor to afford the ‘proper’ procedures to keep the body ‘pretty’. He remembers looking up why they’d used perfume then. That’s when he learned that dead bodies smell awful.

Or it might be more accurate to say that now he’s learning that decaying things stink . Reading and experiencing are two very different things. Phil barely makes it to the final step before freezing. The smell hits him like a brick wall.

Thick, heavy, acidic , his eyes watering and gag reflex stubbornly refusing to go off, not that it would make this any better. Phil forces himself to walk forward, breathing through his teeth to try and filter the overwhelming scent of rot. It sinks into his skin anyway. For a brief moment, Phil wonders if it will ever leave.

A look around makes the source obvious. Small cells squish along the walls, the space between them barely a few feet, with heavy iron bars blocking the… ‘occupants’ in. Phil doesn’t see any doors, likely only accessible by magic.

Magic not many people must have considering the state of those who lie inside. Dozens of corpses sit in the cells of even just the first floor, an entrance to the opposite side teasing lower levels. Several corpses crap each one in varying states of decay.

If there’s a pattern to the madness, Phil can’t find it. Nearly fresh corpses rot alongside things that are merely bones and strings of flesh. Some corpses are nearly whole. One cell is merely a collection of limbs in some sick avant garde piece. None of them have enough room for him to feel comfortable sticking the assassin in.

While the rot might lend some intimidation factor, not that Phil needs it with his reputation, he doesn’t think he could physically stand to be in there while interrogating the assassin. He hurries down to the next level.

Floor two is much the same. Floor three is sparse but no less foul. Floor four is empty . No, not empty, just nearly empty. Phil doesn’t know how he can tell there’s a cell filled without even seeing it. It’s hardly the weirdest skill of his.

Dropping off the assassin in the first cell, and proving himself right that they do open with magic, Phil chases down the feeling. Floor four is the last floor, no arch at the end leading to a staircase. Instead he finds a metal door. A thick metal door, with a lock and a thin slit to look through if only he moved the blinder.

Curiosity gets the better of him. Any distraction would be nice before traversing back up through the veritable graveyard that is this dungeon. Phil doesn’t even know how to begin to clean it up. He presses his hand against the door. Several locks he can’t see click open.

Phil regrets opening the door.

The interior cell is larger, about three cells stacked together. That does not make it nice . Just like the others there is little in the room, no toilet or bed or anything like that. Unlike the others, there’s a person. A person Phil can barely call alive tied up in cuffs and chains thicker than his wrist.

If it weren’t for the weak breathing he can hear scraping from their throat, Phil would think they were already dead. Old blood crusts over their body, hiding all but the thickest of scars. Scars caused by knives, whips, magic, and burns that cover every stretch of uncovered skin. Which may as well be their entire body since they hardly seem to have been granted any modesty.

Choppy hair obscuring their hanging head. Thick knots and mats are visible even from the door. Whatever color it might have been is impossible to pick out, more blood and what Phil hopes is dirt mixing into a nearly black paste. His hope… isn’t very high.

Both of their legs are gone, as is one hand. The remaining hand only has three fingers left, and one is missing its first knuckle. And then there’s the wings . Phil thinks it might have been a curse to even let them keep the wings at this point.

Like the hair, Phil can’t tell the color, but he doesn’t need to to be horrified. Not a single feather is anywhere close to being in good shape. Massive blisters dot the wings, filled with blood from ingrown feathers. Phil didn’t know feathers could be ingrown, much less what it looked like, until now and he never wants to see it again.

Fix fix fix . His instincts chant, still in sync. Phil brushes aside the thought that this is the only other Elytran he’s heard of besides him and Tommy because, in the grand scheme of things, it isn’t important. He rushes to their side.

Sanguinis did this somehow. Despite the scream of instincts, the violation of everything that makes this person a person, Sanguinis managed to do something so horrible. Phil can tell if it’s better or worse than his treatment of the Roses, knowing so little about the depths of their pain. It doesn’t matter.

Bones stick out against skin as if there isn’t an inch of fat left on their body. Each rib is distinct, stomach caving in towards their spine. Phil doesn’t know if it’s possible to feel more horrified. He takes a shaky breath.

A gentle hand presses against their shoulder, though he’d love to address those wings immediately and he will . First he has to- the man jerks as soon as his fingers brush corpse cold skin, yowling a noise that can’t be human. All instinctive fear, trembling and sobbing though they must be too dehydrated to cry.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Phil shushes, but he clearly isn’t believed. Maybe they can’t even hear him, quickly spiraling into a panic attack and then going back to just hanging there. Once again they are all but dead. It takes energy they don’t have to panic. Phil swallows thickly.

“You don’t believe me but I promise, I won’t hurt you,” Phil glances at their wings, “I… I’m going to fix this. So, okay, it will hurt but… things are going to get better. I’m going to get you out of here.” and he’s rambling. Making promises he doesn’t even know how to keep.

Why are they down here? What did they do to deserve this treatment? No, there’s no action that deserves this torture, complete isolation with the sole exception of Sanguinis. No one else can even access this cell. Better question, how long have they been down here? Phil… doesn’t think they were mentioned in Love Paradox. That doesn’t matter.

“A lot of your feathers are ingrown. That’s going to hurt to fix but I can’t leave them like this,” Phil narrates what he’s doing, trailing up to the closest bubble of blood. The skin stretched over it is insanely thin. Even a gentle press from him will cause it to pop. Oh well, Phil’s already covered with blood, brain matter, and various other viscera.

“I’m sorry,” Phil apologies. He has no way of knowing if this man is even hearing him. All he knows is his instincts are once again quietly whispering ‘ flock ’. Flock like Tommy. How could Sanguinis do this to flock? It shouldn’t be physically possible.

A scrape of his talons along the top where the feather should be growing from turns assumption into reality. The skin tears, blood spilling from the massive blister in waterfalls of slick, warm red . Phil’s hand finds and plucks the feather inside, several more around it coming loose. He imagines few of these feathers will stay after preening.

Still mentally reeling, he moves to the next blister, free hand gently coaxing out blood and puss from the first. As the flow lessens, magic seals it behind him. The skin sags but it’s fine. No, no it’s not. He repeats the process, again wondering if he should curse or praise his newly nonexistent gag reflex.

“This is a terrible idea,” Phil admits, “Ideally this would happen in a sanitized room and I don’t think this cell has even heard of a towel before. But, well, we don’t have any of those. I don’t know if the palace even has a med bay.” His sleeves stain red, clinging to his skin.

“I should fix that. I will fix that. Wish I did it before, then you wouldn’t be stuck here, chained to a wall while I- sorry. Please say something, I genuinely can’t tell if you’re even alive.” Phil chews his lip. The taste of his own blood is lost to the sheer amount pooling on the floor. One person should not be able to lose this much and survive. 

He waits for a response. The man is too still to his ministrations, so obviously painful yet not garnering any reaction at all. As if he’s used to the pain. Phil’s breathing stutters, briefly closing his eyes but forcing them back open because this needs to be done . He finishes the first wing. It is nearly entirely coated in blood. The red color shimmers. If he didn’t know where it came from, he’d say it’s this person’s natural coloring, so seamless it lies.

The ‘response’ Phil gets can barely be called that. A broken sound, just a meaningless syllable cracking so hard it hurts to listen to. Phil would almost rather not hear it at all. It’s a sign of life. Maybe the man would be better dead.

“Good, that’s good,” Phil lies, “Thanks for saying that. At least I know I’m not saving a corpse. This is probably so confusing for you, fuck, I’m so sorry . I’m Phil, I have no idea who you are, it’s nice to meet you.” An especially large blister pops the moment his claw sinks in.

Blood sprays him in the face, soaking into his hair. Phil reels back, gagging at the little that entered his mouth, and curls over himself. Coughs tear from his chest. Pink spit mixes with the lake of blood, of pus, of who even knows what else. Tears escape his watering eyes. Phil forces himself to straighten up and keep going.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t, I don’t understand . How could he do this to you?” Phil sobs, babbles, cries. His hands remain stubbornly stable, continuing their work. Feathers float to the floor. In his distress, he lets his instincts take the front seat, unable to witness the horrors before him in full.

‘ Sorry, flock, sorry, fix, ’ Phil chirps. The main jerks away again, wing trying and failing to smack him in the face, half pinned to the wall by one of the thick iron chains. Another broken sound, like a kicked cat. Yet again, they quickly fall still. Struggling takes too much energy.

Living must take so much energy, Phil croons wordless assurances. They must be so strong to have survived so long. He picks through to the end of the wing. Blisters gone, he makes a quick go at trying to pet the remaining feathers back into shape.

There’s far too much blood. He can hardly tell clumps of feathers from each other. Phil sits back on his haunches, almost uncaring of the blood staining through his robes. These will never be worn again. Phil will burn them himself. He takes a reluctant deep breath.

‘ Preen, wash, care, nest, ’ Phil explains. He moves in front of the man, gently tilting their head up just to check and- yes, there’s a thick iron band around their neck as well. Phil ghosts his bloody hand over it. Just like the door, a click of a lock before he shoves it away. Angry red scars dig in its shape over their skin.

Void black eyes stare lifelessly beyond the veil of their hair. Phil can’t stand to meet them. He unlatches the shackles from around their thighs, around their wrists, and lets their body fall into him. Carrying a person with wings is more awkward than he imagined.

Either their muscles are too weak to pull their wings in or it’s too much energy, or both, they remain limp and dragging across the floor. Phil struggles for a moment to figure out a good position. The end result is a bit like a piggy back ride.

Far too thin arms wrap around his neck, bones digging into his collarbone like daggers. His hand holds onto their thighs, trying to stay away from the aggravated marks but finding it nearly impossible. Phil’s wings prop up their own.

No strength holds them to him. Phil just has to lean forward a bit and hope gravity won’t shift them to the ground. He marks out his route back in his head. Back to his rooms, to the nest. A bath first though.

Phil starts the march back, ignoring the bloody footprints in his wake, the heavy drag of his robes across the floor. If the assassin’s awake, they don’t say a word to him. The rot is as terrible going out as it was going in. Phil soldiers through it. He has something more important than the awful smell to focus on.

Servants abandon the halls quickly after the first one catches a glimpse of him. He can only imagine the state they must see. The emperor, carrying a corpse, coated head to toe in a heavy veil of blood. He sighs, there goes his attempts at fixing his reputation. No, no, ignore that. Focus on the potentially dying man.

Most of the walk is meaningless shapes and noise. Phil’s attention is so heavily on the man that he barely even recognizes the doors to his rooms. Each breath from the man is counted. He won’t let them die. They deserve to live. Phil will make sure they live.

Warm water fills the tub. A shower would be quicker but Phil doesn’t have a shower, let alone one big enough to comfortably fit both of them and their wings for cleaning. Blood stains the water red quickly. Phil’s magic cycles the water.

At cycle six , the water finally runs some semblance of clear. From red to black to almost pink to the oddly tinted shade it is now. Phil slips the top of his robes from his arms, ties the disgusting fabric around his front, and scrubs his arms mostly clean in the sink before returning with soap and a wash rag. 

Hours likely pass of just cleaning. Phil scrubs filth from the man’s skin, ignoring how lifeless eyes track him all the while. Their skin is pale beneath it all. The scars seem much less numerous with a clear sight of them, though that isn’t saying much. Nearly half their chest is scorched and hundreds of tiny circular scars turn their stumps into the strangest texture Phil’s ever felt.

Maybe by cycle thirty, Phil also finishes fixing their hair. Apparently magic can undo mats and knots, explaining why he’s never had to brush his hair since getting here. After drying, it’s a nice golden brown. All that remains is their wings.

Careful not to dirty them again, Phil sets them on one of the couches in the main room and cleans himself the fastest he can. Blood soaked robes lie abandoned in the bathroom. He slips on one of the sleeping sets, the only ones designed to be opaque with one robe, and grabs another for the man. Phil’s not going to make them sleep naked.

The man hasn’t moved by the time he gets back. Really, he didn’t expect them to. If they don’t even have the energy to panic for more than a few seconds, do they really have the energy to walk? Or even the muscles needed considering their state.

“Right,” Phil chitters, half birdsong, “Now we’ll preen and then we can get you dressed and into the nest. Does that sound nice? It sounds wonderful to me. The nest is so lonely with only me in it. Though maybe I should at least ask your name first…” Phil trails off into awkward silence.

Preening another person is a lot different from preening yourself and Phil throws himself into the task with gusto. For one, it’s a lot easier to reach the tricky feathers near the back. For two, he can actually see which feathers are fucked up.

Except most of this man’s feathers are messed up so that’s not much of an accomplishment. Phil starts nearest the flight feathers, the ones he’s pretty sure aren’t meant to fall out while preening, and one immediately comes out without much effort. He stares in mild horror.

Snapped feathers are more common than okay feathers. They rain onto the floor, they’re not supposed to do that. Patches of feathers get straightened out but, really, the man’s wings quickly begin to resemble a plucked chicken. The still angry red spots where the blisters were are especially noticeable.

A little magic encourages the skin to tighten up so any new feathers won’t become ingrown but Sanguinis apparently never bothered to learn much healing magic. Phil can reduce pain, seal wounds, and apparently tighten skin. Helping regrow feathers? Not in the playbook it seems.

Oh, and he can also banish the mess of feathers. Phil guides the man into the robe, so much smaller from starvation that tightening the waist does little to help keep it on. He bends down, focusing on tying the knot. Knots are hard.

“ ...Grian .” He barely picks up the sound. Phil blinks, a mess of a knot still in hand, and looks up at the man, at Grian. Grian with pale skin, dark eyes, and vibrant red, yellow, and green feathers hidden beneath all that grime. Grian who stares just as lifelessly as before. He could almost convince himself he imagined the name.

“Nice to meet you, Grian. Like I said, I’m Phil,” he responds softly, trying for a kind smile. Grian only blinks, long and slow. Phil breaks eye contact again. Staring at those eyes feels so much like an accusation, like the blood staining his hands he can no longer see.

In the sitting area, there’s always been a coffee table with a fruit bowl and tea set. Phil’s never really used it but it’s there. Now, he’s thankful for it. Phil really just wants to go to bed but with how skinny Grian is? He should at least try to feed him first.

“Is fruit okay to feed a starved person? Probably,” Phil hums, palming an odd apple with shiny golden skin. It gives like any other apple. The insides are colored like any other apple. Probably just a weird fantasy apple variant.

Without a knife and unwilling to find one, Phil roughly cuts slices with his claws, setting them on a saucer he evicts a tea cup from. Another tea cup is filled with… what smells like chamomile but he can’t be certain. Grian should drink something too.

“Eat up and then we can get to bed,” Phil chirps, holding the apple slice to Grian’s lips. Phil doesn’t think he could eat on his own considering his condition. Grian hasn’t moved an inch without Phil tugging him around since they met. Well, discounting the initial bits of panic that is.

Grian looks at him, those impossibly big, dark eyes moving to meet his. Phil can’t pick out a single spot of life, let alone any emotions. The moment feels too important to break by looking away. He keeps his smile and stares back.

Moments tick by. Phil awkwardly hums a tune if only to stop himself from fleeing. Guilt and disgust really test if his gag reflex is gone for good. Yet another sin he has to atone for in front of him, he refuses to call himself a person if he ignores Grian. Phil can only wonder how many more secrets are in the world for him to find.

None of them are good secrets. Grian’s very existence proves that whatever he finds will be horrific because Sanguinis is a horrific, awful person. Phil sniffles, shit he’s crying again. He wipes at his eyes with his free hand. 

Slowly, Grian shifts forward, showing strong resemblance to a scared street cat. His mouth opens to reveal a set of teeth not unlike Phil’s own. Definitely an Elytran. The apple slice is slowly eaten.

They manage about half the apple and a cup of tea before Grian starts to slump from the day’s excitement. Phil gathers him up again, guiding wings to fold against Grian’s back, and awkwardly makes his way to the nest. His landing is terrible.

‘Flock, safe, nest, ’ Phil coos, settling Grian into the nest. Careful motions shift him into a comfortable looking place. Phil lays down next to him, gathers Grian into his arms, and falls asleep wrapped around the injured man.

It’s a terrible day. Even as he falls asleep, he has a sinking feeling that the future isn’t looking very bright. 

…

This is not the first time Father has killed in front of him. Once, when Tommy was younger and stupid, it was a pretty regular occurrence. It was a span of… about three months? Where Father slaughtered a servant over the breakfast table until Tommy stopped reacting. A Mortis should not fear death, was the reason. A Mortis causes death.

Nevermind that Tommy is also his mother’s child, a Momentus. Fitting, maybe, that the name of a woman he barely knew was derived from the word moment . Even after that habit of Father’s ran its course, Tommy never really could care as much as he used to about death. The many servants who die barely blip his radar anymore.

Maybe that’s a bad thing. Tommy doesn’t know anymore. He scratches at his arm, curled up beside Techno and Ranboo, unable to sleep. Instincts bristle in his head, telling him this is the wrong place.

Instincts want to go to the nest. Clearly, they haven’t learnt from the last time he snuck in about a decade ago. Even though he was at most four , Tommy still remembers how it felt when his ribs snapped. He still remembers learning he’d been in a coma and Father didn’t even check on him once.

And they did learn, Tommy’s lived the nether that is his instincts learning that flocking, nesting, they aren’t safe. So why do they think any differently now . Nothing of substance has changed! Tommy knows that. Things went back to normal tonight so he knows what to expect now.

Yet Father’s wings had been so warm wrapped around him like that, deadly talons picking through his hair to ensure nothing splattered on him, eyes tucked into his side to not witness the gruesome sight. He’s never done that before. 

Father set off his instincts again with those quiet chirps asking if he’s okay, if he wants to be in the nest tonight, a nest Tommy doesn’t even remember what looks like. A nest he can’t even get to. He… hadn’t responded. Father hadn’t seemed very disappointed by it, though his voice went all cold and malicious when he turned back to that assassin.

Right, they were assassins. Tommy could’ve died tonight. He would’ve thought that Father would let them kill him, he certainly seemed inclined before. Or, at least, he never seemed like he would ever protect Tommy, much the opposite. Every fight Tommy’s ever gotten into has been won by his own merit.

Schlatt tried to protect him tonight since Techno couldn’t but neither of them got the chance. Father protected him. Father… Tommy’s shoulders curl near his ears, distantly aware of the tears he’s soaking into Techno’s shirt. Why did Father protect him?

Of course, Tommy didn’t notice the assassins, and no one near was strong or fast enough to protect him but Father. Tommy would've gotten really hurt and died. Or just really hurt and wished he would die. Maybe that would have been easier. 

Tommy doesn’t like pain but understands it. He knows the terrible bite of poisons, daggers, and the terrible lick of fire like he knows his own mind. He does not know safety. He doesn’t know how to associate safety with Father.

He doesn’t want to associate safety with Father. Tommy hates that man. He hates him . He hates him. He hates him . Yet here he is, biting back sobs to not wake up his friends, wanting Tubbo but knowing it’s impossible for him to stay the night. Here he is itching to go climb into a nest that isn’t his to own.

What’s a nest like? Tommy’s never made one, he doesn’t know how. Father was supposed to teach him that. Father who represents pain and suffering and things Tommy understands and doesn’t want. Father who Tommy no longer understands. He thought he did when those men hit the floor.

Until he was cuddled like something precious. Tommy’s never been precious before. Techno’s tried to make him feel that way but he doesn’t know how. In his defense, Tommy doesn’t know how to feel precious to begin with, to feel truly loved. A gaping hole in his chest only wants to be filled by something he can never have.

Father’s right, Tommy is a stupid child, yearning for things he can never have. He’s a weak, silly spawn who can’t even pull himself together when the time calls for it. All he can do is cry and cry. When Tommy dies, he’ll have deserved it.

Does Father even want him to die though? Again, Tommy thinks he did, just not anymore. He digs small claws into Techno, fluffing his wings against Ranboo just to remind himself that they’re here. Their presence is an empty platitude. A blunting of a painful ache that never fills.

Aching and aching and aching, maybe death will be nice. Death sounds nice when he reads about it. An end to pain, to life, to everything. Cold sometimes, warm others, it makes Tommy wonder how his death will feel. Every time he’s gotten close, it’s always been a burning feeling. A warm one?

…Tommy doesn’t want to be warm. He doesn’t want to die, he just deserves to. It’s a punishment like all the rest, for all his failures and sins, his entire life is a failure. Tommy has never deserved to live. Right? That’s one thing he knows. His life ended his mother’s. Father doesn’t want him…

But Tommy doesn’t know that simple fact anymore. It used to be so easy to accept. A fact of life just like all the others, something not to question because it will never change. It’s changing now. Tommy trembles in quiet despair.

He doesn’t want it to change. He doesn’t want Father to love him. He doesn’t want to be loved, he doesn’t know how. If he doesn’t know how, he can’t be loved because he’ll only mess it up. If he messes up, did he even deserve it to begin with?

Love is scary. Sometimes people say Father loves him and while Tommy knows they’re wrong, he also knows that he doesn’t want to see Father’s love. He’s… he can’t be loved. Tommy is unlovable. Well, no, Techno loves him. Tommy knows that as a fact, like he knows gravity exists and Techno’s room is three thousand four hundred and sixty three steps from his own.

More accurately, Tommy is incapable of feeling loved. Why do they try? Why did Father hold him so close? So carefully? Why, why, why ? Tommy’s not really allowed to ask questions. He can only cling to people who don’t really love him, who can’t because he can’t feel it so it isn’t real.

This must be a new form of torture, poking long dead instincts to watch Tommy wind up and explode. Oddly, the thought makes him calm. The thought that Father’s love is merely a facade to make him miserable. Misery is pain. Tommy understands pain.

When Tommy finally drifts off, he is comforted by that pain. 

He does not want to be loved.

Notes:

So how we feeling folks? In this chapter you got three different flavors of angst! It's like Neapolitan Ice Cream except it's designed to make you cry, scream, or something. All I know is that the Tommy pov was written specifically to try and make me cry and I would have succeeded if I had not needed eyes to see the screen to continue to write. Foiled again by,,, *checks notes*,,, needing to see. Yep, that's the bitch.

And yeah! Grian's here! Will other hermits arrive? Well I'm hardly going to spoil anything but there's a reason Grian managed to survive the dungeons. How long has he been down there? Won't say. Why was he down there? You'd think something to do with revolutions or TnT knowing him but his greatest crime was, in fact, being an Elytran in Sanguinis' general vicinity. That's just not allowed.

The future is bright folks, or really really dark, depends on your perspective. We haven't even gotten to rock bottom yet, and isn't that wild? This slip n slide is going straight to hell. Assassinations, the revolution, the harem, Grian, Tommy, all these lovely lovely things. Dw though, I've finished loading Phil's plate with problems to fix. Now he just has to finish it.

Simple, right? Just finish all of those problems. If only the easiest one wasn't completely upending the government infrastructure. That, at least, can be solved with paper and meetings. People are a lot more complicated than that.

Chapter 12: Actions or Words, No Comfort At All

Summary:

Assurances, meaningless platitudes, carefully said between one person and another. From some, they bring comfort. From others, bitter spite. It all depends on the knowledge off who will follow through to what they say. Who feels safe? Who does not?

Sanguinis has never been safe, has never tried to be. He is broken glass and metal shards forming the rough shape of what claims to be a person. For all Phil tries, he cannot brush off all those sharp things. He draws blood from everything he touches. He tries for gentle, he fails.

It hurts, it always hurts, it hurts to try. The only comfort Phil has been able to successfully give is to himself. Sometimes, he has to wonder, if he’s put too much on his plate. But there is too much to fix to step down now.

Notes:

Here is the comfort to your hurt, kind of. I mean, it’s the closet thing we’ve come to comfort since… idk, since this fic was made? Have I truly included any comfort so far? The smut definitely does not count as comforting.

But hey, look at the bright side! Surely things can’t get any worse than they are now… why do I hear boss music? That’s probably not related to anything. Don’t worry about it. Just some oddly timed bass heavy music.

TW: Dissociation, Referenced/Implied Past Torture, Graphic Depictions of Injury, Referenced/Implied Character Death, Referenced/Implied Child Abuse, Discussions of Disability/Ableism, Self-Hate, Starvation, Referenced/Implied Neglect, Referenced/Implied amputation, A Singular Suicidal Thought

Everything aches. It’s ached for a while now, pain dampening down as the weeks, months stretch on. Good food and lack of punishment strengthens strained muscles. His wings even pull nicely to his back again, scales pressing against the skin of his back, felt in patches from old scars that stretch and tug with each movement.

Magic swirls in the air, confusion and panic sparking in the air, obvious in the unguided movements of untrained nobles. That is, if they even have magic at all. Most have barely enough to stay alive, let alone flex out against whatever perceived threat sits in the room.

There isn’t one, not anymore. Quackity glances at the place the corpses had laid, now perfectly cleaned as if nothing at occured, the only evidence being the cracks Sanguinis had left behind in the marble. The servants were well practiced in cleaning up after him.

Quackity stretches languidly, feigning carelessness with the practice of ten years at Sanguinis’ feet. Schlatt is a warm companion beneath him. Curled in his lap, Quackity can see he hasn’t looked away from the attempted assassination since it occurred.

Did he even sleep? The sluggish way his magic clings to Quackity implies he didn’t. Then again, few in the room did, the nobles trapped with them stubbornly staying awake for fear of being unconscious when Sanguinis returns.

A fear Quackity understands. It’s impressive that Tommy managed to drift off at all, clinging to Techno, careless of his audience, with Ranboo at his back. The three new guards aren’t nearly enough to guard every entrance should someone try to leave.

It’s telling that no one tries, leaving the guards to shift on their feet as exhaustion grows. It leaves Techno and Ranboo free to stand vigilantly at Tommy’s side. Quackity sweeps the room again, blinking sleep from his eyes. He’s so tired nowadays. A different tired from before, with his wings spread and liquid fire in his veins. This one is more insidious, keeping him off his feet for days at a time, floating in and out of consciousness.

Really, that should scare him more than it does. Being scared takes so much energy he doesn’t have. Quackity lets the others be scared for him, in Schlatt’s quiet drifting and Foolish’s iron weight. Charlie is the only one who matches his energy.

Which is weird to say, Quackity hums a low purr, since Charlie often pretends to be the most energetic of them. A title that really belongs to their missing member, sitting quietly at the edge of their zone. Wilbur stares thoughtfully over the divide.

An invisible wall stands between the Rose Garden, and Tommy with his guards by proxy, and the rest of the nobles. Even Wilbur’s ‘friends’ on the council don’t dare to cross the wide stretch of marble between where the nobles huddle and them.

He struggles against the haze in his mind. What’s Wilbur thinking so intently about, brows knit together as they are? The deaths? Maybe. Except death is, to his knowledge, common outside the palace walls, if less bloody than what Sanguinis prefers. Shouldn’t he be used to it?

“What’s up with Wil?” Quackity stretches his wings as far as he can bother. The ache grows to a sharp pain of pulled tendons before he lets them drop limply. Foolish startles at the sudden noise.

“Huh?” He gets an ever so thoughtful reply. Silence shatters in their little exchange, sound much sharper with the startling lack of anything else. Schlatt does not break his staring contest with the floor,

“The prospect of revolution is terrifying!” Charlie chirps, tapping a pattern against his leg with cold fingers. Could that be it? Quackity doesn’t know a lot about revolution, other than that people have thrown around the concept in secret since he was a kid. The idea of Sanguinis being dead is as appealing as it is terrifying.

Huh, he doesn’t have the energy to figure out why the mental image of Sanguinis’ corpse feels like a frigid chill running down his spine. He turns his attention back to Wilbur. Odd Wilbur, always running around where he isn’t supposed to.

“Are we even allowed to say that word?” Quackity shifts in Schlatt’s lap, feeling strong hands unconsciously shift to his waist to steady him. The last person who whispered revolution didn’t have enough of a corpse left to bury. 

“A Rose has never been killed for it, so probably,” Foolish answers, as tired as Quackity for entirely different reasons. He would know, Quackity assumes. That is, if Sanguinis has ever bothered to try justifying killing anyone, which Quackity doubts since ‘because I want to’ is as much a reason for Sanguinis to commit murder as anything.

“We could ask why he’s upset,” Charlie offers a solution. Quackity barely hears the words. Revolution… such a stupid word, just another impossibility stifled against ancient pale marble.

“I don’t know if we should,” Foolish starts. “I’ll ask,” Quackity claims, rolling out of Schlatt’s lap. While his hands are strong, he lets go with the slightest provocation, perfectly pliant in a way that makes his skin crawl. No bath makes him feel any less like clawing the feeling away.

Heavy limbs fumble over the plush surface barely hiding the marble, falling back into a crawl on habit. Standing… thinking of standing makes him feel even more tired. Quackity stubbornly doesn’t yawn. He can’t figure out why he’s so sluggish. Honestly, he hasn’t tried to figure it out either, leading back to how much energy making an effort takes.

“Wilburrr, are you abandoning us? Come sit, I miss you,” Quackity whines. Overdramatics fall from his lips in rote memorization, an act he’s played a million times. He flops over Wilbur, arms wrapped around his shoulders, if only to give himself a break.

“I’m not abandoning you,” Wilbur refutes with a sigh that’s just as fake as the whimpering kisses Quackity presses against his head. The siren leans back into him. It’s hard to say if that’s because he wants to or because of the audience.

“Then why are you here?” Quackity pouts. He thinks Wilbur had been curled up with them last night, though he can’t claim the man slept. There’s never any shade to his eyes from long nights, as if sleep isn't necessary anymore for Wilbur. Some parts of his brain draw connections that bring dull discomfort. What those connections are, he can’t say.

“I’m just thinking, not everyday the revolution sends assassins to the imperial palace, it’s interesting,” Wilbur answers flippantly. For all his casual tone, there’s a heavy frustration needling the air. Disturbed water forms ice in a way that isn’t quite anger.

“Gasp. You mean the revolution's sent assassins before? How terrible,” Quackity mopes, slipping down further. If not for Wilbur acting as a rock, he’d have splayed out entirely. Sitting should not be so hard.

“I, no, they haven’t,” Wilbur’s voice drops to a murmur, “none of them want this so badly.” Incredibly concerning phrase, implying Wilbur knows the revolution keenly. Quackity blinks slowly. Why is that concerning again?

“They were told to stay safe, not go running into enemy territory to try something so stupid, that had no chance of working to begin with,” Wilbur hisses. As if the floodgates have opened, he rambles. Quiet rambles, so much so that Quackity can only make out specifics by basically becoming one with the siren, but rambles all the same.

“What if… no, Nikki has them under control, right? Then this can’t be, no one, we don’t say that. How could… but then who would want to frame them for this? Why? It doesn’t make any sense.” Wilbur’s frustration almost feels like a massage with how it steadily rises and falls.

“There’s no benefit here. If he lives, even foreign powers would crumble. If the revolution fails then they crumble too. Framing us, drawing his ire. Except, did we? Did he believe them? But why wouldn’t he?” Quackity really doesn’t understand what Wilbur’s getting so wound up about. The words feel important though.

“Wil, shut up,” Quackity whines, more honest now, “getting so wound up over nothing. What’s that gonna do?” As if two people dying and another being tossed into the dungeon for trying to kill Sanguinis even qualifies as ‘nothing’.

“Wh- Quackity, this is important. They claimed to be revolutionaries,” Wilbur stresses. He seems to care a little less about being heard, a rising pitch to his tone. Quackity flaps his wings once to silence him. The action feels like dragging lead weights.

“So?” Quackity’s exhaustion twists to grumpiness, “the revolution doesn’t care about us.” And something… something about that makes Wilbur deflate. The steam leaves even his magic, dissipating like smoke, or maybe mist since he’s so water adjacent. All that remains is a dull fluttering not unlike defeat.

“They don’t, do they,” Wilbur agrees, or maybe just accepts. He rings hollow in realization. Quackity… Quackity doesn’t get it. Maybe he’s too tired to get it, maybe there’s nothing to get to begin with. All he knows is that Charlie took his spot on Schlatt’s lap.

Quackity slumps against Wilbur instead, not that he wasn’t already doing that, holding the man as he goes through something that Quackity can’t place. He doesn’t quite fall asleep.

But he thinks he might understand where Schlatt goes when he drifts, if it feels at all like this. A state of night quiet sleep, not quite awake. Like a cat nap, maybe? The idea almost makes him laugh. Drawing the air to do so causes it to die, pulling uncomfortably at his ribs.

If Foolish and the others join them at some point, Quackity can’t say when or why, content to drift for however long the universe remains calm.

…

Careful fingers trace along the tops of bald planes of skin, gentle over splotches of bright pink irritation. Points of where feathers had been but no longer are don’t show any form of growth just yet. No beginning of pins but also no new bumps from the blisters refilling. He doesn’t think they can do that but his doctorate isn’t in biology.

Frayed feathers remain in patches. Phil pets over them, willing them to lie in any semblance of what his instincts considers ‘neat’, to no avail. Each press down causes them to bounce right back up. It’s a nice enough distraction.

He repeats the motion again and again, pondering quietly about wings and feathers and birds. There isn’t a lot of information on Elytrans despite Sanguinis being one. He doesn’t know how Elytrans respond to blisters or infection. He doesn’t know how long feathers are supposed to take to grow back.

Phil doesn’t even know if Elytrans are supposed to molt to begin with, though he’s pretty sure most birds do. He’s not molted yet, though he’s only been here for a couple months. Instinct guided hands never plucked feathers when he preens.

Sanguinis is a terrible reference point though. Phil, for all his efforts, can’t even bleed right. A mixture of regeneration and durability keeps him stubbornly in one piece. What’s right for him might not be relevant to Grian at all.

An obvious example rests just beneath him, where his careful palms refuse to tread. Phil has no evidence of Sanguinis regrowing limbs, not in this life and not in Love Paradox, but he doesn’t doubt the possibility. Grian has no such ability. He’ll never get back the limbs he lost.

Which means a permanent loss of mobility. Could he ever move on his own again? It’s certainly possible, through walking on what remains of Grian’s knees, but that can’t be comfortable. The only other option is Phil finding a wheelchair.

Except, are wheelchairs a thing here? Love Paradox didn’t really have much, if any, disability representation. Wheelchairs may have existed in some form since at least the Victorian era in his world but there’s no promise of them existing here. Especially not under Sanguinis, the least accommodating man in the world.

Likely, he’d have to find an inventor of some kind to describe a wheelchair to and have them make it. If there’s even anyone capable of that. There must be, someone has to be making the carriages he’s seen in the distance. Wheelchairs aren’t that complicated right?

Misplaced guilt eats at his throat. This isn’t his fault, he knows and reminds himself of that again. The map of scars burning into his mind try their best to convince him otherwise. No one deserves this many scars, this many injuries, this level of torture for one sick man’s gain. There’s nothing to be gained other than some sick form of pleasure. A pleasure Sanguinis must have gotten for this because why else do it?

Black eyes are open when Phil manages to look away from the patchwork wing beneath his hand. They stare at him like last night, fuzzy and blank. Phil can’t say when exactly Grian woke up. If not for the open eyes, he wouldn’t have been able to tell. Grian’s weak breathing didn’t even stutter.

Trying for a smile, Phil resolutely pushes away the twisting guilt, attempting to keep a comforting visage. He can’t tell if it works. He hates not being able to tell. Yet another skill he’s lost to the gods who forced him here.

“Morning Grian, it’s around the time for breakfast,” Phil greets, “Are you up to moving yet?” He has a decent hunch what the answer is. Exhaustion sits thick under Grian’s eyes, as if sleeping has done nothing but make him feel worse. Phil certainly feels worse.

“But first we get dressed! And maybe wrap your wings until I can get a professional to look at them, we wouldn’t want infection to set in,” Phil narrates his plans. He rambles on, giving plenty of warning before he lifts Grian from the neat. Grian is startlingly limp in his arms, a patchwork doll. He hates it.

Getting down from the nest is as awkward as getting up, the landing rough, Grian’s feathers scrape against the floor with Phil’s stumble. He whispers an apology. Phil pauses to shift Grian back onto his back, the safer position. Or at least the position where Grian doesn’t drag across the floor like a corpse.

The usual dressing podium goes ignored again. Phil can dress himself and Grian just fine, no need to get any of them involved. While the robes have lots of layers, they aren’t actually too complicated. Tying knots might be the only complication.

Not to mention that dressing Grian himself will preserve whatever sense of modesty Grian might still have. Sure, it’s unlikely to be a notable amount, he has been chained up naked and dirty in a basement for god knows how long, but it’s the thought that counts. Phil will cling to the hope that it will matter in the end.

In a series of events that surprise no one but Phil, the wings end up being the hardest thing to work around and they’re not even moving. Phil can’t imagine the horror that is dressing a child with wings. Images of tiny, squirming, winged children complaining loudly about shoes flitter through his mind. He can almost feel down feathers slapping his face.

Okay so maybe that sounds more adorable than truly frustrating but still. Phil bites back a sigh. Dressing Grain leans a bit more towards flat annoyance in comparison to his fantasies. Unbandaged wings are much larger and more unwieldy than the small ones children must have. The smaller ones Tommy does have.

Each movement causes the featherless patches to shift. Paper pale skin splotched with bright irritated pink pull and stretch, guided by his hands. Hands which itch and itch from dried blood. Blood he cleaned but he still feels is there, rubbing off on Grian’s wings, itching just beneath his own skin.

Scratching at it will do nothing. Not only is self harm never the way to go but Phil couldn’t even manage it if he tried. Memories of claws digging into his palms come unbidden, hardly giving a drop of blood. The only thing that actually managed to hurt him was Techno’s teeth.

Phil tightens the wrap around Grian’s waist a bit harder than he probably should, the reminder of the other day a shock to his system. The assassins had nearly been a welcome distraction when his brain keeps jumping back to their… ‘spar’ on the training ground.

“Sorry about that, hope it’s not too tight. Truthfully I have no clue what I’m doing. I don’t think I’ve ever put one of these robes on myself until today,” Phil hums his own distraction. He fiddles with the loose ends of the bow he tied. All silk, nothing but silk. He’s getting sick of so much fucking silk, though the texture is easy enough to focus on.

“This is much harder than I thought it would be, the servants are so quick about it, I supposed that made me think it would be easy,” He laughs, twisting the silk ribbon around his finger, “Though that’s enough about my struggles.”

“More important to you is that there isn’t really an imperial physician. I looked but the last one was fired only a few years into- into my reign,” the words are bitter on his tongue, “and even if there were any, I doubt they’d be an expert on Elytrans. I doubt anyone is. Even the Royal Library lacks much information on them,” Phil rambles idly.

“The only plan I have, if you can call half an idea a plan, is calling the Imperial Sorcerer and asking if they have any ideas. Binding to warn off infection is the start and end of my own. Maybe some magical healing spells can help, if those exist.” Twist, loop, pull, the silk drifts like water from his hands.

“I don’t seem to know any, not that I know what I’m doing at all. All this power at my fingertips and I haven’t a clue what I’m doing,” Phil laughs. A cold, sardonic laugh echoes uncomfortably through the room.

“What am I doing with any of this? Food banks, law making, my personal relationships, I can’t even say I’m good at therapy anymore. I’m just… fumbling in the dark, hoping for the best,” he almost chokes, distantly aware of the tears burning down his cheeks.

“I don’t even know if this is worth it. They- everyone deserves better than me, than what- what I’ve done. I can’t atone for this shit. Nothing I do will make any of this better, why am I still trying? It’d be just as much help for me to roll over and accept my death.”

Phil cuts himself off, chest heaving, claws tearing through the edges of a random scrap of embroidered cloth that’s probably meant to be a hair tie. He’s… much worse off that he thought he was, mentally that is. The words came from his mouth but that doesn’t mean he was expecting them.

“You…” he huffs, “sorry, you didn’t ask for me to rant at you like that.” He forces himself to drop the shredded fabric. Silence from his companion rings louder than his heartbeat. Phil distracts himself again by getting himself dressed.

Simple robes are his own choice, much blander than any of the green, gold, or red looks the servants seem to favor picking. A little bit of silver embroiders around his neck, forming small diamonds, but that’s it, the rest is a gradient of white to an icy blue. The gold of his hair and diadem seem out of place against it all.

Finding a white and blue hat to match helps offset that, as does the white veil he finds attached to said hat. It’s the first time Phil can look in a mirror and not experience a strange amount of discomfort at his reflection.

Grian matches him in a way, red to his blue with similar whites, though Grian has many poppies and peonies over him, mimicking a painting of a field more than a person. The outfit was chosen for being shorter than most, cutting off at Phil’s knees.

On Grian, that just means only an inch or two of fabric is left to sit on the ground when Phil manages to get the exhausted, emaciated man to stand on his own. Mostly unintentionally, they even match the small red feathers stubbornly clinging to Grian’s wings. 

Some patches are more yellow or green, Phil unable to resist tracing the frayed remains again. What patterns will reveal when Grian heals? The only bird Phil can think of with those three colors is a tropical parrot. Much different from Phil’s raven-crow wings.

“I should go call for the Imperial Sorcerer, and for food.” Phil forces himself to stop petting. It must be an instinct thing, he was definitely not this obsessed with the texture of feathers before.

Carrying Grian to the sitting area he’s apparently going to use a lot more often, Phil settles him back down, the angle letting dull black eyes observe the entire room. He would feel unsettled, and he is in a way, but he’s seen that dullness before. It’s the dullness he swore no one would feel again. It’s the dullness he became a therapist to fight.

Like always, the butler waits outside his door. Honestly, it’s a little concerning how he’s always there, as if he never rests or takes a break. Phil must be in worry mode if this is the first time he’s really realized the implications of that. But he has priorities. The butler can take care of himself for now.

“Good Morning, his Imperial Highness, Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, the Crownsoul Crow,” the butler greets in the same way he always does despite Phil’s best efforts and great discomfort. No one needs a title that long.

“Hello,” Phil takes a deep breath, “we’ll be having breakfast here today. Have the kitchens make something light for Grian. Oh, and call for the Imperial Sorcerer.” That might be the least put together request he’s made since waking up as Sanguinis. The other ones at least sounded fine.

“Of course, his Imperial Highness,” the butler agrees, not even twitching at his requests, “when would you like the report on the nobility?” Phil scrunches up, report? For the life of him, he can’t recall ordering a report.

“Set it on my office desk,” he orders. He probably asked for one at some point. It’s not that important, not compared to making sure Grian doesn’t keel over from an infection. Him surviving this long is a miracle in itself.

Speaking of, he closes the door again, joining Grian on the couch. He almost expects Grian to track him. There is no such attempt, not a twitch of his limbs nor a blink of his eyes, a corpse if not for the fact he still breathes.

To pass the time, Phil carves up another glittering golden apple with his talon, feeding them to Grian. Like last night, Grian responds with mechanical chewing. There’s less hesitance now. No staring concept preceding slow inches of movement. Phil presses a slice to Grian’s lips and Grian eats it.

Another half an apple is consumed before breakfast arrives, ferried in by twitchy servants with faces carved from the same marble of the palace. Phil gets a plate of pancakes topped with whip cream and as many berries that can physically fit on the plate.

For Grian there’s a bowl of broth, chicken if the smell’s right. It’s perfect. Light on the stomach, unlikely to cause any kind of indigestion common with eating too thick or rich foods after a long time with nothing.

Even then, Grian doesn’t finish. Phil didn’t expect him to. Half an apple and three-fourths a bowl of broth is quite a lot, even if it shouldn’t be. Phil pushes the bowl away and smiles at his new… ward? If that’s the right term.

“Wonderful, must be nice to be full,” Phil comments, finally digging into his own meal despite the curl of disgust in his stomach. Disgust for what Sanguinis had done, blame now resting on his shoulders. He eats anyway. The sweet berries burn sour.

He picks through it slowly, feeling Grian slowly shift further into him, more the fault of gravity than any actual desire. Phil would rather chew sand, honestly. It might be more palatable.

Minutes pass in silence, quiet expectations never met. Metal forks clink against porcelain, the only noise there is, causing Phil’s sensitive ears to ache. Emotion clogs his throat. Rambling about nothing only works when he can think of something to ramble about. Trying seems impossible.

An almost silent creak of the door opening is a welcome interruption, only heard because Phil’s been cursed with the ability to hear practically everything. If he focused hard enough in the quiet room, he could probably pick out Grian’s heartbeat. He very much chooses not to.

“Greetings to his Imperial Highness, Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis,” a deep, feminine voice graces his ears. Phil looks up to greet who much be the Imperial Sorcerer and… promptly has the strangest set of reactions he’s ever felt.

On one hand, his Elytrans instincts completely brush her off, with no physical reaction or immediately declaring her flock like with Tommy, the Roses, or even Grian. On the other hand, Phil is a very simple man.

Six and a half feet of strong woman dressed in a sweeping black dressed layered with black lace and various textures of black fabric is more than enough for his mouth to dry out. Long, straight, shiny black hair tinted purple is eye-catching. Her makeup, as dark as the rest of her outfit, absolutely beautiful.

Phil is a very simple man. Perhaps one a bit more into tall goth women who could kill him than is considered ‘normal’ but simple nonetheless. If not for his body’s stubborn lack of reaction, he would absolutely do something stupid. He still might. Pretty people are hard to function around.

“Hello, Imperial Sorcerer Kristin,” the name falls from his lips easily despite not knowing it. Phil can’t really focus on why. Amethyst purple eyes meet his own and he isn’t really thinking many coherent thoughts.

“For what reason has his Imperial Highness, the Emperor, called this lowly Sorcerer for?” Kristin asks, bowing lowly, hands clasped in front of her. Right, Phil called her here for a reason. Yes. There was a reason. That reason is currently touching him.

“A sharing of ideas,” Phil starts before he considered where that sentence will end, “I have… a new friend, who may require your, our, assistance. I’d hate for anything more to happen to him than already has.” That was… coherent.

“This lowly Sorcerer would be honored, Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis. Which friend is being referred to?” Kristin asks, as if Grian isn’t right there. Well, Phil knows what they say about assumptions, it’s nothing kind.

“Grian, of course. I found him in the dungeons and decided he’s had enough.” Phil nods at Grian. He could gesture but that would risk Grian shifting too much and falling before Phil can catch him. He should… Phil forcibly tears his eyes from Kristin. He should make sure Grian’s comfortable.

“This lowly Sorcerer was unaware that there was an Elytran other than his Imperial Highness, Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis,” Kristin comments carefully. This may just be the worst case of formal talk that Phil’s had to deal with and he interacts with the butler daily.

“Please, refer to me as Philza, Sorcerer Kristin. And… you are not lowly,” Phil risks a glance and oh god she’s closer what does he do. He hurriedly looks away, untying and retying the terribly bow holding Grian’s robes together. 

More than one set of eyes stare into him. Grian’s dull gaze and Kristin’s considerate one, brows furrowed. She recovers much more quickly than Grian, who either doesn’t care to or can’t. Phil stares hard at the red peony embroidery.

“As you please, Emperor Philza,” Kristin agrees. Oh god, oh fuck, that sure is his name in her mouth. Wow, he is not going to survive this. Least of all because of the lack of reactions he’s physically having, nothing to give away how his head spins. He gets hard by even thinking of Techno but being near the hottest woman he’s ever met causes nothing? The confusion may be the only thing grounding him.

“This one is afraid there is not much information on Elytrans, is there something Emperor Philza had in mind? This one would hate to throw out idiotic theories.” Kristin stands awkwardly a few feet from them. Phil highly doubts any of her theories are stupid.

“Please sit,” another one of those considering looks, “and I’m afraid not. I haven’t had to think about my own health in quite a long time, you understand. Not much information on Elytrans that I can find either.” It’s not even bullshitting. Phil hasn’t really thought about Sanguinis’ health at all. Discounting his inevitable assassination at the hand of one incredibly pretty Siren, that is.

“Yes, understandable. But this one will have to decline. It is not right for a mere Sorcerer to be level with his Highness.” That… might be the first time anyone’s really told Phil ‘no’ since getting here. He’s… he’d be proud if it weren’t obvious Kristin’s operating under some set of rules he isn’t aware of.

“If that is your wish, then stand, but I do encourage you to sit. I’m uncertain how long this conversation will drag on for and I’d like for you to be comfortable,” Phil accepts. Well, as ‘comfortable’ as anyone can be in Sanguinis’ presence.

“Now, what I was hoping is we might figure a way for Grian to be more comfortable while he recovers, as well as after that. A method for him to move on his own would be delightful, as well as any way to speed up the recovery of his injuries. I’m uncertain the effects of many potions and spells on normal people,” Phil explains.

If he had to get more specific, the effects he unaware of are the ones that help. He’s seen a couple bits of magic be used in Love Paradox but, since the game primarily focuses on assassination, most of them are geared towards that. Except for one scene he can sort of remember where Wilbur learned a spell to help plants grow to give Foolish a bouquet that wasn’t roses for once. A cute scene but unhelpful.

“Any basic healing potion would help, though I know his Highness must have thought of that already. As I recall, most of those that enter the palace flow towards the Rose Garden. If it is not too much, perhaps the fountain there could be turned off, so that they may have alternate usages?” Kristin suggests.

“Ah yes, the fountain,” Phil nods. The fuck you mean the fountain is pumping healing potions instead of water? Is that why the Rose Garden has such a high budget? Phil hadn’t looked at the specifics of it yet. That’s ridiculous.

“I see no reason why that isn’t possible,” Phil agrees distantly. Ridiculous but necessary, considering the terrible treatment of the Roses. There’s no Imperial Physician yet the Roses are still in one piece and largely unscarred. He assumed it was video game logic keeping them healthy.

Obviously not. He should have realized that sooner. Their lack of food in the game had real world consequences, namely obvious malnutrition, so why not their injuries? Fuck, he feels stupid in hindsight.

“Perhaps I should acquire some more specific salves to ward off infection while the healing works, wouldn’t want to give Grian too many too fast,” Phil considers idly. Too many potions must have side effects, are the Roses experiencing those too? Horror turns his limbs numb.

“While this one has little professional experience in healing, Emperor Philza, this one would also recommend such a strategy. This one has several contacts outside the palace that may know more,” Kristin offers. Outside the palace… Phil has been meaning to leave, he recalls, brain switching topics to shed the weight of more misplaced hurt.

“Do as you wish. If there is one you’d suggest keeping on retainer, refer them. Healing will not be a quick journey.” Hopefully, he can higher actual Physicians through Kristin. Then he can run actual water through that fountain. It would be nice to have a medical professional on the premises, accidents do happen.

He picks through Grian’s hair, styling it into some kind of order, waves visible now that it’s dry. Phil resoundly ignores Kristin’s stare intensifying. Pretty woman putting him under a microscope? Yes please- no. No. No.

“Is there a reason that His Highness has taken Grian from the dungeons after all this time? It isn’t like Emperor Sanguinis,” Kristin questions lightly. With his frenzied mind, distracted through a haze of horror and instincts and misplaced adoration of this woman he’s just met, Phil doesn’t pick up on the clearly purposeful name drop.

“Because I’ve realized that no one deserves such terrible treatment. There is nothing he could have done to deserve rotting away down there,” Phil answers with a lot more intensity than intended. He should find a brush for Grian’s hair.

“Even the assassins from last night?” She presses. There should be a pearl comb somewhere in the closet- the assassins? Phil blinks. Even as his mouth answers, his mind races a different direction.

“Even them. They attempted to hurt Tom- Theloquin, for which they died. Death is much kinder than what occurred to Grian. With death, there is at least an end to the pain,” Phil answers firmly. Assassin’s, how could he forget about them? Is that one assassin still in that dungeon cell? Wait-

“Are the nobles still in the banquet hall?” Phil realizes. He told the guards to keep them there, to interrogate them, and he has a report now. While there should be an implication they could leave after, would Sanguinis really have allowed that? Are the servants willing to assume the nobles could leave? For some reason, he doubts it.

“Of course, Emperor Philza never ordered their release after the events of last night’s banquet.” Fuck. Kristin smiles blankly at him and Phil doesn’t even get distracted by it. Fuck, they’ve been there all night. That’s at least eight hours by now, possibly more, and the Roses are there too. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture. Fuck.

“I will go release them now. Please perform whatever medical care on Grian you are capable of,” Philza orders. How could he forget that? Less forget, more not realize he did that. All he remembers is being breathtakingly angry.

Philza hurries out without much thought towards his last order, tracking his way back towards the banquet hall. Servants duck against the walls as he approaches. Doors flick open a little too early, a little too hard. He barely notices.

All night on cold marble floors. Ignoring that barely anyone has gotten enough of his approval to refill the council, that’s still terrible. Tommy is still there too, as are the Roses and Techno. Are the corpses still there?

He approaches one of the entrances to the banquet hall, large carved things heavy enough to make them incredibly hard to open even with permission. Yet, they swing open with a simple gust of air, light as a feather. Phil steps into a completely hushed room.

Nobles gather on one side with most of the guards, clumped together in a mob of fancy dresses, robes, and the occasional suit. On the other, the Roses sit in one pile, immediately sitting to attention. Tommy is by them, startling awake between Techno and… Ranboo, he thinks the guard was called.

Between them, there are no bodies, only a misshapen and cracked lump of marble he’s failed to smooth out. Phil takes a steadying breath. His footsteps echo, even more uncomfortable than normal in this place.

“You may leave now,” he addresses the room from the center, kicking at the marble. It smooths itself out like a cowed puppy. As expected, the nobles immediately leave as fast as possible, only kept in any sort of order by the weak attempts of his three new guards. He should find more.

