Chapter Text
“You know Tommy, this doesn’t have to be painful. I just need you to hold still for me.”
That's how it started, the first words said to him as they arrived at the mountain top. There wasn’t much space, a small alcove to shield from a downpour, some trees a little way down the cliff, and a foggy view of the bay. It was going to be a hellish trip up and down the mountainside, especially with Tommy’s bound wings.
Tommy didn’t quite understand why Dream had bound his wings with obsidian shackles, the man had already threatened death if Tommy set foot in the mainland, so why couldn’t he fly?
Tommy thought he’d at least be able to use his adult wings seeing as how he’s got one or so more molts until they’d come out. Maybe he’d even be able to practice flying out here so he could surprise Tubbo when they finally see each other again.
Wistful thinking. Just a teenager hoping to see home.
It hurt when Dream clipped his wings.
---
The campfire he set up just outside his cabin barely warmed him, damaged wings clutched painfully close to his body, attempting to conserve any heat possible. His brothers’ ghost disappeared last night, probably to visit L’manburg and grab more of his weird blue crystals (Tommy didn’t understand much about them so he never bothered to ask). The snow piled at the edge as it continued to fall, an uncomfortably frigid breeze threatening to blow out the little flame.
His body is numb. He hadn’t noticed until now, as his hands shook so violently they seemed possessed and his legs barely moved as he tried to stretch. Maybe he should’ve tried to hide some of his clothes instead of burning them as Dream asked.
Like Dream… asked… When had Tommy ever started listening to what Dream asked? Well, probably when Dream clipped his first adult feathers too close to his flesh and cauterized the blood with his flaming sword. Tommy’s sure Dream hadn’t meant it, even though he’d said Tommy deserved it after he decided to try his luck in asking for some memorabilia from L’manburg.
Maybe Tommy did deserve to get hurt.
Tommy didn’t feel as his body slumped to the floor, cold and on the brink of death.
Tommy didn't feel the little fire swoosh out as an aggressive gust of wind blew past.
Tommy didn’t feel the odd, warm gush of wind that followed blow over him from the mountain’s mouth.
Tommy didn’t feel the hands rushing to pick him up, he didn’t feel the warm embrace of someone who was unmistakably not Dream. (Dream never touched Tommy, unless it was to pluck one of his feathers or to steer him around. Neither was painless.)
Tommy didn’t feel a lot of things lately.
Maybe he should be worried.
---
When Phil was flying away from Techno’s home, he was only planning on seeing one of his sons. He was only planning on a short, simple trip to visit him. He brought some pastries, maybe a bit more than necessary, but he knew how much his kids loved them and wasn’t going to pass on an opportunity to surprise at least one of them while he still can.
He didn’t plan on seeing his youngest son, hidden away in some frozen mountain, pale as ice and just as cold, passed out and surrounded by old and new molted feathers.
And some feathers that were clipped.
And some that didn’t look ready to molt.
And some blood feathers, none attached to Tommy’s wings.
Some looked burnt, singed, cauterized.
Tommy’s wings.
His wings.
Phil felt the world stop as he looked upon the mangled sight of feathers. Whatever he’d eaten earlier threatened to come back up as he saw the horrendous sight of his son’s clipped wings. His poor, sixteen-year-old’s wings, unkept and too short, blood camouflaging with the tint of his crimson feathers. His poor son, far too thin and far too shaky on the cold stone floor, clothes far too dirty and far too torn.
He missed his son’s adult wings growing out.
He missed his son growing.
He missed his son.
He’s never been so light.
The nearby cabin was uncomfortably barren, the room empty and unkempt. The red sheets of the bed against the far wall a mess, haphazardly thrown onto the floor, an abandoned cobble fireplace sitting unused. Molted feathers litter the planks on the ground, mostly brushed into the nearest corner of the room, barely any were intact.
