Chapter Text
Phil tore through the house, his papers flying everywhere as he made his way to his study, where the cursed object hid. The Time-Retriever of his timeline was still in his timeline, so he could only use this one.
He had dropped Wilbur off in his room again. Kept him comfortable. He would not bury this one.
His study appeared just as it did almost nine months ago in his time. In this timeline, it was as if no time had passed at all. He could’ve deluded himself into thinking he had never left the first time, that this was his first time dealing with the Time-Retriever. He could make a synthetic reaction to discovering time travel, discovering that he could save his son.
The Time-Retriever was in its box on Phil’s desk, and for once since his world crashed down for a second time, he took a deep breath and stepped towards it in a calm and dispassionate manner. He unlatched the box, his fingers brushing over the grooves of the engravings until he reached the holes, hovering over the key to getting his little boy back.
He slotted his fingers through the holes of the artifact and thought back to the morning and stopped himself. This was a painful memory, and it had proven not to have worked. Why was he going back to the day Wilbur died? What was the benefit of that?
Phil could control time now. He could move forward or backward or stand still, but it was all up to him. If he couldn’t save Wilbur from this time, then what was stopping him from going back further and achieving complete happiness?
Phil thought of a different memory.
He imagined pristine white rooms and the smell of chemicals permeating throughout the halls. He thought of metronomic beeps and heavy grunts, words of encouragement. Lots of blood, lots of sweat. The scene appeared before him in a wave of purple particles.
Phil was already there-- a much younger Phil, a much more jovial Phil. This was a Phil that had never had a taste of fatherhood, never known the loss of a beloved wife. But he would in a few short hours. He’d have it all.
He was holding Kristin’s hand. She was in a hospital gown, head and back propped up by some pillows as a group of midwives soothed her through what had been an arduous pregnancy. Her wings were hanging off the sides of the bed, feathers falling from the stress. In the corner was an uncomfortable plastic chair with an overnight bag and a familiar blue sheep plushie.
“Just a few more, Dr. Craft!” the nurses encouraged Kristin. His wife gritted her teeth and gave it her all, just like she did in his memories-- and that had been where it all went wrong. The blood, oh, there had been so much blood coming out of her. It had been the very first time Wilbur had been covered in the liquid as well, almost like a premonition.
“Y-you’re bleeding!” Younger Phil cried out, clutching his wife’s hand close to his chest as the room began to turn dizzy with red for him. Phil remembered the feeling. It was strange to be watching this from an outside perspective; he almost felt like a god watching over it all
Phil, with his open arm, reached out into the scene. He could stop this. He could lure the young Phil out of the room, take his spot. He could save Kristin. He didn’t know how yet, but he was sure he could think of something.
Something primal hissed at him, telling him this was wrong, that it was greedy. That he could save one but he could not save both. Say he saved Kristin-- what would happen to Wilbur? What if the only way to save Kristin was to ensure Wilbur was never born? The odds of existence were 1 in 1 0 2,685,000 . There would never be another Wilbur.
There would never be another Kristin.
Oh… Phil was wretched for entertaining this, wasn’t he? Because he was imagining a life with Kristin and no Wilbur. Maybe they’d have other chances at children. Two boys, five years apart. Pink and blonde hair. The little one would be a miniature copy of Phil. A little gravestone in the woods behind their house to mark Wilbur’s existence at some point. The elder boy would be a warrior and the younger would try to fill everyone’s shoes. He and Kristin would continue their research adventures after the two fly from the nest and they would die an old couple sitting on rocking chairs on a porch, staring off into the sunset. The gravestone behind the house would be overgrown with vines.
Phil reached out into the scene again, his hands shaking with anticipation. It was a beautiful life, but how beautiful would it be with his specific memories? Phil knew that there were multiple lifetimes where it was just him and Wilbur-- that Wilbur had chances to live and Phil had squandered them every chance-- and then he just gave up on him. What kind of a father gave up on his son?
There could be a beautiful life waiting for him, but what sort of life would he live without Wilbur? Eight years he spent raising that boy. He fed him, changed him, bathed him, put him to sleep and woke him up. He helped him walk and his first word had been ‘papa.’
Phil recoiled.
The scene dissipated before him, and he took his hand out of the machine. His whole arm was black, black as night with purple veins running through it. Phil almost dropped the device from the shock. He hadn’t even jumped through this time-- why was his hand so discolored? Could it be that the farther one went back, the more life force required? Didn’t that make some of the Time-Keepers just cannon fodder for their group? Some of them must have jumped hundreds of years into the future.
It made sense. His first jump into the past had been nine months, while the second had been around nine years. It was painful for sure, but Phil could take the pain if it meant bringing Wilbur back for sure. Besides, it was one more jump. He was sure this time would take.