Putting that thought on the back burner, he turns towards the half of the room that hasn’t moved at all. A groggy Tommy forcing himself to stand straight grabs his immediate attention. Phil crosses the room much faster than he should be capable of.

Without thinking, he cups Tommy’s face, already knowing his son was untouched but unable to stop himself from twisting him this and that way, checking for any injuries he got in the meantime. His eyes are rimmed red, a veil of tiredness stubbornly clinging. Otherwise, he’s okay.

“Father,” Tommy addresses him. Phil only technically cuts him off, Tommy still capable of continuing, by pulling him in, momentarily forgetting the clear boundary against touch Tommy has. Wings hike behind his back, his veil scrunches atop Tommy’s head. His son is a warm weight in his arms.

“Theloquin,” Phil whispers in quiet relief that ridiculous birth name. His son smells of sunshine and dandelions, hair soft and wings tucked tight but whole. Tired but whole. Something sharp in Phil settles back into place, a piece of stained glass rejoining the whole.

“You’re okay,” Phil reassures, mostly himself. Tommy is unhurt, Phil made sure of that, and while he fucked up and forgot the kid, a fact terrible by itself, Tommy is still safe. Safe enough to be carefully squeezed into Phil’s chest. No wounds. No blood. Nothing.

His wings fluff and resettle against his back, not quite enough room to sweep around Tommy, barricading him off from the slowly emptying room. Techno and Ranboo stand so close. Techno and… right, there are other people in the room.

Letting go is an incredibly hard undertaking filled with coos and trills and other bird noises that all mean comfort and love in some way or another. But Phil pulls back. Boundaries still exist even if he forgot for a moment.

“Father,” Tommy restarts, “what of the assassins?” Tommy, interestingly enough, has not moved despite Phil’s entire scene. His arms remain limp at his side, eyes trained forward. The hollow ring to his words register in Phil’s head as shock.

“Death with,” Phil purposefully does not mention that he forgot the last one in a cell when he saw Grian. It’s embarrassing enough that he forgot an entire banquet’s worth of people. Guilt returns with a ferocious bite.

“The nobles were all interrogated, as per your demands. None confessed to ordering an assassination, nor a hitman, nor anything of that like,” Tommy… reports. Why is Tommy reporting anything? Phil does not care.

“And you’re okay,” Phil repeats, mostly to himself, “that is far more important.” I love you, safe, okay? Phil chirps. His wings shuffle behind him again, restless. Tommy nods slowly. He doesn’t seem to understand, that’s alright, they have time.

‘Safe, okay, alright,’ Tommy chirps back slowly, as if struggling to figure out what to say. Phil smiles warmly at his son. Good, he’s okay. Everything is fine… Schlatt was also there, he tried to protect Tommy too. Phil’s momentary calm immediately flees the building.

Completely ignoring Techno, for his own sanity and with the general seeming content to do the exact same thing, Phil slowly steps around the trio towards the roses. Techno solidly situates himself between Phil and Tommy the moment there’s room.

Wilbur is at the center of this pile, Foolish on one side, Quackity at his back, Schlatt on the other side with Charlie laid across all three. Well, as close as he can get without stretching in an obviously unnatural way. Schlatt stares blankly into the distance.

Attention, already on him, grows sharper with his first step onto the thick blanket he’d set out in an attempt to give them some respite from the heat sapping marble. No one speaks up so he continues.

Charlie curls off of Schlatt to get out of his way. Tension in the air only rises higher and higher, reaching a breaking point the closer Phil gets. He kneels in front of Schlatt, resting on his calves, a clawed hand carefully guiding Schlatt away from wherever he’d been standing.

Empty eyes as dull as Grian with only a fraction more life to them, blinking slowly, only weakly registering Phil’s presence with a straightened back and attempt to look away. A bad case of dissociation. Phil may have lost his experience but this is a look he could never forget. A look Sanguinis caused.

Shoulders fall, his free hand slipping his hat from his head, letting Schlatt actually meet his eyes should he be able. Phil keeps his face soft, touch light. With a bit less intensity but no less care than Tommy, he does his same inspection. Tilt the head, trace down the body, pick through hair. No wounds. Good.

“Hi Schlatt,” Phil murmurs, aware Schlatt may as well be hearing none of it, “thank you for protecting Theloquin. I’m glad you’re unharmed.” He traces Schlatt’s cheek with his thumb.

“You’re safe,” he says again, wondering how many times he’ll have to say it to believe himself. Schlatt is much colder than Tommy, easily attributed to how much less he’s wearing. Phil resists the urge to sweep him into his arms.

“Master, it was terrible, I can’t believe assassins would ruin such a wonderful night,” Wilbur mopes, clinging onto Phil’s arm, clearly attempting to get him away from Schlatt. He bats pretty eyes. Phil lets himself be pulled. They were all threatened last night, weren’t they? Not only by the assassins but Phil’s own forgetfulness.

“Are you alright?” Phil asks, mind apparently on exactly one thing. He lets Schlatt slip from his grasp turning towards Wilbur. The siren’s clinging makes him easy to sweep closer. His weight is calming.

“I’m always alright with you around, Master,” Wilbur purrs, pressing into Phil without even a moment’s hesitation. It’s an act, a damn good one. Phil knows it. He… is less bothered by that fact than usual, frazzled beyond comprehension.

“Good, you’re unhurt, I don’t like it when you’re hurt,” Phil mumbles. For all the sleep he got last night, he apparently got none. Little thought goes into what he’s saying. They’re okay, that’s enough.

Phil traces Wilbur’s scales, smooth and unblemished, up to the small burn scar half hidden by his hairline with the rest hidden by his bangs. There’s backstory to that scar, there must be. Phil doesn’t know it. The evidence of past pain pulls a whine from his lips.

Maybe if there were a single thought in his brain, he would have pulled back there. There is obviously not. Wilbur tenses, then forcibly relaxes, as Phil leans in. Phil doesn’t give thought to what he expected. He knows, he doesn’t think about it.

He presses a kiss to that scar to soothe it. Taught, shiny skin a distinctly different texture against his lips. A sigh leaves him. Phil settles again, pressing his forehead against Wilbur’s. With a soft squeeze of Wilbur’s arms, that’s when he stands back up, stepping away.

“Do return to the Garden in your own time,” Phil waves them off, “tell a servant if you need me.” Guilt still heavy in his heart, momentarily soothed with the knowledge they’re okay physically, if not mentally, Phil bows shortly. They would be better without him here.

Knowing that more keenly than anything else, Phil leaves back to… to what? Grian? His office? Kristin? The almost empty halls of the palace have never felt colder.

Notes:

Look at Phil, he’s trying so hard! It’s cute. Comfort is only kind of his specialty, since his specialty is emotion based and the gods rung his emotions out of him like how you squeeze water from a towel. Poor Phil.

Poor Tommy and Wilbur and everyone else in this chapter too, they must be so confused. Both cause of the viva la revolution assassins and cause of how Phil’s acting, all soft and shit. He hugs so warm yet Sanguinis is so cruel. Always so cruel. It’s such a sharp opposition to everything.

I wonder if Phil will be able to work through all of this or if he’ll drown? Who knows. In brighter news, who should be in the next smut? It doesn’t have to involve Phil, jsyk. I’m in a mood.

Chapter 13: Inevitable

Summary:

It was always bound to happen. Changes will always meet resistance, from both nature and man. The world wants so desperate to stay the same, so willing to fight against something new, not even if the 'new' might be good. It is different so it is dangerous. The world will do anything to keep that danger away.

For Schlatt, that means warping the Emperor into someone he can understand. That means pushing as far as his training will allow, trying to find anything he can comprehend behind eyes that are no longer familiar, missing the past no matter how much it hurt. When it hurt, at least he knew why. He could adjust, change, adapt, mold, *be* whatever he needed to be. It was an enemy he knew.

For Wilbur... it was never about change, now was it?

Notes:

You see, I gave you fellas comfort last time. Not a lot, just some, and then I remembered I had this pickaxe laying around and found some plot lying under the bedrock I dug us to. Because, you know, people are people and people react poorly. Ignore that, and the very bass heavy music that totally doesn't signal anything bad happening at all.

Seriously though, enjoy the ride. I had a lot of fun with this chapter. Took a while trying to start it cause I wanted it to be unique on account of... welll... events that I refuse to spoil. You'll see and understand once you get there, promise.

TW: Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Abuse (Physical, Mental, Emotional, Sexual), Scars, Bodily Harm, Self-Hate, Implied Transphobia (from Sanguinis, the bastard, so in the past), Implied/Referenced Mutilation, Graphic Depiction of Injury, Eldritch Vibes, Isolation

Spicy CWs: INCREDIBLY Dubious Consent (from both parties), Masochism, Subspace, Subdrop, Handjob, Blowjob

Some say it is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees. That dying while fighting against injustice is the best thing a person can do, a worthy demise. Become a martyr, they say. 

Maybe Schlatt once believed them. Maybe, once, he listened to the whispered words of fervent slaves and street rats, speaking of a better life and scorning the man they blamed for it all. Maybe those conversations were paired with warm hands on cold nights and the smell of burning cigars.

If that was ever true, he no longer remembers being that person, being someone who could hope for good so strongly they were willing to die again. Whatever will inspires such stubbornness has long since been snuffed out.

Years upon years of pain, marked with each and every scar, drained out any fight he could dream of having. The mere idea of fighting makes his heart seize. Each frantic pump brings ripples of memories, vivid recollections of blood slicking his throat.

His voice would give out. Even breathing grows harder, as if choking on the viscous life that’s no longer there, wiped away with inexperienced care and far more healing potions than healthy.

But ‘healthy’ is relative in the palace. What is healthy depends on what state the Emperor deems you most fitting to be in. If Schlatt was chosen to live on his knees, coating in shades of crimson, then that is how he will live.

Fighting has no place in the small world the Roses and palace servants live in. To fight is to challenge the Emperor, to insult him by denying his will, and insulting the Emperor often leads to death, but only if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, you may be allowed to live.

Except calling it ‘life’ would be insulting the truly living things around you. Schlatt’s seen it too many times. People whose shoulders drop in relief, unaware that the only thing now keeping their hearts freely beating is the Emperor’s fickle amusement. It’s a half life at best. Misfortune will be guided their way time and time again until they break.

The Emperor does not enjoy keeping broken toys. Perhaps dead ones, displayed in macabre trophies to look at and smile, if he even remembers they were once alive to begin with. The only toys he keeps are trained.

Schlatt is very well trained. He is a man who lives on his knees, not comfortable but so familiar he can’t remember when he last stood. Stood of his own volition at that. Not under order, or as a dare, or to comfort a new Rose despite knowing their death could be within the hour.

It’s been decades, surely. Decades since he last bared his teeth, only to have fangs torn from his gums, fashioned into jewelry to be worn about his neck. His teeth have since regrown, those that wouldn’t replaced with gold facsimiles, and the jewelry long since broken. The Emperor is not gentle, he cares not that people are fragile.

Despite its absence, Schlatt can still sometimes feel his own teeth digging into his skin, tied round his neck, collared and chained, as vivid and familiar as the pikes once dug into his legs. He is a man of torn metal and bone and blood.

No, that’s not true. That’s a flicker of hope that never quite went out no matter how much Schlatt wished it would, nurtured and smothered in turn with each day that passes without his master’s cruel hands tearing him apart. Schlatt is no longer a man.

Pets are not men, that would imply pets were living, breathing, sentient creatures deserving of kindness. Schlatt gets no kindness, only pity. Whatever joy he garners is formed in the scraps of whatever light he can keep in his fellow Roses’ eyes. Yet, now that the light seems to burn brighter than ever, Schlatt is left empty.

Sanguinis has changed, the knowledge sits against his head like an executioner’s block. He feels it against his skin, awaiting the blade, yet even once Sanguinis finally bore his claws once more to reveal they had not been blunted, the executioner forgot to let it fall. A mistake, surely.

Because Sanguinis does not change , not like this. He does not grow kinder with his years. Except this change is unnatural, born of magic and luck and no good intentions. Schlatt refuses to look up no matter how long this change persists.

Even if Sanguinis is kind. Even if his hands are warm, claws tucked away, gently scurrying them along as if he knows . Knows how they revile at his mere presence, a cornered animal awaiting pain because it has long since learned biting only makes it worse. The animals that bite end up in the garden.

Wonders have been done for the others with each gentle look. Foolish spends more days within that garden then out, Quackity slips further into a quiet contentment of good food and a soft den, if one colder than he’d prefer. Charlie lets himself be , hidden in every nook and cranny the Rose Garden has to offer, not quite as worried at being spotted when more slime than person.

All because of an accidental change, the only one not happy being Wilbur, though he’s so new Schlatt doubts he ever knew the depths of what could have been. Wilbur, who is unscarred and vibrant and alive in a way Roses are not supposed to be. Wilbur, who looks at Sanguinis with revulsion because he does not know how much better he has it.

It makes sense, in a way. Wilbur is not happy because Wilbur expected more. Wilbur wants and wants because he has not been trained to understand wanting is something he is no longer allowed. But Schlatt is different.

He is not perfect but he is the closest thing to it. The oldest surviving Rose, still adaptable and malleable but sturdy enough to get by, perfectly trained under years of high standards and worse consequences. Schlatt is different .

So why isn’t he happy? By all means, he should be. Good food, less pain, the only remaining aches being what little even magic could not fix. His days are spent lounging without a care in the world. He doesn't even have to attend to the Emperor.

Why isn’t he happy ? Nothing to do gives him nothing to distract him, not even the mindless state Sanguinis sends him to, a state that only exists to listen and be . Little Lamb, little ram, hapless and bare, to be broken and torn and molded into shape. All he can do is think.

And why doesn’t that make him happy? A better life, better circumstance, with better amenities than the rest of the kingdom could ever hope for if Wilbur was to be believed. The only thing standing between them and happiness should have been the emperor’s cruelty.

The emperor is no longer cruel, Schlatt feels nothing at all. Bare feet freeze against the marble floors, tipped with tiny claws that have only just begun to grow, sending sparks up his limbs with each movement. Nerves fire with the expectation of pain that never comes. Sanguinis is no longer the person to tear out his claws for a laugh.

Each step is a chore for his attention to keep. Shift forward, press against the ground, lift and catch, step and repeat again and again. He shuffles down the halls they are now allowed to wander with ease. 

It’s unnatural, it’s wrong, it doesn’t make any sense. If it is better to die on your feet than live on your knees, why does Schlatt want so desperately to go careening to the ground? Why does he pray for his bones to break and knees to shatter, forcing him onto his hands once more to scrape for every inch of ground?

Walking is such an unsteady thing. He sways and stumbles, forced to bear with pitiful looks each time he’s forced to lean against a wall and breathe . Schlatt’s thighs burn. His feet ache with an unfamiliar pull. He hates it.

Roses are not supposed to crawl anymore, Sanguinis has decided they no longer should. Perhaps, more specifically, he claimed it was no longer required . If it is not required, it is not to be done. That is the way of a Rose.

Do not be ambitious, do not stretch beyond your bonds. It is better to grow to fit the cage then try to mold it into a comfortable thing. Sanguinis will not bend. But now he has, so now Schlatt walks.

Crawling is much better than this, more comfortable to do on calloused hands and knees, more resistant to the cold than sensitive feet could ever be. Once, Schlatt hated the mere idea of crawling. The memory nearly makes him laugh.

Only nearly, for Roses are not meant to laugh in such a public space. Laughter is levity, levity is to be punished. It is to be less than perfect. Schlatt is not perfect, he is the closest thing to, so the temptation does not make it past the burn in his chest.

Towards the gardens is the route Schlatt takes. He is allowed to walk so he walks to their graves, not to mourn as dead Roses are failures and failures are not to be mourned. Schlatt does not mourn. He does nothing at all.

No laughing, no crying, biting back screams unless told to beg for his master’s amusement. Every emotion brought about at a whim is another proof of Schlatt’s careful training. He will not mourn. He walks to the garden without a purpose in mind.

Finding the path is an exercise in patience, he’s hardly been allowed to crawl it before. Only Foolish could bury the roses, only Foolish knows the way. Yet, Schlatt sees the gardens from the windows each day.

Patience is something Schlatt has in spades. The patience needed to be trained, to wait for Sanguinis to react to this or that, the patience to learn how to react in turn. He is patient, so he walks.

It’s funny how far he walks, each terrible step its own taboo, forced out because this is how it is now and Schlatt has long since known his options were to adapt or die. It’s funny because he pushes open the doors to the outside and lingers under the overhang. He cannot take a single step further.

And it’s not the fault of the stairs. The well polished marble is smooth, with sharp corners and each easily defined with a mark of unmarred gold. It is not their fault that Schlatt can’t walk down them.

Silly as it is, he can’t quite remember how to use stairs. Walking was… fine, once he remembered how to do it. Schlatt has walked before, stolen moments in the Rose Garden when it was quicker than crawling. He can’t remember the last time he used the stairs.

Before, most certainly. Before he was a Rose, before he stepped foot in the palace, before when he lived amongst the ever sprawling web that is the capital of the Empire of Souls. He knows he must have done it Before.

Wilbur has made it clear with his strong legs and absent minded hops, taking steps multiple at a time, that stairs are commonplace in the capital. Logically, Schlatt can’t picture how the web would function without stairs or ladders or something of the sort.

Logic does not bring up a single memory of using the stairs. The Roses do not venture beyond their floor, purposefully set on the same area as the Emperor’s preferred dining hall to mark their role as entertainment or food. 

There is not even the faint impression of it, like comes when he considers the concept of a mother and remembers gentle claws scratching at the base of growing horns to soothe the pain. He doesn’t remember her name. Schlatt wonders, briefly, if he should feel anything about that.

Using stairs means going down, requiring a bend of knees and a certain level of trust that his feet will catch him. A trust Schlatt no longer has. He can barely walk, how can he fall?

“Ah, hello Schlatt, are you visiting the gardens today?” The Emperor- Sanguinis- Master asks, voice low with repressed emotion, sending a shock up Schlatt’s spine. His hands ache , his feet hurt , Master is going to tear them out again and Schlatt will bite his tongue because he has to and-

And despite the announcement, Schlatt still knows Roses are not supposed to walk. For that reason, he falls. His knees collapse, long since used to sharp impacts against the ever so hard marble floors, forgetting for a moment the stair before him. His instincts have not had time to adjust to stairs.

Pain is a meaningless thing for a Rose. It is a fact of life. The harsh impact as he tumbles down the marble means nothing in the grand scheme of everything, it barely hurts at all. It does not hurt no matter how his skin aches and stings.

Bruises bloom over him, unprotected by his uniform, head cracking loudly against the stone garden path. Heat burns over his skull. A dull ache, in the end. Compared to what he is used to, to what he has been trained to take and take and take , it means nothing.

“Schlatt! Are you okay?” Master is by his side, those too gentle hands will grab and tug and pull and it will hurt anyway because that is what they are meant to do. Schlatt, well trained, kneels before his master.

Warm red blood drips from his forehead, raining in a slow pattern between his hands. It glints under the sun. Has blood always been so bright beneath an afternoon sun? Schlatt can’t remember, a vision of blood spat across a dark alleyway.

He wonders, for only a moment, what that means. What does it mean that he remembers the shade of his blood across a slimy alley more than he does his own mother’s face? More than her voice. More than her eyes.

“Hey.” Warm, burning hands cup his face, “look at me.” Taloned fingers splay over his cheeks, pinkies tucked under his jaw, a thumb brushing beneath his eye. Master’s eyes are nearly level with his own. Electric blue carries an unfamiliar concern.

Schlatt does not lean into the kindness. He does not nuzzle at soft palms offering a quiet support with each hushed work, as if speaking any louder will cause him to chatter. How could he? Schlatt does not remember how to take comfort in anything but pain. The burning in his head seeping over one eye is far better.

Not nicer, but better. The familiarity brings comfort in its own right, the harsh scrapes on his calves from falling down the stairs, the slightly more vibrant pain that could very well be a broken foot. He understands this.

“Can you focus on me? Just me, nothing else. I need you to focus on me, okay?” Master continues to speak, asking such simple things. Of course Schlatt can focus on his master. Schlatt’s every thought revolves around this man, around his mood.

It would be much harder to focus on everything else with the man right in front of him. Master’s presence is overwhelming. Even as used to his magic as Schlatt is, Master still bores down on him, an ever present weight creaking at malformed bones from poorly healed breaks. 

A nod, Roses do not often speak. Master’s hands do not move, do not tighten, though his brows may furrow there is no pain. There should be pain, more than there is. Master should see the claws scraping against the stone and click his tongue.

Claws are for men, for warriors, for beasts, not for pets meant to sit there and look pretty and take. Take and take and take until he has nothing left to give but everything he is. Even that is not enough. Schlatt is not perfect, merely the closest thing to.

Smooth skin, uncalloused despite years of practice Master must have undergone for the skill he possess is unmatched, wipes away the blood at his brow. Schlatt can barely peel open his eye.

Master is kneeling. How stupid, he only just realized. Master’s pristine robes, layers upon layers of delicate embroidery and painted silks rubbing against the dirt. Master does not kneel. But then… Master is not kind either.

He is open, he is bare, he can do nothing but give and let himself be taken. He does not know what to give to this much kinder man. Does Master even want what Schlatt can give anymore? What is a pet that cannot play, what is a broken toy? Schlatt is not broken, not to the Emperor.

But maybe he is to this new one. This Master with soft eyes and gentle hands burning with warmth, flushed cheeks and parted lips, wings swept around them as if to hide Schlatt from a world only ever designed to hurt. Maybe he is broken.

To be broken is to be tossed away. The only thing Schlatt has ever wanted is not to die, maybe, he thinks. He’s not supposed to want, but he does imagine he’d rather live. A life spent on his knees, more fitting than a meaningless death on feet not quite sure how to stand.

Death is not something a man wants. It is not something a pet should strive for either. Death is only granted to broken, pitiful toys with no more amusement to be wrung out. Schlatt hesitates, he is patient.

“Perhaps I should call a servant, you may want to lie down. Or, how about lunch? It’s around that time,” Master speaks in those same low tones, casual in a way Master never is. When the Emperor is casual, it is words of idle threat. Cruel things spouted into the open without a soul willing to challenge him.

How can this Master offer such gifts with the same careless note as the Emperor granted death? It’s unfitting, it’s wrong. The ground is so unsteady. Schlatt scrapes for any bit of familiarity and finds nothing, only the beat of a wound in time with his heart.

Patience, Schlatt can adapt, as pets have to do. He is well trained, not perfect but close to. He lets himself observe Master when electric eyes look away, towards the sky with careful longing.

Years of servitude have taught Schlatt to recognize the signs. Flushed cheeks, the beginning of sweat over his forehead, the taut of his shoulders, even the way his hips stay rooted despite the ever obvious bump. Schlatt knows his Master wants .

Why doesn’t he take? Because this Master is wrong . He is kind where the Emperor was cruel, soft where sharp edges once tore against skin, and his claws are blunted things. Not gone, never gone, but sheathed beneath a mask of a more loving man. As much as the Emperor can even love at all.

Offering is the role of a Rose. To sit and be taken, to show off to the one who is meant to take. Thin chains wrap around Schlatt’s chest, highlighting the only decent features he has. Master cannot even look. Master wants and denies himself.

In a moment of carefully guided cruelty, Schlatt refuses to be thrown away because his Master has lost the nerve to take what he so clearly desires. Even if Schlatt does not want this, for Schlatt doesn’t want anything at all, the need to survive is as close as he ever gets. If running were an option…

Running, hiding, never having to touch or be touched again… it’s a pipe dream, a meaningless fantasy with no more substance than air. Schlatt knows to ignore impossibilities. He gathers his wits.

Schlatt offers . He leans forward on his knees, reminiscing of the times when he felt muscle and tendons cling to sturdy metal spearing from his thighs to his calves, and places a hand over the bulge Master tries so hard to ignore.

A breathy sound, a mewl but not quite, as loud as he’s ever allowed to be into Master’s ear for if he’s level with Schlatt then maybe this is what he wants. Schlatt is uncertain, Schlatt is never truly certain. Schlatt cannot be certain without being perfect. He is not, so he must be close to.

Making the sound is easy to force. He’s never wanted, never tried to, and so doesn’t know how not to force. On the occasion that he forgot what pleasure meant and mistook pain for it, Schlatt did not mewl. He did not moan, or groan, or make any sound of the sort. Master’s ears are sensitive. The only sounds he enjoys is when they cry.

“ Schlatt ,” Master says his name again, tougher in tone, more close to the threats Schlatt knows and understands. The brush of familiar makes his head light, wondering when he last felt he could breathe. Schlatt does not sigh. He is not supposed to make a sound.

Gentle hands tighten, slipping down to his chest. Good, great , Schlatt knows where this goes. Except they push him away, what little fear he truly fears seizing in his throat. He’s being rejected, he did something wrong.

“Not here,” Master orders, “I’m bringing you inside.” That’s not a no. Even if the Emperor does not care for what others see, it’s still not a no . Schlatt is desirable, he has something Master wants to take. For that, he is safe, on his knees and alive.

He’s somewhat familiar with what comes next, from word of mouth if no longer experience. The feeling of being lifted freely and cradled to Master’s chest is as unique as he was told. He understands Charlie and Wilbur’s difficulty.

Being held is not freeing, how can it be when he is restrained? Rather is it that same burning warmth soothing his aches, arms he knows have toppled kingdoms on a whim wrapping around him in a silent promise to protect. It is not freeing. It is…

To be carried by Master is to be invincible. To know the only thing that can hurt you is the man treating you like a doll. While there is no independence, which Schlatt knows is good even if he cannot comprehend wanting it, there is also no fear. Not true fear.

It forces Schlatt to slump, the sudden feeling of safety and care so alien, so impossible to achieve. He cannot find it in himself to want to move. Schlatt can’t even tense his muscles. He understands why Wilbur, despite all his hate and fire and willingness to die on his feet, still submitted to this feeling.

Far too soon, the feeling is gone. Master places him upon a bed as if he is a priceless gem set upon a display cushion, to be shown off with care lest it crack beneath its own beauty. Schlatt is worth something. It nearly breaks him.

“Schlatt, are you with me? Are you okay?” Master asks again, pushing back Schlatt’s hair to look into his eyes. Where else would Schlatt be? He could not leave if he tried. He does not want to. Rejecting the Emperor… it’s not done. Even if Master is not quite the man he was, Schlatt cannot speak nor move nor fight.

A life on his knees means he’s forgotten how to walk. Schlatt nods, no true desire behind the motion, only a desire to be needed and wanted because so long as he has that, he has his life. However much of a life that really is. What was it he called it, a half life? A tightrope he has walked for nearly a hundred years.

“Okay,” Master breathes. Schlatt feels the air ghost over his own lips, not quite certain when Master grew so close. It doesn’t matter. Not when he’s kissed. Schlatt… he cannot remember ever being kissed.

Perhaps it’s always like this. A gentle slide of plush lips against his own, almost shy , if that word could ever be applied to Master. It burns at his skin, his nerves not sure how to react to such an endlessly soft, painless touch.

Want is not a thing Schlatt has but it is clear Master wants this. He pushes back, unfamiliar and unpracticed, reveling in the pleased hum that signals success. For a moment he recognizes want with the familiar urge to claw at his skin.

Schlatt’s skin is not his to marr with bloody marks. It’s simple to ignore the urge. He rests his hands against the bed, still, and presses into Master. Terrible teeth bite at his lip. No, not bite. The action is not deserving of the term bite .

More a nip, closer to when the cold gets too much and just starts to burn. Master sweeps his tongue against the mark like one had the opportunity to be left at all. Charlie had mentioned Master kissing him with tongue, right?

Yet another unfamiliar action. Schlatt parts his lips, Master licking into his mouth with a low shuddered moan, the sound disappearing against his skin. It’s a strange feeling. His mouth is hot, full, but not the painful choke he’s much more familiar with.

It’s pleasant, if that’s the word, making his eyes slip close. He cautiously tries to mimic and likely fails, yet Master seems to enjoy the mere fact he attempted. Hands clutch at his torso. 

He mewls again, to give some reply, to let Master know he’s still paying attention. Lips slip from his own, pressing hot kisses over his jaw. Sparks burst over his skin when Master finds a patch just beneath his ear and sucks, biting what will surely become a mark. He twists his head away from it.

Teeth tear at his throat , but they don’t. It doesn’t hurt. It sparks and burns but it doesn’t hurt . Schlatt squirms at the feeling, so unfamiliar yet something he knows he should be able to name.

Master spreads those marks down his neck. Each one sears into Schlatt’s soul, ears pinning and flicking, unsure how they’re possibly supposed to respond. Ironclad control fractures at the sheer sensation . A crack is finally found along an impenetrable wall.

Such terrible, gentle hands grasp at his chest, massaging his tits. Talons tease along his skin. Just a scrape, not a cut. It could draw blood. He doesn’t . Schlatt can’t figure out why. He can’t stop himself from bowing into the touch either.

Burning lips latch around his nipple, sucking like a babe. Finally a familiar feeling. Terror roots in his heart, as horrible as it is recognizable, with an awful sound ripped from his throat.

A moan, maybe. By definition? It has to be, bringing tears to his eyes because Schlatt is not supposed to make a sound . But Master does nothing . It isn’t right. Schlatt has to be punished , to be hurt , to have anything done.

Crow wings snap out, feathers fluffed. Master lags for a moment, pupils blown wide, before latching on again. This must be a test, one he’s already failing. It must be for Master is testing the very control he trained so hard for.

In place of those god awful sounds, Schlatt squirms. Moving is fine, usually, mostly, so it’s much safer than scraping at Master’s ears. Except squirming makes Master grow closer.

Such a dangerous body, built of impassible muscles, playing at softness with that squishy layer of fat. It presses down against Schlatt, Master sitting on Schlatt’s aching thighs, head buried in his tits. Schlatt’s dick juts into Master’s stomach.

“Schlatt?” Master coos, humming into his tit. A soft thumb slips over the spit slick nipple, a much brighter pink for the not-quite-abuse it went through. Schlatt freeze, but this is fine right? Master enjoys it when they appear to enjoy his treatment. Mostly to spit vitriol but it’s enjoyment still.

“I can’t hear you,” Master whines. Schlatt’s vision whites out, head going blank, and he can only partially blame the sinful roll of Master’s hips into his own. He’s burning, he’s dying, he’s living. He doesn’t know how to feel .

“I…I,” Schlatt stammers, to apologize or grovel. He can’t figure out which. Master wants to hear him? Another roll, Master switching his attention to Schlatt’s other nipple. His free hand massages and tweaks at the now abandoned one. 

Master moves so slowly. It’s as if they have all the time in the world and he’s using it to drive Schlatt mad. His words send Schlatt’s head spinning with uncertainty, his actions messing with what little his body understands. The crossing wires makes it hard to think at all.

But then, Schlatt does not truly think when Master is around, only ever considering what Master wants. That is the role of a Rose. Finally, his patience might have paid off. He knows what Master wants, he was ordered.

Schlatt does not understand but he can follow orders. On the next grind, he lets himself whine. Master responds with a groan, huffing against his chest, hips stuttering. He tears Schlatt’s thin uniform from him.

“ Good ,” Master coos, “So good, thank you.” Schlatt can’t think about that or he’ll ruin everything. Master heaves up, pressing his forehead against Schlatt’s collarbone, looking down. Talons tease down Schlatt’s skin.

If this were the Emperor, they’d tear into his thighs, reopening old wounds. These hands do not, tracing over the scars with something akin to wonder. It’s as if it’s an honor to touch Schlatt. He wants to cry. He doesn’t.

A low groan breathes from Schlatt. Master’s kind, burning hand wraps around his dick. Schlatt doesn’t know if the Emperor ever touched him there, choosing to tease him for the size. He remembers time after time, being told it’s not worth it to hurt him there since what will that do? Smacking a fly is a more worthy endeavor. 

Master does not, Master chirps, a sound the Emperor never made. He slowly strokes Schlatt, making more of those sounds he does not quite understand. They do not feel mocking. Heat boils Schlatt skull down to his chest, cooking his brain.

“Perfect,” Master purrs, confirming that he’s not being mocked. Schlatt does not cry. He does not, he does not, he does not . In the most literal sense, there are no tears in his eyes. 

Each dry pump of Schlatt’s dick almost forces him to. A sob builds in his throat, choking every whine and groan Master pulls from him, unable to leave. He tosses his head about, incapable of staying still.

The burning crescendos, throwing static into his head, wetness growing between his thighs. His hips jerk as best they can under Master’s weight into his hand. It’s so much. It’s too much. It’s never felt like this before and the unfamiliarity makes it all the more overwhelming.

He’s made to ride out the feelings, almost addictive in its strength. The boil fades to a fuzzy burn. Master’s hand becomes something to run from, hips halting, a whine slipping from him. Kinder than Schlatt could ever understand, Master lets go.

“Wonderful, so pretty, so perfect. You did so well,” Master whispers, peppering kisses over Schlatt’s reddened face. The cut on his head has long since dried to a weak trail of crusted blood. Master kisses over the wound.

Kissing wounds are meant to make them feel better. Schlatt isn’t sure where he heard that from, yet it’s nearly what breaks him. Only nearly. Schlatt is not perfect, but he knows better than to cry. He is still better than that, for all his mistakes.

Leaning into Schlatt to kiss him gives Schlatt the perfect chance to feel how Master is still hard. The thick line of his dick pulses against Schlatt yet he does nothing to alleviate it. All he does is coo and kiss and whisper soft praise.

“ Master ,” Schlatt whines, because Master did say he wanted to hear him, “let me serve you.” He rolls up into Master’s dick. Master hisses, and Schlatt neary does too. What was once almost pleasant now hurts and he genuinely isn’t sure he could serve Master without giving in and sobbing.

Schlatt can’t but he must. He must be useful, must be a good Rose and a better pet. But doing so would make him cry and he has not been allowed, so he can’t. He can’t break another rule.

“Okay… okay ,” Master accepts. Yet he rolls off Schlatt, welcome for how it stops the uncomfortable edge of the burn, yet unwelcome for the exact same reason. He wants it to hurt, he doesn’t want to cry, he can’t have both.

“Kneel?” And it’s close enough to an order that Schlatt doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t have to think. Indecision drifts from his mind, focusing on following the order when his legs are a bit numb and moving the wrong way makes his chest and crotch ache.

“Good,” Master mumbles when Schlatt’s gotten onto the floor. He’s kneeling, he’s okay, he knows this. It’s comfortable, kneeling on the carpet beneath him. The slick dripping down his thighs is unfamiliar but, for once, not in a bad way.

He aches with… a want? Is it a want? To press his own hand over his dick and chase that too much he got a taste for? Maybe, since it isn’t an order or a rule. Schlatt is not supposed to want. Ignore it .

A shuffle of fabric as Master undresses. Schlatt takes a deep breath, the hurt so light and pleasant, focusing on a spot on the floor just in front of him. He drifts, almost calm. Not quite but as close as he ever gets to it.

Master settles in front of Schlatt, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread. Strong thighs lead to that massive, familiar cock and Schlatt knows what he’s supposed to do. He shuffles into the space Master creates.

Legs trap him in place, settling either side of his shoulders. Schlatt leans forward again, almost a mimicry of when they were at the stairs but far less new, licking a line up Master’s dick. The taste of precome permeates his mouth.

It’s heady, like a sharp drink, fogging the senses. He’s learned to chase the feeling, the closest thing the Emperor got to pleasant. In a way, that made it easy to get addicted, to let the training take route, In a way, he’s thankful for it.

Schlatt moans, he’s still allowed. He latches onto the head of Master’s dick, suckling at it, licking along the slit. Practice makes it easy to suck in. Schlatt’s jaw stretches around the girth, sucking in his cheeks.

Master moans above him. Fabric tears in his ears, talons must be ripping through it, and isn’t that a thought? Not a full one. Schlatt isn’t quite capable of fully thinking like this, on his knees, struggling to breathe around the cock in his throat.

No longer with a gag reflex, that was trained out of him by accident over the years, he sinks down on the cock. Master hisses again as the tip bumps against Schlatt’s throat. He pauses, breathes, almost relishes in being allowed to prepare himself, and drops.

His nose digs into Master’s pubes, breathing in nothing but him, thinking of nothing at all, unable to feel his toes. Heavy balls bump against his chin, where he can feel spit staining past his strained lips. Schlatt groans.

Time means nothing between Master’s legs. It can slip and skip all it likes, all Schlatt needs to do is focus on pulling back and sucking down again, running his tongue along the bottom. He breathes when he can and sucks it up when he can’t.

For once, Master doesn’t grip his hair and use him, letting Schlatt set the pace, but he does almost miss it. The tugging, the hurried pace of an impatient man. It’s replaced by the occasional broken stutter, stretching out Schlatt’s throat at intervals impossible to predict. He doesn’t try to.

Predicting means thinking. Schlatt can’t think. Schlatt isn’t meant to think, letting himself be at home in the here and now, never straying to the past or future. He grinds up into his palm and doesn’t think about that either.

Noise fills the air and his ears, nothing he can place. It doesn’t matter. He sucks, enticing his Master to cum, and there’s nothing else that matters. Schlatt floats. A gentle hand cradles the back of his skull.

It’s completely unfamiliar to his empty mind, scratching the base of his horn, petting his hair. Schlatt moans, leaning into it. A sharper sound. It’s not negative, it’s good. Schlatt buries himself in Master’s cock.

Master’s dick pulses in his throat, once, twice. Thick cum empties down his stretched throat, heave and warm. Schlatt swallows it, letting himself be rocked, hips bucking into his mouth. His own orgasm washes over him almost unnoticed.

When Master pulls back, Schlatt still has to cough at the reintroduction of air. Leftover cum he didn’t quite swallow slips down his chin. Schlatt rubs at it with his already wet hand.

He blinks up at Master, finding his form blurry. Blurry… Oh, Schlatt realizes in such a distant way it may not be him at all, he’s crying. Silent tears pour from his eyes. He’s pulled up, hushed, cradled.

Master is still hard but it doesn’t feel like it matters as much. Maybe that’s bad. Schlatt is too warm to care, his shoulders trembling. His breath hitches, letting his head be buried into impenetrable skin.

Safe, his mind whispers. So foreign, so terrible, he can’t understand it at all. So he doesn’t try. There are wings over him, cum in his stomach, and the relief of a man who’s finally allowing himself to cry dragging him to sleep.

Invincible , he corrects. It makes much more sense.

…

Freedom is such a silly word, meaning so many different things. Well, not technically. Technically , it only means Charlie isn’t enslaved. In practice, it’s used in so many different ways.

Like right now, where Roses have been given freedom in the palace, able to go wherever they please without even telling anyone. Charlie muses over this freedom as he slinks down the halls. Philza didn’t give them any restrictions.

Charlie is a good toy, so he knows where they’re still not allowed to go, like the Emperor’s personal rooms and office. That would be bad, Charlie isn’t bad. He only is when he’s wrong. But he’s not wrong right now!

Philza isn’t around, so Charlie doesn’t need to be human shaped. He slips down the halls as an amorphous blob, biting back giggles as he avoids servants and slips in areas he could only look at before, finding them as delightfully dark and cramped as he thought they’d be.

Being a slime, he doesn’t often sleep. Charlie has had a lot of time to wander around because of that. He’s seen so many floors he didn’t know existed and still got to be a good toy.

He’s learned so many things too! People talk so much more when they think they’re alone, letting Charlie learn many things he hasn’t told Philza. Philza didn’t ask so Charlie didn’t say. Philza hasn’t asked a lot of things, he’s gone all distant again. Charlie wonders if that will change soon.

A shadow slips through the halls, and those are always the most interesting people to follow. No one boring is so sneaky! Boring people walk , out in the open, usually having a boring task like a chore.

Following sneaky people is easy as a slime. He doesn’t have to sneak along at a distance, sneaky people rarely think to check in tiny corners right behind them, but then no one but Charlie could fit into them. It’s still really silly. All corners should be checked! Every last one!

Wilbur is the shadow, Charlie realizes, recognizing the curve of webbed ears even in the dark. How curious! This is even more exciting. Roses can go everywhere now, Wilbur doesn’t have to sneak.

Not exactly everywhere actually. They can’t go to Philza’s rooms or his office, and Charlie almost forgot about the last place that’s definitely not allowed, locked behind a massive door that few people can open. Even fewer of those people ever go inside. Charlie did, once. It didn’t end well.

Shimmering doors creep open, being opened from the inside . Charlie darts in after Wilbur, matching his color to the floor, a simple task after managing ‘bruises’ and ‘blushing’ on such an interactive surface as skin. He hooks himself under one of many shelves.

The room isn’t really a room, it’s a staircase line with shelves, each covered in expensive riches that only grow rarer the further down you climb. From experience, Charlie knows it leads to the vaults where Philza keeps the really really important things… Not that he knows that that means.

Oh, it’s Techno! Charlie perks up, watching Wilbur cozy up to Philza’s favorite general. He’d been so cagey lately, shifting, huffing, and occasionally growling at anyone who moves too close, massaging at his jaw when he thinks no one is looking. He seems so much more open with Wilbur. Like… really open.

“Thanks for this, you really didn’t have to.” Wilbur smiles sheepishly. Charlie is not the smartest slime but he has been trained and retrained on how to be more human. He knows a fake smile when he sees one. Though Wilbur’s blush is genuine, he is far less shy than that smile implies.

“No, I did. It can’t go on like this,” Techno denies. Wilbur steps forward, leaning into Techno’s space. Even he isn’t spared from Techno’s new attitude, stiffening under Wilbur’s touch, moving jerkily to embrace him. It takes several long minutes for the general to calm again.

Can’t go on? Charlie doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get a lot of things though! He’ll watch and learn until he does understand. He’s good at being refined, Philza said so… though then he cried about it so Charlie isn’t so sure anymore. Huh…

Oh well, Philza seems pretty open to letting Charlie know what he did wrong so it’s fine. Wilbur pulls back from Techno, tracing his scarred face with one hand. Techno nuzzles into it with a soft sigh.

Neither looks like they want to pull away when they do, except Wilbur’s eyes are wild when Techno turns away. An unfamiliar wildness, one Charlie’s never seen on the delicate siren before. It’s feral in nature. A vicious animal masquerading as a Rose, Charlie concludes. But why?

Wilbur can’t quite hide his eager excitement, saved from having to since Techno refuses to look away from their mysterious goal, the unknowing trio slipping down the levels of wide stairs. Wilbur skips every few steps in his impatience.

At the bottom, Techno pulls out a key. It is shaped in pure emerald, glowing in the light, and doesn’t slip into the keyhole of the vault door so much as it merges with the door itself.

The key disappears. Metal clanks and shifts, the vault slowly opening to reveal a room so much less impressive than the stairs would imply, ladened with one of a kind artifacts as they are so far down.

Instead of the marble of the rest of the palace, this place is dark, made of roughly hewn stone that speaks of ancient builders working only with chisels and desperation. The rock is black in tone, absorbing what little candle light there is.

Sitting in the room are only three mysterious objects, set upon ivory pedestals like their own miniature thrones, letting off a magical energy so potent Charlie can taste it. Rough carvings in the ivory are nearly impossible to decipher at a distance.

Unfortunately, he can’t get any closer. There are no shelves or tables to hide on, only the pedestals and the stone. Charlie stares at the artifacts, because they can’t be anything else, in quiet wonder.

Magical artifacts always have an energy to them. Not like this though. Charlie looks at these and feels he’s looking at something that doesn’t belong, a drop of divinity that shouldn’t exist in the mortal world.

One is a skull made of the purest crystal, a prismatic shade that speckles the entire room in rainbows despite not receiving any light at all, the eyes made of sapphires so close to the color of the sky he might be looking at it. Wind whistles in his ears.

Freedom , his soul whispers, recognizing what his mind cannot. This is an artifact of the Sky Gods, this is freedom, this is not for him to touch. Charlie hasn’t even been given permission to look at it. He feels as though he is encroaching on its right to exist.

 A dagger opposite of it, the pedestal on the far right. There is no sheathe to speak of. It floats above its resting spot, a dull threat lingering in the air, a sharp edge pressed to Charlie’s throat. The blade is formed of a ruby so heavy and sharp that it has become the very blood it promises to spill. The handle is wrapped in leather made of gold.

Violence , his soul shudders, knowing that this could be what empowers and kills him in the exact same breath. To reach for it is to gain the ability to fight the world, but he knows he would be driven mad instead. This is an artifact of the Blood God, this is war drums beating in place of his heart, this is a silent promise.

Last is an artifact he can’t even look at. It should be the least threatening, logically speaking, with no heavy weight of crystal and no sharpened edge. Compared to the others, it’s downright fragile.

Because it’s just an hourglass, formed into the shape of two hearts, the metal casing around it a chilling bone white. Packed inside is red sand, stuffed so full it doesn’t even work. There is no space for the sand on top to fall into the bottom. Instead time falls still. Charlie’s heart seems to still with it.

Death , his soul screeches, a sound a soul should only make when looking at its own demise. This is an artifact of Lady Death. This is life, this is death, this is immortality. Charlie looks at the glass and knows why Philza’s heart will always beat. He knows with a surety that he will never die.

“I’ll take it from here,” Wilbur breaks the delicate silence. Techno doesn’t stop him, Techno doesn’t speak, Techno stares at the Blood God’s blade and shudders with every slow breath. Wilbur is not so easily deterred.

Each step must be a fight. It has to be. Charlie… he couldn’t move closer if he tried. Yet, Wilbur’s gaze is set with a stubborn determination, forcing him over jagged ground towards the artifacts.

Before Charlie can even wonder what Wilbur is planning to do, things have already gone horribly wrong. A hand that should be webbed but never had the chance to grow properly smacks out, smashing the hourglass from its pedestal. Ivory wobbles without anything to hold but stands strong.

The same cannot be said for the hourglass, so innocently fragile. It falls, it cracks, it shatters under thick soled boots Wilbur must have borrowed for they only barely fit. Red, red, red sand spills over the floor.

Wilbur leaves. Techno leaves. Charlie… Charlie stares at the blood covered floor, wondering how he could ever mistake it for sand. He stares and, even after the vault has long since closed, he knows.

Charlie will never mention what happened here tonight. He doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to. To try would mean to think of those artifacts again. If he ever does…

Well… the mind rarely shatters, but it always can bend.

Notes:

Bright news first, I am in fact changing my decision I made at some point earlier when I talked about the species and breedability of the harem. Yeah, Schlatt is FtM. Yeah, I don't make the rules, I just draw the fanart (tho the fanart wasn't of this fic specifically... should I make fanart of this fic? That's a whole ass thought)

(Said fanart if you want it: https://www.tumblr.com/basementdwellerinthestars/758304830268882944/redrew-an-old-fanart-of-jschlatt-one-where-he?source=share )

In less bright news, because I'm talking about the Charlie POV, say hi to Wilbur again everyone! Remember him skulking around and forming connections? Talking with nobles and guards and I wonder if anyone forgot about Phil's impending dooms at the hands of Main Characterbur? Cause this *is* a video game so here comes the plot. The Main Character just took out the macguffin, now he's gotta just... do the thing. Kill Phil. I think this was mentioned before by Phil

Wonder how he'll get out of this one folks! I'm sure nothing terrible and life changing will occur within the next few chapters. Why, Phil's only just going to be doing his education and healthcare reforms then! Those are important!

I don't know who I'm kidding. Live in fear :D

Chapter 14: One Man Funeral March

Summary:

Wilbur knows Sanguinis is going to die. He's planned this out so well. Seduce someone with enough power to get into the vault, remove Sanguinis' immortality, then kill him off. That last part was always going to be the hardest part but Wilbur is crafty. He has dozens of plans for how to get Sanguinis down. Admittedly, he never expected the first one to work.

Techno knows Sanguinis is going to die. He helped Wilbur get into that vault after all. He knows about the poisons collected, the guards who turned away, and the weapons stowed carefully out of sight. He agreed to help with this long ago. One conversation with Sanguinis, one strange observation, isn't going to make him change his mind no matter what his instincts think. This death is inevitable, it will happen.

Charlie knows Sanguinis is going to die. He can't stop thinking about the fallen sand. He chose not to say anything, not to confront anyone, though he also didn't expect Sanguinis to walk up to him first. He didn't expect Sanguinis so say goodbye. He didn't expect for it to feel like abandonment. But there's nothing Charlie can do anymore. There's nothing anyone can do.

Phil knows he's going to die. All he can think is 'finally'.

Notes:

12k words. This chapter is *12k words* and I have no regrets. Enjoy this one folks, we've officially hit rock bottom. It's all up from here, just ignore the fact we can barely see sunlight, that means nothing probably. I quite enjoyed crawling down here.

Can anyone see a ladder? Or at least some rope? I think we have a few strings of frayed hemp that are a few thousand years old, that should work eventually. Maybe. I say this because uh... well... eh, you'll see. No spoiler's ;)

TW: Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Abuse (Physical, Mental, Emotional, Sexual), Scars, Self-Hate, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Mutilation, Isolation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, ATTEMPTED SUICIDE, ASSISTED ATTEMPTED SUICIDE, Temporary Main Character Death (he gets resuscitated literally next chapter, promise, he'll be fine)

Schlatt’s body is warm in his arms, aggravating the seemingly ever present burn in his soul, yet it does little to distract him. Phil lays quietly in bed, trailing a clawed hand up and down Schlatt’s back. It’s odd.

Where searing skin against skin should have distracted him, body and instincts not satisfied after one round, not in the slightest, he’s instead struck with an odd clarity. A deceptively fragile clarity at that.

It sits atop all the other raging hormones and emotions he feels. If Phil had to describe it, it would be like a fragile slab of ice stubbornly remaining on top of a lake after spring, rain enticing the surrounding water into heavy waves. Yet, the ice doesn’t break.

He wouldn’t say it’s born of a realization. A realization implies this is in any way new information. It also isn’t the rage he was expecting. Not because Phil expected himself to get angry but because, well, some part of him was still distantly aware that there was a plot this world was supposed to follow.

No, Phil finds himself calling this ‘acceptance’. It’s a lot colder of a feeling than he thought it would be, hollow and airy, as if it would freeze him solid the moment he’d let it. Phil’s accepted a lot in his life. This is the first time it’s left him so empty.

So Wilbur broke the artifact, the macguffin keeping Sanguinis immortal, and that means they’re in the later half of the game. Phil is stripped of the immortality that’s kept him with relatively flawless skin no matter how many times his own claws dig into him. Wilbur made it so he could finally die. So what?

Admittedly, he hadn’t realized they were so far into the plot. Phil didn’t keep a very close eye on Wilbur, having so many other things to focus on. He juggled his crass instincts, rebuilding the empire, and forcing the treatment of those around him into something at least brushing humane… it didn’t leave him with much time to worry about the revolutionary in their midst.

Maybe if he’d paid more attention, Phil would be able to guess which route his death would take, though that would require Wilbur doing one of the routes Phil had done. Would he be torn apart by wolves? Fed to a carnivorous plant? Kept alive and slowly tortured similar to his treatment of the Roses until his body gave out on him?

No, it’s far likelier he’ll die before that point. Most routes have a poisoning attempt of some kind rather early on to illustrate that mortality does not make Sanguinis any less dangerous. Unlike the cruel Emperor, Phil has no reason to subsist on rage.

Odd, Phil had expected to be more afraid of his impending demise yet here he is, reminiscing about a deadly event that has yet to occur with something approaching fondness. He definitely had been afraid at one point. Sometime over the intervening months, he’d stopped caring.

Fear wouldn’t change his fate. Phil knew from the start that fighting back against the Revolution using his foreknowledge wouldn’t help anything. He wanted to make the world better, not become a tyrant in his own right. 

Distracting himself from his death was easy with all the work he had to do to leave this world a better place. Building his food banks, overhauling taxation and the education system, ensuring the Roses were treated humanely… it was much more important than stressing about his own life.

Maybe if Phil cared a little less, he would have snuggled up to Wilbur and the rest of the Roses. He would have tried his hardest to earn their care, to prove himself harmless, even if that meant ignoring the empire and the boundaries he painstakingly set up. Or, well, he wouldn’t have set them up if he did that. Maybe then he wouldn’t be dying.

Wait… if he dies, he’ll never see all his reforms fully settle into place. Phil doesn’t know why that just struck him. He stares blankly at the wall for a moment, vision half obscured by his own feathers.

It’s more obvious than he thought, the McGuffin breaking, no wonder Sanguinis flew into an immediate rage. It’s like part of Phil’s soul has been cut off, vanishing into nothing. A chill wracks his spine. That might be why this acceptance feels so hollow and cold.

Morality is familiar even after living without it for… half a year by now? Maybe longer. Time slips away so easily when sleep is an optional task, barely kept to allow Phil to attend various meetings to strong arm his reforms into place. He never realized he’d missed it so much. He can die now. Phil smiles.

Relief, that’s here too. It fills his chest like a balloon. Part of him had been dreading this moment for so long, aware of it in such a distant way, and now it’s here. He doesn’t have to dread it anymore. So many of his worries slip away so easily.

No more worrying about the future of the Empire. No more worrying about overstepping boundaries when not a soul around him will dare speak against even an accidental slip. No more worrying about how his instincts clash with their trauma. No more imposing future. He won’t get to see that future. He’ll be dead soon.

