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Chapter Text

The Blood God was revered among mortals and immortals alike. 

His name was soaked in blood, the same blood that dripped off his netherite blade. He conquered worlds in a matter of hours, leaving the green sparks of territory claims in his wake. The brave whispered of his defeat of the Hypixel server admins. His ferocity in battle was matched only by his own tactical brilliance, reigning over his opponents physically and mentally. The destruction that surrounded him gave him a name spoken only by the boldest of warriors: the Blade . 

Still, he was a mystery. He danced from server to server without pattern, without reason. Only a snarling grin was visible beneath his ivory mask, the pig skull concealing his identity. 

But Philza Minecraft thought of none of these things as he paced, shoes clicking against the smooth stone floors as he reread the letter for what must have been the hundredth time. Instead, he thought of the sheer determination that coursed through the Blade’s veins. He thought of how the Blood God threw himself into every challenge with the same unwavering conviction, be it fighting or farming. He thought of the confidence, valor, and courage that the immortal warrior wore like a crown and prayed that it would be enough to help him. 

The Blood God might never deign to come to his kingdom, but Philza had no other choice than to try. 

With a heavy sigh, he rolled the parchment carefully. His mind continued to trace over the words as he lit a candle, heating the wax to seal the letter. 

To the Blood God:

My name is Philza Minecraft, king of Endlantis. But it is not as the king that I write to you. Instead, I write to you as a fellow warrior and as a father. The threat that faces my family is one that I fear I do not have the strength to face alone. The Chaos Incarnate threatens to overwhelm my borders, putting the lives of innocents at risk. I do not know how much time we have left before I must ask the impossible of my people. 

I will not senselessly waste the lives of my people, but I refuse to stand by and watch them die with the knowledge that I might have changed that outcome. 

As a king, I must be selfless. I must put the needs of my people above my own needs. But as a father, I much prefer to be selfish. I would sacrifice my kingdom, my power, my life : anything for my son. In asking for your help, perhaps I can do something that is both.  

Today is a day of life: the birthday of my only son, Wilbur. I am celebrating it while I can, for fear that the Chaos may overtake us all. I believe you to be the best hope to allow me more time - time for my people and time to spend with him. 

I have attached to this letter a gift. It is a small thing, but should you choose, it will lead you to this kingdom. 

Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.

Philza Minecraft

He sighed, pressing his symbol into the wax. The sunlight danced through the room, reflecting off the cool stone and his emerald cape. Turning towards one of the many windows in the throne room, he threw it open, for a moment remembering what it felt like to fly as the breeze washed across his face, rustling hair painted golden in the setting sun. 

Something in him twisted and twined happily as he reached out one finger, like a cat stretching its claws. His eyes fluttered shut as he breathed, the cool air of the mountains filling his lungs. His heartbeat slowed, thrumming in his ears. In that instant, the air in front of his finger began to glow with golden light, so bright that it appeared a brilliant white in the center, sparks leaping around him. His hair fluttered, the previously still air of the great hall now swirling around him.

This rune was a familiar one to him, one that the universe had taught him countless years ago. First, an angle like the beak of a crow, then swooping down in the smooth arc of flight. He guided the light back upwards, reaching just above his head before bringing it down harshly in a straight line. He withdrew his hand with an almost melancholy feeling as the power dissolved, relinquishing its temporary freedom to return, simmering, under his skin. 

He opened his eyes slowly. A crow, still glittering with the last sparks of golden light, tilted his head gently at him. 

“Hey, mate. Got a job for you today.” He presented the letter to the bird, who carefully took it in one clawed foot, letting out a squawk, as though complaining about the work to do. Phil gave it a gentle tap with a sparking finger and a wry smile before shooing it to take flight. 

He hoped that it was enough. 

It had to be. 

Chapter Text

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t respond.

The Blood God did not respond.

This was the fact that Philza Minecraft drilled into his mind. The Blood God hadn’t responded to his letter, and now, he would need to summon the strength to do this alone. 

On paper, it was a feasible task - rather, as feasible as any task of this proportion could be. It was with a heavy heart that he had sent out the draft letters, calling thousands of soldiers to defend their home, families, and kingdom. They waited just outside the castle walls, hundreds of tents rustling in the wind as the occasional shout made its way up to where Philza stood on the parapets hundreds of feet above. His role now was to prepare them for battle as best he could. 

They’re going to die , whispered his consciousness. He shook his head, pushing down the thought. That was no attitude for a leader to have. 

With a heavy sigh, he allowed himself only a moment more of the fresh air of the castle walls, relishing the breeze that wove its way around the cool stone, before returning indoors to prepare himself for the evening. 

He had fallen into a routine, in the weeks since the first soldiers began to arrive at the castle. In the mornings, he rose with the sun to oversee the morning’s training. There was a comfort in netherite, in the weight of a set of armor, in the soft leather in the palm of his hand. If anyone asked, it was simply because he was a warrior at heart. It was true - he had years of experience that showed in the grace of his footsteps, the elegant arc of the tip of his sword. But there was something more, something much closer to his heart: it reminded him that there was something to fight for. 

In the afternoons, he forced himself to return to the castle, the stone walls feeling like the bars of a cage. But he was king, and had a responsibility to fulfill. His afternoons were filled with meetings with advisors, strategy planning, and managing the upkeep of his kingdom. It was a difficult task, and certainly not an enjoyable one, but a necessary one nonetheless. 

When the sun began to set, or as soon as he could escape from the weight of his responsibilities, he would slip off his cape, changing into more casual attire, and return to the camps below. He spent his evening wandering through the camps, making conversation with the men. He knew them as his army, but he also knew them as individuals. He learned of their families and their livelihoods. He swapped stories of battles long past with the hardened warriors and wove tales of adventure for the starry-eyed fledglings. As the light faded from the sky and lanterns began to illuminate the campgrounds, his own laughter could be heard echoing above the hearty laughter of his men. 

There was Sam, a renowned builder whose brilliance with redstone machinations was matched only by his skill with a sword. He could be brusque at times, but he had good intentions, spending his evenings teaching some of the younger folks the best way to maintain their armor and weapons - little tips and tricks that he had learned over a lifetime of fighting. 

Niki was a baker. She was a gentle soul, so much so that at first, Phil had wondered if she truly belonged on the battlefield. He was quickly proven wrong by her ferocity and determination in a fight; during a morning duel, she knocked him to the ground and pinned him down with a sword to his throat, eyes blazing. 

Eret was a kind individual who took great joy in talking with everyone, regardless of any differences in opinion. They wanted nothing more than to prove themselves: prove that they belonged, prove that she was capable, prove that he was loyal. 

Phil saw Ranboo out of the corners of his eyes. The boy was skittish at the best of times, often murmuring to himself, running his hands through mysteriously two-toned hair. It made it difficult for him to form bonds with many of the other soldiers. It had taken time to get close to him, taking weeks of sitting progressively closer. It was late one night that Ranboo had whispered of a fear: fear of forgetting the people he cared about. Phil had given him a notebook the next day. Ranboo reminded him of his son, both in age and in some other way that he couldn’t quite name.

It did wonders for morale. They began to see him not as an unknown leader, some mysterious king barking orders from an ivory tower. He was a person and a soldier like them, and that made them respect him all the more; they could see how he cared for them as individuals, not just as weapons to be pointed at the enemy. 

But more importantly, it kept them calm. It kept them happy. And it made sure that he knew what was happening in the camps. 

It was one such evening that he found himself wandering through the camp. The afternoon had exhausted him more than usual, as he had spent hours arguing with Puffy over the semantics of the upkeep of his kingdom. He had dismissed her in a huff, inches from lashing out despite her continual kindness. He knew that she only wanted what was best, caring deeply and truly for the people, but the preparations for battle took a toll on all of them. But this - spending his time and energy, showing even a slight hint of vulnerability - was his way of respecting the people who were risking their lives for him, and he would hold to it still. 

Still, the fatigue weighed on him. He walked through the camps alone, waving at people in the distance, returning shouted greetings. 

“You look tired, Phil,” Niki said, seeing him approach. She was one of the few who addressed him by name, most of the soldiers still afraid to refer to him as anything other than “Your Majesty.” Perhaps that should have been the first thing that indicated the bravery that simmered beneath a kind smile. 

Phil stopped for a moment in front of the woman who sat gracefully even in the midst of the camp’s chaos. “It’s been a long day, mate.” 

“Here,” Niki said, holding a flower crown out to him. It was a delicate thing of wildflowers twisted together - Phil wasn’t even sure where she’d gotten the flowers from. “I can’t help much, but maybe this will make you smile today.”

He accepted the circlet, a small smile slipping onto his face as he placed it carefully onto his head. “Thank you, Niki. How do I look?”

“Quite regal. Very kingly,” she giggled. 

With another smile, he waved, continuing through the camp - slightly happier, true to Niki’s wishes. 

He barely glimpsed the movement of a brown cape, the tiny motion only visible thanks to the instinct that had kept him alive for so long. Curiosity winning over caution, he followed it, weaving through the tents, but to no avail. He found himself near the canteen, the roar of chatter from hundreds of people combined with the barking of the hunting hounds flooding his senses. He scanned the crowd, searching for something that he couldn’t quite name, before a lone figure caught his eye.

He weaved through the crowd, laughing as Sam clapped him on the shoulder and complimented the flower crown, while Eret asked where she could get one. Phil pointed them in the direction of Niki before continuing on his path, mind set on pursuing that person.

It may have seemed foolish to others, but there was merit to this. Seeing someone alone, someone who hadn’t been taken under the wing of any warriors, was a truly rare thing. That was what had drawn him to Ranboo. He considered it to be his responsibility to ensure that all of them shared in the bond between soldiers, whether it was with him or with someone else. 

But this figure was… different, somehow. It wasn’t in his appearance; his clothes were ordinary, brown hair tousled, glasses perched crooked and precarious on his nose. He was still young, at least to Phil. This was someone who was old enough to be a man, but not old enough to be burdened with the weight of the world. Old enough to fight for what he wanted, young enough to dream. 

What set him apart was his posture. He stood alone amidst the chaos, wearing confidence like a cloak in a way that Phil couldn’t name, despite its strange familiarity to him. He picked at the small loaf of bread that all soldiers received, tossing chunks of cheese to the hounds and laughing as they piled over each other to reach it. 

“Hey, mate,” Phil said as he drew within earshot of him. 

The figure turned, posture hardening as he seemed to recognize Phil before his eyes hardened, cutting off any emotion that Phil might have been able to perceive. “Hullo.”

“My name’s Philza. I haven’t seen you around here before. What’s your name?” He extended one arm towards the figure in greeting. 

“You can call me Techno,” he said, voice quiet. Techno clasped Phil’s forearm, holding it for a moment - just enough for Phil to tell that despite his youth, he was a seasoned warrior. There was a strength to his grasp and a familiarity with the motion that told him everything he needed to know. “Nice flower crown.”

“Thanks,” Phil chuckled. “I got it from Niki - I’m not sure if you’ve met her yet, but she’s got the- the pink….” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards his hair. 

“I haven’t had the chance to meet anyone. I’m still a bit new.” Techno nodded, looking just off to the side, not quite making eye contact. 

“Have any plans for tonight?” He couldn’t help himself. Something about Techno drew Phil in, some instinct telling him to keep the younger close. 

“I was going to feed the dogs,” Techno said, looking down at the hounds with a soft smile for a moment before remembering Philza was there. 

“Well, there’s a bit of an event tonight.” Phil’s expression sobered. “I’m supposed to be making a speech, since things are going to be getting a bit more difficult.” 

“I’ll be there,” Techno replied without hesitation. 

“Good. I apologize for having to cut this short, but I’d better go make this speech before they start drinking.” 

“Bold of you to assume they haven’t already.”

The sudden sarcasm was enough to shock a laugh out of Phil as he shook his head. “You’re probably right, mate. Maybe tomorrow morning would be better.” 

“Ah, yes,” Techno deadpanned. “They’ll pay so much more attention when they’re hungover.” 

Phil laughed again, clapping a hand down on Techno’s shoulder and gesturing to a pair of nearby benches. “Alright, you win. The afternoon, then, once they’ve had time to recover from tonight and before they can begin drinking again. Care to sit with me?” 

Techno inclined his head, just as regal as any prince, and in that tiny movement, Phil could see years of training, far beyond his age - or perhaps it was only his appearance that was young. He thought of his sons, how they had both raised hell over training their posture. He couldn’t help but wonder if this is what they could have been: cool confidence over hidden emotions. No, that was impossible. Wilbur was far too passionate, wearing his emotions with pride as he followed their ideals without question. It was a different kind of strength.

“You’re starin’, Phil.” Techno’s voice broke through his thoughts. “We sitting?” 

“Yeah, mate, of course.” Phil groaned as he sat, settling on the rough hewn wood. 

Techno sat silently, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Getting old?” 

“Shut up,” grumbled Phil. “I’m not that old.”

“Sounds like something an old person would say,” Techno replied, tone unreadable for a moment before he let out a chuckle. 

“Shut,” Phil said, a playful threat in his voice. “How has it been for you here?” 

Techno planted his chin on his fist. “Dull. I’m used to more action than this.” 

Phil quirked an eyebrow. “Action?”

“PVP. Parkour. Potatoes. Whatever challenge comes up.” He shrugged, hesitating for a moment. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You’re always welcome to, mate. What’s up?” 

“Aren’t you the king? Don’t you have better things to do than to wander around the camp?” 

Phil couldn’t help but laugh at his blunt nature. “Sure, I suppose. But I’m a person, just like everyone else here. I want to trust them as my people and for them to trust me as their leader, and to do it by my own merit - not just because I’m king. We’re all in this fight together, battling the same enemy.”

“Hm.” Techno seemed to ponder this for a moment before dismissing the thought with a shake of his head. 

“I do suppose it’s a bit odd,” Phil admitted. 

“With all due respect, you’re kind of a weird king.” 

Phil chuckled. “You might be the only one who’s worried about respecting me here.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Techno said, voice strangely tight. “Your people here, they’re… abrasive. Nervous. But they’re good people, and they trust you - which speaks to your position here much more than respect ever could.”

Phil looked at him, wondering what secrets lay behind carefully-shuttered brown eyes. 

“You’re starin’ again, Phil. I think age is addling your brain.” Techno smirked. 

“Maybe it is,” he sighed. He stood, clapping Techno on the shoulder. “Thank you for talking with me, mate.” 

Techno seemed stunned at the motion, blinking a few times before nodding absentmindedly. “Of course.” 

Phil returned the nod before turning to the trek back towards the castle. He glanced over his shoulder at Techno, seated on the same rough wood, staring up at the stars-

And in the blink of an eye, the boy was gone. 

Phil didn’t rest much that evening. 

Chapter Text

Phil forewent his usual visit to the campgrounds in favor of preparing for the afternoon’s speech.

In the many years that he had been king, he still did not consider himself qualified to be a representative of the people. After all, he had done nothing to earn the crown, save for being born in a luckier position than most. And despite the many years of lessons that came with his princehood, speeches were still the worst part of being a leader. 

“Thank you all for coming here today,” he mumbled as he buttoned up the slate-gray tunic. “No, that’s stupid. They don’t have a choice.” His hands trembled as he laced his boots. “My name is Philza. Nope. They know that.” 

He stared at himself in the mirror, eyes flicking over the rarely-donned regalia of a king, wondering what he was about to do. Would he still be able to look at himself? 

With a heavy sigh, he pulled on his cape, golden closures glittering against familiar emerald green. It didn’t matter. The weight of hundreds of thousands of lives rested in his hands and on his consciousness, and he would do whatever it took to protect them. 

He held his crown before him as he made his way through the corridors, head held high. In another lifetime, he might have admired the elegant metalwork, countless diamonds and emeralds inlaid on the glittering golden circlet. But in this life, it was a physical representation of the burden of being king. 

The prince met him by the door, already adorned in a matching gray tunic, a more delicate crown perched atop messy brown curls. “Are you ready, Dadza?” 

The old nickname made him smile fondly. “As ready as I’ll ever be, Wilbur. You?” 

“I hardly think I need to be ready for anything. You’re the one making the big speech; I’m just here to look pretty.” 

Phil snorted. 

“You sound ready. That’s a kingly noise. Very regal.” Wilbur nodded, trying to look princely while stifling his own laughter. 

“Shut,” Phil wheezed out, laughing. “Here we go.” 

As he stepped into the sunlight, he placed the crown on his head, steeling himself. Wilbur’s footsteps were light behind him 

Fuck it, he thought. I’m just going to wing this shite. 

The men fell silent save for a few murmurs as he appeared on the castle wall, resting his hands on the stone parapets. Wilbur stood a few steps behind him, just behind his left shoulder. 

“I presume most of you know who I am.” 

Laughter rippled out among the men. Phil glanced down for a moment, half-concealing a crooked smile of his own. 

“Today, I stand before you not as a king, nor as a leader, but as a swordsman and as a father. Many of you have been friends to me, and I like to think that I have been a friend to you.” He scanned the crowd, inclining his head as his eyes caught first Niki’s pink hair, then Eret’s height, then Sam’s authoritative gaze. “And it is as a friend that I must ask you for something impossible, something I have no right to ask any of you. I ask you for your trust - not only in me, but in each other.

“Each of us has something to lose. I could not bear to think of losing my son. Many of you understand how that feels, be it a brother or sister, parent or child: family by blood or by choice. Rather than falter in the face of fear, we choose instead to trust in one another, to love. We must choose to live. 

“Today, we are bound together. This is not a bond I, nor anyone, can force you into. No, you must choose this, for this is a bond of blood. Of assurance. Of loyalty. When this war ends - because it will end - we must ensure that we still have a peace that is worth it.”

“And you will,” rumbled an unfamiliar voice from behind him. 

Countless gasps sounded from below as the army began to shift, some turning to their neighbor while others stared in some combination of awe and horror. Phil turned as a figure several hands taller than him stepped towards the ledge. His jaw dropped, eyes wide as he took in the scarlet cape and ivory mask of the Blood God. The Blade glittered with countless golden chains, an almost delicate crown seated atop braided pink hair. One hand rested on the sword hanging on his hip; the other wrapped around a trident planted firmly on the ground next to polished black boots. Phil shook himself, quickly schooling his expression into one of neutrality. 

The Blood God slammed his trident down on the stone, the noise echoing through the air. The crowd fell completely silent, almost eerily so, as the same low voice emerged from beneath the tusked skull. “Do not rely on the enemy’s coming to begin preparing. Success depends on your readiness to receive him. Prepare now, and our victory is inevitable.” He turned his head, looking to Philza with a nod before returning his gaze towards the crowd. Raising his trident above his head, he let out a loud cry. “TO VICTORY!” 

Phil returned his nod to the Blade’s turned back, eyes still wide as he echoed the rallying call. “To victory!” 

They retreated to the castle amidst the roaring of thousands of voices cheering in unison. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil glimpsed Wilbur’s awestruck expression. For an instant, Wilbur wasn’t the Crown Prince of Endlantis; he was a boy, shocked into silence by the legend that walked several paces before him. 

Their cheers continued as they approached the arching entryways, echoing against the castle walls. 

The tiles clicked under their feet, an imperfect rhythm that mirrored the unstable emotions roiling in Phil’s chest. 

