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They say grief never truly goes away.
As an immortal, Phil never believed that.
Yet, here he is, leaning against the wall of a long-abandoned stronghold, running his fingers along old, decaying wood that he could have sworn he placed there just a few days ago. His wings brush against lanterns, all in various states of disrepair. He turns his head minutely at a distant sound, a tiny — yet futile — flicker of hope dancing in his chest for a moment.
The ghost of a gust of wind runs through the empty halls, whistling a tune of mellow nostalgia. The emptiness calls to Phil; it calls in the sort of way that death calls to a gunshot victim, cold and bittersweet. The vacant vacuum withers his lungs and chills his skin; it leaves his bones aching and his heart torn in half.
It occurs to him that maybe that’s what the ancient symbol means. A heart with two cracks on either side; a father holding a fallen comrade in his arms as his son’s ghost looks on.
Encased in thick, hard rock was Phil’s heart. For decades it stayed dry and intact, beating in his chest loyally. He was content to strike out on his own; the benefits of bonding with others remained far outweighed by the threat of survivor’s guilt.
Unfortunately, like every good defense, there are always things that slip through the cracks.
That’s when you have to go on the offense.
In other words, you can’t shut people out forever.
In Phil’s experience, that rang true like a fractured bell’s loud chime, cold and resolute.
When people got too close, he pushed them away. It’s nothing personal, he would think, and then he would distract himself with creating things beyond the confines of imagination. It’s how it always was, for centuries.
Phil let out a shaking sigh, thick and sinking below the still air.
His nickname was the Angel of Death. In all honesty, he wasn't sure how he got the title. He was a seasoned warrior, easily responsible for expending entire armies, but Phil would instead brush that off as a product of his resistance to death. People typically die when they’re seriously injured, but not Phil. That’s why he had the advantage. He didn’t have extraordinary combat skills as Technoblade did.
The thought of his friend’s name sent a sickening chill of dread down Phil’s spine. He understands now that his nickname is not due to some innate ability to dispatch soldiers; it is simply a scathing commentary on his inability to meet the same fate.
The Angel of Death is doomed to watch countless souls reach something he could never hope to achieve.
Death, he thinks, is better than being chained to this Earth, forced to watch as every person you’ve ever known crumbles beneath the weight of mortality.
Death, he thinks, is better than listening to fragments of your shattered heart thudding dully in your chest for all eternity.
Death, he thinks, is better than ending your son’s life with your hand because you couldn’t bear to see it be taken by anyone else’s.
Death, he knows, is better than sitting on the unforgiving stone underneath the decayed carpet of a gathering place you and your friends once thrived in long ago.
When the source of every ounce of joy that ever shone in your eyes dies in front of them, Phil cannot find peace in the fact that he will meet that source again.
Even the temporary pain of death shies away at the thought of one day forgetting everything that ever made you happy.
Even as you forget who you are, even as your eyes refuse to open and your soul withers away, even as the land beneath your feet begins to deteriorate, even as the people around you forget the names of your loved ones from decades passed, you cannot escape.
No matter how many times you find someone that sparks a fleeting flame of life in your eyes, they will never stay.
No one will ever stay because your job isn’t to shine for a brief moment and explode in an array of color and heat like a beaming star; your job is to see to it that death takes all.
That is the nature of Phil’s existence. It is a cruel and unjust one, but it remains his only purpose for centuries.
He incites fate dutifully, even as his human heart begs him not to.
That is the irony of the matter; Phil is still human. The wings on his back do not change the ache he feels deep in his soul.
He loved, and he loved wholly and fiercely; he lost, and he lost grievously and fervidly.
Despite the desperate pleas from within, Phil still loves with all of his withering heart. He loves with unrivaled zeal, even as the object of his affections takes their last wavering breath.
That is the nature of the Angel of Death. Having witnessed so much death, he understands just how important it is to love while you still can.
Phil stands on unsteady legs, gently smoothes out the wrinkles in the bloodstained brown coat draped over his shoulders, and places a newly-polished golden crown on the weathered table in the middle of the room. From his pocket, he draws a shining green gemstone, gently running his fingers over the words engraved on it.
“You don’t know what you’d do without me, huh?”
He sets the gemstone on the table, the words Friendship Emerald barely visible in the dim lighting.
“You don’t have to worry about that anymore, old friend.”