Hopefully he’s built up enough goodwill that Wilbur will at least make his death quick. A fast acting poison, perhaps? Phil doesn’t care to check his food for the stuff. Before he was immortal, now he’s suicidal. Phil’s self aware enough to admit that.

Schlatt slowly stirs in his arms, fluffy ears twitching against his skull, a half hearted grumble catching in his throat. He doesn’t know the arms he presses into belong to a dead man. It’s… funny, in a strange sort of way. Ironic, maybe.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Phil murmurs, allowing himself to nuzzle into soft, messy hair. Part of him debates laying here for a while, letting himself be content to lay among his flock. It wouldn’t be a bad memory to die with. But, no, Phil has a few things he wants to do before he dies.

“G’morning…” Schlatt freezes, “Master.” The word slips out late, every muscle tensing against Phil. The usual stab of dissatisfaction strikes at that horrible title Sanguinis insisted on. The strict subservience leaves a terrible taste in his mouth.

It’s quickly drowned under a rueful levity. Does it really matter what Schlatt calls him now? Even if Phil doesn’t like it, Schlatt will end up stopping eventually. Phil won’t be around to see that either. If Phil’s lucky, he’ll be dead before tomorrow dawns.

“Please, call me Phil,” he sighs. No amount of soft touch will get Schlatt to relax now, that much Phil can assume. It’s as good a time as any to get up, especially if he wants to actually meet Tommy for breakfast this morning. Maybe he can convince Schlatt to come.

No response to that but, then, Phil probably shouldn’t have expected one. He can’t remember a single time Schlatt has spoken to him using actual words. Then again, he hadn’t done much in the way of relationship building with any of these people. He did try a bit. Except, no, not really.

Phil had sat at a few meals with them and then disappeared into his office, or into board meetings, or any other distraction to avoid the singing of his instincts. The one he’s closest to in this place is Grian, and only because he makes sure to visit his fellow Elytrian once a week in the mage tower. He’s been doing much better.

Still not speaking, at least not to Phil, but anything is better than where he was. For all Phil wishes he could claim he honestly tried to build a relationship with any of these people beyond the instant connection of mates and instincts… he didn’t. 

It isn’t right to try and connect with them. Phil is a dead man walking, he’s always known that, and, even worse, he’s a dead man wearing the skin of their greatest abuser. It would be cruel to wear Sagnuinis’ face and expect them to forgive him.

Forcing them to forgive him and then letting them watch him die would be the cruelest act of all. At least now his death will be met with relief. The Empire is set to run fairly smoothly without him, especially if Wilbur makes sure to continue implementing his plans. Wilbur’s fairly reasonable, he’ll make a good leader when Phil’s gone. 

Right, he was meant to be getting out of bed, some guest room he barely remembers going to in a haze of panic and instincts. Phil hum, sitting up. Schlatt shoots up beside him, head kept down.

His robes hang open around him, Schlatt’s own… he still can’t call them ‘clothes’ but the uniform sits in shreds on the floor. Oh well. Phil shrugs off the topmost layer of his robes, tying the rest together with one of the sheer, gauzy strips. It’s very plain compared to what Sanguinis’ closet usually gives him. That top layer carries most of the heavy embroidery, leaving him decked in shades of golden off-white.

“Schlatt, could you come here?” Phil holds another strip and the embroidered robe in the crook of his elbow. Schlatt, naked as the day he was born and uncaring of it, hurries to his knees before Phil. Phil takes a deep breath, batting back the pulse of want. Not now. He has more important things to do.

“Stand, if you would?” He phrases them as questions, giving Schlatt the opportunity to say no despite the crushing certainty that Schlatt never will. It… it makes him feel less slimy when Schlatt does stand. Well, it’s more like a wobble.

Knees bend awkwardly, thighs and calves refusing to push entirely straight, leaning too far forward on his feet. Phil’s reminded of a toddler, though knowledge of who this niece or nephew is has been stripped from his brain. Schlatt looks like he just learned how to stand. Or, looking at the scars littering his legs, maybe he was trained not to. 

“You’ll have to wear this until we get you back to the Rose Garden,” Phil offers the robe. He isn’t sure which option he likes less. One implies serious brain damage, the other serious physical and mental abuse. Both are equally likely. He puts neither past Sanguinis. The Emperor, as he has learned, lacks any form of morality.

With great hesitance, Schlatt wraps the robe around himself. Phil has to help, not because Schlatt asks but because he’s genuinely concerned Schlatt will lose balance and crack his head against the floor again. Surprisingly muscular arms slip through the loose robe easily.

Schlatt is taller than Phil by a couple inches but the flowing robe doesn’t care. Maybe the hem is higher than it should? He isn’t sure. He ties the robe shut with more slippery fabric and doesn’t think about it.

“Breakfast first though, what do you say?” Phil, again, offers an out for his own peace of mind. Schlatt doesn’t look up at him, hands handing loose at his sides, cautiously rubbing at the embroidery of Phil’s robes. He looks good in it. He looks more… whole. Less like a pet, would be a better description.

“Anything you desire, Master Philza,” Schlatt replies slowly. Each word is measured, a carefully crafted response suited specifically for Sanguinis’ tastes. Phil shudders. Disgust rids him of his appetite, not that he ever eats because he needs to.

Except he needs to now, doesn’t he? Because he’s now mortal? Which means he’d also need to sleep regularly, not that Phil particularly expects to make it to tonight. That actually brings a thought. Would the Roses like to watch him die? Does Phil want them to see him like that? He doesn’t know, really.

All Phil knows is he’d rather not die alone. It would be selfish to call the others to a meal just so Phil can willingly eat poison but… he’s tired. He’s been so careful, fucked up so much. This would be the first thing he willingly asked of this world. Surely, he can allow himself this?

One hand rests on Schlatt’s arm, helping the man keep pace, keeping an eye out so they can take breaks whenever Schlatt starts to wheeze. Oh, he tries to hide it but Phil’s hearing is too sensitive to miss it. It’s a slow march to the dining room.

Tommy is already waiting when he arrives, the new normal. Like Schlatt, he keeps his head down. There’s a bit less fear in him though. It’s a bravery born of the knowledge that Phil won’t stalk his every move. This Tommy is allowed to keep his secrets. Phil hasn’t heard a word of his training and studies and isn’t starting now.

Maybe that’s gone from abusive to neglectful but, well, Tommy’s quite close with Techno, right? Phil hopes that’s good enough to make up for it. He has Schlatt sit, forcing the man into a chair rather than on his knees.

“Good morning Father,” Tommy greets, side-eying Schlatt, bowing his head further in acknowledgement. Phil smiles at his son. Well, the closest he’ll ever get to having a son at least. He tries to keep the bitterness from his expression. Neither look up so he succeeds by default.

“Good morning Theloquin, are you training with General Blade again today?” Phil politely inquires. Plates are quickly set in front of them, the servants adjusting quickly to Schlatt’s presence. They adjust quickly to everything. They had to, as Phil now understands. Hopefully that will help them adjust to his death.

It will be ‘safer’ in their perspective, if nothing else. Safer without him, better, because he represents everything that brought them harm. He’s a monster. It’s about time that monster was defeated, isn’t it? His final symphony?

“Yes, Father. Will you be watching?” Tommy replies, the same answer with the same question, a robot repeating what he had to to survive. He’ll be allowed to be himself when Phil’s gone. Distantly, he wonders what Tommy will look like then.

“I believe I will today, yes,” Phil hums. Tommy, for once, does not stiffen, though he does blink rapidly. This is a change from the constant of the past few months. Phil learnt his lesson the first time after all. 

“As you wish Father.” But it’s not like Tommy will say no. Bitter melancholy draws a soft sigh from his chest, worsened by the painfully clear reaction of those around him. A flinch, a hitch of breath, the subtle lean away like he’s a wild tiger.

Like he’s an animal. Phil chews through he breakfast, finding himself genuinely hungry for once, barely able to stop himself from breathing it all down. It seems Sanguinis’ immortality also kept the hunger at bay.

A taste of humanity once again and Phil will lose it before he can even properly appreciate it. That’s fine. Phil didn’t think he’d get even this much, though he hadn’t considered what losing immortality would actually feel like to begin with.

Definitely odd, but welcome. He might even miss it once he’s dead. It’s unhealthy to say the least but Phil’s actually looking forward to it, though not to the point he’d intervene before Wilbur makes his move. It wouldn’t be right to rob the main character of his achievements. Phil only has to make it through today.

Only today. He wonders what the weather is like. Will it be a beautiful day to die?

…

Why is he here? The question rings through Tommy’s head, dancing on the tip of his tongue, though he isn’t actually stupid enough to ask it. Father trails behind him, Schlatt at his side. It’s a slow walk to the training grounds.

Time inches by in painful increments. Father pays more mind to Schlatt than he does Tommy, which aches but no more than the blatant avoidance he’d been playing at these past few months. Tommy can’t remember seeing Father even once outside of breakfast since the banquet.

Maybe even before that, actually. Which day this started, he can’t exactly say, but Tommy knows it happened. One day, Father got sick of him, more so than he already was, and decided Tommy wasn’t worth even a single thought in his mind. Father paid lip service to him as a son and not a moment more.

Instincts ache, clawing at the inside of his skull, pushing whines against his lips that want to beg for attention. Like every time before, he ignores them. Tommy swallows back down the sound. He does not want to be loved.

It is better to be ignored. When ignored, he at least could live without bruises and burns and cuts. Even if the avoidance hurts in an entirely new way, he could live with it, if only Father hadn’t changed his pattern again. If only Father had kept ignoring him.

So what changed this time, what caused his attention to shift? Tommy hasn’t done anything different. Did one of the Roses? The servants? Did another assassin slip their ranks? What changed?

And why does looking at Father make Tommy so desperate? It’s different than before, he swears. His instincts know it’s different. Instincts don’t lie . They can’t lie! It’s the most honest part of a person, which is why seeing Father enter his is always so uncomfortable, forcing Tommy to see the tyrant stripped raw.

‘Help’ his instincts beg, like he even knows what that means, like he even could help Father if he had a problem. Compared to Father, Tommy is a pathetic, useless little child who couldn’t make his way in the world if he tried . Any problem of Father’s is far beyond Tommy’s ability to fix even if he wanted to.

Which he doesn’t even want to do, of course. Tommy doesn’t want to help Father. Tommy doesn’t want to care. He only wishes for the instincts screaming in his head to shut up. Other than being here, Father isn’t doing anything different.

Gentle hands that shouldn’t exist, a soft gaze trying not to pause on them and failing… Well, it’s all the same as the last few months at least. The years before? Not as much. But that is hardly the point of Tommy’s racing thoughts. 

The point is, something about Father’s behavior has shifted again, leaving Tommy scrambling to figure out what before he figures out what punishments await mistakes. Yet, the changes don’t feel half as dangerous as before.

Bells ring the alarm between his ears, rhythmic pulsing wanting to help, to beg, to plead but not knowing what for. What is the point of begging without cause? What is praying when there is no god? When the closest thing to is lingering at his back with placid wings?

No, not placid, frozen. Frozen as if each feather were slicked down by rain and forced solid by a frigid winter chill. No fluffing, no twitching as Father thinks of this or that, simply sitting still at his shoulders. Tommy can’t even call it calm.

Because it’s not calm, not really. It looks calm if you don’t know any better but Tommy does . That isn’t calm . It’s empty. There’s nothing there . He doesn’t understand. Why can he never understand? Why can't things just be simple? Why can't he be good enough for his Father?

Questions clog his throat. Tommy knows better than to ask questions. The forced silence is a weak balm when nothing else makes sense. He at least knows this. He knows silence. Tommy bites his tongue, tasting blood.

Finally, the doors outside come into view, Techno lurking on the other side. He will be saved from the terror so vibrant it rings, loud and insistent in his ears. How unfortunate that nothing is ever so simple.

“Theloquin,” Father calls out to him before he can get close enough to open the door, Father’s magic not springing forth to open them quite yet. Tommy freezes, wings snapping against his back.

“Yes Father?” Tommy reluctantly acknowledges, turning on his heel. Staring directly at Father may be more dangerous for his soul than staring directly at the sun, his instincts taking him out even if Father himself finds nothing wrong with it. Something keeps whispering for him to look up, to look at Father’s wings, to say something. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t understand.

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Father’s voice lowers. No, it softens, as though he could ever claim to be soft. Tommy’s train of thought cuts off sharply, the words actually registering. What?

“No… of course you don’t, why would you?” Father mumbles, then lower, “I’m proud of you Theloquin. You’re an incredibly strong boy.” Footsteps ring in Tommy’s ears, Father is approaching. He can’t move. His gaze jumps up but he can’t move.

“You’re smart, resourceful, and so very brave. Anyone in their right mind would be proud of you.” Would love you goes unsaid. Tommy doesn’t know if he could handle it being said. The mere implication already…

“I know I’m not a good father. I’m not a good man. You didn’t deserve anything I’ve done to you over these years but you persisted anyway. A weaker boy would die but you’re alive. I’m happy you're alive, so selfishly happy that you’re alive and my son.”

“If I was given the choice, I wouldn't have picked anyone else to be my son, my boy, my flock.” It’s a whistle, low at first before hitting a sharp, attention grabbing note. Tommy’s chest stutters. Heat burns around his eyes, wet with confusion, with emotion, with something he can’t name or he’ll die.

‘Flock?’ He chirps back. The word is ripped from his throat, his conscious mind not being allowed an opinion on the matter. Wings flutter stubbornly against trauma-worn bonds.

‘Flock’ Father coos back, taloned hands scratching gently against his skull. It feels like love, like relief. Like something finally clicked into place. It feels like becoming whole for once. Maybe not whole but closer to it, his instincts singing after that stupid little speech.

It also feels like mourning, and Tommy isn’t sure why. He holds his breath to fight the tears and he mourns something he only just received. Tommy refuses to think about it any longer. For his own sanity, he rips himself away, throwing open the doors to storm outside. Techno stands alone on the training ground.

Tommy flees to the man that should have been a father to him and it feels like giving up. A weight settles on his shoulders, heavy and hollow. Father doesn’t even try to stop him. Father never tries to stop him anymore.

Later, with an order to attend a dinner banquet with the Roses resting in the air, hung by a servant tongue, Tommy will wonder why he feels so somber. Later, he’ll watch his Father toast to the gathered crowd and want to cry. Later, he’ll finally understand.

But this is now, and that is then.

…

Understandably, Techno is immediately put on edge when Tommy steps onto the field with red cheeks and wet eyes, clearly on the edge of tears. No obvious injuries mar the boy, and Sanguinis’ presence stops him from asking what’s wrong. He’s forced to gesture to where Tommy should stand and wait.

‘ Runt in danger?’ Some part of Techno that he still isn’t used to hearing whispers. Instincts he knew, logically, he should have shake him by the shoulders to figure out what the threat is. Unable to resist, he scans the field for threats he knows aren’t there.

He makes it about as far as Sanguinis before he’s pulled roughly to a stop. Schlatt lingers behind Sanguinis, bleary eyed and confused, holding back what would be feeble protests as he’s settled onto a loveseat Sanguinis apparently magic’d out of the ground. That Techno already knew Sanguinis could do. It’s definitely new for him to do it for someone else.

At this point, he should really be used to these kinds of revelations. Everything over these past months has been one absurd change after another, arguably positive changes but absurd nonetheless. Education reforms, healthcare, taxes, literally any topic Techno could think of has been modified in some way.

‘Ours, forever pair, ours.’ Techno cringes as the possessive wave that weaves a rope around his throat, choking him when Sanguinis glances their way. He stubbornly pushes that instinct away. It’s the same one that cries wolf everytime Wilbur, the wonderful man, cozies up to him with a dazzling gleam. Obviously there’s something wrong with it.

Why else would it be okay with Sanguinis yet scream about Wilbur? Wilbur is kind, gentle, and gets along well with Tommy. Sanguinis is… himself . There’s a clear victor here if he’s going for a popularity poll.

In an attempt to stop thinking about that, Techno starts Tommy’s training session. It only partially works. He does stop thinking about that instincts but his mind ventures into a new train of thought, idly watching Tommy jog through his warm up laps.

Sanguinis has stopped visiting Techno entirely since their… romp on the training field, Techno steadfastly refusing to even look at that patch of dirt. That had been a great thing back then. It still is now.

And since Sanguinis wasn’t searching for Techno, he didn’t exactly seek the man out. Without a war, there was little reason for the two to meet, or for Techno to even be living at the palace. Techno really only knows what Sanguinis is getting up to nowadays through the grapevine.

Not  being much for gossip, it means Techno has roughly zero clue what Sanguinis is like nowadays other than different. Softer, kinder, more generous, more forgiving, as though he warped into a saint overnight, that kind of hyperbolic change that all rumors eventually become. 

If Techno tilts his head and squints, he can almost see the grain of truth that rumor grew from, obvious in how Schlatt struggles not to fall asleep under Sanguinis’ careful grooming. An awful part of Techno huffs in jealousy. His mouth even tastes bitter, how ridiculous. Not only is Sanguinis not his but the man has a harem.

A harem Techno could be a part of and- Techno shakes his head roughly, cutting off what must be instinct induced insanity. That is not what he was supposed to be getting at. Sanguinis is different, Techno knows that.

Different is an entirely different beast from this… this wrongness he can barely breathe around. It reminds Techno of a stuffy summer’s day in his youth, moisture thickening the air until it’s practically soup. Once, he even referred to Sanguinis’ magic as being similarly oppressive.

Now, that oppressive nature has changed. It hasn’t gone away, but it’s changed. Techno doesn’t know what it changed to though. All he can do is rustle through the part of him that froths over syntax and allegory and make up his own.

Once upon a time, Sanguinis was a raging sea. A typhoon roiled around him where he stood, never calm even in joy, even in the brightest light of day. Magic twirling around him formed an impenetrable wall of spikes that would kill anyone who got to close. No one would be spared from it's immense rage.

Decades of people trying to soothe that storm all fell to its mighty presence. Even those who hated the typhoon the most could not call it weak nor daft for its uncontrollable fervor was in its very nature. No matter the opinion the eye, the center of the storm, may have, that could never change.

Until it did on this bitter autumn afternoon. The storm calmed in the night, as if it were never there. Its might remained as a mere whisper, an endless calm sea with not even an undertow to call it alive.

Staring at that sea, you could almost see your reflection of the pristine surface. Brighter than any mirror, you stare into the water and find the water empty. No life could thrive within such a violent storm and it seems that, now, it has even snuffed itself out.

Morose, Techno returns to Tommy’s training, putting the kid through his paces. Without a few hundred years more training, Tommy wouldn’t be able to put up a genuine fight against him and it shows in how Techno pays such little attention to their spars. 

Being distracted in a fight is never a good thing yet Techno can’t stop considering that once vibrant storm. Some part of him almost misses it. That same part that anticipated Sanguinis’ every move misses the silent danger.

The emperor claps politely everytime Techno wins a spar, as if cheering the two on. Schlatt does no such thing, a veritable statue at Sanguinis’ side, as if terrified to even move. Oddly, Techno only now notes the embroidered robe the Rose is in.

Clearly it belongs to Sanguinis. No one else in the empire, if not the world, owns such a similarly gaudy thing. He shifts his attention to Sanguinis. A pristine white robe, untouched by the kicked up dirt.

Like a funeral robe, wrapped around a cooling corpse to honor the purity of the deceased’s soul. Perhaps that’s why Sanguinis rarely wore white. Nothing about the emperor could be called pure.

Yet now it suits him, and isn’t that a thought? Techno sends Tommy sprawling to the floor. It’s fitting that the quiet sea is dressed in the white of a foggy, overcast sky. If it were gray, it would have been raining, but the clouds know not to mourn.

“I think we’re done for the day,” Techno addresses Tommy with tin words, ringing hollow as a rain barrel after a drought. They’re not formal enough words to use around Sanguinis on any other day but… something about trying to be formal feels wrong, disrespectful in a way they never were before.

People say you should respect the dead, maybe that’s why. Not that Sanguinis ever could die… but then Techno remembers the sand. The endless red sand that had flooded the vault floor the night before.

Sanguinis can die now. Sanguinis should have died a long time ago, his life artificially extended by the gods themselves. Maybe that’s why Sanguinis now feels so much like a corpse.

Tommy bows, like he was trained to, and hurries off to get cleaned up before his tutor arrives. If Techno weren’t staring the runt down, which is such a weird word but the one that feels right to use, then he wouldn’t have noticed the pause. A brief lag at the threshold to glance towards Sanguinis.

While that may have been a secretive thing, Sanguinis walking straight up to Techno is not. Techno holds off looking at the man for as long as he can. Propriety and instinct work together to make him meet Sanguinis eyes for the first time since… that day on the training field, maybe.

Desire punches him in the throat. Awful, bitter desire stinging a liquid fire, the sense memory of blood stubbornly sticking to his teeth returning full force. Techno breathes past it, focusing on the pervasive wrongness to ground himself.

“Emperor Momentus-Mortis,” Techno greets, the title even more wrong. He’s never called Sanguinis that, it had been Crownsoul Crow since the day they first met. Sanguinis seems to startle at the title as well.

“I believe I told you to call me Philza,” Sanguinis broaches. His hesitation could not be clearer, brow furrowing. There is no crown on his head, no veil hanging from a wide brimmed hat. How terribly improper. Techno latches onto the distraction with all his might.

“My apologies, Emperor Philza, it has been a while since we last spoke.” A year ago, that ‘excuse’ would have earned him two dozen lashes, the removal -and painfully slow regrowing- of his tusks, and the reminder to refer to Sanguinis as ‘Crownsoul Crow’ carved into his skin. One such reminder still sits in brokenly healed pieces across his abs. Techno now traces it before he sleeps. He isn’t sure why.

“Ah, right, of course it has. I trust you’ve been well?” Now, Sanguinis looks away when speaking to him, uniquely sharp teeth worrying at his lip, picking at his robe lining with his talons. Techno has seen him kill yet it feels like this new Sanguinis would cry over stepping on a rat’s tail. 

“Of course I am well with such a generous sponsor,” Techno replies noncommittally. It’s… not quite the answer he would have given the Sanguinis before. But the Sanguinis now winces at it. Techno watches him take a steadying breath.

Steadying, as if gearing up to say something he’d rather not. There… isn’t anything Techno can think of that Sanguinis would need the brace himself before staying. While the emperor has never been… crass… he’s certainly not been shy either.

“I’m sorry.” 

What.

“Please, don’t feel the need to be so… kind. I have done terrible things to you, I have disrespected you time and time again, you shouldn’t have to be nice to me. I know I’m a monster, Techno, you can treat me like one.” Sanguinis smiles.

“I won’t be mad, I promise.” Techno doesn’t like that smile. He doesn’t like the brittle lining, the soft words cutting like the sanded down edge of broken glass. He doesn’t like how the words make the brute in him want to growl in denial.

Because it’s true. Sanguinis is a monster, one that delighted in the title. So why does he feel the need to say this at all? Why does Techno feel the need to defend him? Why does this feel so much different than any time before? Because Sanguinis is mortal now, his heart whispers.

“I could never be so crass, Crownsoul Crow,” Techno denies. It hurts. It feels like he’s the one who broke that delicate hourglass. It’s like he can see the sand, the blood because it always was blood, how could it be anything else, spilling from Sanguinis’ chest. It’s like he can hear the remainder of the emperor’s life ticking away.

“You always were too kind for your own good,” Sanguinis muses, “taking in those in need, helping however far you’re allowed. You’re a good person, Techno.” No, he’s not, Techno wants to deny.

He’s better than Sanguinis, yes, but he is not a good person. Techno was the prized fighter of the world’s largest underground ring ever conceived. He was the Blood God Made Flesh for a reason. Without Sanguinis to compare, Techno would be the worst person in this palace. He’s killed enough for that.

“Thank you for taking care of my son, even when I could not- would not do the same. I am immensely grateful for each day you’ve survived. The world would be a worse place without you in it. I’m sorry you had to put up with me so long.” Sanguinis reaches out, hesitates, and looks away.

“I hope you have a good life, Techno Blade.” Sanguinis walks off, leaving Schlatt to his sofa and Techno to stand, lost. Sanguinis’ goodbye lingers long after his magical pressure has gone.

What a somber goodbye. Fitting for a corpse, for a man who’s days can be counted like minutes, for a monster who now walks his own funeral march alone.

…

Schlatt has never felt so lost. Master abandons him on the softest sofa he thinks he’s ever touched, wrapped in a robe worth more than his very life, with aching legs that beg to crawl. He tried so hard to keep up with Master, to walk side by side like Master had wanted. He kept his head low and his gaze respectful, not pushing any further than Master wanted. Yet for all his efforts, he does not earn even a glance.

One part… makes sense, in a way… the robe, that is. He can’t quite comprehend anything else but the robe he can piece together. Wilbur, back when he was still so new Master had only called upon him once, had gotten a similar treatment.

Kind hands taking him apart, putting him back together, draping him in fineries. Where Wilbur got a dress, now lost to the depths of the Rose Garden to the point only Charlie remembers where it is, Schlatt has a robe. 

A robe tied together with a strip of his uniform. His uniform, a mere afterthought to the night that had felt more like a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. Only the cut scabbed over on his forehead reminds him it was real. If he didn't have that, he doubts he would be so sound in his own mind.

Well, that and the shakiness of his knees completely separate to the pains of walking. This ache is far more… Would it be called pleasant? Born of that too bright burn Master had wrung out of him, had let Schlatt wring out of himself while floating. 

“Is he…” Schlatt looks up as General Blade, the man that could have been a Rose, speaks, “is he always like that?” and the immediate answer is no. Of course it’s no. Master never apologizes to anyone. The only apologies Schlatt has ever heard has been a mocking thing.

Except he apologized to General Blade, to Techno, and had almost but not quite apologized to Tommy. The remorse painted across his face had been the same. A muted emotion that sat buried under something he couldn’t name.

But he could name it, if he really wanted to. That buried part of Schlatt that’s never as aware as it wants to be knows what this is. He’s seen it so many times before, how could he ever ignore it?

Schlatt knows what a man looks like when he is barely half alive, when the remaining parts of them are only operating off necessity and not want, when they’re only living for as long as they are allowed. He knows that Phil does not want to live.

He can’t understand it but he knows it. There’s a pit in Phil’s chest, in his very soul, that is pulling him down, down, down. That pit wants to consume him entirely, leaving him a lifeless doll.

It won’t leave him dead. Phil is immortal, but there are worse things than death. Schlatt is living in one such scenario. He knows that pit is going to consume Phil instead once it finds it him stubbornly alive.

Soon, this kinder version of Phil will be no more. The servants will cautiously venture into his quarters to find him unable to move from his bed, staring lifelessly at the ceiling in his best impression of a corpse. Life and time will pass by with Phil being none the wiser to its progression.

And people will celebrate, never knowing that the monster can change. They will bury Phil alive, not knowing he ever lived. They will celebrate that death, not realizing Schlatt and Phil rest in the same pit.

They will be buried together, and not a soul will care.

Schlatt stands from the loveseat, pulling himself back into some semblance of awareness. He can’t sit outside all day just thinking about… something. Schlatt frowns at the floor.

For some reason, he keeps losing his train of thought. It happens quite often. Schlatt will be sitting in the Rose Garden, with his fellow Roses, and will lose hours to a blink. Supposedly, he’d be trapped in his thoughts but he wouldn’t be able to recall any of them. Is it truly being lost in thought then?

Techno is gone, Schlatt notes, shuffling his way into the palace. Of course the man wouldn’t wait around for Schlatt to pull himself together. Even the Roses wouldn’t, if given the choice.

Or maybe they would. Schlatt likes to think they enjoy his presence, no matter how little of him there is. He’s done quite a lot for them to the point every current Rose but Wilbur attributes their survival to him. Except they don’t need him anymore.

Master doesn’t need him either, that’s why he’s gone. That’s why Master is apologizing to people. That’s why Master gave him this robe. People don’t need him anymore, and they never needed Master.

Soon, Master won’t be around. The thought pops out of what feels like nowhere. Why wouldn’t Master be around after all? The immortal man will outlive them all.

And that will be a curse, in the end, when the world wishes he would finally die. A wish they already have. Schlatt can’t figure out if he shares the sentiment, only knowing with a bone deep certainty he would be lost without his Master. He already is lost, after all.

For all last night left him broken and confused, muscles weak and tears wrung dry, Schlatt really hopes Master will be around more in the future.

He ignores the certainty that Phil will not.

…

“Charlie?” Philza calls down one of the many hallways. Charlie, smart enough to recognize his own name, perks up. He peeks around the corner, seeing without eyes the Emperor’s regal worm. Tucking himself out of sight, he fully forms a human body before skipping into view. Wouldn’t want Philza to be made uncomfortable by his cold!

“Yes, Philza?” Charlie chirps, dropping into a bow in front of nice, generous Philza who trains him so kindly. The new Philza, the different Philza, the one who’s not around and doesn’t have any rules because he’s opposite Sanguinis so of course he’d be lawless where Sanguinis was so strict and-

“Charlie… how… how are you?” Philza ventures. That’s a new question. Huh. Charlie blinks, because things with eyes should blink and Charlie, being a toy, is most certainly a thing with eyes. How is he supposed to answer that question? This is not in his programming.

Honestly, maybe? Charlie is great at honesty. Lies are much harder, like how he had to lie about where he was last night, though technically he isn’t lying because he’s actually just avoiding the Rose Garden entirely while trying not to think about blood pretending to be sand piling on the floor and- you know, this is why he’s not supposed to think.

“How do you want me to be, Philza?” Charlie answers the question with a question. Technically not something he’s supposed to do but Philza is opposite-Sanguinis and so always reacts positively to questions. Well, he doesn’t act violently to them at least. That’s positive in Charlie’s books!

“Yourself,” Philza answers and- well, Charlie- breaks a little. Like, slime him? Charlie can be slime him, though he isn’t supposed to be because Sanguinis liked his toys solid. Except Philza is not Sanguinis. Philza will never be Sanguinis again.

Philza is dead in every way he wasn’t before because Charlie knows Wilbur isn’t going to stop with smashing an hourglass. Charlie smiles because he never quite mastered any other human expression.

“I’m always Charlie, Philza,” Charlie giggles because it’s true and no other answer is okay. Philza sighs, shaking his head in exasperation like he always seems to do when Charlie’s around. That’s better than crying at least. Philza isn’t supposed to cry.

“No, you’re not. I don’t think you know who Charlie is.” That’s a silly thing to say. Who else could Charlie be than himself? Philza doesn’t give him enough time to figure out a reply.

“You’re not a toy Charlie, or a doll. I’m sorry you were ever convinced you had to be. I’m sorry you were ever convinced you were broken or wrong just for being yourself. You deserve so much more than the world has given you.” Philza is standing awfully close to him.

“I hope you can explore who you are, rather than who he… who I made you be. I have a feeling that person is wonderful beyond imagination. You are going to make so many people happy and you are going to be yourself. I hope that will make you happy too.”

“Hope? Aren’t you going to be there to see it?” Charlie asks, curious. Does Philza know what Charlie knows? Does he know he’s going to die wearing that gaudy crown and the world will cheer for him? Could he feel his immortality leaving?

“No… but that will have made healing worth it,” Philza answers, leaving Charlie honestly wishing he hadn’t answered at all. Philza is so much better than Sanguinis ever was. Charlie betrayed him by not stopping Wilbur, by not being sure if he even wanted to, and by not even telling him now.

Philza is not the man the revolution wants dead. Philza is not the man that hurt the other Roses. Philza is not the man that Charlie called master, that broke and molded him. Charlie is smart enough to know that.

“Why are you saying goodbye?” Charlie asks. He can’t remember himself ever sounding so raw before. He can’t remember a time when he wanted Philza to leave so little. Part of him, that broken part that had been meticulously pieced back together to know when to say yes and when to be silent and when to bow, cries at the exchange.

That part of him wants to stick himself to Philza so he can’t leave. Leaving means Philza will die and Charlie knows he doesn’t want Philza to die, not now. Philza leaving means he’s been bad, means he needs to be fixed.

What will happen when Philza leaves and Charlie breaks again? There will be no one left to put him back together, no one left to want a shattered toy. He can’t cry, no slime can, but he wishes he could pretend.

“It’s not a goodbye, Charlie.” Philza smiles. It’s another thing that separates him and Sanguinis. Unlike his old self, Philza is a liar.

“Whatever you say, Master!” And it’s vindictive, can’t be anything else, when Charlie responds to watch Philza flinch. A tiny bit of revenge for an event that hasn’t happened yet. Philza is going to leave him.

Charlie is not a liar, he can admit that he doesn’t want this Philza to go.

…

He’s not avoiding the Rose Garden, okay? Honest. Foolish likes his fellow Roses. They’re nice to each other, practically a family, and Foolish does enjoy being around them… usually… kind of. Maybe? Listen, it’s complicated.

Maybe, just maybe, he liked spending time around them so much because he didn’t have another choice. Now, though? Now his days are spent surrounded by plants and nature, tending carefully to dozens of species he’s never even heard of before.

Deep in the greenhouse, surrounded by towering trees, he can almost pretend he never entered the Palace at all. It’s like he’s still just a small elemental, eyes opened to the mouth of a cave, wild grass waving in a wind he couldn’t feel. He loves being here.

Not that he doesn’t love the Roses but that’s different. The rose garden, the literal one that he can see out the window, brings up terrible memories. Around his fellow Roses, he’s forced to relive blood stained hands patting down dirt to form mood. Forced to recall how brightly a rose bush will glow when watered with blood.

Those memories can’t touch him here. Foolish is free as he can be, with whatever food he desires at his fingertips whenever he ventures to the mouth of the greenhouse. He only goes back when he has to nowadays.

Foolish knows that’s not healthy. He knows, logically, that he isn’t eating enough and that he’s avoiding the world beyond frosted glass walls. His ventures into the library have taught him running away from his problems won’t help.

Knowing that doesn’t make walking towards the entrance feel any less dooming. Logic doesn’t give him the courage to take more than a few steps out of this safe haven that Sanguinis never enters and into the Palace that only hurts.

Standing in marble halls makes his skin itch, fingers scraping at indents where Sanguinis had toyed with melting his golden exterior. Light blue ribbons flow like hair behind him, free and wild in a way the marble hellscape never allowed him. He’s wearing pants now.

Why would he ever want to leave the greenhouse? Why would he ever want to talk to anyone at all? Sure, it’s… it might be lonely. Foolish can’t remember the last time he talked to someone. Maybe… maybe the banquet? Or just after? Sometime when he heard about the winged man Sanguinis pulled from the dungeons.

And maybe he also hasn’t talked in a while either. The last time was definitely the banquet, whispering about if Sanguinis had accidentally cursed himself of all things. It’s a distant memory now. Foolish hasn’t left this place in months.

It’s hunger that pulls him so close to the entrance this time, making his way up too-clear glass steps to the railing that Sanguinis had once nearly flung himself over. Everytime he comes here, it’s the first memory that comes to mind.

To be fair, it’s the most pleasant memory he has of the marble hellscape by far. Instead of painful, it was confusing. It still is confusing. Foolish has no idea why Sanguinis reacted that way.

But that’s unimportant. Foolish has become great and ignoring unimportant stuff recently. He stretches out with a few soft creaks from golden joints and mentally prepares himself to knock on the doors and catch a servant’s eye.

Of course it’s then, when the worst timing in the world, that Sanguinis opens said doors. Foolish freezes, arms above his head, speckled with mud and dirt, wearing only a pair of overalls wrapped around his waist. He’s more covered than he’s ever been in front of Sanguinis. More covered than he’s been in years. It’s… incredibly awkward.

“Foolish, knew I’d find you here,” Sanguinis comments, clearly eyeing him up. Wings fluff, puff, and curl against his back like he can’t quite control them. Foolish is suddenly too aware of how the humidity clinks to his skin. He slowly lowers her arms.

“Greetings to the eternal king of kings, Crowsoul Crow-” “Please, just Phil- or Philza if you can’t,” Sanguinis cuts him off. Foolish’s jaw clicks shut. Right. That’s new. Is that new? Is this a thing they’re doing now?

“Of course, whatever you wish for, Philza.” If Foolish had spent less time digging in the dirt, returning to his barest instincts, then he might have hesitated a bit more. Except he has spent the past few months doing nothing but becoming one with the soil so he drops the title immediately with a mental shrug. Sanguinis’ shoulders droop.

“Thank you. You’d be surprised how hard it is for… well, actually, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Sanguinis hums. Yes, all the others would have quite the trouble calling Sanguinis ‘Philza’. Right? They definitely would. Foolish hasn’t talked to any of them in a while but that’s probably still the same.

Guilt, that consistent nagging things, chips a little more off his chest, chewing its way to his heart. He hasn’t been avoiding them, he hasn’t. They’ve been nothing but helpful since he ended up here. He likes them.

He hates what they represent. But that isn’t their fault. Foolish just… keeps forgetting to visit, to leave the greenhouse. Every time he does, he eats and ends up wandering back in. It isn’t his fault, he isn’t doing it on purpose, he promises. 

“I hope you’re well? You look… happy here,” Sanguinis- Philza, comments. That’s a question he can answer. Foolish has been great! A little hungry here and there, from forgetting to eat because he’s used to eating so little, but the greenhouse is really-

“Amazing. Thank you so much for allowing me to be here. The greenhouse is wonderful. I could not have asked for a greater boon,” Foolish bows, “I only wish my fellow Roses could see it.” And maybe that’s a bit too far. Maybe isolation has robbed him of his senses.

“Feel free to take them here then.” Unless Sanguinis is just going to allow it, “Have you been getting along in my absence?” and there’s a loaded question right after an easy one. Foolish is, well… maybe honesty will work.

“Well… I can’t say. I keep getting carried away in here, it’s such a mesmerizing place. Perhaps I don’t leave as much as I should. My apologies, Philza.” Foolish bows again. He really should return to the Rose Garden and talk to the others. He misses them.

“You’re avoiding them.” Sanguinis- Philza, Philza notes, which, no- no. No he’s not. That’s not what he’s doing. He… he should defend himself except he can’t because Philza is Sanguinis and he’s already pushing his luck. But he’s really not doing that.

“Pardon me, that was rude. You’re avoiding the Rose Garden, aren’t you? Both of them. The Roses are just a byproduct of that.” No , he’s not avoiding the Rose Garden either. Well, he is, but not like that.

“This might be presumptuous but are you scared Foolish? Are you scared of being trapped there again with only the memory of what could have been? Do you think I gave you this gift only to torment you by taking it away? Are you terrified of losing what little independence you just regained?”

Maybe? Those… it’s a lot of words to process but maybe? Maybe Foolish is scared. Courage needs fear to be, well, itself, and he’s certainly lacked the courage to leave the greenhouse for very long. Maybe Sanguin- Philza is right?

“I’m sorry. You should never have had your freedom stolen from you. You should be allowed to be happy without hoarding every last bit of it. I hope you get to talk with the others soon. I’m sure they miss you. You’re a wonderful friend.”

Lost in ways he can’t quite process, Foolish reaches for his empathy for the first time in months. He’s been avoiding people, there’s been nothing to feel the emotions of, and letting himself sink into it nearly drowns him.

He just wants to understand why Philza is saying these things. Foolish has been gone a while but this is too much. It’s too different. What did he miss? A lot, evidently. Enough that he stumbles at a mere glance.

Foolish suffocates in a bitter emptiness, like sinking to the bottom of a pond. The air that reaches his lungs is tainted by the acceptance he’s only seen on death row, those few executions the public is gifted with, whenever Sanguinis sought to put off his murderous rage for later. 

It’s an acceptance he’s seen in Roses just before he buries them. Sad, tinged with something much darker. Maybe it’s desperation, whatever parts of them don’t want to give up, or maybe it’s relief that they finally can give up. Whatever it is…

“Why does it feel like you’re dying?” Foolish gasps. He slowly becomes aware of Philza’s hands steadying him, a solid weight for him to lean against while he flags under the sense he’s ignored so badly.

“Aren’t we all dying, just at different rates?” Philza jokes, jokes , yet the lighthearted edge is a grain of sand lost on a beach, soon to be swept away by the rising ocean tide. Foolish almost cries because it’s what Philza wants to do.

“ You’re dying,” Foolish wimpers, vision blurring. Philza wipes at his tears, letting the two of them sink to the floor. His skin is hot, burning, and Foolish can feel a hard bothered line against his thigh but it’s like Philza can’t feel it at all. It’s like he’s been torn from his body and left to float for however long he’s allowed to be alive.

“I’m not dead yet. You’re going to be okay. It might take a while, it might hurt, but you’ll be alright. I believe in you. So many people believe in you.” Philza soothes him as he cries. Foolish cries because Philza refuses to.

He mourns for a man not yet dead but a man that wants to be. It’s the only thing he can do.

…

Quackity can’t remember the last time he slipped into hibernation. He’s done it before, knows how it works, but living in the palace has hardly given him the foodstores to survive doing so. Now though? He’s all fattened up and vaguely warm enough, his internal fire doing more than enough to combat the cold marble of the Rose Garden.

It’s definitely the wrong season for hibernation, that’s a winter activity, but as he blinks awake to the familiar-yet-not feeling of Sanguinis’ magic, he can tell he’s at the tail end of one. Maybe it’s already over? He won’t know until he wakes up next and it’s been a reasonable seven to eight hours.

All he really knows is that he’s warn, he’s still got some give to the fat on his stomach, and his wings are all itchy and ready to molt. Gods, when’s the last time he had a good molt? It’s been too long.

Slowly, his awareness spreads past the itchy scales on his back, the still weak muscles finally not aching with every wake up stretch. The Rose Garden is cold as ever, and empty. Quackity snaps up.

Empty? Since when is the Rose Garden empty? His memories of the last couple months are blurry, not giving him much of an answer. He remembers being fed really well for a couple weeks, and fed every time he woke up, some bloodshed? A lot of cuddling. Then there’s a whole lot of nothing for the past… however long.

Then again, maybe the fuzzy memory isn’t so different. Quackity definitely doesn’t have the best memory of the, what, decade or so of pain that was being forced to prostrate his wings at all time? Yeah, things go fuzzy after a bit. Most of his attention tended to be on not moving so it wouldn’t be so blindingly painful.

Damn, this must be the most aware he’s ever been in a literal decade, no wonder he feels so off. Other than the Rose Garden being empty. Maybe there was a rule change while he was out? 

Not entirely important, Sanguinis’ magic is getting closer and Quackity is an absolute mess. Could have been a worse mess, of course, but it seemed one of the Roses cared enough to keep him from getting too gross. Or, maybe a servant?

Probably a servant. He’d remember if it was a Rose and his most recent fuzzy memory was… a couple weeks ago, maybe. They’ve left him here sleeping for that long? Quackity shifts, aggressively uncomfortable by that fact.

Unimportant, he rakes his hands through his awful bedhead, stumbling over to the fountain- someone changed the fountain. There’s a distinct lack of that bubbling fizz against his skin that healing potions always have. Sanguinis got rid of the fountain?

“Oh! You’re awake!” Sanguinis’ surprised but oddly delighted voice calls from behind, ripping Quackity from a thick haze of confusion. He twirls around, dropping to his knees- and he’s caught before he can, swept into a hug. A hug. By Sanguinis. Sure, not like this is the weirdest thing to ever happen to him.

“You have no idea how relieved I am. I was worried you may never wake up, your state was quite awful when you first drifted off,” Sanguinis sighs, cradling Quackity. A faint memory pops up, a similar pose when he’d first gotten those gods awful chains removed. Okay, so maybe this isn't the weirdest thing ever. It’s happened once before.

“Apologies for having worried you, Emperor Sanguinis. I was just- it was merely a hibernation, nothing more,” Quackity explains. His numb tongue struggles to form words that once came easy-ish. Then again, he wasn’t really ever expected to speak before. Mostly he just moaned in pain.

“Yes, and I am very thankful you woke up now. I wouldn’t be able to speak to you otherwise,” Sanguinis sighs. He sits them both down on the bed of blankets, cuddling Quackity to his chest in a way that feels instinctively familiar. The implications of that are… unfortunate. No thanks.

“I am always available to talk whenever I am awake.” It’s not like Quackity was going to be hibernating for the rest of his life. He’s honestly surprised Sanguinis didn’t just kick him awake out of annoyance. 

Sanguinis seems to take a moment to revel in Quackity’s very awake, and breathtakingly confused, presence. Quackity tries to remain placid, like he once was, but it turns out going limp is a lot harder when you’re aware of your body existing. He keeps accidentally tensing up.

It’s not like Emperor douchebag is helping much. How is Quackity supposed to relax when there’s a boner digging into his hip? One he’s going to have to help with. One he’s going to be aware of helping with, not just half unconscious due to pain.

“Things should have never gotten so bad for you Quackity,” Sanguinis mumbles into his hair, gently raking talons down his back, picking at shed skin. Quackity bites back a hiss at each bolt of pleasure the action brings. There’s a unique satisfaction to pulling itchy dead scales from the fresh new ones.

“You’re going to be taken care of from now on, I promise. Or… I hope so, at least. The world is going to be kinder for all of you. It will be different and overwhelming but it will be better . You’ll survive to see a brighter world, I know you will.”

Weird phrasing man, Quackity knows that’s some weird fucking phrasing. Sanguinis talks like he isn’t going to be around to see that ‘brighter world’, whatever that means. He thought the world was already perfect for the bloodthirsty tyrant. Would someone please explain what’s going on here?

“You will lead us to greatness, Emperor Sanguinis,” Quackity replies because, genuinely, what the fuck is he supposed to say to that? He needs a crash course in whatever happened the past few months pronto. Maybe to run a few laps after, or burn something, he has way too much magic in his reserves to be healthy.

“No, I won’t. And, please, call me Phil. Philza if you can’t,” Sanguinis denies. He denies. He doesn’t take the opportunity to talk about how great he is. That’s not very Sanguinis of him. Is this even Sanguinis? It’s his magic, definitely, though distinctly off in a way he vaguely remembers not noticing before.

It’s like… it’s like it’s Sanguinis but a little to the left. Or, well, Philza now. Philza has all of Sanguinis’ parts in all the same places but you can just tell some of the bits are different. It’s that… what is it called…

Ship of Theseus? That thing. Were all the parts were replaced and he knows they were but they’re all still in the same place to it’s the same person but not and Quackity is so fucking confused right now.

“As you wish, Philza.” Quackity finds himself deposited on the ground by definitely unwilling hands. Philza backs up just enough to look at him. Unapologetic, Quackity looks back. Between adrenaline and bafflement, he’s definitely not thinking straight.

Philza doesn’t actually look like Sanguinis either right now. Quackity doesn’t have the best memory of Sanguinis’ face, not being allowed to look him in the eye ever and, oh yeah, being near comatose from pain ninety percent of the time, and he wouldn’t have recognized him at all if not for the magic.

His crown is missing, the part everyone notices first. Then, of course, that wide brimmed hat. Not to mention Philza clearly didn’t brush his hair either, sleek golden strands resting freely around his head as if pushed back by a hand and nothing more.

Electric blue eyes seem softer somehow, like the lightning struck and now this is just the light that remains, burned into his eyelids. And then there’s the outfit.

Quackity has kissed the floor Sanguinis walks on many times before, he knows those hems are not the same. His robes are so simple, missing their heaviest part, leaving Philza in layers of white and pale yellow so light it may as well be white. This outfit brings up a memory too.

Once, Quackity had gone to a funeral, a proper funeral. Not whatever the Empire of Souls deemed to be okay since no one could afford a funeral. It had been a while ago, a couple decades before Quackity ended up in the Empire when he was still a juvenile dragon.

He remembers thinking the bed of flowers was pretty. Alliums and marigolds had bloomed around the body of an aunt he can no longer remember the face of, her hair weaved together with vibrant lilies the colors of a setting sun. In her arms sat a golden necklace, a gift from her lover, the favorite of her hoard.

For all the cover and life they’d surrounded the corpse with, speaking of memories and singing hymns to send the soul to ‘sleep’, her outfit had not matched that grandeur. It had been a simple white, commissioned specifically for the funeral.

White has meaning, Quackity knows, though he doesn’t remember what the meaning is. All he can recall is that it had made her deathly pallor even worse, bringing out the green undertones of decay that would slowly turn her to rot.

Distantly, he remembers the tree that had grown from her body, her draconic blood and bones the perfect fertilizer to grow a massive willow tree. He remembers carving her name into the bark, the names of her loved ones too. He can’t remember what any of them are.

But he knows, somehow, that when Sanguinis dies there will be no names carved into his bark, not even his own. No one will want to remember he died at all, nor that he’d even lived to begin with. A markless tree for a man no one loves.

 “What’s your favorite tree?” Quackity asks. It's pity that has him doing so, knowing somehow that Philza will die even if Sanguinis can’t. He doesn’t care for the man in either of his forms. He doesn’t know if he hates him either, if he even can hate a man he never really knew. 

“Hm?” Sanguinis seems surprised, then thinks, “...I’ve always enjoyed cherry blossoms, or maybe a tea tree.” Maybe he doesn’t know the significance of the question, maybe no one cared to explain or Philza never thought he would die. Whatever it is, Quackity decides he’s going to remember the question for now.

No one deserves to die without a tree. They wouldn’t want his soul coming back to curse them, after all, and if Quackity doesn’t do this? He doubts anyone else will. And after he plants the tree, this will all fade to memory.

A decade is a long time, especially since Quackity has only been an adult dragon for eleven years, but he still has so much life to live. Eventually, he’ll forget.

It isn’t like there is much to remember.

…

Phil hovers outside the doors to the dining hall, recalling the order he’d given a few hours before, just after leaving Quackity. A feast for the Roses, his son, and Techno all within this room, the most selfish action Phil has ever done. By all means, he should not have done this.

It would’ve been kinder if he hadn’t. He already knows his wine is poisoned, the strongest poison Wilbur could get his hands on. He already knows he’s going to die tonight. No one else should have to watch him die.

But Phil doesn’t want to die alone. Phil is perfectly happy to walk to his death, the end he always expected for himself, but he’s never liked being alone. Humans, and in this new world all kinds of magical species, crave connection. It’s a part of them. Isolation does terrible things to the mind.

Dying alone… it would be a horrible way to go. His body would be left to rot in whatever room he took his food in, his office or his bedroom, until someone noticed the smell and was brave enough to check it out. Phil at least wants people to know he’s dead.

Arguably, he could have taken his meal with Tommy then in the morning, except Phil also wants to get this over with. Not to mention watching someone die is incredibly traumatizing. If Tommy has to watch Phil die, he shouldn’t watch it alone.

Now they all await the main event and Phil is horribly underdressed for this. Not that he really wants to be dressed for this, and the phrasing does amuse him for a moment. All the ‘dress’ he has is Sanguinis’ various kimonos and robes and the like. None of it is his. None of it is his button ups or sweaters or ridiculous sweater vests.

Wearing those to his death would mean dying as Sanguinis. But Phil isn’t him, will never be, and refuses to die in his crown. This is dying on Phil’s terms. It’s not perfect, Phil once thought he’d died old and surrounded by his future grandkids, but it’s close enough.

Simple white robes, Schlatt hopefully still wearing the heavily embroidered thing Phil had gifted him, light and airy. His hair isn’t slicked back, his vision isn’t obscured by a veil, and he isn’t wearing that fucking crown. If it weren’t for the wings, he’d almost be himself. Phil hasn’t felt like himself in a long time.

Finally himself, and now he will die. Phil smiles, pushing open the doors with his own two hands for once. All noise in the room dies, everyone in this world he’s avoided sitting around a table. The only one missing is Grian. He hopes the Elytran is doing well with Kristin, Phil couldn’t find the time to say goodbye to either.

Tommy sits closest to Phil's seat, on the left, with the right side empty for an empress neither Phil nor Sanguinis had. Next to Tommy is Techno, Schlatt sitting across as the most senior Rose. He’s still wearing the robe. Good.

Next to Schlatt is Foolish, across from him Charlie, then Quackity, and finally Wilbur, the newest member, at the end. Wilbur’s scales gleam in the light, looking completely unbothered. If Phil didn’t know any better, he wouldn’t be aware of what sits in his cup, the goblet freely standing where the food has already been placed.

Careful, slow steps round the table, no one daring to speak. Phil doesn’t know what he’d say if they did. He’s already said everything he needed to say to them, all his goodbyes. He walks a one man funeral procession to the head chair.

He doesn’t sit down, turning to stare down the table. If anyone is uncomfortable, they still don’t speak. Phil looks down at his plate. He looks down at his hands. They’re shaking, how silly. They shouldn’t be doing that.

Phil knew this was happening, had planned for it all day, so he shouldn’t be so unsteady. He hasn’t even touched the poison, well evident in the green tinge to what should be a thick red wine. He nearly laughs at his own ridiculousness. Silly, silly him.

Actually picking up the goblet is hard. He can’t stop shaking, shaking, shaking, biting back at whatever noises his stupid instincts want to make. He has nothing to say. All his work is as done as it will ever be. Phil raises the goblet.

“A toast,” He announces to a wave of surprise, “to all of you.” None are more surprised than Wilbur, attention snapping up, flickering between the poisoned wine and Phil himself. For a moment, he’s almost fearful. He thinks Phil has noticed. Of course, Phil knew long in advance, but it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.

“To the strongest men I ever knew.” And if they’re confused then, well, Phil won’t be around to explain himself anymore. He presses the goblet to his lips, tilts back his head, and swallows.

