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The Angel of Death.
It's a title that Phil has worn for...
Years.
Decades.
Centuries.
Perhaps even millenniums, at this point.
He's somewhat unsure on the exact number of years that it's been since the title had been placed atop his stark-blonde hair, an onyx-shaded crown with jagged, serrated tops and shimmering, pulsing gems filled to the brim with festering dark magic.
Phil had bowed low, head pressed down, and knees shoved against a marble floor. He'd dipped down right in front of the creator of all, in front of the genesis of the universe, in front of the very woman who had breathed life into everything and anything - an act that even the atmosphere around them had grown to love.
She'd run her fingers over his sunken cheeks, dipping against the soft slope of his nose before tipping his chin upwards.
"Philza,"
She'd breathed, despite her lips not moving and not a single, whispering noise leaving her shimmering façade.
"I trust you with this sacred duty, Philza. Make good of your promise to cherish this silencing role, and shall the universe thrive forevermore."
Her words had been silky and smooth, wrapping and looping around Phil's trembling, young body in the most tantalizing of ways – glissading over exposed skin and drifting underneath upturned sleeves without a care in the world.
Phil had been momentarily transfixed, eyes wide and unseeing, before the alluring image had shattered.
"I-"
"Hush now, my dear angel. Do not fret and do not wonder. Keep close the whispers of the world and let not life shine where it shouldn't belong."
She had leaned down then, soft lips pressing towards a bare forehead.
The kiss of life, a stark contradictory to the role that had been bestowed upon Phil's weighted shoulders. Alas, it had been readily accepted. Phil would not be greedy, nor would he be ungrateful – not in the presence of somebody so great, so giving, and so generous.
"I take it you understand, Philza. Take care now, for we shall part ways until the foreseeable end-"
She'd pulled backwards then, eyes knowing, and lips quirked upwards.
"-Where you will come, questioning and begging, a careful inquiry at the tip of your tongue. The Angel of Death will beg the Angel of Life of this universe – of everything – for her help. But shall she give? Good luck, Philza."
Phil had watched her go, watched her retreat until she was nothing but a careless whisper thrown out into the tumbling wind – her entire being, sucked away into another world, another life, another universe.
She'd said what she'd needed to, and Phil was left alone, wandering thoughts and questioning echoes filling his tipping mind.
He had been confused, though that was to be expected.
What had she meant, what had she known, what had she seen?
He had pushed himself back up then, turning around to overlook the vast expanse of the twirling cosmos behind him. This was his to protect now; this was his to run his calloused fingertips over and to spread his limitless, dripping wings around.
This was his world.
He would be the Angel of Death.
For a while, he had been, at least.
Now, he is Philza Minecraft.
Waking up, albeit rather reluctantly, to three very loud and very annoying little boys.
There's a bundle bouncing up and down on his chest, a bundle curled into his side, and a bundle stood in the doorway strumming on a poorly tuned guitar.
"Boys," He sighed, doing his best to pretend as if he was still lost faraway within the confines of his dreamland – wings spread out, blonde hair whipping in the wind, a broad grin on his face as he soared through the limitless skies. "What did I say about waking me up before twelve?"
Their little rule: Don't wake up dad before twelve, or no snacks after dinner.
(Not that the three little deviants liked to follow that rule very often (and Phil almost always gave them snacks no matter what they did), but still.)
He was a weak father to his children. Sue him.
"But dad," The bundle on his chest whined, chubby fingers gripping into Phil's nightshirt, and he wriggled a little more forcefully. "You promised that we'd be able to have a picnic today!"
Oh.
"Did I?"
"Yes," That one came from the bundle by his side, tone a little more forceful and affirming than his younger brother's joyful one – the sound easily matching the disgruntled expression on the pink-haired teen's face. "You said that we'd have sandwiches and cake-"
"-Oh! And apples!"
A sigh. "-Yes, Tommy, and apples. I was getting there if you'd have let me continue."
"Blegh!" Tommy stuck a tongue out at the older boy, "Don't care! Shouldn't be talkin' so slow then, should you, Blade?"
"Heh!? It's Technoblade, you foul little creature-"
Phil cleared his throat, butting into the conversation before another (mainly playful) argument could spark between his youngest and oldest.
"Now, now, boys. No need to fight so early on in the morning, and before I've had my coffee," Phil's gaze shifted over to the third bundle, still strumming at his guitar, "Wilbur?"
"Hm?"
The strumming stopped, and Wilbur looked upwards. Phil's middle child, Tommy's older brother and Technoblade's twin (twin, despite the considerably differing appearances that the two had – though, perhaps they'd look more alike if Techno didn't have an affinity for pink and Wilbur was more open to warrior-like clothing.)
Still twins, all the same.
"What do you think about a picnic?"