“If you would care to join me?” Phil turned towards the Blood God and motioned down the hallway towards the throne room - the same room where he had written the letter imploring him for help. “Wilbur, go find Tommy. I need to speak with the Blood God.” 

“Dad-” Wilbur said, his pleading tone cut off as Phil turned, his eyes a silent reminder that despite everything, he was still the prince. Wilbur straightened, clearing his throat as his hands leapt to the emerald clasp on his collar - an anxious motion disguised well. He turned towards the Blood God, eyes hard. “Do you know my mother?” 

Phil couldn’t hide his flinch. “Wilbur, come now, don’t-” 

He was silenced by the Blood God holding up one hand, golden chains strangely silent. “I know of many people, your Highness.” His head tilted, face obscured by the ivory bone. It was impossible to tell where his gaze directed, but Phil had the distinct sense that the Blood God was inspecting his son. Wilbur, for his part, stood unwavering. He held his head impossibly high under the scrutiny, all the bravery of a (perhaps naive) 16-year-old rising to the surface. After a moment of tension, the Blade nodded slightly. “There is a chance I have come across her in my travels, in this realm or beyond.” 

“Can you take her a message?” The words practically tumbled out of Wilbur’s mouth. Phil closed his eyes, silently praying to anyone - any thing - that his son was not about to be killed for asking such a thing. 

A heartbeat passed. 

“Highness, I find that I rarely cross paths twice with anyone. But I see no harm in trying.” 

Wilbur’s chin wobbled for a moment before he clamped his jaw down. “Ask her to come home?” 

Phil couldn’t help the pang that struck his chest, heart aching for his son. 

The Blood God’s head inclined slowly in silent agreement. 

“Thank you,” Wilbur said simply, voice thick. He turned on his heel and strode down the hall. Phil knew his son well enough to know that Wilbur’s tears would follow shortly, but they would be shed in privacy and solitude. 

The remaining two climbed the stairs into the throne room, the hallways strangely empty. Phil pushed open the massive doors, the smooth wood familiar under his hands. Feeling the Blood God’s gaze upon him, he half-turned over his shoulder. “I’ve given the guards leave so that they may spend time with their families.” 

“I see,” the Blade responded, voice unreadable. “How… admirable. Do you not fear for your own safety?” 

“I assure you, I am plenty capable of protecting myself,” Phil said with a chuckle. “Besides, I am in the company of the Blood God.”

“And if I were to turn on you?” The man looked up towards the arching ceilings, illuminated with a rainbow of light from colored glass. 

“I am plenty capable of protecting myself,” he repeated. “Although I must warn you, the consequences will be far more disastrous should you threaten anyone under my care.” 

As soon as the doors closed behind him, the low thud echoing through the air, the Blade sighed deeply, rolling his neck. His trident vanished in a puff of teal and gold sparks, and the air simmered as he let loose a hint of his power. “Apologies. I find it is better to restrain myself in front of a crowd, but it is uncomfortable to do so for too long.” 

“No need to apologize,” Phil said with a smile, unclasping his cape and draping it over the back of one of the many carved wooden chairs around the table in the center of the throne room. “I hope you won’t mind if I do the same.” He shrugged slightly, shoulders pulling back as a pair of black wings unfolded from slits hidden in the pleats of his tunic. He let out a puff of air, shaking out the silken black feathers.

“Huh.” Genuine shock colored the Blood God’s voice for the first time. “It seems you may have some surprises in store for me as well, Philza Minecraft. I didn’t know you were an immortal.” 

“Oh, I’m not. It’s just… the mark of an old memory.” Phil looked down, stroking the feathers gently. 

“None of my memories ever gave me wings,” the Blood God grumbled. 

Phil let out a loud laugh. “Well, not quite that. You recall Wilbur mentioned his mother? Apologies again for that, by the way.”

He inclined his head slightly. “It is no problem. There are far worse things to hold onto than hope.” 

“She was a sorceress of some renown; to be honest, I never understood her magics. But she poured herself into her work - too much so. Those magics devoured her, body and soul,” Phil explained, eyes sad. “She gave me these wings, just before she died.”

“I see,” he said simply. 

Phil nodded his thanks - both for the sentiment and for the fact that the Blade made no attempt to apologize. He gestured to the wooden chair next to him, inviting the other man to sit. The two settled, a strange juxtaposition: the Blood God, arms crossed as he almost reclined despite the hard wooden backing of the chair, and Philza Minecraft, one elbow planted on the armrest as he pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if this was really happening. 

“Where would you like to start?” The Blood God’s voice broke his momentary pondering. 

Phil sighed. “Knowledge, I suppose. I don’t know nearly enough about the Chaos Incarnate. It’s been impossible to form a plan of attack because no nation has survived their onslaught.” 

“If you know yourself and know your enemies, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles,” he murmured. 

“Wise words. Sun Tzu, no?” 

“Correct,” said the Blood God, a hidden smile coloring his tone for a moment before it hardened again. “His name is Dream.” 

“W- what?” Phil said, head whipping up. 

“The Chaos Incarnate, as you call him,” he explained. “His name is Dream.” 

“The Chaos Incarnate has a name?” 

“Everyone has a name,” the Blade replied. “Our titles are nothing more than our reputations, some way of trying to constrain us to something that mortals can understand.”

“I presume he’s immortal as well,” Phil said, scrubbing his eyes. 

“Very much so. His domain is in illusion and memory, although he tends to use it to wreak havoc.” 

“It sounds as though you’ve fought him before.” Phil raised an eyebrow.

The Blood God sighed. “Once, in a duel. It was the only way we could think of to settle a conflict of millenia, without risking harm to anyone else.” 

“And?” 

“I won, of course.” Phil let out a very regal snort as the Blade huffed out a laugh. “But this is no duel. He has an army at his disposal.”

“As do we,” Phil reminded him. 

“True. But the difference is that you care for your men. Dream would sacrifice thousands of lives without a second thought. You do not have that same… luxury.” 

Phil sat up, indignant. “You would call sacrificing my people a luxury?” 

“I would call sacrifice a necessity,” replied the Blood God, voice emotionless. “Let me remind you that this is war.” 

“I am well aware of that, thank you,” Phil said, voice sharp. 

“All you can hope to do is minimize that loss. That starts with learning more.” The Blade leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. Phil could feel his piercing gaze from underneath the mask. 

“What are you proposing?” 

“Spies,” he said simply. “Neither of us knows enough about the size of their army, their precise location, or what weaponry they have.”

Phil’s brow furrowed. “I could not ask that of anyone. The risk-”

“You will have to ask many things of your people, your Majesty.” The Blade cut him off, voice hard. “And is it not better to sacrifice a few, rather than sending thousands to die in ignorance?”

“I would rather sacrifice none at all,” Phil replied. 

“Think on it, at least,” he said. “It may prevent far more bloodshed-”

The door to the throne room slammed open. Phil instinctually straightened, tucking his wings back into his tunic and pulling at the waist, flattening out the pleats. Wilbur stumbled through, a slightly shorter blonde close on his heels. 

“Dadza-” Wilbur tumbled to a halt, straightening as he recognized the Blade. The blonde let out a quiet “oof” as he ran into Wilbur, surprised by the sudden halt. “Oh. Er, apologies for the intrusion.”

“It is of little importance. We had reached an impasse anyways,” the Blood God said, rising from the chair to face the door. 

Phil rose as well. “Wilbur, what is it?” 

“I was merely going to ask if we would be dining together tonight,” Wilbur said as both of their eyes flickered to the imposing form of the Blade. 

“I suppose we are,” Phil said, caught between fondness and irritation with the boys. 

“Will the big man be coming?” The young blonde piped up, pointing at the Blood God. 

“Tommy,” Wilbur admonished, elbowing the other boy. 

“The… big man?” The words sounded foreign, stilted on the Blood God’s tongue. He looked towards Philza, who shrugged helplessly. “Apologies. Where are my manners?” He knelt to the ground, about on eye level with the younger boy. “I am the Blood God, Conqueror of Worlds and Destroyer of Tyranny.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” breathed out Tommy. Phil clapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh out loud at the boy’s language. 

“And you are?” The Blade extended a hand towards the two boys. 

Wilbur stepped up, putting himself between the Blood God and Tommy. “My name is Prince Wilbur Soot, of the Gold dynasty of the Kingdom of Endlantis.” He bowed, far deeper than Phil had ever seen or taught him. 

Tommy quickly stepped around Wilbur, pressing one hand to his chest. “And I am Tommy, the biggest of men.” 

“Tommy,” Phil hissed. 

“It’s true, Phil, I am the biggest of men!”

Phil sighed. “I present to you, Marquess Thomas Innits, son of the Duke Simons.”

“I’ll kill you,” Tommy said, voice cheery despite the threat. “I’ll kill you if you call me that.” 

“Good luck with that, young lord,” the Blade said. “You will not be the first, nor will you be the last.” 

“The Duke and Lady Simons act as representatives of the kingdom, and as such, they travel often to our allies,” Phil said, stepping in before Tommy could threaten the immortal being any more. “But Tommy has long since endeared himself to us. I consider him a part of the royal family, save for the bureaucratic bullshit, if you’ll pardon the crass language.” 

“I see,” replied the Blood God.

“Would you like to join us for dinner?” Phil offered. 

“I’m afraid I will have to decline,” he said, rising to his full height. Tommy stared at him, neck craning upwards. “I have gone for far too long without the comforts of a home, much less a palace, and it would do me no good to indulge in them now.” 

“But that doesn’t mean you should live forever without a home,” Wilbur whispered. 

The ivory mask looked down at him, and Wilbur stared back into it with unwavering softness. It was a strange strength that Phil wondered if he would ever be able to understand. 

“Is that so?” murmured the Blood God, a hint of danger coloring his voice. “I have long since consigned myself to an eternity of bloodshed. Any place I call my own will surely be destroyed by my enemies, if not by my own hands.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. 

The Blood God huffed out a laugh with no mirth behind it. “I will bid you goodnight. Think upon what I have said, your Majesty.” 

He swept out of the room, scarlet cape barely brushing the floor as it billowed behind him. 

“He’s right,” sighed Philza as the doors thud shut behind the Blood God. 

“Right about what?” Tommy said, ever curious. 

Phil shook his head as he turned towards his son. “Apologies, Wilbur, but I won’t be able to join you for dinner tonight. There is something I must take care of.” 

“Oh.” Wilbur’s brown eyes grew sad, soft. “Of course. The duty of a king beckons.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” 

Chapter Text

Phil rushed down to the campgrounds, uncaring of the mud that splattered polished boots and gray silk. He stumbled to a halt just outside the castle walls, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. 

What am I doing?

Eret first. They were a middle ground - “safe” was perhaps not the right word, but Phil knew that they would respond genuinely, truly, in a way that he relied on. Eret had never made any attempt to hide her emotions. She was dangerously smart, learning from victories and defeats alike. But most importantly, she bonded with people in a way that he could never understand, and those relationships were what gave her strength. 

Phil wove through the crowd, finding her seated by the fire, surrounded by a handful of joyous folk. 

“Phil!” Eret cried, spreading his arms wide. “Come to weave another tale of epic battles and legendary creatures?” 

“Not today, mate,” Phil laughed. “Do you mind if I drag you away from the festivities for a moment?” 

“Of course, your Majesty,” they said with an almost mocking bow. 

The two of them made their way just out of earshot of the group - or as out of earshot as they could get in a camp of thousands of people. 

“Eret-” Phil started.

Eret cut him off before he could get another word in. “You’re about to ask me to do something difficult, aren’t you?” 

“You’ve always been too perceptive for your own good.” Phil smiled slightly. 

“Go ahead and ask, Phil. I’ll do it, whatever it is.” 

“Don’t say that,” he replied warningly. “Don’t promise anything until you know what you’re getting into.” 

“Tell me what I’m getting into, then.” Her grey eyes were hard. 

“I’m asking you to approach the enemy at night and infiltrate their armies without alerting them to a stranger in their midst. I’m asking you to find a way to send covert messages to me on the army’s movement and weaponry.”  Phil paused, searching Eret’s eyes for any sign of hesitation.  “But most of all, I’m asking you to leave behind everything and everyone you love in the hopes that the information will give us an edge.” 

Eret blinked, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Okay, I’m in.” 

Phil’s brow furrowed. “That’s it? Are you certain? I just asked you to sacrifice everything you’ve known for something I can’t promise will work, and you just…” Phil trailed off, not even sure how to finish the sentence. 

“Phil, I’ve done many things in this lifetime. This is hardly the worst of them. And if I die - what a hell of a way to go onto the next. I’m in.” 

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Thank you, Eret. Truly. We’ll talk more soon. Do you know where I might find Niki?” 

True to Eret’s word, Niki was outside her tent, knelt among mismatched potted plants, a rainbow of ceramic beneath a layer of flourishing leaves, pink hair amongst dozens of blossoms. 

She waved as Phil approached. “Hi, Phil!”

“Hey, mate,” he said, a smile spreading across his face immediately. “How are the plants doing?” 

“They’re doing well. I think we should have enough for rosemary bread soon, and some mint for the water.” She looked down fondly at a peppermint plant, pulling off a leaf and smelling it. 

“Where would we be without you? Left in a world full of flavorless food,” Phil laughed. 

“You’d not survive,” she giggled. 

Phil wished he could stay in that moment, laughing with a kind woman and thinking of a delicious meal, but circumstances dictated otherwise. “Niki, I have to ask you something.”

“Of course, Phil. What is it?” 

He sighed, feeling as though the weight on his chest grew with each breath. “Would you be willing to be a spy?”

“A… spy?” Niki blinked. “You want me to be a spy?” 

“I do,” Phil confirmed. “I need people I can trust to help me prevent any needless deaths.” 

“I’m not sure I’m the right person for this, Phil,” she whispered. 

“I think you are exactly the person I need. But this is a decision only you can make,” Phil said, eyes solemn. 

“How will I know?” Niki asked, eyes wide. 

Phil hummed for a moment, looking up at the stars that were only beginning to peek out, the sun just below the horizon. “To know something, to truly know it, is to know it with your heart, your mind, and your soul. If even one of those is uncertain, then you shouldn’t go.” 

Niki took a moment, following his gaze towards the sky. “Then I’ll go.”

“You will?” 

“I will go with all of myself,” she said with a gentle smile. 

“Thank you,” Phil breathed. “Although I feel I must mention, your hair-”

Niki ran one hand through her hair, the pink transforming to blonde beneath her touch. “Will this be better?” 

“You didn’t tell me you had magic,” Phil said, letting out a baffled chuckle. 

“A drop in the bloodline from a distant relative,” she explained. “I can’t do much else than that, but it’s useful enough.” 

“I’ll say,” Phil said. “You might be a better spy than I expected.” 

“Sam?” Phil poked his head into the tent, eyes adjusting to the dim light. 

“Hey, Phil,” Sam said, rising from his seat on his bed, broadsword in one hand and sharpening stone in the other. 

Phil sighed. “Can I ask you something? In confidence.” 

“Of course.” Sam gestured to the wooden stool opposite to him. 

“I am having some… trouble determining the best course of action,” Phil said. “I’m afraid I might be asking people to die for nothing.” 

“I am but a simple builder, Majesty,” Sam said, a teasing tone slipping into his voice for a moment. “I’m not sure I’m qualified to help you make any decisions.”

“But you are,” replied Phil, almost pleadingly. “The folks here trust you, and they’re more open with you than they would be with me.” 

Sam shrugged. “I won’t pretend, Phil. Some of them get scared off by a king - although I know you better than that.” 

“Could you lead, without me?” 

“Where is this coming from?” Sam asked. 

“Answer the question, Sam. Can you lead these people?” Phil looked intently at the other man.

He sighed. “Yes, to an extent. I won’t pretend to know how to strategize, nor can I make big speeches. But I can make sure that they’re as ready as they can be.”

“I couldn’t ask you to leave.” Phil scrubbed one hand across his eyes. 

“Phil.” Phil looked up to see the old fighter staring intently at him, face weathered with battles that Phil couldn’t claim to know. “Tell me what’s happening. Help me help them.”

He folded. “The Blood God has recommended that we use spies, and I agree. It’s the only way we can learn more about the Chaos Incarnate, but I fear I would only be sending them off to die.”

“You might be,” Sam said bluntly. “But it’s better to send one off to die than a thousand.”

“I’d rather send no one off to die at all,” Phil murmured. 

“I know. But that is the burden of war.” Sam leaned back, crossing his arms. “I presume that I was an option that came to mind?” 

“You were,” Phil admitted. “But I also understand you to be far too valuable to the wellbeing of the army at large.”

“I’ll hardly disagree.” Sam smirked. “But if you wouldn’t mind the recommendation, I believe there’s someone who might surprise both of us.” 

Phil found himself in the outskirts of the camps. The light from campfires and lanterns barely illuminated the path, and he hissed as he stubbed his toe on a wooden crate.

“Hello?” he called out, to no response. After a few heartbeats, he tried again. “Hello? My name is Phil. I’m a friend of Sam’s.” 

Quiet scuffling came from the shadows just to his right. Phil turned slightly, trying to find the source, finding only storage boxes and scrap wood. 

“What do you want?” The voice was rough with the harshness of survival, but it was young. 

“Would you mind coming out? I prefer to be able to see people when I talk to them,” Phil said.

“People,” the voice scoffed. “I’m hardly people .” 

“I disagree,” replied Phil. 

A moment passed. Phil worked his jaw for a moment, pondering the weight of his words, before the scuffling resumed. From the shadows appeared a boy who couldn’t have been any older than Tommy, with a mess of brown hair, curlier than Wilbur’s, but much less well kept. Green tunic and brown trousers alike were torn and stained with what could have been weeks or months of grime. 

Phil couldn’t help as his gaze flicked to the curling horns that peeked out from beneath the boy’s hair. He could feel a piercing glare from hidden eyes as a pair of floppy ears twitched in irritation. 

“And now? Do you still think of “people,” or do you see a monster, like the rest of the world?” The boy’s lip curled with disdain. 

“I do not see a monster,” Phil replied honestly, his voice holding no pity. “I only see a boy who has been deeply mistreated.” 

The boy paused. “You’d be the first.” 

“What’s your name?” Phil sat down on one of the nearby crates, wincing as it creaked beneath his weight. 

He hopped up onto a box across from Phil, silent as he clambered on. “I don’t have one. No one ever gave me one.” 

Phil blinked. “Would you like one?” 

“Not from you, old man,” the boy shot back. 

A laugh burst from Phil’s chest, far too loud for the late hour and their seating among the storage crates. “I expect not. Choose a name, mate, one that is yours and no one else’s. You get to decide how you’re seen from now on.” 

The boy kicked his feet, letting them thud against the box. After a few minutes of silence, he opened his mouth again. “Tubbo.” 

“Made up your mind?” Phil asked, peering at him. 

“Yep,” the boy said. “My name is Tubbo.”

“Very nice to meet you, Tubbo.”

For the first time, Phil saw a smile flicker across his lips before Tubbo’s shields slammed upwards, returning the familiar scowl to his face. “I won’t thank you for this, you know.” 

“If it was thanks I wanted, then I might be wounded. Luckily, I didn’t want any, so my dignity remains intact.” He paused for a moment. “Tubbo, how would you feel about being a spy?” 

