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The first time he met them, it was on a beach.
It was not after his first death, and it was not before his last, either. It was after iterations of failure, of learning, of finally understanding the limits of each reality he was sent to, the rules that plagued each one and the punishment that came with them.
It was after at least a few centuries had passed in his life, forced to survive in different circumstances with nothing but the landscape provided before him. It was after he’d begun to lose count of the number of times he’d died. It was after he’d forgotten to keep track of time.
It was the black fin breaking the surface of the sea that signaled their arrival to him. A song he’d begun to forget piercing the air, a cry from an animal that would soon become a thing of myth to these people who’ve not seen one before.
It was the sudden ferocity of the hogs in the village by the sea that told him they were close. For even though he had never met them, he had met those like them. And he knew that they could be as cruel as they were kind, and that if anything, he should keep distance between them — he and the village — for the village people are not yet ready to meet their makers.
Not yet.
And so, as he felt the water run over his sandals and the grains of sand rush in the gaps between his toes, he waited.
Waited to be smited.
Waited to be pushed down further into his despair, into his inescapable pit of the infinite.
Waited to be punished further than he already had before.
So the introduction of a language so familiar… That — he found — was not the most unexpected thing.
“D’you think that’s him, Techno?”
It was these voices...
“I think so. Or else we have two mortals of the same description, forced to live in an eternity of our making.”
They were ones that the man had never heard of before.
They were not the rumble of an earthquake, of a foreboding danger fast approaching. They were not the clashes of waves in a storm as one sits in a dingy boat, being tossed and turned with no end in sight. It did not leave behind the deafening silence that came with agony, and it brought to him anything but a horrible sense of dread.
Cautiously, he tore his eyes away from the flaming horizon and slowly turned his head.
What greeted him were two strangers, who watched him with the same mixture of amusement and curiosity one has when one encounters something so foreign, whose caution and sense of danger kept them from coming closer, as if he were a wild animal yet to be tamed.
But the man knew that despite their looks, despite their fear and awe of him, that they held the power in this interaction, that they were more than they appeared to be.
“And who might you be?” He asked, and his words made them flinch in surprise, as if they did not expect to be talked back to, as if they didn’t expect to be seen .
“I— We— Uh— ”
The first to give a stammered semblance of a reply was the one who’s eyes widened more, who instinctively stepped further back behind the other, whose dark hair and darker eyes reminded the man of the earth, of the ground that he stood upon, the one constant in a life that existed with none.
The sound of his voice could be described as enchanting without magic, intoxicating without the poison that came afterwards. It was a voice that — if the man were still unknowledgeable of such tricks — would have easily persuaded him of anything the other desired.
“You can see us?” The second that asked with a tone of curiosity and a drop of worry, who crossed his arms in a manner that hid the fear that coated over him like a blanket, whose long bright hair swayed slightly despite the strong ocean wind, coloured with a vibrancy that couldn’t be obtained on any earth by any mundane means.
His voice was not one of power but one of violence, a role of leadership in the hands of one who’s seen enough, who knows more than he should. And if not for the man’s will and penchant for peace, he knew his hands would twitch towards his sword and relish the blood that would spill over the blade.
“Yes, of course.”
The man gave them a friendly smile as he studied them both.
Visually, their youthful appearance marked them as younger than him — that was apparent. The strength one loses with age could clearly be seen in their posture rather than their muscles, and the energy that fueled their personalities bubbled up through the cracks of the tension between the two parties. And yet he knew intrinsically that they were more than that.
It was their eyes that gave it away — twin gazes that seemingly dissected his entire being as if he were a creature newly born into the world and not someone who’s lived for much, much longer.
It was obvious what they were.
“My punishment has its upsides, it seems.” He chuckled. “However, you never answered my question.”
The two glanced at each other, a message passing through them. A millenia’s worth of conversations, spoken in silence in an instant through eye movements and the slightest tug of the corner of their mouth. A fraction of a pout. Relaxed eyelids.
The one who spoke first was the one with pink hair, who turned to the man with a sense of unease. As if conversations with mortals was a talent he was yet to master, spoken with a sense of care, as if the words themselves were landmines that sat in the spaces between them.
“I am the lord of battles well fought, and the master of the beaten roads.” He began. “I am the overseer of the strong and a guide to the weak. I observe only the most dangerous of man’s conflicts, and create paths of safety for those who desperately need it.”
Their eyes met, and the man could see his eyes were like amber. A honey that seemed to preserve all the things he’s ever seen.
“You may call me Techno, for that is the name my followers had provided for me.”
The god gestured a hand towards the other.
“And my brother…”
“I am the lord of sweet sounds, and master of sweeter charms.” The words came out as the rush of a river untamed, bundled nerves and unexpected surprise. “I am the director of universal melodies and the instigator of all worldly passions. I control all that is auditory and all that is adored.”
Though he faced the man with the power that came with his status, his refusal to look at him directly was almost all too obvious.
“Refer to me as Wilbur, as those are the prayers I answer to.”
The man regarded the two gods before him with more interest than awe, as they observed him back, waiting for a response.
Of course, he knew who they were. The twin gods of Love and War, the children of Pain and Victory. The tales were common enough, the story of their birth and the chaos their influence left behind rippling through universes to become simply a mere myth to retell and interpret in storybooks with wild differentiations between them.
But more importantly — by the standards of the giants that wandered the earth unseen — they were young. Inexperienced in the ways of their realms, and of the realms of others.
And perhaps, they had heard mere myths of him as well.
“It is an honour to meet you, my lords.” He replied, lifting his chin higher to refuse them the satisfaction provided by their status. “I am— ”
“Phil, the wanderer of eternal worlds.” Techno finished for him. “The betrayer who’s actions caused even Death to refuse him, whence he arrived at her door.”
“Phil, the one who even the gods themselves could not bear to see.” Wilbur added. “Out of both the anger he had caused and the fear he had invoked. The only mortal to ever do so.”
The man — Phil — smiled, amused.
“I wasn’t aware I was worthy enough for a title.” He mused. “Perhaps if I gain the opportunity again I may give it another try.”
He chuckled, a joke that only entertained himself, for the twins only looked at each other with worry.
“Do you regret it?” Wilbur asked, his slow words cautious. “If you returned back to that moment, and had the choice in your hands once more. Would you do it again?”
And the mortal looked up at the beings so beautiful in their human skins, so intelligent and wise beyond all that he could ever imagine. And the mortal gave a small laugh, with the slightest shake of his head, as if the gods did not know better than him, as if he were the one who held all the cards.
“Of course I would.”
