Chapter Text
Stories are best told from the beginning. This story begins with a man who cheated on Death one too many times so Death cheated him right back. When she came for him, he hid. He hid for so long and so well she finally gave up the search.
''You can not die," she muttered, "not anymore, but you are no longer alive as your time has passed. Unless you wish to meet me, you must take from others what you cannot have yourself. And because you must take, I must curse. I curse you" she said, eyes twinkling. "with the strength of the moon and the speed of stars. I curse you with power and youth. You will not decay, you will not change, you will not settle. I Curse you with time, unending and unyielding, and worst of all I curse you with fear, fear for what you have refused from me. In your unbroken death, you will once again be powerless. I curse you," she finished peering into his hiding place as if she knew where he was; as if she wanted this curse to take place. "May this curse never be broken."
He was caught between two worlds, forced to feed upon others lest he withers away into Dust. A monster, powerful and hungry. With no other choice, the man slipped into the shadows, doing what he did best: Hiding and surviving.
The world moved on, leaving the cursed man behind, lost. Fury filled him as the people laughed and lived without him, hearts beating, ignorant of all their blessings, and of all the things that could hurt them. He watched from the shadows, lurking in his robes of darkness. One by one, he snuffed their fragile lives out, learning what it meant to be a monster and falling in love with it, with the blood, and the gifts he gave back to Death, and his prey's fear as he stood over them, holding their lives in his hands. It was intoxicating.
Soon enough, one death wasn't enough to satisfy him any longer so he took more and more till the streets ran red and there was no one left to take. In that silence, that lack, he learned The real curse Death left on him. He was insatiable.
The whole world could burn and it would only warm him for a second.
Whispers of the carnage traveled far and wide, describing the bodies drained, eyes glassy and dull. They spoke of the blood decorating the walls and streets and how no one had been spared, not even the children. They whispered of the man who had emerged, blood dripping from his mouth and staining his clothes and his claws and his teeth, eyes red. They called him the angel of Death.
Philza walked the earth for another millennium before he got tired of doing it alone. There were whispers, of course, of other things like him out in the world, lingering in the shadows and preying on the weak, but he paid them little mind. They were young, feral, cursed for some crime, unlike him. He had been given a gift, a second chance. It had just taken a while to see it.
No, the others weren't like him and would never be suitable companions, so he would just have to build the perfect family himself. Soon he would no longer be alone in this cruel world, soon he would have a family, have children and they would rule what remained together. They would have to be perfect though, and perfect took time. That was fine, he had an eternity after all
~~~~~~~~
Wilbur Soot was a man who lived up to his name but hopelessly strived to be more. He grew up penniless on the streets of L’manburg, picking his way into a living of sorts, playing songs for anyone who would listen. Day and night he could be found, strumming away on street corners and backrooms, slowly working himself to death at 18. Even then, he strived for more. He dreamed of power, of being able to stand and speak with a clear voice and have people stop, mesmerized. He longed to lead, to guide, to rule over those who were weak, to bring them into a better future. The men and women on these streets were more than happy to remind him just how unattainable and silly his dreams were for a lowly street rat Like himself. Their words hung heavy around him, crushing the dwindling hope he still clung to.
Wilbur sat just outside the park this late evening, strumming a worn-out guitar with worn-out fingers and a tired, heavy heart. Winter was just starting to seep into the air, cutting straight through his threadbare jacket. The street lamps flickered, barely illuminating the uneven cobble and grassy bank along the road. Clouds hung in the night sky, drowning out the pale moon. A cart shambled past, the driver barely sparing Wilbur a glance before ushering the poor horses on, into the shadows of a L’manburg night.
Wilbur sighed, mind heavy with ideas and wishes and reality, slinging his guitar over his shoulder and scooping up the rest of his meager belongings before trudging away into the shadows. If he played his cards right and summoned all the charm he could muster, he might have enough money in his pockets for 1 week at the local inn just down the road, but that wasn't including anything else, like food or new clothes for Winter.
If he didn't play his cards right, well... he needed to play his cards right. Besides, It shouldn't be too hard, most of the innkeepers around here tolerated him well enough anyway, so long as he wasn't a huge nuisance and paid his bills on time.