A wicked grin spread across his face. “Hell yeah, boss man.” 

One left, Phil thought as he made his way to the castle, the moon watching down upon the king burdened with the weight of thousands of souls. 

He knocked on the door to Wilbur’s room, smiling at the sounds of Wilbur’s humming and the strumming of a guitar from the other side despite the late hour.

The guitar stopped. “Come in.”

Phil cracked open the door. “Hey, mate. How was dinner?” His apology went unspoken. 

“Chaotic as usual.” Wilbur shrugged with a smirk. It was a quiet forgiveness, or at least understanding. “You’re covered in mud.” 

“That’s never bothered you before.” Phil smiled for a moment, but it couldn’t reach his eyes. “Can we… can we talk?” 

“Yeah, of course. What’s up, Dadza?” Wilbur set his guitar to the side before jumping onto the bed, patting the mattress next to him. He sat with his back against the headboard, pulling his knees to his chest. 

Phil groaned, planting his hands on his knees as he sat on the bed. “I assume you know what we’re going into here.” 

Wilbur nodded. “Yeah. I’ve talked with a couple people.”

“Wilbur, I- '' It felt like he had already sighed endlessly that night, yet Phil did so once again. “There will come a day when you will need to use all the skills at your disposal to defend not only yourself, but the people closest to you. As king, you will have to do it a hundred times over.” 

“And I will,” said Wilbur, sitting up straight.

“You sound… excited,” Phil said, furrowing his eyebrow.

“I have a chance to prove myself. I want to be a part of something bigger than myself, and I will not throw away this chance,” Wilbur replied, eyes blazing. 

“And have you thought of the lives that will be lost? Have you thought of the destruction, of the death?” Phil’s voice was sharp. “No, of course not. You see the glory, but you do not see the grief that follows in its wake. Glory may be a small comfort in the face of what will be lost.” 

“Dad, I-” Wilbur took a deep breath. “I don’t mean it like that. You know that.” 

Phil sighed. “I know you don’t, Wilbur. But as the king, you will pay for the devastation with your life, be it at the end of an enemy’s blade or by the hands of the universe herself.” 

He stood up, eyes softening. “I’m sorry, Wilbur. You’re young and ambitious. Both of those will be advantages for you one day, but they cannot be all that you consider as king.”

He strode out of the room, jaw clamped down as the door closed behind him. He paused for one heartbeat, then two before almost falling backwards against the wall just next to the door. He slid to the floor, shoulders shaking as he tried to silence the sobs that racked his chest. 

A melancholy tune sang to the stars, notes drawn carefully from guitar strings wavering through the air: a melody that spoke of longing for a future that might never exist.

Chapter Text

The months ahead were difficult. 

It would have been easy to imagine that the war was simply a round of chess. It would have been easy to pretend, like it was one of Wilbur’s lessons or a game of imagination, boys bearing sticks like swords as they fought legendary battles. 

If only “easy” were an option. 

Phil stood over a map of the lands just outside of his kingdom, looking down at the pieces and wondering which arrangement offered even the slightest chance of success. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, ignoring the headache that pounded at his temples. 

If only.  

It was better to think of what he could do, what he had already done. 

Sam was the Warden. There was no one more prepared nor skilled to train the men, and Phil had the utmost trust in him - he had no other choice. There was a desperation in Sam’s actions, what might have been called madness by some. He taught with a burning passion in hopes that it would be enough to help them survive. 

Phil had taken personal care with the spies, using his own experience to prepare them for countless unknown experiences. It took countless hours, but they each learned to catch a twist of wind and whisper into it, sending messages flying in the breeze. 

Niki took to the magic like a bird to the air, motions smooth and fingers deft. Perhaps it was the magic in her bloodline, but Phil thought it was more likely her faith in what she was protecting - the strongest power of all. Eret, on the other hand, struggled for several days. Their magic was not one of illusion and wizardry, but one of stories and words. He proved his loyalty constantly, each attempt pushing them further towards success. 

Within weeks, the two were gone, and Phil could only pray to whatever was listening that he had done enough to prepare them. The information followed soon after: two messages, two whispering breezes nearly every day. 

(Phil nearly wept when the first messages arrived, although he would never admit it.) 

Tubbo, on the other hand, took on a different role, although it was no less critical.

He became the life to the house that had been suffering, light to the darkest hours. Phil had invited him to the castle because of how much Tubbo reminded him of Tommy, but Tubbo had become so much more. The two shared a blazing energy, a raucous chaos that couldn’t help but bring joy to the people around him. Ranboo had followed mere days after. Phil was silently thankful - the boy could do with more friends. 

He learned quickly that despite Tubbo’s young age and often abrasive exterior, the boy was affectionate, to say the least. Tubbo quickly became attached to Ranboo - something Phil would never have suspected, but the two simply clicked. 

And oh, how all of them flourished. 

The walls of the castle became a home . It was only after light and laughter sang through the halls that Phil realized how empty it had seemed since She had left. 

Tommy raced through the halls, dragging Tubbo and Ranboo behind him, practically screaming with joy. The blonde had always been rambunctious, to say the least, or perhaps “brash” might have been a better word. But he was in good company with the others, happier than Phil had seen him in many months. 

Tubbo was viciously smart, sharp wit only matched by his piercing tongue. Phil soon learned to respect the boy’s devious pranks - always harmless, save for a touch of dignity. Tubbo shot off joke after joke, interrupting himself with his own laughter, his usually biting smile softening only for any of the boys whom he might have called brothers. 

Ranboo blossomed in the shower of affection, hesitation falling away. His laughter became louder, whispered jokes said with pride as his eyes flickered to Tubbo or Tommy for validation. For the first time, Phil could see the youth that had been hidden behind fear. He had a dry humor, one often delivered with an expressionless face that lasted for only a moment before a grin split his face. 

Wilbur leaned into the role of a big brother, watching over them with a careful eye. He made fun of them in the way only an older brother could, carefully timed winks and sly comments that made the others shriek with laughter. But Phil knew that the weight of princehood weighed on him, in a way that it could weigh on none of the other boys. It separated him: it gave him the power of a kingdom, but prevented him from getting as close to the others. 

It was nice. 

It was nice to feel as though Phil had four sons, to feel as though the castle was full of the potential of generations to come. 

He walked through the hallways, wandering aimlessly as his mind spun. 

The pattering of young feet and screams of joy as Tommy sat on Wilbur’s shoulders and Tubbo on Ranboo’s filled the halls. It was a lovely undercurrent of noise as Phil pondered the future of his kingdom. Their joy was a juxtaposition to the death that rose before his eyes. 

Their laughter echoing in his ears felt almost… normal.

The thought disgusted him. 

To think anything could be normal, happy , when there was so much at risk, it pained him. He could put none of the blame on the young boys. He wanted to preserve their joy, their youth. Even though he missed family dinner after family dinner, the boys’ laughter echoed in his ears. But he feared that he might grow to hate them, hate their rainbow of vibrance that made his own mind seem so dull and lifeless. 

And suddenly, the teakettle reached a screaming boil, his mind swirling in an inescapable whirlwind of doom and destruction. Something in him screamed, banging against the walls of an inevitability that didn’t yet exist. It was the curse of the present, to know that the future was inescapable. 

He knew it wouldn’t last forever. 

It couldn’t. 

Chapter Text

Phil slammed the door to the throne room open, the wood crashing against the stone wall before beginning to close with a pained creak. It was more strength than he had let himself exert in years, the power in his veins simmering with emotion. 

He planted both hands on the table, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, shakily. 

“Your Majesty-”

Phil’s head whipped up, sharp words on the tip of his tongue ready to berate and banish anyone who had dared enter the room, before his eyes settled on the form of the Blood God. 

“I’m afraid I’m not very good company at the moment,” Phil said, letting out a mirthless laugh. “Nor am I a very good king, seeing as to how I may have doomed my entire nation to a lifetime of bloodshed and disaster.” 

“I cannot claim to be good company or a good king,” replied the Blade, carefully stepping forward. “What I can offer is perspective.” 

Phil let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“You are always welcome to ask, although I cannot promise an answer,” he said. 

“How do you know that you’re fighting for the right thing?” Phil asked, clenching his jaw. “How can I know that I’m doing the right thing?” 

The Blade sighed, crossing his arms. “You are brave, Majesty, to admit that you don’t know.”

“I would not call it bravery. There is little else for me to do,” Phil admitted.

“But you are doing something,” the Blood God said. “That is far more than many men I know.” 

“It’s worthless if I can’t be assured that I’m doing the right thing for my people - all of them.” Phil sat down hard, raking a hand through short hair. “I’m supposed to be a father. This isn’t right.”

“I presume this is concerning some of the boys I’ve seen roaming the castle?” 

Phil nodded tightly. “I’ve stolen the childhood from one, forcing him into a life of espionage-”

“You’re giving him a purpose, something he’s never had before,” the Blood God cut in, but Phil charged ahead, refusing to hear him. 

“I’ve missed countless family dinners, Wilbur’s performances, just so I can do this?” Phil’s voice reached a scream as he gestured wildly at the maps and proposed strategies scattered across the table. “Just so I can watch them die?” 

“You want them to survive long enough that they can have more dinners, more concerts,” the Blade replied, voice even as he set one hand on the table, leaning forward. “Your Majesty, what would you do for your son? For these children?” 

“Terrible things. I would do unspeakable things, things I dare not utter, to protect my family,” Phil whispered, eyes flickering in the candlelight. 

“Exactly,” he said, voice quiet. 

For a moment, the only sound that filled the room was Phil’s shaky breathing. The Blade straightened, mask pointing upwards for a moment as he seemed to ponder something. 

“Majesty, do you know why I did this?” 

Phil shook his head. “I can’t begin to understand why.” 

“It’s because of a father who wrote to me, saying that he would sacrifice his kingdom to protect his son. It’s because of a warrior who humbled himself and asked for help. It’s because of a king who truly knows his people by name, who would stop to introduce himself to a stranger in the camps.”

“Wait a fucking minute.” Phil worked his jaw, trying to find the words as the gears turned in his brain. 

“It’s because of a man who told me that he wanted to trust in his people and for them to trust in him - not because he happened to be king, but because he was a good person.” 

The Blood God reached up and removed the skull mask, revealing a familiar face, wireframe glasses resting crookedly on his nose. 

“Techno,” Phil breathed. 

“Your Majesty, war is not a simple thing. I admit, there is a comfort to be found in the clash of swords, in the code between warriors. When one battle is lost, there is always another one. But there are no second chances in a kingdom. Your people are a forest, and you, the caretaker.”

“Back up,” Phil said, holding up his hands. “Are we just going to skip over the fact that you snuck into the camps just to ask me a question?” 

The Blade laughed, revealing sharp teeth. “If I’m honest, I came to see your soldiers - how they treated each other, what they believed in. I didn’t expect you to be there.”

“Every week,” said Phil absently, still trying to process. 

“If you recall, you once wrote to me of the stars - how they may incline us, but do not bind us. I return to you another phrase: igne natura renovatur integra. ” The words flowed smoothly off his tongue, like a mantra he had repeated countless times. 

“Through fire, nature is reborn whole,” Phil whispered. 

“And your people are the same. There is risk, certainly, and some will likely die. But your people, your kingdom, your family will endure. They have a protector in you, your Majesty.” 

“Phil,” he corrected. “If we’re going to war, I feel we might be past formalities.” 

“Then you may call me Technoblade,” said Techno, standing up straighter. 

A quiet tapping interrupted them. Phil turned towards the window, where a crow sat, tilting its head at him. Phil turned, striding over to crack it open, inviting it in with a beckoning finger. The bird made a wide circle around the room before perching on the back of one of the wooden chairs. It blinked, letting out a few chirps and caws before its voice transformed into a more familiar, more human voice. 

“Phil, you need to hurry,” said a voice, whispering frantically. 

“Niki,” Phil said, caught between shock and explanations. 

“I don’t know what they’re planning, but something big is coming. You have to be ready. I just hope-”

The message was cut off as the door to the throne room burst open. Both Techno and Phil turned, the former shielding his face with the ivory mask. 

“Your Majesty,” gasped out a messenger, hair tousled as he tried to catch his breath. “The campgrounds, you need to look, you can see from the parapets.”

Techno and Phil exchanged a look. They ran without a word, rapid footsteps echoing as they wove through the corridors, emerald and scarlet capes brushing against each other.

The sunrise found the two of them speechless at the sight below them. 

The usual rowdiness of the camps was gone, replaced by a stifling silence. Thousands of warriors were completely still, some seated over their morning meal, others laying as though they had collapsed mid-stride. 

Each of them was frozen in time, resting in a tranquil sleep. 

In another lifetime, it might have been beautiful. The morning light glistened across the campsite, casting a golden haze across peaceful expressions. It was the same sunlight that lived in honey and laughter. In another lifetime, it could have been simply a nap on a summer afternoon.

But in this lifetime, it was an abomination. 

The vibrant life that had once thrummed through the air was gone. Phil couldn’t draw his eyes away from the empty shell of what had once been. He vaguely registered Techno’s exhale, the anger audible even without words. The desolate sight pulled at his stomach, the guilt that had been building in his chest reaching a piercing wail. 

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Phil’s head whipped to the side, where a man sat atop the parapet, feet kicking through the air. Delicate features were accented by silver chain mail shimmering with a magical blue aura, white-rimmed glasses pushed up into dark curls. His face was turned towards the sight below; rather than horror, his expression seemed almost awestruck. “Sleep is such a delicate thing… and soldiers need their rest.” 

Phil’s gaze returned to the people below, unable to push down the tears that were rising in his throat. The air crackled, golden sparks leaping in the corners of his eyes as a trident and a sword appeared in Techno’s hands. 

“Oh, please,” the man said. Glass clinked against glass as he faced them, a savage windchime turning in the wind. “Violence is such a moronic answer.” 

“What did you do to them?” Phil’s voice cracked, tears streaking down his cheeks. He clenched his fists, nails carving half-moons into the palms of his hands. He stepped forward, voice raw as he screamed. “WHAT DID YOU DO?” 

A hand on his chest stopped him before he could take a second step forward, another figure intercepting him. “Be careful how you speak to him.”

Phil turned slowly, rage coursing through his veins. A harsh jaw underlined a biting smile, white teeth against tanned skin. Dark hair was pushed back by a white headband, and golden pauldrons accented a scarlet tunic.

“Is that so?” Phil hissed. 

“It is,” replied a third voice. Phil thrust himself away from the red-clad man, turning to see Techno leveling his netherite blade at the throat of a masked figure. 

“Dream,” Techno said, voice unwavering. 

“Technoblade,” Dream said, a smile evident in his voice even as the mask smiled back eerily, unmoving. 

“No, fuck off,” Phil spat, voice venomous. “You don’t get to come here as though you are a friend to this kingdom.” 

“But I can be a friend to you, Philza Minecraft,” Dream replied easily, unbothered by Phil’s anger and Techno’s sword. “We do not have to awaken your soldiers. I’d recommend you listen to what we have to say.” 

“Then speak, before I lose what little restraint I have left,” Techno said. 

“Manners, Technoblade,” Dream sighed, pushing the blade away from his throat with a finger. “Allow us to introduce ourselves before stabbing . The idiot on the edge is Sir George, formerly of the Asterian Knights, and the pyro is Sapnap, Champion of the Flame.” 

George smirked, saluting with two fingers. Sapnap grinned dangerously, a flame dancing between his fingers and an ember burning in his eyes. 

“And I am Dream,” the green-clad man continued, spreading his arms wide and bowing slightly. “Master of Illusions. King of Nightmares. The Chaos Incarnate.”

“Shut it, homeless teletubby.” Phil could practically hear Techno rolling his eyes. “I know how your magic works. How did you know the range, the number of soldiers you’d need to control?” 

“I’m not homeless, and you’re ruining my moment,” Dream grumbled, for a moment sounding like nothing more than a petulant child. 

Techno snorted. “Yeah, whatever you say, green boy.” 

“If you must know, we had a spy on the inside,” Dream huffed. His fingers danced through the air, leaving a trail of neon green sparks. The sparks hovered, before spiraling into a ghostly silhouette, a tall figure with curling hair, eyes concealed by sunglasses. 

“Down with the revolution, boys,” a voice laughed, echoing from nowhere and everywhere all at once. “It was never meant to be.” 

“Eret,” Phil breathed. His heart dropped, and he clenched his jaw. “I never would have thought-”

“Exactly,” Dream interrupted. “That’s why they were such a good spy.” 

“So what is it that you want?” Phil asked, voice tight. “To turn my soldiers against me, or do you have some greater goal?” 

“I want to make a deal, Philza,” Dream said with a slight laugh. “As I said, we are under no obligation to reawaken your soldiers. George?”

“They’ll sleep until I decide otherwise.” George shrugged, voice lilting almost musically. “And the walls of this castle cannot protect you, nor the boys I can sense inside.” 

“If you even think of them, I’ll kill you where you stand,” Phil hissed. 

“I’d like to see you try,” Sapnap snapped, flames burning brighter in the palm of his hand. 

“Down, Sap. Surely, you can’t fault him for protecting his family when you’d do the same,” Dream chuckled, before turning back towards Phil. “Surrender yourself, and we will awaken your soldiers.” 

“Of course I surrender,” Phil replied immediately. “Whatever I must do.” 

“Phil, you’ll die doing this,” Techno murmured behind him, voice  cracking.

“Probably,” Phil sighed, nodding slowly. 

“I didn’t think it would be that easy,” whispered George. Sapnap nodded sagely. 

“But in my surrender, I ask one thing,” Phil charged on, ignoring the quip. “Give me some time to ensure that my people are safe and cared for. I must ensure that you will fulfill your promise, and I refuse to abandon my people, my family. My son deserves to hear of this from me, and there are some things I must write.” 

Dream’s ivory mask stared unblinkingly, inspecting Phil with a hidden gaze. “I would not have thought you to be a writer.” 

“I would not dare call myself a writer,” Phil replied with a wry smile. “But there are some lessons I would like to pass on before I die - or whatever it is you will be doing with me.” 

Phil’s heartbeat thrummed through his chest as Dream paused, tilting his head. “I will grant you this, but I will ask for two things in return. Do not try to change this outcome. The battle is over, and prolonging it will only result in the death of those you care most for.” 

Phil nodded, silent as he waited for the second demand.

“And know that I will call for you, and you will not have the chance to prolong this again.” 

“Thank you,” Phil breathed. 

Dream turned wordlessly towards the parapet edge. His fingers twitched, a silent gesture, and all three of them threw ender pearls. The turquoise orbs seemed to float, glistening in the morning light. With one last glance over his shoulder, he nodded shortly before tossing down an invisibility potion.

Phil stood in silence, almost afraid to move until he was assured that the three were truly gone. He wavered for a moment before he fell, knee striking stone. He knelt for a moment before pushing himself up with a heavy groan, clambering up to take a seat on the parapet, shaking out his wings as he turned his face towards the new sky. 

“Well, that could have gone worse,” he said, almost to himself. 

“Worse?” Techno asked. “You’ve sacrificed your life for nothing and destroyed the future of the kingdom. You ought to think of what you’re doing, Phil.” 

“I distrust any advice that includes the words ‘ought’ or ‘should,’” Phil laughed. 

