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The tip of Phil’s sword makes a wide arc horizontally, ready to slice the Blood God in half at his center should he not have made a hasty leap backwards. Unfortunately, for him at least, the man did not move quite far enough. A solid couple inches of the blade sink in and cut a nearly perfect line just below his rib cage. It’s certain his corpse could easily serve as an anatomical dummy, showing off where the transverse line of the body lies.
The transition from the sword moving through flesh to moving through air is dramatic, and it almost takes Phil’s breath away. Or maybe that is the alarming slice of pain erupting from his own middle, digging through his skin and organs and making his sword hand waver.
Phil has never been more than nicked in battle, and yet the feeling is familiar. His soul warbling beneath the strain of its match being torn apart. A warning cry, that he is needed, begging for him to come, to soothe, to save his match. But Phil is the one that cleaved his skin, spilled his blood, freed his organs. Phil’s the one that thrust the pain upon him.
Air tumbles uselessly in Phil’s lungs as he stares wide eyed at the Blood God. At his soulmate.
And the Blood God wavers as well, choreographed retreat being displaced by the pain—the pain digging its fingers so deep into Phil that it feels like death—as he stumbles backwards. Mirror images of faltering between the Blood God and Angel of Death. Just for a moment, the air between them is still. Still like the last seconds of life fleeing from the fingers of a doomed man. Still like the room in the moment before a newborn baby cries for the first time.
Both of their eyes widen in the moment of realization. The Blood God feeling the very real pain of a crucial injury in the final moments of battle. Phil feeling the familiar inklings of tingling as the soul injury begins to fade. A realization of death, a realization of birth.
Phil swears he sees a bright smile, a thunderous scowl, hears melodic words lacing the wind with music.
It’s only for a second and then the Blood God recovers, pressing a firm hand against his abdomen and repositioning his sword forward. No, he wouldn’t die crying, would he? Phil knows more than anyone what it means to hold a title of divinity. The blade flies towards him quickly, trying desperately to take him down before he goes, to enter death with a companion. Phil blinks, and then lunges.
It’s a crude attack, not fit for a battlefield. More like the type of thing you’d see in a children’s squabble. Before people fight with intent to maim, to kill. An edge of surprise flashes across the Blood God’s face, sword moving sloppily as it tries to account for the newly close quarters combat. Phil easily bats it to the side on the way down.
A flutter of figmented pain dances across Phil’s stomach as they smash into the ground, only making the Blood God fight harder. The adrenaline of death can make a man fight harder than anything else. Using his knees to press the boy into the ground, Phil yanks the sword from his grasp and tosses it to the side to lay with his own. The Blood God releases a low noise while trying to jab Phil with his elbows, fingers, knees. Fighting like a feral animal cornered and afraid. Phil rolls him over until his glassy eyes disappear from view, face pressed into the ground.
A soft breeze immediately steals away with Phil’s hair as he looses it from its ponytail, short pieces splaying over his face. The long silk ribbon easily wraps around the Blood God’s wrists, even as they attempt to thrash and claw their way free.
“Kill me like a man!”
His voice crackles a bit, words rung from seemingly underused chords. They are the first words Phil hears the Blood God say, and perhaps they are meant to be scary and gruff.
They drip with fear.
A steady shaking has spread from the Blood God’s fingers up throughout his body, muscles tightening below Phil’s body. With hastened movements, he unlaces the shoestring from one of his boots, pressing the boy’s ankles together and winding the string round and round the limbs. The Blood God’s legs hold a little more power than his arms yet, but there’s not much to be done on one’s stomach. He makes a couple good attempts with his heels, but Phil doesn’t even flinch away from the small kicks.
As Phil steps off the Blood God’s body and stands above him, the boy wrenches himself onto his back with his elbows, face curling with obvious pain despite the heavy glare directed up at him. A pool of blood has collected below him in the short amount of time, shirt fully saturated with the deep red liquid. Phil allows himself one breath before kneeling before the boy again, pressing the cloth of his coat against the drizzling wound firmly. The pain prickles across Phil’s soul minutely with the touch, mirrored by the boy convulsing as the pressure worsens the agony.