Phil did not expect there to be a second visit.
Or perhaps more accurately, he hoped there wouldn’t be.
The meddling of the gods in the business of mortals is meant to be rare for a reason. And even in circumstances such as his, an immortal with a hand in his affairs could only end in Their amusement at the expense of his disaster.
He would be another character in their game, like Their playthings before him. He would be the man set out on a quest put before him, running a meaningless errand They put on his path, only for his story to end in tragedy, as They intended.
No one wanted to be a pawn. That’s why They called it something pretty — Their heroes — adding the flashy lights and promising riches to those who were lucky enough to be one.
But Phil learned the hard way that it never mattered. All heroes end, in one way or another. They die, or they fall from grace, or they trip off that false pedestal that They had set them on. An apple of gold, a bottle of dragon’s flame. It never mattered what they retrieved for their patrons, because their patrons would never leave them alone.
It was a contract, tried and true. One bound so that it may never break even after death. One so intricately woven that there was only way to tear it to shreds.
At the thought, the corners of his lips curled upwards, just the slightest bit.
“I am pleased that even our presence provides you with amusement, oh eternal wanderer .”
The god of war almost spat that title, the name a sign of respect turned mockery. A show of his achievement… If it could even be called that. And clearly, even Techno was reluctant to think so.
That was to be expected.
But at the sound of the word amusement, the god of love perked up, suddenly attentive.
“It isn’t your presence—” Phil began, standing tall and firm in his own household, looking at his uninvited guest dead in the eyes. But Wilbur interrupted him before he could even finish.
“Then what may amuse this legendary monster of the gods?” He asked, with a spark of curiosity, and perhaps maybe even something more. “What might amuse the thing which no god dares to touch?”
“Not no god.” The mortal argues pointedly, and the laugh that comes from the young deity is musical in nature. The beginnings of a song, though a bitter one.
“Of course, of course.” He concedes. “Yet we are not like our mothers or fathers before us. We are simply…”
“Suspicious.” Techno interjects.
“Curious.” Wilbur corrects. “Curious and… What some may call adventurous.”
“Neglectful.” His brother adds, with a glare at his equal. “Some of us at least.”
“Then if a god is neglectful of his domain,” Phil’s voice was soft, quiet, almost miniscule compared to theirs. And yet their heads turned to him in sync as if it were a thunderclap, their unnatural eyes boring down into his soul. “Would that then therefore make him no different from his followers?”
The effect was immediate, and more than he could ever ask for.
An arrow, notched in the intricate bow of a talented marksman who knew not but hearts and sounds. Shining and silver, it gave off a glow attained by none other than the moon, bringing an aura of cold silent nights into the daylight around them. Aiming at the sky, he fired; the arrow disintegrating the minute it left his hands as it pierced the air, sending waves of noise ringing down on them all like rain.
A spear, an inch from his throat from the child who commanded the blood that spilled onto the bright green battlefields on dark and stormy eves. Bright and gold, it was just as the tales described it; carved from the sun and the stars themselves, a gift that brought only the heat and passion of battle to its wielder.
For just the briefest of moments, Phil’s eyes widened. Shock filled his features as the gods put their power on full display, a show of the strength that made them feared through all the realms they ruled over.
This was the fury of the War God, the overseer of all bloodshed.
This was the fury of the Love God, the commander of all hearts and minds.
The twins both smiled with the knowledge that they held the upper hand. That — if they wished — the man could simply cease existing at the slightest bit of movement. A flick of the hand, a slight jab, and he would be gone.
“You dare challenge us, wanderer?” Techno demanded. “We are the incarnate of your human trials and tribulations.”
“We are the flames that you fail to extinguish.” Wilbur’s playful voice was a roar. “We are the unruly passions of your impulsive young minds!”
In the room together, they froze time. The knights, coming to slay the beast that hid in the cave. The thing which terrorized their village, the thing that only sought blood.
But then, the mortal before them gave a hearty laugh; a sound so full it overpowered the air-piercing arrow, a grin so wide it made the spear-wielder falter.
“Is it this which is amusing to you?” The god of music loaded his bow once more, this time aiming for Phil’s heart. But the man doubled over, clutching his stomach as he tried to catch his breath.
“You think I fear an end?” He asked them between gasps. “I cannot fear what doesn’t exist. I cannot fear what I can never experience firsthand.”
Techno hesitated, before shoving the spear close enough that the edge bit into his skin, forcing him up again in a semblance of calm. The glow of the blade seemed to amplify as blood was drawn, the heat like a hot summer’s day under the man’s chin.
“That... is not possible.” The god of love said with confidence, even as his string momentarily went taut, even as he looked to his brother for reassurance.
“You bluff.” The blood god hissed, defensive against the unarmed. “No such thing exists who does not fear their own downfall.”
“Well,” The mortal gave a tilt of the head and shrugged. “Then you did what you do best, like your mothers and fathers before you.”
And the man pushed himself closer to the gods, the unnerving calm and good humour in his eyes enough to make them step back. Was it terror?
Phil would like to think it was.
“You created one.”
He thought that it would be enough.
He thought that becoming the thing they sought to see would allow him peace. And for a while, it did.
The second visit occurred months after the first. And once they left, Phil was greeted with a welcome silence that lasted a few years.
So when they arrived without warning in his vast fields of wheat, he couldn’t help but groan, understanding that perhaps this was his torment now; a babysitter of the divinities, for the beings who perhaps didn’t learn their lesson the first time.
And after the third, the fourth came soon after. Then a fifth.
What once was a rarity became something that occurred once or twice a year. Appearing in the worst of circumstances — no matter if it be in the middle of the night or on his travels thousands of miles from home — they came to disturb him. Sometimes covered in dirt and grime, and other times stained red from battle, they followed him around like ducks for hours as he did the tasks he set out for the day.
Phil learned quickly that any attempt at ignoring them was futile. For of course, they had power over the realms, and the universe created specifically for him was no exception.
An annoyed Techno might aggravate the pigs and hogs surrounding him, and would laugh as he watched his army of sacred animals chase and attack, only calling them off once the man gave in and provided them attention.
An irritated Wilbur could provide silent never-ending jingles of music that wormed its way into his ears, catchy and pleasing until they began to loop and linger, finding entertainment in watching the mortal slowly go mad. Only when the man turned and finally listened to them did he let the music dissipate, fading from the world as if it were never there.
And a majority of the time, Phil found no mind in it.