Phil could have asked his argumentative little pair, but he'd instead question his more level-headed child this morning. If a picnic sounded good today, at least in Wilbur's eyes, then Phil would drag himself from bed, and they would have one.
It wasn't like Phil valued Wilbur's opinion more than his brother's, not at all; it was just that Wilbur had a more perceptive mind on him and was very aware of his siblings' moods and feelings. Mainly if they would be up for something like a picnic today or not, even if they did initially seem okay.
"Hm."
Wilbur shifted his guitar onto his back, looking to be in rather deep thought for a 14-year-old.
"I think a picnic would be good today," He finally concluded, "Tommy and Techno are excited, and you did promise us that we'd have a picnic today."
Ah, of course.
Ever the wise little thing.
"Alright, alright. I concede," Phil smiled, sitting up. "Go and get changed out of your pyjamas then, boys, and I'll start making food."
That warranted an immediate reaction from the three – Tommy went vaulting from the bed, gripping tightly onto Wilbur's sleeve and demanding the brunette help him change, and Techno (although a little slower than his siblings) raced to get to his own room.
Phil smiled.
They were his family, and he wouldn't swap them out for the world.
.
"Have you gotten everything, have you? Have you?"
Phil beamed down towards the child who was repeatedly tugging on his loose sleeve. An exasperated chuckle rumbled from the older man's lips as he nodded.
"Yes, Tommy. I have everything that we agreed to take. I have your sandwiches and your cake, and your carrots, and whatever else. Heck, I'm pretty sure that your brothers have managed to sneak a few things into the bag, too, so if you ask politely enough, I'm sure that they'll share with you."
Tommy's eyes widened.
"...Really?"
That remark resulted in two splutters of indignant cries and protest coming from the front door, but at least it had Tommy moving his searching gaze and grubby little fingers away from the bag that Phil had now strapped to his back – just between the fold of his expansive wings.
Phil, as tired as he was, had somehow managed to make all of the needed and wanted food in just under an hour or so (with a little destructive help from his boys), and now they finally were ready to set out.
Everyone was dressed, everything was packed, and the four still had an afternoon of fun to look forward to.
"Come on, guys. Can't stay in the house arguing all day now, can we?"
Three children shook their heads rapidly from side to side, glancing at one another, before scrambling to push themselves out of the narrow doorframe. It was a tight and squirming squeeze with Techno, unsurprisingly, coming out first, and then a shouting Tommy, and finally a more subdued Wilbur.
Phil just smiled, following along after locking up the house.
He'd never get tired of looking after his little family, as mismatched and as crazy as they were.
He could look after them for years to come – soothingly threading his calloused fingers through silky locks, holding them close when they shivered from night terrors, letting the three of them cling to him as he soared through the sky.
Despite his past, and despite the title that he still – subconsciously – wore, he was a father now. And a damn good one at that.
And these boys?
They were his found family.
"Dad?"
Phil glanced up as Wilbur called for him, brows raising and a slight smile pulling at his lips. He paused on the path. "Yeah, mate?"
"We got mail. Do you wanna see?"
Oh.
That was... odd. Or more so a little surprising. See, their home was centered pretty far away from any other people, and they didn't really have any friends within the nearby village (only going down there when absolutely necessary), so receiving mail wasn't something they went through often.
If at all.
"Nah, 's okay. What does it say, kiddo?"
Wilbur could read incredibly well and often went through Phil's old scriptures like there was no tomorrow. He could scan over a letter pretty easily by himself.
The brunette flipped over the envelope, brows furrowed, and lips pursed as he traced his fingers over a fine, crimson seal. His two brothers came racing beside him, peering over his shoulders as best they could.
Wilbur shrugged. "Somethin' about a... Dream SMP? Invitations, I think. I dunno, dad. There's a lot of weird markings and fancy things. Oh! And a smiley face - that's pretty cool."
Phil swallowed.
"For we shall part ways until the foreseeable end, where you will come, questioning and begging, a careful inquiry at the tip of your tongue. The Angel of Death will beg the very creator of this universe – of everything – for her help."
Huh.
It seemed nice enough, innocent enough, even. Perhaps it was just a misplaced letter, and the original sender had simply gotten the wrong home. That seemed likely enough because why on Earth would Phil or his sons need invitations to some weird 'Dream SMP?'
They wouldn't.
Oh well.
"Just put it back in the box, mate. I'll take a look at it later when we get back home," Phil nodded, gesturing for Wilbur to return it to their mailbox before he began walking again.
He'd read back over the letter later that evening - if he remembered.
The three boys took it as their cue to continue on the journey, too, and Tommy immediately began scrambling ahead once more.
They would be traveling a little way through the woods until they arrived at their usual flower field, but Phil wasn't too worried about the distance between himself and his children. He would've felt it by now if Tommy's life was in serious danger, and plus, Technoblade was following after the youngest blonde - absolutely no monster was going to even get close to Tommy.
