Chapter Text
If you asked Philza when was it that he reached godhood, he’d tell you he was born in it.
Created by the Universe’s own two hands, Philza was born with hands built for creation, with life and prosperity flowing through his veins like river water, and laughter bubbling out his throat like pure oxygen. With eyes the shade of amethyst and great doe antlers, he was the purest form of nature. Upon his creation, he was held in the gentlest of hands, above an empty world just waiting to be explored.
“Build your legacy, my dear,” the Universe said unto him. “Built until you can no more, build until you must find another world to bless.”
Philza takes the words to heart, and promises the Universe greatness.
In that same world, Philza learns what it means to create, and what it means to be a god. He raises buildings from dirt, drains oceans with a snap of his fingers, pulls chunks of land from the world’s surface and suspends it in air. He learns to be proud of his creations and his mistakes alike. He holds his mistakes close to his heart and thinks back on them fondly, because even if it is a mistake, it is still a creation and all creations are beautiful.
He learns later on that worlds, much like the people he's come across I'm his travels, are unique. Imperfect and beautiful, with different rules and new technologies and new forms of life. With every world, he finds something new that he can't help but love.
Sometimes, though, despite a world's beauty, it can be rotten.
More than once he's come across worlds big and small, only to find them stripped of their beauty by greasy Lords and Kings lusting for power. Philza watches from afar the way they tear apart their own cities with tyrannical hands; They force their people to their knees, demand full obedience. He watches their subjects cower in fear, starve and freeze to death because of their leader's greed.
Philza is not kind to those who bleed oil and speak curses.
It is in these worlds where he earns his title as the Angel of Death. He does not like the scent of blood, nor does he like the slick of it on his palms, but he does like how it looks spilled across green grass and white snow.
It is to the hands of one of these slimy Kings, that he learns the meaning of falling.
Two men, standing at the edge of a cliff, one with cold amethyst eyes and the other screaming. It is a mistake, really, allowing a King as dastardly as him a moment to breathe. When Philza pushes him, the man is quick to latch on; Not to save himself, but to bring Philza down with him.
And the King laughs, wild and power-hungry when Philza lets himself fall forward into the hands of the wind.
The God of Creation smiles. How ignorant, for a man as pathetic as him to think he can kill a God.
The Universe does not let him fall far. Soft, gentle hands catch him in the form of great wings, dark and powerful. Blessed with the power of flight, Philza watches the King fall to his death mercilessly.
"Take these wings and find a place to call home, and I shall bless you a thousand times over," whispers the Universe. Philza does not waste time.
He finds himself at the top of the coldest mountain in the coldest tundra, half frozen, heart full of warmth. The universe does not shy away from its promise; It blesses him with people of his own to take care of.
And Philza gives them everything, blesses them with each blessing that is bestowed upon himself, until eventually–
Well, we already know how that story goes.
Even centuries after his creation, Philza continues to learn more about himself and the world around him. He learns his hands are built not only to create structures and raise crops from the ground within seconds, but also to give life. He learns this early in the morning, as the Universe whispers plans to him in the sunrise of his bedroom.
"You will give life to this world just as you take it away. You've given everything to your people; Give more."
Standing alongside his first son, the Blood God, Philza watches his own hands bleed upon charred bones; Watches as they shiver, and come to life with new fire behind empty sockets. Distorted, slick with oil and burning blue fire, an army is born within the walls of his Empire.
The Universe beams at him. So does his son.
With the blessing of the Universe on his shoulders, Philza holds himself high and continues his blessings until he can't anymore.
The God of Creation he was named, the God of Creation he shall be.