He took their fits of anger in stride, in the same way he took the godly punishments that once frequented him in the past. The pigs he would capture — to the dismay of the War God — and give back to the villagers who rewarded him with food, materials, and currency to keep him safe and well on his journeys. The music he would hum in camps around the fire, attracting merry men who would keep him company for however long the dark skies lasted, parting ways once day breaks and allowing him to make new friends.
Only have there ever been two occasions where the twins had gone too far.
The first time, it was the fault of the Travelling God.
Or, perhaps to call it a gift would be more precise, though still an unwanted one at that.
It was an unusually warm spring afternoon when it happened, as if the weather too desired to greet the divinities with brightness and positivity.
And as it often so happened to be, Phil got the barest of warnings, as they materialized behind them with an eerie silence that dared not to disturb the air around them.
Yet still, the man could tell when they arrived: With them they brought the smell of dark winter nights, of a world that equaled a stranger to him, when once they were perhaps the best of friends. With them they brought the smell of smoke and gunfire, of pain and anger and conflict; Things he had not seen in a long time.
“And where have you escaped from today?” He asked, cocking his head to the sound of their clothes shuffling in the still air.
“We do not escape—” Techno began vehemently, but with a cheerful laugh, Wilbur cut him off.
“A battlefield!” He said, and the man could see him sitting on the storage chests scattered about the room out of the corner of his eye. “One so grandiose and full of terror, of soldiers crying out to those who will feel their loss the hardest, with aching hearts and poisoned minds… And when I bloom the memories of those left behind—” He sighed, turning to the exasperated God of War. “Their motivation is like a flame, and I am the spark. Is that not so, brother?”
“And yet our tasks are to observe, not interfere.” He replied with annoyance. “And yet again, you fail to listen.”
“But you are the sole observer of the souls of warriors, are you not?” The younger said with a smile. “Whilst I bring love and hope to those deprived of it?”
Phil allowed them to bicker, as he closed his bag and secured his brimmed hat with a quiet sigh, feeling the weight of the objects within as he lifted it up off the ground.
He believed himself to be cautious when his steps fell lightly onto the stone floor towards the door. He thought himself clever as the quiet taps of his sandals were masked by the echoing voices of the gods behind him.
But perhaps the man should have known better, for outsmarting the divine has never ended well for anyone, as it certainly did not for him.
“And where might you be heading off to, eternal wanderer?” The melodic voice of the love god dripped with amusement and good humour, causing the mortal to stiffen in his place. “Off on an escape of your own?”
“A simple and quick travel to the trading post,” Phil replied lightly, his own voice strained. “it won’t take too long.”
“ Simple and quick ?” Techno repeated incredulously. “What part of the journey is so easy that it can be called ‘simple’? How short is a day’s trek to you that could be described as ‘quick’?”
“In the eyes of men who are left untouched by time.” He paused, before turning to face them, gripping his belongings tight. “To the minds of those who call mortals by titles instead of their first names.”
His eyes met the god’s in an unflinching stare.
“To them, it will not take long.”
And when the War God blinked first, it was out of surprise.
“But to the traveler—” He began, as if the notion of long distances were absurd. So terribly absurd, that it left the deity at a loss for words.
“To the traveler used to the beaten paths, it would mean nothing.” Phil finished with a wave as he turned back to his exit. “To the traveller it is barely of any concern.”
The words he spoke rang true in the home made of wood and stone.
And ever yet, it left the immortal baffled.
“As the god of safe roads, I offer my aid.” He tried, taking a step after the man, but the man put up a hand in dismissal.
“And with that aid comes a price, does it not?” His response was exasperated in tone as he stopped once more in his tracks. “Perhaps a task, an errand. Perhaps a sacrifice. Things I am unable and unwilling to give. No,” He began to move again. ”I’ll choose to walk.”
“But we would never ask for much!” Wilbur protested in the stead of his brother, standing from his place where he watched the whole ordeal. Yet the man stayed firm on his word, stubborn and unmoving.
“Even one request is one I cannot afford. And no god deals offers to mortals for free.”
“Though that may be—” Techno began, and at that Phil turned to him with a glare sharp enough to quiet the divinity, laced with a finality and an end.
“I will take no trades with you, nor acts of charity from the world above.” His annoyance was almost all too clear. “Is that understood?”
Looking back, the man regrets not feeling the once relaxed atmosphere go tense as he turned his back away, robes brushing against his ankles in the wind.
Looking back, he realized that the eerie silence that came afterwards was one of a dangerous calm. That the rhythmic steps of the melodic god were one of urgency, of panic, and not a simple quiet he had first envisioned.
He should have seen it coming. Perhaps if he had just taken the deal, all would have been fine.
Perhaps if he had not come to find a sense of peace with the twins, perhaps if he had not begun to lower his guard around them, he would have remembered the power they held and the danger they posed.
His warning was a cry from the younger of the two, a chord strummed from an instrument that has seen naught but pain, and only sought to prevent more.
Wilbur’s scream of Techno’s name was ear-piercing without the volume, a siren of horror, a bright light in the darkness before a crash.
It was the cue Phil needed to turn as his foot landed on the bright gravel path outside, and it was just enough to catch a glimpse of the war god’s eerie smile as their eyes met. As he raised a hand into the air and gave the most feeble snap ; an action that rippled the air they breathed, the roaring sea, and the land that lay beneath their feet.
An action that held consequences to men and meant nothing to the divine.
There was never any hope to escape the fate that awaited him. But of course like a wild animal, he tried anyway.
His feet kicked up the stones and pebbles underneath him as he felt the world go quiet, could hear the adrenaline pump in his veins as his hair stood on end, every cell in his body trembling, anticipating.
Would the clouds lose their magic and fall to the ground with gravity? Would the land that once lay thousands of miles away suddenly clash onto the edges of the cliff, smashing together like broken puzzle pieces?
Those were the questions Phil pondered as his muscles began to ache, as his head began to pound, as a prick of hot and cold began to bloom from the small of his back—
It didn’t take long for the man to find himself sprawled on the ground, agony like a bird digging its talons into flesh, the weight like the universe itself was burdening itself onto him, ripping him apart, breaking apart his every being, fissuring his very soul.
He could only hear the roaring in his ears, deafening his very senses. He could feel his throat go sore without ever remembering to open his mouth to scream.
It was a pain that was white and blinding. It was an agony of something being pulled out of him.
It was a pain that dragged him down to drown in an ocean of endless black.
It was a pain that left his body abuzz with a hum of relief when he awoke on his side in the soft and comforting glow of the full moon on the bed he had made for himself.