Phil knew where he went wrong this time.
He flipped the switch and imagined the morning once more. There was no use going back a couple more days, it was a waste of time when Phil could fix the issue at hand.
There he was, fast asleep again. Phil grabbed the same knife he had used to kill the current timeline’s Phil and brought it over to the next one, stepping through the vision and into his bedroom.
Dawn was breaking outside the window, announced by the chorus. Phil didn’t examine himself, look over the unconscious and unaware Phil who had no idea what was to happen. He considered it a mercy unto himself, for it was far worse to be experiencing the hell Phil had been going through than a quick slice to an unconscious vein.
Again, he moved himself under the bed, just a quick thump and a kick and he was gone; out of sight, out of mind. Phil was now covered in his own blood as well as his son’s blood, and he didn’t want to scare the new Wilbur, so he changed his clothes.
The kitchen was illuminated by the natural light outside. Everything was the same as it had been yesterday, or-- not yesterday, but the other timeline, and the one before that, nine months ago. It felt like someone was standing on Phil’s chest as he gazed at the pile of papers, no place to sit, the sound of the birds trying to wake the residents of the house up.
Footsteps padded up from behind Phil, and on instinct he knew it was Wilbur, he knew it was his son, but it startled him all the same to see his eyes moving and blinking and his wings fluttering as he walked.
He couldn’t help it this time-- he grabbed Wilbur by the back of his head and pulled him in for a hug, smashing his boy’s face into the fabric of Phil’s clothes.
“P-papa?” Wilbur questioned, his arms waving wildly for a second before melting into the sign of affection, wrapping around Phil’s torso.
“Good morning, Wil.” He pressed a kiss to Wilbur’s temple, stroking his fringe out of the way. He finally let Wilbur’s head go and allowed him to look up at Phil with those shining eyes, filled with nothing but youth and admiration.
“Morning, Papa,” he replied. “Did something good happen this morning?”
“Yes,” Phil said, “I saw you.”
The blood rushed up to Wilbur’s face, and he shook his head to get his hair to fall back over his eyes to cover his embarrassment. He let go of Phil, heading around the counter to grab the toaster.
Phil smiled. “I was thinking we finally do those flying lessons. We’ve been putting them off.”
Wilbur looked up with lightning speed. His face couldn’t decide the expression he wanted to portray-- excitement or surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a big boy now.”
“But your work?”
“What about my work?” There was no humor in his voice. What about his work? What about his work? None of that compared to his Wilbur. “We’ll fly. I shouldn’t have put it off this long, mate. Forgive me.”
“Um, yeah.” Wilbur replied rather dumbly, taking the toast out of the toaster and throwing it on a plate. “When do we go?”
“As soon as you’re dressed. Nothing like the cool morning air to wake you up.”
Wilbur completely brightened up. Everything he did had a little extra pep. He lathered up his toast and put in two new slices for Phil. He asked Wilbur if he wanted eggs, but Wilbur rejected it in favor of getting outside to the air faster. Wilbur really could be quite single-minded at times. It was good to think of him like this, rather than in a perpetual past. Wilbur was here, in the moment. Wilbur was going to learn how to fly, and then he would never fall from a tree again.
They ate their toast quickly, and then Wilbur went off to get dressed while Phil tidied up the kitchen a little. He put the toaster away, and ran water over the plates. He carved out places for himself and Wilbur at the table once more.
They’d be having dinner again. He was thinking meatloaf and rice.
Wilbur came out in a t-shirt and knee-length shorts. The same exact outfit as yesterday. Not yesterday-- last timeline. “Mate, can you change?”
Wilbur glanced down at his outfit before turning around in his spot. “Is there something wrong wi--”
“Just change.”
“Papa, it’s going to be hot later--”
“Change, Wilbur! Change!” Phil screeched, his wings puffed out from exasperation. When Wilbur had been younger, he used to ask Phil to eclipse him in his wings, taking comfort in the inky black feathers. He had been a strange child, for most children were frightened of the dark, of the void, but Wilbur took comfort in it. When storms brewed overhead he would run into Phil’s arms and ask for ‘void time,’ and then it would just be Wilbur and the darkness. It used to mean something comforting to him.
But then, in that moment, with Phil’s wings stretched out and taking the entire space of the kitchen, there was nothing on Wilbur’s face but shock and a flash of fear. What was he scared of? His father was here now. What could he possibly be scared of?
“Please,” Phil begged in a quieter voice. “Just change. For me, mate, okay?”
Wilbur nodded and sprinted back to his room, closing the door with a slam. It was a few minutes before he returned with different colored shorts and a long sleeved shirt. Wilbur lifted his arms to show off the new outfit, visibly annoyed at Phil’s request and probably the tone he took with his son. Phil didn’t speak like that to Wilbur often, if at all.