Phil spares a glance down at Tommy, heart wrecked at his shaking form as he pulls his son closer to his chest, dark wings curling around them. He glances around, trying to find any kind of tinder or flint to ignite the empty fireplace, only finding nothing. His pack had some spare planks in case of an emergency, and this certainly seemed to fit that criterion.
Laying Tommy down on his bed and pulling the sheet up around his body, he takes off his woolen coat, draping it over the teen as well. He pulls his pack off, fishing out the planks, and throws them into the fireplace, working as fast as he can to get a fire started.
It takes him just a bit longer than he'd like (His hands wouldn't stop shaking, anxiety creeping up his throat from his gut at the thought of his youngest going into hypothermic shock). When the fire finally stabilizes, Phil rushes to Tommy, picking him up as gently as possible before sitting in front of the flames, resting Tommy against his lap. His wings flaring up to keep most of the heat between them and the fire.
He finds his fingers pushing up Tommy's hair from his face, twitching at the feeling of the grime that's smudged across his son's face. As he looks at Tommy's face, recognition begins to set in.
Eyebags too dark for a teen are the only color clear on his face. His cheeks thin and malnourished, scratched and damaged. There's suspicious burn-looking scarring down his nape and neck. Phil’s stomach churned at the sight, his chest tightening the longer he stares.
What was he thinking? Why would he leave his youngest alone? Why didn’t he go searching for him the minute he found out he was exiled?
What was he doing?
The shaking body in his arms stirred before stiffening.
Phil's voice catches in his throat before whispering out a soft, "Tommy?" as Phil turns Tommy a bit to see him better.
He's never seen his youngest son so afraid, so hollow.
Eyes, once the brightest and iciest blue he's ever seen, now as dull and grey as the stone surrounding the cabin. So, so dull; no longer blue. His breathing was uncomfortably uneven as if he was about to pass out again. He was panicking.
"Tommy-Tommy listen to me, listen to Phil. " He loosens his grip on his son, giving him space between his wings, "I need you to breathe with me, okay? Just breathe with me, follow me." As he inhales, he watches as Tommy staggers a breath in after processing Phil's voice and words.
A slow breath out. A quick breath follows.
A slow breath in, a hiccuping breath follows.
Repeat. Repeat.
Repeat. Repeat.
After some agonizingly long minutes, Tommy's breathing finally matches Phil's, and soon enough the teen finds himself buried in his father's arms. White-knuckled grasps his clothes as sobs rip themselves from the teen.
Tommy's only ever cried once before in front of Phil, and that was when all his emotions built and built and built before Phil finally noticed and his emotional barrier crumbled. That was years ago, and it's been building ever since.
Phil could only hold and comfort him, just like he did before, waiting for his son to quiet so he can know why his youngest nearly froze to death all alone on a depressing mountain.
---
Tommy nestled into his dad's side, attempting to make himself as small as possible as one of Phil's massive wings wrapped behind him. Just enough of his head showed for Phil to run his fingers through as Tommy whispered what happened to him, what Dream's been telling him, what Dream's been doing, what he did to Tommy's wings.
When Tommy choked on the topic of his wings, Phil felt a hand glide against his soft and smoothed feathers, well-groomed and cleaned. Phil glanced at the dull grey and crimson feathers that piled in the corner of the room.
A burning white rage roared alive in his chest as Tommy told him about how Dream clipped his wings every visit, not even bothering to bring shears and opting to use a sword. How he's been dealing with the near every day visits from Dream in the past couple of months, how he's been forced to burn and destroy his items at Dream's command. The horrific details Tommy lists off as he describes the feeling of his baby feathers being plucked just for entertainment's sake.
Phil can hardly believe his Tommy has been surviving like this.
His Tommy, able to recite every prick and pull of pinions being plucked from flesh.
His Tommy, dull and tired, unlike the old Tommy he knew.
His Tommy, craving the feeling of safety for once in the past couple of years.
His Tommy, starved for contact that didn't end in violence.