Spring nights are always cold. That was an intrinsic fact that ingrained itself into his memory, that stuck with him from his life before. No matter how much warmth the sun may bring when the sky brightened with its infinite blue, the moon took it away with its embrace.
And yet, despite the shadows that cloaked over him like a blanket, Phil felt only a soft sense of warmth at his back, dispelling his panic and numbing his terror, leaving him only with a sense of calm that only came from waking out of a bad dream.
Though, as his blue eyes met the startled ones of the god of music — shoulders sagging with relief — the man immediately had the dreaded feeling that his nightmare was just getting started.
“He is awake!” Wilbur called to his brother in a tone that covered his smiles and shuddered breaths, his palpitating heart and his care for the beast that lay an arm’s reach away.
Phil sat up with difficulty as the war god approached, feeling a weight trying to tip him back, like a rope tied around his torso keeping him unbalanced, a malevolent force preventing him from meeting the deity with equal footing as he was observed with a sly amusement.
For the first time in a very long time, the mortal — the monster, the creature feared even by the horrors of man — was uneasy, untrusting, as he was looked down upon with triumph by the god.
“It seems you are awake.”
“Unfortunately,” Fear shot through his veins, and yet despite that, his voice was steady and calm. “And further yet, I am not where I said I would be.”
“That coy and cocky nature of yours will one day be your downfall,” The god tutted disapprovingly. “As will your difficulty in accepting boons from those that only seek to aid you.”
“Difficulty that comes from knowledge and experience.” Phil snapped back. “Difficulty that comes from a history of regret and distrust.”
“A difficulty that helps not the weak mortal who needs it.” He brushed the words aside as if they meant nothing to a being as powerful as he. “A difficulty which requires a force of hand.”
The man stood — damning whatever bindings that held him back — blazing with a fury untamed and uncontrolled, which brought more fire than the sun spear that hung at Techno’s side.
“You—” He started with gritted teeth, a foot out to close the gap between them, tension at a boiling point.
Then, a whoosh. Widened eyes. A smirk.
Phil froze as he felt a pair of muscles move on his back — muscles he knew he didn’t have — bones and tissues that were once nonexistent suddenly coming alive as if it were a machine, stretching to its limits as it woke up, succumbing the pair under an impossibly large shadow.
The speed of it forced him forward, hurtling to the ground as massive dark feathers fell around him like rain.
Feathers .
Attempts to move were futile with the object weighing down heavily upon him, and only brought reality crashing down further as the wanderer felt the comfort of something warm and soft brush against his arm, and something cool and thin brush against nerves in turn, as sensation shot up from his back into his mind from a limb he realized he never had,
He didn’t have to look up as the shadow came to settle over him — the click of heels on the stone flooring was enough to signify who had crouched down at his side, voice signifying the smile that played on the face of the creature that so badly wanted to show his power over all the man held dear.
“What did you do?” Phil demanded, but even to his ears they were hollow, weak, and pained.
“A gift.”
And even just through his voice, the expression of victory on the face of the War God was clear.
“A gift from the world above,” He continued. “So that you may not ask for any other.”
The man wished for the fury to burn in him once more to destroy the calm, now long gone cold from fear.
“A gift I never asked for—”
“And yet, it was received all the same—”
“You gave me wings !”
Phil’s outburst rang out in the dark as his fist collided with the cold hard floor, the last word cracking with anger and terror and an agony that could never encompass what he truly felt. But when he gained the energy to look up, he could see the god falter above him, and his twin wince in the darkness behind him.
“You made me into the monsters of your stories, a thing who could possibly live up to the name that you’ve created for me. A beast, an animal, because you couldn’t bear the thought that I was the thing that made you cower as children.”
“You are still mortal—” Techno said, trying to brush off the concern.
“ You took my humanity! ”
The echo reverberated throughout the room, causing the god — the unmovable and unfeeling great divinity — to flinch back, indifference turning into… something else. Horror? Remorse?
Phil didn’t care. Everything ached, and he was tired.
“Please,” His voice was low and trembling. “return it.”
“I… I can’t.” The god’s response was feeble.
“Then leave.”
Techno hesitated — the silence deafening — before choosing to stand, the air heavy on them both. Heavy with regret. Disappointment.
He never had the chance to see them leave, as his familiar striped rimmed hat fell over his eyes.
By the time he managed to wrestle it off, the boys had disappeared. Gone, as quickly and quietly as they had come.
At first, he stubbornly refused their lessons, hiding the limbs under the folds of his cloak, tucking them in and keeping them from ever seeing the light of day.
But with the wings came a loss of the grace from his movements, and the quiet ways in which he maneuvered through the world unseen. For the stupid things made him clumsy, for they jutted out and moved unexpectedly as he went about his day, for even the smallest twitch of his arm could make him stumble as the wings did the same, causing him to sprawl onto the ground sputtering a fountain of curses, forcing him to explain to the village people his story with an awkward smile, making note to never venture there again.
So of course eventually, he gave in.
Lessons in which the twin gods taught him each nerve, bone, and sinew in his newly found limbs; whether it be through the lightest brushes of the finger tracing paths of each and every feather, or the weight of agony as they wounded him, the pain echoing through his body like a thunderbolt, crushing him to his very core.
Lessons in which he was taught movement, through the way they trembled with music, each feather vibrating from the waves of sound with an astounding excitement that couldn’t help but overtake him. Lessons in which they showed him how the same limbs trembled to the cold, through walks in the snow that nearly got him frost bitten, shivering in nothing but his summertime clothes. Lessons in which they taught him body language, aggravating him until the wings opened up instinctually and overshadowed them, or terrifying him to the point they refused to open up at all.
It made him feel like a child, being taught by children who didn’t know what they were doing. It made him feel as though the increase of visits from yearly to monthly to weekly became just an excuse to torment him further than they already have, a way to make him the terrible creature that plagued their sleepless nights, that stood in the shadows with a blade, waiting for the perfect time to strike.
But he had to admit that the more time he spent with them, the less he began to see them as enemies.
What was once considered nothing more than torture to a man who’d never experienced hell had gradually become a life of warm smiles and playful banter. When once Phil gave the twins glares of distrust, he slowly began to find their company enjoyable, as he taught them the ways of his normalcy, as they had begun to teach him theirs.
There was a time when Techno would scoff at the sight of the sweat and effort put into the crop fields the wanderer had built for himself. There was a time he would have argued the use, for were they not inpermanent anyways? But after days of tending to the delicate seeds himself whilst being guided by Phil’s expertise, the man found the god tending to the fields of potatoes with a spark in his eyes, a terrifying focus and determination that made the poor things grow bigger, faster, and more plentiful than they’ve ever had before.