They headed out the door, and Phil picked Wilbur up from the armpits, resting him on his hip as he stretched out his wings. Wilbur giggled at being so high up. It had been a while since Phil had picked up Wilbur for Wilbur, but for Phil it had been just yesterday, cradling his body back to his bedroom.
“Where are we going?” asked Wilbur.
“Up the mountain.”
“We can’t do it from a tree?”
“No,” Phil snapped. “Absolutely not. Do you understand me? Never jump from a tree. Not until you really know how to fly.”
“Okay, okay,” Wilbur said, resting his chin on Phil’s shoulder as they shot up into the sky. The air thinned out and Phil had been right from experience-- it was quite chilly up in the air. They used to do this a lot when Wilbur was younger-- he used to fly them everywhere. Wilbur always insisted he stick his hands through the clouds even though he learned from experience that it would only wet his hand, but it excited the boy to no end.
Phil moved his hand toward a cloud. “Do you want to--?”
Wilbur shook his head. “I want to fly! I want to fly!”
“Okay!” Phil laughed, shooting down over by a ledge on the mountain. He glided to a stop, his feet skidding across the ground as he tried to keep the landing as smooth as possible for Wilbur’s comfort.
Phil jumped out of his hold as soon as they reached solid ground, twirling around in place as his wings flapped with anticipation. “We’re flying! We’re going to fly today!” he sang, and Phil just took the moment to watch his son in all his excitement and bask in the fact that he had been right to return to Wilbur. There was no Philza without Wilbur.
“Ready for lesson one?” Wilbur nodded. Phil brought him over by the ledge but kept a comfortable distance between the two. He forced Wilbur’s wings to straighten out, suddenly aware just how small Wilbur’s wings were. A chirp echoed out as Phil combed through the feathers. “Okay. Now, everyone flies differently. Your wings are unique to your body, so you have to listen to them. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Look at your wings.” Phil bent Wilbur’s wings so he could get a better view. “What do they look like?”
“They’re small,” Wilbur answered, a hint of displeasure in his voice, “And they’re round.”
“That’s right. Now look at my wings. What do they look like?”
“They’re big. And your feathers look different from mine.”
“Good,” Phil praised, patting his son on the head. “This means we fly differently. You can’t fly like me and I can’t fly like you because it won’t work. Your wings are small and round, which means you’re going to be flapping a lot more, while my wings are built more for soaring.”
Wilbur huffed. “That sounds like a lot more work for me.”
“You want to fly, right? This is how it has to be, mate.”
Phil had Wilbur practice some stretches and exercises on his wings to get them warmed up, and then they practiced flapping. Once Wilbur was proficient enough on the ground, he picked Wilbur up and held him high over his head and told him to keep flapping. Wilbur couldn’t stop laughing the whole time the way Phil’s fingers were tickling his abdomen and cutting into his concentration, but he finally got to a level where Phil felt he was safe to fly a low height.
The ledge they were on wasn’t that high up-- it was about ten feet off another ledge and it was around thirty feet up the mountain total. If Wilbur fell, he would be caught on a side of the mountain and worst case scenario, he’d be injured but still breathing. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen.
Phil would catch him before that happened.
Wilbur stepped up to the ledge, wringing his hands as he looked down. He looked back at Phil, uncertainty painted on his face. “Papa, I don’t know…”
“You can do it, Wil. Come on. Remember to flap.”
“Can you hold my hand?”
Phil reached for his son’s hand, squeezing tight. “Always. I’ll always hold your hand.”
The tips of Wilbur’s shoes leaned over the ledge, his wings working their way up to quick flaps. He moved his body weight over and all of a sudden he was off the ground, moving off the ledge and into the air. “Good! You’re doing so good!”
“I’m flying, papa!”
“Yes! Yes, you are!” Phil’s eyes glistened with tears watching his little boy smiling as he floated above the world the way he had dreamed of. Wilbur continued to move out over the air, his fingers slipping out of Phil’s grip, but it didn’t hurt like Phil thought it would. “Now, to steer, you’re going to want to direct with your legs, okay? But don’t be afraid to use your whole body.”
Wilbur kept moving further and further away from the ledge, practicing turning. He kept his arms straight out as if he were on a balance beam.
Phil beat his wings and joined his son in the air, circling above him and casting a shadow from above. Wilbur flapped harder to give himself some height and join Phil in his ascension, and Phil kept his arms open in case Wilbur faltered in any way.
“Can we go somewhere? Can we go to town?” Wilbur asked, eyes bright with excitement. Phil looked out into the distance, the sun climbing its way through the sky. Town wasn’t too far-- just ten miles away, which was closer when traveling through the air. It might actually be good practice for Wilbur, as it was close enough where he wouldn’t get too tired out too quickly.