The wind picked up making Wilbur distinctly aware of how cold it was and how badly he needed another sweater. He frowned and tugged his jacket tighter around him, hunching his shoulders to conserve what meager warmth he had. Just make it to Hannah's, she was always the nicest. His footsteps echoed along the empty streets. In one of the houses, a light flipped off. A shutter clanged shut and a bird cawed, then the street fell silent like a blanket had been placed over it. The hairs on Wilbur's neck stood on end. Even this late at night, there was always something, someone making noise. An old drunk singing, a couple arguing behind closed doors, a baby wailing into the night, the steady clip-clop of a workhorse, something. But tonight barely the wind whispered loud enough to break the silence that hung around him, thicker than the swiftly descending fog. Wilbur swallowed, glancing around himself, struggling to keep his imagination in check, to keep his fear from clawing its way into control. His old boss always did say he was too much of a Dreamer, and dreams often turned to nightmares. So he hesitantly continued walking. trying to school his mind into Not thinking about the suffocating silence, to no avail.
"What are you doing out so late, Mate?" a voice said, shattering the silence. Wilbur startled, whipping around to see a middle-aged man leaning against the lamp post, harsh shadows obscuring his face from view. "Isn't there a curfew or something? I hear there are monsters out," His voice was smooth with a common roughness around the edges. Not off-putting, but not reassuring either. From where he stood, Wilbur couldn't make out much besides the Dark green robes that seemed to swallow him and the Green and white matching bucket hat. Everything else was hidden in the shadows. Wilbur swallowed thickly.
"I could ask you the same thing," he called, gripping his guitar strap. If he tried he could pretend his voice didn't waver. The man scoffed and unfolded his arms from the robes, letting his sharp nails glint in the lamplight. Wilbur got the distinct sense of something... Other... as if the man in front of him wasn't really a man, and the street wasn't really a street. The ghost of a breeze kissed the back of his neck and he shuddered.
"I don't have any money." His voice cracked, High and strained, and he willed for his legs to move but they didn't, locked in place by the fear he had tried so hard to keep under control. One more thing he had failed at.
"I don't want your money." The man replied, tilting his head back with a grin. Whatever courage Wilbur had drained from him because a pair of fangs flashed in the darkness, bright white and sharp. He must have paled since the man laughed, pushing himself away from the post and leisurely striding towards Wilbur. Even if he could run, there was no point now. He would be caught then he would be devoured.
"Are you going to kill me?" Wilbur whispered, heart hammering in his throat, eyes lowered to the ground. All through his youth he had heard the whispers of monsters in the night, learned the deep-seated fear that came with deep shadows and quiet corners and the dead of night. People disappeared, found dead days later, empty husks with their faces frozen in pain and terror. Some people were never found. He knew the stories, but somewhere in the last year, he forgot to fear them. Now he was gonna die for his arrogance. He wasn't prepared for the Man to laugh inches from his face, his footsteps as silent as the night around them. Wilbur flinched.
"No, I'm not gonna kill ya. I wanna give you a gift." The man said, humor lacing his words the way a parent would speak to a child. A wave of curiosity pushed away the fear and his brow furrowed. To his left, a crow squawked.
"A- a gift?" He felt rather than saw the man circling him, watching the way his shoulders tensed and his breath hitched and his knees shook.
"Yeah, Mate. A gift."
"What kind of gift?" There was a pause, the man stepping back around to face Wilbur, smiling softly.
"Time," He stated simply. "strength, respect," Wilburs head jerked up at that, breath caught, but he stayed silent. "Power," the man finished, grinning at the way Wilbur's whole body seemed to strain with yearning. He could smell it on him.
"How-" Wilbur tried, words getting stuck when the man laughed lightly, fangs flashing again.
"Always so curious, aren't you Wilbur." He shook his head fondly and Wilbur's jaw snapped shut. "Ah well, I've been around for a long time, you see, wandering this earth alone. But I'm tired now, and I want more," His eyes flashed a brilliant blood red, "More than an empty manor and quiet halls. More than I was destined to have on my own." He stopped and stared at Wilbur again, eyes once again hidden in the shadow.
"Who are you?" Wilbur whispered, eyes wide. The man shook his head.
"Wrong question, kid."
"Wha-what are you?" He tried again, mouth dry.
"A monster, " the man said, eyes glowing a deeper red than before and Wilbur shuddered. The man then shrugged, picking a piece of grime off his sleeve. "but you can call me Philza, or Phil if you want." Wilbur nodded, mind racing. There was one thing itching to be asked. So he did.