Chugging a glass of wine is hard when your body is slowly shutting down, poison potions incredibly fast working. By the time half the glass is gone, he’s already struggling to swallow. Wine spills past his lips, staining his robe. Holding the golden thing grows harder and harder until he can’t hold it anymore.

Phil falls, like he was always meant to. The wine that remains soaks into the table cloth, spraying the floor as the goblet veers off. Phil crumbles to cold marble, vision steadily darkening. He feels… strangely warm for a dying man. Isn’t death supposed to be cold?

He can’t breathe. His fingers twitch, wings spasming, and that’s the most movement he can manage. He can hear, almost, the sound of chairs shrieking against the floor. Footsteps, maybe. Then his hearing goes too.

A soundless cough rakes past his throat, blood far too dark to be healthy. Of course it is, he’s dying. Phil smiles. He’s dying.

He should have stayed dead.

Notes:

S o u p. I put smth in Phil's soup and now he's dead, for now, kinda? He's not like *dead* dead, just mostly dead. And the difference between mostly dead and all dead is that mostly dead is still a little alive. Live Laugh Princess Diaries Reference. I always wanted to make that joke, now it finally fits. Huzzah! :D

So where do we go from here? Well, up hopefully. I can tell you that we're going to have our first Wilbur POV since chapter *four* next chapter (meaning that Wilbur is not longer playing the role of main antagonist). I can also tell you that These Actions Will Have Consequences. Which of the actions? All of them, really. The most important ones are:

- Wilbur poisoned Phil
- Phil *willingly drunk poison* and then *drunk a little more just to be sure*

And like, I don't know about you, but if the monarch I poisoned subtly recognized that I had poisoned them and then chugged the poison like their life depended on it? I'd be feeling some kinda way about that. Not sure what specific emotions but by god, there would be a lot of them. Wilbur really just went "Drink this poison... Not??? like that???" because why Phil. You only had to drink a little bit of the poison, not the entire thing. Bestie please,,,

Who's your favorite pov in this chapter? Mine's Quackity! His apparent apathy is a new, funky fresh kind of angst that real has a nice tang to it.

Chapter 15: An Echoing Eulogy

Summary:

Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, first of his name, the great Emperor of the Empire of Souls is... not dead, not quite yet. Though his skin is pale and stained, his heart flutters on and his chest continues to rise. There is yet time before his body cools to a corpse and he may very well be laid to rest among all the others who died in his palace. What color flowers might his body grow?

It doesn't matter. Wilbur knows it doesn't. Wilbur has a plan, a method of execution, and the Emperor's unlikely survival of the poison are hardly going to stop him from completing his goal. In two days time, this will all be over. Everything else is null and moot. There's no point to listening.

And yet people keep talking. Whispers and murmurs in his ears, those closest to the Emperor speaking the loudest. They're all things Wilbur knows, for the most part, and he's not lying when he says that. Honestly, he's a bit insulted by they're insistence on repeating these things.

But there is so much Wilbur doesn't know. There is so much he can't know, no matter how much he tries. Rumor cannot replicate experience. Toes are stepped on, lines are crossed. Wilbur... Wilbur snaps, but just a little.

Notes:

Happy Halloween :)
Have a 10k chapter while I snack on Reese's Peanut Butter Cups

TW: Dissociation, Repression, Implied/Referenced Abuse (Physical, Mental, Emotional, Sexual), Scars, Justifying Violence, Justifying Murder, Implied/Reference Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Implied/Reference Child Abuse, Wilbur's consistent semi-willful ignorance and hypocrisy

Emperor Sanguinis Momentus-Mortis fell quietly, far quieter than he should ever have been allowed to. That endlessly strong, formerly immortal form trembled all the while, impassive wings held at an angle that seemed uncomfortable. Wine spilled like blood past his lips.

His goblet was far louder. Gold crashed against marble, raking loudly over the gathered people’s ears. Even minutes after Sanguinis fell, Wilbur can still hear it ringing, far louder than his heartbeat. The air is still.

Wine seeps into the tablecloth, drying against the floor in a way that will stain even if the poison leaves no mark. Poison which Sanguinis had drunk. A poison which Wilbur knows he must have been aware of.

Sanguinis had met Wilbur’s eyes after all. He’d looked and smiled, raising his glass to mock Wilbur’s impending failure. Except, Wilbur hadn’t failed. Wilbur’s plan had gone off without a hitch. The emperor has drunk the poison and now lay against the floor, unmoving as a statue.

Why?

Maybe it’s not something Wilbur should question. There is undoubtedly a gift in the tyrannical man downing the goblet without a second thought. Perhaps Wilbur had been wrong about Sanguinis. Perhaps the emperor hadn’t known.

Except he had to have known. Why else would Sanguinis have looked at him? Why would he have smiled? Why would he have toasted them as if saying goodbye? But why would he drink it then?

Despite his limited resources, he’d chosen a fast acting poison. The problem with such poisons is that they’re quite easy to notice. Within seconds of consumption, Sanguinis would have felt his body numb, his throat begin to close, and his lungs to fill with fluid as his very existence turned on itself. 

Noticing should have prompted Sanguinis to stop drinking and toss the goblet away. The emperor’s blessing from the Blood God would surely have fixed any damage before it became more than an annoyance, Wilbur hardly has a method of destroying that knife after all. Wilbur should have failed here.

He should have had to go and plan other attempts at Sanguinis’ life, fighting against the man’s intelligence and superior resources in order to kill him. All this was meant to be was a test run. Wilbur would learn how Sanguinis reacts to assassination attempts, ones that might actually work, and he would plan around that.

It was never intended to work. Even if there was the slimmest of chances that Wilbur overestimated that awful healing factor, he should have felt proud that it worked. Years of effort have gone into this moment. Years of blood, tears, and sacrifice have all been aimed towards killing one impossibly strong man.

Yet Wilbur feels hollow. He blinks, seeing again that image of Sanguinis’ long, pale throat spasming, slickened with a wine so deep it could have been blood, as the emperor attempted to drain the poisoned glass. 

The emperor knew, the emperor gave in, the emperor tried to make sure this attempt would work. Wilbur struggles to fathom why. Nothing in the palace implies Sanguinis would want to play along. Unless… unless the emperor didn’t know he was no longer immortal?

But the effects were reported to be incredibly obvious, clear, and the main reason why this brand of poison wasn’t terribly common outside of executions. Sanguinis would clearly feel himself dying. So why keep drinking?

“Is… is he dead?” Someone asks. Wilbur thinks it’s Tommy, the voice too young to be anyone else. Too young, pitched too high as if on the verge of tears, wobbling on the edges with the barest grip of panic.

Wilbur stands at the question, he’s the only one to do so. Slowly, he steps around the long table, cold marble sapping at his feet as it always does. He toes carefully around the splash of wine. It’s too sheer to be blood but only barely.

On the floor, Sanguinis lies still. The pose is too awkward for him to be pretending, whatever the reason he might have for that. Legs bend strangely beneath him, one arm crushed under while the other crumples over him. His head oozes a small pool of blood on the floor. More blood splatters around his mouth.

It’s a lot darker than blood should be. Either that’s a feature of Sanguinis or a side effect of the poison, Wilbur isn’t sure. Either way, he reaches out to the corpse of his greatest enemy, hands trembling with anticipation.

Anticipation must be what this hollow feeling is, not quite success and not quite seeing what lies before him. Sanguinis’ skin is cold beneath his finger tips. Wine stained skin gives before coming to an imposing halt. Even in death, Sanguinis’ muscles are firm.

The room holds its breath, silence burning even louder as they wait for Wilbur’s verdict, the only one who’d dare to touch the fallen emperor. He tries desperately to ignore the crash, still hurting his ears. Focus.

Softly, a beat. Then another. Slow, weak beats of a fluttering heart that are still somehow consistent despite being so wrong. Wilbur slips his hand down to the equally wine stained chest, fabric ruined, just to feel the smallest of breaths.

“No,” He says, but he doesn’t hear it. Wilbur feels Sanguinis weakly breathe despite Wilbur’s, and apparently the emperor himself’s, best efforts. It’s even less of a victory now. The void gnawing at him twists in displeasure, shaking somehow calming.

“What happened?” Someone else asks. Not Schlatt, Wilbur doesn’t think that man has moved since Sanguinis first raised his glass, and not Charlie. Foolish, maybe? Techno’s voice rumbles louder.

“Poison,” he answers, “in the wine.” Why is he answering? It’s not his job to care about these people, not anymore. Even though Sanguinis may not be entirely dead, he is so close to that end that Wilbur can very easily push him over the edge.

Knives line the table for dinner. All Wilbur has to do is reach up and grab one, pressing it through Sanguinis’ neck or chest or wherever he damn well feels like it. Just like that, he’ll know the man is dead.

But Tommy is still in the room with them. Children should never have to be involved with these kinds of wars, nor the death that results from them. Wilbur will get his opportunity later, surely. The weak beats of Sanguinis’ heart aren’t getting any stronger. He might have to heal from this like a mortal man. Wilbur has time.

And, all things considered, he might not even fight Wilbur then, either . Thoughts race through his head, quiet but morbid. He’ll need a knife. One from the armory, likely. Wilbur can’t trust anything less than Netherite to break Sanguinis’ skin.

Despite knowing that, having this tentative plan, his hands itch to grab a knife from the table, just to try. It won’t work. There isn’t a world where it would work while War’s knife still sits in the vault. Still, it’s tempting.

“We should… move him from the floor,” Foolish mutters. It has to be him based solely on the golden skin toeing carefully into Wilbur’s vision, distracting him momentarily from his murderous temptations.

Wilbur looks up at the oversized elemental. There’s something regretful, despondent in Foolish’s eyes, the line of his shoulders, and for a moment it almost looks like he’d anticipated this. Like Foolish had had a moment to mourn before Sanguinis ever fell. But that’s impossible, Techno was the only person Wilbur told of his plan.

Even then, why would anyone mourn Sanguinis? He is, undoubtedly and with great dishonor, a monster. A man of no virtues, no blessings beyond the divine blessings incorrectly dolled out to him. No one should cry for a monster.

“Yes, we should,” Wilbur responds, realizing slowly that he’d been staring blankly up at Foolish for up to a minute. He pulls himself off the floor, knees aching dully. Killing Sanguinis on a bed or the floor, it makes no difference to Wilbur.

Though he hates to make the servants clean up after him. Wilbur doesn’t know anything about cleaning up poisoned wine but he knows wine is supposed to stain terribly. It might never come out of the marble floor.

Good riddance, honestly. Tear it all up. Even less likely to be salvaged are the almost simplistic white robes the Emperor chose to die in, already irreparably stained by a mixture of blood, poison, wine, and whatever else came up when the monster started choking.

Foolish is gentle when he gathers Sanguinis into his arms, showing no fear of stains or poison, cradling him close to his chest like some fallen maiden. If Wilbur squints and pretends he has no idea who Sanguinis is, he can almost see it.

There’s something undeniably delicate about the man. For all his strength and vile nature, he is oddly peaceful asleep. Golden lashes dusting cheeks, face almost pleasant instead of a constant flat glare, wings spread behind him weakly. Wilbur’s oddly reminded that, once, Sanguinis had earned the title of Angel.

Angel of Death was the full title by the end of that particular war, as Wilbur recalls. But then, that’s about all he knows about it. Word of mouth only goes so far. The sordid history of their great leader was plenty enough to complain about, people tended to go for fairytales or personal stories when it came to oral tradition.

Not that that matters either, not anymore. A dying angel will be a dead angel soon enough. Eventually, Sanguinis’ legacy will be nothing more than another story, one people can scoff at over just how ridiculous it sounds.

“Everyone else should still eat something and then, well, go pick out a bed I guess. Something tells me the Emperor won’t mind,” Wilbur advises the rest of the room. Sanguinis’ victims look hesitantly back at him.

Closest to them is Quackity, muttering softly to himself about cherry trees. Wilbur remembers, vaguely, something about trees. They were talked about the same way the tide was back home, back when he still had his mother. Back when he knew the whispers of seafoam were for ears older than his.

Quackity doesn’t  look at Wilbur or Sanguinis, instead scratching at the hard varnish of his table with small growing claws. The angle of his wings is tight around his back, protective. The dip of his head could be shock or mourning or neither.

Then there’s Charlie, bleeding green at the edges. His attempts to keep a face morph and fail and reform again. Fingers merge and split with each clench of his fist, his expression  whenever he does have a face pinched into something uncomfortable.

He reaches out towards Foolish, towards Wilbur, not towards Sanguinis. Hesitation stays in his hand and he melts. Slime slumps against the chair, struggling to pull back into anything resembling a humanoid.

Techno stands strong and protective next to Tommy, as impressive and well built as always. Techno, who Wilbur had high hopes would continue to tolerate him once Sanguinis was gone and all his plans were revealed. Techno, who still only know Soot as an outsider's name.

And now Techno, who looks so conflicted. He’s staring at Sanguinis’ black stained neck, one foot forward as if to do something about it. Except he doesn’t, can’t. Except he refuses to move a step away from Tommy.

Wilbur understands that. Tommy is perhaps the greatest regret of this plan, the one most caught in the crossfire as the unfortunate heir to the throne. But no child deserves a father like Sanguinis so Wilbur refuses to feel too bad.

Sure, he hasn’t directly seen anything regarding Tommy’s treatment but, at that point, it’s more important what he hasn’t seen. The neglect is clear, Tommy treats Techno more like a father. Sanguinis is merely a poor blood relation.

Even now, he struggles to look directly at the bewinged child, carrying such a resemblance to the dying man in Foolish’s arms. Tommy isn’t crying, not yet, but strangled noises that might be bird calls keep slipping past his lips.

Unexpectedly, though, Tommy somehow isn’t the worst in the room. Wilbur’s stubbornness and motivation doesn't shake or falter at Tommy’s behest. No, that honor goes to Schlatt.

Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise. Schlatt has always been uncomfortable to be around for Wilbur. He’s too quiet, too pacifistic, too willing to go along with Sanguinis’ will. It was practically guaranteed that Schlatt would oppose Wilbur if he knew. Not that Wilbur thinks Schlatt is aware often enough to figure out the plan…

Isn’t that the crux of the matter? Wilbur’s main issue with the man? He’s always felt far more puppet than person, wandering around on loose strings and shaky limbs whenever Sanguinis isn’t around to force him along.

That kind of blatant servitude… it’s disgusting. It’s not Schlatt’s fault, there’s a reason he survived nearly a hundred years in this place, and his insight has been useful on occasion but…

But Wilbur can’t imagine ever being like that. Wilbur hates the thought of anyone being like that. Even now, Schlatt sits slumped, eyes hollow, staring at where Sanguinis fell as if Foolish never picked him up. A puppet with cut strings.

Fuzzy irritation squirms in Wilbur’s chest, a deep breath doing little to dissuade it. Looking away is easy, honestly, turning towards the door and taking a purposeful step forward.

With each step, Foolish follows, turning to Wilbur for guidance since it appears none of these people know how to think for themselves anymore. Servants crowd them in the halls, as much as they can.

Everyone sticks to the edges of the wide halls, built for Sanguinis’ oversized wings, but they inch closer like a wave, trying to steal a glance at the terrible Emperor. Soft gasps and hitches of breath are the loudest they respond to the sight.

No words, no screams, nothing louder than the slam of gold against marble floors. Still, it’s the loudest the palace has been since Wilbur arrived. The only place louder might be the kitchens, through the nature of their work.

More telling that the quiet response is the lack of celebration. Wilbur had expected someone, anyone to seem happy the emperor was dying. Sanguinis is a monster beyond anything the world has seen before.

People aren’t supposed to cry when monsters die. No one mourns a tyrant. Maybe they’re waiting like Wilbur is, quietly anticipating the moment Sanguinis’ heart stops. Maybe they know he isn’t dead yet so it isn't safe.

It’s better than the alternative so Wilbur chooses to believe and walks on. Where to is a complicated thing. Officially, there is no medical wing in the palace. Why would there be? Sanguinis certainly never needed such a thing.

Other people aren’t Sanguinis. So, instead, deep in the bowels of the service tunnels, are a scattering of storage rooms co-opted into the closest thing the palace has to a clinic. They honestly remind Wilbur of the clinics back home.

Tiny things, too dirty to be safe but still safer than hoping the problem goes away. Well, the palace ones are clean, if that matters. What’s the exact same is the products they have access to.

No one can afford actual medical supplies unless they’re a noble family. Bandages were strips of fabric and cloth. Sewing needles and thread took the place of sutures more often than not. Burn cream and casts were worth their weight in pearls.

But, on occasion, he has seen bits and pieces of the palace’s wealth squirreled away. A few shavings and chunks of golden apples saved from the trash. A tiny vial of health potion stolen from the Rose Garden or, if they're lucky, before it was diluted by the water. If they’re lucky, actual bandages from the occasional broken limb Tommy got.

Placing Sanguinis in one of those tiny clinics is undoubtedly dangerous with them being such a carefully kept secret. Except the emperor won’t be alive long enough to punish anyone.

So it’s probably fine? Wilbur has quick access to those clinics. Except, no, that would mean people might actually try to keep the emperor alive. He’s heard stories of it before, people growing to care for their abusers.

Wilbur can’t trust them to not unintentionally sabotage him. Sanguinis needs to be out of the way but not so far that Wilbur can’t get to him. A place few people ever visit…

They head towards the royal wing in the end, where only Tommy and Sanguinis are meant to sleep. Technically, more could. Wilbur knows, vaguely, that other kingdoms usually have more children, cousins, family members stay here.

Concubines do to, which he’s mostly sure the Roses should count as. In another world, they might lounge in these lavish rooms with their own sitting areas, oversized bathrooms and walk in closets instead of an auditorium and a fountain.

Maybe it’s fitting that they dump Sanguinis to lie on one of those overly plush beds, staining detailed embroidery. These things that could have been theirs once again taken by him. It’s poetic.

Foolish is gentle with his poetry, laying Sanguinis down softly, a corpse descending into a coffin. Loose white fabric splays around his limp form. His twitches have lessened to almost nothing. He would be so easy to kill.

Will. He will be easy to kill. A knife, a moment alone, a tensing of muscles. Sanguinis might not even be awake to look Wilbur in the eyes. It will be a mercy kill. For the mercy of the many, Wilbur will kill the few.

“I didn’t think,” Foolish’s voice stutters out, he clears his throat, “I didn’t think poisons worked on San- Philza.” Wilbur blinks, tearing himself away from the sorry sight. Philza?

Right, that name , the one Sanguinis had told Wilbur to call him too, he’d forgotten. It just wasn’t important. No one important knew Sanguinis by Philza , of all things. Most weren’t even aware Philza was Sanguinis’ middle name.

“They’re not supposed to,” Wilbur agrees. The words sound bland to his ears. Very matter of fact, little emotion compared to how conflicted everyone else is. Is Wilbur conflicted? He doesn’t think so.

He’s had a while to get used to the thought, to the idea of blood stained hands and watching a monster die. Wilbur’s just… a little unsettled. He didn’t expect this to be so easy, it’s throwing him off.

“Why did… Why did it work? Why did he drink it? Why did… Why didn’t anyone else know?” Foolish rambles, words growing faster the more he speaks before cutting off sharply, the verbal equivalent of running into a brick wall. Wilbur sights.

“I don’t know.” It’s only half a life. Wilbur doesn’t know why Sanguinis drank to poison but he does know both him and Techno were fully aware of the plan. He knows it worked because of shattered glass and endless red sand.

“I don’t understand,” Foolish whispers, and isn’t that the most important thing he’s said all day. Three simple words that summarized Wilbur’s entire life. 

He doesn’t understand why he and his mother fled here of all places. He doesn’t understand how Sanguinis could stomach grinding his empire so heavily into the ground. He doesn’t understand the cruelty needed to carve the Roses to pieces. He doesn’t understand if or why Sanguinis might have changed. Might . Maybe.

“Does that matter?” Wilbur counters, “Millions have suffered and died at his whims, many more continue to suffer long beyond that. Shouldn’t it be good that he’s dying?” He glances back at Sanguinis.

Foolish goes to respond, audibly hesitates with a crack in his voice, and falls silent in thought. All the while, Wilbur finds his gaze stuck again to the black caking Sanguinis’ skin and clothes, a slowly congealing rot already too thick to fully slide off.

They’ll have to scrub that. Wilbur’s not sure who, he’s not sure anyone has the bravery to touch Sanguinis long enough to manage. Maybe he’ll have to build up a little more ‘good will’ before he makes his move… when? Tonight? The sun’s yet to set. Maybe tomorrow?

Because doing it tonight might not be possible. It’s too soon, too many eyes and people who might visit after dinner to glance and stare. Tomorrow they’ll have gotten used to it, surely, and go about their days waiting with baited breath to see if Sanguinis even can recover from what should outright kill anyone else.

“Maybe…” Foolish starts, testing each word before he says it, “I think… if you asked me a year ago, I would have said… no?” The lack of conviction is grating, it’s a simple question with a simple answer. But, alas, patience is a good look on Wilbur so he lets Foolish talk.

“No, I wouldn’t have cared then. He was… he hurt us a lot, you know? Well, you don’t know, you weren’t around for any of that. You weren’t there when Sanguinis chained up Quackity’s wings,” Foolish muses.

“But you were when they were removed, so maybe… maybe you don’t understand either? Philza, he’s different . He… he’s fixing things. He’s kinder. He’s… impossible .” There's a heavy inflection of that last word, one Wilbur can’t quite puzzle out. He hates it anyway.

“Him being kinder now doesn’t change the fact he starved and beat you for fun .” Wilbur… honestly feels mean pointing it out. A bitter taste on his too-sharp tongue, cringing at Foolish’s flinch. But he’s right. He has to remind them he’s right.

“I know . I’m not saying that it- it erases anything!” Foolish sputters, “I know it doesn’t, I know . He’s just… You weren’t there . You don’t understand.” Of course he doesn’t. Wilbur stamps down the embers of irritation.

“Then make me understand. How does going from actively physically abusive to neglectful make him any better of a person?” Wilbur physically turns away from Sanguinis, back to the monster.

“That’s not- no, that’s not what happened,” Foolish denies, “He’s not neglectful . He’s just… trying to be better? Or he was but I don’t think he knew how?” The uncertainty isn’t any more convincing than before.

“Didn’t seem like he was trying very hard to me,” Wilbur grumbles, frustration peeking through the cracks in his mask with his main danger out of order. Deep breaths, now is not the time to snap under pressure. Later, after he kills Sanguinis.

“Well, you weren’t there, and neither was I,” Foolish snaps back, startling the both of them. Yet, Foolish recovers quicker and continues to push, “and that’s the point. We didn’t have to be there. He didn’t make us do anything.”

“Before… before you were here, we weren’t people to him. We crawled, ate, drank, and breathed when he told us to. Sanguinis was a control freak . But you never experienced that. You’ve been galavanting freely through the palace however you please.”

Under the onslaught, Wilbur struggles to get a word in. Worst of all, he really can’t. Navigating the palace really has been much easier than expected, the back up plans he had in place not even needed since Sanguinis never discovered his wanderings. Or, at least, never tried to confront him over them.

“You’ve never been chained down and made to be a show, tugged around on a leash before a crowd, made to be beaten and bloodied and humiliated. Sure, you might have seen it-” Wilbur has, “-but it was never you. ”

“Because Philza changed. Because he called a ball and never once approached any of us with a leash. He provided blankets and soft things and let us eat whatever we wanted, wandering beyond our bounds.” Also true, Wilbur got to know Eret and Fundy through that.

“I’ve practically lived in the gardens for the past few months and do you know how many times he approached me? Once. Today. The day he apparently expected to drink poison and die . Because he didn’t want to die alone,” Foolish’s voice grows hoarse.

“He’s not neglectful. He’s treating us like people … I think. If we don’t… if we don’t approach him, he doesn’t approach us. Not platonically, not romantically, not… not sexually. That… that’s good, right? That’s how people are treated?” The uncertainty returns.

“I just… I know it doesn’t feel like much. I know it isn’t enough. I know it doesn’t erase anything. I know . But… it feels unfair to say he hasn’t changed at all, or that he’s just a different kind of abuse.” Foolish looks down, “ I don’t like it.”

Well shit, Wilbur kind of hates that right now. He picks through the rant and he’s really struggling to find anything outright, logically wrong with what Foolish said. Wilbur likes to think he’s pretty self aware, after all.

He knows he was never walked onto a stage, though the ever growing resentment was doubled or tripled each time he saw a glimpse of it. Wilbur knows he only had one night of harsh hands, harsh words, the scars over his thighs and down his spine. He’s perfectly aware he’s lacking personal experience with the worst of Sanguinis’ personal relationships. He’s not stupid .

That means he also knows of the objectification that was supposed to be going on in the palace. Servants were set pieces, Roses toys, except none of them got ‘played with’ when Wilbur actually got there. They were just… abandoned in the toy box, it felt.

Expectation falls so short of reality. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Not when this could be a result of magical backlash, like Charlie’s theory, or a weird fucking mood. Not when all this ‘good’ shit could be temporary.

Won’t it hurt more then? When Sanguinis inevitably changes back? The only permanent difference would be one where Sanguinis is dead . Dead and gone and unable to hurt anyone even if he wanted to.

“You don’t have to like it,” Wilbur keeps his voice soft, the edge of understanding, “but I’m glad you confided in me.” He smiles, gentle and kind, eyes squinting to force it up, his best showing of faux-genuinity.

“We’ll agree to disagree,” Foolish sighs, rasps really. He steps back, hesitating again. Judging by the way he glances between Sanguinis and the door, he’s worried. Ridiculous. It’s fine, Wilbur can work with that.

“I’ll get him cleaned up a little, you should go eat something,” Wilbur encourages. He doesn’t want to touch Sanguinis again. Still, he can’t exactly lie about something so easily disproved.

After a long look, unsettling green eyes staging through him, Foolish does leave, presumably back to the dining room. Again, it doesn’t matter. Wilbur doesn’t care what the rest of them are doing now.

Instead, he peeks his head out the door, all smiles and charm towards one of the many gathering servants. They startle into action at his request. It’s honestly magical how fast they bring him things, Wilbur not having to wait more than ten minutes.

He gets more than he asked for too. A smooth silver basin full of warm, soapy water. A second one for rinsing. Several soft, fuzzy washcloths folded neatly over a thick warm towel. A new set of robes, thin and silky designed for sleep.

Even dying, Sanguinis is treated like a genuine emperor, more beloved than he is feared. Except then Wilbur meets their eyes and they’re all too afraid to so much as graze Sanguinis’ skin. A few months of ‘kindness’ does not erase centuries of pain.

Wilbur is left alone again to clean up Sanguinis, even the bravest of servants lingering only for a few extra seconds. He sighs, letting his shoulders drop now that he’s alone.

Dipping his hand into the water makes him shiver, scales greedily breathing in the liquid, a shimmering cobalt blue replacing the transparent sheen dry air always keeps them. He stares for a moment.

It’s hard to remember the last time he got to see his own scales in any real detail, the last time he did anything more than wet his gills with a towel trying to keep them healthy, the last time he actually saw his tail. He must have been young, too young to fully remember.

Maybe, when Sanguinis is dead, he’ll head out to the sea. Maybe he’ll stay there, in that little house his mother used to own, now decrepit from age. Maybe he’ll sink into the ocean waves and let himself be a kid again, splashing water with his tail fins. Yeah, that’ll be the plan. When all this is over, that’s what he’ll do.

But first he has to pretend to care even a little bit about his murder target. Simple, easy acting that’s made even more simple now that Wilbur doesn’t have to be prepared to sleep with the guy. Not that he’s had to do that more than twice.

The first towel, soaked in soap, is laid over the worst of the crust on Sanguinis’ neck. Soft gold quickly stains a putrid tone, a black undercut with purple and green like a bleeding bruise.

Several minutes of scrubbing pass and, while the water gets darker, Sanguinis doesn’t seem to get much cleaner. There’s undoubtedly less mess but it feels like the mixture has seeped into and stained his skin.

Wilbur can’t even wait until the water runs clean. He doesn’t know if it can. Believe it or not, execution poisons don’t tend to have much of a clean up plan involved. The poison sort of just sinks and burns into whatever concrete dias the person died on.

He gives up a little bit, wiping down Sanguinis’ visible skin with clean water. Bruise is definitely the right description. All around his mouth, down his neck and to his chest is stained in that familiar color. It doesn’t feel much like a bruise though.

It has the same give as the rest of the monster’s skin. Wilbur scrapes his fingers over Sanguinis’ throat, feeling the soft wet skin. He trails back down to the pulse point. Still, that slow stuttering heart continues to beat.

And then the door slams into the wall, gold handles impacting hard enough to dent themselves on the marble walls. Wilbur jumps, nearly falling onto the bed. He whirls around.

“Where’s my father,” Tommy demands, jaw clenched and wings splayed. His eyes are a misty red, cheeks shiny with fallen tears though it looks like he’s trying not to cry anymore. The effort leaves him trembling.

“On the bed, did you think we would just leave him on the floor?” Wilbur teases, then pauses, “wait did you come straight here? Toms, you can’t skip meals like that.” Ugh, Wilbur really should have waited until Sanguinis was eating a meal alone.

“Shut up,” Tommy grumbles, stomping forward. Wilbur prepares himself, rightly so since Tommy throws himself the moment he’s close enough. Goodbye ribs, Wilbur didn’t really need those.

He hugs Tommy back, the most unfortunate consequence of his actions, resting his chin in Tommy’s fluffy hair. Rattling breaths puff against his chest, shaking under his hands. Each one nearly ends in a sob. Now he’s going to have snot all over him.

But it’s okay, Wilbur owes the kid this much at least. No child deserves to lose their parents. Sometimes, though, it can’t be helped. All Wilbur can do is comfort Tommy in the after, helping him heal from the loss and become better because of Sanguinis’ absence. Everything will be better then.

“Wilbuh?” Tommy muffles into Wilbur’s chest, making not move to step away. Wilbur rubs between Tommy’s wings, which usually makes him turn into mush. Usually. Apparently today is different, only lessening the visible upset.

“Yeah Tommy?” Wilbur hums. Humming also usually helps, maybe that’s why Tommy can ask a question instead of full on sobbing. It’s a good theory.

“Is…” Tommy swallows thickly, “is Father going to live?” and Wilbur… can’t tell what that hesitance means. Because it could mean two very different things that have very different responses.

Tommy could be hesitating because, for some reason, he wants Sanguinis to live, maybe some instinctive bullshit about his sperm donor. In that case, Wilbur should lie and say ‘maybe’ or ‘I think so’.

Or, more reasonably, Tommy doesn’t want his abuser to live. In that case, Wilbur can fully admit that Sanguinis won’t see the end of the week. The honesty would be refreshing after lying so heavily for so long.

“I don’t know Toms,” Wilbur answers because he has no easy way of telling which answer Tommy wants. The poor prince shudders. Wilbur feels wetness on his chest and he knows Tommy is crying, a low shaky croon going unanswered.

“The emperor will live, he can’t die,” Techno apparently came to visit too, answering stoically from the door, his previous conflict locked behind a stone wall in his eyes. Finally, someone with conviction.

“Hey Techno,” Wilbur greets, a soft warmth that in no way resembles the hollow void in his chest. An odd thing to say when Techno knows Sanguinis can die though. Maybe he’s trying to comfort Tommy? He’ll check in when he asks for that knife.

“Wil,” Techno responds, giving nothing away though his shoulders lose a bit of their edge. Wilbur meets golden eyes, smile faltering when Techno follows the same way of everyone else, flicking over to look at Sanguinis.

No, it’s fine, Techno prepared for this. The general crosses the room to them, stopping beside the two off-colored basins, studying Wilbur’s little set up. Wilbur hums louder for Tommy’s sake.

“Do you want any help with that?” Techno asks. As bad as it is, Wilbur feels relieved. Yes please, he unfortunately had too much on his plate to waste time comforting Tommy. Push comes to shove, he can use a different contact to enter the armory.

“Yes please,” Wilbur sighs, unseen tension draining. Except it seems he misunderstood. Techno does not take Tommy from Wilbur. Instead, he picks up a washcloth, undoes the ties of Sanguinis’ robes, and continues cleaning up the emperor.

Did some of the mess sink through to where Wilbur didn’t bother cleaning? Yeah, of course. But it shouldn’t matter. A dead man has no way of feeling discomfort and Sanguinis is almost already there.

Yet here Techno is, trying to scrub with Wilbur already couldn’t from too pale skin, color drained from the poison. Pink comes to life at the edges of the stain, raw irritation that Wilbur didn’t think Sanguinis could get before. A good sign, then, that his skin can get irritated now. He’s that little bit less invulnerable.

“I don’t think that’s coming off,” Wilbur informs Techno. Tommy shudders in his arms, pulling back enough to look at his father. The bruise-like color is actually disgusting. Wilbur feels a little bad making Tommy have to look at that.

“Yeah, it won’t,” Techno agrees. He drops the rag in the tub, retrieving the towel Wilbur didn’t bother touching. Compared to his scrubbing, he’s gentle with Sanguinis, patting down the raw skin. It’s kinder than Sanguinis ever was to him, a kindness undeserved.

“I didn’t know Father could be hurt,” Tommy intercedes, wings tucking close. White downy feathers brush against Wilbur’s arms, delicately soft. Wilbur sighs.

“Your father is just a man Toms, all men can be hurt.” All men can die , goes unsaid. There’s no need to saddle a child with that information, so very aware of pain and death he may be. Sometimes, they like to pretend Tommy hasn’t watched dozens of people die at his feet for his Father’s sick glee.

“Not him,” Tommy whimpers. Well, Tommy has been told about Sanguinis all his life, and knew his father likely better than anyone else. He knows Sanguinis is strong, nigh invulnerable, and supposedly immortale. He didn’t know Wilbur fixed half of that already.

It would be cruel, really, to warn Tommy. Cruel to expect Tommy to go along quietly with the plan. It’s far kinder to not give him the choice, even if that means watching quietly while Techno cleans the emperor up.

A few minutes pass, far longer than is actually needed for Techno to finish. That’s alright. Wilbur’s also been losing track of his thoughts, he’d be a hypocrite to get annoyed at Techno for zoning out.

“We should change him now,” Techno starts abruptly, “Theseus, go eat something, you can come back after.” Wow. Wilbur didn’t know Techno could so brazenly order people around off the training ground. Apparently, Tommy didn’t either.

“Yeah, I’ll come get you if you want, so you won’t have to be alone,” Wilbur encourages anyway, playing along. If it means some alone time, it’s a good enough reason. All the reason Tommy needs too.

“It’s fine. I can handle myself,” Tommy grumbles. He rubs his eyes, clearly not happy about being made to leave but also not willing to see his Father naked. Or maybe he can’t stand to look at an unconscious Sanguinis any longer. Both are equally likely.

He closes the door behind himself, marching stubbornly away without looking back. Wilbur steals Sanguinis’ towel to clean himself of snot and tears as soon as they’re alone. Techno lets him, the sweetheart.

To keep himself busy, Techno picks up the night robe, several layers of gauzy fabric combined to make something almost opaque with silk ribbons around the edges. Gold threads weave together into a belt to tie it around Sanguinis’ waist.

Wilbur never considered how difficult it may or may not be to get dressed with wings. He can understand on a logical level that it can’t be easier than not having wings, they’re big enough to make that obvious, but the details were understandably beyond him.

In practice, it’s stupidly hard. Wilbur bites back swears, manhandling the massive feathered things. They’re so heavy. It doesn’t make sense. Don’t birds have to be light to fly? Wilbur’s like mostly sure they have hollow bones.

Considering he learned that for a drunkard giving advice on how to hunt birds with rocks, a lovable drunkard who’s advice kept Wilbur fed when he otherwise would have starved, he doesn’t know if it’s true. Sanguinis’ wings make it seem like a lie.

At least they’re soft. Wilbur’s honestly tempted to make a few pillows out of these feathers when all’s said and done. It can be a reminder of how they’ve won. A pretty morbid reminder but a lot less morbid than Sanguinis’ bone pens.

“He’s supposed to be dead, isn’t he,” Techno says. Says, it isn’t a question, isn’t much of  a doubt. It’s barely even a disappointed tone. Wilbur struggles to remember any words said more flatly.

“Oh, one day he will be,” Wilbur promises. He fiddles with the tie on the belt, Techno adjusting the overlapping fabric along Sanguinis’ torso. Wilbur’s words ring stronger than they feel. Except, they are strong. He’s going to kill Sanguinis, that isn’t a question.

“Tough cut of meat, that. Only gets tougher with age.” Techno traces over Sanguinis’ throat, nails dragging soft white lines over that awful bruise color. Wilbur hums, mindlessly adjusting bits of fabric.

“A good knife will cut anything. Know where I can get one?” A hum to his words, more habit than magic tingling the back of his throat. Techno falters, staring down at the dying monster. Slowly, he pulls back

“Tomorrow. I’ll show you.” Techno drops his hands to his sides. Wilbur watches them ball into fists, shaking lightly in a clear sign of someone getting cold feet. His smile tightens,that won’t do.

“I’ll be trusting you,” Wilbur turns to his co-conspirator, “I can trust you, right?” He steps towards Techno, closing that small gap. Wilbur barrels one without a response.

“What am I talking about?” He shakes his head, “I know I can trust you… you might be the only one I can trust.” Wilbur keeps his voice light, gentle, wavering as if this is an in-the-moment realization. As if he actually trusts Techno more than required.

“Thank you, for that. If I didn’t have you, I would never have made it this far. Without you… who knows where I’d be?” He cups at Techno’s face just like he’s done before, leaning in. 

“Just a little bit longer and we can be free, together .” The word burns his throat, his mouth, his tongue, riddled with ash and born of lies. Together, as if Wilbur’s staying in this awful empire a moment longer than he has to.

“...together?” Techno’s voice finally changes, dropping into uncertainty, gaze slowly drifting from Wilbur towards Sanguinis. Wilbur applies gentle pressure to his face, forcing Techno to keep looking at him .

“You’re all I have.” Wilbur lies. He tries not to think back to Niki and her bakery. He doesn’t think about Jack, always stationed just where Wilbur needs him. He doesn’t think about his tentative allies in Eret and Fundy. Because for all Techno needs to know, Wilbur doesn’t know any of those people. Not really. Not like he knows Techno.

The kiss burns but no more than it usually does. A slow slide of lips from two people who no longer have to steal touches in the dark of night, the depths of the library. Techno’s breath is so hot in Wilbur’s mouth.

Light clings to Techno’s scars and piercings, glimmering in his eyes, those softened pools of color. Wilbur smiles, nothing in his heart.

“I trust you,” Techno rumbles, the words vibrating through Wilbur from the sheer size of him. For all intents and purposes, it’s an ‘I love you’. It’s perfect, wonderful, everything Wilbur needs for his plans.

One day, he knows he’ll regret this, right alongside watching Tommy cry. Wilbur’s not a monster. He will not be able to walk on, cold hearted to the feelings he’s hurt. But Sanguinis is not dead yet. That day won’t be today.

“I know,” Wilbur teases, laughing softly, ducking his head into Techno’s chest so he doesn’t have to force light into his eyes. Techno’s arms close around him, a cage in their own right.

He thinks of the sea, of salty winds and tiny cabins, of sea shells and clams. It calms him enough not to tense. It lets Wilbur relax into Techno’s arms as if there is safety there, safety beyond his own head. A safety that he can only stand to imagine with Niki.

But Niki is his sister in all but blood so that’s a little unfair to Techno, who he’s only known for a few months. Techno hasn’t done anything wrong either. Another regret he’ll add when he finally lets himself ruminate on the flaws found in any plan.

“I should return to the garden,” Wilbur mutters, as if he doesn’t want to. Techno sighs  into his head, squeezing him a bit tighter, refusing to let go. Wilbur’s heart stutters in his chest. Techno poses no real threat to him. Wilbur can use his Siren’s Song to force Techno away if need be. Still, for a moment he is afraid.

“Why? The gardener is asleep.” Their word for Sanguinins when the emperor could be listening. Wilbur huffs, tapping his fingers in a pattern against Techno’s arm. Calm, playful, not fearful of this man who he’s made certain wouldn’t hurt him.

“ Yes , but the other Roses are awake. It would be strange if I didn’t make an appearance,” Wilbur sighs. Yes, this is so hard for him. Look how little he wants to leave. Techno grumbles, wordless chuffs and sounds.

“I’ll meet with you later. Your rooms? Just the two of us all night.” Wilbur presses harder against Techno, purring his words. Techno huffs, squeezing just enough for Wilbur to be concerned for his spin before letting him free.

“I’ll wait for you.” Techno presses a kiss, a wildfire, against Wilbur’s cheek. That’s okay, Wilbur enjoys fire. It’s warm and calming, even when the world around him storms. But the storm is gone. All that remains is the dull rising sun of a new day.

With no storm, what will keep the fire burning? Nothing but his own actions, tinder to protect it for as long as he cares to. Wilbur only has to care for a little longer.

It makes his chest hurt. A pulled muscle, maybe, or a sore spot dancing around the growing chasm of anticipation. It leadens his arms, his feet, and he almost wants to stay in the room for a moment longer despite the resting monster.

Sanguinis’ chest rises and falls, weak but unending. He won’t die tonight. Wilbur doesn’t even know if poison can kill the emperor. It doesn’t matter in the end. It won’t be poison that takes his life.

Later. Wilbur promises himself. Sanguinis will still be here later, Wilbur will be here later, it’s fine . He takes a deep breath, wandering out of the room and back towards the vague direction of the Rose Garden.

One step in front of the other. The palace is so much more alive with its owner nearly dead, servants hurrying about in plain view rather than sticking to their smaller halls and darkened corners. 

After so long in the palace, it’s a little suffocating to have so much life around. Wilbur can’t imagine how it must feel like for the other Roses. He at least regularly talks to the staff, if only for plotting reasons, like getting the waiters to add in that poison.

Distantly, he wonders how long it’s been since Schlatt talked to anyone outside of the Roses and Sanguinis. He can’t remember any incidents off the top of his head. The thing is, Wilbur hasn’t talked to Schlatt much at all.

Crossing into the Rose Garden, the man in question is huddled in there, manhandled into the center of the mass of soft things. Quackity mutters to himself, pushing and pulling and tugging blankets into place. Well, whatever ‘in place’ means. There doesn’t seem to be much of a rhyme or reason to it.

Foolish lingers by one of the pillars, face scrunched in discomfort but still here , which is more than Wilbur can say he’s done the last few months. Charlie curls on Foolish’s lap. It’s just like when Wilbur first got here, how cute.

That should put Wilbur near-ish to Schlatt if they’re going back to his early days. Schlatt did seem quite concerned whenever Schlatt was… well… around . Wilbur’s seen men disappear into his own head before, that’s not the problem.

No, the problem is how much Schlatt does it. Those people were still around , still interacting with their surroundings. They would react if you poked them, yell if you set them off. Sometimes the screaming was illogical and violent but it was at least a reaction.

Schlatt isn’t around, not in any way that matters. Wilbur could stab him and he wouldn’t even flinch. His greatest source of information on the palace hasn’t been any use to him because of that, forcing Wilbur to get creative. But it’s fine, Wilbur got what he needed in the end. Schlatt isn’t needed anymore.

“You took long enough,” Quackity snips. Wilbur flops down onto the blankets, just out of range of Quackity’s futzing. Rude, different too. Since when was Quackity so lively? It’s certainly news to Wilbur.

“I’m surprised you can complain about it. Finally finished with your nap?” Wilbur teases back. Quackity doesn’t yawn, doesn’t half stretch before giving up, isn’t in need of care himself. No, Quackity rolls his eyes.

“Sure, let’s call it a nap. Because it was just so fun to be healing from several decades of torture,” Quackity’s wings flex, tremble, fall, “somewhat.” Wilbur traces the faint spider web of scars over those dull golden wings with his eyes.

“My mistake, I didn’t mean any insult. Just… a little stressed, you know? I imagine we all are.” Is he always this snappy or is it just today’s events? It might be just today. Nothing else happened to cause this reaction from Quackity, not that he knows of.

“A little stressed,” Quackity repeats, “a little stressed! Sure, a little . Well, maybe it’s little to you but it sure as Nether isn’t little to us.” Quackity grows louder as he speaks, from tense grumbles to a yell.

“Sorr-” he’s cut off, “The Emperor is dying over there Wilbur. Maybe you’re not all too concerned but you actually have people out there, did you ever consider that? Did you ever consider that I’ve been here for thirty- fucking- years that I barely even remember? And that’s the shortest amount of time?”

“There’s no one waiting for us on the other side of this! If Sanguinis actually dies , we have nowhere to go. Do you really think Schlatt can survive in the real world? I barely remember the real world, Wilbur.”

“But I guess you didn’t consider that. I guess you don’t know what it’s like. Unlike you, I’m not a prissy newly budded Rose who’s been treated like fucking glass the entire time he’s been here. So yes, I’m a little stressed. You would be too if you actually gave a shit about any of us.” Quackity huffs, a growl lacing his voice.

Where the fuck did that come from? Wilbur blinks, wide eyed at Quackity. That might actually be the most Wilbur’s heard the dragon say… ever. To think he’d completely written the man off like Schlatt.

“You’re right, I don’t know. I’m just floundering I guess. I don’t really know how to react to all of this,” Wilbur admits, attempting to diffuse Quackity before he starts literally breathing fire. Actual dragons can do that so their hybrids probably can too.

“Well maybe you should think about how everyone else feels before making stupid excuses. You have a brain, try using it,” Quackity grumbles, packing down the blankets in his hands with a lot more force than necessary.

“I think Quackity should take a walk! Everything in here is pretty flammable!” Charlie’s voice rings loud and clear despite his current lack of mouth. Foolish presses a little harder into the pillar he’s leaning against, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here. Finally, something Wilbur can actually understand.

Quackity starts to respond, instead growling. He punches the ground in frustration, wings flapping the best they can in their weakened state. Finally, he comes to an agreement.

“Yeah, sure, we can do that now apparently.” Quackity shoves himself up, stomping out of the room. Wilbur watches him, apprehension mirror in Foolish, as much of an outsider as Wilbur is despite his legacy status.

The door doesn’t slam shut behind him only because Wilbur doesn’t know if anyone but  the Emperor actually has the strength to do that. Maybe Techno? He’s pretty well fed. Even then, they’re pretty big.

“Wilbur should really be careful what he says now. People aren’t going to like him very much while the Emperor is down,” Charlie ventures once it’s clear Quackity is gone. This again? Yeah, he got that from Quackity’s rant.

“It’s a bit of a nerve, Philza, that is. A lot of complicated feelings so maybe don’t… imply anything?” Foolish agrees, though his voice is a lot less stable. Wilbur frowns, looking back to the pair.

“But Quackity brought up Sanguinis first? I didn’t mean to upset him but,” Wilbur stops himself, chewing on his lips, an image of shy uncertainty. The discomfort is very real. Everything he knows about Quackity just went out the window.

“I know. Try not to hold that against him, or the ramble,” Foolish responds, “he was only saying the quiet part out loud. You really-” “Don’t know anything, because I lack experience. I know, you said it first.” Wilbur interrupts. 

“Why doesn’t anyone just tell me what it was like though. All I know is rumors. I don’t know what nerves I’m stepping on.” A little frustration bubbles up. You’d think he’d have heard more about the Emperor here, you really would.

Except Foolish’s little rant earlier is about all he’s gotten, stuff that’s largely public knowledge because it was shown off on a stage. But Wilbur didn’t bring up leashes or collars or public displays. Wilbur just… tried teasing Quackity. It was innocent, nothing deserving the tirade he got in reply.

“It’s personal. Our treatments were unique to us. It made it more ‘effective’ that way. It’s not the most comfortable thing to talk about.” Foolish makes excuses. Wilbur thought it was made clear that excuses won’t help here.

“No one remembers our names anymore Wilbur,” Charlie chimes in, “You didn’t either, did you. You didn’t know me as Charlie or Foolish as Foolish. I bet I was the weird green one. Foolish was probably called a gold statue. We still have ears on that stage.”

Not true, Wilbur did know their names, sort of. He had to gain that information to have a leg up in the palace. Sure, the names were considered rumors and not true facts but people still know them.

“People tend to forget that a lot. We have ears, eyes, feelings. We’re not just Roses, toys,” Foolish mumbles. Is he implying Wilbur sees them as toys? None of his actions should have given off that impression.

“And people tend to have backstories. Friends, family, enemies and rivals,” Charlie drawls his addition. His body pulls together, forming a pair of organs that look close enough to eyes to be uncomfortable.

“We didn’t!” He chirps, entirely too cheerful, “Or, rather, we don’t. Not anymore. All we know are these walls. All they know are the shiny rocks. What happens to a rock when their owner dies? Even if it’s a really fancy rock collection, they just get thrown away.”

“I know we’ll get thrown away too,” Foolish agrees. Okay now that Wilbur has to speak about. Sure, he’ll be living it up by the sea real soon but someone will step in to help them out.

“Not true. You’re very real people! You’ve been incredibly welcoming during my time here, you taught me how to survive,” Wilbur defends them, himself, whichever. Charlie giggles at his insistence.

“But you never needed to survive.” Charlie lets his eyes fall apart but his stare still burns. Wilbur winces. Right, because Sanguinis is nicer, has been since Wilbur got here. He never had to face the worst of it.

“I’ve felt a lot of things, standing on that stage,” Foolish’s voice is so loud in the quiet, “Disgust, rage, hatred, pity,” He lists idly, “lust, hopelessness, fear.”

“But Wilbur, do you know the one thing I’ve never felt? Never once, from anyone who hadn’t been a part of the Rose Garden, who hasn’t suffered under the Emperor?” It’s not a true question, Wilbur doesn’t try to answer.

“Like a person. I’ve been an object, a toy, a thing, but never a person. You’ve never made me feel like a person.” Well shit, Wilbur forgot Foolish could feel lies. Wait, can’t Quackity too, somewhat? Or is that not something magic sensitive folks can actually do, rumors are so finicky.

“You’re not concerned even now,” Foolish grumbles. Wilbur almost misses it, so much quieter than the rest of his words. And, rude, Wilbur is concerned. Sure, it’s not exactly about Foolish but Wilbur’s not feeling much of anything right now. Murder is hard.

Charlie hums, a simple idle song that’s more than a little out of tune, grating against Wilbur’s ears. He slumps a little in the blankets, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. That won’t help their points. That won’t help him feel anymore whole.

So silence falls over them. He can’t defend himself and they don’t want to talk to him. The only one who doesn’t seem upset at Wilbur right now is Schlatt. Then again, being upset requires being, well, anything .

He doesn’t know when he notices it, if he noticed it at all, but Schlatt slowly turns to look at him. It’s a jerking thing, tiny motions building into a one turn. Really, it’s a bit like watching a statue try and learn to move.

Wilbur stays still, watching Schlatt back out of the corner of his eyes. There’s still no upset on his face. Schlatt looks even more blank than Wilbur feels. His eyebrows twitch occasionally towards something more focused, yet that focus isn’t mirrored in his eyes.

Fingers slowly sink and stretch into the blankets around him as if Schlatt’s remembering he has fingers. Wilbur finds himself idly matching the clench and unclenching. It gives him something to do.

“You have your mother’s eyes.” Schlatt’s voice is so unfamiliar, low and gravelly like Wilbur’s come to expect from alley hustlers trying to find their next quick fix. His words are nothing Wilbur’s come to respect.

“She never fought as hard as you did.” And Wilbur can’t look away despite that. He can’t break this tenuous eye contact with a distant man who’s seeing so much more than just Wilbur.

It’s stupid . It’s so fucking stupid. Wilbur- Wilbur knew , okay? He knew these fuckers probably knew his mom. She was a siren, too pretty for her own damn good. She sang sweetly on corner sides to make just enough to feed the two of them until the day she couldn’t sing anymore.

He shouldn’t be surprised that they would see her in him, that’s how family resemblance works. That’s what he’s been fighting against this whole fucking time in a way. That’s what he’s been fighting for , her body amongst the dozens in the garden.

But still it stings . It stings knowing he has something from her still, clinging to him in a way her memory quietly refuses to, slipping from him more and more with every moment he stubbornly recovers.

It stings knowing she gave up, too. She raised a fighter, so why couldn’t she fight a little harder? Wasn’t death better than being owned? Isn’t that why they fled to the Empire of Souls to begin with? The one place with borders strong enough to keep poachers away?

A siren sings so pretty, so beautifully when birds are locked in cages for so much less. This place was supposedly better than a life with them. She fought to get them here, she fought to keep them alive here.

Why did she stop fighting for him?

Wilbur takes a deep breath. It doesn’t matter. His mother is dead, her song is a fading memory, and the reason for all of this is lying half dead in an undefended room. Things are going to be fine .

Revenge for him, for her, for the people who’ve suffered under Sanguinis’ reign. Wilbur stands. Schlatt doesn’t follow him, Wilbur isn’t sure he can respond fast enough to try.

“Maybe someone should have fought for her instead,” Wilbur finds himself spitting, far more intense than he meant to be. It’s fine. It will be fine. His mother fought long enough, it’s his turn now. She bought him all the time she could.

It’s still too early, though the moon has risen and the night is bound to be long, and Wilbur certainly didn’t plan for tonight. He can’t stand to be in the Rose Garden a moment longer. He won’t have to come very soon.

Jack waits at the doors to the armory, a fancy room that once belonged solely to Techno and Ranboo when they were the only guards in this gods’ forsaken place. Jack takes one look at him and seems to know not to get in his way. A good listener, that one.