“Are you up for it?”
“Yes! Yes, I’m up for it!”
Phil nodded and pointed in the direction of town. “Let’s start going that way, okay? Keep it steady, alright? You can pick up speed as we go.”
Phil followed Wilbur from above, ready to swoop down and catch him if anything went wrong. Flashes of open, limpid eyes shot through his brain, searing his memory with bones protruding from the skin and so, so, so much blood.
He shook himself out of his reverie and watched as Wilbur slowly dropped his arms to his side and grew more comfortable with being in the air. The smile never left his face. His flaps lost their timing here and there, but nothing he never recovered from.
His boy was a natural.
The playful part of Phil, the part of him that wanted to keep that smile on Wilbur’s face, decided to fly a bit ahead of Wilbur. Not too far, just far enough that he would be in Wilbur’s face and he could see the tricks Phil could do.
He shifted his body and waved at Wilbur before nose-diving and then coming back up, arms out-stretched as if he just finished some grand performance. Wilbur laughed and clapped and attempted his own trick, but Phil stopped him. “Hey, not yet!” he said over the wind. “You’re not ready for that.”
“I want to soar like you,” said Wilbur.
“That’s not how your wings are made,” Phil lamented. “But you fly just fine as you are. You’re doing great!”
Wilbur puffed out his cheeks but did not respond. Phil could tell there was a lingering bitterness, but it was to be expected. He inherited his mother’s wings. She still managed to become an expert flyer-- she could never win a race against Phil, but when it came to fancy tricks there was no one better than Kristin.
Phil could make out the town on the horizon. Black smoke puffed out of the chimneys of the homes and there was the crisp smell of baked bread that could be smelled even as far away and as high up as they were.
Wilbur seemed to get excited by the smells, his eager flaps helping him catch up to Phil. Phil turned his face to watch Wilbur only to find that Wilbur was staring quite intently at Phil, eyes trained on his wingspan. Phil’s heart swelled with pride knowing his son was admiring him. It seemed that over the years he had forgotten why he had done all the things he’d done.
In the biting morning air, he couldn’t believe what a fool he was to become so wrapped up in his work that he neglected his son. Knowledge was meant to be passed down as riches were, and yet Philza had been a poor man when it came to love.
“Papa!” Wilbur called. “Watch me go fast!”
“Let’s see it!” Phil said with sweeping fondness. Wilbur flew past him and chugged on ahead, face red with determination. Phil didn’t like the look of red on Wilbur. Wilbur kept missing the rhythm of some of his flaps as he turned to look back at Phil.
“What do you think? Am I fast?”
“The fastest!”
Wilbur tilted his legs downward as he angled himself upward. Phil worried a bit as Wilbur climbed in altitude, just as high as Phil and then he was higher. It was alright. He could just catch Wilbur if things went wrong.
“Hey, mate, be careful!” Phil warned.
“I’m fine!” Wilbur assured as he continued to climb, eventually evening out about fifteen feet above Phil. Phil flew up a little to close the distance between him and Wilbur, but Wilbur’s confidence seemed to grow with this newfound height.
With the skill of flight came a world-view unseen in most creatures that did not have the privilege of being able to look at the world from an overhead perspective. They could not see how rivers looked like blue lines and a house looked like a dot and a person an ant. The experience was different between birds and avians, for birds did not have a DNA that tried to bind them to the ground, flightless birds notwithstanding, yet avians were birds with human skin. A part of them longed for the earth and the people on it.
So an avian’s first flight was a very special experience that is unmatched in any respect.
It came in two waves: the first was a feeling of godhood, of being it above it all. Once one flew over it all and saw everything of the world, there was a certain feeling of ownership over it all. The second wave was a feeling of longing, as if one was being pulled back down to the earth, not by the force of gravity, but by the force of loneliness. There was only oneself in the sky, even when flying with a group. The second wave was a wish to return to the earth and connect with a fellow person.
Phil had a feeling Wilbur was experiencing the first wave.
It would pass.
This was the way with boys. They were always the first to be scared, and then they’d embrace the adventure the way Wilbur was in the moment.
He kept looking back at Phil, as if he was waiting for Phil to say something. “Almost there,” he decided. “Keep flapping.”
“I am!” Wilbur said, but even then he could see the way they lacked the proper strength. Phil reached out to help Wilbur out, but he kicked at Phil’s hands. “I can do it! I promise, I can do it!”
“Okay!” Phil said, backing away. Please, keep flapping.
Wilbur went on ahead. They were close to town, probably another five minutes. They’d also need to practice landing, and Wilbur would need the wide, wide fields that bordered the town.