He's been gone for too long. His foolish little forgetfulness has cost his child's freedom; his child's hope and life. The seething hatred boiling just under his skin is no apology for his absence. He's already failed one son, he refuses to fail another. Not while he's still around will he let another one of his kids fall off the deep end.
The sound of boots hitting stone echoes in Phil's ears. The sudden rigid body curled into his side shudders at the sound and looks up. Fear etches into Tommy's face as a sudden, horrific realization dawns on him.
"You can't be here," and the cabin door swings open, a frozen eruption of wind blasting into the room as an armor-clad man enters, wool lining a green hood pulled up beside a smiling birch mask, his maple-colored wings pulled tight against his back.
He freezes as he looks at Phil.
Phil nearly erupts at the sight of him, but to prevent any further trauma on his child, he says a quick "Give me a moment," as he stands up. Tommy pushes himself as far away from Dream as he can, what little feathers he has quivering at the sight of him and the breeze.
"Dream. May I talk to you? Outside." It was less of a question and more of a command. Too reminiscent of a commander rather than a civilian, anger flickering in every word.
"Oh, uh- y- yeah, sure." Despite the confidence he was attempting to air, his voice failed him. He waits a moment for Phil to leave first, but when the older man doesn't budge from his spot, Dream shuffles out. Phil spares a small glance at Tommy before leaving. Tommy, who's starring, wide-eyed and scared; so, so scared.
When Phil closes the door behind him and turns back to Dream, his eyes narrow on the other's sword, noticeably enchanted as it glows, a fiery orange hue illuminating from the blade. Rage pricks at his skull as bitter silence weighs down the air. Dream shifts only to immediately straighten as Phil's voice cuts like daggers through whatever tension was building.
"What have you done to Tommy."
Dream stutters for an answer and Phil repeats, shoulders hunching as his hands ball into fists. His stormy wings shift, flaring out slightly.
"What have you done," Phil takes a step forward, Dream takes a step back, poison flicks in every word, "to my son."
"Your son got what he deserved for damaging the king's property!" Dream attempted to argue, arms flying up into a shrug.
Phil's dawning glare sharpens and Dream recoils as the blond's wings puff out aggressively, feathers erupting in full as they graze against the ceiling of the cave. Dream nearly misses Phil pulling out his netherite sword, the shimmering hue of it a blatant threat.
"What my son did is nothing compared to what you've done to him." Neither looks down at the mangled mess of feathers and the stains of dried blood.
Dream falters again, obviously at a loss for words. He perks up.
"He was the vice president! His actions represent all of L'manburg!"
"He is a teenager. A teenager who's spent most of his time here fighting tooth and nail for freedom. A teenager you've shot; who you've nearly killed." He juts a violent finger at the man.
"A teenager you've traumatized. A teenager who's spent his growing years fighting and sacrificing and bleeding, all because you can't handle the fact you don't know how to control him. You knew how to grasp the minds of everyone else, but not him. So you targeted his family!
You forced his brother into some sick game! Warped Wilbur's mind to turn his back on his friends and family, all because you couldn't stand to have someone here you can't leash! Because of you, I had to kill my son!" His voice ricochets against the stone walls. Rage boils in his mind, red filling his vision as he stares at that damned mask. A snarl encases his words.
"You've plucked his wings apart. Used his baby feathers as fuel so he can be warm. You've scorched his feathers, burnt his poor body like he's nothing! You've chained him up like some kind of- some kind of animal!" He waves his arms back, another step forward, wings ruffling.
"He does one thing against that man you call a king, and he's punished far crueler than anyone else would be! A boy raised in violence gets a moment of peace and you pretend to be surprised when he causes chaos! You've nearly damaged him beyond recognition!
“You've nearly killed my son!"
His body acts before he thinks, the arm holding his sword swinging up, catching the masked man by surprise.
The sound of wood splitting rings in his ears.
Blood has never looked so pretty against the white bark.