Knives are easy to find. Techno is such a neat freak, always keeping things in order, at least when it comes to sharp things. His personal rooms are less so, borrowed books stacked wildly on shelves and tables and chairs. 

One of them, Wilbur’s been keeping an eye on for a while. Long, double sided, built for stabbing more than slashing in a paler shade of purple than most netherite tends to turn out. At the very least it’s one of the palest metals in the netherite section.

He holds the blade reverently. The thing that will end it all, cut short that anticipation buzzing in his veins, heating his eyes, shaking his hands. The grip is a simple black leather, the pommel bathed in gold.

No one stops him on the way to Sanguinis’ resting place. No one stops him when he walks in. No one stops him when he shuts the door, a bit of privacy in a monster’s last moments. No one stops him when he raises the knife.

No one, that is, but himself.

Notes:

Merry fucking Halloween, hope y'all had fun if you celebrated and, even if you didn't, I hope you had fun reading this instead. I had fun doing both, though several lines in this decided to stab me in the stomach and steal my kidneys. It's fine, I only need like one of those, maybe even half of one if I try hard enough.

How'd you like Wilbur POV? Has he really been thinking like this during the entire rest of the fic? Yup. Did you think he was going to be all righteous and kind and honest because he was supposed to be a video game protagonist? Idk if I ever alluded to that but, ehhh, he's kind of none of those things. Oopsie daisy.

Phil comes back next chapter tho! There's a big scene there I look forwards to writing at the very beginning. Yanno, when Wilbur hesitates in committing treason? Or, well, more treason than he's already committed? Yeah, bro's got mental problems. So does Phil tbh. None of these people are mentally okay.

Seriously, all Phil did what traumatize these fucker's even *more*, I didn't even know there was trauma left for them to receive! It's honestly impressive. Speaking of trauma, I hope you enjoyed all the character moments between Wilbur and the Roses, I feel like those really flesh out the Roses' trauma more without them trauma dumping the details onto Wilbur, a veritable stranger none of them trust.

You will get details one day though, so look out for that. It will be graphic and it will be uncomfortable but, like, very little about this fic has been soft, fluffy and kind. You guy's are really holding onto that 'it gets better tag' for dear life istg.

Chapter 16: The Fault Of Conviction Is Humanity

Summary:

What does it take for a man to become a murderer? Rage? Ambition? Conviction? A turning point where everything goes wrong? Whatever it is, it seems Wilbur is not quite there yet. For all he may claim to want it, he cannot find it within himself to kill the Monster, the Tyrant, God Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, a man who is not truly a man by any measure of the word. It is infuriating. He can't seem to figure out what's wrong with him. Why can't he complete this mission?

Philza is a living corpse, a man who wants to die and came so close to it. Even without that final blow, he is all but dead. After all, once you start thinking the world is better without you in it, it's hard to come back from that. Philza sees his death as inevitable. He is... disappointed, he thinks, by the lack of a killing blow. Surely, his time will come? He may not deserve the freedom of death but, maybe, someone else will see it fit to grant him that? Why can't it all end already?

Why, why, why. That's the important question. One that sparks many changes. Only time will tell if these changes will be good.

Notes:

MY KEYBOARD BROKE AND I DIED FOR A MONTH AHHHH. It's fine, I'm fine, I got a new one and I haven't even had a (severe) breakdown about managing two english classes with a broken spacebar. And now I got a new keyboard. Everything is fine. I am thriving. This chapter is a short 5.5k words, thanks for waiting.

TW: Suicidal Ideation, Abuse (physical, emotional), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Mental Spiraling, Depression, Grief, On-Screen Violence, Self-Doubt, Mentioned Isolation, Phil's Incredibly Low Self Esteem

But at least Tall Goth Kristin shows up briefly, and that really makes everything better.

Phil wakes up disappointingly slowly. Disappointing because he wasn’t supposed to be able to wake up at all. His ability to even be aware enough to feel disappointed only feeds the emotion further. Even before he can pick out the touch, taste, or pains of living, he can feel that so clearly.

It’s being able to register light against his sealed eyelids maybe. Maybe it’s because his chest rises weakly even before that. Or maybe it’s the drumming of his heart in his ears. Each beat is its own canon, trapped inside his head.

Breathing is hard though. Each struggling breath, lacking enough energy to turn them into gasps, gives him a weak hope that, even if the poison failed, he might still be able to die. Even when staying awake for weeks at a time, Phil didn’t feel so terrible in this awful body of his.

Sure, it would be a lot better if he didn’t have to feel like this at all, some part of him remembering the sweet grasp of death with wistful fondness, but he can’t win them all. Or win anything, apparently.

Hearing and touch are the last senses to leave before someone dies, or at least Phil’s pretty sure he’s read that somewhere. Trying to recall the information makes his head hurt. Well, more than it already is at least.

Maybe that’s why hearing and touch come back to him first. Phil feels the plushness of a delicate mattress, the cold silk of some robe or another, the stagnant air against his feathers. He feels so strongly the dull ache within every limb.

Dull turns sharp, harsh sparks not unlike a zap of electricity riding up his arms and wings at even the slightest twitch of muscle. Phil forces himself limp to save him the pain. He isn’t so far gone as to want to hurt. He’s just far gone enough that he recognizes death as the only true freedom from the pain of living.

A concerning line of thought, one he often buries. He can’t quite force it down now. Oh well, Phil’s allowed to wallow after a failed assassination attempt, even if he was the one being assassinated.

Light footsteps reach his ears, that second sense that returns to him. The very presence of footsteps means he can’t be in Sanguinis’ room. That bed, nest , has no way for people without wings to get up to it.

So where is he then? One of the other bedrooms maybe. Whichever one exactly doesn’t matter, it was likely chosen randomly by whoever volunteered to move his wanna-be corpse. 

Whoever has entered the room closes the door with an echoing click . It almost hurts, it’s so loud. Damn Sanguinis’ sensitive ears. They weren’t so bad before… except before he had the energy to deal with the extra sensory input.

If Phil were in any less pain, he’d be asleep right now. Apparently it’s hard to sleep when even breathing hurts, each weak swallow a mouth full of glass. That’s the poison’s fault, definitely. He didn’t think poison would tear up his throat so badly.

“ Okay, ” A voice softly breathes. Phil’s usually better about voices than this, able to match them to names and faces fairly quickly. Now, he struggles. It takes a deep breath and the feeling of something pointy resting against his chest for it to click.

Call it sad but Phil tries to smile once he realizes his visitor is Wilbur, with a knife at that. Phil’s glad he can trust Wilbur to follow through when the first attempt fails. He was always stubborn.

Wilbur lifts the knife, then sets it back down again. The motion repeats, slowly, faster, tapping against Phil’s chest, clearly nervous about actually finishing the job. Poor Wilbur. Something close to pity weighs even heavier with the thick layer of disappointment. It’s okay. Phil almost wishes he could encourage the man.

“ Come on, get it over with, ” Wilbur hypes himself up. Speaking is a bit beyond Phil at the moment. Maybe, just maybe, he can justify encouraging Wilbur in some other way? Justify how much it will hurt in that moment with the reward of it never hurting again?

Phil cracks open his eyes. There’s no real light in the bedroom, now canopies and the curtains drawn tight. What little makes it through the cracks shines dramatically over the scene, truly reminiscent of the images in the game.

Moonlight glints off the edge of a dull purple knife, shimmering over streaks of blue where Wilbur’s scales were otherwise clear. A single beam lights up one of those gorgeous dark eyes. 

Next, he tries to move his hand. Wilbur startles at the first twitch, falling still with bated breath. It’s… incredibly awkward, honestly. Phil’s almost embarrassed by how slow his arm moves, shaking so terribly.

The pain recedes just a little when Phil allows his hand to drop, landing on the pommel of Wilbur’s knife, digging the sharp tip further into chest. Tears prick at Phil’s eyes, half stress and half relief.

A smile on his face, though it undoubtedly looks more like a grimace, Phil tries his best to communicate that it’s okay. Things are going to be okay. Wilbur will be okay. Just do it already. Phil would press more insistently if he had enough muscle control for that.

“ What the fuck… ” Wilbur breathes. Then, more insistently, “What the fuck?” He tears the knife away from Phil, raising it in the air. For a moment, Phil has more hope than he knows what to do with.

“Why?” Wilbur holds the knife in the air, trembling. The look on his face is painful, desperate, confused. Eyes dry, pinched brows, mouth tightened into something awful.

“Why are you like this?” Another disappointment, Wilbur’s arm dropping limply to his side, still holding the knife. Phil stares at the place it once held, mind running too slowly to follow the motion. Damnit, so close.

“I should just kill you already. You deserve it. You deserve worse but keeping you alive would be a greater crime to those forced to exist in your presence.” Each insult should hurt but Phil’s left more hollow than anything. It’s a confirmation of his own self hatred, after all. Nothing that he hasn’t quietly thought to himself before.

“Gods, I don’t even know why they even blessed you. No one likes you, yet the gods think you’re worthy of immortality and shit? Please. Each moment you exist on this planet is another reason the church should be torn apart.” Wilbur rambles, beginning to pace.

“Really, I’d be doing the world a favor by killing you. Kill the monster, burn at the stake, chop you into pieces, anything.” Wilbur laughs. It’s not pleasant. That’s one whole ass breakdown alright.

“And you’re just going along with it,” Wilbur sighs, deceptively light, “Don’t you want to live? Won’t you fight back? It’s not normal to just accept this shit.” Wilbur punctuates his words by bringing down his knife, sinking it into the mattress centimeters from Phil’s skin, cutting through his robe. So close but so far.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a narcissist? Violent? Smart? Why are you rolling over and waiting to die? Why does it seem like people want you to live?” Wilbur asks the questions Phil couldn’t answer even if he could talk.

“ Why can’t I kill you?” Wilbur whispers, shaking, eyes red yet so painfully dry. It’s as much an accusation as it is a question, as if it’s Phil’s fault for Wilbur’s lapse in judgment. Maybe it is, in a way.

Phil wouldn’t take back anything he’s done. Not the programs he’s put into place, not the legislation he’s passed, not helping Grian or his treatment of Techno, Tommy, and the Roses. No, he doesn’t regret any of that.

But he can see how it would leave Wilbur… confused, so to speak. Phil’s actions are completely incongruent with Sanguinis. It would have been nicer if he had done nothing at all. Wilbur might actually have killed him then, a nice hollow though.

“ I’m sorry,” Phil rasps past cracked lips, past his copper stained mouth and glass infested throat. Two little words carry so much pain he nearly passes out. 

Wilbur stares at him, breath picking up. He opens his mouth, decides against speaking, and instead grits his teeth. Hands raise but there’s no hope with the knife left where it is. Instead, Wilbur grips at his own hair.

And he screams. A muffled thing, done through his teeth, speaking of the purest kind of frustration, too overwhelmed to feel much of anything else. Phil tries to look away, cheeks pinkening with the burning blood of shame.

“You don’t get to apologize,” Wilbur snaps. He stomps on the floor, tugging harder at his hair, winding himself up just to fall down. Phil can only lay there and try to breathe.

“You don’t get to act like a hero. You don’t get to change and be better and act like that changes anything. ” Harsh breathing echoes in the too quiet room. Wilbur wavers, slipping silently to his knees.

“Why couldn’t you have just been a monster?” Wilbur asks, his fight draining into something tired. No less angry, no less upset, but far too exhausted to do anything about it. Far too… human, maybe, to act on his emotions.

It’s only Phil to blame for that. For his attempts to make things better, he humanized Sanguinis. He changed too much and now Wilbur can’t or won’t kill him. Hopefully it’s a ‘won’t’. ‘Won’t’ means Phil could change Wilbur’s mind.

Phil can only lie there, little more than a corpse. Too useless to make Wilbur feel better, too useless to change anything of importance, and too useless to even take the initiative to end his own life. Death seems to be a kindness Phil doesn’t deserve.

A fist slams into his chest. Phil hadn’t even noticed Wilbur approaching, not over his ragged breathing and dark thoughts. It chokes what little air he manages to get out of his lungs. What should have been a pained noise is barely a wheeze.

“ Why?” Wilbur hisses, a second wind maybe? A return of conviction? Energy spurred on by being unable to drive that knife into Phil’s heart? Another strike, Wilbur’s hands raised above his head and slammed down.

The pain tears his thoughts from him, overtaken by that haze. His sternum, already abused from falling and poison, screams beneath the blows.

“ Why? Why, why, why?” Wilbur takes his anger out on Phil. It makes sense, Phil knows with an odd clarity. Phil is the source of Wilbur’s anger, if not the true origin, but Wilbur has no way of knowing that. Each blow is because of a greater slight. Each blow is deserved in a way. Deserved through inherited sin.

Cruel hands grab at Phil’s wings, ripping out patches of feathers and jostling sensitive joints. One tug, two, Wilbur pulling the wing as hard as he can until something shifts and Phil’s throat strangles a scream.

White hot pain sears from the appendage. If Phil were any more lucid, he could connect the experience to one he’s had before as a dumb child doing gymnastics, the feeling of dislocating a limb. But he is not. He could not be if he tried.

He is a victim of agony. Agony, that cruel mistress who jealously hoards all thoughts and delights. There is not good in her arms, in Wilbur’s hands. Phil can do nothing but take it. Phil… doesn’t know if he would fight back, even if he could. Even if he knew how to use the powerful magic thrumming beneath his skin.

“Maybe…” Wilbur hums, panting, “maybe, maybe, maybe.” He repeats that word like a prayer,  like an answer to his own desperate question. Phil barely registers the broken feathers stuck between Wilbur’s tense feathers, nor the movement, nor even the words.

Wilbur settles over his chest, knee resting close to the knife still embedded in the mattress, and that is finally something Phil can register. Calloused hands reach to trace Phil’s throat, almost reverent.

“Maybe you don’t deserve it.” Wilbur presses his fingers into Phil’s throat. Gentle at first, the pressure slowly increases, dragging a line from his adam's apple down to one side. Phil’s already strained, not quite frantic breathing only grows harder to maintain.

“Death is too swift a punishment, after all. That’s why it was never something you favored. No, you liked spectacle. There is nothing spectacular about a quiet death.” Harder still, hand spreading to wrap tightening around Phil’s throat, thin fingers pressing into his skin.

“I am going to make you suffer and you… you aren’t going to stop me, are you?” Wilbur… almost seems amused? Maybe? Phil’s vision fuzzes. He barely catches that odd gleam in Wilbur’s eyes.

“I can… I can accept that you’ve changed. I can work with that. I can make you suffer like you’ve made the world suffer. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a taste of your own medicine.” Pearly white teeth reflect the barest glimmer of the moon.

“And you won’t do a thing to defend yourself, I’ll make sure of it. It will be our little game, okay Phil-za?” It’s not a question looking for an answer. Phil couldn’t answer if he wanted to anyway.

Darkness sticks to the edges of his vision, crawling over him slowly as he chokes beneath Wilbur’s hands. His injured body can’t even manage the desperate gasp it so craves when Wilbur finally lets go.

“I’ll need leverage, of course. Maybe Tommy?” Wilbur mutters, voice drifting away as he slips off Phil, taking the knife with him as he finally leaves the room. Not a syllable registers. 

The living corpse is just that, a corpse, and corpses aren’t very well known for understanding much of anything at all. Being in such pain, Phil might be doing less than the average corpse.

Seconds slip by like hours. Time may pass quickly when doing something you enjoy but misery has a habit of stewing in eternity. Even if Phil was aware enough to track the time, the closed blinds don’t give him much of an opportunity to.

All he has to focus on is himself and that isn’t a very pleasant thing to focus on at all. Minute by minute, the agony shifts and ripples. Phil never had the opportunity to study Sanguinis’ healing factor, so used to his wounds healing faster than they appear, but now it’s all they can focus on.

Between the beating and the poison, it’s quite a lot of work for the blessing to manage, though it honestly feels more like a curse when all Phil wanted was for that attempt to succeed.

Lingering in pain as he is now, Phil can only compound his dislike of the thing. Its constant attempts to fix him mean the pain is never at a constant level. No, it shifts and twists and tears as they magic tries to pull his body back together.

Maybe Sanguinis learned to live like this. Maybe he didn’t and that’s why he was always so angry on the few occasions he actually got notably hurt. Whatever the answer, Phil certainly isn’t used to the meandering agony.

Pain, Phil knows, can eventually be ignored. Most pains can be gotten used to, drowned out by the body in order to survive. He’s dealt with broken bones and stitches before, the kinds of things that take ages to heal. He knows the pain of those eventually gets drowned out.

He can’t see a world where he can drown out the agony of feeling his wing shifting back into its socket in rapid jerking movements. No, not rapid. Sometimes it’s slow. Other times it’s smooth. All in all, it’s inconsistent .

Without immortality, his healing factor struggles to keep up. Maybe. That sounds plausible at least. But then, anything would probably sound right now.

After hours that really feel like days, someone enters Phil’s dark and lonely room. Not maids nor Wilbur nor any of the Roses, a thing Phil would be grateful for come a time of less pain. A delirious sort of disappointment greets him with Kristin’s unfamiliar face.

She approaches the bed slowly, dressed in lace and raven feathers, her long hair tied elegantly out of her face with a purple ribbon. It’s almost notable that she says nothing. Maybe she thinks Phil is asleep?

Dark eyes stare imploringly down at him. If there are questions in them, Phil can tell which ones. If she has sympathy, she hides it. If there is that same sick glee Wilbur had landed on just before his departure, it is nothing Phil can read.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. She’s the closest thing this place has to a healer, Phil is injured. All she’s here to do is her job. She is not here to comfort him, to tell him everything will be alright. No one is here to comfort Phil.

No one would comfort Sanguinis either so, really, it’s stupid of Phil to crave a warm hand. To want for kind words his predecessor does not deserve, and so Phil does not deserve it either.

But Phil had always gotten comfort before when injured. Even if he knows better, if the emotions associated with the memories are gone and with them the true weight of his experience, he still expects her to soften. Some part of him expects a measure of kindness.

Instead, without saying a word, she snaps his wing back into its socket. There is no warning, no greeting, not even something for Phil to bite on to prevent him from biting off his tongue. The blood that fills his mouth is evidence enough of that.

“Kristin?” He garbles, feeling the hot slide of crimson from the corner of his lips. Phil’s mother, the one whose face was framed by dull brown hair and who’s blue eyes always held warmth, would have wiped his face off. She would have comforted him.

The fact he cannot recall an ouch of the love Phil’s certain he must’ve once held for her is almost as painful as Kristin’s uncaring expression. He cannot remember what love feels like. Did he ever know? Did he wake up as Sanguinis knowing love and lose it over the intervening months?

“Imperial Highness, I had not expected you to be awake at this hour. Forgive this lowly Sorcerer, I was merely attending to your wounds,” Kristin explains, voice as lofty as when they’d first met. The situation is so very different yet, to Kristin, it seems nothing has changed at all.

Phil has not changed anything at all. Not for the better. Maybe he’s tried, but can he really say he’s succeeded? Can he really say he’s done anything of note? Yes, Grian is freed from the basement. Yes, he feeds the Roses. Yes, he’s stumbled his way around a political system he can’t begin to understand.

“It had been expected that you would be out for a few further days, your Imperial Highness. Of course, it is only natural for one such as yourself to rise above those meager expectations.” The words flow in one ear and out another.

Because is any of that really of note? He has done the bare basics to be considered acceptable, ignoring all his other problems out of a weak hope he wouldn’t have to deal with them at all. Except he can’t even die right, so he must face them anyway.

“Allow this one to continue their duties as they report on your health, your Imperial Highness.” Kristin clasps her hands in front of herself, waiting for a scant few seconds. Phil does not respond.

He’s pathetic, honestly. He claims to be trying his best all the while crumbling like a wet paper bag. If he were trying , he would have tried to spend more time with Tommy. He would have reached out to those he hurt to try and form a genuine connection, to apologize, not isolated himself away where no one would dare to venture.

Kristin continues his checkup without his permission. Phil lets her. Phil thinks he would let her do anything to him. There isn’t much she could do that Phil would resent her for. Honestly, he’d probably thank her if she were cruel.

All of it would be deserved. Phil rattles a breath. A change of tactics is in order, he decides as he tries to pull himself out of his most depressing thoughts. Lingering in sadness never does anything. Inaction is just as bad as action in many cases, as his current state proves. He needs to do something.

Even if that something results in a quicker death, a thing Phil can’t find himself fearing any longer. That would be a good thing, after all. Phil… Phil just needs a plan. He needs to get over himself. He needs to be less of a fucking disappointment.

Though he struggles to imagine himself dying by his own hands, that does not mean Phil can allow himself to do nothing, not anymore. He may have nothing to do but wait on the foodbank initiative but… but there are so many people in the palace, in the capital. Even if legislation can not be quickly changed, surely he can do something in person, right? Right?

So much thinking compounds the dull headache the poison wrought. Tears prick Phil’s eyes, unable to think of a single thing he can actually do when everything hurts so much. Things would be so much simpler if this world were merely a game.

It’s based on a game, why can’t Phil deal with quests? With clearly outlined expectations? Maybe then he would be more than he is. Maybe then, he could manage to feel anything positive at all.

Kristin hands land gently on his wing, finishing whatever inspection they’d been doing of his face. From what he can comprehend of his wing’s senses, her fingers aren’t wet. Maybe she changed location to avoid being soiled by his tears.

Each gentle motion feels so much sharper than before. His wings, usually feeling so dull compared to his other senses, instead become a shining beacon of information. Phil shivers, not used to such sensitivity.

He focuses on it, on anything but his own head. The feeling isn’t unpleasant. It isn’t particularly pleasant either, though that could just be the newness of it speaking.

“Kristin,” Phil says, though he isn’t sure why. A mere desire to speak? The pain in his throat is duller, if not any less vibrant than before. Still, it causes her to pause, retracting her hands.

“Yes, your imperial highness?” Kristin implores. Well shit, now Phil has to think of something to say that hopefully doesn’t reflect his actual inner monologue. Kristin doesn’t deserve to have the weight of Phil’s problems foisted onto her.

“How… is my son?” Phil manages. A safe question, perfect. Except now he’s thinking about Tommy. Oh gods, Tommy. Phil nearly died in front of him. How could he be so selfish? Tommy’s already traumatized enough without the added experience of watching a parent die before his eyes.

“This lowly sorcerer has no knowledge of the young imperial prince’s activities,” Krisitin responds blandly. A coo tumbles from Phil before he can stop it, tears renewed. Damnit, now is not the time. He’s only bothering Kristin with his crying.

“However, if it may please your imperial highness, our eternal lord, I could inform you of Grian’s current status?” Kristin offers. Right, Phil missed his last two weekly checkups. Not that he seemed particularly wanted during them anyway.

They never lasted longer than an hour, he rarely actually saw Grian during them, and Kristin was never anything more than perfectly polite. It’s ridiculous, then, that he considers Grain one of his closest, and only, friends here. But then, ‘closest’ doesn’t necessarily imply them being close, only that Phil has no one else.

“Yes,” Phil manages, trying to calm himself. Seriously, he has no reason to be crying. His pain means nothing in the long run, he’s become used to the ostracization of the people around him, and he hasn’t earnestly cried since his first night here. 

What changed? Nothing prompted this that Phil can recall. The frustration only makes him cry harder, chest rattling and head spinning.

Kristin returns to her check up, reaching forward to untie his rob to expose Phil’s chest, speaking in low, dulcet tones. Maybe this is how it felt to listen to Phil’s mother. Phil yearns to know far more than he could ever yearn for her.

“While physical recovery continues to be slow, Grian’s mental recovery appears to be moving quicker. Recently, he has begun to communicate in short, simple phrases and display noticeable signs of emotion,” Kristin recites.

“To match that, his reaction speed has also improved once more, responding almost within normal rates to stimuli. I have been encouraging this behavior through the use of small, harmless summons to accompany him. I believe that he can be cleared to begin interaction with those outside the Silver Tower within a month’s time.”

“Interaction with others would greatly improve his state, if your imperial highness would allow it. I already have in mind a few servants that I believe would not exacerbate his condition. Of course, this lowly Sorcerer would not steal a prized servant without express permission.”

Kristin continues to speak, Phil continues to listen, and, while he doesn’t feel content, he can at least ignore his pain for a few moments. It’s the nicest thing he deserves. He would not dare ask for more.

…

Father is not at the table when Tommy enters, he shouldn’t have expected him to be. Tommy shouldn’t have even dared to hope. He saw Father fall. He saw him lying in that bed. He knows better.

Still, Tommy presses his wings tight around his shoulders and chokes a strained warble seeing Father’s empty low-back chair. His feet sink into the floor, unable to walk another step. It’s wrong .

It’s so wrong to eat breakfast without Father. It’s a recent habit after all, one that hasn’t ended naturally. Father is always at breakfast, if not other meals, though Tommy chooses to eat those in his room usually. Asking to eat dinner with his father isn’t something he ever had the strength to do.

He would dare be so impudent as to ask for things, after all. An emotion that could be regret bubbles in his throat. Maybe he should have. Maybe then, Father wouldn’t have drank that goblet. Because Tommy sits near him at meals. Tommy could have stopped him, slapped the goblet out of his hand.

Tommy shouldn’t want to change the past, shouldn’t want to have done something like that at all. But Father protected him, made him feel safe. It had only been the once but… but maybe if he had saved Father, he’d get the opportunity more often?

Want is a dangerous thing Tommy should know better than to have. Tommy wants anyway. Tommy wants his Father here. Tommy wants his Father healthy. Tommy doesn’t want…

“Come on Theseus, you need to eat.” Techno presses a hand against his back, guiding him further into the dining room, far too empty without his Father’s imposing presence. Tommy never thought he’d miss the oppressive magic.

A whine answers Techno, words suddenly a struggle. Tommy hasn’t struggled with words since he was four , Father doesn’t allow it. Or, he didn’t. Now he does. Now he coos and chirps and tells Tommy he loves him.

“I’m sure the chefs made something delicious for you,” Techno assures. It’s not the assurance Tommy wants, not at all. He flutters his wings in frustration, smacking his growing flight feathers into Techno’s side.

“But what about-” Tommy bites his tongue, cutting himself off. No, this is him and Techno time, even if it should’ve been him and Father time. He can’t talk about Father now. Techno doesn’t even like Father. Techno, who should be more like a parent but isn’t, not to Tommy’s starved instincts.

Techno must take pity on him because he doesn’t ask Tommy to finish. Instead, he sits Tommy in one of the chairs, the wrong one that’s far too far from Father’s chair, and settles in one next to him. Settles like he’s family, like he’s flock.

And he is. He is family, to Tommy’s humanoid side if not his elytran one. The contrast makes him grit his teeth, frustrated and angry. He digs his small talons into the table, failing to leave a dent in it.

Servants bring the meal swiftly, including a plate for Techno since Father is hardly around to tell them otherwise. Tommy doesn’t pay much attention to it. It’s by far the most fanciful mean Tommy’s ever had.

Fluffy pancakes topped with fruits Father never used to let him try, steaming omelets filled with delicacies, cuts of perfectly cut meat. In absence of his Father, it seems Tommy got his meal. 

He wants to throw it against the wall. He wants to smash the plates and break the cups because this isn’t his. Father should be eating this, not him. Tommy scratches at the table, forcing himself not to cry. Father should be here. Why isn’t he?

“You’re not eating,” Techno points out as if he’s eating either. Tommy glares at Techno, eying how he shuffles around food on his plate. He huffs.

“It’s not… proper,” Tommy responds. Father always starts eating first, offering Tommy bits and pieces off his plate. At least, he has during his recent mood, these kinder past few months. It’s almost Tommy’s birthday, even. He’d almost been looking forward to seeing what this kinder Father would do to celebrate.

“Proper? I don’t think ‘proper’ matters with Sanguinis half dead.” It’s not Techno’s fault, it’s not, but the monotone grates Tommy’s ears. His wings snap out behind him.

“I know. It’s merely strange to be eating the first meal with the Emperor absent,” Tommy explains. Calm, stay calm. He’s good at faking being calm, it used to be all Father would allow.

…When did he start mentally referring to Sanguinis as ‘Father’? 

“You’re upset,” Techno seems to realize, “right, of course you are. Yesterday was quite the series of events.” Tommy knows Techno has emotions. Techno cares a lot, far more than his body can contain. He knows this.

“Aren’t you upset?” Tommy’s words come out more painful than intended anyway. He stabs at the table with his fork, unable to look at Techno. Not right now. He’ll do something he regrets if he does.

“I don’t know,” Techno responds far too fast. If Tommy can even count that as a response. It doesn’t feel like one, not a real one at least.

“How can you not know?” Tommy mutters. Techno hums, somehow having to think about it. Shouldn’t it be simple? Either Techno is upset, or he isn’t.

“I’m more upset than I thought I’d be but less than I could be,” Techno offers. There’s an odd note to his voice. Tommy looks up and, for a moment, Techno looks more uncertain than he’s ever been before. Nothing like the stoic man Tommy’s always known.

“But you’re more important than me. How… how do you feel?” Techno asks. Impressive for someone allergic to emotions, Tommy thinks with no small amount of bitterness. Wait, no, no. He’s not supposed to be so upset with Techno. Tommy’s never upset with Techno.

“Weird,” Tommy answers, “I’m angry, but not really. I keep getting mad at small things that never bothered me before. I keep missing Father but I don’t even like Father. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He also keeps replaying his father’s fall each time he closes his eyes but, well, he’s pretty sure that’s how everyone feels. Actually saying that would be redundant. 

“Sounds like you’re grieving. You don’t have to like someone to grieve for them,” Techno says. Tommy growls, or the closest thing he can get to a growl at least. He stabs the table with his fork.

“I don’t want to, Father’s not even dead yet,” Tommy whines. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t. Tommy’s too old for tears. He’s been too old for tears. Father had no patience for it. Father, who’s only hugged him once in the entire fourteen years he’s been alive. Father, who isn’t dead…

Father, who might turn back into who he used to be after such a shock. The very thought is terrifying. Tommy doesn’t want his Father dead, he’s not sure he ever did, but he’d almost prefer it to Father turning back.

Techno wraps an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, pulling him close. Face hidden in Techno’s chest, Tommy finally allows himself to cry. No one’s around to see him after all.

“I’m sorry,” Techno rumbles. Tommy scrunches his face even as he continues to cling to Techno. An apology? Why? That doesn’t make any sense.

After all, it’s not like Techno’s at fault for any of this.

Notes:

I'll admit, this feels like a lackluster offering considering how much I keep disappearing. Maybe it's cause I'm writing this after reading an incredibly good angsty story or maybe it's cause I'm the one writing it but this feels kinda... bland? But that also kinda makes it sound like I'm fishing for compliments... ehhhhh, it's fine. I'll just play the sims and forget about my feelings and responsibilities.

Hope you enjoyed the story! Hope it made you suffer. The decision to make Wilbur lash out was last second but felt fitting for his character. He does have that whole 'not thinking about others' thing going on, and there's that whole bit about dying a hero or living to become a villain.

I wonder if that means any of the main cast will die by the end of the story?

:)

Chapter 17: Breaking The Illusion

Summary:

If one were to describe the Crownsoul Crow, Sanguinis Momentus-Mortis, they would use quite a few words. 'Imposing', 'Invincible', 'Deadly', 'Vengeful'. They would speak of his immortality and his strengths, always above the simple pains and discomforts of the mortals around him. Not even those closest to him would have seen him as anything less.

Philza is not imposing, or invincible, or vengeful. He can be deadly, but mostly on accident. He does not look put together or strong, not right now. After three, long, bedridden days, he barely even looks like the Emperor at all. No, he looks far too... mortal, for that. Dirt and blood clings to his skin, decorating the mass of bruises. His hair matts, pain strikes his limbs, and his eyes are dull. He's nothing like he was.

He hasn't been the same for a long time. He's been trying to prove that without words to days, weeks, months to no avail. Yet looking at how he is now, unrecognizable for who he truly is, it becomes impossible to see anything else. Philza is different.

No one can deny that now.

Notes:

Wow, it's amazing what having a functioning keyboard can do for ya. 7.5k words, I posted the last chapter only like two days ago or smth. I am on a *roll*. Which is really good for you guys considering all the angst I've been shovling onto your plate. There's actually some *fluff* in here! How did that happen?

TWs: Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Mental Spiraling, Incredibly Negative Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse (Mental, Physical, Sexual), Puking, Puking Blood, Depiction of Injury, Dissociation, Severe Pain, On-Screen Abuse (Isolation, Neglect)

*Sexy* CWs: Bath time Handjob, Dacryphilia, Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Dissociating During Sex, Begging, Gentle Sex

Life must move on, no matter how slowly. Steady and sure, whether Phil likes it or not, time marches inexorably forward. One day slips into the next, each taking hours, minutes, years. Infinity coallesses into seconds.

He thinks it's on the third day that he finally heals enough to stand, though he hasn’t tested it yet. Three days of complete isolation. Kristin does not visit again after the first. No servants wander in, though he might not have noticed if they did or not.

No more Roses visit either. Maybe Wilbur is at fault, maybe Sanguinis, maybe a mixture of both. Either way, Phil is alone. No one to hear his occasional pained wheeze and searching chirp. A chirp only Tommy could answer, if he even knew how.

Isolation doesn’t treat him well. In a way, Philza already knew that. He’s been slowly self-destructing bit by bit in that very same way, only vaguely aware of it in the same way he’s vaguely aware of everything. It’s so much worse now.

Everything is so much worse when there is nothing to distract him from the pain. There are no piles of paperwork to try and understand. There are no tense social situations to navigate without the barest knowledge of how either politics nor this world’s society functions. There is nothing . 

Well, there is himself. Technically speaking, the constant repeat of nothing-nothing-nothing is not nothing . It’s just the very thing he’s trying to distract himself from, his own mind. Every raging thought, a majority negative.

All he has going for him is still being self aware. He can point out his flaws. Fixing them is an entire other problem a bit too far out of reach. So, instead, Phil chooses to distract himself when he can. Don’t think too hard, don’t contemplate, don’t break.

Phil can’t break without ruining Wilbur’s hard work, can’t risk attempting something and having someone walk in. It’s already bad enough that he drank that poison with an audience to being with-

Ugh, no, no. This is exactly the thing he’s trying not to do. Phil shakes his head, knotted hair dragging uncomfortably against the bed. A wave of nausea, pin pricks of pain sparking down his neck, it all draws him very quickly out of his head.

Going around and around thinking is not his plan for today. The pain of merely lying there has subsided, not entirely but enough . He’s going to stand, go out, make something of himself instead of avoiding everything.

Moving as fast as he dares, so roughly the pace of a limping snail, Phil tries to shift himself over to one side. Shifting his chest sends shrapnel born of bone digging into his lungs. Air flees his lungs, immediately dropping down the few scant inches he had managed.

Okay, that had hurt… more than he expected. Phil shudders through a few breaths. That’s fine -except it’s not but it has to be- because Phil knows what to expect now. 

His next attempt goes a bit better. Shifting his weight isn’t any less agonizing but he can somewhat grit his teeth through it. The motivation to at least be a little less utterly filthy is a strong one.

Resting on his side, Phil shuffles his legs forward, scrapping them inch by inch off the bed until he’s only half laying on it. Each muscle seizes in its own specially miserable pattern.

Now the hard part. Standing is a lot harder than it first appears despite being performed by at least 90% of the population for hours at a time everyday. That’s because standing is not the stationary thing it seems to be. This, Phil knows.

Being top heavy, the human body -and likely double for Sanguinis’ body due to its wings- is constantly wobbling. Hundreds of tiny micro movements are required to maintain ‘standing’, shifting wait ever so slightly again and again to stop the body from toppling over. Hundreds of tiny motions that are bound to hurt.

Despite knowing of his imminent failure, Phil prepares to try anyway. Arms are pulled beneath him. He bends his knees, bracing his bare feet against the frigid marble floor, cursing once again at Sanguinis’ bullshit architecture.

One deep breath, sharp teeth grinding against each other as his entire body aches and pulses, and a moment of mental preparation. He pushes with all the strength his body can manage.

Since it’s Sanguinis’ body, not truly Phil’s, that’s a lot more strength than he expected. He successfully manages to get onto his feet… for all of a few seconds.

Bursts of strength can be far stronger than what a human body is truly capable of sustaining. The same can be said for this body despite its dubiously mortal nature.

Gravity, that mistress so cruel yet not quite as cruel as the ever absent Death, overtakes him. Phil falls, knees cracking loudly against the floor. The impact jars his bones, muscles, and joints. Liquid fire floods his veins.

A yelp pulls from his lips, though more accurately a bitten off scream. The pain beats in time with his hummingbird heart, pulsing louder than it had been yet being no more pleasant for it. Phil rests his head against the edge of the bed.

Eyes closed, quick pants heaving in his chest, he tries to recover. He needs to get better. He needs to do something . Phil can’t be this pathetic, he doesn’t have the time.

“Philza?” Words buzz in his ears, sounds not entirely translating into anything understandable. The hand brushing against his shoulder can’t be so easily confused. Phil flinches away, scraping his face against the soft comforter as he falls off to the side. No one catches him.

Another pained sound, yelp-scream-gasp. Phil knows it has to be coming from him but, for a moment, it doesn’t feel like it is. For a moment, he floats just out of his body trying to figure out what happened.

Someone entered the room. They spoke, Phil isn’t alone anymore, they touched him, Phil fell. Phil fell because they touched him and he can’t let people do that right now. Phil is far too filthy for that. It’s not a self esteem thing, promise.

No, Phil’s just been languishing in his own filth for three days, four if you count the time he was unconscious. He should count it. Four days of accumulated dirt, grime, bits of blood and whatever other bodily fluids there may be.

Bodily fluids he couldn’t clean himself of. No one else was around to clean him of them either. Phil’s disgusted enough to touch himself. He can’t force someone else to touch him too.

“This is new. What do I do? Fuck, this was such a bad idea.” Half-panicked whispering breaks his train of thought. Right, Phil moved because there was someone here. Who? Hard to say but…

“Foolish?” Phil slurs, face smooshed into the floor, slowly going blissfully numb with the cold. If only the cold could be just as blissful to the rest of his body, that would be great.

“Apologies Philza, for the intrusion, and the unwanted contact,” Foolish snaps to attention. Well, probably. Phil can’t exactly see what Foolish is doing right now. Foolish’s words get clearer if nothing else.

“It’s fine,” Phil responds. Nothing is fine but Foolish has done nothing wrong. Foolish is merely a victim to a man with far more power than anyone should have. Phil sighs, a death rattle.

Arms under him, breathe, tense, push. Phil hands on his knees, wobbling in a kneel, leaning hard against the bed for support. Standing is not on the bracket today it seems. No paperwork for him. No getting clean either… unless.

Phil glances at Foolish, the man standing awkwardly a few feet away. No, that would be selfish. Sure, Foolish is built incredibly strong, thick muscles literally carved from gold, and he is likely as strong as he looks due to spending his days gardening but Phil is filthy . He couldn’t possibly…

Huh, he’s surprisingly okay staring at Foolish. The urge to jump his bones doesn’t claw at the back of Phil’s teeth. Is he… too injured to be horny? Is that a thing? Distress can lessen sexual responses… it can also raise them but that’s obviously not what’s happening. Phil is very much distressed enough for the first thing.

That’s not to say he isn’t appreciative of Foolish’s body anymore. Phil was bisexual before he was shoved into a body that stubbornly refuses to be attracted to women after all. He can still take an eyeful of- no, no, no.  

“Did you need something?” Phil sighs. His apparent disappointment draws a flinch. Of course Foolish assumes he’s the problem instead of Phil, he’s traumatized. If it didn’t feel incredibly awkward to even think about, he’d explain that the only person he’s disappointed in is himself.

“I was… wanting to assure myself of your health, Philza. You have not been seen in quite some days. Those of us roaming the palace were… unsettled,” Foolish explains, slow and unsure. 

“As you can see, I am,” Phil cuts himself off. ‘Alright’, no he’s very much not alright. Sanguinis has lied and manipulated enough, Phil shouldn’t add to that. Not even if honesty burns his tongue black.

“Managing. I am managing. Slowly but surely,” Phil finishes. ‘Managing’ is still not exactly the right word. ‘Floundering’ might be better but also assuredly more upsetting. So for now Phil will manage until he can stand.

“Did- do you require assistance?” Good to know Foolish feels just as awkward as Phil, shuffling a half step backwards with his question. Phil bites back another sigh, chest still aching dully from the last one. Or maybe that’s from the fall. Or the poison. Or the well deserved beating- it could be from a lot of things, basically.

“I will manage without.” Even if it would be nice to be held for a moment. Phil can’t remember what it felt like to be held. He can remember the sense, the warmth that must have been against his skin, but it doesn’t feel warm. It doesn’t feel like anything at all.

“However,” Phil hears himself say, “it would be nice if you could help me to the bathroom.” Weak, Phil is weak. He’s hurting and tired and miserable and weak. He isn’t allowed to be weak.

“If that is what you desire, Philza. I’ll be touching you now.” Foolish approaches slowly, like Phil is a flighty animal rather than a person. The warning is nice. Phil tenses in spite of it but his flinch doesn’t send him to the floor again.

Foolish’s hand settles onto his shoulder, the touch light, flighty. It hovers where it is as Phil settles, each breath having it dance against his skin. No, not his skin, the sheer robe he’s found himself in.

Nevermind that it's stuck so tight to his skin that he can still keenly feel everything. Phil shudders out a breath, tasting blood. It’s fine, he’ll be fine. He’ll be even better after a bath. Maybe a shower? He might drown in the bath… could he even manage a shower?

“Let’s get you off your legs,” Foolish mutters, as much a warning as the last. Alright, Phil can do that. Kneeling isn’t particularly pleasant right now anyway. Frigid marble seeps into his skin, sending pins and needles as his searing blood attempts to fill his veins. His blood pressure doesn’t quite seem enough to manage.

Actually getting him off his legs is a bit of an ordeal though. Foolish, for all it seems he’s done this before, doesn’t actually know how to properly move Phil about. He’s just lifted by his armpits, made to shift his legs out from under him.

Less moving and more flopping honestly. Between the impulse to kick and actually performing it is a noticeable lag, ending in a sharp pain that almost perfectly outlines all the tendons in his legs. Phil chokes back a pained sound.

“I know, I know,” Foolish commiserates. He is definitely running on automatic, Phil decides in some sheltered corner of his mind floating above the pain, because there isn’t a situation where those words are applicable to Phil.

They pause to let Phil breathe, for the pain to subside, even if Phil knows it won’t. He breathes anyway, stubbornly pushing back the tears in his eyes and failing dramatically. Hot tears roll down his cheeks. Phil ignores them. Foolish takes his lead.

When it becomes obvious that the pain is going to stubbornly remain, Foolish helps Phil prop up against the bed. It’s an awkward position, a lounge with his legs splayed to the side at an angle that pulls at his hips, but it doesn’t hurt any more than it already does. Small mercies.

Once resting, Foolish manually bends Phil’s knees for him, setting them straight in front of him. Phil’s muscles seem to appreciate the bent position a little more. It’s hard to tell. Riding the waves of pain means he can’t really turn around to check.

Foolish tucks an arm into the space he created. The other arm is settled just beneath Phil’s limp wings, the muscles to those twitching reflexively to try and keep delicate pin feathers off the imposing golden muscle. They fail, just like Phil always does.

“And there, two, one,” Foolish counts, shifting Phil’s weight off the bed. A half beat after ‘one’, he stands, lifting Phil smoothly into the air. Even with Foolish’s impressive height, Phil’s flight feathers are still left to drag across the ground.

It’s not like he can feel much from those though, so that’s also fine. Really, all Phil can feel is pain and Foolish. Any sensation from the sheer robe has long since been drowned out by his brain in a desperate attempt to become a little less overstimulated.

Gold skin has such an interesting texture. Phil’s never realized that before. That makes sense, he’s only ever touched Foolish… once? Maybe? When he fell over himself in the greenhouse? Twice if he counts just before his poisoning but Phil wasn’t paying much attention either of those times.

Now his brain, desperate for a distraction, can’t focus on anything else as Foolish waits for him to adjust. Phil knows what gold feels like. While he didn’t own a lot of it, he’s interacted with a few golden bands, mostly wedding rings.

Even though he’s made of gold, Foolish doesn’t feel like gold. He’s too pliable for one. Phil can feel Foolish’s skin subtly molding and adjusting around him, shifts happening far deeper into where there should be muscle. 

A lot warmer too. Not warm warm but not cold, more a lukewarm bath sort of temperature. The temperature of a beloved necklace worn day in and day out until it matches the temperature of the skin and drives a permanent grove of love in.

Grooves, there’s grooves in Foolish too. Phil can spy more than a few resting across Foolish’s broad chest. Dents, long and thin or small and round, looking so similar to scars. Maybe they are scars, the elemental equivalent.

Rust clings to one notable one cut into Foolish’s ribs, though Phil’s own body covers the post of it, as does the curse of one impressive peck. Still, he can see the dull brownish flecks. That can’t be healthy.

“Which bathroom should I head to? There’s one in here, I could also use your… er, private bath,” Foolish falters in his question but recovers quick, powering through whatever discomfort he may be feeling. 

That’s a good question, Phil thinks before immediately disregarding it. He’s still more interested in Foolish. It’s nothing bad but Phil’s never taken the time to observe all the things that makes an elemental unique, especially a golden one like Foolish.

One of the last big things he notices is how smooth Foolish is. Metal has no need for pores, does not grow body hair nor sweat, and so if there’s not a scar then there’s nothing giving texture to Foolish at all. He traces a bare patch with the pad of his fingers in slow, lethargic motions. He barely notices Foolish tense.

“Mine?” Phil answers halfheartedly. It’s closer to Sanguinis’ closet, letting him cover up sooner. No need to force anyone to look at his bare body for longer than necessary. Foolish nods, pulling Phil a bit higher.

As a result, his head comes to rest near Foolish’s collarbone. Phil continues to trace Foolish’s skin, not getting told off and not entirely realizing he’s doing it. His eyes stray from the pattern.

Foolish has hair, Phil knew that. Ribbon-like, looking smooth as silk and shaded in colors ranging from pale, desaturated blues to a dark, about as desaturated navy. It looks fun to braid, or touch, or play with.

Even if Phil had the muscle control right now to try, he knows he wouldn’t be allowed. So he drops his eyes away from temptation, staring blankly at the changing scenery. It’s a testament to how little he’s noticing that he doesn’t realize where they are until he’s settling into the bath. Even then, just because he’s cold.

Porcelain is colder than marble. Not by a terrible lot, not when everything in this place is formed by marble, but a lot colder than Foolish by far. He shivers, his entire body aching with the motion.

He’s pliant as Foolish peels the robe for it. Peels is absolutely the right term there too. Stuck so tight to him, Phil feels like a layer of skin is being removed with each inch of fabric freed.

One arm out, more pained noises that Phil can’t stop, and then the other, easier but not necessarily more pleasant. He should really stop crying. He can’t, but he should.

Still he can’t stop sniffling. Phil manages not to sob but that’s about it. He wishes he could wrap his arms around himself, less for modesty and more a poor man’s attempt at a hug. Add that to the list of things he can’t do.

“How do I…” Foolish fiddles with the taps, mumbling to himself. Water rushes out, far too cold. It’s not like he can shiver any more , though he does flinch. Foolish mutters an apology.

Eventually, it starts running hot. Plug set in, the water begins to fill the tub, steaming hotter than it should be for anyone else. Except Foolish is made of metal and Sanguinis can more than withstand the heat.

Oh that feels good . Phil finally makes a sound that isn’t laced with pain, breathy as he melts into the water. Now if only he had a pharmacy’s worth of ibuprofen, he’d be set. He sinks.

Foolish stops him from sinking all the way. That would objectively be bad. Water breathing isn’t listed as one of Sanguinis’ known skills. In fact, there’s evidence against that since Phil’s pretty sure one route ends with Sanguinis drowning. He never saw it but he heard about it. That counts. Probably.

“Nope, stay up here,” Foolish pushes him fully above the water again. Phil whines in the back of his throat. He knows he has to stay above the water, no need to specify. Sure it’s tempting… No, he’ll stay above. Purposefully drowning counts as taking your own life.

“I’ll wash your hair, just please stay there,” Foolish promises. That sounds nice actually, Phil is totally on board. When was the last time anyone washed his hair? 

The query sends out for a memory, trying to pull one from his foggy mind. He remembers being sick once as a teen. Phil should have been in the hospital because of it but they couldn’t afford that, or maybe he made that part up.

Either way, he couldn’t wash himself after puking up everything in his stomach. Phil thinks… his father took care of him, the gentlest the man ever was. Phil might have loved him for that. He doesn’t now. It feels wrong.

Foolish guides his head back in the water, not mentioning Phil’s renewed tears, born of the distress of not being able to love his parents when he knows he did so why can't he anymore? Cursing the gods that must have stolen this joy from him, leaving him with only the pain of a world that despises him for actions he never took.

Actions he did take, because Phil now owns these hands and he can only half remember the life he once lived like a movie he watched long ago. Actions that are now Phil’s in every way that matters.

But at least Foolish’s fingers feel nice in his hair, blunt ‘nails’ scratching at his scalp to pull at accumulated dirt. Small hidden feathers growing close to his scalp are freed from their matted confines. Seeing them, Foolish makes a confused noise.

“Since when have you had these?” Foolish asks, rubbing one between his fingers. Phil moans in lieu of words, trying to push his head up into Foolish’s hands. Oh, he’s like a big cat. The thought almost makes him laugh.

Curiosity pushes Foolish to search for more. The thicker patches set behind Phil’s ears, rounding the base of his neck under long hair, the sparse ones hidden with no clear pattern across his scalp.

Phil fully relies on the hand pressed against the back of his neck to keep him above water. The bruised coloration, now more purple than black, must highlight Foolish’s hand nicely. Does it also hide the mark from Wilbur? It must…

And the thought evaporates with a happy sigh. Foolish’s fingers have to be magic, the only explanation Phil can think of as his eyes slip shut. Time begins to drift.

Shampoo is added to his hair, massaged in carefully around the various knots and mats, and rinsed. Conditioner goes next, though left to sit as one of Foolish’s hands abandons Phil.

A whine of complaint doesn’t even get time to finish before the hand returns with a comb, brushing through and unraveling all of those uncomfortable ties. That’s new. Phil’s never had someone else brush his hair before.

It takes a while. It has to considering how messy his hair is. Phil can’t quite keep track of how long though, far more focused on tracking each tug of the comb. The tiny pin pricks of pain at having his scalp tugged at barely even register in his mind.

Even that ends eventually, the conditioner being washed out too. Damn, Phil almost wants to ask Foolish to continue. That would be selfish though, he’s already done too much. Foolish didn’t need to do any of this.

“Ah, Philza?” Foolish starts. Phil cracks an eye open, vision blurry for a moment. Eventually, his eyes focus on Foolish, the elemental seeming to glow under the candlelight. He coos. Pretty.

“Would you be alright if I washed your body?” The question comes. He blinks slowly, letting his gaze drift over himself. Through the haze of the water, Phil decides he looks like shit.

A large purplish bruise splotches down the center of his chest, stopping at the bottom of his ribcage. What isn’t covered by that has their own bruises, ostensibly from Wilbur since there is a mixture of desaturated browns and ugly yellowish greens.

The bottom half of his body barely fares any better, knees purpling from his impact with the floor. Sanguinis’ healing factor really is struggling. There’s a few cuts along his shins too. Phil… can’t remember how he got those.

Considering even further the relationship between Foolish and Sanguinis, the answer to Foolish’s question should be ‘no’. Phil can’t ask too much. Phil can’t risk hurting anyone any further. He can’t. It might break him.

Phil warbles, a distinctly sad sound, attempting to shuffle away from Foolish but lacking the muscle control to do… anything. Foolish makes a sad sound back, a whine in the back of his throat.

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ve seen worse. It’s not…” your fault. Phil knows how that platitude ends. He’s said it himself a thousand times, though he actually meant it more often than not. This is just a consequence of Foolish’s script failing.

It has to be, since Foolish doesn’t finish the sentence. He pulls back slightly, looking to the side in what could be shame, regret, Phil can’t tell. None of those can be right. What regret would he feel for Phil? Phil is the one who should be regretting.

Maybe it’s empathy? Pity? Pity would work. Phil definitely fits the definition of ‘pitiful’.

“I don’t mind, is what I mean. You should get clean though. It would make you feel a lot better,” Foolish encourages. There’s a silent doubt that Phil could do it himself, a doubt Phil shares. Lifting his arms is already enough of a chore. Why try for more?

So he nods, regretting agreeing before Foolish even starts lathering soap onto him. Even if it feels nice. Wait, no, that makes it worse. That makes it so worse.

The lower Foolish’s hands drift, the more aware Phil becomes that he’s still reacting to Foolish just fine even if he’s too mentally exhausted to feel horny in turn. Or maybe he was feeling horny and his intense investigation of Foolish was a consequence? That is a frighteningly feasible possibility.

Phil averts his eyes, staring hard at the plain white porcelain as Foolish’s hands slick over the feathers around his hips. Hips, which are quite close to his dick, which Phil shouldn’t be thinking about. Yet, he’s desperate for a distraction. This sure counts as a distraction.