Unconsciousness seems to drip over the boy then, eyes falling half shut, and then fully shut, and then halfway again, over and over. Unfortunate, as an omen of his fate. At least he shall not fight against Phil any further.
The Blood God feels light in Phil’s arms, muscles simmering with energy despite the long fight.
Phil holds him in an awkward position, chest pressed against the wound to maintain pressure as he tries to not let the boy shift too much, or fall from his grasp. The boy’s sweaty face falls against Phil’s shoulder and he takes it as a message to spread his wings. He runs, and then jumps. Bloody spots and shining swords shrink as they leave the ground behind.
It's difficult to fly while carrying another person. But this is a piece of his own soul, so it's easy.
By the time Phil lands, he’s almost certain he’s carrying a corpse. Body cold and stiff, the Blood God clings feebly to life. Phil sends up a wish that the eponym of the warrior holds any kindness for his namesake. Then he sends another to his own, more begging than he’d like to say.
Well, the soulmate of Death’s Angel must hold some worth in the universe.
Right now the so-called God of Blood appears nothing more than a foot soldier, a few minutes away from taking his place in a mass grave. Phil kicks open the door of the closest home in the little abandoned town he’s found. No time to pry at windows or locks today.
Half full plates and cups fill the kitchen table, occupants fleeing mid-meal. The food they hold is only half rotten, still holding out hope that their owners shall return. Phil sweeps them from the table before placing the Blood God on top.
Trepidation spills into Phil as he turns away from the boy’s pale face, quickly yanking open cabinets and cupboards, plucking up any apparatus on the side of useful. Phil is no doctor, he takes life, he doesn’t sow it. But he knows enough to grab bottles of alcohol and oil, needles and bandages. The sharpest knife the house holds.
The wet cloth of the shirt still fights against the blade’s edge, putting up more of a fight than the skin below it had. Before the red cotton can be peeled away, Phil swallows half a hope that his sword had perhaps wavered for once, swung without strength and got caught up in bones. Squishy organs left unpunctured. The shirt is removed and the wound is revealed.
Beads of red glisten where they cling to pink ropes hanging from a weeping fissure. It is not a new sight for Phil. For the first time his stomach rolls, the instinctual panic of seeing vulnerable parts where they don’t belong singing out. How odd, to experience something new at this age.
The wound is luckily mostly free of dirt and debris, covered by the shirt until now. Infection is sure to seep in from the tip of his blade, from the fluids of his intestines. Phil scrubs his fingers before deftly sorting through the murmuring pieces, organs warm and lively from the blood that still fills them.
For the most part, the entrails are uninjured, vibrant pink still. But, as he pulls away the exposed organs, the intestine just below the cut is shown, the uncaring red line continuing straight under the skin. The lacerated intestine is larger than the others, causing his brows to furrow. It may be possible to stitch closed. That is certainly the only chance of the boy surviving at all.
Phil’s fingers do not shake as he threads the needle, using fine silk thread that will hopefully hold up. They do not shake as he pinches the edges of the organ together and slips the needle through. They do not shake, even as the Blood God begins to stir below the sutures, a groan rumbling from his chest.
He pulls the needle out steadily, eyes darting around the room before he shoves the table across the room. It hits the railing of the stairs with a thud.
The Blood God’s begun to shift about, somehow finding his way back to consciousness despite the blood loss. It might be a good omen, that he has not fallen too far into shock from the blood loss, but it also complicates issues. Most people do not react well to waking during surgery, even when they are not of the belief that they are under the hand of an enemy. The hand that caused the injury to begin with…
Phil frowns hard before grabbing the boy by the elbows, moving his arms above his head. The movement seems to only wake the boy further, as his eyelids flutter and mouth curls roughly, white teeth poking through the quivering scowl. By the time Phil’s threaded the Blood God’s wrists through the wooden railing and tied him in place, the boy’s come to enough to realize that he’s trapped and in active pain.
His eyes snap open and reveal wide, fear filled eyes. They move frantically about as the Blood God starts jerking his arms downward, attempting to break the bindings or maybe the wooden rails. Small blood clots that had begun to form in his exposed stomach get broken apart, new rivulets of liquid welling up and dripping freely down his exposed skin, slowly seeping through the varnish and dyeing the wood below. What a sight: the Blood God looking more of an altar sacrifice than God now.