There was a time when Wilbur would observe with amusement the strangers who they passed by on their travels, who planted ideas into the hearts of men that ignited like a star, an undying passion that caused their love or their loss. There was a time where he saw men as puppets to be toyed with, to be broken and left on the side, discarded once they lost their value. But it was Phil who introduced him to the curious things called communication and human creativity, who showed him that making an impact on their histories could be just as thrilling as tampering with their thoughts and hopes and dreams, that sometimes it was just as fun to be seen. And it didn’t take long for the God of Music to insist on tagging along on adventures in the guise of a mortal man, providing each and every soul he greeted with a love more true than any he could instill in them artificially as they walked through various streets and landmarks that left even him in full awe.
And though the man enjoyed the time he spent with the gods immensely, he still couldn’t help but remember the things they did to him every time he saw himself reflected in a lake or a mirror, turning around with an expectancy of an attack only to realize that the things he would have seen once as enemies were now attached to him, as they would forever be.
He couldn’t help but feel as if something intrinsic about him had changed, something more than physical, something more than the feathers that warmed his back and the limbs that shifted around like they had a life of their own.
Something beyond his mind and body. Something beyond even his soul.
So of course, when it came time for the gods to teach him his newfound power of flight, he refused without hesitation. For humans were meant to stay grounded, were not meant to balance in the air and glide with the birds the swooped and dived and brush the clouds with bare hands.
But as he should’ve learned, as he should have already known , that they both were stubborn. Once an idea came to mind, it took more than a simple refusal for them to let it go.
So when he suddenly found himself taking a step from a lone dirt path onto clouds and air, the dry and crumbling brown turning to the grey of stone under his feet, he couldn’t help but catch himself with a yelp, wings flapping wildly, uncontrollably as he stumbled backwards, away from the edge and falling at the feet of two snickering boys. Boys who had taken him from nowhere to somewhere, boys who bent reality to their will, boys who probably couldn’t care less if he had actually fallen out of the sky and died.
And that theory was no further confirmed to be true when the two threw him off the cliff as if he were a mere beach ball, sending him hurtling down towards the ground with a scream.
It didn’t take much coaxing for his wings to spread out, for them to catch the air and let him ride the wind like a wave, as instinctual as breathing or walking or making any noise at all. And it took no longer for his rising heart to settle back in his chest, for every fiber in his being to calm, and for that cry of terror that screeched across the valley to morph into a nervous laughter that followed the hum of adrenaline that coursed in his veins.
The gods laughed over it afterwards as a show, a piece of theatre. But from then on, Phil was a little less reluctant when it came to the thought of flight, the idea itself like a siren’s song that called to him, the potential making him smile in a way he would never admit to the twins.
In the same way that there were many things he kept from them, from their eyes that — despite being all-knowing — were constantly curious, wide and waiting for an experience they’ve yet to have, a story they’ve yet to hear.
That day — the day when they successfully chipped a piece of that knowledge away from his heart — was the second time they had crossed the boundary that he had thought was set in stone.
It was autumn, a harvest season.
The months when the summer warmth leaked out of the air and back into the ground, where the leaves fell in a patter of scarlet and gold, where the shivers and goosebumps that came every time Phil stepped outside signified another day closer to winter, to ice and snow and the cold.
Yet despite it, the three found ways to make the most of it, boiling and roasting their food over a campfire as the lights began to dim, wandering under the dozing trees on the brightest of afternoons, telling stories of their ventures as they waited for the sun to wake once more.
And it was during one of these early mornings that Wilbur began his tale.
A tale they could laugh over, of an unfortunate mortal man in the woods, of a fish, and a fox, and the god’s own boredom. A story crafted through an enchantment, a love that he eased into the mind of the man, let nurture and grow, watching what once was civilized turn wild with obsession, until he finally succumbed to Wilbur’s delusions with a fox in his arms and a heart that belonged wholeheartedly to the salmon that swam to the sea.
If it were not for the fact that Phil knew it was real, it would be an amusing story to rival even the great comedies of his past, the theatre of parties gone awry, of plans changing and morphing into a series of unexpectancies, their paths twisting and turning until they became something unrecognizable from the start.
It didn’t prevent the man from smiling politely however as the brothers chuckled over the influence of their power, of the fragility of the humans they watched and ruled over in silence, meddling and muddling in their affairs as they did to him.
“It was all in good fun.” Techno reassured him, noticing his strained silence. “All was well in the end, for all the wild things. They lived in comfort till the end, did they not?”
“Oh, of course!” Wilbur replied with a grin. “Though, unfortunately my power does not extend to life and age. I’d imagine the mortal had been alright since then, though I’ve yet to check on him.”
The man couldn’t help but let his smile falter, his willpower the only thing keeping the horror showing on his face, as he imagined what could have happened to a man who knew no better, influenced by beings so powerful they could alter the state of even someone who understood them, who was prepared and who was feared by all who could not die.
And Wilbur’s grin faltered too, as he noticed the horror, the good nature he once expected now gone at the flick of a switch.
“Oh, it truly is awful,” His twin agreed to a statement never said, never spoken, never even thought of by Phil. “How my brother has a way of blinding mortals with emotion, clouding judgement in a haze of false hope and imagination, bright smiles and golden illusions.”
“Surely our wanderer simply just doesn’t understand anymore?” The god of love objected with his returning charm before the man could get a word in. “For my power is strong yet fleeting, permanent only unto death, and rarely ever beyond. And how many times has he fallen and woken, how long in his punishment has he spent alone?
He turned to greet Phil with his dark eyes, and the mortal was taken aback by the curiosity, the cunning, and the idea that was swirling and forming within them. So much so that his wings tensed as he took an instinctual step back.
“Perhaps what our wanderer needs is a simple reminder.” His tone of voice was low with a mischievous smile, as he lifted a finger up. “Time has brought the beast closer to pain but farther from… me. His love’s long lost, and—” He tilted his head as his next words became a soft melody, a lullaby to slow the heart. “I simply wonder if he’s forgotten?”
The monster’s eyes widened, trying to move out of the way as the god leaned forwards.
“Wait—” He began in protest, as Wilbur lightly touched a finger to his forehead.
The air stilled, the leaves froze. Time slowed, if only for the barest second.
To an outsider looking in, it were as if nothing ever happened.
But to Phil, who stumbled back in surprise, who fell on the grass with dirt staining his cloak and stones digging into his skin, whose wings opened fiercely, violently, protectively over its master.
To him, the god had done everything.