(Wilbur was there too, of course, but he seemed to be more lost in his thoughts than usual. Maybe Phil would ask him about it later on.)
A slight smile graced Phil's aged face, and he picked up the pace.
"Here we are, boys. Where should we set up the blanket?"
"Over by the tree!" "By the tree!" "At the tree, duh!"
A chorus of intertwining, shouting voices filled the elder's eardrums. He smiled fondly, having already known their answer before they'd given it – the tree was their usual spot, after all. It was where they'd sat the very first time they had all come for a picnic and would most likely be the place they'd sit for the last time, too.
Phil had already been meandering over towards the grand oak tree, anyways.
"Alright, alright. Here we go, guys. Pretty nice spot, isn't it?"
The blonde gently set out the cliched checkered blanket over the soft grass, smoothing it out in parts before setting down the bag of food. A wicker basket would have been nice and more on-brand for a picnic day, but they'd, unfortunately, lost the last one after Wilbur and Tommy had decided to try and make a fire out of it.
(Granted, it had been a very warm and large fire, but not one of their best ideas.)
All the sae, a bag worked just fine to carry their essential things.
"Here you are," Phil smiled, beginning to hand out various sandwiches and other edible items to his excited sons.
They were polite in their waiting and patience, at least for the most part. As, of course, Tommy was barely being held back from practically jumping into the bag by a huffing Techno. (Phil imagined that it wouldn't be long before the raccoon-like child had his hands on everything.)
"Thanks, Dad," Wilbur spoke up after a brief moment, eyes glinting, and a familiar smile tugged at his lips.
"Oh, yeah, thank you, dad." Techno chimed in, nodding a few times.
Phil smiled back. "No problem, kiddos," He replied, reaching over to ruffle at Wilbur's hair. Technoblade had since moved into the older man's side, and Phil already had an arm securely wrapped around him. "You know that I don't mind taking you guys out when I can. It's nice, and I find it pretty relaxing."
He really didn't mind – Phil would do anything for all of his boys.
A silence stretched, and the twin's gazes had shifted over to Tommy - who was already somehow onto his second slice of cake - as if expecting something from him. Tommy glanced upwards, speaking through mouthfuls of icing and crumbs. "Eh?"
Their glares only seemed to deepen, the piercing looks going on for a few more minutes before Tommy was finally understanding.
"Oh!" He sat back, "Oh, yeah! Thanks, old man. Really appreciate it."
Ah.
That was surprisingly nice of him.
Wait-
Phil's brows raised. "Old man?"
"Yeah. You're like, ancient, aren't you?"
Tommy knew what he was doing if his subtle shuffling backwards was anything to go by. There was a wide, teasing smile on his face, and he looked just about ready to start bolting away at any given moment.
Phil lifted slightly, wings perked, and a sly grin slipping over his lips. Wilbur and Techno had already moved to the side, amused expressions on the twins' faces as they watched in unison.
"I'm ancient, am I?"
A gulp. "Yep!"
"Ancient, perhaps," Phil agreed, nodding along with what he was saying," But not ancient enough that I can't still catch you!"
And the two were off, Tommy absolutely tearing through the grass and the shrubs as he raced away from his father. Peals of laughter followed the panting blonde, drifting through the open air like a melodious lullaby that had Phil's heart warming up considerably, even despite the fact that he was the one chasing his son.
"Get back here, you little gremlin child!"
"Nuh-uh! Eat my dust, old man!"
At that point in time, Phil was content. Truly and utterly content.
Gone was the worry of a weighted title filled with demise; gone was the looming feeling of eternal and never-ending loneliness; gone was the chance that Phil would never have a family to call his own, that he would have to sit down and watch as the world moved on without him.
Because now he had his sons.
He had Technoblade, his eldest, with his vibrant colouring and increasingly snarky remarks - with his monotone drawl practically dripping with a sarcastic fondness and with his strange (though definitely endearing) love for old books with dog-eared pages and tear stains across the front.
He had Wilbur, his middle child. A bright young man with copious amounts of brunette hair and a wardrobe full of the softest knitted jumpers. He was an angelic little thing, even with his vast dreams and the fact that he enjoyed playing his guitar at random intervals during the middle of the night.
And he had Tommy, his youngest son, a bundle of sunshine and teasing smiles. Tommy was brash and loud, with righteous tones and strong-willed opinions. But he was also a sweetheart. He had an affinity for soft toys and moths and quite enjoyed gardening with his father.
Despite everything, despite the fact that they were mere mortals and Philza was quite literally the Angel of Death - they were still all Phil's sons, and he loved them with absolutely everything he had.
They were his world.
Phil would do anything to keep them by his side and out of harm's way.
Absolutely anything.
(He could think about ominous letters and crowns of death another time. Perhaps after catching Tommy.)