Techno pulled off his mask, eyes blazing. “Let me rephrase. This is a stupid decision, and one I cannot abide by.” 

“It is not your decision, Techno! What would you have me do, sacrifice the lives of thousands so I can sit on the throne of a half-dead kingdom?” Phil cried. 

“No!” Techno shot back. “You can fight this, I swear it to you.”

“Did you not hear what Dream said?” 

“Do not trust his word,” Techno snorted. “He is confused, to say the least. He does not know what he speaks of.”

“How could you possibly know that?” asked Phil. 

“Trust me,” Techno deadpanned. “I have spent many years making him so.”

“I will not - no, I cannot fight when there are tens of thousands of souls hanging in the balance. These are parents. Friends. Children. They are people, Techno.” Phil’s voice cracked. 

“You are a person too, Phil,” Techno rumbled. 

“But I am also a king, and what good am I if I am not willing to set aside my life for my people? One life, for thousands?” 

“But what good are you as a father if you are not here to raise your son, to make him into a good king for the future generations? What of your people then?” For the first time, Techno’s voice began to rise, anger coloring his tone. 

“He will grow to be a good king,” Phil said. “I trust my son, Technoblade. I know he will do great things with or without me.”

“I have seen the boy, Philza. The empathy which strengthens him may also be his downfall. His emotions will be his doom.” 

“I’m impressed with your confidence despite your complete ignorance, Blood God, ” Phil said, voice hard as he turned with a harsh stare, charcoal wings puffing in anger. “You cannot claim to know my family, seeing as you have rejected every opportunity to join us.”

“I did not come here to be friend or family. I came here to fight for you. You invited the Blade, and the Blade you received.” Techno spat the titles like acid. “I was supposed to be your ally.”

“As the king, I am my own ally. And I refuse to apologize for doing what is best for my people,” Phil replied, turning away.

“Not even to those you hurt in the process?”

Phil’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a wavering breath. The feathers quivered for a moment before stilling, a silent answer that was no easier to give. 

After a heartbeat, Techno huffed. “Fine.” 

Phil listened as sharp footsteps retreated, wondering if he would ever see Techno - the man he was beginning to think of as his friend - again. 

Techno was not the first friend he had lost. Somewhere, dimly, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, “Remember to live, darling. Remember to love.”

She had always said that. He turned, resting his cheek against his shoulder. His heart twisted, feeling the memory of soft hair against his face and a bright laugh echoing in his ears. He couldn’t help the melancholy feeling that rose in his chest, an impossible yearning for people long lost and times well past. 

Phil wondered, what would she have done? Would she have sacrificed her life, her future, without question? Or would she have fought? Risked everything for more time? 

He would have to ask her the next time he saw her. 

In another lifetime, they would meet again. 

Chapter Text

Phil had known, from the first whispers of the Chaos Incarnate to the moment he placed ink on paper to beseech the Blood God, that there would be loss. A forest cannot survive a fire without loss, nor can a kingdom survive a war without bloodshed. There is a price to be paid, the cost of preparation and violence. 

That did not make it any easier to face. 

The men began to awake slowly, stirring from their positions. The camps began to move once again, light and life breathed back into it as the soldiers began to shift. 

The murmurs of confusion were quickly interrupted by screams. 

Without a second thought, Phil threw himself off the castle wall, snapping his wings out to slow his fall. His feet barely brushed the ground before he was running, midnight feathers pulling back into the folds of his tunic. 

“Sam. SAM!” Phil cried, weaving through tents and bodies. 

He found the warrior knelt near the campfire, arm clasped with a dark-eyed man, pulling him up with a groan. “You alright, Ponk?” 

“As okay as I can be at the moment,” the man said, fingers scratching through dark hair shorn short. 

“Help the others,” Sam said, clapping a hand down. 

Ponk pulled a red and yellow mask over his face. “Got it. I’ll check in with you soon.” 

The two shared a glance for a moment, eyes soft, before Sam nodded. Ponk turned, darting off with a startling agility through the camp and vanishing in a heartbeat. 

“Phil.” Sam turned with a heavy sigh. “What the hell happened?” 

“The first strike has been made,” Phil replied, eyes hard. 

“One hell of a first strike,” he muttered. 

Phil let out a bleak laugh. “You’ve got no idea. Has everyone woken up?” 

Sam paused, mouth forming around words. “Not… exactly.” 

He led Phil to his tent. It felt like years since they had spoken of espionage, since Phil had been able to smile at the thought of the future. The world had changed that morning, irrevocably and irreparably. 

Phil lifted the flap, ducking into the dimly lit room and turning to invite the other man in. Sam shook his head, refusing to follow Phil in. The tent flap fell shut, and Phil turned to see what lay before him. 

The sunlight filtered through the tent fabric, casting an angelic glow over the two boys inside. 

“No,” Phil breathed, falling to his knees by the bedside. He let one hand rest on the boy’s shoulder, the other carding through messy brown hair, smoothing it around curling horns. “Tubbo, you shouldn’t have been here.” 

Tubbo’s eyes danced behind closed eyelids, both hands brushing the cot, fingers searching for two other hands. His eyebrows furrowed, one word slipping past his lips. 

“Michael.” 

“What happened?” Phil asked, rising and turning towards the other figure in the tent. 

“I-I-I don’t know,” Ranboo stuttered out, pressing himself into the corner. He was hunched over, fingers clutching the worn notebook. “He hasn’t woken up yet. I don’t know why.” 

Phil took a step forward, opening his arms. Ranboo practically fell into his embrace, trembling, despite the fact that he was several hands-widths taller than Phil. “You woke up, mate. And he’ll wake up soon.”

“He has to,” Ranboo mumbled into Phil’s shoulder. 

“Ranboo,” Phil said, hating himself for needing to ask. “Do you remember what happened?” 

Ranboo shook his head fiercely, pushing himself upright to flip open his journal. “There’s nothing written. I didn’t write anything. But it’s my fault, I know it.” 

“No,” he whispered. “Never.”

“Phil, you don’t understand,” Ranboo said, eyes watering, although he refused to let a single tear fall. “There’s this voice in my head. It told me what was going to happen, and I didn’t believe it. I can’t- I can’t trust myself.” 

Phil’s heart broke for the boy. “I promise you, Ranboo. It’s not your fault. This was the work of the Chaos Incarnate.” 

“You can’t guarantee that,” Ranboo said, voice cracking. “You can’t be certain.” 

“I can,” Phil whispered. 

Ranboo shook his head, pulling at black and white hair. “I just need him to wake up.” He sat by Tubbo’s bed, leaning his head against Tubbo’s shoulder, unbothered by the other’s twitching hands. 

“He will. I promise you.” With a heavy heart, Phil turned away from Ranboo as the boy curled his knees to his chest, waiting.

He pushed out of the tent, blinking in the pure sunlight. Sam was waiting for him, arms crossed. 

“Fuck’s sake, mate,” Phil sighed. “I knew it would be bad, but I never thought-”

“None of us could have,” Sam replied. 

“It seems that some were gifted with dreams,” Phil said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nightmares, rather. We won’t be able to understand the full implications of this attack for years.”

“If we ever can,” he murmured. 

Phil nodded, grim-faced. “Not to mention those who won’t wake up at all.” He sighed. “Send a message up to the castle if anything develops.” 

“Of course,” Sam said. 

“He’s what ?” 

Wilbur’s voice echoed through the room, high ceilings of the throne room carrying his shout. 

“Wilbur, please,” Phil said, reaching towards his son. “You mustn’t let your emotions overwhelm you.”

“Overwhelm me?” Wilbur cried. “How could I be anything other than overwhelmed , knowing that an innocent boy remains unconscious from an unprompted attack, while another can no longer trust in his own mind?” 

“There will be a time to mourn what was lost. But you are the prince, and I, the king. We must first defend what remains.” Phil’s eyes were soft, wishing that there was any other alternative. 

“No,” Wilbur said, eyes blazing. “You cannot ask me to turn off my emotions like a fountain. Was it not you who told me that they would give me strength?” 

“If you truly intend to utilize your emotions, then use them to protect our people. Do not waste time or energy on anger. The battle is over, Wilbur. You cannot change the past.” 

“But I can change the future,” Wilbur replied. 

Phil sighed. “That is what I hope.”

Wilbur shook his head, the weight of this news already visible in the slouch of shoulders and the trembling of hands. “I… I need to think. I’m sorry, Dadza.” 

“No, I’m sorry,” Phil said, rising. He paused for a moment, half-turned away from his son. He didn’t have the strength to burden Wilbur with the knowledge of his own fate, of his surrender and bargain with Dream. “I’ll give you some time alone.” 

The door to the throne room closed behind him, and Phil let out a shaky exhale. 

The weight of the crown, the burden of a kingdom, was one that Phil was all too familiar with. Being king had placed him on a pedestal - one he had not chosen, but rather, one he was gifted with by circumstance of his birth. He was surrounded by praise and adoration. But “love” was impossible. The same pedestal that gave him his power separated him from the people he protected. 

He had hoped that things would be different for his son, that he would not have to watch Wilbur come to the same understanding. But it seemed that Phil would be forced to watch his son suffer, with the knowledge that he would not be able to protect him forever. 

The weight of the crown could only be borne by one, and it was not a burden easily shared. 

In the echoing halls, Wilbur’s muffled cries rang in his ears and Techno’s anger pounded in his chest, the image of Ranboo curled next to Tubbo’s unconscious form burned into his eyelids. 

Phil was truly and inconsolably alone.

Chapter Text

“DREAM!” 

Techno’s cry rang through the forest. “I know you can hear me, teletubby. Get out here.” 

As if on command, Dream materialized before him. He bowed, crossing one arm across his chest - a fool’s bow, one that was far too deep. He pushed the familiar ivory mask up into his hair, revealing green eyes and a biting smile. “Fancy seeing you here, Technoblade.” 

Before he could rise, Techno’s blade was in motion, netherite summoned from another realm. “Why did you do this?” 

Dream leapt backwards, floating in midair for a moment before his feet lightly touched the ground. “Oh, come on now. Can’t we have a civilized conversation?” 

“I’m surprised you know the meaning of the word,” Techno said, stepping forward, sword singing for blood. “What were you hoping to accomplish?” 

“I just wanted to see if he would do it, honestly.” Dream shrugged. 

“My tolerance for your idiocy has always been slim. Choose your words carefully, before I lose what little I have left.” 

“I thought you were angry!” Dream crowed. “He basically wasted your time.”

“I am angry,” Techno hissed. “But right now, you have the privilege of receiving the full force of that anger. What the hell were you thinking?” 

“Humanity spends more time murdering each other than I do, and yet you’re on their side?” Dream asked. 

Techno strode forward, eyes blazing. For the first time, Dream’s gaze was tinged with fear at the sight, before the blade vanished in reddish-gold sparks. 

Techno shoved his finger into Dream’s face. “And the ones you manipulated into being on your side?” 

“So that’s what this is about,” Dream laughed. “Jealous that I have company, and you’re still left with an eternity of loneliness?” 

“No,” Techno snarled. “You are a manipulator, Dream. You always have been and you always will be. The question here is what lies you must have told them. Have you no dignity?” 

“I told them the truth,” Dream said, spreading his hands. 

“And they trust you? Even knowing that they can only know a semblance of our existence?” 

“We can only ever know the appearance. Real trust is accepting the parts we will never know,” Dream said, gazing off into nothingness. 

Techno snorted. “I suppose there is some wisdom to illusion work. Still, it’s no excuse for what you did.” 

“Come now, old friend. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you do something so stupid, for how intelligent you are.”

“Outsmarting you is never difficult,” Techno replied, laughing at Dream’s indignant sound. 

“You say that, yet you’ve found yourself in the company of mortals who can’t even begin to comprehend your true nature.” 

“But I will fight for them all the same,” said Techno, voice hard. “I will defend them from the threats that they cannot even imagine.” 

“Why, though? Why would you damn yourself in such a way?” If Techno didn’t know better, he might have thought Dream to be truly curious. 

“Those realities, whatever lies just outside of their mind’s perception, are not their responsibility,” he said, standing up straighter. “That is our role as immortal beings.”

“Your role, perhaps, but I never signed up for that responsibility.” Dream shrugged. “Do what you like, Technoblade. I can’t control you, nor can you control me. This is not our first battle, nor will it be our last.” 

“I will defeat you.” Techno’s eyes were hard, glittering with protective energy.

“You’re welcome to try.” With one last crooked smile, Dream slipped back on the familiar ivory mask and turned, vanishing into the forest. 

Techno sighed, not sure if the uneasiness in his stomach was excitement or doubt. 

Chapter Text

“As king, you will be offered many things - gold, power, even love, if it can be called that.” 

Phil sighed as the nib scratched across parchment. He paused, reading back over his own words before tossing down the pen, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. 

He too often found himself wondering if it was even possible to immortalize the lessons of a lifetime in a few pages of writing. Phil didn’t dare hope that Dream had given him a lifetime to raise his sons. 

No, that would have been far too easy for the Master of Chaos. 

Things were better, in many ways. Tubbo had woken up within a week. Ranboo had sobbed when the other woke up, practically flying across the room to envelop the boy in an embrace. Phil had blinked back tears at the sight of the purest of friendship. Since then, the two had been inseparable, Ranboo constantly leaning over to brush their shoulders together, running fingers through Tubbo’s brown curls, as though to remind himself that the other boy was truly with him. 

Technoblade had returned after a few days. Phil didn’t dare ask what he had done. The warrior disagreed with what Phil had done, but acknowledged he could do nothing to change the ruler’s mind. The tension between them had lasted for hours before they began arguing good-naturedly over whether golden apples or golden carrots were superior. 

But in many ways, they were so much worse than Phil ever could have imagined. 

The blaze of home that had begun to warm the cool stone walls of the castle had been extinguished, leaving them huddled around the embers of what had once been. 

Wilbur refused to come out of his room for days on end; the only sign that he was alive was a melancholy tune that haunted the halls late at night. Tubbo tried to make jokes, but his smiles were strained. Ranboo hovered over Tubbo, worrying constantly. Tommy, ever the empathetic one, sensed the pain and hurt radiating from the others, even though he would never admit it. He did what he could, but even his brilliant joy wasn’t enough. Even Techno seemed struck by the change. Phil would catch Techno staring at him, as though searching for something. 

And Phil felt himself begin to crumble beneath the weight of the infinite possibilities of his painfully finite future. 

He buried his head in papers, trying to formulate a proper thought. As he did, a cup of tea was placed down by his elbow. It was careful placement, just in his line of vision but not so close that he would knock it. He half-mumbled his thanks, barely looking up from the paper. 

“Oh, come on, love. Is that all the thanks I get?” 

His chair toppled backwards as he shot up, almost stumbling in his haste at the sound of a familiar voice. His eyes blurred as he turned, one whisper slipping past his lips. 

“K-Kristin?”  

Standing before him was what must have been an illusion , some trick of his mind, or perhaps the interference of Dream, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. The love of his life was in front of him, purple-black robes glittering with magical energy that couldn’t compare to the love glowing in her eyes. 

“Hi, Phil,” she said, a mischievous smirk quickly turning into a bright smile. 

“Gods,” he breathed, leaping across the room to wrap her in a tight embrace. “I’ve missed you. I thought you were dead.” 

“You have no such luck,” she giggled, swatting at him playfully. “You’ll have to try much harder than that to get rid of me.” 

“Get rid of you? Never,” he murmured, squeezing her tighter. 

It could have been minutes or hours when she finally pulled back - it would never be enough time for him. 

“Your eyes…” Her eyes flickered between his, searching for something as her brow furrowed. “You look lonely, Phil.” 

“Lonely, perhaps, for missing the love of my life.” He tried to smile, but it wavered under her scrutiny. “But I am not alone, love, I promise.” 

“Where is Wilbur? I’d love to see him,” she said with a fond look. 

Phil sighed. “He’s having a difficult time right now. I’m afraid some of the recent burdens of princehood have been weighing on him.”

“And certainly, the attack from the Chaos Incarnate has not helped,” rumbled a low voice. Techno stepped into the room, dismissing his trident with a sharp motion. He turned, skull mask tilting as he took in the figure still wrapped in Phil’s arms. After a moment, he bowed, crossing one arm over his chest. “My lady.”

“Technoblade, you know I’ve never cared for such formality,” Kristin said, stepping away from Phil’s embrace to place a hand on Techno’s shoulder. “Rise, my warrior.” 

“Pardon the intrusion, but do you two know each other?” Phil’s gaze flicked between the two as Technoblade straightened, several heads-width above Kristin. 

Kristin smiled crookedly, caught between playfulness and nervousness. “I suppose you could say that.” She looked up at Techno, jerking her head towards Phil.

“Don’t look at me, my lady,” Techno said, voice flat. “He deserves to hear the truth from you.” 

She sighed. “You’re right, of course. Phil, love, I have something to tell you.”

Kristin extended a hand, one finger almost delicately placed in midair. Purple sparks danced around her finger; as she moved it, golden light followed until she had drawn a perfect circle in midair, large enough to encompass her torso. As one end of the circle touched the other, she moved rapidly, snatching a wide-brimmed hat before gravity could even take effect on it. She placed it almost delicately on her head at a wonderfully crooked angle. A single spark zipped around the brim, and a translucent black veil fell in its wake, slightly concealing her nervous smile. 

“You knew I had magic, love, but this is a bit more than that.” She shrugged, shooting Techno glare as he snorted. 

“‘A bit more’ is an understatement,” he rumbled. “She’s Lady Death.”

Phil blinked. “Lady… Death?” 

“I’ve always hated that title,” she groaned. “But yes, mortals and immortals alike somehow settled on it for me.”

“It’s a badass title,” Phil mumbled absentmindedly, still trying to process exactly what was happening. “You mentioned immortals?” 

“Oh yes, like Technoblade and myself!” Kristin chirped. “Which, I should mention - by the way, I am an immortal being.”

“I see,” said Phil - a blatant lie. 

“The wings make a lot more sense now,” Techno said offhandedly. “They’re not what I would call ‘average magic.’”

“Oh, aren’t they wonderful?” She clapped her hands together. “Phil, take them out of wherever you’re hiding them and stretch them out.” 

He ran a hand through blonde hair. “Love, I never told Wilbur about these. I was going to, but then you left, and I.. I couldn’t. He misses you so much, and it was just a constant reminder.” 

She sighed. “I am sorry. My duty called, and I had already pushed it off to stay with you.” 

“Can I ask--” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Why me?”

“Because I love you,” she replied simply, “and you love me. And that is enough.” 

“ We are enough,” he said, the words familiar on his tongue from what felt like decades ago.

She smiled, eyes filled with so much love and affection. “It’s good to be back, darling.” 

A slight knock sounded on the wooden doors. All three of them turned - Kristin and Phil towards the door, while Techno turned his back to whoever might be entering as he pulled down his mask. The door creaked open, just enough for three heads to pop through. 

“Phiiiiiil,” Tommy whined. Tubbo slapped a hand over Tommy’s mouth, while Ranboo rubbed the bridge of his own nose. 

“Shut up, Toms,” Tubbo whispered. “He’s got a guest.”

“A guest?” Kristin said, eyes sparkling. “Surely not.” 

Phil elbowed her playfully. “He means you, love.” 