"Why me?" Phil stopped and stared at Wilbur, wonder filling his gaze
"Why you!" he scoffed, stepping closer once again. "Because you, Wilbur, are destined for great things." Something in Wilburs Chest fluttered then squeezed painfully and his breath quickened. "I can practically smell it on you, mate. The potential, raw and untamed. Small-minded people might call it wishful thinking or madness, but me?" He paused, leaning in close and Wilbur held his breath, "I call it brilliance."
"What's the catch," Wilbur asked, filled with a sudden inescapable boldness, still reeling mentally. No one had ever said that to him before. "You give me this power and all but what do you get?" Phil leaned back and shook his head, arms outstretched.
"No catch. You join me and I'll give you everything you could possibly want. In return, all you have to do is stay." He stood close now, close enough that Wilbur could see the way his eyes curled with sadness, close enough that he could see the man behind the monster. They stood like that for a moment, head to head, chest to chest, peering into each other's souls, then Phil was gone, swept away into the Misty shadows once again.
"You don't have to choose now." His voice called out of the darkness, bouncing against The stone. "And you can refuse, no consequences. I promise."
"I believe you," Wilbur called back, scanning the shadows for him, both warily and because something in him cried out for the Man, Something dark and twisted and hungry. Something he tried to hide for as long as he knew what it meant to be afraid.
"When you make up your mind, let me know," His voice echoed down the streets and inside his mind all at once. Then a harsh wind swept through the street, dragging the thick fog with it, drowning Wilbur in white.
~~~~~~~
That night stayed with him, barely leaving him time to think about anything else before dragging him back in with a morbid sense of wonder and excitement. He lingered on each detail. The fog. The heavy blanket of silence that surrounded them. The way the man tilted his head when he laughed and the brilliant glow of his gaze. The rush of Exhilaration coursed through him, unhindered by societal normalities. The offer, tantalizing and sweet and Dark. Honestly, he doesn't remember stumbling into Hannah's that night, only that he woke up, grinning.
laying on the storage room cot, He had dreamed of crows and fangs and blood. And every night after. His days were spent reading, devouring every book that mentioned vampires at all, looking for any answers they could give, any hint into who that man truly was. Phil had been Power and predator and Man all rolled into one. Wilbur yearned for more. So he read and read and read.
Everything spoke of their Savagery, said they were cursed men and women with darkness consuming their souls, unable to feel outside of themselves. They were creatures driven by hunger, unable to control themselves around humans. Everything said they were monsters, but Wilbur wouldn't accept that. He couldn't. The man he met that night was more than just a mindless, hungry monster. He felt things, Wilbur was sure. He sounded lonely, sad even, under the predator eager to control.
Try as he might, Wilbur couldn't get it out of his head. He found himself daydreaming about it, about time filled with the power he had read about, that the man had promised, with everyone who had ever hurt him and mocked him cowering at his feet. He saw their bodies broken and Mangled and his hands covered in blood and he smiled.
"Wilbur!" Hannah called, pulling him from his latest daydream, the thought of his enemy's bones snapping beneath his boot lingering in the back of his mind.
"Yes, Hannah, what?" He snapped and she startled, looking at him warily. She had been doing that more and more recently.
"You were lost in your head. Its' closing time." She said curtly, still looking wary. He shook his head and stood, muscles protesting weakly after hours of disuse. He mildly wondered if that would still happen if he turned.
"Ah, of course. I'm sorry Hannah, I shouldn't have snapped." She nodded, shoulders loosening.
"You have somewhere to stay tonight?" She asked after a moment. He shrugged and offered a small smile, scooping his latest book into his bag.
"I'll figure it out, you know me." His lips pinched at his flippant tone.
"Be careful, Wilbur. The Hunters say there's more out there and that people should stay inside. It's late. People are disappearing, Wilbur." Something in His chest twisted over the fact she cared. He smirked, keeping his gaze soft.
"I'll be ok, Hannah, don't worry about me." She hesitated but eventually nodded. He bid her goodbye and made his way back out into the dark streets of L’manburg. Ever since that night, the roads had been quieter, stiller, almost as if something was lurking in the shadows. Part of Wilbur wished there was.
He knew he ought to decline. What Phil was offering was Dark and Evil and monstrous, and there was no guarantee that he would keep his promises but still... the offer was so tempting. It was everything Wilbur had ever secretly dreamed about. Power, respect, freedom. freedom from a world that dragged him down. If he accepted, he could do anything, everyone powerless to stop him. He could make them Cower.