Phil darts forwards and presses cloth into the openings, trying to stem the flow a bit. Rough gasps free themselves from the boy’s chest, breaths cracking when pain grips his throat too tightly to let the sounds out clearly.
“I recommend you stop moving. You’ll hurt yourself further,” Phil says with a voice stuffed with steadiness.
The Blood God responds by sending the tip of his boot towards Phil’s body, only causing himself to release an anguished noise as his organs creep from his stomach at the action. Phil couldn’t say if the kick even landed, as his middle only prickles insistently. Phil frowns at the denotation of the boy’s injuries tearing further. Shivers grip the Blood God’s muscles as they freeze rigidly.
Phil takes the opening and leans back over the boy, relofting the needle in one hand and pinning his legs with his other forearm. The moment of pained stillness that had befallen the boy lifts the second Phil pierces him with the needle again. A surprised shout breaks from the Blood God before he starts fighting with more vigor than ever, not even being allayed by the certain agony he must be experiencing.
His organs slide against each other, slick with blood and fluids and Phil has to jerk his hand back to stop the needle from being stabbed deeper into the tissues. A desperate sort of yell shakes the Blood God’s chest, the sort of yell a dying man lets out. Loose pieces of hair flutter around Phil’s face as he sighs roughly, before climbing atop the table. He presses his own legs over the boy’s, pinning him down with his body weight so the Blood God can ony lift his upper body as far as his bound wrists allow, held still otherwise.
With his weight balanced against the Blood God’s chest, Phil resumes his sutures. The boy’s intestines shudder below his fingers, like they’re trying to physically escape from the pain. Phil pinches them in place, trying to keep the sutures straight, and eliciting a muffled cry from the boy. The thin membrane that covers the entrails is slippery and difficult to align, taking much longer than a suture only a few inches long should. Long enough that the Blood God has time to go from screaming in pain, to shouting sharp edged words at Phil, to crying violently.
Finally, after what feels like hours, but is more realistically only a few minutes, a mostly neat line of white silk closes the intestine, quickly turning pink against the internal bits. Phil shifts backwards slightly, glancing up and meeting the Blood God’s eyes. They quickly turn dark and harsh upon seeing Phil’s face, a glare darkening his pale features.
“Fight me, coward.” The boy spits the words out through shaking lips.
“You’re not in much fighting shape, mate,” Phil mumbles, setting the needle on a bundle of thread and leaning back over the boy.
Small coils of intestines hang over the edge of the wound. They’ve begun to grow tacky in the air. Soaking some cloth in wine and oil, Phil wipes the liquid over the organs while pressing them back inwards.
The edges of the cut are a bit too closed so he has to pull them apart to fit the entrails back inside. A high pitched noise leaves the boy at the action before he falls flat aside from wracked shivers. The intestines almost pop easily back in place after a point, allowing Phil to cover the organs with the thin torn skin.
As Phil retakes the needle, he shifts his weight off of the Blood God and starts in on the tiny row of stitches. As the tissue is closed up, Phil can almost breathe easier like his chest is the one being closed. Every breath the boy takes no longer causes blood to push from his core.
A third line of stitches draws a score across his skin right below his ribs.
Phil lays a sheet of gauze over the sutures before wrapping tight bandages round and round his middle and shoulders. With bated breath, he watches for a few long seconds, relaxing an inch when they stay white. Blood does not suit the boy, regardless of his name.
The Blood God does not stir in his arms as Phil unties him and picks him up carefully, bringing him to one of the bedrooms in the house. It's a little dusty, but still and quiet. He tucks thick blankets over his shivering body, and sits at the end of the bed.
In a minute he will get up and clean up the medical supplies so they will be ready for later. He will find a way to force fluids into the unconscious boy and come up with a solid plan to keep him alive. To get them home.
In a minute he will wonder about his kids and how they must be almost as panicked as Phil over the soul pain, assuming they are matches with the Blood God as well. He will feel sorry for worrying his boys and come up with some way to make it up to them.
In a minute he will, but for now he sits and breathes as his soulmate’s blood dries under his fingernails. And he prays to those that gave them their names.