Tommy tumbled into the room, Ranboo and Tubbo at his heels. He stared up at Kristin. “You… aren’t you the woman who died?” 

The question - or perhaps more accurately, all the bluntness of an eleven-year-old - shocked a snicker out of Phil and Kristin, while Techno’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. 

“You can’t say that,” hissed Tubbo. “She was the queen .” 

“The queen, you say?” Tommy turned, eyes wide. Tubbo shoved him aside before he could get another word out.

“But you died like seven years ago,” he said plainly. “There was a week of mourning. I remember.” 

“I don’t,” mumbled Ranboo.

“On brand,” Tommy shot back. 

“We have more sons?” Kristin said, turning to Phil.

He laughed. “Not by blood, but yes, they’re my sons. Our sons.” 

Ranboo raised his hand. Phil nodded in encouragement, a slight smile across his face at the boy’s hesitation. “If you’re Phil’s wife, does that make you Mumza?” 

Kristin looked up at the lanky boy who stood several heads taller than her. Her eyes glittered with joy and unshed tears, affection clear on her face. “Yes, it does. I’m Mumza.” 

“MUMZA, POG!” Tommy screamed, running forward. He grabbed one of her hands, while Tubbo grabbed the other. 

“Come on, Mumza! We have things to show you,” Tubbo said with a small smile - more than Phil had seen him give to anyone outside of their trio. 

The pair pulled her forward, Ranboo walking backwards. Kristin leapt into motion, sparing only an ecstatic glance over her shoulder as she followed the three of them out into the rest of the castle. 

Phil sighed, a smile still lingering on his face as he turned to Techno. “I suppose you and I still have some things to discuss.” 

Techno remained silent, simply peering at Phil through the eyes of the pig skull which still obscured his face. 

“What’s up, mate?” His eyebrows furrowed, smile slipping off his face. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Techno’s shoulders were tight, his discomfort visible. 

“Always,” Phil replied instantly. 

“You’ve adopted them into your life so easily. How? Why?” 

“Because I love them,” said Phil simply, “and I don’t think my life would be complete without them.” 

Technoblade sighed, a low rumble.

“Can I ask where this is coming from?” Phil asked. 

“I--” Techno worked his jaw, trying to figure out what to say. “I am not an eloquent man, Philza. But as an immortal, as the Blood God, it is difficult to imagine doing what the Lady has done - finding a home .” The word was strange on his tongue, as though he had not dared to utter it before. 

“Difficult to imagine, but perhaps easier to do,” said Phil. “I find that I have fallen face-first into many of the most meaningful relationships of my life. I do not find home in the walls of the castle; any place can be a home as long as I have the ones I hold dearest.” 

“And therein lies the difficulty,” Techno replied. “I fear these ungentle hands are incapable of holding anyone dear.” 

“It is a different kind of strength, to love,” said Phil, eyes darting to the door Kristin had vanished through before returning to Techno. “But it is a strength I do believe you to possess, friend.” 

Techno hummed, low and pensive. Before he could reply, his ear flickered. He turned towards one of the windows, eyes searching for something along the horizon.

“What happened?” Phil asked, straightening sharply. 

“Nothing,” Techno mumbled. “I thought I heard some fireworks.”

“Perhaps Tubbo is feeling more like himself,” Phil chuckled. “I think the boys may be showing off for Kristin.” 

“You should go check on them,” Techno said, eyes still trained on something Phil couldn’t see. “I think I’ll take a moment to think upon what we’ve discussed.”

“Cheers, mate. I’ll see you later, then.” Phil patted Techno’s shoulder, missing Techno’s look of bewilderment as he turned to follow the trio of boys and his wife. 

Techno couldn’t help but wonder what possessed the other man, that allowed him to love so deeply and so freely. 

Chapter Text

“Come,” Phil said, beckoning them forward as he walked backwards towards the throne room. “I have something to show you.” 

“It’s practically midnight, Phil,” Kristin yawned. “What could you possibly have to show us that couldn’t wait until morning?” 

“It’s a new design for an automated farm that I believe will revolutionize the way we are able to utilize the land.” Phil was practically giddy with excitement. “I wanted to show both of you - Kristin, so you can see what I’ve been working on in your absence, and Techno, to get your opinion before the thoughts escape my mind.” 

“Is he always like this?” Techno murmured to Kristin, clearly audible to Phil.

“Yep,” she whispered, unable to hide her smile. “That’s why I love him.” 

Phil pushed the door to the throne room open, spinning around to hold it open for Kristin and Techno with a mocking bow. The three stood over the rough-hewn wooden table, Techno standing with his arms crossed and a fond look in his eyes, Kristin looking at the two affectionately. 

“So here are the redstone specs,” Phil said, pulling out a sheet of translucent paper. He placed it over an architectural drawing, squinting in the candlelight. 

Seeing his frustration, Kristin flicked her hand over the table. Golden droplets of magic flew from her fingers, hovering in midair. They slowly grew until a handful of orbs hung over the table, illuminating the papers with rays of golden-white light. 

Phil looked over at her, eyes sparkling with an unspoken profession of love. “With the redstone that came from the northern quarries, we should have enough to rework at least 80% of the farms. It’ll take some time, but I think we can plan this for the off season, so they won’t lose any of their harvest profi--”

The room began to shake, glass panes rattling in the walls. The orbs of light flickered unhappily, several extinguishing. 

“He’s coming,” Techno said, slipping on the now-familiar skull mask. (Phil would never admit this to anyone, least of all to Technoblade himself, but the ivory tusks that had once seemed so intimidating now were almost comforting - a sign of protection.) 

Phil turned, designs forgotten. “Kristin, hide. Take the light and hide.” 

“Phil, you forget who I am,” she replied, crossing her arms defiantly. “I’m perfectly capable of defending myself.” 

“I know, love,” Phil said, pulling her into a fast embrace. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to.” 

He pulled back, eyes pleading. Kristin sighed, shaking her head. “Fine. But I won’t go far; I’ll not leave you entirely to your own devices.” 

“Thank you,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Now go.” 

With a nod and one last longing look, she clasped the edges of her robe, twisting upwards. Purple was replaced by black, her form shrinking down into a crow. With a squawk, she hopped up onto Phil’s shoulder, bumping his head gently with her own, before flying up into the rafters. 

She was gone for only a heartbeat before the wooden doors flew off their hinges, one slamming into the wall before falling with a bone-rattling thud while the other shot in the other direction, scattering shards of emerald-green glass across the floor. The room seemed to darken, shadows reaching hungrily for each candle. 

Dream strode into the throne room, one hand wrapped around the wrist of a stumbling figure. 

“It seems we were not the only ones with spies in play,” he spat, throwing the person onto the ground in front of him. Their battered body scraped against the stone, too exhausted to even resist. 

“Niki, no--” Phil cried, already stepping forward to try and help the other up. 

They rose, motions slow and pained, brushing off the worn brown jacket and straightening. Phil’s stomach sank in his chest as the other unfolded, far taller than Niki, even taller than Phil himself. 

No. 

Anything but this.

Please.

“Wilbur,” he whispered, the name slipping past his lips without permission. 

His son looked up, eyes dark in the shadow of a bruise arcing across his cheek. One corner of his mouth twitched upwards, wincing slightly as the smirk pulled at his split lip. Phil could see scorched skin along his wrists, bloody bracelets of burned flesh. “Hey, Dadza.”

“Using your own son as a spy? I wouldn’t have thought you capable of such a thing.” Dream’s gaze, even from concealed eyes, seemed to pierce Phil. 

Techno stepped forward, breaking Dream’s gaze. “You would be surprised what these mortals are capable of.” 

“Why would you do this?” Phil gasped out, chest tight as his vision blurred with tears. 

“I did what you wouldn’t,” Wilbur said, voice hard. “I did what you didn’t have the strength to do.” 

“Wilbur, I understand the grief you’re feeling,” Phil said, scrubbing one hand across his eyes, banishing the tears. “I feel it just as much as you do, if not more so. But we must choose peace, something that takes far more strength than any battle.” 

“You are not choosing peace. You are choosing cowardice, ” Wilbur spat, almost as venomous as Dream. He held his head high, voice and pride unwavering. “I thought that was the lesson you were trying to impart. I prevented another tragedy from befalling our people. You said it yourself: I will be king one day, and I am prepared to defend this kingdom, my kingdom , with my life.” He took a deep breath. “It seems I am still a disappointment to you after all.” 

“You were never a disappointment, Wilbur,” Phil cried, voice cracking. He paused, pushing down the tears that threatened to steal his voice. “You say I chose cowardice, and perhaps that is true - I have never claimed to be a brave man. But it takes a coward more courage than a brave man to do what must be done, and perhaps the coward understands the world better than anyone else.” 

“Then perhaps I am a coward,” Wilbur said, almost expressionless. “I was not brave enough to tell you what I was going to do. But I fear that I am burdened with understanding the world far better than you may ever.” 

“Enough,” Dream interrupted. “You knew what the consequences would be for prolonging our war.” 

“Dream, no,” Techno cut in. “The boy didn’t know.” 

“Don’t do this. Anything but this. You can take me now, kill me, strip me of my power, anything. Don’t do this,” Phil pleaded. Somewhere, vaguely, he registered the sound of feathers rustling. 

“Actions have consequences, Philza.” A sword appeared in his hand, purple particles whispering through the air, deceptively innocent. It might have been beautiful if not for the threat of bloodshed. The mask tilted, a grotesque excitement evident even without being able to see Dream’s face. His hand was steady as he lifted the sword, placing the tip almost delicately just below Wilbur’s collarbone. “And these are the consequences for your actions.”

“No,” Phil whispered. “NO!” 

Dream pushed. 

The blade slid into Wilbur’s chest, hilt meeting his breastbone like a key entering a lock. Some accursed part of Phil whispered that this was right, that this was a thousand universes collapsing into one moment.

“Oh,” Wilbur breathed. 

Something in his eyes shattered, the angry man suddenly nothing more than a naive son. The manic energy dissipated, leaving only the musician that had once played lullabies to fill the empty halls. The boy who had stood face to face with the Blood God and asked him for a favor. The prince of a nation and the son who burned breakfast for his brothers, all at the same time. For a moment, the sharp scent of blood was just scorching pancake batter, the ache in Phil’s stomach was a stitch from laughing with the boys he called family .

He fell without a sound, the infinite possibilities of his life falling with him. 

The scream that echoed through the halls would haunt the sleep of those who could still dream.

Chapter Text

It would have been easier for Wilbur to ignore what had happened, to hide in a shell of ignorance atop his ivory tower. 

But Wilbur Soot of the Gold dynasty, heir to the throne of Endlantis, had never been one to take the easy way out. 

Peace was simple. It was calm, the quiet rustling of leaves as sunlight spilled golden through the branches. But the attack on his kingdom, on the people that would soon be his responsibility - he refused to let it go unanswered. The peace between Endlantis and the Chaos Incarnate was nothing more than a bubble of blown glass, ready to be shattered at the slightest touch. Wilbur fully intended to make sure that his people would not be wounded in the aftermath, even if it meant throwing the first stone. 

He slipped out of the castle, worn leather boots silent on the stone pathways. He had been escaping the castle walls for years, aching for the freedom that came of escaping the burden of the crown, the title that followed him. Outside of the castle walls, in the dark alleys and lamp-lit pubs, he wasn’t Prince Wilbur Soot. He was Wil, charismatic singer and occasional thief. 

He couldn’t say whether it was the prince or the thief who ran through the forest, ignoring the foliage that tore at his clothes. There was a drive that burned in him, to know that his mission was a righteous one. He would protect his own, no matter the cost.

As the moon shone from above, Wilbur stood over the camps to the Chaos Incarnate. He turned his face towards the skies, eyes searching for Casseiopeia, the Queen. He had always thought of it like his mother looking down, watching over him. The constellation shined brighter tonight than he had ever seen it before.

If only he had known who waited for him at the castle so far away. 

Instead, he made his way down the hill, sliding as the dirt gave way beneath him and praying that the noise wouldn’t give away his location.

The same silent footsteps that had allowed him to escape the castle served him well as he skirted around the edges of the enemy camps. The water convoy was easy to find, the large tankard unconcealed despite the undergrowth around the camps. 

Shame, Wilbur thought. I was hoping this would at least be a challenge.

The hands which wove lullabies from strings and empty air were steady as he pulled vials of poison from his belt. The same hands which trembled as they picked up Tommy, overwhelmed with protective energy and love for the younger boy, did not hesitate to pour in the contents, dooming all the living creatures in the camp to accursed rest. 

(He didn’t dare think of them as men, as people . He didn’t know of the blonde woman who absentmindedly twirled a sprig of rosemary from her own garden, looking up at the stars and praying for his safety. He didn’t know of the curly-headed traitor who lay awake, wondering if they’d made the right decision.)

As the last drops fell, Wilbur tucked the empty vials into his belt, not daring to leave a trace of his presence as he turned away from the enemy camps. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

The emptiness that burned inside of him, that clawed its way past his heart and threatened to choke him, did not fade. There was no sense of relief, no justice in what he had done. 

It wasn’t enough.

With all the resolve of a man desperate to prove himself worthy, his gaze returned to the camps. The only motion in the stillness of the night was the flickering of torchfire. The shadows welcomed him with open arms as he made his way in, eyes searching for something--

The glitter of purple particles caught his eye. His mother had taught him to see magic, so many years ago. It was a careful thing, to look out of the corner of his eyes without actually looking , vision blurring as the rest of the world faded away, leaving only the wall of enchantments that surrounded this tent. Surely, this had to be something important. Wilbur glimpsed protection, fire resistance, and unbreaking among the midst. It should have been impossible to place such magic on a tent, without metal for the rune engravings to cling to, but Wilbur didn’t bother questioning it.

All that mattered was that there was nothing to stop him from entering. 

The tent flap whispered of his arrival as he slipped inside. As his eyes adjusted, he recognized two sleeping forms: one muscled with years of practice with a heavy blade, the other seeming almost comparatively delicate - likely a noble under a warrior’s watch. 

The guard first, then. 

He stood over the scarlet-clad man and unsheathed his knife belt, praying that the blade was strong enough, sharp enough to end the man’s life quickly. As dishonorable as the enemy’s life might have been, he would still give them an honorable death.

One hand wrapped around the handle, the other on the jeweled end, prepared to drive the tip into the man’s throat, Wilbur took a deep breath in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he plunged the tip downwards. 

As sharpened metal touched skin, the warrior’s eyes flickered open, blazing red-hot. His hands snapped up, grabbing Wilbur’s arms. A drop of blood beaded on his throat, the tip barely breaking the skin, but even as Wilbur pushed down, he couldn’t overwhelm the other man. 

“George,” the scarlet-clad man said, voice rough with sleep and surprise. He cleared his throat casually, as though he didn’t have a knife to his throat. “George!” 

Wilbur heard shuffling behind him. “Stay back,” he cried. “I’ll kill him.” 

“No, you won’t,” replied the man in blue - George, Wilbur presumed. He seemed almost unbothered by the situation, just as the other man had been. “Sapnap is far too difficult to die so easily.” 

A laugh, almost manic, tore itself from Wilbur’s throat. “And what are you going to do about it?” He looked at the man - no, he was hardly more than a boy , blue veins visible beneath the stick thin arms. 

“Careful,” said the man underneath him - Sapnap. “George was a knight before he was a warlock.” 

Oh, shit. Wilbur blinked hard, turned towards the younger man in confusion.

For an instant, George was clad in ghostly armor, translucent light forming a full set of plate armor over his pajamas. The light illuminated the tent, casting wavering shadows of pale dusty blue upon the walls. Each rivet and joint was outlined in threads of light no thicker than a spider’s web. His hand rested on the sword strapped to his hip, glittering blue with otherworldly light. But what shook Wilbur to his very core were George’s eyes . His gaze was hard, ready to kill without question. 

Anything to defend Sapnap. 

All it took was that moment of doubt. Wilbur’s grip loosened by a hair on the knife. Sapnap cracked his fist into Wilbur’s hands, using his other hand to send the dagger skidding across the ground. With the knife no longer at his throat, he pushed himself up, grabbing onto Wilbur’s wrists. His hands glowed with molten heat, and Wilbur screamed as the imprint of Sapnap’s grip was charred into his arm. 

Without hesitation, the warrior turned, using his own momentum to flip Wilbur over his shoulder and onto the ground. The air left Wilbur’s chest in a rush, lungs wheezing in pain as they scrambled for some semblance of oxygen. Instead, they received another swift blow, shortly followed by another to his face. He vaguely registered metal against his lip - likely a ring leaving its mark. His eyes fluttered open to see Sapnap snatch up his knife - his knife, the one that Tommy had given to him so many years ago. 

Perhaps it would be fitting, if this was the knife to end his life: a symbol of the people he loved concluding his symphony of destructive protection. 

Wilbur had always appreciated such juxtapositions.

He closed his eyes as Sapnap swung the blade, falling back into nothingness. Some distant part of him registered a dull pain blossoming on the side of his head, but he didn’t care. The darkness welcomed him, and for a moment, he let himself believe that he was falling into the warm embrace of his mother. 

Perhaps he would meet her again soon.

He wondered if she would be proud of him. 

Chapter Text

Death and sacrifice were inevitable. But to see his son die before his eyes was an inevitability Phil had not dared to think of. 

As the dagger slipped into Wilbur’s chest, a desperate cry echoed through the chamber. It was the scream of a mother, watching the son she hardly had time to know die before her eyes. A crow practically tumbled from the ceiling, obsidian feathers scattering across the floor as she fell to her knees, pulling Wilbur to her chest. 

Phil stood in horrible awe, unable to move at the sight of what had just happened. 

“No,” Kristin pleaded. “No. Not my baby. Not my boy.” 

The blood-- Wilbur’s blood continued to spread slowly, an unholy scarlet turning black as it seeped into the crevices of the stone floor. The room was silent as she sobbed, clutching her son. 

The scream, the howl that tore itself from Kristin’s chest was one that would haunt Phil’s nightmares for decades to come. 

She closed his eyes gently, fingers shaking, before pressing one last kiss to his forehead. She let him rest, and Phil let himself imagine for only a heartbeat that Wilbur was merely sleeping. 

Kristin rose, ignoring the way her robes were stained and filthy with the blood of her child. Waves of purple smoke emanated from her in an aura of pure power. Gold sparks dripped from her fingers like molten gold, each drop hissing as it fell. The glare that she sent towards Dream was venomous, and the air sang with the scent of thunder and rainfall. 

For the first time, Dream took a step backwards. 

“Leave,” she commanded, hundreds of voices whispering just under her own tone. “Before you find that the destruction of chaos is nothing compared to the wrath of a mother goddess.” 

“Are-- are you threatening me?” Dream asked, caught between terror and genuine shock. 

“Oh, no,” Kristin replied, voice poisonously sweet. “Threats are the last resort of a woman without a vocabulary. I make promises.”

Dream took another step back, stumbling over himself as he fled. 

Kristin shook her head. “What a fool. A coward. ” Her attention returned to the body of her child, of her boy, laying on the floor. The purple glow around her intensified, and Phil stepped back instinctively. 

Technoblade, on the other hand, stepped forward. He rested one hand gently on her shoulder, face flickering in pain as he did so. “My lady, you can’t.”