Wilbur walked so lost in thought he failed to hear the twin pair of footsteps fall in step with his own. Above him, a crow sat, watching. there had been more of this around as well recently.
Before he could think about what that might mean, if anything,2 pairs of hands seized him from behind, dragging him back into the darkness of a side alley. He shrieked, lashing out against his attackers, Smacking one in the face and the other on the chest. One grunted, falling back so the other could rush Wilbur to the wall, slamming his head against the brick. White spots flooded his vision, stalling his fight for a moment as spiderwebs of pain scattered around his skull.
An arm pressed against his neck with crushing force, holding him completely still against the wall. His vision swam, tunneling down to the cruel sneer on his attacker's face and the ratty sleeve forcing the life from him. Wilbur choked, clawing at the arm to no avail, eyes bugging. Dimly he was aware of someone else, presumably the other attacker, searching through all his pockets and sifting through his bag, but that took second place to the way his head was throbbing in tandem with his heart or the ever-darkening field of vision.
He was going to die.
He was going to die over a few coins and a guitar.
If he could have laughed he would have.
Just as his eyes were about to slide shut, the arm disappeared. Wilbur slumped, hacking and coughing, giving his weight over to the brick for the time being as he struggled to suck in much-needed air. Someone screamed behind him, the sound cut off in a wet gurgle and a heavy thud. He sucked in another breath, chest burning. Begging and crying filtered in over his blood rushing in his ears, still in tandem with his throbbing head. Then the footsteps, slow and menacing, and a snap of bone against the pavement. Wilbur winced at the same time Something in him brightened. The same thing that woke that night. He sucked in one last breath, pulled himself to his full height, and turned around.
The alley was in pieces, filled with broken crates and overturned barrels that must have fallen in the struggle. In front of him, the first man lay, blood pooling underneath him, neck completely ripped out, bits of flesh still dangling where blood gushed, his heart only just now stopping. Wilbur stared down at the corpse passively, Not even a hint of remorse or disgust.
Farther into the alleyway, the man was clawing his way across the ground, Sobbing hysterically, snot smeared down his face, and begging for his life as if someone there might take pity on him. Looming over him, looking very much like the monster and predator he is, was Philza. Face gaunt, his burning eyes settling deep in his eye sockets, Mirrored by his blood-stained fangs, Phil stalked forward, letting each step send a jolt of unhindered fear course through his prey. They both knew he was dead, but there was something so delicious about a human's desire to live that made these final terror-soaked moments delectable. The man's eyes flicked over to Wilburs, pleading for mercy. Wilbur felt nothing but cold hatred simmering over indifference in his bones. That glance, though, seemed enough for Phil to remember Wilbur was there and he was over by his side in an instant, any trace of the monster that lurked within disappearing.
"Wilbur? Are you ok, mate?" Phil asked, stepping over the sluggishly bleeding body to get to him, tilting his head slightly in concern as he scanned him up and down. Wilbur blinked at him, almost as if righting his bearings, then grinned slowly as flung his arms around the man, pushing them off-balance to cling to Phil as closely as he could. Phil quickly adjusted, letting out a startled laugh
"Yes!" He cried and Phil shifted, head pulling back to look at Wilbur, brow furrowed, hand flying up to hold him close on instinct. He opened his mouth to say something, but Wilbur cut him off.
"I never want to be weak like this again. I want to be like you," he whispered into Philza's shoulder and the man stilled. "Please make me like you." Philza pulled back completely, grinning brightly in the darkness, Stark against the blood dripping down his mouth.
"Of course, my son, you'll never have to feel weak again". he said, pulling Wilbur close once again, tucking his head into his shoulder just like a parent would to their child. Wilbur hummed into his neck, a feeling that flooded Phil with the urge to Protect. "But first," he practically growled, turning towards the man clawing his way across the cobbled floor as quickly as he could, still silently crying only to freeze with their attention on him. "We have a rodent to deal with." Philza stared at the man, turning all that protective rage setting his blood on fire directly at him. He whimpered.
Something akin to excitement flared to life inside Wilbur and he disentangled himself from around Phil to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. Wilbur’s hands shook just like the night he first played his guitar, the most primal of his daydreams unfolding before him. He felt powerful standing over the man, drinking in the unbridled terror like a parched man to water. This is where he was meant to be.
"Yes." he said, voice lilting up, the twinge of a smile tugging at his lips, "I believe we do."