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The stars shone brightly overhead as Phil sat with his three sons curled up against his chest, staring up at the night sky and listening to their father’s words with wonder stretched across their faces.
Phil tells them about the places he’s seen. The looming cliffs and the deepest seas. The colors that painted the world he’s seen, deep purples and greens bright enough to hurt the eye. Blooming reds and soft pinks and yellows. The endless skyline that was the same color as the blue adorned in his youngest’s eyes.
He tells them about the monsters he’s faced. The epic battles he’s won with towns cheering him on. He tells them about the children that thank him by crafting him flower crowns that he refuses to take off even long after they have wilted. He tells them about the dragon he helped slay, freeing its captives, with nothing more than an iron sword. His sons watch on in child-like admiration as their father mimes how he defeated the large foe.
The oldest swore he would be as strong as his father. He took up sword fighting not too long after, begging Phil to teach him. Phil could only watch in pride as his eldest learned quick and was soon able to out fight even him. He told his eldest son that the world would respect him one day, but made him promise to use this for good.
The middle son begs his father for more stories of the sea, wanting to hear about the vibrant color of the coral. He makes a promise to himself that he would see it one day. He wants to see the coral made of colors his father can’t even begin to describe. He wants to see the world his father has.
His youngest demands Phil to tell him about the villages, about the people his father has saved. He listens to the story of the look of hope that adorned the faces of the townsfolk when they saw him, the wide smiles once they realized they were free. He wanted to know what it felt like to be a hero.
He watches as his sons grow, always keeping these wants in their hearts. He watches as his eldest starts joining him on quests. He watches as his middle ventures to the sea and finds love, returning with tears in his eyes, a small bundle in his arms, and the smell of salt in his hair. He watches as his youngest gross selfless, always putting others first no matter the risk to himself. He watches them grow into who they wanted to be and more.
Phil watches as his middle and youngest sons leave home, news of their new nation reaches his ears not too long after. He watches as his eldest leaves to aid his other sons.
He hears nothing from any of them for years later, not until he is brought before the nation his sons built. The moment is nothing as he expected it to be. It is not full of joy and warmth.
He finds his middle in a small room, standing over a button that was hastily attached to the wall. He can see it in his son’s eyes, he had nothing left to lose. Phil had failed one of his sons that day, the sword that plunged through his son’s chest a painful confession.
Words he wishes he could’ve said sooner are spilling from his lips as he holds his son, cradling him as he did years before. He tells his son about the sea for the last time.
There is no funeral. He stays to help rebuild the nation, but finds living with his eldest son brings him the most peace.
When he hears of the exile of his youngest son, he wishes he could say he was surprised. The boy was always stubborn to a fault. Maybe some time alone would be helpful.
Oh how he wishes he was right.
The next time he sees his youngest son is the day L’Manburg falls. Phil can’t help but notice how quiet his son is, the once loud child who demanded the attention of everyone around him is now standing there, dead silent and looking at Phil with betrayal clear in those once sky blue eyes.
The death of his youngest son is something he never wanted to see, especially not like this. The boy was supposed to die like a hero. Instead, he is slaughtered like a lamb by the very man who abused him for months.
Phil thinks it’s oddly reminiscent of a similar time, he sits with his son clutched to his chest, a gaping wound in the boy’s chest. He knew the second he’d laid eyes on the wound that there was nothing that could be done. He listened as his son asked him if he was a hero.
What was Phil to say? Of course he was a hero. His youngest son, who lay dying in his arms, was more of a hero than any of them.
His youngest passes quietly.
He loses another son.
He never expected to outlive his eldest son. The man seemed untouchable. And he was, save for the whispers in his head. Phil knew it was only a matter of time before the voices became too hard to control. They demanded blood, Phil knew that much. What he didn’t know was that it didn’t matter who’s blood it was.
Oh so similar to his brothers, the eldest son lays in his father’s arms. Listening to him tell those stories.
This time was different though. The eldest son died with a smile on his face moments after a near silent apology to his passed brothers is uttered from his lips. It was a rather peaceful death.
Phil loses his final son.
He stays in his eldest son’s house, far in the arctic tundra. He rarely gets visitors for a while until a few familiar faces appear on his doorstep.
As he sits with his son’s old friends, sharing stories of the travels he’s been on, he looks towards the sky. There is no light pollution all the way where they are, so the stars shine brightly, a comforting reminder of those nights when his son’s were younger.
If Phil tries hard enough he can feel the warmth of his sons around him as he gazes at the many constellations above him.