“Technoblade, do not dare to tell me what I can and cannot do,” she spat, voice colored with grief. “I am older than you know, with more power than you can imagine.”

“And you were the one who taught me the rules for immortal beings.” Techno’s shoulders tightened, a silent indication of the pain coursing through his body. 

“You do not need to remind me. I was there when they were written.” Still, despite the rage and pain simmering in her voice, the purple glow faded, leaving her looking just as exhausted as Phil felt. “But that does not mean I am entirely helpless.” 

She reached out into the air, fingers extended as though searching for something. They closed, wrapping around the hilt of a dagger that appeared as she grasped it. The blade was midnight black, a portal to a night sky glittering with hundreds and thousands of stars as she flipped the short blade in her hand, presenting the handle to Phil. 

“Kill me, Phil. Please. Kill me.” 

Phil’s hand wrapped instinctually around the handle, celestial metal warm to his touch, before he realized what his wife was saying. “Kristin, no. You cannot ask this of me.” 

“Please,” she pleaded, unafraid of what she was begging for. “If you do this, I can release my power and bring him back.” 

“Is this true?” Phil turned towards Techno, eyes pleading. 

Techno sighed, pulling off the skull. “It might be. I have heard of loopholes in the use of immortal power, but I’ve not seen it done.” 

“I would not ask this of you if I had any other choice, love. I swear it to you,” she said, eyes glittering with unshed tears.

“I just lost my son, Kristin. I could not bear to lose you as well.” Phil’s tears did not remain so obedient, streaming down his face as he adjusted his grip on the handle. 

“It will not kill me, my beloved. You will see me again when the sun sets on your life.” She took a step forward, resting one hand gently on Phil’s cheek, brushing away the tears as they continued to fall. “But Wilbur, my son - he deserves to live a complete life.” 

“Why me?” His voice cracked. “Why ask me to do this?” 

“Because you love me,” she said simply. “And I, you.”

“It’s not enough time. I just got you back.” He scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “You’re my person , Kristin, my love .” 

“I know,” she sighed. “But I would die for you. For him.” 

“Again?” 

“In a heartbeat.” 

“Okay,” Phil whispered, hating himself as soon as the word slipped past his lips. 

She opened her arms, and Phil fell into her embrace. He had always known that she was the right person for him, always known that her touch would always be home . It was only a shame that they had been cursed by the universe - cursed to never have enough time together, cursed to be torn apart over and over, leaving Phil irrevocably alone. 

“Remember to live, my heart. Remember to love.” Her voice was steady, even as the inevitable drew closer. 

It felt like centuries ago that the two had shared their first dance. (Perhaps to her, it had been centuries. He didn’t pretend to understand the ebb and flow of time - he had never needed to.) The two had spun beneath the night sky, illuminated by the same stars that resided in Kristin’s eyes and Phil’s wings. He was uncoordinated, swearing under his breath as he tried to avoid trodding on her toes. He had hummed a gentle tune, time falling away as he stared at the woman he could finally call his wife. 

It felt like eons ago. 

His hand did not tremble as he raised it, and the blade did not waver as he plunged it between her shoulderblades. As the dagger slipped into its cursed hilt, he let himself imagine that they were waltzing once again. 

Kristin let out a gasp, and Phil felt his chest tug at the sound as the tip of the blade pressed against his stomach. She buried her head in his chest, and Phil released the dagger to pull her impossibly closer. 

“Thank you, love,” she whispered, barely audible. “In passing, to forever.”

He buried his face in her hair, squeezing his eyes shut as tears continued to flow. “In passing, to forever,” he murmured. 

Something gave way, some universal calling from within. Her very form gave way, flesh and metal surrendering to starlight as her form dissolved into sparks, burning golden. Phil’s chest heaved as his arms collapsed around what remained. He fell to his knees, trying and failing to catch the fading glimmers. 

He had held the world, his world in his arms, and now he was forced to watch as it slipped through his fingers. 

Before the last spark could touch the ground, they reignited in a whirlwind of light, filling the room with golden-purple-red light. They raced upwards, swirling around Phil as though Kristin was giving him one last embrace. 

Techno and Phil both watched wide eyed as the glittering light spun, trailing in one ribbon towards Wilbur. It spread and settled over his form, sinking into his skin one strand at a time until the otherworldly light was gone, leaving Wilbur resting peacefully. 

Phil blinked hard, trying fruitlessly to wipe away the tears that continued to fall. “Did-- did it work?” His voice was thick, cracking as he spoke.

“There is only one way to know, Majesty.” Techno’s gaze didn’t move from the floor where Kristin had once stood. 

He fell to his knees, ignoring the way that blood stained his trousers as he scrambled towards his son. He pulled Wilbur up into his lap.

A heartbeat passed.

Another.

Another.

Wilbur inhaled sharply. His chest rose as he inhaled, color beginning to return to his cheeks as he began to breathe again. 

“Oh, fuck,” Phil sobbed, clutching Wilbur to his chest. “He’s breathing. He’s breathing.” He repeated the words like a mantra. 

“He’s not awake,” whispered Technoblade. 

“No,” replied Philza, rocking back and forth with Wilbur. “But he’s breathing, and that’s enough for now.”

Chapter Text

Recovery was a more difficult challenge than Phil could ever have imagined. 

Despite her best efforts, even the magic of Lady Death herself was not enough for a perfect revival. Wilbur’s brain had still been starved of oxygen for long enough that his speech was slow. The words that had flowed so smoothly now caught in his chest, mouth working as he choked on once-familiar vocabulary. 

It broke Phil’s heart. No father should have to see their son suffer, and knowing that he could have stopped Wilbur broke his heart all the more. 

Everything in him screamed to go to his son, but if his fatherhood had resulted in Wilbur’s betrayal and escape, his death and revival, then surely nothing good could come of it. It was strange, to know that he had done so much to stay with his son and yet this was the outcome. 

Perhaps it was never Dream that had been responsible for the chaos, for the tension, for the heartbreak that haunted his family. 

Perhaps it was Phil himself who was responsible for that destruction. 

If he wasn’t responsible enough for a son, he certainly wasn’t responsible enough for a kingdom. Phil had always prided himself on being a father before he was a king, his experience with his family laying down the foundation for his rule as a monarch. Now, with that foundation torn away, he could feel the stability he had relied on for so long crumbling beneath his feet. 

And so he retreated. 

He stepped back from the kingdom he had wrought from iron and fire, the village he had raised into a kingdom, the home he had built for his family. The doors to the throne room remained closed for days on end, the shouts of joyous young boys unheard through the thick wood. Decades of experience as a father and as a warrior had taught him when he was not needed, when he was not wanted . 

The pain, the doubt, the loss - it became a new routine of its own. 

He glimpsed Wilbur out of the corner of his eyes. Despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to completely remove himself from his son. The afternoon sun found them regularly sitting on the castle wall, the nib of a pen against the journal in Wilbur’s lap the only sound. Phil closed his eyes as he turned his face towards the sun, willing himself to look insteads towards his son, to say something, to hug him. 

He never could. 

It was not the same as it was. It was broken, like all of them were. But there was still some beauty in the brokenness, their shattered parts sparkling in the sunlight.

The nights were kinder, in a way. Wilbur vanished, and Phil strained his ears, hoping to hear the strum of a guitar that had been gathering dust for far too long. But in the darkness, Phil was alone - a different kind of pain. 

It would have been easier to look up at the stars and marvel at their beauty. There was a simplicity to them, the knowledge that they would always be there. For a heartbeat, he imagined that Kristin’s face was mapped out among them, stars sprinkled against the night sky like the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes, the warm brown that held so much love and light that they put the sun to shame, smiled down at him in some glimpse of forgiveness. But the simplicity hurt, just as much as the reminder of his love. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look at the stars anymore. 

Instead, he sat beneath the night sky, eyes averted from the beauty he had come to know and love, denying himself any comfort. His gaze trailed on the ground as he kicked at the shards of glass fallen from the windows shattered upon Dream’s arrival - what felt like months ago, despite being just a few weeks. 

He heaved a sigh, chest aching for people he couldn’t reach and places he would never know. 

“The stars are beautiful tonight, Phil.” Techno’s voice had long since become comfortable to Phil; he didn’t even flinch at its rumble. 

“Truly, you do not expect me to look at the stars, when so much has been lost?” Phil scoffed, shaking his head in some mixture of anger and disappointment. 

“I did not expect you to simply give up,” Techno replied, voice unreadable. “This is not the king I have come to know.” 

“The king you knew died with the love of his life.” The pain was evident in Phil’s voice. 

“Is that so?” Techno said, voice unreadable. “In my eyes, you are just as much the king, the father, and the husband you were before. Different, perhaps,” he charged ahead before Phil could interrupt, “but no less of a king.” 

“How?” His voice cracked. “How can I still call myself a father or a king, when I have failed them so?” 

“Phil.” 

Techno’s voice was so uncharacteristically soft that Phil couldn’t help but to turn and look at the other man. His glasses were pushed up into pink hair, eyes gentle, not hidden behind the boar skull mask. There was no pity in his eyes; Technoblade was not one for pity, and Phil would not have accepted it. 

But there was empathy, an unspoken understanding. Even if Techno could not understand Phil’s exact burden, he understood what it was to bear the weight of failure as a leader. 

“Phil, you are not responsible for their actions.” 

“But I am responsible for the consequences.” Phil scrubbed at his eyes, trying to rid them of the shine of unshed tears. 

Techno’s kindness was unwavering. “You did everything you could.” 

“And it still wasn’t enough.” 

“Nothing would have been. You cannot change the past, Phil. You can only hope to protect the future.” 

“And what can I hope to do?” 

“If you find that you cannot be a king or a father, simply be a friend. It was as a friend that you called upon me, and it is now as a friend that I am here.” Techno spread his hands, empty: no weapons, no anger; only an openness. 

“I know that,” he grumbled almost petulantly. 

“Your people trust in you. Now, you must also trust in them. You’ve laid down the foundation for them to take care of themselves, and they will.” 

“Are you asking me to send them home, as though this battle is done?” Phil turned, looking up at Techno. 

Techno returned his gaze, steady as ever. “The battle is done, Phil.” 

“My son died, Techno,” Phil cried, voice raw. “He died , and there was nothing I could do to save him.” 

“He is not the only one you are burdened to care for,” Techno replied. 

Phil sighed. “Love is a far heavier burden than I ever thought possible.”

“But it’s worth it, is it not?” Techno let out a sigh of his own, rumbling deep in his chest. “I learned the hard way that love was only a vulnerability. To get attached would only result in the demise of anything I cared for. People. Castles. Gardens.” 

“Techno--” Phil reached out a hand towards the other man, not sure what he could possibly say or do. 

“Yet I see the love that lives in these walls - the care you have for those boys, the brotherhood they share - and I can’t help but wish for the same thing.” 

“You’re my friend, Techno,” Phil whispered. 

“And look what happened. I let myself care, only for you to be doomed by Dream’s hand.” 

“That’s not what happened--”

“But it is.” Techno’s voice was sad. “I am richer for having known you, and that only makes your demise all the more painful. But still, somehow, I find that I could not bring myself to sacrifice your companionship for anything. Is it not the same for you?” 

“It is,” Phil murmured, gaze finally landing among the comforting stars. “I could not trade this love nor this burden for the universe.”

“I know,” Techno said. “And your people are the same. Let them go. Let Wilbur go. He will heal. And he must come to understand the weight of love for himself.” 

“I fear he is already burdened with it,” Phil murmured, scrubbing at his eyes. “But as usual, you’re right.” 

Phil reached, calling to the familiar magic that sparked in his chest. It flourished with the attention, energy flowing through his veins, spilling out of his very skin until it filled his palms, carefully cupping the light. 

“Go home, ” he whispered, lips only a centimeter from the magic given form. “Go to your families, to your friends, to whatever you left behind. The battle is over. The Kingdom of Endlantis will endure.” 

He let the words sink into the magic before tossing it up. It shattered into countless pieces, illuminating both Techno and Phil with a warm, golden light. In the blink of an eye, thousands of droplets breathed in, inky feathers materializing from nothingness as the sound of wings flapping filled the air. An army of crows, each with a spark of magic at their core, descended upon the camps below - one for each soldier. Several made their way further into the distance, seeking those who survived in secret. 

Phil let himself breathe, some of the weight lifted. 

Eventually, one crow returned, perching on his shoulder and peering at him. Niki’s voice whispered in his ear. 

“Phil, if it’s over-- what did you do? It’s chaos here; someone poisoned the waters.”

Phil sighed, caught between fondness for Niki’s intelligence and the pang of pain at the reminder of what was certainly Wilbur’s work. He tapped the crow on the head, sending it off with one last message. 

“There was a battle waged without you even knowing - one that I cannot yet bear to speak of. For now, Niki, come home to your gardens.”

Chapter Text

Phil had known this day was coming. He was reminded of it every time he glimpsed running footsteps through the halls, every time he heard the gentle plucking of guitar strings, every time he looked in the mirror. He felt it in the clash of blades during his sparring matches with Technoblade, just as he felt it lingering in his chest, shadows grasping at the life that flickered inside. 

And yet, the inevitability of his fate did not make it any easier to bear when the summoning came. 

Phil had expected the crash of wood against stone. He had expected swords drawn, the clash of metal accompanied by raised voices. Instead, it came for him in the quiet of afternoon, as the sun spilled lazily across the castle walls, gold against gray. 

He sat on the parapets of the castle walls, feathers rustling against his cloak as they itched to be extended. He pushed down the urge, thankful for the additional cloak that concealed any movement, instead focusing on the book he held on his lap. Techno sat next to him, tracing a finger over worn pages of Greek mythology. Phil suspected, although the Blade would never admit it, that the other man was picking out a story to tell to the younger boys that evening. The younger trio were roughhousing, telling some tale of adventures that Phil couldn’t even pretend to understand. But it made them happy, and that was enough. 

In a stark contrast to their laughter, Wilbur slumped against the stone - still pale, still quiet. His princely posture was gone, as were the crisp buttoned tunics he usually donned, replaced by a worn yellow sweater. He was a ghost of the boy he once was, an echo of life and love. It hurt to see. 

So Phil didn’t look. 

Instead, he let himself believe that they could be a family. 

He let himself believe that they could be happy. 

He let himself believe--

A hand settled on his shoulder. Phil turned, the corners of his mouth turning upwards as he awaited Techno’s sarcasm, Tommy’s laughter, Tubbo’s mischievous smirk. Instead, the smile slipped off his face as he registered an ivory mask smiling down on him, attached to the leather-clad glove that rested on his shoulder. 

“Oh,” Phil breathed, letting the book slip shut. Some part of him heard the shuffling of Techno next to him, the scraping of stone as Wilbur pulled himself upright, running feet skittering to a halt as the younger trio arrived. He looked up at Dream, eyes wide with almost child-like innocence. “Is it time?” 

“It is,” Dream replied, voice soft. It would have been gentle, if not for the cruelty of the implications. 

Techno was the first to shatter the silence that lingered in the air, encapsulating all of them in a glass bubble. 

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do this, Dream,” he bit out, jaw tight, hardly moving around the words. His fist was clenched, the hand that was so used to wielding a sword now helpless in the face of the future become present. 

Phil stepped behind him, letting his hand rest feather-light on the immortal’s shoulder. The fact that Techno didn’t even flinch at the contact spoke volumes to their trust, and Phil knew the same thought would occur to the other man later. “No, Techno. I know what I agreed to.” 

“No,” came a quiet voice. Wilbur was practically propping himself up on the wall, skin ashen at the sight of Dream. “No.” 

“Wilbur--” Phil started, already reaching towards his son. 

“Fuck you,” Wilbur spat, voice scratchy. It was the most he had spoken in weeks, yet the venom was still familiar in his tone - even though no one was certain whom the vulgarity was directed at. He turned towards Dream, unflinching in the face of another masked figure, just as he had been so long ago. “Aren’t you immortal? Why now? Why fucking now? What difference would it make: now or in a century?” 

“You should be happy, Wilbur.” Dream’s mask tilted, voice lilting with a twisted humor. “This means you will be king.” 

“Fuck off,” Wilbur shot back, anger mixed with exhaustion. “I didn’t tell you my name. We are not friends, and you don’t get to say shit about my status.” 

“You sound just like your father,” Dream sighed, almost fondly. “But as you wish, your Majesty. This should still please you.” 

“Fuck off,” echoed another voice. Tommy stepped forward, shoving himself between Dream and Wilbur. He was younger, and that made him braver - or perhaps more stupid. “Green bitch.” 

“Don’t test me, boy. You do not know to whom you speak.”

“Try me, bitch,” Tommy shot back. “I’m a big man.” 

Something about the boy - perhaps his bravado, perhaps simply the innocence that had long since abandoned the immortal - made Dream laugh. The sound sent chills down Phil’s spine. “You intrigue me. Perhaps we will see each other again.” 

“Don’t say that to him,” Tubbo said, voice dangerous. 

“And what are you going to do about it?” Dream chuckled. “You have no power here. No nukes. Nothing.” 

“Nukes?” Tubbo whispered. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t even know, would you?” His tone was mocking, almost gleeful as he leaned forward. “Hm. Shame. You were more interesting with the nukes.” Dream’s mask turned slowly, eerily, peering at Ranboo. “And you…”

Ranboo’s mouth worked open and shut, unable to find any words. 

“⊬⍜⎍  ⎅⍜⋏’⏁  ⏚⟒⌰⍜⋏☌  ⊑⟒⍀⟒.  ⊬⍜⎍  ⋏⟒⎐⟒⍀  ⍙⟟⌰⌰.”

Phil’s eyes widened at the strange words, ones he couldn’t pretend to understand, but Ranboo stepped back. The taller boy shrunk into himself, pulling in lanky limbs as he hunched over. 

“⎅⍜  ⊬⍜⎍  ☍⋏⍜⍙  ⋔⟒?” The words fell from his mouth, oddly clunky compared to Dream’s fluent speech. 

“⟟  ☍⋏⍜⍙  ⊬⍜⎍  ⌇⊑⍜⎍⌰⎅⋏’⏁  ⏚⟒  ⊑⟒⍀⟒.” 

Ranboo curled impossibly further in, trying to hide away from the words that Phil knew would be echoing through his mind. 

“That’s enough, Dream,” Phil said, stepping forward. “You came here for me, not to torment them.” 

“Ah, but I wanted to have a little bit of fun with it,” the masked man sighed. 

Techno snorted. “Leave it, teletubby.” 

“Fine, fine,” Dream said, throwing up his hands in a mock surrender. “Philza Minecraft, you have until nightfall.” He twisted his hand, blinding neon green flashing for a moment as he pointed at Phil’s wrist. A thread of light, hardly more than a hair's breadth, wrapped around his left wrist. Dream’s wrist twitched and the thread tugged, an invisible force pulling him forward. 

In a second flash, Dream was gone. 

“Nightfall, but that’s--” Tommy’s voice cracked. All six of them looked towards the sky, where the afternoon sun was already making its way towards its resting place. “That’s so soon.” 

“It is,” Phil replied solemnly. “It’s time, my boys.” 