“Let’s start descending!” Wilbur didn’t seem to hear him, as he kept his course if not climbing a little higher. “Wilbur! We’re landing!” Phil flew in front of Wilbur and demonstrated the proper angle for a descent. Wilbur watched aptly and copied Phil, always a few feet higher than Phil.
Phil had gotten carried away with his landing, used to a routine and not accompanying a first time flyer, so his return to earth was much quicker.
This was the part where it went wrong.
Phil would have all sorts of conjectures after the fact-- perhaps it was the first wave clinging to Wilbur’s mind and not wanting to let go of that feeling of godhood, or perhaps it had been the way Phil had taught him to land; perhaps he had taught him the way Phil would land and not the way Wilbur should land. Maybe Wilbur lost control of himself and faltered.
Either way, midway through their descent, Phil was far lower than Wilbur was, and Wilbur’s smile turned into a perfect circle of surprise as the wind whipped at his face when it turned into a free fall rather than a glide.
Had he screamed, perhaps Phil could’ve heard him and turned around instead of seeing Wilbur just shoot past him at terminal velocity. Maybe he could’ve done something.
That was the hardest part about tragedy; there was always a pallet of choices, each dipped in hope. It was like a hallway of doors, and only one was the exit. It was the unknowingness of it all that really made the tragedy-- that there were so many doors unopened and it was impossible to open them all. The tragedy of the poor man.
“Wilbur!” he screeched as soon as he saw him shoot down. Philza changed his own course, coming after his son with all his might, but even with all of that effort, how could it be enough?
The natural law would now allow it. Wilbur was moving too fast, and Phil was not moving fast enough.
He stretched his arm out, his necrotic fingers shaking as he grabbed at air for Wilbur, and he almost ripped his vocal chords apart when he came up with nothing. He veered back when he saw the green envelope his vision, abject horror washing over him as he watched from above, like a god, as Wilbur hit the ground.
It was a loud sound, one Phil was not soon to forget. It was the sound of when someone cracked their neck or their knuckles, but amplified about fifty times. In the back of his mind, Phil was somehow relieved that this time it was not a tree, and the front of his mind disdained him for the thought.
“Wilbur!”
He dropped to the ground, his legs shot with a numbing pain from the rough landing, and he ran to Wilbur’s side, gripping his shirt and pulling him up to an elevated position. Everything about his body was just wrong, it was worse than the other two times.
The first two times, he had the benefit of not knowing how it happened. He could make guesses, but he’d never really know how Wilbur ended up on the ground looking the way he did. But this-- this was all Phil’s fault. He had been there every step of the way, watched as he took off for the first time, trailed after him their entire flight-- what went wrong? What the fuck went wrong?
Why had it become like this? He had done everything right. Was this some sick joke made by a deity? Did he upset some magical being in his travels, and this was a punishment? It was beyond cruel. No one deserved to feel like this.
It was silent in the fields in the aftermath. Just Philza and Wilbur in the middle of the field, Phil’s heavy breaths and the soft rustle of the lavender. Then, out from the grass hopped a mourning dove, cooing at Phil, as if it were singing I told you so.
Phil did not consider himself a fool for undertaking this quest, but everytime he watched Wilbur die, a piece of himself shattered. How many times can one watch a part of himself die before he dies altogether?
There was nothing more important than knowledge in this world, and Phil was finding himself bankrupt.
He looked at the bird and he saw a challenge. Phil gathered Wilbur in his arms and flew back to his house. He tucked Wilbur into bed. The sheep was placed in his arms.
Back in his study, he took the Time-Retriever out and he stuck his fingers inside and flicked the switch and he thought of the morning. He had the knife in his pocket already. He looked at this Phil now and all he thought was how much he hated looking at this face. When he shoved the knife into the other Phil’s flesh, there was a moment of catharsis freeing him of this burden of self-hatred. And then the other Phil was out of sight, under the bed, and the Phil with a hand full of dead cells reaching his chest changed his clothes and headed into the kitchen for breakfast.
It was dim in the kitchen. Phil cleared a place for himself and Wilbur at the table, and he took out a slab of ground beef and some rice. He began to cook, tuning out the dawn chorus sitting on his windowsill.
When Wilbur entered, the sleep slipped away pretty quickly when he noticed Phil was cooking meatloaf. “Papa, are the people from the university coming over today?” was the first thing Wilbur asked. No ‘Good morning’ this time.
“No, Wil.”
“Then why are you cooking dinner right now? It’s morning.”
“It’s dinner,” Phil corrected. “We never had dinner.”
“Yeah…” said Wilbur warily, “because it’s morning.” There was mirth in his voice, as if Phil was being silly and this was all some big joke. Wilbur pointed at Phil’s hand. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
Phil pulled his sleeve down, though it couldn’t hide the necrosis on his fingers. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of painting, mate.”
“You were painting?”
“I was.”