Bright laughter and late nights watching the stars drift by. A quiet world where it was only them — him and her — in fields of bright colours, where they couldn’t help but bring flame to even the coldest and harshest of nights, embers that glowed only when they were together, and died when they were apart.
A heart, falling forever into an oblivion as screams tore the air apart.
A faceless deity who smiled as he extended a hand. A contract bound by fate.
The choice of two options. The choice that would destroy him.
The choice of which he ignored, as he carved out a path for a third.
Who knew that when it spilled, Their blood was as red as any other? Warm, living. Not made of the stars as the tales mused, or of liquid gold.
The memories played out in the mind of Phil — the beast, the monster, the wanderer — as if freshly plucked. Pristine, as if they had only occurred a minute before. His hands trembled as the solid ground gave way for his soul to fall, breathing laboured as he scrambled away, shock reverberating and echoing through his mind with the reminder of how it felt when the universe broke apart at the seams, as it crumbled and fell and was stitched back together again.
“Phil?”
It was the horror and fear and not the word and the sound — so similar to her voice in tone and inflection — that made him look up with the wary eyes of a warrior that had seen too much, experienced too much, holding more knowledge than any mortal or immortal ever should.
Expecting the look that the god of love gave him, and seeing it first hand — how his face seemed to pale, an expression full of haunting and so different from his usual positive demeanor — those were two different things. It was not of someone who saw a mortal with a title so undeserved, a mortal punished for a crime so much larger than himself, but of a king greeted with a peasant, carrying the blade fated to be his downfall.
It was the face of someone who finally saw him for the first time.
A plaything, yes. A broken toy that the tales foretold. But a toy left to rot for so long that it had broken free. A toy that had gotten so tired that it snapped .
But still, he was broken, and Phil could tell that Wilbur saw his heart lay down bare, could feel his cracks and see the places where pain had chipped him apart, where time had scraped away the paint until the silver underneath was visible, or where places were painted over with layers to keep it under the illusion of something undamaged.
After all, the god was the master of pain and anguish as much as he was the master of smiles and laughter.
“Phil—” He tried again, and the man could see it, the agony of a broken heart — his broken heart — mirrored back to him. A thing that had never healed and simply stopped cracking after centuries of resigned acceptance, which now fractured the more he relived it, the more he replayed it, the more he saw it. Heard it. Smelled it. Felt it.
The last thing he wanted was pity.
“Out.”
The word came out more hostile than they needed to be, his eyes harder than he ever would have wanted. It made Wilbur stumble into Techno; eyes curious and full of worry, with no idea of the scene that passed between them. It made the young god freeze up with a terror that should not face any who can never fear death, that should never be dealt by an ant to a man, and even less to a god.
It made Phil feel a pang of regret as he stood with the glow of the orange sky behind him, wings wrapping around his shoulders, chest tight from a life far behind him and body cold from the guilt on his soul.
It provided him the stiffness as the musician tried to reach for him once more, tried to come to that understanding, that reasoning, that comprehension of what he had seen, the truth that was once a fairytale to him now more real than anything he could have ever imagined.
But it was Techno who held him back, who gripped his wrist tight with a silent shake of the head, who could recognize the ghosts of a battle well fought and the haunting images of the past that linger with the soldiers forevermore. It was the prince of bloodshed who eased his brother away, who held him in comfort as the man turned away to look at the waters before them, despite knowing nothing but the tension between them both.
When they departed, the godslayer didn’t hear a thing. Only felt the quiver of the feathers on his wings as he finally broke down and cried.
Of course they came back, as they always did.
Because it never mattered, how much he hated or despised them, how much they feared or regretted their actions. It didn’t matter when time is infinite, when another discourse or disagreement between them was yet another blip, another bump in the road to get used to, to run over until it smooths into another bit of pavement to be ignored.
And it didn’t take long for it to become Phil’s new normal, for him to wake to the faintest trace of a smile on his face, or for him to jerk at the slightest bit of wind, mishearing a whistle for a whisper of a deity long forgotten. For the weight on his back to become just another pair of limbs he’s always had, to tame and control, to tense and relax and set free.
The twins too got over it quickly; arriving months later prepared with enough laughter for the three of them to share, Bright eyes shining with an excitement for a new day with him, with Phil, with the curious oddity whose existence plagued them since the start of their lives.
Except… no longer did it feel like the gods were there to simply observe the daily routine of the legend they’ve heard so much about.
It was in the ways they integrated themselves into his mortal activities, the way they began to make their presence louder where once they were a distraction. When simply casting out his line into the vast ocean brought the boys endless amounts of fascination soon became a task they did together, the three of them sitting at the end of the pier, doing all they could to not push each other off. When they once invoked a wild madness in the animals around them to watch the man suffer for their amusement, they now tamed into an unnatural calm for Phil to feed and nurture with a love only a father could provide them.
Their visits steadily increased from weekly to twice a week, then twice to four times. Until the man found himself preparing a meal every morning for he and the twins, waiting patiently for that polite knock on his door and the familiar faces that greeted him with the sunrise, and enjoying their company until the moon at its peak signaled their farewell.
It soon became impossible for the wanderer to differentiate his life before with the life after. When had they become so important for his survival, so integral to his endurance of this punishment their family had set him on so long ago?
When had it become normal for him to talk to gods as peers and not enemies? When had they become allies in a war never fought?
When had it become so normal that when they abruptly stopped coming a few years later, Phil only felt a pit of unease and dread? That he found it difficult to accept their disappearance even when weeks turned to months, when the sweltering sun turned to snowfall and back once more? No messages received, no miracles showing themselves to him. In a ridiculous act of desperation he even tried sending a prayer to the boys, knowing that even then he would get no response in return.
The silence of the word was deafening and numbing. When the wind stopped so abruptly, he couldn’t help but look for them, expecting the melodic voice of music and the monotone voice of war to greet him, only to be reminded of this new reality he lived in which he had to understand they were never coming back.
It was the first time in a very long time — he realized — that he felt so very truly alone.
Alone with the reminders of Techno in the pigs and the hogs that watched him as he flew overhead, in the light of endless summer days and the scarlet of the falling autumn leaves.
Alone with the reminders of Wilbur in the lullaby of the ocean waves as they lulled him to sleep, in the compassion of strangers who passed him by on his travels, and in the soft glow of the moon that cast shadows in even the darkest of spaces.
Alone in the way that he couldn’t share these small observances with the twins, the boys, the gods who — despite being so annoying and clingy, despite disturbing him in every way shape and fashion — he missed more than he could have ever imagined.