The once-masked man scrambles back as he hits the floor, clutching his face. Crimson trickles between his fingers. Phil tastes the wrath seething off him in the air as he speaks, face fallen dark and emotionless. His wings expand fully once again, hiding away the entire wall and cabin behind him. Pale diamond-shaped specks embellish the tips of his primary feathers.
"Stay away from my son, Dream." A single threat. "I never want to see your face around here again, and if I do…", his sword glints a dark, dark red as he shifts his grip on the hilt. The message is clear.
Maple wings unfurl messily before he dashes away, sloppy flaps before stabilizing into a quick glide.
Exhaustion rumbles in Phil's bones as he watches Dream run. His wings sag as he turns to look at the wood door, empty thoughts running through his head as he gently opens it and looks in.
Tommy lays on the floor, curled in on himself as his hands fidget with the few intact feathers left on his wings, tuning out Phil's presence. An empty expression marks his face.
His hand grazes over a particularly long, clipped, reddish-grey feather, traveling down the pinion until he can wrap his fingers around it.
His eye barely twitches as he plucks it, holding it only for a second before letting it fall from his grasp.
Panic glared in Phil’s mind at the sight as he blurred towards Tommy, grabbing his wrists in an attempt to stop him from pulling out more. Phil barely touches Tommy before the teen starts thrashing.
He freezes at the sight of his youngest sobbing out incoherent pleas, dull eyes blurred and unfocused as he tries to shrink himself smaller. Begging and pleading not to be hurt anymore, that his feathers are still short and don't need another trim. Movement becoming lethargic as his breath quickens, chest heaving as his breath stutters. His head still thrashing about as tears fall from his eyes. Phil only looks for an unbearable second before moving to sit directly in front of Tommy. His voice is as gentle as he can make it as his wings flare to block out any other background activity. Guilt beats its course into Phil with every passing moment.
"Tommy, can you breathe with me? Follow my breathing, inhale for five, exhale for five. C'mon, mate, follow as best you can. You can do this, Toms." And so they repeated, repeated, repeated.
Even as he was calming down, Tommy's limbs buzzed and numbed, an unexplainable weight plying his muscles apart. The daunting fear of being grabbed by his father played in his mind over and over, Phil's face morphing between shadows and monsters and Dream. Not once had he seen his father's concerned blue eyes. Not until the slow crawl of time passed and his breathing leveled was he able to see Phil again, no more twisted faces and smiles plaguing him.
It was almost funny to him how broken he was, now that Phil had arrived. When he compared himself to his father, his dad didn't have broken wings, shredded feathers and pinions barely hanging to skin. He didn't have exhaustion carved into his eyes, still as vibrant and warm as they were when Tommy was only a child. He didn't have torn clothes, his coat and chest plate shiny and new and prepared for the cold. His scars were healed and old, Tommys were still pink and inflamed. Phil looked more alive than he did.
He's so cold, even with the blankets and Phil's winter coat and burning fire. His cabin doesn't smell like scorching feathers like it usually does when his fireplace is on.
Maybe he should've asked more questions when Phil bundled him up and said he would be back soon. Maybe he should've asked for Phil to stay. Maybe he should've asked why Phil looked worried.
Maybe he should be worried.
---
Phil didn't expect a second trip to Techno's in one day, but surprises should be expected from his current situation.
"What do you mean you're not sure about having him here?" Phil asked incredulously, eyes widening as he stares at his oldest.
Techno gives an uncertain look and shrug, "I mean– Phil, Tommy hates me. I don't think he'll wanna be around me. He's made that obvious enough."
The blond hardly believes what his oldest is trying to argue.
"He's your brother, Techno, your youngest brother. He has been tormented and abused for months. Have you been anywhere near him in that time? Have you seen what he's rotting into? Have you seen what Dream's done to his–!" Phil halts, vivid and gory images of what could've become Tommy's wings if he hadn't appeared flashing behind his eyes. He staggers a breath before speaking again, attempting to keep his emotions down. He doesn't know when he started shaking.