Wilbur moved by the window, greeting the dawn chorus with a smile. “Hey, the weather looks really good. Do you think-- do you think today we can do the flying thing?”
“Sure.”
Phil left the papers where they were. He cooked up some eggs. His shoulder began to hiss from all the cell death. Wilbur made the toast. “Hey, the weather looks really good. Do you think-- do you think today we can do the flying thing?”
“We’ll try the basics today.”
Phil gathered all the papers on the desk in his arms and threw them out the window, letting the wind carry them away. He couldn’t keep looking at them.
Wilbur padded into the kitchen, a hoarse morning greeting hung in the air as he pulled out the toaster. “What are you doing, papa? What are you doing to all of your work?”
“I don’t want it anymore,” Phil said.
“Ah,” said Wilbur, glancing at the windows. “Hey, the weather looks really good. Do you think-- do you think today we can do the flying thing?”
The windows were drawn closed before Wilbur even woke up. There was no possible way the idea of flying would pop into his head.
Phil made pancakes this time, drizzled them in warm maple syrup and chopped up a side of assorted fruits. Wilbur walked into the kitchen, stubbing his foot on the corner of the counter.
“Why’s it so dark in here?” Wilbur howled. He jumped around on one foot as he held the other in his hands, making his way around the kitchen until he stopped in front of the window.
“Don’t open that--”
It was too late. Wilbur had already drawn the curtains open.
Cut.
Roll.
Change.
Exit.
It was muscle memory at this point.
Nothing was working. Phil had lost count of how many times he’d attempted this-- how many times he’d killed himself from another time, how many times he watched Wilbur die. He had tried just about everything, and Wilbur always ended up dead in his arms.
It was in a scientist’s best interests to believe everything in the world happened for a reason. If the world was nonsensical and chaotic, then there was no point to science and no point to humanity-- everything was just there. But reason-- reason brought purpose. As a man of logic, this was excellent news. As a father desperate to get his son back, he now had to reckon with the fact that his son might’ve died for a reason, and the universe was tearing them apart for another. Everything he had ever been had led to this, and this was leading to what? Why did Wilbur have to keep dying? Why did this keep happening?
And if everything did happen for a reason, then for what reason did Phil figure out the Time-Retriever? Was it not for the express purpose of bringing Wilbur home?
He lingered far longer in this timeline than the others. Long enough that rigor mortis set in for both this timeline’s Phil and Wilbur and they were soon to hit putrefaction, where the house would start to reek of body odors, but he couldn’t just leave. He had used the Time-Retriever so much that the necrosis had spread across his chest and creeped up his neck, little purple veins encroaching on his cheeks. There was a concern that there would soon come a time where Phil would reach his last jump before he found a chance to save Wilbur, and even then he wouldn’t be able to enjoy that goddamned victory against the universe.
Philza had to be smart. It had become increasingly obvious that preventative measures weren’t going to work-- he couldn’t go back and save Wilbur because somehow or another, Wilbur was going to die. It was good to just get it out there and treat it as fact so he could move on and find a new solution.
There was no future Wilbur to go to since he continued to be terminated on this specific date… But what if he created a future Wilbur? The Time-Keepers jumped into the future as well as the past, and it was generally concurred by scholars and folklorists alike that they most likely traveled in groups around time.
Phil, holding his head in his hands, grinned as the plan came together in his head like a perfectly solved puzzle. He got up and headed to his study, grabbing the Time-Retriever and putting everything in place to make the jump to that morning.
There he was, sleeping so soundly. Foolish, foolish man. Just like all the others, his throat was sliced, blood spraying all over Phil’s face and clothes. He was a little sloppy this time around, but he hadn’t been so excited for a plan since the first three attempts. He grabbed onto this timeline’s Phil’s shirt and threw him off the bed quite unceremoniously. He didn’t even bother to fully push him under the bed. It was a waste of time.
He was just going to grab Wilbur and head to the Time-Retriever after all. He looked around his room for anything he might need. His hands were trembling with anticipation and cell death. This could be the solution he had been looking for. All this time he had been playing by the rules of the universe, staying within the realms of time. He’d probably created tens of dozens of new timelines, but a device like the Time-Retriever wouldn’t exist if that wasn’t a natural skill.
The crime against time he would be committing was bringing something that expired within the timeline into a future it never would’ve seen. He’d bring them forth a day to test the limit. If he could skip past the day Wilbur could never pass, it was possible to avoid his death at all.
A knock on the bedroom door shook Phil out of thought and seized him with terror. He hadn’t left the room-- why was Wilbur up? This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Wilbur only woke up after Phil went into the kitchen to start cooking.
“Papa?” Wilbur called through the door. “Papa, can I come in?”