Curse the fallibility of mortal minds. Foolish scrubs at Phil’s thighs, skin far too sensitive now that Phil’s focusing on all the wrong things. They tense, aching terribly, even under Foolish’s careful massaging.

Because careful means that there has to be care and care is something Phil is so starved for. A sob rips from his chest, unsure whether to move into or away and unable to manage either. Foolish freezes.

He risks looking at Foolish, a mistake since Foolish seems to have also realized Phil’s problem. There’s no doubt he was already away. Maybe Foolish just ignored it, mind skipping over it like how Phil’s learned to ignore the robe.

Whatever the reason, he’s staring now. Phil shifts, dick shifting in the water with the slight motion. Foolish blinks hard, gaze shooting up to Phil. They stare at each other. Occasionally, Foolish chances a glance back down.

“Do you…” Foolish can’t say it, Phil can’t ask for it. Apparently his instincts, groggy as they are, are still very opinionated though. He chirps please. Great, good job instincts.

Phil lets his head drop against the porcelain, neck bending at an uncomfortable angle to stare directly at god. Except he can’t stare at god so the ceiling will have to do. Shame burns his cheeks.

Damn he’s pathetic. He can’t even make it through one interaction when he’s half dead and lacks the energy to even move on his own terms. How pathetic is that? And now he’s starting to cry again? Where is the liquid coming from? He’s not drunk anything in three days.

A hand brushes the base of his cock. Phil flinches, yelping at the contact, at the sudden burst of a sensation that isn’t painful. His body, starved of such pleasantness, craves more. Wait, no, it’s always like that.

Foolish remains looking down when Phil moves to stare at him, cheeks flushed green instead of red, the color of Foolish’s emerald-like eyes. Eyes that carry something steely, yet far away. Conviction at a distance.

“I don’t mind,” Foolish repeats. Whatever is going through his mind to prompt those words, Phil is left unaware of them. He can’t even pull himself together enough to try and figure it out, mind lost the moment Foolish wraps his hand around Phil’s dick.

Label this under ‘new experiences’. Getting jerked off in the bath, not something Phil’s had the opportunity to do before. It’s strange. All of it is strange.

Wet metal, the smooth and largely unmarred nature of Foolish’s hands, wrapped tightly around Phil’s sensitive cock. Each stroke should be unsatisfying but is not. The mere fact it’s Foolish and flock and mate is overwhelming all on his own.

Phil sobs. It’s a far more pleasant cry, hips making aborted jerks into Foolish’s hand, stopped by the twinges of pain. Pleasure seeps up his spine slowly, methodically.

It’s not enough. Phil can’t make it be enough. The pleasure builds and builds but refuses to crescendo, to reach that edge he craves, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Nothing but sit and take.

He becomes a victim of the torture. Foolish’s actions never stray from that methodical pumping, that tight grasp. Tears burn down his skin, vision blurring, gasps and whines and chirps filling the air. His head lolls to the side.

“F- Foolish,” Phil slurs. He sniffles, trying to reach out and barely getting his arm to leave the water. It sort of works anyway. The resulting splash when his muscles spasm and fail causes bits of water to hit Foolish. Green eyes snap back to him, the true goal.

“ Please,” He whines, “ please. More.” The two kinds of fire in his veins are fighting, pain versus pleasure, entirely overwhelming and uncomfortable beyond measure. He wants to cum. He wants it to stop. He doesn’t want to have made Foolish do this.

But Phil can only get one of those things. Foolish’s eyes widen, glimmering as he connects dots to things Phil wasn’t even considered. Phil knows this.

There’s no other reason why Foolish climbs into the tub, the tiny sheer thing acting as his uniform abandoned on the floor. The porcelain pool is quite large, allowing Foolish to rest on his knees, caging Phil between them, rather than having to sit on Phil’s abused form.

“Foolish?” Phil sniffles. His head is lifted by a gentle hand, a thumb brushing over where his cheek had pushed into the porcelain. Foolish lets out a shaky breath, eyes still so very distant. He’s seeing someone else.

“I’ll make it feel better,” Foolish promises, just not to Phil. Who could he be seeing? A past Rose? Someone he knew before the Palace? A servant? Even as Phil is forced away from anything resembling sensible thought, as if he ever truly reached it, some part of him tucks that realization away.

He’s cradled in Foolish’s chest, metal lips pressed against his neck, one hand returning to that torturous slide. Soft kisses trail over Phil’s skin. Quiet mummers of what could be words but aren’t fill the spaces between Phil’s moans. 

For a moment, Phil is precious. He isn’t Sanguinis, isn’t an Emperor, isn’t important. He’s merely an injured thing, someone precious to be cared for, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s the purpose of this act.

It makes Phil cry again, all he seems to know how to do recently, and he doesn’t try to stop it this time. He lets himself be precious, if only for the moment. Phil falls beneath the coursing waves.

Precious. Loved. Flock. Phil cums, feeling cared for by his flock for the first time since he’s ended up in this awful world. His dick pulses in Foolish’s grasp, guided through his orgasm by slow strokes until he’s crying for an entire different reason.

Only then does Foolish let go. Only then does Foolish fiddle until he can replace the water, cleaning Phil again. Only then do they both pause to breathe.

Phil nuzzles the best he can into Foolish while he still can, delighting far too much in the gentle care. A temporary care that will inevitably fade when Foolish snaps out of this state. This dissociation dooming Foolish to what muscle memory remains.

But for a moment Phil can push back the disgust at his own actions and pretend this care is for him. Even if it can’t be true. Even if it’s all a lie.

Lies are gentler than the truth, that’s why they fool so many people. They can be easier to swallow, to understand, to play along with. Phil’s never been good at lying to himself. Maybe, for a moment, he can lie about that too.

He’s lifted from the tub. A soft towel pats him dry, though never stray to his wings. Most people don’t have wings, only three coming to mind, so Foolish’s imaginary person likely didn’t have any. Some water still gets wiped from between his wings though.

Dressing is… an issue that only half gets solved. Foolish somehow finds a pair of pants, something Phil didn’t even know was in Sanguinis’ closet, but he’s apparently aware enough to not try for a top.

Wings are hard enough when fully aware and not in pain. Phil can’t imagine how hard it would be to put one on now. Maybe even impossible.

At least the pants are soft, some smooth satin thing. Every inch is decorated by a delicate gold filigree that stands at sharp odds to his dark wings, made even darker by the water.

Foolish has no way of getting to the nest, not when Phil has no way of getting there either. The solution, if it can be called that, is to set Phil on the couch. Phil doesn’t think he’s sat here since meeting Kristin for Grian’s sake.

Huh, there’s a thought. Phil probably resembles Grian right now, though he’s in a lot better shape than the poor man was. At least Phil still has all his limbs. Hereally shouldn’t be complaining- No. He shouldn’t compare traumas.

Even if Phil lacks any of his prior qualifications, he still remembers that one. Comparing trauma will just make Phil feel even worse. That… might not be possible. In case it is, he should still avoid doing so.

Job complete, Foolish begins to leave, naked but uncaring. Then again, he shows about as much skin naked as he does in the Rose uniform, he’s used to it. Something in Phil possesses him to call out.

“Foolish?” The Rose stops. Phil gnaws at his lips, replaying all his thoughts. He should… he wants… Phil takes a deep breath. One more selfish act for today. He’ll make up for it when he can move again, promise.

“Could you call Tommy in here for me?” It’s only after he says it that Phil remembers he’s not supposed to know that name. Foolish must be too out of it to notice, saying nothing. He leaves and, hopefully, gets the message across.

Phil needs to apologize to his son. Tommy doesn’t deserve what Phil did to him. Hopefully, with the time he has left, Phil can prepare himself enough to see the kid.

…

Okay so maybe Tommy complained a bit too much. Yes, he was unsettled not seeing Father around. Yes, he might have cried about it a little. Yes, he's pretty upset about everything that’s happened recently.

That doesn’t mean he’s prepared to see Father again. When Foolish came to get him, Tommy thought he’d been imagining things. Tommy was just trying to study for his lessons, they’ve moved onto policy-making despite the underlying knowledge that Tommy will never succeed the throne due to Father being immortal.

But no, asking Foolish to repeat doesn’t change the fact that Father asked for him. Father is aware enough to ask for Tommy. For how long? Lady Kristin, the Sorcerer of the Silver Tower, said he’d awoken three days ago, and that he was healing fine. Was Father just avoiding him?

Did he not want to look weak? Did he regret drinking that goblet? Was he ashamed of falling for a trick or ashamed that it didn’t work? Has he heard that Tommy hasn’t been having lessons with Techno recently due to cancellations?

Is that Tommy’s fault? Is he going to be punished for not turning to the Emperor when his first option fell through? No, no that’s something Father would do before his big change.

Father could have changed again, except Tommy doesn’t have any evidence for that. Tommy doesn’t want evidence for that. Tommy would rather be avoided forever than to go back. The uncertainty of the new Father sucks but the old Father is far worse, he knows that.

So he lurks by the door to Father’s room in quiet anticipation, unable to take that final step, unable to risk everything by turning and hiding in his room. If Father really is calling for him, he’ll just follow Tommy there. His bedroom is in no way a safe space. Nowhere is safe if Father changes again.

Massaging his hands, Tommy tries to push back the chill running down his spine, filling his veins with trepidation. Waiting here will make it worse. Making Father wait will make it worse, regardless of who’s there when Tommy opens that door.

Be strong, be eternal, be the heir he has to be, Tommy takes a deep breath. He pushes open the door to a room he’s rarely ever visited before. At first, he looks anywhere but Father.

No, he looks at tall bookshelves instead. At fancy gilded wallpaper and delicately woven carpets. At towering windows and a curved ceiling. He even risks looking at the balcony which leads to the nest.

Nest. Flock. Ours. Tommy allows himself to want. It’s only a moment, trying to stare past the balcony to the nest beyond, a balcony he can never reach. Deep breaths. Don’t cry. Father doesn’t like his tears.

“Tom- Theloquin, come here,” Father calls and so Tommy finally looks. He looks and… oh, oh. That’s much worse than Tommy was expecting.

While he was aware of his Father’s condition, remembering how dark his throat had been that first night, Tommy would have thought it would be better by now. It’s not better. It’s not… it can't be worse, but it isn’t better.

Tommy might hate the color black. That desaturated shade that’s almost a purple completely overtaking his father’s neck and most of his chest. Further down are actual bruises, blooming over much of his stomach.

Someone- someone had to have caused those. Tommy’s very well acquainted with the kinds of bruises that come from fists and rage, the way they spiral over skin in shades of healing brown and yellow and green. He knows the awful sickness that paints the body for close to a week after.

He would have never imagined Father having such wounds. Father, who’s never been hurt before, not like this. Who could have done such a thing? A maid? A butler? Kristin? Tommy doesn’t know anyone else who might’ve visited Father.

‘Flock, here?’ Father chirps, softened by confusion as Tommy realizes he’s been stuck in place. Tommy jolts into action, moving swiftly to the opposite couch, wings tucked against his back to stop them from trembling.

Father’s face isn’t much better. There’s a bruise near his hairline from hitting the table, then the floor. More of that awful black stains around his mouth and down his chin. Sunken eyes, gaunt cheeks…

Was Father always capable of looking like this? Of looking so… familiar? Like he’s something Tommy could be instead of a distant figure just beyond view?

‘Closer. Here. Flock.’ Father implores, more insistent. He doesn’t reach out or lean forward. His wings barely twitch. The only movement Tommy can spy is a constant trembling and the occasional muscle spasm.

…Can Father move right now? What if… what if he can’t? Because Tommy’s gotten like that too. Tommy’s been bed bound, been in so much pain he couldn’t even react to Father’s sneers of disdain. For a moment, he imagines their roles reversed.

Only for a moment. The very next, he’s moved himself next to Father, back ramrod straight. Father’s wings are soaked, Tommy notes. He took a bath? Or, rather, someone helped him? But even Techno knew to help Tommy dry his wings on those few occasions, so why didn’t… whoever helped Father?

Well, Tommy can’t imagine anyone who would dare try and help Father bathe so maybe that’s a moot point. Maybe Father just can’t dry himself off right now and that’s the problem. Is that why he was called here?

“Tom- Theloquin. I,” Father tries to speak. Words fail him, just like how they fail Tommy. Just like… just like… since when was Father so human? He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t like it.

“Yes Father, you requested me?” Tommy responds. He has to respond. He can’t just sit here. Tommy doesn't know what to do in this situation otherwise. Why is he here? Why is Father like this? What changed?

Father lunges, though by the sounds that break the air it can’t have been pleasant, throwing himself around Tommy. Warm, trembling arms grasp around Tommy with the desperation of a dying man.

Tommy stiffens. He knows better than to fight back but also what the fuck? This is new. Except it’s not. Except this is the third hug he’s gotten in recent memory. Once at the banquet, once before Father fell, and now… these are really becoming more frequent.

Maybe he should be happy about that but he’s mostly just confused, worried, a little scared? He can’t quite relax into Father’s grasp, much tighter now than before.

So he sits there and takes it instead. Father’s breath hitches, face buried in Tommy’s hair, and droplets of water begin to soak into his hair. Tears? Is Father crying?

…Father can cry?

“ I’m so sorry. Tommy, I’m so so sorry,” Father sobs. Not even the shock of hearing his name, his name and not the one he was granted at birth, is enough to break past all the overwhelming emotions that rise at the realization his Father can cry.

“ This is my fault. I’m sorry. I’ll be better I promise.” Father’s hands shift, as if searching for a grip they just can’t find. Again, the words are familiar, strikingly so.

Aren’t those all words Tommy has said before? Hasn’t he pleaded with them? Begged Father for a second chance after making a mistake? His body aches along scars, phantom sensations of punishments hidden beneath layers of clothes. It’s uncanny to hear such things fall from Father’s mouth.

It’s wrong. Father doesn’t apologize. Father doesn’t make mistakes. Any mistake he makes would go unpunished anyway, no one would dare rise against him. But then, Father doesn’t cry either. Father doesn’t tremble in pain. Father doesn’t resemble Tommy on his worst of days.

“ Father?” Tommy whispers, unable or maybe unwilling to raise his voice any higher. He doesn’t know what to do. On those days, Techno had always comforted him. Techno would take him somewhere safe, to their makeshift nest in the library that never quite felt right, and would stay with him until Tommy cried himself out.

But Tommy can’t take Father anywhere safer than here. Tommy can’t take Father to the nest he’s never been allowed him. Tommy can’t do anything but sit and wait for the other shoe to drop.

Technically, the shoe does drop, but the day is not done surprising them. Father chokes, a noise easily mistaken for another part of his crying. Except it isn’t. Tommy knows it isn’t.

If it was, Tommy wouldn’t be pushed away so swiftly that Father nearly falls over, crying out in pain. Father who curls over himself, coughing and wheezing, spitting up blood while all Tommy can do is watch and do nothing and it’s happening again.

He shoots to his feet, bounding over to the door and throwing it open. Father retches, red red blood . When he calls out, the panic in his voice surprises him.

“Servants? Guards? Call for Kristin immediately!” Because Tommy can’t leave him. Not when this is the man who held him gently and once attempted to teach him how to fly. The one that shielded him from blood and gore.

The one that now looks nothing like the Father who scorned him, beat him, broke him until there was nothing left to give. The one who’s far too mortal looking to truly be the impassive, fickle God Emperor Sanguinis.

Footsteps of servants ringing in his ears, Tommy turns back to his Father, taking careful steps. He toes around the blood, fumbling for how to comfort Father-

No, not Father. Father is the bad one, the one before the change. Father is not the person he’d ever want to comfort. If it were Father, Tommy would have long since fled. Not that Father would ever be caught shaking and crying, puking up blood as Tommy holds his hair back.

What’s a better word? Tubbo had used it, once. Tubbo still uses it on occasion, during quiet nights in the farthest corner of the gardens where not even the passing servants could hear them.

“Dad?” 

Notes:

A modicum of fluff for those desperate folks who really need a break after the past few chapters. We've had a lot of shit happen and none of it is good. Time to start building up to the 'it gets better' brick by bloody fucking brick.

But oh, it's going to take a while. There are still people actively working against Phil, including himself, and no amount of super strength and magical ability is going to help him with *gestures at everything*. At least there's one person who's consciously made a distinction between Phil and Sanguinis?

Like, technically, both Schlatt and Charlie are making a distinction but neither are being very conscious about it. An argument could be made for Charlie's awareness considering his theory for why Phil is different is the reigning one but I don't really think of Charlie being aware of... anything really.

More to come! :D

Chapter 18: Stains That Will Never Wash

Summary:

Regret is a heady, almost addictive thing. It never goes away, returning as anger or sadness or shame with every reminder of the cause. Small ones, large ones, how imposing the reminder doesn't matter. If it's close, it's close enough.

Phil is so terrible at avoiding these reminders. Every step he takes is the wrong one. Every sound he makes upsets someone new. Every tear that falls must be traumatizing because everything he does is a mistake. He is a mistake. His presence should not be in this world and yet it is and he has to deal with that because the Gods cannot be bargained with. Sometimes he wants to be angry. Instead he's tired, scared, and hurt.

But that doesn't matter, not really. Phil's efforts don't matter but his ignorance does. Events twist and turn around him on dozens of tiny strings, wrapping and overlapping, setting dominoes to fall designed specifically to hurt him. He cannot see them.

The ones who can see them can't say anything about it. They are not the spider, they are the fly, and things have gone terribly terribly wrong.

Notes:

I was writing this, checked my word count, and made the executive decision to cut this off before we reached 11k words. I do, unfortunately, need to sleep tonight because god is cruel and college classes are crueler. Though that does mean I know exactly how to start next chapter, hooray!

TWs: Justifying Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse (Mental, Physical, Sexual), Depression, Self Hate, Suicidal Ideation, Self Harm, Derealization, Implied Mind Control

*Mild* CWs: Wing Kink, Blood Kink

When he came into awareness once again, Philza neither recognized where he was nor could he remember when he passed out. Foggy memories drift by of the cold, of heat, of pain, of his son. He spoke to someone. He isn’t sure who.

Bleary eyes focus on tan wooden beams overhead. Green vines wrap around and dangle from them, displaying proudly densely packed leaves. Softly glowing orange berries collect along them, seemingly the only source of light in the dark room.

Still more asleep than awake, Phil reaches up towards them, as if he could somehow reach them from so far away. Before he can get more than a few inches, he feels something stop his hand.

Not just the strained muscles, though those are still very much a problem, but the barest bit of something on the edge of his senses that demands he stop. Phil lets his hand drop back down, skin and muscles raw.

A tripwire, his mind supplies. Dozens of thin tripwires crisscross above his body like a spider’s web. Not real tripwires though. If they were real, surely Phil would be able to see them? Especially in such great numbers…

Magic tripwires then. Phil didn’t know those even existed. Then again, his knowledge of magic can be roughly summarized as ‘it exists’ and ‘Sanguinis had it’, which means Phil has it now.

Could he cut the tripwires? Would that do anything? Phil doesn’t know much about how regular tripwires work so he can’t even base his assumptions off of them. As far as he knows, cutting the tripwires would still set them off.

…Where even is he that has access to magical tripwires? The Silver Tower would, wouldn’t it? Magic center of the entire empire and all. Phil’s only been to the base level of it during his check ins with Grian. There’s tons of rooms he’s never seen before.

Then there’s nothing to worry about! Except he still doesn’t know how he got here, and maybe he should worry about that. Gaps in memory rarely have a positive reason to exist. 

Phil shifts his head to the side, gritting his teeth as every muscle in it tenses and fights against the change. This must be how a corpse feels in rigor mortis. Phil doesn’t envy them. Except, well, they are dead and don’t have to worry about how comfortable they may or may not be, so it might not be that bad.

Being able to see some more of the room does cement this as being a part of the Silver Tower though. Sanguinis’ halls favored marble and gold, but the Tower lives up to its name. 

Silver makes up the majority of the details on the walls, swirling designs mimicking sprouts of… foxglove maybe? Snapdragon? He knows at least one of the faux flowers is a lily. The rest of their names evade him.

Pillars stretching up towards the roof to meet the beams are similarly decorated and supported by silver, eventually curving alongside the ceiling to eventually meet the far wall. Now why was he in the Silver Tower?

Here’s a thought, the tripwires might be like a call button. It would have been nice to have that before he was left alone for three days but there’s no precedent for Sanguinis ever needing something like that so Phil doesn’t really mind. Maybe he should but he doesn’t, he can understand the thought process after all.

Moving his head back doesn’t feel any better than the first time. Neither does lifting his arm and allowing it to ‘break’ the tripwires, though nothing actually snaps when it goes though. More like laser sensors then.

Reaching his hand to the sky, Phil idly watches it while he waits for Kristin, because there’s no one else he can think of who could have set those sensors. Keeping it in one place is quite the chore.

Gravity causes it to sway. Every twitch of muscle is felt as keenly as pins sunk into his skin. Phil curls his fingers just to feel how his skin pulls taught around his joints. Bubblegum would be sturdier.

He presses against one of his nails, a dull ache that compounds on all the rest, feeling his claw cut lightly into his skin as he lets go. Whoever let his claws be so sharp needs a talking to. Phil can’t think of a single use for them that doesn’t make his skin crawl.

“Greetings to God Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, this Lowly Sorcerer, Kristin of the Silver Tower, welcomes you. Many apologies for the sorry state of this room. Guests are rather unexpected at this time.” Kristin greets… probably from the door.

Phil drops his hand, smacking himself in the face with it. Ow. He scrunches his face and why does even that hurt? He drank poison, yes, but surely it shouldn’t hurt this much. Not that Phil’s ever gotten more than a bit of food poisoning before.

“Everything hurts,” Phil mutters, the words not coming out as they question they were intended to be. He feels every minute motion of his feathers drooping with his… disappointment, maybe. His upset. Whatever it is he’s feeling. He’s too tired to figure it out, too tired to care.

“Apologies, our Eternal Lord, but this one is unfortunately not equipped with any measure of pain killer. Such a thing is not included in the Silver Tower’s budget,” Kristin apologies. Somehow without sounding apologetic in the slightest. But then, she doesn’t sound like much of anything when she speaks.

“I should fix that,” Philza responds, thinking out loud. He’ll add it to the list that he only sort of remembers. It’s fine, there’s not much to remember. It would be faster to list everything that doesn’t need fixing, and that’s only because there’s really nothing in the Empire of Souls that works.

“If that is your will.” Kristin doesn’t seem to care. Or maybe she does. Or maybe she’s lying and wants Phil to suffer. Phil wants Phil to suffer so that would be fine if it was the case. Phil is really out of it right now.

“Why does everything hurt?” Phil implores. It’s more of a whine, how shameful. Phil doesn’t deserve to whine about his pains, not when there’s so many things so much more important than a little pain.

“That is a complicated question I’m afraid,” Kristin answers without answering. Phil frowns, trying to shift to look at her. He might have to sit up for that. As he goes to, he feels another bit of magic stop him, this one much more potent than those little strings.

“Do stay lying, however. The Crownsoul Crow’s body is not in a position to be making any sort of movement. It is my fault for being unaware of that.” Kristin’s heels clack against the ground so Phil allows the magic… chains maybe? The magic something to keep him down. Could he always feel magic like this? No, he doesn’t think so.

“This lowly Sorcerer will accept any punishment our Eternal Lord may set upon me, this is my fault and mine alone.” Kristin bows her head, standing in Phil’s limited field of view when he shifts his head to the side. He frowns harder.

“You’re not lowly,” Phil mutters, mind getting stuck on that instead of anything else for some unfathomable reason, “You’re Imperial . That’s, like, the opposite of low.” His head is so fuzzy. Is she sure she didn’t give him anything?

“This lowly one could not claim to be on the same level as the Imperial Lord, God Emperor Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis, our Crownsoul Crow.” That tile seems to be getting longer every time someone says it. Phil’s pretty sure he only understood half those words.

“No, I’m Philza, you're the Imperial Sorcerer, and I’d really like to know why everything hurts.” Phil’s barely understanding any of the words coming out of his mouth either. His brain feels like pop rocks. 

“Thanking his Imperial Highness… Philza,” She almost trips up on the name, but it’s only nearly, “for his magnanimousness and generosity. May it not go astray.”

“Answering his Imperial Highness Philza’s question. The poison ingested is a relatively common one used in poison based executions due to its quick activation and quicker death. However, for this reason, it tended to only be used en masse on criminals you cared not for, and none survived making studying its effects difficult.”

“However, this one was able to record symptoms that occurred on the body even after death and it is those symptoms his Imperial Highness Philza appears to be experiencing. Muscle Seizures, rupturing veins and arteries, nausea, locking joints. The difference is, of course, that our Crownsoul Crow is far too divine for such a foolish measure to work.”

Mhm, yes, Phil is definitely understanding all of that. He stares blankly at her, more focused on the twitching of his wings than anything else. Scrape scrape against the table they go.

“Where this one went wrong was assuming that… ah, how to phrase this? That the divine blessings the triad delivered were in one piece. Whoever the assassin that poisoned his Imperial Highness Philza is, they were quite crafty.”

That sounds like something Phil’s summoned to react negatively to. Something in his brain snaps into place, perking up. Assassin… yeah, Wilbur can definitely be considered crafty. It’s one of his best qualities.

“They found a method to disrupt your immortality, taking advantage of that to attempt their terrible mission. It seems the triad have found his Imperial Highness Philza worthy once more. Before Lady Death could take you to her realm, she was intercepted.”

“I have found a few anomalies within your magical field as a result of the renewed blessing. It has left your physical form quite fragile. The events of yesterday ruptured your lungs, fractured several bones, and resulted in a truly impressive amount of bruising.”

“As terrible as it is to say, this one does not believe his Imperial Highness can be left alone until the new blessing settles and the Blood God can fully return your body to its former glory. Apologies for there is nothing this one can do to expedite the divine.” Kristin bows her head again.

So, wait… Phil’s immortal again? He’s so objectively terrible at dying that he’s not allowed to die anymore? Wilbur isn’t going to be allowed to kill him either, then. Or maybe he could? If anyone could find a way, it would be Wilbur. 

Tears well in his eyes. Please, please, please let Wilbur still be allowed to kill him. Phil might not be wanting to die right now, not anymore,  not when there’s so much he has to do, but in the future? He doesn’t want immortality.

His breath hitches, wishing he’d missed those words like he missed so many of the other ones. But no, he had to catch them. Phil sniffles, feeling far too keenly as he begins to cry again. Maybe that’s an unlisted side effect of the poison, bawling like a fucking child.

“Your Imperial Highness?” Kristin calls, the barest note of hesitance in her tone. Phil can’t really see her anymore, blinking through his tears only causing more to fall. Right, emperor. Emperors aren’t known for crying, let alone him.

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t- I don’t want to cry. I’ll… calm down soon,” Phil sobs. Not really proving his point, is he. Phil pulls his wings around him. Or, well, he tries. That’s another thing he fails at.

About halfway up, his muscles seize and he’s forced to drop them. They thud harshly against the edge of the table he’s laying on. Is it a table? One of those medical ones? Do they even have those here? It doesn’t matter.

“Never be it this Noble Sorcerer who tells his Imperial Highness what to do,” Kristin attempts to placate and it’s an even sadder attempt than Phil is. Yeah, she’s using noble instead of lowly to describe herself. Is that supposed to make Phil feel better?

What Phil actually needs is a hug, a kind touch, something grounding. Some news that doesn’t make it feel like the world is falling apart would also help but beggars can’t be choosers. And then the thought hits.

“Is Grian doing well?” Phil asks through his tears, trying to wipe at his eyes and mostly succeeding at slapping himself in the face. Stop that. He’s making a fool out of himself, the sting not even pleasant.

“He is progressing steadily,” Kristin answers shortly. It’s a decent summary of everything Phil knows about Grian. Still, that qualifies as good news. But what if she’s lying? What if she’s just saying that to make Phil feel better.

Kristin has never lied to Phil before, except he wouldn’t really know if she lied to him. She’s always got an impassive face on, nothing about her countenance giving away whatever self lies beneath that mask, so maybe she did lie. Maybe, maybe, maybe-

“May I see him?” Phil asks, voice far too raw, too hopeful for its own good. His mouth still tastes like blood, licking at the back of his teeth. Teeth he has no doubt has killed people. He can almost imagine the animalistic- no. Pink elephant, think of anything else.

“If that is what his Imperial Highness Philza requires. This Noble Sorcerer will call him in. Due to his state, this one will be staying throughout the course of the visit.” Kristin bows her head again.

“That’s alright,” Phil says. He understands the need for supervision. Phil wouldn’t trust himself around Grian either considering everything Sanguinis has done to him. That level of… torture… Kristin’s footsteps exit the room.

Fuck, wait, what if his presence damages Grian’s healing? What if Giran isn’t ready to see him yet and he ruins everything? Phil may as well be adding salt to Grian’s wounds to watch the reaction. Damnit, he should have thought about that before asking such an impulsive question.

In spite of Kristin’s clear orders, Phil shuffles up to sit, the magic laid over him little more than a weighted blanket. Should he run? No, Kristin said he was broken. Phil might permanently disable himself if he runs right now. He has too many things to do to add getting used to a disability on top of it.

Teleport out? Can he even teleport? There’s no evidence for it but there’s also no evidence stating that teleportation doesn’t exist. Again Phil is reminded he knows nothing about how this world’s magic works. It’s a miracle he hasn’t blown himself up yet, not that that would kill him.

He wishes it would. He wishes he didn’t have so much to do that killing himself like that is inadvisable. He wishes he still had the ability to die. Lady Death, you cruel mistress, robbing him of the one thing he wanted.

Each of his ribs rattle to their own tune when he breathes, trying to settle himself. He shuffles his legs over the edge of the table, huddling his wings close to his back, and tries not to cringe feeling his flight feathers press against the table’s edge. He fails.

Phil’s head spins, the table unsteady beneath him. Whatever bit of hope he has left is dashed by the symptoms he can’t ignore anymore. If he is so unstable while sitting, Phil has no chance of standing, of running, of fleeing this terrible situation he’s set up for himself.

So he sits and breathes and waits for Kristin to come back. If he’s lucky, she’ll ignore the fact he ignored her suggestion. She’ll ignore the trembling, the burning edge of tears gathering in his eyes, the stifled gasps that are more from distress than pain.

If only it were just pain. If only Phil could be as unfeeling as his memories describe, living a life where everything is dull and distant, where he can do what’s right without it being so damn hard.

But the things worth doing are rarely easy. Phil can repeat that to himself, make himself believe that being alive is worth it because the people around him deserve better than what they have, deserve more than him.

“Introducing Grian of the Elytrans, Imperial Highness Philza.” Kristin’s voice snaps him from his thoughts again. She does seem to be quite good at that. It’s something about her tone, maybe.

This clear bell behind every world, ringing soothingly even when Phil wants to claw off his skin. With a voice like that, she would make a much better Emperor than Phil. It would be far too cruel to put her in his position though. Phil will bear this weight alone.

Gathering the little strength he possesses, Phil lifts his head. The sight he expected and the sight he sees are not… entirely different. Of course, Phil would never be completely correct when he has no idea what mobility aids may or may not exist in this world.

Wheelchairs seem to be among them. The one Grian uses is made of a dark hardwood, highlighted by the same ethereal silver of the rest of the tower. A low back keeps his wings from being squished, and they don’t drag either but not for any particularly pleasant reasons. Honestly, Phil would rather not think about them.

Naturally, he thinks about them anyway. Grian’s wings are not quite as horrific as they once were, the sagging blood filled blisters popped long ago and the skin healed over. Still, something in Phil is deeply horrified looking at them.

Phil had not been made aware of just how many of Grian’s feathers didn’t survive, only that his wings were recovering nicely. ‘Nicely’ does not quite describe it. Yes, none of them appeared to be ingrown but all of them were in a state of partial growth, some further along than others.

Large swaths of skin peek out between the slowly growing feathers, creating a look far closer to an oddly shaped feather pillow than wings. For his wings to be like that… had all Grian’s feathers been plucked? Phil shivers, tucking his own closer around his shoulders like a hug.

‘Hurt? Okay? Hurt?’ Phil chirps, ending in a strangle garble that his damaged throat really doesn’t want to be making. They’re stupid questions for his instincts to be asking. Yes, Grian’s hurt. No, he’s not okay. His tormentor is in the room with him.

‘Hurt. Help. Hurt.’ Giran replies. Freezing, Phil meets Grian’s eyes, still those endless black pits they’d been before, though his eyebrows are slightly scrunched and his mouth not entirely neutral. Phil blinks, releasing the stubborn tears. Seriously? He has to run out of moisture to cry with eventually.

‘Sorry. My fault, my fault, my fault,’ he repeats the same twitter again and again, unable to make himself stop. He grabs at his pants, feeling his claws tear into them and then himself, wishing for a moment he was wearing one of the more fanciful robes because at least those usually could withstand his strength at least a little.

Grian pushes forward on his wheelchair, the three fingers he has left swiping along a faintly glowing… runic array? Whatever they’re called in this world, circular and filled with a magical language Phil has no hope of understanding. 

‘ My fault, my fault, my fault.’ Phil’s throat begins to hurt, stuck in that low-high tick. His hands shake, gritting his teeth barely even muffling the sound. Warm blood sticks to his fingers. Grian comes to a stop right in front of him, reaching out with his nub.

‘Your fault.’ Grian taps Phil’s wings with his nub, once and then twice. Phil’s attention is stolen, his vocal cords finally released to allow him to sob. He tracks the motion as Grian then gestures to Kristin.

‘Your fault.’ And it shouldn’t make any sense. In a way, to the parts of Phil that are still mostly human, it doesn’t. To the parts that find themselves entangled with the instincts however? It clicks, and that only makes Phil cry harder.

It’s Phil’s fault that Grian went through torment, though he knows it was actually Sanguinis. It was also Phil’s doing that let Grian get here, let him heal, and that is actually his fault. An accusation and a gratitude all in one. Grian should not be thanking Phil at all. Grian should not have to thank Phil.

‘My fault.’ Phil agrees, ‘Not your fault. Flock deserves better. Flock is better.’ Phil insists. Don’t thank him. None of this should have happened at all. Please, don’t thank the monster. It only breeds unhealthy attachment.

‘Flock is better?’ Grian tilts his head, the note of confusion the most emotion Phil’s ever heard from the man, ‘You are flock?’ And- no, no. Grian deserves better than to have Phil as flock. Even if… even if they’re two of the three Elytrans left in the entire world. Even if Grian has no one else to flock with.

Because Sanguinis ruined everything before he ever got the chance. Phil might not have a reason to think that Sanguinis is responsible for slaughtering all other Elytrans but the fact stands that Sanguinis and Tommy were the only Elytrans in the world. Phil would bet his life that Sanguinis is at fault, another sin for Phil to carry.

And now Grian’s asking him, the man who flayed his skin, ruined his wings, and let him suffer for who fucking knows how long, to be his flock. Flock, the most important thing for an Elytran. Phil.

‘I’m sorry,’ Phil cries because how else could he respond to that? Accept? Put into plain words how wrong Grian is about Phil? Phil may not be the same monster as Sanguinis but he is not the kind of person anyone should want as flock.

“Imperial Highness-” Kristin takes a step forward, noted by the loud clack of her heel, and stops just as quickly. Phil slips off the bed, not even attempting to stand, and lands firmly on Grian before he even registers he moved. He… should really get a better eye on that.

Distantly, he remembers doing the same to Tommy, though the details slip through his fingers like sand. Phil presses his forehead against Grian’s shoulder, lifting his wings to cradle him, pressing the outside of Grian’s wings against the inside of his own.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Phil repeats. A stupid decision, all of this. Grian was doing well, getting better, and now Phil’s here fucking it all up. The man who’d almost seemed aware ragdolls under Phil’s weight.

Grian’s wings drop, his expression dies, his hand slips from the chair’s arm. It would not be exaggerating to say he goes completely despondent. Worst of all, Phil can’t get his feet under himself enough to get off, to try and salvage the situation.

“Your Imperial Highness, this Noble Sorcerer must intrude. Forgive this one but the meeting will end now. Grian must be returned to his room. The Noble Sorcerer will call for a Rose or a Guard to move his Imperial Highness to his quarters.” Kristin finally intercedes. Her magic wraps around him and Phil lets himself go limp too.

Soft hands set him back on the table swiftly, letting go as soon as they can as if Phil is a hot pan and Kristin forgot oven mitts. Grian does not magically perk up now that Phil’s weight has eased.

Kristin wheels Grian from the room without another look back, though Phil knows her face is still decidedly neutral. If she did make an expression, it would definitely be disappointment or disgust, maybe a mix of both. Both deserved.

Phil slumps, setting his head in his hands despite how arms spasm and tense being forced to hold any weight at all. His elbows prop up on his knees, letting himself properly bury his head in his hands for all of a few seconds. The pain forces him to let go almost immediately. Shocks of it zap up from where his elbows had been.

He pokes at where it hurts, a duller pain. Right, Kristin had said something about bruises and fractures. Whichever this is, it sure hurts a lot. Phil doesn’t know enough about fractures to test if this is one.

Now that his mind is on his injuries, Phil turns to where he’d dug his claws into his thighs. The fabric around the area was thoroughly shredded in a roughly palm sized area, the fists Phil had formed easily ripping through the fabric. And the skin. And the muscles.

Blood seeps into the fabric. Even more smears off as he picks at the remnants, the points where his claws had stabbed himself bleeding sluggishly as well. Phil counts the seconds for them to heal. What was once instantaneous now takes a solid minute to manage.

Maybe that means he can die, provided the injury is dealt swiftly enough. A knife to the throat, to the heart, or maybe a guillotine. Unless Lady Death’s blessing has nothing to do with the healing and instead gave him some kind of immortal soul.

Another thing Phil doesn’t know enough about to claim either way. To learn he’d have to… what? Visit the vault where the macguffins are kept? He can’t do that, right? Except nothing’s stopping him. He might be able to find out.

Reaching up to his sandpaper throat, Phil traces his sharp claws over the darkened skin, feeling himself swallow and press tenuously against the deadly weapons he calls hands. Someone would have to take him there, his inability to walk and all.

That’s not really a problem though. Sanguinis might have kept the vault tightly locked, letting no one through until Wilbur somehow found a way depending on whatever route was chosen, but Phil doesn’t care nearly as much. So what if his blessings are removed? Phil has no desire to be immortal or all powerful.

Hell, he’d give his blessings to the first person he met on the side of the road if he could. As far as Phil knows, there’s no way to transfer a blessing. Mortals generally can’t interfere with the divine. No matter how strong Sanguinis is, he was never actually a god. Phil is not a god. Phil is stuck with these curses in disguise.

Cooling blood isn’t very fun. It drips in thick drops down his skin, staining white fabric a fuzzy red. As it dries, it crusts. He’ll never be able to get it out of these pants. The servants will never be able to get it out of these pants.

Gold and white fabric should never be worn by anyone for this exact reason, especially not when the gold is 24 karat. It’s far too expensive to throw away and yet it will be anyway… and now Phil’s wondering if his blood has magical properties due to all the divine blessings he has.

Would that even be useful? Is blood used in any magical rituals? Magic rituals are fairly common in fantasy. Phil is going to keep thinking about these things and ignore all the bad thoughts weighing on him from all sides.

“Introducing General Techno Blade of the Imperial Guard, Imperial Highness Philza.” Kristin does not properly enter the room, letting Techno enter instead. Phil looks up from where he’d been idly admiring his hand in his lap.

“Techno,” Phil breathes. His mind scatters, thoughts disappearing to the wind as he catches sight of one of his mates. His mate who watched him drink poison. His mate who nearly watched him die. His mate who might have known, because Phil doesn’t actually know which route Wilbur chose. His mate who undoubtedly hates him.

Even though it’s deserved, even though Phil had known day one that this could happen, it still hurts to realize. A thousand thorn filled vines squeeze around his heart. His mate hates him and his only consolation is that Phil hates himself too.

“Crownsoul Crow Philza,” Techno greets back, bowing low. Long pink hair hangs over one shoulder, braided into a half up half down style that must have taken a long time. Phil wants to braid Techno’s hair. Phil shouldn’t be allowed the things he wants.

“How… are you doing, Ma-Techno?” Yes, Techno. Not Mate, or Tech, or Love, or Darling, or any of the other mushy things his instincts want him to call the man. Techno might be good, among the best of them, but he is not Phil’s good boy. He never will be. Phil would never force him to be.

“I am well, Crownsoul Crow Philza. I am here to assist you.” Techno pulls out of his bow, so impersonal that Phil’s heart might not survive. Every time he blinks, images of the training ground appear. 

It’s wrong, so wrong. Phil shouldn’t be doing this to Techno. He’s too tired and in too much pain to be horny right now. A sense of deja vu washes over him.

“Thank you, you need not have agreed,” Phil ducks his head back down, “shall we head to my quarters?” Not like that, not like that. Phil digs his claws into the table, wishing it were himself but unwilling to make Techno watch.

“Whatever it is that you desire,” Techno bows, far more quickly this time, and approaches. He has no wheelchair for Phil, no crutches or walker or other mobility aid.

Maybe the intention is for Phil to be embarrassed, being carried around like a child, or maybe there simply hasn’t been enough time to craft one for him, this world does appear to be before the age of industrialization. Either way, the intended effect is not the acquired one.

Techno lifts Phil against his chest, one hand solidly between Phil’s wings, crushing his pin feathers, and Phil’s mind blanks. Techno’s hand. Between his wings. On his pin feathers. Techno’s calloused and scarred hands, marred by hours of training.

Phil is officially both scared and horny. Scared because Techno shouldn’t have to deal with this, because Phil shouldn’t be so easily wound up, because he didn’t know his wings could be so sensitive. Horny because…

He latches on around Techno’s neck. No matter how much he strains to pull himself closer, Techno only adjusts his hands to continue holding him ‘properly’. Phil is not allowed to run away from the situation. His feathers fluffy out, wings trying to mantle despite the terrible position.

At least it’s so overwhelming that the negative thoughts can’t quite reach him. A bad coping mechanism? Perhaps. A better one than flaying himself though. Even if he knows he’ll feel even worse once his brain falls quiet, leaving him with only pain and fading satisfaction.

…

It’s quite often that Techno regrets ever joining the military. Of course, it hadn’t truly been his decision, one of the many swept up every year during drafting season to keep border control an impenetrable wall.

So maybe what he regrets more is giving so much of himself to the military. He tried hard in training, proved himself to the platoon commanders, got himself only the most desirable missions and shifts through skill alone. In turn, Tech was finally noticed.

Noticed by Sanguinis, not the people he was actually looking to please. Techno can still remember the disappointment, the betrayal he felt when no one stepped up or tried to talk back against the Emperor, to argue that Techno should stay. 

That was before he realized exactly what they were up against. While the grudge never fully went away, Techno can finally understand their trepidation. He learned very well that no one stands up to the Emperor.

He tried himself after all. For his efforts, he was bloodied and broken, made to kneel in cooling fluids made of more than just blood. Sometimes, he can still feel it crusted to his skin. Sometimes, he can barely eat remembering how it tasted on his tongue.

And now that unshakable knowledge is being questioned. Unstoppable Sanguinis clutches to Techno, grip far weaker than it should be. Sanguinis, Mate, is small and weak.

A quiet part of Techno rears its head at that, eyes alight with want to protect. That part, so starved of attention, claws at its cage. It cannot set itself free.

‘Weak’ and ‘Sanguinis’ is an oxymoron, two words that should never go together yet the only ones Techno has. They feel wrong. Everything feels wrong. By his will to do his job and do it well, Techno does not drop Sanguinis. It is a very near thing.

It shouldn’t be so surprising. Techno knows why Sanguinis is like this. Techno is partially at fault for Sanguinis being so fragile, bones audibly creaking under his own strength. Techno got Wilbur into the vault after all.

Wilbur, now there’s someone better to think about, warming Techno’s chest and soothing the frayed nerves from having Sanguinis press so tightly against him. Wilbur, who understands him more than any other. Who assured Techno that it is not his fault he was abandoned.

Quite the shock that he’d known so much. Techno hadn’t expected that. He’d melted in the end, curled around Wilbur in the library, crying tears he forgot how to use. Wilbur had been so kind about it. The spots where Techno’s tears had hit had bloomed a beautiful blue. If only Wilbur would let Techno help him more in turn.

But Wilbur is strong, he doesn’t need Techno’s help, nor for Techno to worry so much. Techno worries anyway. He thinks he might love Wilbur, how can he not worry? It comes too easily, filling his body with overstrung nerves.

Nerves that strike him now too, rippling through him as he wonders where Wilbur is right now. The siren is far too helpful for his own good, spending more time helping the servants than helping himself. What if he’s overworking himself?

No, no, no! A part of him writhes, wanting more, wanting out, wanting to hold and protect and be free and be alone. The shimmer of gold, the stench of blood, the heat of battle. The memories of bloodied hands far too young, announcers crying over a roaring crowd as children beat each other to death. No, no, no. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Techno,” Sanguinis whispers in Techno’s sensitive ears, writhing against his hold. Not to get away, but to get closer, digging his nose into Techno’s neck. Large imposing wings tremble in the air. Or, not so imposing.

Patches are missing, though they’re likely the least of Sanguinis’ wounds. The spotty look only adds to the odd fragility Sanguinis carries with him today. The fragility he’d had then too, laying in bed like a corpse about to be buried.

The mark Techno had tried to wash away stands stark against pale skin. Has Sanguinis always been this pale? This thin? Shivered so hard with every weak wind? Wilbur certainly never is, strong and independent. Techno shifts in… disgust.

“ Techno,” Sanguinis says his name again. Stronger, with more meaning and an inflection he’s never heard before. An inflection that sounds familiar anyway, needy and wanting. Techno can feel that familiarity in his teeth. Weird, wrong, he tries to ignore it.

“Yes?” Techno addresses Sanguinis because he really can’t. Ignoring Sanguinis only makes him more insistent. Phantom sensations from memories of salacious touches send a shiver down his spine, limbs turning to lead.

Don’t drop the Emperor, Techno tells himself. He clutches a little harder instead, trying to speed up his pace, firmly ignoring the whimper Sanguinis lets out in response. Hands tense around his neck, threatening to slice through delicate muscles and sinew.

Mark him, please. Wrong, wrong, wrong, make it right, everything is wrong. The starved and the ignored pace around his mind. He can’t address them, can’t free them. It isn’t his will that put them there.

“ Hands,” Sanguinis bites, “ Move. Is too much. ” Sanguinis pulls closer again, lifting his chest a hair off Techno’s… hand… which was placed between his wings… That’s new. That’s surely new. Techno has never once laid a hand on the Emperor in a sexual sense but he’s certain that is new.

“My apologies but… I don’t think there’s another position I can hold you in.” Techno can’t think of one at least. From Kristin’s brief overview of Sanguinis’ condition, he doesn’t trust the Emperor to be able to hold on for a piggyback ride. He wouldn’t dare make the Emperor suffer through a fireman's carry.

Are there even other ways to hold him? By the Gods, Wilbur is never so complicated. All Techno has to do is avoid sensitive gills. Gills that are a lot smaller than Sanguinis massive wings that Techno’s struggling to both keep off the ground and not trip over. How to carry an Elytran is not exactly a lesson taught.

Sanguinis slowly processes his answer, letting out a low trill of frustration, and tucking himself further against Techno in frustration. Or, attempting to. The only way Sanguinis could be closer is if he fused into Techno’s skin.

“Be gentle?” Sanguinis mutters. Be gentle? Sanguinis could be shattered by a too strong breeze right now, of course Techno is being gentle. He’d rather be alive when the time comes that Sanguinis returns to his senses.

“Of course,” Techno responds, though his grip neither eases nor shifts. His voice, however, comes out a lot softer than he meant it too. If he imagines the words coming from someone else, he would almost think they care. A decent ruse, however unintentional. Wilbur did say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Close enough to kiss, to wrap your hand around your heart, to tear out your throat. It is going to kill you. That alluring tone is a trap. Part of him knows this, it is not a part he can listen to. He does not know how.

Really the only way he can comply with the Emperor’s request is to pick up the pace. If he gets to the Emperor’s Quarters faster, he can put the Emperor down faster and never think of this day again. Meals and such can be taken in those Quarters until either the Emperor can walk or the craftsmen finish a motorchair.

That task is easier said than done. The Silver Tower is on the opposite side of the palace as the Emperor’s Quarters, owing more to the trauma of the Silver Slaughter than anything else. The palace is miles wide.

Miles that Techno must walk with a squirming, whimpering Sanguinis directly in his ear, each sound sending his mind to darker and darker places as his body heats up. Places he’d rather not be. Disgust at his own reactions is not something he needs right now. It is not his fault.

Wilbur says it's not his fault how he reacts, the endless nights of tireless pacing while an unknown force screams at him to do something. He was trained to be that way, to worry over someone so monstrous and terrible. Even if his reactions stretch far past worry.

Remembering that is all that keeps him walking. Walking and ignoring and resisting the urge to harm the very delicate Emperor if only to make him stop making such disgusting, delectable sounds. It should be a crime to sound so good.

It should be impossible to describe Sanguinis as good in any way. Still he can not think of a single other way to describe how it feels to have such a powerful man writhe in his arms. If it were not Sanguinis, Techno could see himself…

Mate. Mate. Enemy. No, no, no. Listen, listen. Enemy. Mate needs to be safe. Mate needs to be loved. Keep safe. He needs to keep Philza safe. He needs to listen . This isn’t right.

Another problem arises once entering the Emperor’s Quarters, a place Techno has never been because a General does not intrude and he has never once accepted being a Rose. Sanguinis does not seem to sleep in a bed.

Or, at least, there’s no bed anywhere Techno can see. There’s an impressive sitting room, a closet that seems to have its own subspace pocket, and a bathroom that surely can’t be meant for only one person.

Techno sets Sanguinis down one one of the chaise’ instead, wondering if he had entered the wrong room or missed some secret door. Tommy sleeps on a bed, surely the Emperor would too? Unless Sanguinis does not sleep at all. Techno wouldn’t be surprised.

Sanguinis pants as if he’d been the one to walk with all that weight. His head hands forward, wings twitching and fluttering, never quite still and seemingly all the more uncomfortable for it. A sultry red stains his skin, contrasting the pale and bruised tones.

“Is there anything more you require, Crownsoul Crow Philza?” Techno asks, standing at rest just before Sanguinis. Looking at the emperor is a dangerous thing, spawning a squirming discomfort in his veins. Techno ignores how his skin prickles.

He is not immediately answered, leaving him to watch Sanguinis slowly pull himself together, the words being understood bit by bit. Such a quick witted man, fallen so far. Now so fragile, so slow, so… easy to break.

So in need of protecting, in need of him, in need of his sounder. Not that he understands this, not that he would even know what sounder means. Not when his mind is so distant from him. Not when he is just as must in need.

The blood so plainly visible on Sanguinis’ thighs only brings everything into stark contrast. Deep red blooming across white and gold, crusting upon the edges of wounds that may be healed now but should have healed far sooner. A change that Wilbur and Techno had wrought.

It is a level of… power? Yes, of power over Sanguinis that, once, he would have never considered holding. A god’s heart wrapped in his hand. The divine made mortal, made to suffer, at their behest. It is beautiful. It is spine tingling. It is captivating in a way few other things could be described.

Comparing it is a fool’s errand. Attempting to bring to mind even a single other activity or experience as sickeningly gleeful as bringing the emperor to his knees is impossible. Wilbur had once described it as snuffing the sun out with his hands.

Sanguinis isn’t quite ‘snuffed out’ of course, though he is incredibly close. Techno could simply reach out, wrap his hands around that deceptively thick neck, and squeeze. Bone would crack so easily. Sanguinis would fight him to no avail, weak limbs flailing as the last of his life drained out of him. It would all be over. Techno could offer the corpse to Wilbur as a gift, maybe. Wilbur wants the man dead as much as Techno does.

“ No,” Sanguinis lets out a strangled chirping sound, “No, there’s nothing I would ask of you.” Still, it definitely sounds like he wants something. Techno can certainly put two and two together between the emperor’s breathy state and raging boner. He isn’t stupid.

But he also isn’t willing to torment himself for the emperor’s approval. Maybe once he had been but never again. Never since Wilbur showed him how to steel himself, to say no once and for all. Yet, Techno hesitates for a moment.

Protect him, help him, save him, he is sounder, he is mate, he just doesn’t know it yet. Mental bars rattle beneath the strain. Under pressure, things begin to change. And change. And change. And change.

“Not even a change of clothes? You look rather uncomfortable,” Techno finds himself suggesting. The words surprise him, though they are true. Blood soaked clothing, whether clean or dry, is never especially comfortable. He knows that from experience.

Why does he care? He doesn’t, he thinks. Not in the kind of way where he should earnestly request Sanguinis feel better. A low ringing starts in his ears, buzzing through his chest, compounding on the discomfort Sanguinis’ mere presence brings.

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Sanguinis denies, “a rag to clean myself with will do.” Relief should follow those words yet Techno’s brows pinch tight. It’s hard to focus on, the sensation slipping through his fingers like sand, but it's as if his entire body has wound itself up. Of course, being tense in the emperor’s presence is natural…

“Of course,” Techno bows lightly. Obtaining said items takes a scarce few minutes. The already quite short trek is made shorter by insistent steps, that odd tension pushing him to move faster. He stubbornly does not run. Not for the emperor.