"Have you seen what Dream has done to Tommy? Techno, please, Tommy'll be killed if he goes anywhere else. I can't take him in, it took me four hours to get here flying, and Tommy can't– he can't–"
He can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't–
A sob cuts his words. His hands fly to wipe his eyes as he cries, raw emotions beginning to rip themselves out of him. Building and building and building.
His body caves and falls to the floor as Techno rushes to him, wrapping an arm behind him in comfort. Phil gasps for air as Techno attempts to soothe him, rubbing a small circle against his shoulder.
"I can't– I can't help him, I can't help him, Techno. Please– please, I just– I can't–"
A long moment passes as Phil sobs his eyes and mind dry before Techno speaks, and even then he sounds uncertain.
"I'll bring Carl for Tommy. It'll take some time to get there but we'll hopefully be back before sundown." He takes a breath, "Phil I– I can't imagine what Tommy looks like right about now, but I know he's only gonna get worse without you there. It would be best if you left now, I need to ready up Carl for a snow-trek." Techno glances out the nearby window, the sun hanging high as it's shrouded by dark clouds.
Phil gives a small nod before they stand, Techno giving him a quick hug, squeezing him when it's reciprocated. Phil had gotten the surprising luck of all three of his sons growing taller than him, with Techno being the tallest when he's not slouching. Sometimes, when it's been a while since he last hugged his kids, it's a shock.
Techno watches as Phil's feathers shift in the breeze, the gentle movements distracting him as a background of building noise echoes in the back of his skull. He watches as his father takes off into the sky with one powerful flap of his wings, soon fading into the low clouds. He waited a moment to listen for the voices and their demands, only for them to subside with a gentle, collective murmur of "Find Tommy" , and "Get Carl, hurry" , and, distantly, "Kill Dream" .
Suiting up Carl was typically only for one type of mission, one that included blood and gore and screaming to satiate the ever-growing mob of voices within Techno's mind. Depending on who he meets on this trip, he might have to add another tally to that imaginary board.
After setting Carl's saddle and armor, he hops on, heaving out a sigh before looking forward, hawkish wings taut against his back. With a single crack of reins, Carl bursts into a sprint into the snow, barely slowed by the new snowfall from earlier.
"Quicker."
"Hurry, help Tommy."
"Where's Phil?"
"Help Tommy."
"Kill Dream." Kill Dream.
The first thing Techno notices as Carl slows into a trot at the mouth of the cave is the weird, off smell of burnt feathers and the stagnant scent of rotten wood. Uncertainty grows as he looks around, noting the tufts of grey feathers and fluff matted into the stone floor. He spots shards of a smiling mask. If he wasn’t nervous enough at the sight of the mess, the hushed sobs and whispers within a stripped log cabin sent a wave of anxiety up his spine. As he walks further into the cave, he sees the sight of his father cradling a shaking form through the doorway.
As he walks forwards, he slows at the sight of Tommy.
"Panic, panic."
"Help him, help Tommy right now."
"Protect."
"Go home."
"Wings?"
"Where are they?"
"Where are Tommy's wings?"
Techno stops, eyes straining on clipped and bent feathers hanging from limp wings. It's so much worse than he imagined, pinions barely fitting into follicles as some quiver from the slightest movement. His primaries were mostly gone, savagely clipped and torn and pulled. Some of his secondaries singed at the tips while the rest a disheveled mess of filth. Most of his coverts were missing.
Techno's blood flashes between boiling and freezing, pricks of fear and rage stabbing at his chest, begging to be torn open.
The faint smell of iron hangs around his head.
" Blood ." The voices coil against his skull in tandem, noises and wails blending into a horribly distorted singularity.
A lit fuse hides behind his eyelids, burning and burning and burning his insides out. The ground sways as he looks at the mess that Tommy is, bathed in reds and iron and panic.
He barely manages to put out the spark as the noise dies down.
His voice breaks as he calls into the cabin, “Phil?”