So when they came back when he had begun to accept their disappearance — popping into being in a flurry of noise and bursts of colour in the cold and white landscape — Phil couldn’t help but feel relief, happiness, an elation that soared beyond even the clouds in the sky and quieted the agony that roared in his soul.
The wanderer nearly rushed towards them, despite the furious blizzard that kicked up around them, despite their solemn faces and soot-covered hands, clothes stained with dirt, mud, pain, and disease. He wanted to call out for them, reach for them, embrace them as old friends, fury and anger be damned.
Because by the gods did he miss them. Oh, like the bloom of flowers or the clear blue of the sky did he miss them.
“And this has been where you’ve been spending your time, oh love and war? Fraternizing with a fairytale, the old hag, the witch in his tower of sin?”
The words and the sound so unfamiliar slowed him in his tracks, as a third figure approached from the fog of the cold. A character that caused his wings to shrink back instinctively — not from the power he wielded and the commandment he possessed, but instead from the unsteady calm he brought with him, where one would expect a deafening amount of energy to follow.
As the stranger came closer, the first thing Phil noticed was the mask; paler than the greying sky, brighter than the fluff that fell in spirals around them in the storm. A smile that radiated tension, an expectation, a hostility of anguish for the amusement of others over hair as bright as unkempt gold.
“And whoever might you be?” The mortal asked the eerie god, the one who added more cold to the world that clung to his bones.
“I am the rider of the winds, the provider of all mortal hopes and wishes.” With a swipe of his arm, his hands cut through the air, causing the man to flinch as an axe appeared in his palm, gleaming with the green of bright grass and the shine of hard effort and far away aspirations. “I am the whisper of determination in the ears of kings, the coal that burns through the hearts of soldiers, the fuel to the bravery of heroes on quests so far away. I am the observer of adventures yet to be taken, the trials yet to be accomplished.”
Phil could imagine the god smirking, amused by the same image that confused the twins so long ago.
"I was born to be a dream, and so Dream is what you shall call me. Surely you have heard of me, as I have heard of you?"
Once the initial shock had worn off, once the stranger had revealed himself, once Phil noted the signs of reprimand on the twins, the man relaxed, the tension leaving his muscles as he suppressed a sigh of laughter, caution turning to a friendly smile of friends as he adjusted his hat.
“Though I have heard of your namesake, I have not — in fact — heard of you.”
His voice treaded with light footsteps around them, and got even more so at the sight of the masked god prickling in indignation in response.
“Your accomplishments are impressive, yet though despite that, they’ve seemed to have led you into my arms, as they’ve led your love and war.” With each word, he gained more comfort, more confidence, wings growing lax, and even spreading a bit to seem bigger than the towering deity before him.
“I’m not here for my downfall!”
What was once perhaps supposed to be a roar came out as a sputter, a trickle of the power that the god possessed rather than the full force of his energy and the ambition he held control over.
Behind Dream, Techno and Wilbur shook their heads wildly in worry. A sign to not get involved but… Was it not they who hijacked his story in the first place?
“No one ever plans to.” Phil agreed. “So then, what might bring you here along with the twins?”
The god paused, an action that could even be described as a hesitation, before choosing his words with care.
“War needs an observer, as love needs an instigator. Their realms need their leaders to follow, and a realm without them quickly falls apart, as you must know.”
“As I must.” The man nodded, prompting the masked deity to continue.
“Mortals need them, as the kings need me, and for rulers to have goals and success, a conflict must come between them. The universe is a delicate web of cycles, and as one fails, the rest will soon follow.”
“And yet, they spend their days with me.” Phil concludes, and Dream seemed to smile, though it was impossible to tell.
“So you understand, why their visits to the aging prisoner of the gods must cease.”
“I do not.”
He could almost hear Wilbur and Techno yell over the rushing wind and the flurry of snow as the blond was taken aback by the response.
“Whyever not?” He asked, hostility introducing itself into their polite conversation.
“Of course, because despite my actions, the world still spins as it always has.” The man waved his hand out into the clouded void around them. “The air is still cold. I can still feel. Power still exists, as does hate, pain, heroes and villains. My actions took something away that was once called vital, and yet now lies forgotten by history, by time, and by even those older than you.”
He shrugged.
“Perhaps the universe is collapsing, but if it is, it does so imperceptibly, as it always has and always will.”
The god went still and quiet before Phil, and yet he noticed the grip on the weapon had visibly tightened.
“You know nothing. ” Dream said, very clearly struggling to stay civil.
“I know things you do not,” The man corrected. “I have seen things you never will, and done things you can never do.”
He smiled imperceptibly as the voices of the twins reached him, a roar of warnings and a song of caution. Their presence was what kept him still, as the axe swung fast towards him, only stopping so close to his neck, the cold blade drawing only the slightest bit of blood.
The weapon was steady, but the hand that wielded it was not.
Despite the cold, Phil was warm, feeling the silence that hung in the air like vibrations of song, like a cry to war.
“I could kill you.” Dream hissed. “I could kill you, and you would disappear, and all you knew would be gone in an instant, another soul lost to the void of space, forced to drift for eternity until time finds you again and drags you back—”
“And I would not care,” The wanderer replied calmly. “as that is the nature of my punishment, and I have grown to accept it.“
The tension rose high between them as they stood frozen in the ice storm; One burning with fury and the other burning with passion, and a need to protect.
It was the god of ambition who snapped first, who took the blade away, let it fade out of the world and into another so distant from this one.
It was the god who made his first moves back towards the twins, with nothing in his eyes but frustration and anger, fuming.
And it was Phil who didn’t hesitate, who suddenly found himself in front of the twins before he could register what was happening, wings spread wide, a black wall to contrast the white around them, separating the two groups from each other.
“You cannot make them leave.” His words were a warning hidden behind good humour and respect. “They are not your toys, they are not your playthings. They are not puppets to be controlled. They have a choice. They have a will of their own.”
Dream took a step back. “I—”
“You could try to send me away, put me in a new world with new rules, hidden away among the spaces between the stars.” The man who was once a hero of his own tale, took a step forward in response. “But it wouldn’t matter. No matter how far you send me, no matter where you may put me. They will find me eventually.”
He turned his head to glance at the boys over his shoulder; both who shook their heads frantically, panicked. But Phil gave them a soft and assuring smile. Telling them everything was going to be fine.
“Let them go.” He said, turning back to the god that feared the twins so much, who had so many different reasons to fear him. “There is no reason for you to harm me, as there is no reason for me to harm you. Leave, and let them fetch you on their own terms, at their own time.”