The tub is not like the silver one from before, instead more of a round pan made of solid gold. Those ‘rags’ that he’d requested? Delicately monogrammed with what appeared to be a poem dedicated to his honor in a language Techno only knows of because of his days sequestered in the library. Calling these ‘rags’ is an insult. More to the concept of a rag than to Sanguinis himself.

Walking back is slower. Carrying anything with water in it is a test of patience and balance, but a golden tub of water? Gold is quite heavy, the gleam quite distracting, making it a much larger effort than it otherwise should be.

Gold thumbs against the table, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge. Techno’s attention is momentarily stolen watching it, jumping to the gleam of those ridiculously expensive golden apples Sanguinis practically flaunts, before he gets himself under control.

Too under control, according to some parts of himself. Parts that whine and snort and moan, slamming itself against the edges of his mind yelling how wrong-wrong-wrong everything is. The source of his discomfort, not even allowed to be addressed.

“Thank you Techno,” Sanguinis smiles at him with no small amount of relief. A relief that Techno does not share, settling into the opposite chaise to wait on Sanguinis. Perhaps, now, he might be allowed to leave but there is no one else to trade duties with, not really. Not when Sanguinis needs constant watch.

A Rose would not be able to provide for him, not when they only know how to give and offer in a very specific, sensual sense. He would not dare ask Wilbur to, knowing what he does of the man’s past. Another guard would not have the experience of dealing with Sanguinis, Ranboo too sheltered and the others too new. The servants are too fearful to persist for too long in the same room. Techno is, unfortunately, the only choice.

So he watches Sanguinis awkward shimmy down his pants, the fabric sticking heavily around the healed wound. Sanguinis pinches and pries, flinching whenever he messes up and cuts straight through both the fabric and his skin, adding new blood to the mess. 

For a moment, Techno thinks to offer help again but the words stick to his tongue. No, something tells him, Sanguinis is fine and will be fine without him. He can do it. Techno just has to be here. Even that is debatable.

He won’t leave, he won’t help, he will be a decoration on the wall for all that he matters, stuck in… indecision? Is that it? Techno huffs to himself, shaking his head. Sanguinis looks up at him for a moment, pants around his knees, before flushing harder and turning back to his work.

Incredibly slow, rather monotonous work. Sanguinis’ current health apparently means he cannot move with any degree of delicacy or consistency. His hands visibly shake, his scrubbing jumping between too hard and too slow. Lifting and lowering the rag often looks closer to hitting himself than not.

Any bruises that decorate his mate’s skin should be from him. Instinct demands, control intercedes, and the thought never breaches the surface. Something snarls, low and warning. It cannot do anything. Not anymore.

Frustration builds bit by bit in his chest, hot and cloying with each incorrect motion. It would be so much faster, easier, simpler if Techno were allowed to help. But Sanguinis said no and Techno does not even want to help him, he doesn’t. 

Besides, Techno is not like Sanguinis, he knows how to respect a ‘no’ no matter how it makes him feel. He crosses his arms, digging his fingers into his skin. Sanguinis’ blood mixes with the water, dripping off-pink stains onto the chaise beneath him.

Clear water in the tub turns darker and darker in color with each dunk, water splattering the table since Sanguinis is incapable of judging his strength correctly. What looks like but really can’t be embarrassment colors Sanguinis’ face. The emperor does not feel embarrassed. Techno’s hard pressed to say the emperor feels at all.

“... help,” Sanguinis mumbles, looking up at Techno through thick golden lashes. Techno startles, tensing at the sudden noise in the otherwise silent room. He glances away, then back, then away again.

“Pardon me, Crownsoul Crow Philza, I didn’t quite hear that,” Techno prompts. It sounded like a cry for help, ashamed and a little wounded, but that can’t be. Sanguinis never asks for help with any degree of genuinity.

“I need help, I can’t… manage this, right now,” Sanguinis repeats, louder, though he stumbles through the request like the words are unfamiliar. And they are. They should be because Sanguinis never admits when he can’t do something.

He wants their help, he wants them. He can help them, he’s allowed to, he was requested to. Under these terrible binds, they can still help. They can and for a moment things can be okay.

“As you wish,” Techno conceded, moving at the pace of molasses out of the chaise, around the table, to kneel at Sanguinis feet. What a bitterly familiar place to be. Techno’s skin feels tight. 

Gently, so as not to accidentally do something stupid like snapping the emperor’s fragile fingers, Techno takes the rag. He wets it, squeezing out the water and blood, before turning to scrub at Sanguinis’ skin. A sense of deja vu washes over him.

Of course it does, Techno has done this before. He had been with Wilbur and Tommy, commiserating over something he doesn’t remember, barely a week prior. Has it really only been a week since the emperor was made mortal?

Blood seeps from the newly made wounds detailing Sanguinis’ struggles. They bleed sluggishly as if his body has forgotten how to bleed at all in the intervening years of immortality. It’s more blood than Techno has seen Sanguinis lose in all his years under the emperor’s command yet still it is such a small amount.

The wounds are already healing too. Soft pink flesh knits itself together, slow but also far quicker than any other species would be capable of. A few extra drops leak out if he presses down just right, ruby red meandering across ashen skin to meet the rag.

Eventually, one side is wiped clean, Techno firmly ignoring anything Sanguinis may or may not be doing in response. If he can’t see it, it isn’t real. Even if he can hear it. Techno has a job to do and he’ll do it right.

Only they are allowed to make him bleed. Them. Their blood, their wounds, their liquid rubies across their mate’s skin. Even if part of them doesn’t remember, they know the appeal, the beauty of blood.

Sanguinis’ other thigh is messier than the first, which makes sense since the emperor didn’t even finish the first thigh, let alone start the second. Techno inspects his work with a critical eye, ensuring every bit of crusted blood is gone.

Which really just leaves the rag soaked with a mixture more blood than water. Copper burns Techno’s nose when he leans in. He licks the back of his teeth, balling the rag up in his hand, forever to be stained.

And, for reasons he can’t figure out, he sticks it in his mouth. That copper scent blooms over his tongue, a heady taste, in a single suck. It’s terribly watered down yet still he finds himself groaning at the flavor. A pulse shocks through him of-

Techno freezes, mind stuttering to a stop because what the fuck is he doing? He tosses the rag to the floor, jumping to his feet and almost stumbling at the speed. Sanguinis’ eyes burn into him. Did he really just…

“I… will be right back, excuse this one.” Techno does not wait for a dismissal. That’s definitely going to make it worse when he inevitably returns, pushed to by his indomitable sense of duty, but five minutes won’t hurt.

Five minutes to get himself under control, to calm down and figure out why sucking on Sanguinis’ blood like that got him so hard so fast. Or maybe he won’t try to figure that out. Honestly, Techno isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer.

“Okay.” Sanguinis does allow him, finally responding as Techno crosses the threshold with a cracking voice. Good, alright, he has permission, this is fine. Techno… Techno really needs to see Wilbur right now. Wilbur has a way of making everything feel better.

He knows exactly where to find Wilbur, a small mercy. The only thing that keeps him from running is a desire for no one to even have an inclination that anything is wrong. Another small mercy, his mind doesn’t register anyone in the hallways on his way there, though that doesn’t necessarily mean he was alone.

…

Maybe Tubbo is a bad friend for avoiding the palace for so long. Actually no, fuck that, Tubbo is a fantastic friend for having the guts to step onto the palace grounds at all. Anyone who says otherwise has zero fucking clue what they’re talking about.

That or they somehow have no idea the sheer terror inherent in being within a hundred mile radius of the Royal Bitch himself, Sanguinis Philza Momentus-whatever. Not to mention the amount of effort it takes to sneak into the palace at all.

Between the fact servants no longer get turned over through death every other day, the new guards, the Imperial Sorcerer actually being spotted outside of the Silver Tower, and the Emperor himself, it’s a miracle Tubbo even made it this far.

Stepping out of a servant entrance and into the halls proper almost immediately ruins his cover. While General Blade probably won’t do anything about it, the pressure of the Emperor’s magic buzzing over Tubbo’s skin makes him paranoid. Dammit all, he isn’t even anywhere near where that bastard should be!

At least, he doesn’t think the Emperor ever visits the gardens. If that’s another change to deal with, Tubbo’s going to say au revoir to the revolution and its plans and kill the Emperor himself. Don’t question how, he’ll figure it out.

His stolen uniform is as vaguely uncomfortable as always, less ill fitting than most of his clothes but still slightly off. Off enough that he’s annoyed because it’s different and he hates it and- Tubbo huffs, flicking his ears, kicking at a stray pebble. Only Tommy is worth all of this.

Well, and his dad. Maybe he can catch a glimpse of him before he has to leave. Wishful thinking, he knows, but Tubbo’s only alive because of those wishes. He skips around a corner towards where Tommy is supposed to be according to servant gossip.

Skips, stutters, stops, stares. Tubbo nearly trips over himself at the realization that something is dreadfully wrong with his friend. His wings hang low, eyes drifting without actually reading anything in his book. Red rimming his eyes is more and more obvious as Tubbo restarts his approach.

No obvious wounds mar him, which is usually the explanation for this state. Tommy doesn’t often cry over the Emperor’s abuse, not anymore, but it does still happen. Did it happen again? Helpless frustration wells in him.

“Hey big man, how’s it going?” Tubbo asks, plopping beside Tommy on the bench. Not their bench, though they usually migrate there eventually, but a decent substitute. Anywhere is good enough with Tommy by his side.

“The fate of man is to suffer,” Tommy mumbles as he continues to stare lifelessly down at his… probably a textbook? Tubbo isn’t entirely sure. He’s nowhere near literate enough to understand half of the words in that thing.

“Wow, okay, bad, got it. Maybe let’s put down the fancy rich person book and talk about it? We like talking about things. I’ll plant a bomb on the problem if you want.” Tubbo tugs the book out of Tommy’s hands. It goes without a fight, set to teeter on the edge of the bench until a gust of wind or misguided limb sends it to the ground.

“I hate everything,” Tommy sniffs. If his wings tremble any harder, they might just tremble themselves off Tommy’s back. Tubbo frowns, ears pinning beside his head, scooting to press against Tommy’s side.

“So no bombs?” Tubbo asks. He wouldn’t mind the challenge. While he doesn’t know for certain if there’s any magical do-hicky’s preventing explosives from entering the palace grounds, he wouldn’t be surprised if there was. Plus, he’s always willing to have an excuse to inconvenience the Emperor, especially now that it seems the servants might not be slaughtered over it.

“No Tubbo, no bombs! We’re not planting bombs on my dad!” Tommy snaps and- welp, Tubbo definitely missed a lot and now he’s fucked up. Maybe he should have listened to a bit more gossip before coming directly here. That might’ve been smart.

“I’m sorry, your what now,” Tubbo deadpans. The Emperor, dad? Gods, that word is weird to hear come out of Tommy’s mouth. Tommy didn’t even use to know what ‘dad’ even meant . Apparently, he’s got the wrong definition.

“My dad, Tubbo. He- he’s dying, I think- or he tried to and now he’s not getting better and I shouldn’t care but I do because he called me flock and apologized and apologized for nearly dying and and and why can I still feel his blood on me?” Tommy rambles, reaching up to tug harshly at his hair, chest hitching with tearless sobs.

“ Dying?” Tubbo shrieks, “Okay, calm down, what does that mean, what did I miss. Explain. Now.” He tangles Tommy’s hands in his own, forcing them between them. Tommy shudders.

“Um, right, there was,” Tommy sniffles, blinking past stubbornly clinging tears, “this banquet, yeah? Just me, n Techno, n the Roses. Your dad was there, yeah?” A banquet of just the Emperor’s favorites. Tubbo’s never heard of that happening before but why not.

“And someone- someone poisoned dad’s drink? And it shouldn’t have affected him but it did. He nearly died, I think he’s still dying, why is he dying Tubbo? He isn’t supposed to be able to die, or apologize, or say he loves me. I don’t understand.” Annnnnd, Tubbo’s lost. He does not comprehend.

“Am I allowed to say I admire their balls to do that or is this the wrong time?” Tubbo asks, still chewing through that particular revelation. The Emperor can be poisoned. Since when? He thought the guy was invincible.

Tommy snorts, so Tubbo isn’t doing everything wrong. He leans forward, thumping his head against Tubbo’s shoulder, breathing ragged breaths. No, yeah, the Emperor is supposed to be divinely invincible.

Leaning his head on top of Tommy’s, Tubbo falls into thought. He’s pretty sure divine stuff isn’t supposed to be able to change. The gods are kinda all powerful, right? They can do anything, can’t be stopped, and have for some reason made the Emperor their favorite. Nothing should be able to touch him. Tubbo’s had to wrestle with that since he was old enough to know what the word ‘injustice’ meant.

Except now that fact of… of basically reality is under question after an event Tubbo didn’t even witness, couldn’t have because the amount of witnesses is incredibly small. Tommy’s one of them, but not someone Tubbo really wants to interrogate. His friend is wound up enough.

Which means if Tubbo wants more information his options are secondhand rumors, ever unreliable, and… the Roses . Don’t get him wrong, he has nothing against any of them, his dad is literally one, but he’s not entirely sure how to interact with them.

Like, does he act familiarly like with Tommy? Does he introduce himself to his father, who’s probably forgotten him since Tubbo was basically a toddler when he was kidnapped, and see if he remembers? Does he act like a servant?

General Blade is even less of an option because he’s the one person who could genuinely, actually make it so Tubbo can never see Tommy again. Not because he’s as strong as the Emperor but because Tommy values his opinion so much.

Meet with the Emperor? Yeah, no, Tubbo likes living. Except… well, he did nearly die and Tommy said he isn’t getting better. No, terrible idea… since when have ideas being terrible ever stopped him before?

“He passed out on me,” Tommy muffles into his shoulder. Tubbo blinks, mentally shaking off that horrible, and horribly tempting, idea. Attention on Tommy now, yes. No more thinking about interrogating the Emperor.

“Hm?” Tubbo hums, prompting Tommy. Even if that would be a relatively safe source of information if the Emperor is basically a corpse. Unless that means he can’t answer questions. Tubbo could at least check.

“My dad did. He wanted to see me, and then he cried a lot. I dunno what was wrong, everything was wrong, there was a lot of blood. He wouldn’t stop vomiting. I didn’t know what to do. It was really scary,” Tommy rambles.

“Miss Kristin says he broke stuff. I think I could tell. He was covered in bruises, just all over, and I think someone hit him and pulled his feathers.” Wow, Tubbo kind of wants to applaud the person that would dare.

“...he looked like me, Tubbo. All hurt and stuff. He looked at me like I looked at him. I think he was scared.” Tommy clutches at Tubbo’s borrowed shirt. Well shit, no wonder Tommy switched over to ‘Dad’.

“You’re nothing like him,” Tubbo affirms, “and… he’ll be okay, yeah? The Emperor can’t die, even if he can, uh, get hurt apparently.” He pats between Tommy’s wings. It’s definitely a new experience to be assuring Tommy of the Emperor’s health. Very weird.

“I know. Still scary,” Tommy mutters. He sighs, a full body thing that tries to melt into Tubbo’s skin, before pushing himself up, wiping at his face with his sleeve. Tubbo scuffs his shoes against the pathway.

“No one’s letting me see him either, like they want to protect my innocence or something. So what if I cried? I’m a big man, I can handle a bit of blood and bruises,” Tommy turns to complaining, emotions defaulting to anger.

Which gives Tubbo an opening to offer up his extremely terrible idea. If Tommy isn’t allowed near the Emperor, surely no one else must be, right? So, Tubbo could just walk in. No one would catch him.

“I’ll check it out,” Tubbo offers before he can regret making yet another terrible life choice. It’s fine, he’s fine. Everything will be fine because Tubbo is simply the best at sneaking around.

“Really? You’d do that for me?” Tommy perks up, a glimmer of hope entering his eyes. Fuck. Tubbo has to do this now. He really can’t take it back, not if it makes Tommy so clearly happy. He’s too good a friend for this.

“Steal me some snacks and we have a deal,” Tubbo bargains like his agreement to this even needs a bribe. He’d do it anyway. Food is will be a good pick me up when everything inevitably goes wrong.

“Deal!” Tommy shakes his hand. The smile on Tommy’s face is tentative even if it’s wide, the boisterousness hiding a boy who was never taught how to be happy. Tubbo knew from the first time he saw that smile that he was screwed.

Handshake be damned, his fate is already sealed.

Notes:

Yeah, so, just to specify: NOTHING has been retconned in this chapter. If you think something has, then I haven't foreshadowed well enough. Which, to be honest, kind of makes sense? I've only rarely mentioned the pieces at play (one of them has been mentioned exactly once by name in chapter 9). Either way, just letting you know in case you pick up on the stuff that's dreadfully wrong about Techno's POV.

Shit's just going down you know? Y'all are gonna hate Wilbur by the end of this if I have any say about it. It's gonna make some great enemies to lover hate fucks tho, which might help soften the blow. I actually debated adding a full on Techza smut in this chapter but decided against it cause we had the handjob last chapter and it just wasn't flowing well.

I'm gonna go bed now. Gnight folks o7

Edit: It's the next morning now, I've skimmed the ao3 terms of service and so, as part of a science experiment (and in case you wanna reach me somewhere ig), have my kofi: https://ko-fi.com/novasvoid

Do with it as you please.

Chapter 19: Misplaced Guilt, Misplaced Comfort, Misplaced Fault

Summary:

Choosing to be more present with the world is a decision that has to start day one. Of course, that doesn’t convince Phil’s body to heal any faster, the blessings to settle any sooner, but at least he’s doing something. It’s hard to believe that he had ever convinced himself isolation was the best method.

Or maybe that’s the guilt talking. Maybe Phil is overcompensating, it’s hard to say. Phil has no true context for his actions. There is no right way to go, no perfect method to make everything better, and Phil can’t convince himself that it’s okay to make mistakes.

Phil can’t convince anyone else he means no harm. All he can do is prove himself. Actions are meant to speak louder than words, if only Phil could see the meaning his own actions imply.

Resolve wavers and solidifies. Some goals align, others do not, and other still sit at such odds that clas is inevitable. All Phil can do is bear the storm.

…yet there is this oddest feeling that something is wrong.

Notes:

I am going to personally kill my psychology professor with a spoon and a paper napkin. I have so much work to do. Four classes, at least the psych one is a short semester? It’ll end sometime next month, I just have to hold out until then…

Until then, have this chapter and happy Valentine’s Day.

TWs: Implied/Referenced Abuse (Physical, Mental, Sexual), Implied/Referenced Sexual Slavery, Depression, Self-Hate, Self-Harm, Depictions of Blood, Suicidal Ideation, Glorifying Self-Harm, Dissociation, Detailed Depiction of Injury

*Mild* CWs: Dubious Consent, Blood Kink

Failing to die should not hurt more than the act itself. Not that Phil knows if his chosen method of dying was supposed to be particularly painful. He’s never really researched death by poison in any meaningful way. It’s more that he assumed death in general should be painful.

Phil picks at himself, at the chaise when he notices red beginning to stain his claws again, and at a barely in reach pillow when the buzzing of his skin makes him far too aware of how exposed he is. None of it does great at distracting him.

Dying had not been painful. Scary? Yes. Phil had been scared by dying the moment the poison slipped down his throat. But that was more instinctual.

Lack of oxygen from his esophagus closing caused his brain to send a fear response, the overwhelming urge to choke and spit out the blockage causing his hand to spasm. He remembers it clearly. Too clearly, honestly.

It’s a better distraction than the picking, thinking about it. Recalling how the poison quickly overfilled his mouth once he lost the ability to swallow. Remembering the burn not unlike poison ivy linger where its tracks ran. Reliving how the world had hollowed, softened, lost so many of his sharp edges as his senses dulled.

He hadn’t realized how sharp Sanguinis’ senses were until he lost them. Everything had gone so quiet in the moments of his not-quite-death. It had seemed so peaceful and loving, so cold.

Why had he come back? Phil shakes his head sharply, a sickening dizziness sinking into his soul. No, he can’t think like that. Would it have been good if he died? Yes, most likely. That doesn’t mean he’s allowed to regret coming back though. Tommy, at least, does not deserve a father who regrets coming back to him, even if the kid may never see him as a father. Even if he’s the only one who might care when Phil dies.

The Roses would miss him in their own way, Phil forces himself to acknowledge, Techno as well. They would miss him in the way a victim would their abuser.

None of them would actually miss him. They would miss the consistency, the shaky rock that an abuser represents. Abusers tend to point to themselves as the only thing the victim truly has, the only place they’ll have to return to if ever they leave. Even if that isn’t true, Phil knows it’s easy to forget.

Moments will come where bad things happen and dark thoughts slip in. Only in those moments will the Techno and the Roses miss him, miss having a point to always return to even if it hurts. 

And maybe that’s how Tommy will miss him too. Maybe there aren’t any memories in there of Sanguinis being an actual father, leaving Tommy with nothing to miss. Maybe what Tommy would really miss is the stolen connection, the father he could have had and the father Sanguinis never was.

The father he could be, something in Phil keens, catching onto this winding trail of thought, finally departing from… from Techno and… and… Phil forces himself to breathe.

Focus on the ache in his lungs, how each of his ribs still seem to rattle, and how his back spasms as he exhales, turning the sigh into a pained choke. Feathers bump against the chaise, many still awkwardly out of place.

Paying attention to the little persistent pains only draws more attention to how they all add up into one solid major pain, a wobbling block he can’t get rid of. Huh, using pain as a distraction can’t be a good thing. Phil blinks, once again far too aware of himself.

Okay, well, it’s not like he was trying to pretend his coping mechanisms were good ones. Trying to kill oneself is not exactly an act of shining mental health. Overworking… also not the best, even if it’s work that needs to be done. Isolating himself… yeah, it makes life theoretically better for others but the brain, human or not, needs connection in order to be healthy. Really, he hasn’t done much to stop his spiral.

Add that failure onto his pile of self loathing. Phil sighs, grimacing as his thighs seize, though how related that is to the past poisoning is now under question.

Joints in his fingers crack worryingly as he forces himself to relax his death grip on the pillow, the poor thing already mangled enough. He pets the torn areas down with shaky hands like that will help anything. 

Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can mend it using magic? Is he allowed to use magic or is that another thing Kristin restricted from him alongside standing and performing any task by himself? Phil can’t remember. Admittedly, he’d struggled with paying attention to her.

Even when he doesn’t willfully turn to it, pain is a great distractor. Pain that had been much higher than it is now, likely due to the fluttering return of Sanguinis’ healing factor to deal with the mess on his thighs- terrible way to phrase that.

But, yeah, Phil doesn’t recall much of her instruction. He does remember crying over Grian and causing his fellow Elytran to enter a fight-flight-freeze response though, so clearly life gives him no blessings. Phil can’t do anything right.

To make everything even worse, the door opens up to someone other than Techno returning. Not that Phil wants to force Techno to deal with his presence more than necessary of course.

His problem comes in the form of who opens the door instead. If it was a servant, Phil could deal with it. As much as he’d rather they not, the servants have seen him naked many times before. Considering who Sanguinis was, Phil would be surprised if most of the empire has seen this body naked, regardless of Phil’s opinion on the matter.

It sort of is a servant too. He recognizes the uniform easily, having seen hundreds of people running around in only minor variations of the thing to accommodate for rank or hybrid features. Only ‘sort of’.

None of the servants are meant to be children, not as far as Phil’s aware. The youngest person in the entire palace is Tommy by at least half a decade, assuming that Ranboo is nineteen. Maybe it’s a closer gap, Phil has hardly talked to the kid despite the occasional itch to do… anything other than work, eat, and linger in his thoughts.

Regardless of the kid’s attempts to seem otherwise, they are a child too, and Phil knows when someone is faking. The kid stands tall, though his head is kept down in mimicry of the other servants. He stands so tall that Phil’s worried he’ll trip over his own toes.

Shoulders press back in an attempt to seem bigger than he is, goat-like ears carrying a young stoat fluff that Schlatt’s distinctly lacks, being much more slicked down. Then again, that could be less age and more depression.

Also unlike Schlatt are the two horns sticking up out of the kid’s curly brown hair. They curve back slightly, reminding Phil again of a stoat he once saw at a petting zoo as a child, oohing and aahing over the attendants dramatic description on how big they’ll one day grow.

This kid can’t be getting fed enough to manage particularly large horns, Phil would be money on that. Not in the palace, not in the terrible run capital, and certainly not in the wider empire beyond that he struggles to find an actual map of.

Phil realizes about two seconds after that that the young ‘servant’ is approaching without being called and that he's not exactly fit for company. His pants are literally around his ankles, thighs an irritated pink, and only a pillow keeps his modesty. Even if the kid has likely seen this before if he really is a servant-

“Greetings to the Emperor, Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis,” The servant greets him much more simply than anyone else ever has in this world. It’s the sound of his voice, dreadfully young as if the throes of puberty have only just taken hold of him, that shocks Phil into action. Panic, as it turns out, is the only way Phil knows how to do magic.

Because it has to be magic that condenses into the air, miles of static laying thick over his tongue. The servant stumbles, head dropping further as if that magic is a physical weight, and seems to struggle to regain his balance.

Moments after, the tension snaps. The servant falls to the floor and a blanket appears above him. Displaced air creates a vacuum, a terribly loud sound in the wake of everything else. It rings in Phil’s sensitive ears.

Fabric gently floats to land on top of him, piling in his lap over his hands and the pillow. Phil breathes slowly, the sound extra ragged though it feels no different than any other aching breath. 

The servant breathes too, pants as he struggles to his knees. No, no this can’t be an actual servant. None of the servants have ever reacted like that before. Unless… Phil never noticed? No, no he would have.

His magic is strong, he knows that from the game since it’s one of the many reasons why direct force is nearly impossible when it comes to fighting Sanguinis, but it isn’t that strong. Magic doesn’t work like that… right?

Phil wouldn’t know. There’s no way for Phil to know. Any and all references to magic seem almost exclusively in the Silver Tower since he hasn’t found much about it anywhere else, unless it isn’t even there and purely an oral tradition. Maybe magic in large quantities is meant to cause that reaction and all the servants built up a tolerance.

An immunity, more like it. An immunity because Sanguinis is a poison one has to adapt to to survive. Phil can only wish Sanguinis poison immunity had been even a tad less omnipresent. Maybe then he would have…

“Are you…” alright? The words die in his throat, catching on every little grain and burn. Sandpaper has never felt more appropriate a descriptor. Phil swallows, it doesn’t help.

“The only thing bruised is my ego, my lord,” the ’servant’ groans. Definitely not a servant. The closest he’s gotten to this behavior is from those guards he found in the trash. Even then, it wasn’t quite to this level, only close.

So a citizen from the capital then? Phil tucks the blanket closer, as best as his spasms will allow. He… unless Wilbur counts, he hasn’t talked to anyone from the capital proper. 

“Good,” he mumbles. Softening his voice does little to soften the glass shards in his throat. Well, it does dull something. Not a lot of something, but something.

“Crown Prince Theloquin,” a twitch, possibly of annoyance, from the teen, “requested that I check how his highness is doing.” He pushes back, stubbornly straightening his back. A dark pit grows, shallower yet no less agonizing than all the other holes in his heart, watching him struggle. Surely he can do something about that? Draw his magic in? That seems to be the source of the problem.

How does he do that? Fuck, he’s helpless.

“Fine,” Phil answers, softer than his last word, barely even a breath. He doubts the teen even heard him. Maybe he should be more concerned that a random teenager got into the palace without him knowing than worrying over his lack of magical control. That seems logical. Yet, Phil fails to care. If the teen steals or tries to kill him, so be it, so long as everyone else is left alone.

“You know,” he can’t say the name, “my son?” A strangled chirp breaks from him, a needle slipping from a pin cushion. Gods, Phil wants his son. Really, he’d deal with anyone his instincts are demanding.

“Of course, who wouldn’t know the Crown Prince? I consider him a good friend, your highness, you raised a glorious child,” the teen does not meet his eyes. Tommy as a friend? Tears mist his eyes, blurring his vision.

Responding seems so hard in these moments, emotion and pain so very overwhelming. Phil just wants it to stop, wants it to never have started to begin with. He wishes he never drank that goblet, he wishes it had actually killed him, he wishes he died before all of this even began with that lightning strike. He can’t do this.

“I’m glad,” Phil chokes out because it seems that sentiment carries some truth. The best lies are 80% truth and that means Tommy has a friend. Tommy isn’t alone. He has Techno and this unknown teen and… and that might be all but it’s more than Phil could have hoped for.

Better than what Phil has anyway.

“Name?” Phil asks. He really should stop focusing on himself so much. If he truly has to stick around in this world, he needs to be a better father. That means getting to know his son’s friends.

“Theodore, my lord,” the teen bows, back trembling as he struggles to straighten back up. Right, magic, he forgot. He’s losing track of himself so easily. Phil takes a deep breath.

Magic feels like static whenever he stumbles upon him, like touching an old box TV, feeling the electricity hum. Maybe if he gathers that again and- Theodore, which is just as likely to be a fake name as a real one since the teen snuck in, chokes. 

Okay no, Phil lets go of his shaky hold, watching Theodore gasp as the pressure recedes. Not like then. The other way? Spread it out? Less overall pressure if it’s too thin to be noticed, right? He’ll merely… push out.

Except the moment it gets too thin, Phil loses track of it entirely. Judging by Theodore’s reaction, that causes it to settle into whatever Sanguinis had as ‘normal’. Phil winces. Maybe he’ll experiment with that when there isn’t anyone around to feel the consequences. Theodore clearly can barely deal with ‘normal’.

“Sorry,” Phil mutters, refusing to give into the urge to rub his aching head. He’ll only smack himself, unable to properly control his strength. No need to give Theodore an even worse impression of him than he already has.

“No bother, your magic is quite impressive,” Theodore compliments him through gritted teeth. Another twitch, annoyance? A lie? No, not a lie. Phil may despise his predecessor but he has to admit that everything about the man could be called ‘impressive’.

His mind goes blank for a few worrying seconds. His vision fuzzes, his skin hums, and for a moment he’s blissfully unaware of his pain. Then it returns, because Phil is in the middle of a gods damned conversation and he will be present for it.

“Do you like magic?” Phil prods. That draws a more familiar reaction, one eerily reminiscent of the other ram he knows, though Schlatt is a demon, not a ram. It’s a reaction Phil knows he loathes.

Ears pinned back, shoulders stiff, head down, hands at knees. All things Schlatt does on the not-so-rare occasion Phil hits a sore spot, though made far more prevalent. Schlatt has had his reactions mostly beaten out of him. Theodore… luckily not.

“I… have an interest. Not that I would dare learn magic under your view. Why, that would be treasonous,” Theodore insists. There’s a note there, bitter and true. He’s upset.

Of course he’s upset, he has to deal with Phil. It’s not exactly a unique reaction. Unlike other times, the way forward seems terribly simple to his overstimulated mind, not quite able to overthink things in the way he usually does. He still overthinks, naturally, because he’ll never be free of that but it’s slower. Phil is not being a dumbass at as fast a pace he usually does.

“Would it…” Phil coughs, terrible and vicious things that stains copper over his tongue. His hand shoots up, tangling with the blanket, and fails to catch anything due to its entrapment. Drops of deep crimson red soak into his cover.

He can’t breathe. Each attempt to slow himself down, to take a deep breath, fails as his diaphragm revolts. The mist blurring his vision renews. Tears of pain and distress run down his cheeks. Phil is once again all too aware of how helpless, how worthless, he is.

After what seems like ages but could really only be a minute or two, the coughing fit petters out. He can feel something cooling on his chin. Spit? Blood? Neither? Both? It doesn’t matter.

Phil frees his hand, struggling for far too long against thick fabric to his everlasting frustration, and tries to wipe at his eyes. His palm impacts with an audible smack.

Right, the punching himself in the face thing. Phil had been trying to avoid that. He takes a deep breath, holding it to take stock of how badly he’s shaking, and lets it go, slumping like a balloon losing its air. His hand falls back to his lap.

“...My… my lord?” Theodore calls out, the most hesitant he’s sounded since he walked into the room. He sounds confused. If Phil hadn’t already assumed Theodore wasn’t a servant, that would have cinched it. Phil knows how rapidly gossip can spread, especially in an enclosed environment like the palace. He doubts a single servant hasn’t heard of his condition. Yet, here Theodore is, asking.

Lifting his head, Phil tries to smile. His skull is a bag of rocks, each of his teeth brittler than pumice, and he knows he can’t look pleasant. Theodore stares back, eyes wide. Their gazes meet and the teen doesn’t even look away.

“Magic?” Phil rasps, because he hates himself clearly. Limits? Never heard of them. Any damage will be healed eventually anyway. That stupid healing factor will go back into full gear soon enough and he’ll have not even a scar to remember this occasion.

“...Yes?” Theodore sounds even more confused, nearly distressed by the intensity of it. Maybe just distressed in general. Watching a man cough a lung out tends to be upsetting… maybe Phil should be more careful with that then. Thedore doesn’t need to see all of that.

No words then. Phil gestures with his hand, a universal ‘go on’ gesture. Then, he gestures towards the chaise opposite of himself, just on the other end of the coffee table.

“To clarify, you want me to talk?” Theodore sits up only a little on his knees, as if he can’t get a clear enough look at Phil. Well, Phil wanted him to sit too but- One more word can’t hurt, right?

“Sit,” Phil nods, gesturing again to the opposite chair. Theodore stands slowly, wobbling like a weightlifter struggling under a few more pounds than they’re used to. He never stops staring at Phil all the while.

More skittish than a street cat, Theodore walks over to the chaise, short quick movements of his feet indicating… something? His footsteps are nearly silent. Phil thinks he’s trying to put something together but his brain refuses to finish the equation. He has the pieces and no glue. It’s fine. He’ll be fine.

Theodore plops onto the seat with none of the grace anyone else in the palace carries. There is no ‘slip’ or careful posture. He sits like someone used to letting gravity do all the work. Phil smiles at the difference. It delights him for reasons unknown.

“So, magic?” Theodore asks half a question. Phil nods, encouraging him to talk even though he can’t do much in the way of responding. That is also fine. Grian surely manages, mute people manage, so he will manage as well. Phil is not entirely useless.

“I’ve been… interested in it for a while I guess. The things it can do are amazing. Lady Kristin is one of my idols,” Theodore pauses, “though no one is better than you.” The lame attempt at flattery falls flat, unwanted.

Phil nods anyway, repeating his gesture that’s barely more than a flap of his hand, wrist twinging. Kristin seems like the perfect person to be someone’s idol. A high rank, no known acts that violate basic human rights, the whole nine yards. Then again, the only other ‘celebrity’ in this world is Sanguinis so the competition isn’t exactly tough.

“It’s too bad that books on magic are so rare, and even if they weren’t I wouldn’t really have the time for it- because it’s illegal and I wouldn’t dare break the law.” Hilarious for a teen who broke into the palace to say.

“Really, I probably wouldn’t have any aptitude for it anyway. The only person who could teach me is Lady Kristin… or yourself… but I doubt my ‘talents’ would be all that impressive. So there’s no reason to try.” Phil almost wants to give the kid some advice. Namely, defending himself for a crime he hasn’t been accused of only makes him look more guilty.

Unfortunately for Theodore, Phil wouldn’t be that good of a teacher either. He doesn’t know at all how his own magic works. Any lessons that Theodore needs, Phil would need as well, and unlike Theodore, he can’t exactly ask-

Well no, Theodore can’t ask either, magic is apparently illegal. Phil blinks, surprised. Since when? He doesn’t recall a written law like that, unless it was unofficial? An excuse for Sanguinis to hurt people?

If he remembers correctly, magic is a part of the soul or something. How it interacts with the body can change said body in mysterious ways. Like… what was it called… Magicarpus Hyperrigority? Magic can’t leave the body so it gets all strong? Because the body has to be able to handle the build up or something.

Kind of ridiculous that having too much magic can hurt you. Does that mean it hurts people with a lot of magic who don’t use it? Or does it instead make them strong? A sharp ache rings through his head. Too many questions, too little answers.

Honestly though, Phil hadn’t realized other people could use magic, as embarrassing as it is to say. Obviously he knew Kristin could, why else would there be an imperial sorcerer or whatever her title was? But beyond the two of them?

Could Phil sense those people’s magic? He focuses back on Theodore, watching for a moment as the teen shits, finished talking and unable to flee.

Could he?

Tilting his head, Phil focuses on that buzz of magic. Immediately he’s overwhelmed by his own, clouding this tentative new sense he has, which he should probably be more concerned about than he is. It’s nearly impossible to look underneath for Tubbo’s.

Sensing Kristin’s was pretty simple though. Her magic was refined, clear and smooth as water. Theodore’s… it would be rougher because he hasn’t practiced any, weaker too since it’s an unused muscle left to rot.

Phil can pull and push his magic so he should be able to divide it. This isn’t exactly Moses splitting the red sea, magic more strangely viscous than seawater. Phil just has to… mentally pull it apart.

Maybe it’s because he has so little control over his own body but Phil finds it easy to focus on his magic once he gets a hold of it. Theodore bows but Phil can’t focus on that. He needs to…

Gently, he digs a hole around Theodore, a whole mess of conscious and subconscious manipulations that’s weirdly similar to manipulating wet sand. Phil has to stubbornly pack down the metaphorical edges to get it to stay.

There. Phil preens at his work, watching Theodore slowly straighten, eyebrows furrowing. The teen glances around, clearly noticing the change but not knowing why and Phil- Phil did this for a reason, right.

What would Theodore’s magic feel like? Well, he’s quite stubborn and daring, what other kind of person would sneak into the palace after all. Stubborn is like rock. Daring is like fire. Magma?

He’s wrong on both accounts. Phil’s usually wrong about things so he’s not surprised. It’s weaker than Phil thought it would be, a soft almost mist of energy slowly beginning to waft off Theodore, no longer compressed under Phil’s magic. There’s definitely still a heat to it though. If Phil had to compare it to something it would be rain on a burning summer day.

Rain hits tarmac only to nearly instantly evaporate from the blazing sun, temperature no lower despite the clouds. All the mist in the air condenses into a mugginess that only wet heats can have. It’s almost like breathing soup. Theodore is like breathing soup.

That might only make sense to Phil. Curious, he funnels just a tiny bit of magic into a point and pokes at Theodore, no real intent. His magic hits Theodore’s weaker magic and the teen jumps, feet on the chaise in a low crouch.

A sharp hiss breaks Phil’s attention, a surprise to both him and Theodore judging by the pale, shocked face. Theodore can hiss? Oh… that’s… that’s so cute.

Phil coos in response. He leans forward, stopped by the pillow and blanket and the fact his legs don’t really work anymore. That’s adorable. Phil didn’t know rams could hiss- unless Theodore isn’t a ram. Can Schlatt hiss? He kind of looks like Theodore, minus any kind of horn… unless he did have horns and Sanguinis-

Bad thought, that’s a bad thought, Phil’s had enough of bad thoughts. Think good thoughts. Theodore has magic! He can learn magic! And it isn’t illegal, especially if Phil gives permission.

Kristin might like having a new friend, apprentice, or whatever. It must get awfully lonely in that tower. Or maybe she likes being alone? Phil can’t say. All he knows is that the Silver Tower is far bigger than it needs to be for just her.

Now how to tell Theodore without scarring the kid even worse than he already has. He could try writing. Sure, his writing will be messy but all it needs to be is legible. Now where would he get paper and a pen?

Frustratingly, there are actually what appear to be journals in Sanguinis’ bedroom, sitting neatly in one of the bookshelves. A couple long drawers attached to those shelves could be where the stationary is. Which brings Phil back around to not being able to walk.

So he points at the bookshelf. Theodore jolts at the movement, blinking rapidly, slowly coming back to himself. He slowly climbs off the chaise, following Phil’s finger towards the bookshelf.

“Do you… want a book?” Theodore asks. Yes, smart child, good child. A very cute, smart child who Phil fully approves of being his son’s friend. Phil nods happily.

Walking carefully, those same silent fluttering steps, Theodore crosses to the shelf and pulls out a journal. He brings it back in short order.

It is indeed a journal when Phil opens it, the contents written in Sanguinis’ handwriting and containing no information he wants to know. Who knew the monster kept a diary though. He opens it from the wrong side, finding a blank page quickly despite his questionable motor control.

Using his hand as a bookmark, Phil points towards the drawer. Theodore pauses from sitting down, standing cautiously. Another questioning glance.

“Oh, you want another one,” Theodore assumes. No, wrong. Phil huffs, shakes his head, and points a little harder towards the drawer. He mimes pulling it open with his free hand. Theodore’s brow furrows.

“...um?” A blank stare. That’s… not alright but Phil will deal. Maybe he’ll wait for another time. He points one last time, just to make sure.

“Greetings to Crownsoul Crow Philza,” Techno’s voice calls out, entering the room without knocking. Then again, there’s probably not a sight that Techno has not already seen. Phil keeps his hand raised, his extremities slowly growing cold, and looks over.

Techno pauses midstep, gaze catching on the strange sight they must make. Phil with an odd lump in his lamp, the pillow covered by the blanket, and an unknown teenager playing charades with the emperor. Definitely sounds befuddling.

“Pardon this lowly general for interrupting, I was unaware you had a guest, and a servant at that.” Techno, for once, does not bow as his stare settles on Theodore. The faux servant stands straight.

“Greetings to General Techno Blade,” Theodore bows, lowering his head. If Phil wasn’t terribly aware of every servant in his immediate vicinity, if he didn’t have to deal with hundreds of people bowing per day, he might not be able to notice the slight trembling that betrays Theodore’s lacking core strength.

“Apologies for being gone so long, Crownsoul Crow Philza,” Techno almost seems to ignore Theodore, “I hope nothing unfortunate occurred.” What does that mean? Phil can’t think of anything bad that could happen. Nothing that he didn’t do to himself, that is.

Oh! Techno might get his charades, Phil realizes in the midst of his thinking. He points at the drawer again, miming pulling, and then slaps the journal in an attempt at a gesture. Theodore flinches minutely at the smack.

“As you wish, Crownsoul Crow Philza.” Techno crosses the room with long strides, definitely ignoring the still bowed Theodore. Phil manages a soft chirp of a cheer, though he thinks one of his teeth is cracked, when Techno bends down to open the drawer he was looking at.

Bends down, at the waist, in those almost spandex tight pants Techno always seems to wear. That’s, hm, that’s not- there’s a child in the room so Phil should really look away. No need to stare at that perfectly toned ass trapped under leather.

He’s not doing a very good job at looking away or ignoring the bad thoughts. This is certainly a different kind of bad thought though, less depressing and more… not very child friendly.

A smooth, green leather notebook and delicate glass pen are handed to him, waiting patiently for Phil’s hands to wrap around them before letting go. Somehow, likely because it’s been specially made, the glass pen does not immediately shatter in his grip. Though he doesn’t have ink for it.

Maybe magic ink? Phil shakes his head, forcing himself to focus, though the motion has the exact opposite effect. He has a goal here, he reminds himself. His teeth creak as he clenched his jaw.

Theodore is into magic, Theodore has magic, Phil has the ability to assign Theodore to the Silver Tower. All Phil has to do is write something to the effect of ‘you are now a magic apprentice’ and send the kid off.

Writing is more of a problem than he’d thought it would be. Phil is plenty familiar with Sanguinis’ handwriting, both the dramatic swoops for official declarations and the simpler but far less legible wobbling cursive of his personal writing, and he knows all the small details that make his own scratchy writing different. What he manages is a secret third option commonly seen in a first grade classroom.

Oversized letters scrawl out in what can only vaguely be considered a straight line. Phil’s lines are oddly curved and his curves oddly jagged, the dot on his ‘i’s threatening to tunnel straight through the paper.

At least he was right about the magic ink? Though he doubts anyone would believe this writing was from the Emperor, nowhere even close to his handwriting. Phil’s eyes drift back up to Theodore.

Yeah, no, if Theodore brings just this to Kristin, he’ll get thrown on his ass, and Phil cringes even thinking of making the walk personally. Just getting down here had required Techno carrying him and Phil learning far more things about what Sanguinis’ body was into than he was comfortable with.

But how would he assure this is real? A wax seal? He vaguely recalls the items needed for that in Sanguinis’ office, though he’d yet to need to use them. Maybe a magic one? His magic burns at the edge of his strange new sense and he knows, somehow, that he has no idea how to make that work consciously rather than the subconscious actions of before.

What else? He could sign it but that wouldn’t change the handwriting problem. Unless…

Before Phil can doubt himself, his overzealous and overtired mind deciding that this is a great idea, he stabs the sharp end of the glass dip pen into the back of his hand. 

Everything.

Goes.

Dark.

Static overtakes his senses, wriggling over and under his skin, sinking down to his bones. He’s not breathing, or maybe he is. He can’t tell. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He’s not even sure if it hurts.

Things return slowly in shades of gray. Phil’s ears ring, heart pounding, and he can hear himself gasping for air as if it’s someone else in the room. He becomes aware of the stiffness of his shoulders, the wetness on his face, the shake of his hands. The sensation is all so distance, a concrete wall between him in the world.

It’s almost… pleasant, the distance. He’s so far from the rest of the world, so incapable of feeling all the terrible things that make him shake and cry and regret. Phil finds himself reveling in it while it lasts.

He finds himself regretting too, once he’s present enough in his own body to feel those kinds of things. It’s a strange regret. For once, he doesn’t feel bad about the audience or his own thoughts. No, Phil regrets knowing how this felt, this fuzzy freedom.

Because Phil doubts he’ll get to return to this state anytime soon, too conscious of his own decisions. Now Phil knows how it feels to float and not have to feel and it’s something he’ll crave yet never be allowed again.

Removing the pen from his hand is hard. It’s an awful wet sound, blood and thin viscera clinging to the glass from the delicate muscles in his hand. Phil scrawls his signature across the page.

A decent portion of the bottom left corner of the page is soaked with his blood, thankfully not covering the message as his hand had been resting on the opposite page instead. His hand which trembles when he tries to move it, bursting into more static, unable to be lifted.

Phil lets the pen fall to the wayside instead, tearing his note- permission slip really- from the rest of the book. The ripping of paper is almost too quiet, Phil finally registering just how quiet the room has fallen. He pauses for only a second before he continues freeing the page.

With the wet corner, the tear is uneven, following the path of least resistance. Again, nothing is removed of great importance but it makes the note look strange with the oddly angled tear, soaked with blood, a few stray splatters from his initial stab dotting the rest of the paper.

“Here,” Phil rasps, holding out the note to Theodore, “learn magic.” His abused throat bobs, not hurting as much with the barrier the static provides. Oh, he knows he’ll certainly feel it when his nerves settle again but for now… for now Phil will take what he can get, guard it jealously, and…

And Theodore isn’t taking the note, even with the offer so obvious, so hard to misconstrue. Phil forces himself to focus on the fake servant. He’s pale, staring at Phil with dilated eyes.

Staring at Phil’s still bleeding hand. Staring at the hole run straight through that slowly knits itself back together, the exit wound on his palm is the only bit covered, and even that is only by an incredibly thin layer of skin.

“You’ve been dismissed, take this to Imperial Sorcerer Kristin of the Silver Tower,” Techno, Phil’s savior, takes the note and presses it to Theodore’s chest, rewording Phil’s apparently vague statement into an order.

“Y-yes?” Theodore stammers, jolting at the touch. He’s still staring at Phil and his hand even as he takes the note. He’s still staring as he backs out of the room. Even when the door closes, Phil can still feel his eyes.

Well, that was… an interesting reaction. Phil can’t really blame Theodore for it, not as he’s forced to settle back into all his aches and pains. What he just did was… incredibly concerning.

Even if Theodore hates the Emperor, and he should, it is still quite uncomfortable to witness someone hurt themself like Phil just did. He winces belatedly.

“Apologies for my earlier departure, Crowsoul Crow Philza,” Techno apologizes again despite already doing so, “I should not have done so. Such a thing was crass of me, abandoning his Imperial Highness when he was in such a state.”

“If it is punishment you desire, lay it on me and not the foolish servant who took advantage of my absence.” Techno kneels before Phil. It would be… almost, but not quite, sweet of Techno if Phil believed any of the words he said.

Techno is not sorry. Techno may be trying to protect the unknown servant, that Phil could believe, but he is not sorry. Not that Phil’s going to punish Techno regardless of his genuineness.

“Techno,” Phil mumbles, lifting his uninjured hand. Techno reaches for his injured hand instead, pulling it forward, running his thumb about the wound. His, huh, Techno’s hand is a lot larger than Phil’s.

“It’s my fault you were hurt,” Techno claims. Honestly that’s just rude. Phil made that decision all on his own, both with the pen and his poisoning.

“A general should protect his emperor and I have done no such thing. I have failed in my duties.” Techno presses the back of Phil’s fingers against his forehead, smearing blood on his skin. Okay, something’s wrong. What happened to the Techno that avoided Phil with the face ferocity that Phil avoided everyone else?

“It’s okay.” Phil chokes, garbling his words into something barely understandable. Techno lifts his head, shadowed eyes kept level with Phil’s self-imposed injury.

“I know what you want, I…” Techno murmurs, “I know, you’ve made it clear before. I simply… avoided the truth.” He presses a kiss over the wound. Phil has so many questions and no way to ask them.

“I…” Techno drifts off. A tongue, warm and roughly textured, peels blood from his hand in tiny kitten licks. Phil’s mind goes blank again, heat rising to an uncomfortable level, flushing up to his ears.

Blood is cleaned from his hand like that, patiently bathing every inch of skin, splaying Phil’s fingers across Techno’s face to get at the webbing between. New blood continues to bead from the entrance wound, ruining Techno’s work.

Techno doesn’t seem to care. His hands are careful around Phil’s, even as he presses down on the edges of the wound, coaxing new blood to the surface. 

“I should,” Techno pants, looking up at Phil, eyes hazy. A vibrant flush paints his face dark, pointed ears twitching, wide shoulders rising and falling with each shaking breath. Then his gaze catches on Phil’s neck.

He stills, blinking slowly. Techno swallows thickly, letting go of Phil’s hand with something akin to reluctance. Such a strange reaction, so unlike what Phil’s come to expect from the general, though he barely knows Techno beyond the realm of a game he barely remembers.

“I should help you get dressed,” Techno finishes his sentence completely differently from what he had seemingly intended to say, the words too clear and empty to be anything but a meaningless correction.

Phil’s hand falls back into his lap, cool from saliva yet burning from the slowly bleeding droplets of blood. Techno stands and… and he can’t genuinely want to do that. As much as Phil doesn’t understand why Techno did anything that just happened, he can’t imagine Techno wanting to leave right now either.

Standing in front of Phil, lingering for a few moments, Techno’s need is obvious. His dick strains the front of those tight pants with no hope of hiding it, engorged to match his deep flush.

Yet Techno ignores it. Yet he walks away to the closest, only returning once he finds a simple outfit to dress Phil in. Yet, he makes no move to acknowledge Phil’s own raging erection while he helps Phil cover up.

And Phil can’t bring himself to ask either, unable to get the words past his ruined throat. He finds himself distracted from even thinking about it. How is he supposed to focus on anything when Techno reveals that there was apparently a secret magical staircase to Phil’s nest?

Since when? How did Phil not realize? How does Techno know about it? Phil is laid in his nest, left to linger alone, a mixture of horny and confused and guilty, unsure what he’s even feeling guilty for.

If nothing else, at least the excitement of the day has left him too tired to stay awake for long in the nest. Nests are safe, comforting. Not even the frigid isolation of his empty nest can keep him from sleeping.

…

Approaching the Emperor’s palace is among the most nerve wracking things Niki has ever done, and she’s a part of a revolution against the man. It feels different, somehow.

Being a part of the revolution is a quiet thing, harshly spoken words hidden amongst the darkest corners of the capitol, and only on the lower levels at that. Levels far beneath the sun, only visible in patches beyond the crisscrossing pathways and bridges of the levels higher up.

It feels dangerous yet is ultimately pretty easy to get used to and rather lackluster. There is little chance of getting overheard by supporters of the Emperor. The further you get from the surface, the fewer people who would call themselves thus.

Nether, the ones that do on those levels wouldn’t be trusted to report actual revolution members anyway. They’re insane, completely overzealous in their worship of their ‘god’, a man she doubts any of them have even seen. Niki hasn’t heard of the Emperor ever going to the lower levels.

All she’s personally seen of the man is in the various statues, paintings, and carvings depicting him. She knows he’s visited the upper levels, parading around his glorified sex slaves for his own amusement, but she’s been lucky enough to never have to witness it.

Unfortunately, her luck is likely to come to an end here. It’s time for her to meet up with Wilbur to ensure the rest of the revolution that their dear leader Soot is still alive.

So here she is, wandering far beyond the limits of the familiar, beyond even the upper districts she’s only visited when custom cake commissions get kicked far enough down the line to give her a chance at a heavily discounted rate. 

The sun is blinding, much brighter than her vague memories imply. Niki winces, resisting the urge to shade her eyes, not wanting to stand out anymore than she likely already does.

Niki is a dark spot on these clean roads. Her nicest clothes are stained with soot, cleanly sealed holes feeling ratty despite the fact she knows they’re barely visible to even a trained eye. She doesn’t belong here.

She doesn’t belong on the Emperor’s road either, made of a smooth white stone interlaced with threads of gold. This mere footpath is likely more expensive than the entire first level of the capital put together.

Her feet hurt, the worn soles of her boots doing little to cushion her, not after walking for easily a couple hours already to get barely halfway there. Each breath comes short, unused to being so high up.