Wilbur wavered where he stood, and for a heartbeat, Phil thought he might collapse. But he steeled himself, looking up to Phil with unreadable eyes. His jaw worked around words unsaid - but what could any of them say to remedy this situation? 

Phil unclasped his cloak, letting the dark gray fabric run through his fingers for a moment before he draped it over his son’s shoulders. It seemed to dwarf him, the burden of a kingdom that Wilbur wasn’t certain he was ready for. Phil took a moment to adjust the emerald that now rested over Wilbur’s heart, letting one hand rest there as the other gently caressed his son’s cheek. 

“I know you’re still angry,” he whispered, letting their foreheads touch. His thumb brushed away a drop of moisture on Wilbur’s cheek, only for another to fall in its place. “I forgive you. You’re my son.”

Wilbur let out a broken sob, only half-muffled by his own efforts. 

“You’re ready,” Phil murmured. He pressed a kiss to Wilbur’s forehead before stepping away. He couldn’t miss the way that the fabric was balled into his son’s fists, the silent tremors that gave away more hidden cries. 

He pivoted, kneeling down. “Boys.” 

Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo stepped forward, seeming for the first time almost afraid to touch Phil. He opened his arms, inviting them all into a tight embrace. “You are going to do great things, my boys.” 

“How are you so calm?” Ranboo asked, face stained with tear tracks. “How can you stay so composed? Aren’t you sad?” 

Somehow, it was the innocence of this question that broke him. One tear spilled from shining eyes, then another. “Of course I am,” Phil replied. “But I wanted to make sure that I gave you all one more hug before I left.” 

Tubbo butted his head against Phil’s. “Thank you, bossman.” 

“You got yourself here, Tubbo,” he said, laughing wetly as he ruffled the hybrid’s curls. “No need to thank me for anything.” 

“Bye, Dadza,” Tommy whispered. 

“Goodbye, Tommy,” Phil murmured back. “Goodbye, son.” 

He squeezed them impossibly tighter for a moment before rising, scrubbing away at the tears that continued to fall. 

“Philza.” 

“Technoblade.” 

The two clasped arms - the bond of a warrior’s handshake. They stayed for a moment, eyes conveying lifetimes of stories. They had already said everything that needed to be said. 

“Until death, and to whatever lies beyond, my friend.” 

“For you, the world, Phil.”

Chapter Text

Alone. 

Phil made his way to his end alone. 

It was a lonely journey, but one he could not bear to allow anyone to suffer as well. He was guided only by the tugging on his wrist and the ache that lived in his chest as he left his heart behind him. 

It would have been faster to fly on onyx wings, but it didn’t feel right, in some odd way. They granted him freedom in the skies, but they did not make him who he was. He was a king. A friend. A father. He would still be all of those things without his wings. 

Or perhaps it was because his wings made him more human. They were a gift, the evidence of so much love. They were a vulnerability. 

His train of thought was interrupted as the thread pulled him into an unnatural clearing in the woods. Phil knew this area - this clearing had never existed before. The trees seemed to bend away, as though sensing the otherworldly force that stood in the middle. 

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Philza Minecraft,” Dream said, arms crossed. 

“Dream,” Phil replied, smiling. “I appreciate your use of the royal “we,” despite the fact that you are not and never will be king.” 

“Oh, sarcasm is a new shade for you. Are you not afraid anymore?” 

“What have I to fear?” He let out a dry laugh. “What have I left to lose?”

“How does it feel?” Dream let his arms fall, instead spreading them wide, palms turned towards the sky. “To see your army crumble, to have your power torn away from you?” 

“I don’t know,” Phil shrugged. “I always thought that this came with the title of king - to have everything torn away at some point. So this feels more like an inevitability coming to fruition, rather than some great disaster.” 

“I knew you were a strange king, Philza Minecraft, but this is still odd to hear.” 

“Being nothing more than what people expect me to be would be far too boring.” Phil shuffled in place, wings rustling against his back. “Can you promise me something?” 

“No,” Dream replied, voice empty of any pity for the other. “But ask anyways. I’m curious what you have to say.”

“Leave my family in peace.” 

Dream let out a laugh, an odd hissing noise that Phil hadn’t expected. The immortal tried several times to start a sentence, but his own laughter interrupted him. 

“Finished?” Phil shot him a look. 

“Oh, you’re so loyal ,” Dream wheezed out, laughter grating against Phil’s spine. “So stupidly, painfully loyal. ”

Phil continued to stare as Dream’s laughter finally began to fade. 

Dream sighed, finally straightening with a chuckle. “It’s an odd request, coming from a man walking to his death.”

“Perhaps. But they deserve to be happy, in this life or the next.” He was resolute, even in face of Dream’s mockery. 

“Naive, although I can appreciate the sentiment.” Dream huffed out another laugh as he turned, spreading his arms. The air tightened, pulling at Phil’s skin as Dream’s power hissed. “Would you like to see what I can promise you?” 

Phil nodded tersely, unwilling to hand over any more power to Dream but unable to walk away. 

Dream extended one hand towards Phil, fingers splayed. The air simmered as tendrils of light, much like the one that had pulled him towards the clearing, extended from the tip of each finger. They hovered in the air for a moment before surging towards Phil, the already-bright green expanding until hot white light threatened to sear his eyes. It was all-encompassing, overpowering. He didn’t know how long he could stand it.

Then the visions began. 

It started with voices. “Down with the revolution, boys,” came Eret’s laugh, haughty and confident. Blackstone crept into his vision, the dark stone overtaking the white light piece by piece as he saw his sons, his boys , wearing the uniform of some country he didn’t know. They looked so young, so afraid -- where was he? Who was helping them? Were they alone ? 

“It was never meant to be.” 

The room exploded as a fist slammed down on a button Phil heard, rather than saw. He could feel the explosion pressing in on him, physical pain not even able to rival the ache in his chest at the sound of his son’s screams as they vanished in the blaze. It was going to crush him--

And then it vanished, everything turning into nothing in the blink of an eye. Phil gasped for breath, cool air stinging his lungs. The blinding light of the explosion burst into color, red-white-blue blurring together. 

He felt fear - a terror that wasn’t his own as he looked down. Phil watched as the man he had considered to be his friend pointed a rocket launcher at Tubbo, the boy wearing a suit jacket that was far too large. Tubbo shrank away as much as he could, but he couldn’t escape the twitch of Techno’s finger that launched an array of fireworks at him. Phil doubled over in pain, a groan slipping out of his lips at the burning sensation of gunpowder filled every sense. Something in his mind registered a heart-wrenching scream, one he knew to be Tommy’s.

“Don’t you see?” 

Dream’s voice echoed through his mind, louder than any explosion. Phil blinked, looking around for its source, but to no avail. 

Instead, he found himself outside in an empty plain interrupted only by a wooden shack. Tommy stood outside, pale even in the overcast weather. He was a ghost of the vivacious young boy Phil had come to know, shoulders tight with a burden that Phil ached desperately to take away. It wasn’t right. No version of Tommy deserved the fear in the blonde’s eyes or the exhaustion that lived in the purple bags beneath his eyes. 

“N- No, Dream, please, I’m sorry.” Tommy curled into himself, voice shaking as Dream towered over him. “I didn’t mean--”

“I’ve been kind to you, Tommy.” Dream’s voice dripped with anger, which only made the teen cower further. “And this is how you repay me? I thought I was your friend.” 

“You are my friend.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, almost out of control. “You’re my best friend, Dream, I’m sorry.” 

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it.” 

“I am merely the hands of the universe, Philza Minecraft.” 

The voice in Phil’s mind laughed, Dream’s voice echoing itself. 

“No.” Phil shook his head, eyes squeezed shut, trying to rid himself of the voice, of the sadness, of the pure pain that surrounded him. 

When he blinked his eyes open again, he was looking down at his own hands, worn with callouses and familiar scars. His fingers were wrapped around the hilt of a sword that shimmered in the light of the setting sun. The ground shifted beneath his feet, loose stones from an explosion he somehow knew was recent. 

His gaze returned forward as he adjusted his grip on the sword, only then registering who stood in front of him. 

Not again. 

Wilbur leaned forward, letting the tip of the sword rest against his collarbone. “Kill me, Phil. Kill me.” He gripped the sword, eyes manic and uncaring as blood began to drip from his hand. 

“You’re my son!” The cry tore itself from his chest.

“Come on. Do it. Kill me! KILL ME!” 

His body moved without him, pushing forward almost gently. Phil could only watch as the blade slipped into his son’s chest. Wilbur fell to his knees, pulling Phil with him. This pain was familiar, achingly so. 

“No. Wilbur, please, I’m so sorry--” The sword slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground as he knelt, pulling his son to his chest. “No, no!” 

Phil hated himself for the relief that rose in his chest as Dream’s voice whispered in his mind. 

“Is it clear to you yet?”

“Stop this, Dream!” Grief turned to anger, and Phil lashed out with everything in him. 

A laugh wheezed out. “Fine, fine.” 

A flash of white light overtook his vision once again, the blinding void filling his senses for only a few heartbeats before it faded. Phil found himself on his knees, arms clutching the ghost of his son. It was impossible to say which was worse - the weight of his son’s body or the emptiness when it was gone. His wings had torn themselves from the cloak which had concealed them. They were extended, feathers curling inwards with some hope of protecting something that had already been lost. 

“Why?” Phil gasped out, tears streaming down his face as he looked up at Dream. “Why are you doing this?” 

The mask tilted, the unwavering smile familiarly eerie. “There is no instance of this universe, nor of your soul, where you are happy. There is no version of reality that I can write where your lives are peaceful.” 

“So what? Are you just going to kill me?” 

Dream laughed again, the teakettle wheeze mocking as Phil’s tears continued to fall. “Oh, no. I have a different plan for you.” 

Somehow, despite the mask, Phil could feel Dream’s gaze shift, tracing along the curve of his wings. His stomach dropped, feathers puffing along the top ridge as he realized.

“No,” he whispered, praying that he was wrong. “ No. ”

“Killing you would be far too kind.” Dream’s voice was almost melodic. “You’d simply return to Lady Death. Why would I allow that?” 

“You’ve already separated me from my sons, from my friends.” His voice cracked, throat closing slightly with fear. “Is that not enough?” 

“No,” Dream replied simply. 

“Why?”

“Because your actions have consequences, Philza Minecraft.” Dream spread his hands, as though he was helpless. 

For a heartbeat, Wilbur’s body lay in front of him, warm blood spilling over his hands. Phil blinked hard, trying to banish the image. 

“I am merely fulfilling the universe’s command.” Dream stepped forward, summoning the same sword that had slipped into Wilbur’s chest. The strange purple metal glittered, stars winking from within before vanishing. Particles seemed to seep from its edges, almost dancing with excitement. 

Phil shoved himself backwards, feet and hands scraping against the ground as he tried to put more distance between himself and that accursed blade. His wings thrashed, aching as though they knew what was to come. 

Dream tsked gently. “Come now. Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.” His free hand grasped the air, a thread appearing in his grip. He pulled, and Phil found himself being dragged forward, unable to push himself back as Dream moved confidently forward.

The first brush of the masked man’s fingers against his feathers burned . It was not the warm comfort of preening, nor the familiar heat of a friend at his back, cloak shielding his wings. No, this was the blaze of danger, anticipatory pain thrumming through his veins as his heart pounded. 

“No, no, no, no--” The word fell from his mouth, over and over, out of his control. 

The first touch of the blade’s edge to the base of his wing was cold - almost blessedly cool, compared to the burning of Dream’s touch. The relief lasted for only a moment. 

As the blade pushed down, uncaring, unhesitating, Phil screamed . His ears filled with static, vision white as his heartbeat filled his ears, drowning out the sound of his own voice being scraped raw. It was a visceral pain, one that carved itself into his very soul, nerves set alight as a piece of him was torn away. The blade cleaved through feathers, flesh, bones. Some part of him couldn’t help but be thankful that at least the sword was sharp - a clean cut, rather than a ragged edge. 

He didn’t know how long it lasted. All he knew was that a piece of him was missing, a part of his identity stripped away. 

The world appeared in pieces, senses slowly returning. Something gripped his upper arm, hauling him to his feet. A sharp scent filled his nostrils, and his gaze caught black feathers damp with--

He turned his head, unwilling to look at the pile of remains. His remains. As Dream released him, allowing him to stand on his own, Phil stumbled forward. The wings had been a familiar weight on his back for so long - to be without them now was disorienting. His tunic clung to his back, soaked with what had to be his own blood. He couldn’t imagine what his back must look like.

“And now?” Phil croaked out, eyes burning as he stared up into the smiling mask he had grown to hate. “What will you do with me?” 

“I will give you a gift,” Dream said, voice unnervingly kind. “I am not kind, but the universe does demand balance.”

Phil scoffed, turning his gaze away from the other man to stare at the ground instead. He swayed, still trying to find a new balance. 

“I have for you a new world: one that you will have complete control over.” 

Phil’s lips twisted. “And what’s the catch?” 

“It is your world - yours alone .” Dream’s voice left no room for argument, even if Phil had one to give. 

Instead, Phil simply hummed low in his chest, unable to give any more of himself as Dream continued to speak. 

“If you work hard enough, you might one day fly again, but never with the wings that you have grown to love.”

Chapter Text

In the midst of everything, it had fallen to Technoblade to deliver Phil’s last words. 

It was strange, in many ways, that the man who was so feared and so revered had been gifted with the duty of delivering them. Techno himself couldn’t help but wonder why his ungentle hands had been chosen for such a delicate thing - simultaneously heavy with the weight of emotions and capable of shattering in a heartbeat. 

He had no choice but to try. 

Techno found himself sitting on the roof of the castle, surrounded by crows who seemed to have taken a significant interest in his golden jewelry and chains. They crowded around him, several of the braver ones going as far as to perch on his shoulders and head. 

To the normal eye, they were nothing more than crows. But to Techno’s eye, they sparked with magic - the same familiar green and gold that he had come to associate with Philza. Something in Techno’s heart tugged at the feeling. The lingering traces of Phil’s magic made it feel as though a piece of Phil was sitting on the rooftop with him - some ghostly version, a fragment of the man Techno had come to know. 

“Hullo,” he said, feeling intensely idiotic talking to a group of birds. “Do any of you know a…” He squinted at one of the folded pieces of paper that he held, calloused hands careful not to leave even a slight crease. “Niki?” 

One of the birds hopped forward with a slight chirrup, tilting its head curiously. 

“You know Niki?” 

It bobbed its head. 

“Sure,” Techno mumbled. “Not like there’s anything at risk here, like the last words of a king whose fate I don’t even know.” 

He looked down at the prick of pain on his hand as the bird pecked at him in what he assumed to be frustration. It let out a loud caw, sending him a look that seemed to say “ bruh.”  

“Fine,” he said with a little chuckle. It seemed that these crows had the same sarcasm as Phil. He held out the folded paper to it, watching as it held it carefully in one clawed foot before taking off into the skies. 

He sighed. 

“Okay, who knows Sam or Eret?” 

Three sets of eyes - one pair forest green, one pair pale blue, and one pair dark brown - looked down at the crow perched in front of them.

The man with green eyes took the paper carefully, extending one weathered finger to pet the crow gently. His eyes softened as he watched it take off, wondering silently if he would ever truly be ready for this. 

The girl with pale blue eyes knelt, inviting the crow to perch on her shoulder as she stood. She quietly traded with the bird, feeding it a few berries as she took the parchment, turning it over in anxious hands. 

The person with dark brown eyes fell to their knees, chest already aching. The crow, seeming to understand, left the parchment on the dirt in front of them. They reached forward, hands trembling in fear. 

To Niki, Eret, and Sam:

What an adventure we’ve gone on together, no? 

I’m sure that you know better than most that although war may seem to be a chance for glory through epic battles, it usually tends to be much less interesting. History will remember the danger and the risk. But you and I? We will remember the laughter, the joy that lit up the darkness of the night, the stories shared over a bonfire. 

Blue eyes blinked hard as tears began to fall, unknowing that there were two more pairs of eyes reading an identical message. Neither of the others cried yet, although green eyes darkened as their vision blurred with tears, not allowing them to fall. 

Sam, 

I think we both knew it was going to end like this - you’ve always been far too perceptive. You have a good heart, my friend. I can see it in the way you care for all those around you, even if you try to hide it. 

Your heart is the strongest weapon you have. Use it well. 

His hand tightened instinctually on the sword for a heartbeat before loosening. It was far easier to turn to violence, towards training warriors to ensure that he would never lose another fighter. But the ache in his chest reminded him that such loss was inevitable, and it was better for him to train the future to heal, rather than kill. 

Eret,

I don’t pretend to understand what must have been in your mind when you betrayed the kingdom. But I know you. I know your heart. I trust that you had your reasons. I forgive you. 

Now, you must forgive yourself. 

A sob ripped itself from their chest, tears streaming down their face. Betrayal had been easy. They thought they had been doing the right thing, and being hated was familiar. Easy. But this forgiveness in the face of what they had done? No one had ever given them something like that - and suddenly, they hated themselves for what they had done. Forgiveness hurt so much more than hatred ever could. 

Niki, 

You have always had the heart of a gardener. You looked at people and could see their potential for growth. I learned a lot from you; being a king and a gardener are not so different. People, much like plants, rarely come with second chances. You have passed through a forest fire, Niki, and your roots are so much stronger for it. 

Plant some gladioli for me, please.

She looked out of her window, the crow perched carefully on her shoulder as she ran her hands through the forget-me-nots blooming on her windowsill. It had always been easier for her to hide among the plants, afraid to set down her roots with people for fear of being burned. But now - the world had changed, and so had she. 

If I can, I’d like to ask one last favor of all of you. 

Three sets of lungs breathed in unison - miles away, separated by treachery and heartbreak, somehow unified by the words from a man who had changed their lives. 

One day, the scholars may tell tales of this. They will speak of spies and treachery, of gods and men. I ask that you tell your story as well. The story of a warrior who knelt before a young boy. 

Sam smiled fondly, hands moving to brush the memory of dirt off his knees. 

The story of a weaver - not of cloth, but of stories and of souls. 

For a moment, Eret could smell the smoke from a campfire, and the ache in their chest was nothing more than laughter and joy. 

The gardener who poured her heart into each plant and each person she touched. 

Niki set the letter down on her windowsill, sinking her fingers into the soil and letting her tears water the plants. 

And perhaps, if you feel kind, tell the story of a king who was caught stealing peppermint from a garden, who spun the threads of his own life into a tale, who lifted warrior and boy alike from their knees. 

Remember me, please - not as king, but as your friend. 

Chapter Text

“Tommy.” Techno’s voice rumbled in his chest, an ache beginning to form with the knowledge that these boys, even so young, were burdened with such pain and loss. 

“Ayup, big man.” Even with his attempt at bravado, Tommy was paler than usual, pressing his shoulders into both Tubbo and Ranboo. The three had been inseparable since Phil’s departure, even more than always. Techno had heard them crying at night, muffled by pillows, screams from nightmares cut short and replaced by murmured words of comfort. 

“Phil left something for all of you,” he said, holding out a folded piece of parchment, unable to make eye contact with any of them. The air seemed to thicken as all three boys stared at the wax seal with the insignia of the king.

“And he left the task of delivering it to you?” Tubbo’s voice was harsh, raising one eyebrow as he stared down the Blood God. 