The god hesitated, opened his mouth to retort. But then the man folded his wings back, and he could feel Techno and Wilbur behind him, close enough that they brushed against the feathers, cautious hands light like butterflies as they used him as their shield.
Phil imagined it to be a bizarre sight, the beast protecting the things he was foretold to destroy. The dragon defending the knights, A soldier defending his enemy.
However, the image seemed to have an effect on Dream, who seemed to take it in; The mortal defending two powerful omnipotent beings from their equal, two gods who practically cowered behind a man with wings, a kind smile, and a history.
“No matter your punishment, your life is still fleeting.” The masked deity spat. “Though I may not kill you now, your end will come for you one day. And when it does, you will remember this moment, and all the moments that preceded it. You will see me, and you will remember.”
He turned and stormed off into the cold, Phil watching him as the snow turned him from a figure to a shadow, before soon masking him in a blanket of white.
“Our cousin is a determined one.” Wilbur’s voice cut through the whistle of the wind like a knife, snapping the man back to the frigid cold, the calm anger that once burned within him leaving him shivering in the storm.
Noticing this, the boys began to guide him back to the direction of his home, and Phil let them, as he listened to their accounts of the ambitious god, of the power he held and of what he had done.
“You should have left it be.” Techno told him, summoning his spear to give them light and warmth, melting the snow into rain as it approached. “You should not have opposed him. You have seen the powers my brother and I yield.”
“A god with murderous intent is not a god that should be toyed with.” Wilbur agreed with a quiet hum of a tune. “A god like Dream will stop at nothing until his ends are reached.”
Phil looked at them, the two boys who were so worried for him — a mortal like any other, a man punished for a destructive act, a human forced to live out a cycle of an eternity.
With a laugh, the wanderer puts his arms around them — the twins, his boys — extending his wings so they wrapped around them both, unnecessarily shielding them from the wind and the cold rain.
“As I’ve said,” He told them reassuringly. “He cannot provide me a fear that I do not have.”
He awoke to the sounds of the ocean crashing against itself, the salt water dampening his hair, the sand sticking to his clothes and his skin, sunlight streaming bright through eyes that have not seen the light in millenia and a few minutes all at once.
“Does it always take this long, for you to wake up?” Curiosity laced the rhythm of sound, as Phil sat up with a groan, memories flashing through his head, the pain lingering in his nerves like a distant dream.
Scratches and bites. Growls and hisses and everything in between.
He lifted a sore and tired arm over his face to shield his eyes from the sun as he peeled his eyelids apart, the way they shone in them reminding him too much of the streak of gold that ran at him with an unnatural speed and ferocity, one that no creature should ever possess; especially not one that small.
Perhaps he should have heeded the advice of the twins, of the divinities who knew better than he ever could.
“I’m not sure.” Phil replied, taking the hand that Techno offered him and pulling himself up as every muscle screamed and ached with the ghost of the injuries he never had. “I’ve never had others to greet me when I wake.”
“Well then perhaps…” Techno began, speaking of plans and preparation, of strategy moving forward, of ideas and visions and projects that could benefit the man in the long run, in this next life of his, in this new universe made just for him.
And as Wilbur chimed in with his input of prettying and beautifying the area, Phil’s mind began to reflect on the world that had died with him as his gaze landed on the ever-expanding expanse of desert leading into the horizon. On the work he had put into that life, the lives that would continue or cease without him, the wind that would freeze in place or continue to rustle the grass he would never see again, brushing the tops of the wheat that would forever lay unharvested, preserved in a frozen moment or rotting into nothing with the rest of the things he once loved and cared for and nurtured.
For a moment, his mind contemplated the temporary nature of all he worked for. The point of it all, of restarting from a place of nothing, growing and changing, only for everything to be pulled out from underneath him once more.
They were thoughts that passed through him as the months passed. Months where the world experienced its first rainfall, first sunshine, first lightning strikes, floods, spilt blood. First temperature drop, first frost, sweat and tears, the stress of it all enough to bury the man in despair if he let it.
But — as he’s learned countless times before — no two worlds he woke into were ever the same, each with their own set of rules, different from the last. And with the twin gods by his side, he’d found this world to be no exception.
Though their visits became less frequent in their worries and fears for his safety from ambition’s rage, they still came to visit like clockwork, telling him tales of their work with the excitement of small children, of the battles conquered and the love left adrift in the wind. They would bring him small souvenirs; from foreign coins belonging to lands he couldn’t imagine to strange trinkets he could never understand.
However, sometimes they brought him other objects, such as the amulet made from the brightest of emeralds that they gave him — eagerly showed him the ones they wore to match — or the cat they found while exploring the mountains of his world — the poor midnight creature dragged from their home in a distant village to Phil’s unfinished campsite, shell-shocked and dazed in Wilbur’s arms as they presented the animal to him as a gift to keep him company while they were away.
Whenever they came to visit, they taught him as he had taught them; Techno showing him the maps written in the stars, pointing to the shapes that could bring him anywhere he wished, and could tell him wherever he was so that he would never get lost, while Wilbur taught him to touch the minds of the strangers, the secrets of thoughts and emotions, to haggle and manipulate until their wavelengths matched and they could finally agree.
And when they caught Phil as he finished his activities, the three would find ways to spend time together, whether it be through sparring with the god of war or crafting melodies with the god of music, finding various ways to entertain themselves and each other in a universe full of possibility, the way forward yet to be discovered, the path behind just another blip in the past.
His time with them — though fleeting in the eyes of time, in the hands of fate, and everything in between — he found he relished absolutely. Every hello chased even the darkest of clouds from his mind, and with every farewell he was left hollow hearted, though forever anticipating their next appearance, the next time they materialized from nothing but air and water and earth to surprise him, and to bring him nothing but hours of laughter that he’d lost so long ago.
And on the rare occasions when they stayed past nightfall, when they would keep him company until his eyelids grew heavy with the intoxicating lull of sleep, The god of the roads would tell him his own tales of adventures he’d had in his own long journey of life as the god of music plucked the softest sounds from the air — enough to lower the guard of even the toughest of knights — of the lessons he’d learned and the people the brothers had met, the outlandish stories that were wholly real like the man was, with hands stained with the blood of immortals and wings as dark as the sky that lay just outside.
Those were the days where the godslayer felt the safest as he allowed himself the comfort of a deep sleep, of nothing but the warm abyss to embrace him.
Knowing, that in a godless world such as his, that despite his pasts and his actions, his choices and mistakes, that there at least were two deities who still watched over him.
Kept him safe.
And allowed him to keep them safe in turn.