Unused to the thicker air of magic as well. The Emperor’s palace is visible at the top of the winding path she climbs, much larger than it had appeared at a distance, much brighter than even the sun. The Emperor lives there while thousands die in squalor.

Grinding her teeth, Niki continues to march. Each step is a little harder than the last. The Emperor’s magic pulses and waves over her, as if walking directly into the sea. The constantly fluctuating weight weakens her balance.

It’s a magic all on its own that Niki makes the trek, wandering off the path and through the brush towards their designated meeting spot, some back entrance used only by servants.

By then, the Emperor’s magic has truly coalesced on top of her, her shoulder arching and her head dropping against her will. The pressure on her lungs makes each breath a bit more ragged on top of the physical exertion.

Well, now she can rest and wait for Wilbur. As much as struggling to stand under the Emperor’s presence counts as ‘resting’. She refuses to give in and sit down though. It feels like a failure to try.

“Sorry if I’m late, I had an accidental run in with Techno, the General Blade you know? Had to take the long way,” Wilbur appears long before Niki is ready for him. Oh well, the sooner they get the over with, the sooner she can-

“Why are you naked?” Niki yelps, slapping a hand over her eyes. Listen, she considers Wilbur a pretty close friend but not that close. She did not need to know what his dick looked like.

“Naked?” Wilbur has the gall to sound confused, “I’m not- right! You’ve never seen the Rose uniform.” He laughs at her, laughs at her! Niki scowls, unwilling to remove her hand.

“That’s a uniform? I thought uniforms had to have fabric.” Niki waves her free hand at where Wilbur’s hopefully still standing to illustrate her point.

“Hey! I’m wearing fabric. It’s just incredibly thin and kind of sheer and- okay, yeah, I get your point. That place really fucks with your sense of modesty,” Wilbur admits. She hears the door push close behind him.

“Clearly,” Niki snips. The Wilbur she knew- well he was all but a whore so his modesty was still really questionable but he at least never waltzed outside naked. Ugh, she will never recover from this meeting.

“Look, if it bothers you so much, give me your cloak,” Wilbur offers. Niki turns on her heel, unclasping the dull red fabric and tossing it over her shoulder. 

“There, better?” Wilbur asks after a few moments of rustling. When she turns back around, he’s turned her cloak into a makeshift toga, covering up him far more than that ‘uniform’. A uniform that…

Apparently it actually exists? Niki glares at the bits of sheer fabric, blue and yellow and shimmering, peeking out the bottom of the toga. She’s offended on behalf of everyone who’s ever had to witness that thing and every tailor who’s ever had to make one.

“Better,” Niki admits, “I’d ask how you’re doing but considering you’ve apparently gotten used to wearing that.” She trails off, her point made clear.

“Yeah, the Emperor is a piece of work. Not sure what we expected though. The Roses are sex slaves, really more items than people. Did you know they used to only get fed once a day? And it was only crackers and cheese!” Wilbur talks with his hands. The familiarity soothes Niki’s nerves.

“Was it at least fancy cheese?” Niki doesn’t seek to remind him that most people in the capital, at least that she knows, only get one or two meals a day too. It’s all they can afford. Maybe that’s what makes it so insulting?

“Maybe? I don’t fucking know. What even is fancy cheese?” Wilbur wrinkles his nose. Good point, it would be the first time either of them had really eaten cheese. And… and yeah, that is why it’s insulting.

The Emperor could buy the entire world if he wanted and yet he fed his people a meal that even Niki could afford should she choose to give up meat for the price of cheese. He lives in excess yet spends so frugally, caring for no one but himself.

“Used to?” Niki finally catches on the odd wording, “What do you mean ‘used to’?” For a moment, worry overwhelms her. Have they been made to starve?

“Yeah, used to. Things have been…” Wilbur falls still, worryingly so, “different, than anticipated. The Emperor’s different. He’s a lot more…” He struggles for words. Niki can’t remember him ever doing that before.

“A lot less cruel. In fact, I’ve barely seen him since… maybe the first couple weeks here? It’s nothing like the rumors.” Wilbur chews on his lip, worrying it between sharp teeth.

“And that’s not a good thing? You’re… you’re being fed better, I can tell.” Niki can’t ignore that. There’s an extra padding to Wilbur’s sharp angles that reminds Wilbur of her richer, rarer clientele. The padding of someone who must only starve very very rarely.

“It should be, I think. But Niki, he’s not supposed to be like this. The servants and the other Roses have mentioned how weird this is, they’ve brought it up a lot. Nether, the leading theory right now is that he accidentally inverted his personality due to magical backlash. Fuck Niki, the man nearly killed himself over it!” Wilbur nearly shouts.

“He- the Emperor?” Niki barely gets to interrupt before Wilbur continues with all the grace of a broken cart barreling downhill. She shuffles a step back.

“Yeah, maybe whatever happened gave him the ability to feel guilt because he actually willingly poisoned himself. I know I’m the one who slipped him the poison or whatever but he’s the one who recognized it was there and still drank it. I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t think we’d actually get this far.” Another step.

“And he didn’t even have the grace to die like that. No, his stupid bullshit healing factor has kept him alive and- and it’s horrible. He was unconscious for a couple days and even now he can barely move. He’s probably in his quarters right now, languishing while being pampered like his pain means something.”

“Wilbur,” Niki tries to interrupt his ranting, “it’s okay. You’ll get another chance to-.” Her efforts are for naught, riling Wilbur up further.

“I already had another chance! I got a knife, a moment alone but- but I couldn’t do it! I should have been able to. He’s a monster, he needs to die, but he was just so- so- so pathetic.” Wilbur whines, running a hand over his face.

“Why couldn’t I do it? I can’t figure it out. Is it- is it too easy? Why would I be upset over it being easy? Niki, why am I so upset?” Wilbur asks her and… and there’s a weight to that question.

Niki knows, in this moment, that her answer is vitally important. She knows Wilbur, knows how fragile he can be despite his status as a fearless revolutionary, knows he’s a lot more sensitive to other’s opinions than he wants to admit.

“Wil,” she calls for him, reaching out. Wilbur takes the offer, diving forward into her arms, his height bringing him to bow. She lets his forehead rest against her shoulder.

It’s different from before, definitely, with how much smoother Wilbur’s skin feels. He smells of something sweet and something floral, roses if she had to give a guess, and his hair is so shiny and clean she wouldn’t recognize him in the streets.

She’s staining him like this. There’s dirt under her fingernails and soot outlining every wrinkle of her joints. Niki knows she probably smells more of ash and sweat than bread after her walk up here.

But it’s still familiar enough that stress flows from her shoulders, allowing her to run her fingers down his neck and spine without feeling weird about it. They’ve done this plenty of times before, quiet moments of comfort. Nothing is more priceless than the presence of a friend.

“It’s okay if you can’t,” she murmurs, quietly lest she break the fragile peace, “taking a life is a big responsibility.” Isn’t that the truth? Niki doesn’t think she’s brave enough to get half as far as Wilbur has.

“You’re a good person, Wil. I know you are. You’re a strong person. No matter what it takes, you’ll get through this.” Words of comfort flow easily. They’re true, facts she knows deep within her heart. Niki will repeat them as many times as Wilbur needs.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way, no matter how far I may be. You always have my support.” She continues to rub Wilbur’s back as he begins to shake. There’s no wetness on her shoulders but, well, Wilbur was never that big of a crier.

“I won’t abandon you,” Niki promises. She promises and she comforts. From her words, Wilbur takes strength, letting him solidify his decisions, no matter how tough. Or, at least, that's what Niki hopes.

She has no idea the true meaning of what she says.

She has no idea the consequences of these words.

But, in the end, she won’t have to stick around to see what happens, will she? The palace is a cage. Nothing that happens inside makes it out, not unless Wilbur wills it.

Why would Wilbur let himself be anything but the martyr the revolution needs him to be?

Notes:

I seriously need to get another Techno smut out here before that man explodes, I swear to god. Idk man, it just made the most sense for Techno to be the one acting as Phil’s caretaker but it also means Techno gets a lot of opportunities to feed his blood kink in incredibly questionable ways.

Speaking of Techno, why was he acting like that? Well, it makes sense if you Know(tm). Unfortunately for you guys, you don’t know! Because no one in the comments guessed right on what that rarely mentioned thing was that’s kind of acting as the linchpin of Wilbur’s antagonistic role. I don’t wanna ruin the surprise to so… eh.

Some of you may be wondering why this fic is now listed under the series ‘Kinstugi Anthology’. That’s because I’ve been thinking of writing a series of one shots from this universe, the name inspired by the Japanese practice Kinstugi, which also inspired the name of this fic.

If there’s anything you’d like me to explore in a one shot, feel free to ask! I’m currently working on a first meeting between Wilbur and Niki, maybe delve into how the revolution can to be. It’s really neat because I’ve not gotten to show off my worldbuilding for this fic very much beyond the palace.

Unfortunately, there’s only so much you can do when your main cast are all so used to Sanguinis’ presence and the consequences of living near him. Taking a step back really shows off some neat stuff, but I won’t spoil what that stuff is ;)

See you next time! Drink water and try not to die

Chapter 20: Blame Yourself, Everyone Agrees

Summary:

Sanguinis Philza Momentus-Mortis is at fault for the state of the world. That is a true statement. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, the God Emperor, Chosen of Death, of Blood, of Mind, is the source of many- if not all- of the world's problems. Everything leads back to him in an awful, web-like way. It's hard to feel anything but contempt for such a man. No, he does not deserve to be called a man. He is a monster.

Philza- preferably Phil- is not a monster, is not *that* monster. Except... except he is. Except their fates are intertwined so thoroughly that Philza will never go home. This is his life now. Surely, these are his mistakes? And if Sanguinis is at fault, Philza must be too?

It's not a great way to think. Logically, Philza can understand that that assessment is wrong, flawed, but emotion cares little for logic. The world beyond him does not know what he knows either. To them, he is Sanguinis and Sanguinis is him.

The world blames him and, if the entire world is against you, surely they're right?

Notes:

Depression hit *hard* but exams will probably hit harder. Idk man, those aren't for another few weeks and I'm just dreading them. We're gonna make like Phil and try not to think about any of that. Instead, I'm finally going to post this damn chapter that's been hiding, mostly finished, in the google doc for a month or two now. I'd apologize but, like,,, idk man, school and mental health comes first. Y'all want faster chapters? Pay me for it. (For legal reasons, this is a joke. Ao3 admins pls don't smite me /j)

On a more important note.

TWs: Implied/Referenced Abuse (Physical, Mental, Sexual), Depression, Self-Hate, Self-Harm, Depictions of Blood, Suicidal Ideation, Dissociation, Victim Blaming (from the victim), On-Screen Physical Abuse, Verbal Abuse, Self-Objectification, Depersonalization

*Spicy* CWs: Fingering, Wing Kink, Voyeurism, Public Sex, Minor Blood Kink (Very minor, at the end)

Frigid air seeps through the thin layers enshrouding his body, frighteningly still with seemingly the entire palace locked in slumber. All except for Phil that is, watching his toes blue as marble saps what little warmth he has left. Even when he feels he has nothing left to give, the marble takes more.

It’s poetic in a way, Sangunis’ choice of material. A tyrant who took and took from the people, the world, around him until he was pulling blood from a stone and still he kept taking. Phil does not want to take.

He’s had little choice these past few days. Even now, two entire weeks after he was poisoned, he’s struggling to stumble his way down the hall, walking by his own strength for the first time in a while. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the stumbling was because of muscular atrophy, except it’s not. He knows it’s not.

Phil’s point gets illustrated as he tangles his feet, tossing out a hand to balance himself on the wall. Skin sinks into marble, indenting the wall as he leans over a hall table, gold edges digging into his hip.

Atrophied muscles would not be able to break marble so easily. Phil breathes through gritted teeth, forcing his feet to untangle. Muscle atrophy would be easier to deal with than this.

Basic coordination is something he’s taken for granted all his years, walking and skipping and running whenever he pleases, maintaining some measure of grace. Not anymore. Instead he has to stare at his feet and consciously move his legs like he’s puppeteering his own body around, locking his knees with each step.

Maybe it’s better than he was before, when he fell after getting out of bed and broke his kneecaps. At least he can stand now, it doesn’t even hurt all that much.

Of course, Phil’s definition of ‘much’ is definitely skewed after this whole poisoning debacle. He knows breathing didn't hurt before but now his throat whistles with each breath and the few words he can get out are rasps.

Now that’s something that hasn’t gotten much better, a low priority to his burgeoning healing factor. How long does it take for that thing to settle? Phil’s a little desperate for it to. Desperate enough to completely avoid Techno just so he can practice walking in the dead of night.

Yes, avoid. Phil stumbles around a corner, keeping his grip light-light- light on the edge as he balances himself. Techno may be his favorite but he’s struggling to remember why as of recently.

Guilt swarms him, clogging his throat, bringing his eyes to water far too easily. He’s avoiding his mate, his life partner who only wants to see him safe and healthy and- and Phil wishes that were true.

For once he wants his instincts to be correct, choking down broken croons of help-please-ithurts because that will only make it hurt more. Techno won’t understand, won’t respond. Techno… he’s not sure Techno cares.

Sometimes, Phil can convince himself he does. When Techno gets on his knees, washcloth in hand or using his tongue, careful as can be as he cleans Phil of his messes. But then he’ll come back to himself as if snapping out of a daze and Techno will abandon-

Abandon? No, not abandon. He’ll just leave for a few minutes to get himself under control. Phil is somewhat grateful for it. Even if his dick seems ready to go at any moment, Phil’s skin crawls at the thought of acting on those desires.

Too much effort and energy he doesn’t have. Techno would probably end up doing everything and Phil just wants to give and not take for once. He wants to be in control, to be himself, to not hurt anyone.

Sometimes, it feels like his presence is what’s hurting Techno, emotions flashes across his face as his mouth pulls into a grimace. It’s subconscious, Phil thinks. Unpleasant thoughts- ones that grow more obvious each time Phil fails to call Techno out. Maybe he should. Maybe ignorance would be bliss. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He already knows Techno feels like that. Maybe his emotions are a little lighter, a little more confused without Sanguinis’ abuse but Techno still feels terrible. Phil can’t forget.

Phil had promised he wouldn’t isolate himself anymore- and he isn’t, he just hasn’t had the ability to walk on his own until yesterday- but he needs a break. He needs to sit alone somewhere that isn’t his nest, a nest that feels far colder than even these marble halls during the birth of winter.

Getting lost wasn’t a part of the plan, taking random turns in this maze of a palace until he ends up deep within its bowels. A hall with no true windows, feeling a buzz in the faux moonlight trickling from glorified paintings depicting… mostly Sanguinis and roses and crows. 

Candles flicker in wall sconces, hitting stained glass built into their gold and fractaling over the place, further hitting gemstones built into the furniture and bouncing about until the light hits the floor. Regretfully, Phil has to admit it’s very pretty.

Blindingly wasteful but pretty. He sinks down next to what he thinks is a hall dresser, made from an impossibly blue wood peaking through gold lattice so detailed it may as well be a solid carving. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s not seeing wood but further reflections of the light. It doesn’t matter.

Phil leans against the dresser, pressing his warm cheeks against chilled metal. Knees drawn together, wings bunched painfully between his body and the wall, Phil curls. Is he sitting on his flight feathers right now? Probably. He can’t tell.

He could tell. If he wanted to, he could figure it out. Phil would just have to stretch his wings, ripping them out from underneath him and maybe even ripping a few feathers out. He would bleed then, drops of blood that Techno adores. Maybe he'll get more soft treatment then, if he’s pathetic enough about it.

Running his fingers over the bruise stained over his skin, no lighter despite the scrubbing and healing time, Phil taps the tip of sharp claws against his throat. There’s no thought there. Well, nothing worth actually considering.

Soft footsteps catch his attention. He doesn’t want it to. Phil doesn’t want enhanced senses or super strength or immortality, he only wants to heal so he’ll be a little less of a burden, even if that means losing someone who will touch him without fear or expectation of more. Even if that means he might never hug Tommy again.

Covering his eyes, Phil pretends as hard as he can that he hears nothing. Not the footsteps, not the whistle in his throat, not the slow drip of tears down his cheeks from the mortification of even thinking about tearing his feathers out.

No wings might make him look less like Sanguinis but self mutilation is not something a mentally sound person considers. Self harm is not supposed to be a temptation. Phil was a therapist, damnit. Why can’t he keep his head on straight? Why is this so hard?

“Well aren’t you just pathetic?” Wilbur asks. Phil would recognize that voice anywhere, despite how hard he’s avoided the man. Despite their last interaction being while Phil was half dead and only vaguely aware of the hands on him.

“Are you not even going to look at me? What, do you feel bad?” Wilbur coos, a musical tone to his voice. Of course Phil feels bad, he’s Sanguinis. Wilbur does have a point though, ignoring him is rude.

“Hi Wilbur,” Phil rasps. He looks up at Wilbur. It’s almost sad how proud Phil feels when he’s able to completely ignore the outline of Wilbur’s cock behind that thing the Roses call a uniform. His success is mostly because Wilbur is… himself.

Tilting his head to the side, light glimmering off his scales like a man shaped suncatcher, dark eyes half lidded and mocking as he looks down at Phil. Phil feels miniscule under him, a bug about to be squashed. Phil deserves to be- no, not going there.

“ Hi Wilbur- I guess I should be happy you remember my name,” Wilbur snorts, “It makes me special. Doubt you remember the names of anyone else you killed. Didn’t even have the grace to give them a headstone.”

A cold hand sinks into Phil’s hair, the sharpened nails of a Siren fed well digging into his scalp. Warmth beads between the chill, boiling in comparison. Blood, Phil assumes.

“Sorry,” Phil apologizes. He can’t apologize enough. Nothing he can do can make up for what he- what Sanguinis has done. Wilbur’s expression freezes, eyes going a little wider. He mouths the word.

“You’re, you’re sorry?” Wilbur laughs, “ Really? You expect me to believe that? Yeah, because being sorry changes anything. Because sorry will fix anything.” It’s a mocking laugh, stretched thin by stress.

“I know, ‘m sorry,” Phil repeats, blinking back a fresh wave of tears. He’s pushing his throat too far already, the back of it going slick with a taste distinctly copper. Phil wipes at his tears.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I thought you looked pathetic, didn’t realize you actually were. What next, are you going to beg for forgiveness?” Wilbur tugs at Phil’s hair. It doesn’t do much. Wilbur isn’t a strong man and Sanguinis is incapable of being forced anywhere. He barely flinches at the rough pull.

“I kind of want to see that. You becoming one of your own victims, crying for an absolution you will never gain. So desperate for it.” Slowly, the force increases until Wilbur’s arm is shaking from the strain of it. Phil’s hair doesn’t even get pulled out.

“You,” Wilbur tugs, “deserve,” again, “ nothing.” A third, Phil catches on. He lets himself be pulled forward, wings twinging with pain as his feathers refuse to come loose, pushed onto his hands and knees.

“You don’t even deserve to beg.” Wilbur plants his foot on Phil’s back, kicking at him. His bones are not half as fragile as before, his muscles made of iron and leather. Very little hurt is added to what he had before.

Except Wilbur is right. Phil does not deserve forgiveness. Heat rises on his skin, the beginning of bruises, and he knows he deserves nothing.

Drip. Blood splatters the floor in front of him, tiny droplets sneaking past the cuts in his hair, trailing down his forehead. It’s penance. Blood split for the years lost. He cannot give them back but maybe he can give his years up in turn. Maybe that could mean something.

“I don’t know what they see in you,” Wilbur presses against Phil’s side until Phil gives in and rolls over, “you’re still the monster I met.” Laying on his side, Phil’s vision goes blurry. It’s more dissociation than anything else, Phil thinks, the thought so distant it may as well be from someone else.

“It’s a spell, must be. Like an ambush predator laying in wait, giving them hope only to tear it away. I won’t let you. You’ll die before you get the chance to show your true colors.” The words feel like a promise, a vow.

Please-please, it hurts-let it end, Phil croons. Croaks, more like. He can barely understand his own words, that’s how mangled they come out. Wilbur huffs.

“But you want me to do that- so I won't. Not now. What’s the phrase in this Gods awful language, you reap what you sow? Yeah. You’ll feel every moment of pain you forced onto these people, even if I have to get creative to manage it.” All Phil can see are Wilbur’s ankles yet his gaze burns through Phil’s soul.

“m sorry,” Phil chokes, half english and half bird, all filled with so much desperation it’s bleeding from his chest. For a moment, all he wants is to be believed.

He is sorry. He is trying his best. He is helping, even if he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t mean to cause pain or suffering or harm. It’s just hard.

‘Hard’, that might be Phil’s worst excuse yet. Things being ‘hard’ doesn’t excuse each and everytime he fucks up. He’s meant to be an emperor now, a good person, yet he lets himself be ruled by instincts and hurt others? Because he can’t control himself?

Even a dog will ignore a steak if it’s told to, Phil is worse than that. Not a dog, not a cat, barely a bug. He’s certainly not human. If he is, his existence is an insult to the entire human race.

“I can’t look at you right now,” Wilbur mumbles. His feet leave Phil’s field of vision, his steps fading with time. Phil closes his eyes and pretends he doesn’t hear as far as he does. Blood dries tacky against his forehead.

Maybe if he’s lucky, if he’s good enough, the ever present cold of the palace will strike him with hypothermia, killing him long and slow for each life Phil’s hurt in his misguided attempts to be better. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions- what does that mean for Phil?

He can’t die, can’t go to hell, so it seems hell must come to him. There’s no other reason for this palace to exist. Wilbur’s presence finally fades. Phil is alone.

Phil deserves to be alone. That’s why he can’t have it. That’s why he has to get out more, to talk to the others as he tries to make amends, to try and raise a son who doesn’t even want to look at him. Because Phil doesn’t deserve anything.

Does that mean he doesn’t deserve to pretend either? Pretend Wilbur’s insistence actually meant anything. Act like he can be pushed and shoved around as if the power brimming beneath his skin isn’t there.

“Hi Charlie,” Phil mutters. He’d been doing so well at ignoring Charlie so he can’t do that anymore. No one else would notice the slime, he’s sure. Charlie barely a thin sheen of slime over the bottom of the hall dresser, filling the gap between it and the floor, a few shades too green to be shadows. Phil was never alone to begin with.

Slowly, hesitantly, Charlie pulls himself from under the dresser- cadenza? Phil has no idea what it’s called- and into a rough blob of slime, steadily tinting greener. That blob gains limbs, then fingers on those limbs. A head, a thin neck, a thin gauzy ‘uniform’.

Color appears last, brown hair and pale skin and too green eyes. Charlie sits at Phil’s head, watching him intently. Phil pushes himself up, fingers digging into the marble like it’s nothing more than gravel and dirt. His stalker-companion doesn’t flinch at the crunch.

“You let him hurt you,” Charlie points out the obvious. His head tilts to the side, ear nearly flush with his shoulder. Phil tilts his head as well, neck not nearly flexible enough, or maybe his esophagus too damaged to allow it.

“I did,” Phil admits. White lies, those would be nice. He could deny it, play up how weak he still is, except that would be an insult to Charlie’s intelligence. It was a comment. It wasn’t a question.

“Why?” Not like that, asked with such a miniscule movement of Charlie’s mouth it’s like he forgot he has to do that to speak. Slimes don’t have to, clearly. The sound is too clear for a mouth to be a necessary component of speaking. Phil wishes that were him.

Answering Charlie’s question is hard, impossible really. Phil knows why he let Wilbur hurt him, he also knows his answer is incredibly concerning and not at all a good precedent to set for a group of heavily abused adults. Still…

“Crimes are meant to be punished.” Phil’s response is as much of an answer as it isn’t. Sanguinis committed many crimes. Phil may not be him but he’s inherited his sins. Ergo, the punishment sits on his shoulders.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. We are toys, not people,” Charlie says with the same matter-of-fact tone as his prior observation. He’s talking about the weather, noticing a butterfly. Nothing interesting.

“You’re not a toy,” Phil whispers, voice slowly dying on him. Blood slicks the back of his teeth. The pain, the aggravation, he pushes it away. This too is penance.

“I am, Master Philza. You are not yourself but I am me, and me is a toy,” Charlie explains ever so slowly. Not unkindly, as if Phil has somehow developed amnesia. That… wouldn’t be a terrible conclusion to draw. He’s done his best to be nothing like Sanguinis after all. It’s not like anyone knows the truth.

“No, you’re not,” Phil insists. Charlie doesn’t believe him. Why would he? Charlie must have been told he was a toy for… years? Phil isn’t sure how long he’s been a Rose but it must be years if Quackity has been here for a decade. No, it’s natural Charlie would believe- believe Sanguinis over him.

“ I am. I like being Master’s toy.” Charlie smiles. It’s not a real smile, it can’t be. It’s too naive, too unknowing. If he knew, he wouldn’t claim to like Sanguinis’ treatment. Maybe it’s all Charlie knows? If so… if so, how old is Charlie for him to remember nothing else?

“ I’m not your Mast-,” Phil chokes, partially on his own bile. Disgusting thoughts of just how young Charlie could have been floating through his mind. How young would Sanguinis be willing to go?

“Master, I have a secret, and I’ve been very bad,” Charlie continues as if he doesn’t see the blood and spit Phil coughs up. He tucks his face into his arm, trying to stop the mess from going even further and making more work for the poor servants.

“I should be punished for it. Toys aren’t meant to have secrets. I can’t learn without punishment.” Charlie speaks, a shallow repetition of the conversation they had before. It overlays in Phil’s mind, echoing.

“Punishments make you feel better,” Charlie informs him. As if Phil doesn’t know. As if Phil is the same mindless sadist stereotype that Sanguinis was. As if Phil wants to- It doesn’t help. Phil can somewhat recognize this as Charlie’s attempt at comfort and it doesn’t help.

“ No,” Phil spits. The word comes with about a pint of blood and a terrible itch rising alongside the pain, his throat tearing and being put back together all too quickly.

Charlie goes quiet at that, staring at him with those watchful eyes. He’s not as mindlessly cheery as before. Phil thought that would be good, more honest, but he’s regretting ever leaving Sanguinis’ rooms.

“Do you not want me anymore?” Charlie asks, tilting his head the other direction. The question isn’t born of hurt or anxiety or anything. It’s dull, painted in shades of could best be described as vague disinterest.

“Master doesn’t call me, doesn’t visit me, doesn’t want to be called Master. He won’t fix me even though I’ve been very bad. Master doesn’t want me.” Charlie doesn’t give Phil time to respond, explaining his reasoning to the early winter air. 

“I won’t be here anymore if Master doesn’t want me. Broken Roses go in the ground.” Horror grips Phil’s heart. Is this- is Charlie being suicidal right now? Does Charlie even know that’s what he sounds like?

“Am I broken?” Charlie asks himself. He falls quiet, like he never considered that before. Phil shudders. Slowly, consciously modulating his strength with such care a headache starts to bloom, Phil reaches out.

“No,” Phil answers. Charlie doesn’t flinch when Phil’s hands touch him, not that Charlie flinched when recommending Phil fling him into a wall either. He pulls Charlie closer. There’s no resistance, barely even friction with the ground.

“But Master doesn’t want me anymore,” Charlie refutes. It’s like he thinks this is a debate, facts and science instead of the distillation of someone’s worth into nothing.

The worst part is, there’s only one thing Phil can say that might help.

“I want you,” Phil promises. He does. He really does, except he doesn’t. Phil wants Charlie but not this Charlie. He wants a theoretical Charlie who’s happy and free and can wear whatever he wants, go anywhere he damn well pleases, and laughs with his full, only sometimes existing, chest.

A Charlie that doesn’t exist. A Charlie that might have never existed. A Charlie Phil craves because it will mean he did something right and the Roses are free. Not toys. Never toys.

“Master isn’t lying.” Now if that’s a question or doubtful or anything but a dull statement, Phil doesn’t know. Phil only pulls Charlie to his chest, body reacting in place of his mind, and tries not to cry. He’s cried too much. He needs to stop.

“Come with me?” Phil asks, fresh blood spilling past his lips, staining Charlie’s shoulder. The blood slips off as if rain water on a windshield. All that remains merely sinks into his skin, only slime playing pretend.

“Whatever Master Philza wants!” Charlie chirps, back to his painfully cheerful ways. It hurts, a knife to the heart, but at least it’s not dull. It’s more than the nothing that was lurking ever so close to the surface.

He can’t leave Charlie here after seeing that. As awful as it is to even think, Phil doesn’t trust Charlie alone right now. Sure, Charlie would probably return to the Rose Garden if Phil told him to but that doesn’t mean anything.

If someone wants to die enough, they’ll figure out how, restrictions be damned.

Phil stands, much shakier than Charlie’s smooth glide. Slowly, they make their way back to… to where? The nest? Part of Phil wants, an insatiably greedy part that craves and needs and claws for attention at every opportunity. One he can’t listen to.

Except where else would he take Charlie? The slime surely needs to sleep, even if Phil finds himself in less and less need as his healing factor pieces him back together, and Phil won’t leave him alone.

A spare room isn’t an option. Phil’s wings are far too big to fit on one of those beds. Charlie might even try to sleep on the floor just so Phil can squeeze in.

Wait, are Roses allowed on beds? Phil’s seen them sitting on cushions and their Garden is filled with bedding but… no beds. If they’re not, what about other furniture? Has Sanguinis been treating them like dogs?

No. Not thinking about that right now. He needs to keep walking and take Charlie somewhere to rest that isn’t the Rose Garden- not his place to be- and can preferably fit both of them. Which… which only leaves his nest.

Fine.

Charlie looks around the room, eyes wide though that’s his natural state, as Phil guides him in. One hand stiff around Charlie’s wrist, they stumble up the invisible stairs. Invisible stairs which are the worst architectural idea ever conceived.

A large part of Phil lets go as he crawls into the nest, hindbrain relaxing all at once. Notably, Charlie doesn’t follow. He merely stands at the edge of it, not a single toe past the curtain.

Phil chirps sharply, reaching out towards Charlie. It barely occurs to him that he chirped at all. Charlie’s eyes track his hand, then follow up the arm to Phil’s face. He shakes his head slowly, bouncing on his heels without moving his feet.

“Roses aren’t allowed in the nest?” Charlie speaks like the words are unfamiliar. ‘Nest’ is probably not the actual word used in that rule. The little of Phil still wound up notes that for later, another rule to appeal. 

In- Phil chirps again. His muscles strain in protest as he pushes forward, sweeping Charlie off his feet with one wing, a single powerful beat that sends wind rustling through the nest. Charlie falls flat on his face.

“Roses are allowed in the nest?” Those words are even more unfamiliar, oddly not muffled into said nest, a revelation. Phil croons, patting Charlie’s fluffy hair. More lumpy than fluffy, bits of slime pretending to be fluffy curls squishy under his hand.

Nice and squishy. Phil rolls a thick chunk of the faux hair, pressing down lightly to watch it spring back up. Charlie watches him. Somehow. His eyes are hidden.

“This is a weird punishment.” Charlie apparently clocks that Phil has left the building, what’s left of him wondering if Charlie’s shapeshifting skills count as an odd form of sculpting. The rest, the hindbrain taken control, preens Charlie’s hair.

Charlie is in the nest. In the nest. His mate, his love, his life partner forever and ever and ever, in his nest. It’s been… forever? Very literally forever since Phil’s gotten to indulge in having a Mate. In. His. Nest.

Maybe Sanguinis never did this either because it has all the intensity of a first time. First love, first kiss, first sexual experience- all very overwhelming for a socially awkward teenager with a heart bigger than his brain.

There’s so many things Phil wants to do, surprisingly none of them sexual. Adoration drowns out all his other emotions, the bad thoughts suppressed by a sea of mate-lovely-mine-mine-mine.

He knows, distantly, that he would give Charlie anything right now. Even if it was sexual, Phil would do it. Except Charlie doesn’t know how to ask and Phil’s ability to want is cracked and dented.

Not gone, however. He gives in, crooning lovingly, to one of the easier wants. Charlie’s hair is incapable of being preened due to being slime so, clearly, the next best thing is cuddling.

Phil sweeps Charlie up, rolling at the same time to land them both in the middle of the nest, tucking a wing over him. Darkness eclipses them, warm and kind. The nest is soft, Charlie is lukewarm in his arms, and Phil feels so very good.

High- he feels high. That’s what he meant.

“Whatever Master wants,” Charlie repeats, entirely to himself. Phil has his eyes closed, nuzzling into the not-quite-hair that melts and forms and reshapes under him like putty, all at the will of Charlie. 

Charlie picks something from that lack of response and nuzzles back. Far gone as he is, Phil can’t even consider that this is less ‘reciprocal’ and more ‘it doesn’t matter what I want so I’ll do what you want’. It just makes him happy.

The morning comes far too quick. Phil doesn’t sleep a wink and yet… and yet he’s far more alive than he’s been in weeks.

…

Magic rests upon Quackity’s shoulders, an ocean slowly ebbing and flowing, never quite settling. He can’t remember how long it’s been like this. If it started when Philza, when the Emperor, fell or if it started before then and he was too out of it to tell. All he knows is that Sanguinis had magic that crept, solid and viscous, while Philza has magic that dips and swirls.

He imagines this is what magic is supposed to be, innocent and alive. It reminds him of… of someone, a young girl who wore red ribbons that makes his heart hurt thinking about. Quackity doesn’t remember her eyes, her name, not even what she was to him.

Yet, somehow, some way, this little girl is his very definition of magic, a definition Sanguinis failed to fit. A definition he now fits under a different name and a different disposition. He doesn’t know what changed.

Quackity isn’t trying to think about it either. It’s very hard not to think in the palace, not without seeking out another Rose to get distracted with. Quackity doesn’t understand the language used in the library’s books and his wings are yet too weak to fly.

Maybe, maybe too weak to fly. Quackity rests underneath a large willow in one of the many gardens dotting the palace grounds, solidly ignoring the many rose bushes, and stares through to leaves.

Bits of blue stare back, filtering through the shades of orange and yellow. The air is cold, the wind tempting as it dances over his scales. Each drifting leaf draws a tiny drop of envy. They fly, free of their bounds until they grace the floor, yet Quackity can’t join them.

He stretches, bowing his back until his upper back can’t stand it any longer, pushing out his wings as far as they’ll go. An ache, about as painful as it is satisfying, greets his efforts.

Rolling up to his feet, he pushes the stretch even further than that. With a pop, his joints finally give, letting free the building pressure of disuse. Sighing, Quackity lets himself fall back in. He grimaces at the lingering pain.

It’s then he catches a head of golden hair over the bushes, wide blue eyes watching him. The emperor’s son, Thelo-something? What was he doing here? Are the training grounds near or something? Quackity can’t remember, he shuffles his wings.

“Hey Leo, you need something?” Quackity calls out to the young prince. His magic jolts, like a startled cat, pressing up against the ocean that’s so distinctly Sanguinis-yet-not. Too alive, too curious, too ashamed.

“Pardon? Leo? I think you mistook me for someone else,” Not-Leo calls back, much quieter. He has one of those voices that carry even when quiet. Even still, the young prince makes his way closer due to… politeness or whatever.

“Is that not your name?” Quackity asks. Memory problems suck. Being a Rose sucks. Living in the Palace sucks. He shuffles his wings again, flexing his claws. Sparks shoot up from his fingertips. He’ll need to shed those soon.

“My name is Theloquin, Rose Quackity. Is your memory okay?” Theloquin, stupid name, inquires. Yeah, not ‘ asks’ because he’s too fancy for that. Wait- Quackity is going to need to shed his scales soon too. When’s the last time he did that?

“Nope. Rather not think about that actually. Rather talk about you, even. How’re you doing? Wings growing in well? Flying practice going good?” Quackity twitches, wings itching terribly. Leo, better than ‘Theloquin’ of all things, looks about the right age to be starting flying practice. If he was a dragon- which he’s not- but he doesn’t know shit about Elytrans.

“I am not practicing flying, I have no instructor, nor my flight feathers.” One feathered wing, mostly a fluffy white down rather than the dark feathers of his father, stretched out to illustrate Leo’s point.

“Do you need flight feathers to build up flight muscles?” If so, that’s a lot different than dragons. Quackity remembers, vaguely, gripping onto his father’s wing with his own outstretched, mother in his father’s wind tunnel in case he slipped.

“Perhaps not, but alas I have no instructor. That will have to wait until I may generate lift,” Leo explains. He’s so wordy for a teenager, damn. Quackity could never. He flicks his wings.

“I could teach you. Should be the same theory. A wing’s a wing.” Quackity ignores the fact that he couldn’t even manage a pull up. Leo’s magic shows his hesitation even when he does not, face flat. It turns to static in the air.

“Father claimed that role already,” Leo admits, gaze dropping before darting back up, making himself smaller at the mere mention of Sanguinis. Quackity narrows his eyes at the prince, stepping close enough it’s probably impolite.

“Won’t even let me take over while he’s out for the count?” Quackity teases, flicking his wings out like Leo somehow missed them. Then the magic swells, Philza’s magic. The magic of the man that isn’t quite Sanguinis.

Leo answers but Quackity is already far too distracted to listen, looking over the kid’s shoulder like he might spy the man who isn’t quite the Emperor through the walls. He shivers, feeling the tattered edges of Philza’s magic grow more obvious as he approaches.

He’s reminded distinctly of shattered glass. Not the large shards but the tiny ones that dig into the skin, nestling themselves uncomfortably, not quite noticed until you step wrong. Somehow, that’s still way more pleasant than Sanguinis ever was.

“Rose Quackity?” Leo realizes that Quackity has wavered, looking over his shoulder towards one of the many archways into this particular garden. It’s decently far away, a few hundred feet.

Amongst the harsh white marble, it’s hard to miss the emperor’s form. Even as his hair fades into the gold, his robes a green so pale it blends as well, his feathers are in stark contrast. Dark as night, or maybe as the void? As a new moon? Dark.

Dark and approaching, magic flicking out towards them as Philza notices them, primed to wrap around them like a hug. Quackity’s vision blurs as he focuses on his magic sense, catching Philza’s magic as it stops.

Stops, pokes around them hesitantly, and ultimately pulls back. Quackity is no Foolish, he can’t actually read Philza’s emotional aura or whatever, but he’d definitely call that reluctance. Fear, maybe? Because while it shies away from them, it also shies away from Philza.

Magic doesn’t tend to do that. Then again, most people don’t have enough magic that Quackity can feel it from across the palace. Honestly, reading it as fear is mostly a gut instinct on his part. Instinct tainted by Philza’s blind acceptance of his own death.

“Hello,” Philza greets them. The single word shreds from his voice, causing his shattered glass magic to shift like waves on the beach, jolting in what can only be read as pain. Quackity cringes, both at feeling that and Philza’s… general appearance.

“Hello Father, are you feeling better?” Leo asks, suddenly stiff as a board, wings tucked in. His magic is more honest. It reaches and claws and grabs at Philza with desperation, wanting to be as close as it can. Completely unrequited, that want. Ouch.

“According to Imperial Sorcerer Kristin, Crownsoul Crow Philza is doing much better. She anticipates a full recovery within the month,” Techno answers in Philza’s place and Quackity can see why. Honestly, he barely even noticed the general.

Philza is just too everywhere for Quackity to focus. Not just his magic, not just his wings, but… Quackity shifts, it’s almost uncomfortable to admit it.

He’s attention is grabbed by it anyway, biting back the desire to growl and posture over this fragile-seeming bird despite him knowing Philza is anything but fragile. Foggy memories containing nothing but pain makes holding back easy. He can’t risk that happening. He can’t risk more scars crisscrossing the muscles between his wings. If he does, he might never be able to fly again.

But there’s a feral part of him that wants to try anyway. Quackity trails over Philza’s face, how his eyes downturn towards Leo, seemingly impassive if not for how his magic vibrates in place, held from doing anything telling of his feelings by an iron grip.

A bruise starts at his lower lip, a deep purple stain splotching thicker over his chin and covering almost the entirety of the front of his throat. Compared to that bruise, Philza’s skin seems too pale. His cheeks feel gaunter, his neck thin and weak, his magic fragile, his broad shoulders outshone by his wings that cave in around him.

Quackity could protect him. Philza doesn’t need protection but Quackity could provide. He could dig his teeth into skin untouched by that stain, hidden by the folds of his robes, make that promise.

“Huh?” Quackity mumbles, magic poking him sharply in the side. Leo’s magic, the kid staring at him like he’s dead while Philza waits patiently. Shit, was he asked something?

Eyes darting towards Techno, the general provides no hints to what he was asked. Why would he? The guy’s a magical deadzone. He’s got some kind of condition, no other reason for him to have literally no magic outside of his body.

“It’s-” Philza starts to repeat himself but Techno interrupts, “Crownsoul Crow Philza said it’s nice to see you awake and wants to know how you are doing. Any lingering pain, hunger, complaints, and the like.” Philza did not say all those words.

“Are you worried about me?” Quackity teases, shifting towards the emperor before he can stop himself. Leo stiffens, Techno having no such outward show of worry. Quackity would also like to take a step back but it’s too late now.

“Always,” Philza rasps. He smiles. It’s small, uncertain, shy? A low rumble bursts in Quackity’s chest. He doesn’t even try to pretend that he kept it quiet enough to go unnoticed. These people can notice a fly from a mile away.

“That’s cute-” Quackity nearly bites off his tongue. Philza presses a hand against his chest, incredibly sharp-dangerous- nonothathurts claws resting just beneath his ribcage. Like a bird, he tilts his head to the side.

Forcing himself to breathe, Quackity ignores the way he can almost hear his ribs rattle, ignores how his bones are still far too visible against his skin after so long hibernating, ignores how he can feel each and every scar burn anew despite lacking any clear memory as to why they exist.

“You’re cute,” Quackity purrs, almost forced to by a combination of the pressure and the growl. Is the air thinner now? His head feels light, his feet rooted. He has the odd urge to kneel warring against his urge to spread his wings because he’s the strong one and Philza is the one in need of protecting. Or is it the other way around?

“Crownsoul Crow Philza, perhaps we should return to your rooms to rest.” Techno steps in. Quackity would thank him but he somehow wants way more contact with Philza than this and to be as far away as physically possible from him. At the same time. Somehow.

“No, don’t leave. I’m lonely,” Quackity whines because he hates himself. He steps into Philza’s touch, hoping-wishing-praying the claws don’t dig into him. A habit he doesn’t remember making pushes him to drape himself over Philza’s shoulders.

Philza makes a broken noise. It’s high pitched, almost painfully so. With it, his magic all jolts, electrified, and appears to panic in a whirlpool that steals Quackity’s balance from him.

Between that and his lean, Philza makes the easy but baffling decision to catch Quackity. The alternative was both of them eating shit against the ground so it could have been self preservation. An embarrassingly large part of Quackity wants it to be a different reason. Preferably one that leads to less clothes on their bodies. Does that make sense?

“I have lessons, so I’ll leave first. Have a good day Father.” Leo takes his chance and leaves before the situation devolves any further. Due to Quackity being the ‘situation’, he can’t do the same.

“Great so we’re alone ,” Quackity comments in mild horror. Except he’s purring, his chin is resting in the crook of Philza’s neck, his body is warming up because of his training- pleasure making the pain easier to deal with. It does not come out horrified.

“Techno is here,” Philza denies. Quackity can feel how the words scrape from Philza’s chest, an answering rumble. There’s a soft jerk of the muscles, an aborted cough.

“I have to see Crownsoul Crow Philza back to his rooms,” Techno explains his continued existence. Quackity is grateful for it but also not. He wants more, he wants nothing. He wants Techno out, he wants-

Actually he doesn’t actually care if Techno watches. Quackity is wearing less than nothing right now, the breeze kicking up the short loincloth, and his self-consciousness is nowhere to be seen. Huh, he forgot about that.

Honestly he’s more bothered by the proximity of his mouth to Philza’s neck, so close yet so far. That bruise marks Philza where Quackity would much rather have an imprint of teeth. Preferably his teeth.

Mating Sanguinis… now that’s a thought. Quackity brings his arms up to wrap around Philza, feeling the man rattle in place like a flower under harsh winds, so very conflicted with himself. He doesn’t move, Quackity doesn’t move, Techno watches with trepidation.

“You could take me with you,” Quackity offers. He gets his feet back under him, pressing properly against Philza. A hardline pulses against Quackity’s hip, evidence of the emperor’s want. Magic presses heavy against his senses.

Quackity swallows thickly, pressing his own, much weaker, magic back against Philza’s. The sheer strength that bores down on him makes his head spin. So much power in a body ready to shatter should he make a wrong move.

“ Or, we could stay right here, if you want.” Twisting his magic, Quackity wraps it around the emperor, trying to draw up any memory of what Philza prefers. It’s all vague, instinctual more than anything he has actual access to.

“That won’t be necessary,” Techno interrupts. Except… except he doesn’t do anything. Not step forward, not take the trembling emperor out of Quackity’s arms, not even start to walk away. He simply stares.

“Watch if you want to, General.” Quackity leans into the purr. This is what he’s supposed to do as a Rose, right? And Philza is quite pretty so it’s not like it’s a chore.

He sinks to his knees, raking his hands down Philza’s sides as he goes, grabbing at Philza’s thick thighs through his robes. As soon as his knees hit the grass, a part of his brain screams.

Danger, adrenaline, stopdon’tplease. He doesn’t get it, it makes perfect sense. Quackity is a Rose, he knows what that means whether his memories are clear, a fairly rare occurrence these days, or as light as mist. 

It’s nearly enough to make him let go, to force him to run away while he still can. Except he put himself here. Philza didn’t ask. Nobody made him. It’s barely even an expectation because Techno gave him an out.  

There’s literally no reason for him to be on the verge of panic right now, pressing his face into Philza’s robes and forcing himself to breathe. What the fuck man?

Philza starts to crouch, pushing him back a little with one hand atop Quackity’s head. He gets about halfway before his legs give out, sending the ever so imposing emperor careening back, landing hard on his ass. Philza makes a strangled sound that might have once been a curse as his head thumps against the grass.

Suddenly, Quackity is the one above Philza. A momentary lapse in memory, jostled by instincts that had him moving without thinking. He must’ve pounced, right? He had to have. His body forces Philza’s legs to spread, his arms cage around the Emperor’s skull. Feathers tickle against the fragile, nearly nonexistent proto-scales on his arms.

“If you wanted pampering you could’ve just asked,” Quackity purrs, recovering quickly. Too quickly, honestly. Nervous energy buzzes in his limbs, the oddest feeling that the entire world is about to collapse in on itself fillings his chest.

It’s hard to breathe around it, to keep himself from shaking anymore than he already is. Straining muscles struggle to keep him in place over Philza- which, actually.

Quackity lets himself drop. Aching relief immediately floods from his fingertips to his toes, no longer having to keep him up. Why was he ever worried about that? Philza can obviously hold his weight.

A broken sound crackles in his ears. Whatever is wrong with Philza’s throat, the poison obviously, mangles what wanton noise was pulled from him. Quackity’s wings flare in response.

“Beautiful,” Quackity sighs despite logic and reason and probably a few other things that should have stopped him long quite a while ago. He nuzzles his face into the pale column of Philza’s neck. A scent of old blood, cherry leaves and something distinct, tart yet unknown, fills his nose. His mouth waters.

Spurred on by mostly the fact he isn’t dead yet, Quackity mouths at Philza’s neck, chasing that scent. Not a pleasant scent by any definition, far too bitter, yet so distinctly Philza that it doesn’t matter at all.

Philza is the only arching under Quackity’s tongue, rutting up into his hips and oh. Quackity sinks his teeth into skin, rolling down to match Philza’s pace, dicks rubbing together through fabric that has always been so little yet now feels far too much thick.

Light, smooth fabric offers little in the way of friction, easing the glide at the consequence of literally everything else Quackity wants. Quackity takes out this frustration on Philza, licking and sucking at his neck until he’s certain the hickey will stick around. Not the mark he wants to leave but the only mark he can.

Not that Philza seems to be complaining. A litany of broken sounds stream from his lips, drowning out everything else. Each grind spurs him higher than higher.

But it’s not enough. If it’s not enough for Quackity, it’s definitely not enough for Philza. Quackity forces himself up, using Philza a lot more for support than he intended and really having to shoulder him to get enough leverage.

That annoying, terrified part of his brain strays his hand as he skirts around Philza’s dick, admiring the willpower it must take for Philza to stay down. No matter how Quackity hesitates, Philza just lays there, panting.

“ Cute,” Quackity repeats his earlier comment, the crooked smile on his face almost not forced. He dips his hand under Philza’s robes, past the tie doesn’t even deserve that title, loosened by their fevered grinding.

It’s magical how Philza’s hips lift at the barest indication Quackity wants them to, Philza watching him through lashes thick with tears. Quackity pushes his knees under Philza’s, the best he can do for propping them up. Then, his other hand joins the first on Philza’s ass.

Actual magic crackles in the air, an ocean made into a whirlwind, sparking so thickly over Quackity’s senses that he’s slowly losing the ability to think, his body turned to lightning. A jolt zaps through him as he tightens his grip.

Fingers sink easily into Philza’s ass. Quackity kneads, almost entranced by the almost absurd softness. He tries to breathe, harder than a rock, spurred on by each crackle of magic. Amazing, addictive magic. Now that’s new.

Quackity can’t quite figure out what’s so new about it. The fact he’s testing Philza’s rim with a dry finger really isn’t helping with this whole thinking thing.

Maybe he should just stop thinking.

Philza throws his head back as Quackity pushes his finger into that tight heat. He watches from above, sliding his free hand out to place on Philza’s hip, a reminder that Philza should stay still even if Quackity can’t make him do it.

Each stroke plays Philza a different tune, broken, wet, desperate in a way Quackity didn’t know he could be. He idly pays attention to the magic as well, pressing in a second finger to feel that shock again. It curls around the both of them, thicker and thicker, leaving Quackity wondering how he could ever breathe without it filling him. Without that wondrous pressure soothing all his aches and pain.

Wings thud against the ground, reacting in their own way. Quackity smooths them down too, scissoring his fingers in time with each pet, winding Philza even higher. Magic feedback fuzzes around his fingertips from the wings themselves.

Sensitive, aren’t they? Quackity purrs, digging his claws into the feathers, scratching lightly at the skin beneath. A whine from Philza pitches so high Quackity can barely hear it. He'd be begging if he could.

His magic begs where words fail him, ripping over Quackity’s skin. A groan rumbles from his chest. Quackity rewards him with a third finger because Quackity is far nicer than Sanguinis ever will be-

Philza shouts, convulsing under Quackity, and Quackity. Is. Gone. Disappeared, overwhelmed, every sensation that isn’t pleasure drowned out by the veritable tsunami that is Philza’s magic in the heat of passion.

Coming back to life happens in stages. An awareness he exists at all first, each pulse of his heartbeat a pleasant buzz, far nicer than any amount of healing potions could make him feel. Quackity didn’t know that was possible… Kinda sad really.

Then an awareness of his extremities, how tightly his fingers have gripped, the feathers stuck between one and still-hot flesh under the other. Quackity idly pulls his fingers out, wrist aching dully from the angle.

And then he realizes how sticky everything is. His loincloth to himself, which feels oddly nostalgic and just plain odd that the fabric being tacky is somehow nostalgic. He doesn’t think it’s usually tacky with cum but… well… his memory’s bad enough as is, he could be wrong.

Philza, too, is sticky. A massive wet patch in his robes since Quackity never bothered to help him remove them. His is a far more pleasant sticky, warm to the touch where Quackity is already cooling under the breeze.

Quackity licks over sweat slick skin, just checking to see that the hickey he left is still there- it is- when that final bit of awareness comes back to him. Eyes burrow into him, and it’s not Philza.

Looking up, he spies Techno staring, and nothing in the world could hide the blush painted over every inch of skin. Had he watched the entire time? Quackity hadn’t been serious…

That’s kind of hot. Quackity hums against Philza, following Techno’s eyes to the Emperor’s face. Philza is less flushed but there’s still a vibrant red bringing life to his cheeks. Quackity hadn’t realized how dead he looked without it.

And there, painted on Phil’s lips, is a few drops of ruby red blood. Probably due to whatever’s wrong with his throat.

A thought strikes. A silly thought, really, but one that would be so fun if it were true. Quackity leans up and licks the blood from Philza’s face in one long, slow swipe. It’s far too bitter for his taste, not that that’s the reason he’s doing this.

Quackity looks back at Techno with a grin, letting his blood coated tongue hang out. Techno stiffens further, somehow. As Quackity swallows, licking his lips, the general forces himself to look away.

Is that jealousy he sees? Hard to confirm, magic really does tell so much about a person, but things are looking that way. Quackity kind of hopes it is.

That would be so very fun.

Notes:

Soooo, how about that smut? Prolly the shortest one in this fic, maybe, idk I'm not keeping track. It just felt kinda short to me ig? Eh, whatever.

Phil's not having a good time, Charlie's having a terrible time, Wilbur's pretending like he's having a great time, and Quackity is the only one here actually having a pretty decent time. Good for Quackity. The rest of you? Step up your game. I want twenty reps of horny revelry that could make Eros blush. Just kidding, we're not there yet (yet).

Until then, guess we're gonna have the deal with... well... literally everything going on right now. But hey, it's getting better!

Sure is...

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Sour's Phil-Centric Works
• Part 1 of Kintsugi Anthology