Phil glanced at this timeline’s Phil’s body, still sticking out on the floor, and he shoved it hard under the bed before answering, “Of course, mate!”
The moment the door creaked open and Phil locked eyes with his son, Wilbur’s eyes turned into moons of terror. He stood with his mouth agape and his eyes filling with tears, taking two steps back until he screamed.
Phil ran to his son’s side immediately, only to be pushed away by Wilbur as he continued to scream. “Wilbur, mate, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? Please don’t cry-- if you cry, I’ll start crying too, yeah? You don’t want that. Did you have a bad dream?”
Wilbur just continued to bawl until he pointed directly at Phil, and with a wobbly lip declared, “You’re not my papa!”
“W-what?” Phil stuttered, looking down at himself. His clothes were covered in blood and his skin was a sickly, unnatural coal.
“Monster!” he cried. In the hallway, Phil sent a passing glance at the mirror above the console, his eyebrows raised in surprise when he noticed just how different he actually looked from this timeline’s Phil. He hadn’t noticed how his sclera had turned black like his skin and his irises purple and his pupils just slits. The necrosis had invaded more of his face than he thought, and it occurred to Phil it had been a long time since he looked at himself in a mirror properly.
Still, his wings and his voice were the same. Sure, he had spots of blood on his face, but a son should know his father, just how Telemachus managed to recognize Odysseus, Wilbur should be able to do the same for Philza.
“I’m not a monster, mate, I am your papa. I’m Philza.” He puffed out his wings to demonstrate how he was still the same despite looking so different, but this only served to be perceived more as a threat to Wilbur.
He continuously shook his head as he scrambled backwards through the hall in hesitant spurts. “No! You’re not my papa! You’re a monster!” he waited, fat tears staining his cherub cheeks.
Phil’s eyebrow twitched with irritation at the continued accusation. Finally, he grabbed hold of his son’s shoulders and held him in place, forcing him to stare into his eyes. “I’m not a monster, Wilbur. I am your father!”
“No!” Wilbur kicked his feet out, but Phil managed to draw him into his chest and lock him into place by holding his head into the fabric of his clothes, his shirt still moist with this timeline’s Phil’s blood.
“Listen to me, Wilbur! I’m here to save you!” he said through gritted teeth, as it was quite the effort to keep the rambunctious Wilbur still. He was always moving, and it was impossible to keep him down-- it was like pinning a wave to the shore. That was how Wilbur got into most of his messes.
He picked him up and started down the hall towards the study, eager to get his hands on the Time-Retriever. His son was inconsolable.
Wilbur bared his teeth, still growing his adult ones, and chomped down on Phil’s shoulder filled with necrosis, sending a shooting pain down his arm. As if it wasn’t already in a perpetual state of pain due to its condition of cell death, now it had an eight year old out for blood biting it.
It was enough force to get Phil to let go, and it gave Wilbur ample time to race down the hallway and out the front door. “No!” Phil screeched, clamoring out the door after Wilbur. He was a fast runner-- he was already out of sight of the yard by the time Phil got out there.
“Wilbur!” he roared. The world was still not properly lit by the sun as it rose from the east. Phil made passing eye contact with the mourning doves on his roof, daring him to move-- daring him to find Wilbur.
He would. He would find Wilbur and he would bring Wilbur into the future and they would be happy again. He just needed to find Wilbur and make him see reason, see Phil. Monster? How could his own son think him a monster? He only looked this way because of Wilbur. He did all of this for Wilbur!
Phil bolted through the forest, every now and then tripping on a stone or a bush due to the ashy lighting of the landscape. He knew this direction; he knew it very well. It was the direction he ran in about forty percent of the time. The same tree as the prime incident.
Not this time too? And all for what-- because he had been frightened by Phil’s appearance? It was still him! Gods, it was still him! “Wilbur!” he bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Wilbur, please come back! I promise I’m your papa! I wouldn’t lie to you!”
The forest was silent. Forests were usually filled with a vibrant array of sounds, but now it was quiet. It only got quiet when a predator neared. A forest always knew when it was threatened.
Phil stopped in his tracks and whipped around. Was it possible an animal got to Wilbur? Tore through his flesh like a little deer? No. No, he would’ve heard a scream.
(He didn’t hear a scream the past fifty times).
“Wilbur! Wilbur! Wilbur!” he cried, breath becoming sparse as he continued his calls until his voice was hoarse. He walked instead of ran, using the trees as support as he wandered through the woods. Slowly, the light began to bleed through the leaves overhead, illuminating the forest in its morning glory.
That was when he saw it: Wilbur slumped over, his temple connected to a wayward stone, the tip of his foot latched onto the root of a tree. It had been instant-- no time to scream.
Phil came around to Wilbur’s front side. His face was still stuck in that terrified expression, the same one that looked upon Phil with so much fear and disdain, disowning him as a father.