Techno snorted. “I thought the same thing. His only instructions were to tell you to read it together.” 

None of them moved until Tommy did, the blonde taking the letter in one shaking hand. It crumpled in his grasp, and he pushed himself harder against the other boys as he stared down at the ink spelling out all three of their names. 

Techno couldn’t bring himself to speak as emotion rose in his throat. Instead he turned, walking away quickly, leaving the three boys to their own devices. 

“Come on,” Ranboo said. “Let’s go find a good place.” 

The tallest of the three boys herded them gently towards the room they had built to be their own. It had been Tommy’s room, the scarlet walls now dented and scuffed from their antics. In the center was a pile of blankets and pillows - messy, yet somehow intentional. There was a blanket dedicated for Tommy to wrap around his shoulders, an extra pillow for Tubbo’s horns, an indent for Ranboo’s notebook, and certain corners extended to make room for long limbs. 

They sat for a moment in silence, letting Tommy process. 

“Ranboo, will you read this aloud?” Tommy broke the silence, extending the paper towards Ranboo. His voice was scratchy, thick with pain. 

The taller boy blinked. “Why-- why me?” Ranboo took the paper, holding it as though it were glass on the verge of shattering. 

“Well, it wasn’t going to be Tubbo.” Tommy’s joke was quiet, crooked smile flickering across his features for a heartbeat as Tubbo headbutted him gently with a fond smile. Something on his face told the other two boys that the blonde couldn’t bear to read the words. “You’re the best reader out of all of us.” 

Ranboo nodded slowly, breaking the seal carefully with one fingernail. He took a deep breath, and began to read. 

To my boys:

“Is that… is that us?” Ranboo whispered. 

Tommy elbowed him. “Of course it is. It’s all three of us.”

“Keep reading, Boo.” Tubbo let out a shaky breath, clamping down his jaw in a futile attempt to stop tears from falling. 

If there is one truth in this unpredictable world, it is that struggle is what makes us human. It is what makes us people . And oh, how I know all three of you have struggled. But you have become such wonderfully brilliant people. 

“Oh,” Ranboo breathed. He paused, breathing shakily as he looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to cry.” 

“I know, Boo.” Tubbo said, letting his forehead rest against the other boy’s arm. Tommy silently burrowed closer to both of them, grip tightening on the beige blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

Tommy. 

“It’s me!” The words tumbled out before Tommy could quite register what he was saying. The others could see as the realization set in, his face turning gray. “Oh, fuck. That’s me.”

Although I am not your father, I have always thought of you as my son, and Wilbur as your brother. Now that Wil is going to be the king, you must be there to help and support him. But you mustn’t let this role overwhelm you, nor can you allow your loyalty to make a fool of you. Your emotions are your strength, Toms. Don’t let the world take that away from you. 

“As if anyone could,” Tommy scoffed, voice wobbling.

He missed the worried glances Tubbo and Ranboo shot at each other. 

I see your loyalty. It burns within you, warming everyone around you. It is a comfort: to know that even as I am forced to leave, there will still be a protector. Do not let this flame burn you. Instead, learn to harness it. You will do great things, Tommy. I have never doubted you.

“‘M not crying,” Tommy said, tears streaming down his face. 

“I know,” Tubbo said, and pulled him closer. None of them said anything as Tommy buried his face into the others’ shoulders, his own shoulders shaking as the blonde sniffled with quiet sobs. 

Tubbo.

Tubbo hummed, wrapping one arm around Tommy and pressing a horn to Ranboo’s arm, grounding himself. 

When we first met, you told me that no one had ever cared enough to give you a name. You picked your own name. You carved a place for yourself in this world, fought for a place to call your own. You have built your own soul, and now you have the chance to create a home. 

“Did you really pick your own name?” Ranboo paused, lowering the paper as he looked down on the other boy. 

“Yeah, I did,” Tubbo whispered, pushing brown curls out of his eyes. “I didn’t think that Phil deserved to, back then. I told him that.”

But you’re not alone anymore. You can live in the moment. Collect memories. You make other peoples’ lives better, Tubbo. You’ve made your mark on the world, on us. In doing so, you have discovered what it is to be yourself: to truly live. 

Remember - as long as you know who you are, you’ll always be in the right place. 

Tubbo clenched his jaw as tears slipped down his face, unwilling or unable to tear his gaze away from the slip of paper in Ranboo’s hands. 

Ranboo. 

“Oh boy.” Ranboo let out a shaky breath, hands trembling harder. 

People like us - we are messy. Complicated. We are full of contradictions and make no sense. But that also means that we can change. The universe has dealt you a strange hand, but you have time, and more strength than you may realize. Ranboo, you are not damned to a life of solitude: you are surrounded by those who will love you unconditionally. 

Let them love you. 

“Yeah, Boo,” Tubbo said, smiling at Ranboo, trying to get the taller boy to smile as well. 

“Yeah, Boob,” Tommy echoed shortly. All three of them let out a snort at the blonde. 

And when the world threatens to overwhelm you, when it feels as though the foundation you’ve built for yourself is crumbling beneath your feet, reach out your hand, and someone will be there to hold it. Take a breath and simply be . 

Ranboo set the paper down on his lap, angled carefully so he could keep reading. He reached out towards Tommy and Tubbo, letting each of them lace their fingers through his. None of them said anything about the way his hands trembled, fingers clutching onto theirs. 

“I uh--” Ranboo started, wincing slightly as his voice cracked. He cleared his throat before trying again. “I’ve never had someone I can lean on. There’s never been a hand to hold.” 

“Now you have two,” replied Tommy, eyes glittering with happiness despite the way his cheeks were stained with tears. 

“You’ve got both of us,” Tubbo said, gripping Ranboo’s hand a little tighter. 

Boys, trust is hard. When you grow up - even now, I’m sure - you want to hide your wounds, your secrets. It’s easier that way. It feels safer. But that doesn’t mean it’s a good thing. The risk of trust is what makes relationships like the ones you’ve formed possible. That vulnerability is what makes it precious. You have made yourself a family - not one of blood, but one of choice. And it is the choice that makes it all the more important. 

I am so proud of all of you. 

Thank you.

Chapter Text

One more. 

There was only one more letter to be delivered, and it somehow felt heavier than all the others combined. Techno had never known Niki or Sam or Eret - he knew of them, but they were abstract figures in his mind. The boys would be alright: they had each other, and they did not bear the same burden. 

But Wilbur - Wilbur was cursed to wear the crown. He had been placed on a pedestal of royal responsibility. Techno knew all too well that having such a responsibility, such a reputation - it separated you from the people who put you on the pedestal in the first place. There was no one to lean on, no one to share in their troubles. 

“Here,” Techno said, extending the piece of paper towards Wilbur. He knew well that there was nothing he could say that would help the boy-turned-king. 

“Is this from--” Wilbur cut himself off before the name could slip past his lips, jaw clenching tight around the word. 

Technoblade nodded wordlessly. 

“Thank you,” Wilbur said - and in those two words were a lifetime of gratitude: not only for the letter itself, but for everything that Technoblade had done. It was thanks for his readiness to defend the kingdom, for the companionship Techno had provided to Phil. 

Techno bowed - a rare sight, considering that the immortal rarely showed any sign of respect. By the time he stood again, Wilbur was gone. 

Wilbur sat on his bed, in the room that he had called his own for so long. Something had changed when Phil left, irreparably and irrevocably, and there was no place he could call his own. 

He stared down at the paper in his hands, eyes strangely emotionless. Before he opened the letter, it could be anything. It could be empty, it could be Phil’s will, it could be a mistake, it could be for him. 

But once he opened it, fate was sealed. The threads of reality would come together, and he would be cursed to know . 

With trembling hands, he broke the red wax seal and unfolded the paper, feeling the weight of loneliness as he leaned instinctively towards a shoulder that was not there. 

Dear Wilbur, 

I wish with all of my heart that there had been another ending to this story; I can’t imagine the pain you must be feeling. Even still, I do not apologize for sacrificing myself for this kingdom - for you . I am a warrior and a king, yes, but I am also a father. And there is nothing I would not do to protect my son. 

“A warrior, a father, a king,” he murmured, hardly aware as the words slipped past his lips. “Only one of those occupations will get you killed.” 

I see greatness in you, even as young as you are. And let it be known that the greatest thing I have ever accomplished was raising you. 

He took a shaky breath, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as his head fell back in some futile attempt to quash the tears that welled up in his eyes. 

I know - or perhaps, I hope that you regret many of the things that have come to pass. Please remember that I do not hold you at fault for anything, and neither should you. You have made a mistake, certainly, just as I did. I was not perfect, nor have I ever claimed to be. A younger Philza might have told you that there is no such thing as mistakes, only unexpected opportunities. But I now believe that you can make both: for yourself, for your family, for your kingdom. 

Wilbur, my son, you’ve learned hatred. You’ve seen it. You’ve felt it, and I curse the fact that you even had to. 

For a heartbeat, every emotion flooded his body. He could feel anger burning in his gut, ghostly pain blossoming against his temple. He could feel the cool metal embedded in his chest, fear and hatred almost overwhelming him. His knees ached with the memory of falling onto stone, ears echoing with someone else’s scream. 

And by the next beat that thrummed in his chest, it was gone. 

But now, you must learn to forgive, for your own sake and for the sake of your people - because they are now your people to protect. It will be hard, yes. I will make no effort to deny that. But I find that it is the hardest lessons that are the most important. 

“‘Course you do, Dadza,” he sniffled. “You’ve never turned down a challenge.” 

Being king is a difficult task - more difficult than you may yet realize. But it is, above all, a test of your honor. Being the prince has offered you a taste of what will come from wearing the crown. As king, you will be offered many things - gold, power, even love, if it can be called that. It is a test of your honor, and one I hope you will pass. I have done what I can to teach you the weight of such things. 

I can’t help but wonder - do you believe in destiny? 

Wilbur set down the letter, flexing his shaking fingers. Did he believe in destiny? It was an impossible question - more so for a king than for anyone else. Another man might have been able to give an answer simply, but as the king, he was forced to choose for thousands of people. Yet he found the answer readily, something whispering that he already knew. 

“Yes,” he whispered. 

No one was there to hear his answer. 

Your destiny is a gift. The fear that you feel, the despair that haunts you, is nothing more than the precursor to valor. Moving forward in spite of that fear, to triumph while it feels like the world crumbles around you - that is what makes you ready to be king.

The light that lives within you is what will push back the darkness. It will help you protect the people I now entrust to you. 

You’re ready. 

Chapter Text

“He left something for you as well, you know,” Wilbur said tightly, gaze pointedly downwards. It seemed that whatever Phil had said in the letter Techno had given him the day prior had lingered with the young king. 

“Is that so?” Techno asked, surprise coloring his voice.  

Wilbur extended his arm towards Technoblade. His arm trembled, but his grip on the paper was firm, fingers creasing the paper ever so slightly. The boy’s eyes were hard, flicking across the ivory skull concealing the other’s face. 

“Thank you, your Majesty.” His tone was carefully even, years of habitually hiding his emotions clicking back into place. 

“Don’t--” Wilbur interrupted himself, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he took a deep breath. “Please, just call me Wilbur.” 

Techno inclined his head slowly. “As you wish.” 

Wilbur blinked for a moment, seemingly unsure of how to react. He opened his jaw, words failing, before closing it with a click. He turned on his heel, walking swiftly away from the immortal. 

Techno found himself making his way to the same parapets where he had sat with Phil, the book of Greek mythology now replaced by the letter. 

“No sense in waiting,” he muttered. 

A crow landed on the stone next to him as deft hands unfolded now-familiar parchment. 

Technoblade, 

I know you’ve lived a life of solitude, and there are many comforts that you feel you are not allowed. There is a fear that lives deep inside of you, one that you’ve hidden well. 

I do not claim to know your story, nor do I need to. I do not need to know the circumstances of your birth to know the warrior you have become. 

Techno hummed, low in his chest. His own history was impossibly long - so much so that parts of it escaped even his own memory. It was an odd thing, to be seen, to be known . 

There is a comfort in the clash of blades, one that you and I know well. But now, you are burdened with something far more difficult: love. You are a peacekeeper - now, more than ever. I do not pretend to understand the duties of an immortal, but I know enough to know that you have been the guardian of humanity from forces far beyond my comprehension. You have sacrificed everything to allow us to exist. But you must also be allowed to live - not simply exist. 

It was a strange thought to the immortal warrior. He had dedicated centuries to the defense of humanity, and there was a strange sort of satisfaction to it. There was a comfort in knowing that he was such a guardian. He had never thought himself to be unhappy. 

Pain was inevitable in his position. Physical pain came naturally, as a part of being a warrior. But as an immortal, he had long since consigned himself to knowing that there were few others that he would meet again. It was a lonely existence, in many ways.

But was it a life?

We are both scholars, in some way. Humanity fascinates you, yet you continually find yourself hurt by what you learn. You want to let yourself care, but the other always leaves or dies. You’ve been cursed to learn the pain of having love torn away over and over again. 

Ah. 

Techno felt that familiar ache in his chest - the pain of loneliness, of loss. It was one he had accepted, perhaps even invited. It was the only consistent thing in his too-long life. 

The curse of the scholar is to be cursed with the knowledge that love is inseparable from risk. It comes with pain. With fear. But it is that risk which gives us strength, for it is only by binding together that we remain strong. You are strong, Techno. No one will argue that point. But I have found, in my short life, that there is a careful distinction between strength and courage. Strength lies in the hand wielding a blade, but courage lives in the heart that is willing to love. 

His hands were calloused and worn, bearing the weight of so much bloodshed and destruction. It was easier to wield a blade, but there was a fulfillment in setting aside his weapon. Yet even as the pain filled his chest, he couldn’t help but think of the people he had loved and lost. Memories unfolded in his mind as he paused, breathing becoming unsteady for the first time in centuries. 

The little crow hopped closer, tilting its head to tap gently against Techno’s leg. 

Your life - a life far longer than most - has changed you, and it will continue to do so. But what would we be if we did not allow life to change us? 

What a life you have lived, Technoblade. 

Good luck, brother. 

Chapter Text

Destiny is such a strange thing, is it not? 

Of the many lifetimes Phil had imagined for himself, none had ended like this. Perhaps that spoke to the dreams he had set aside so many years ago, or perhaps it was simply Dream’s domain over chaos. 

A younger Philza might have argued that destiny was a burden, chaining someone to their doom, a damnation to follow a path carved by the universe herself. Later, he thought that destiny was a path to be followed, leading a king to glory: a balance of autonomy and predetermination. Only recently had he come to consider destiny a gift . 

He wasn’t sure which was right anymore. He wasn’t sure it mattered.

The world he had been abandoned in echoed with emptiness. There was no hand to offer him comfort, no shoulder to offer him companionship. 

There was no closure. 

Phil fell to his knees, uncaring of the dirt that ground into his trousers, shoulders shaking with the burden of solitude. His vision blurred with tears - tears that he would not allow to fall. He couldn’t. There was so much he wanted to say, so much love that he had wanted to share: both impossible now. It was a strange sensation, to be universes away from the place that he had been mere hours ago. His own hands were still stained with ink from a pen he had written with that morning, weighed down with the blood of those he had failed to protect. His family. His sons . He couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that they were doomed to a destiny of destruction and death. 

The words bubbled up in his chest: the message he prayed that he had passed on. They fell from cracked lips, dripping with the same blood that had been shed by Dream’s blade. 

“I love you.”

Despite countless years, the laughter shared and letters left behind, he had never told them of his love. He had never allowed himself to admit the depth of his care for them. They had carved a place in his heart, a heart he had once believed to be impenetrable, yet he could never bring himself to tell them that he loved them. 

Those words broke the dam that had been holding back his emotions. The regalia of a king had been stripped away, the people who filled his heart torn from him. He was left as nothing more than a husband who had lost his wife, a man who had lost his brother, a father who had lost his sons. 

He wept. 

Phil sobbed, chest heaving for air and heart longing for a place it could not return to. He grieved for boys who had not yet died. He mourned the challenges that they would face, knowing that they would have no one to guide them. He cursed the burden of kingship placed upon too-young shoulders. He wept for a warrior who had finally allowed himself to care, only to lose a friend once again. He howled of his sorrow to the moon above, to the stars that did not flinch in the face of his grief. 

He cried until he thought that he must have shed enough tears to fill an ocean. 

And when he felt that he could not cry anymore, he picked himself up, eyes blurry with tears, and began to search for wood. 

He ached, body and soul. Perhaps it was one last blessing of Kristin’s magic that he had not been left with shattered wing bones, bloody stumps sticking out from his back. They had vanished as soon as the portal closed behind Dream, leaving him with mirrored scars spanning his back. The flesh was tight, scar tissue pulling as he dug at the ground, pickaxe cleaving through stone. 

This world wasn’t the same. It could never be the same. He didn’t dare yet call it his home. But it was a place for him, and it was somehow enough. 

There was a joy to be found in such a simple life - a life he had never thought he would be able to have. The hands which had gone unused for so many years were happy to once again wield wood and metal, the weight of a pickaxe now familiar. The ink faded, replaced with a splatter of dirt as he dug his hands into rich soil and cobblestone. 

Phil crafted things, beautiful things. 

He emptied a landscape of hellfire and lava and filled it with islands floating impossibly in a void of nothingness. He built a temple for his queen and carved the story of a family long lost into walls of quartz, engravings glittering in the golden light of glowstone. 

He drained the ocean around an ancient monument, surrounding it instead with the flowers he wished he could give to all the people he had loved and lost. Ivy climbed up prismarine pillars. Gladiolus blossomed above a carpet of forget-me-nots. Alliums waved in the wind, scattered among red poppies. Hydrangea petals were swept up by the breeze, freesia bobbing in their wake. Aster and hyacinth bloomed by a creek that wrapped around the ruins. 

It felt… right , in many ways. 

He had been a king for so long that he had forgotten that there was a beauty, an honor in being a storyteller. 

His unsteady hands wrote the tale of a king of a realm of obsidian and nightmare-inducing purple particles: a king who, by virtue of an accident, damned his people to a death-bringing void and trapped himself in a cave with nothing more than memories of what once were. 

The grief lingered, as it always does. 

It would be a lie to say that he had never sought out Lady Death’s embrace by the edge of a sword, feeling the wind through lost wings as gravity pulled him towards the ground. But either by virtue of the world itself or of Dream’s influence, he never rested in her embrace for longer than a heartbeat, feeling the ghost of her caress as his eyes snapped open once again. 

His heart ached for someone, anyone , despite the knowledge that no one was coming. 

But he was not forgotten; he is not forgotten. 

Anyone who asks the story of Philza Minecraft will be told the tale of a legendary king and warrior, who humbled himself before gods and immortals for the chance to protect his people, who knelt before a boy-called-monster and invited him into his home with open arms. 

The stars will murmur of a father, who looked up to the night sky and cried for his sons and the challenges that they would face, wishing with all his heart that he could shield them from the dangers and pains of the world. 

The wind will whisper of a man who did not fear in the face of a warrior who hid his pain behind an ivory skull, instead choosing to call him brother and showing him that there was a virtue in vulnerability. 

And in the moonlight, the Goddess of Death looks down and watches the man she loves labor in endless solitude, with only the memories of the family he once called his own.