He crouched down, closing Wilbur’s eyes gently with the tips of his fingers.
This time, he did not try to fly.
This time, it was not Wilbur’s need to fly that killed him, but Phil.
It was all Phil.
The other attempts were all Phil too, weren’t they? Wilbur only ever really needed to die once, didn’t he? But Philza, in his grief, drew it out as long as possible in this misguided quest to bring Wilbur back.
It was always going to be an impossibility, wasn’t it? Bringing him into the future, saving him just another day only for the universe to kill him again.
Wilbur was never meant to fly, and he was never meant to live past eight. The rest of it had been his fault as well. He could’ve cherished his time with Wilbur while he had it. It was a universal fact that all living beings die-- so Phil knew his time was limited with Wilbur one way or another. One of them was always going to leave first. He thought it would’ve been himself.
There would be no more attempts. He couldn’t even if he wanted to-- Wilbur was right. He was no longer his papa, no longer Philza. He was a strange, deformed creature, so far removed from the original image of the god that created him, walking around half-dead with unnatural eyes. He had killed himself so many times for the chance to have Wilbur, but he never deserved it.
Not one bit.
He gathered Wilbur in his arms and brought him back to the house, laying him in the front yard as he went back inside to drag his own body out. He laid them next to each other as he dug through his shed to find a shovel.
He dug until he had a hole big enough for two bodies to rest, and he gently laid them inside next to each other, putting this timeline’s Philza’s hand over Wilbur’s. Phil kneeled over the hole for a long time, the dawn chorus landing around him and singing a funeral song for the occasion.
Oh, how envious Phil was of this Phil, to be able to die and be with his son.
When the sun was overhead, Phil filled the hole and marked the graves with some stones he found in the forest.
He briefly thought of the story that had drawn him to this house.
He and Kristin had been house-hunting all throughout her pregnancy. It was a chance for them to settle down somewhere together and raise this miracle child with the plan to have more in the future, after they managed to master parenthood with their first-- with Wilbur.
Everyone in the area had told them the house was cursed-- it had been abandoned by everyone who ever tried to live in it, and he supposed he took that as a challenge. He had seen himself in the traveler father character, and he had believed in second chances. A redemption for a structure that was unfairly disdained by the public.
Kristin was always a bit more superstitious. She believed in things like curses and negative energy and she hadn’t loved the place, but she saw how much it meant to Phil, and so they bought the house. He should’ve listened to her.
All he saw in himself now was the eldest daughter: a desperate recluse that made a pivotal mistake and didn’t know how to let go.
Now all he could do was try and redeem himself in this lifetime and let these two souls rest. He had terrorized enough Philzas and Wilburs for a lifetime.
Phil wandered back into the house and stared at the Time-Retriever until the sun went down. Time-Retriever was such a terrible name for this device. It didn’t retrieve anything. All it did was steal. It stole Phil’s life-force, it stole what was left of his youth and it stole his mind. He was nothing now-- he didn’t even have a timeline to return to.
This was it for him, it seemed. No timeline, no family.
First he went to Wilbur’s room and grabbed the sheep, Friend, off his bed.
Then he went to his study.
He sat down behind his desk and put his fingers through the holes of the Time-Retriever. He thought of a particularly happy memory, from before Wilbur was born. Then it was there, brought to life by the purple particles of the Time-Retriever.
His love was there, bound to the bed as per the doctor’s orders. Her pregnancy had been a particularly grueling one, and numerous times they thought either he would give up or they would have to give him up, but he had been a fighter til the day he was born.
She had taken up crocheting as a way to pass the time, and their shared bed was already littered with countless blue baby outfits for when Wilbur finally arrived. As that Phil walked through the door of their bedroom, Kristin was working on a blue stuffed animal-- a sheep. He entered and crawled onto the bed to give her a kiss, holding a paper bag with a handle in one of his hands.
“I’ve brought you a treat, my darling,” he grinned, shaking the bag to raise her excitement. Kristin put down the crochet and clapped her hands.
“What is it? Is it chocolate? I could really use some chocolate.”
Phil sighed, pulling out a box of chocolates. “You got me.”
“It’s not that hard. You’re kind of predictable, sometimes.”
Phil flattened out on the bed, turning his head to look at Kristin’s project. “What’s that?”
“It’s a gift for little Wil. I want him to have a lifelong friend after all.”
Phil shook his head with amusement.
The current Phil did not stick his hand through the timeline this time. He just watched on.
Phil cycled through many old memories, the necrosis spreading through the healthy parts of his body. The entire time he clutched Friend in between his arms until the Time-Retriever fizzled out, and Phil’s head slumped forward, a thin-lipped smile finally and forever on his face.
Outside, the dawn chorus sang him a song.