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It was sunset when Phil stabbed his stolen axe into the walls of the woodland mansion, ripping the wood from itself. He tore away at it until he had a sufficient entrance; he wasn’t looking to raid the entire structure. Not yet.
His leg burned as he dug his talons into the edges of the torn planks, dragging himself inside. The stubborn limp had persisted since he’d left the wreckage of L’Manberg, slowing his progress. He winced as he dropped to his feet from the small gap between breach and floor, coughing as the stagnant wither particles stirred in his lungs. His eyes watered, though he couldn’t wipe at them. The charcoal and ash still covered his clothes and coated his fingers, lingering far beyond the cursory scrubbing he’d abraded his hands with to rid himself of the tacky, drying blood on his fingers. The scent still lingered, a phantom remnant of his son; copper and iron followed him. He could practically taste it.
He licked his lips to discard the sudden taste and blinked to dispel the tears. His hand wandered to Benihime, sheathed at his side, before he drew it back with a hiss. Even the brush of his fingers against her hilt made unbidden, fresh memories rise to the surface; his wings and mind screamed in unison, but he could only grit his teeth and move forward.
He had something to do.
The diamond edge of the axe was dull, but he hadn’t crafted it, nor had it been in his possession long enough to require his maintenance; but it would do the job. It cut down the sizzling creeper to his left satisfactorily, though it took too much effort for his liking to tug it back out of where it became lodged in a felled zombie.
It was evenly weighted, at least, which was handy when his sluggish fingers nearly failed to turn it in time to intercept the Vex that beelined towards him, corner dissolving the shade before it could do any real harm. He felt slowed, overall, in fact; his limbs ached, shouting at him to stop as he skidded back to dodge the row of spectral fangs that splintered the floor and snapped at his heels.
Enough of that.
He lunged forward, faltering only barely when the hindrance of his burned-torn-broken wing and twisted-scraped-sprained ankle impeded his strike. It struck true, despite them; the Evoker wailed as it disintegrated, leaving behind only the robes it was cloaked in. He dropped into a crouch to sort through them, though his weight pressed sorely into his protesting leg, but that didn’t matter as long as there was—
—yes.
He cradled the totem gently in his palms, settling back onto his heels. Thank the gods. He wasn’t particularly keen on tearing through the entire mansion; it was a miracle he’d managed to get one in spite of the lack of looting. He shifted the idol one hand. His fingers tightened around the smooth edges as he kicked away the axe, watching it skitter across the floor. Instead, he heaved a breath and drew Benihime. Her metallic rasp would have been a comfort any other day— instead, it made Phil nauseous. It was an awkward angle, shifting the blade to point at his chest; certainly not one Phil could boast about having done before.
He shivered as the coolness of the blade’s tip chilled his sternum, even through his robes. He clenched his fingers around the totem, knuckles whitening as he tipped his head back and—
—pain, white hot, pain, stop, he’s on fire make it stop—
—hilted the sword in his chest. He gasped for breath as his fingers spasmed around the totem; he clenched his teeth and tightened his grip, even as he tipped backwards. The impact whited out his vision. Everything was white hot going fuzzy pain dark even as his extremities numbed. He shuddered as another seize wracked through him, somehow forcing his own blade further into his sternum. Was this how Wilbur had felt, when he’d struck him down? When he’d sheathed his sword in his chest? When he’d cradled his body, stilling the shudders and jolts that ran through him?
He barely registered he was crying until a tear slipped down his cheek. He turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut. His vision was going blurry, darkening, though only partially due to the brimming wetness.
He waited, panting against the tether tying him to the overworld.
Come on. He prayed. Hurry up.
Something snapped.
The darkness coated bis vision as he stumbled forward; the void disoriented him, curling around leaden feet as he tripped. He was falling, bracing himself to hit the ground, he closed his eyes—
—and jolted as hot-warm-chill-cold arms caught him instead, pulled him close. He slumped into the embrace, clawed weakly at the contact, clutched for purchase in his wife’s robes. He needed— he needed something, he needed to be closer, further, needed closure, and maybe that’s why he went to his wife, because Death herself was holding him, and though he has flirted with her, with the fine line between her and life many times, and he has seen her shadow often, he has not touched her in so long, but his son — Wilbur, his boy, his sun, his son — was just led to her, by his own hand.
“Kristin.” He gasped. His wife’s name was a prayer on his lips, because she was a blessing for keeping him together, holding him whole even as he tried to shatter.
“Oh, angel.” She sighed. She tugged him closer even as she held him up, kept him standing.
“Is he—“ he managed to choke out.“—he’s—“
“I’m sorry, Phil.” Kristin murmured, and she fell gently to her knees, pulling him down with her. She cupped his jaw with one hand, combed her fingers through ruined feathers with the other. The half-preen felt so good, and the grief settled so heavily in his soul that he keened, a sound he couldn’t find the need to muffle in the presence of one of the only people he trusted so implicitly. “I’m so sorry.”
Those words confirmed it, the conclusion he’d struggled to accept even as he’d forced it to fruition.
He buried his face in dark hair, warbling, shuddering as feathers tickled his nose, brushed his back, her wings curling to shield and cup his own broken pair.
She cooed mournfully as her fingers stroked through the burned feathers.
“Oh, angel— what’s happened to you.” And she knew, what happened, but she was saddened by it anyway; in that way, he thought, they were once again alike.
He shivered at the touch, paradoxically hot-warm-cool-cold in the way only Death, the Void, and The Well claimed to be. He could feel his skin softening under her careful caresses, burns lessening in severity until he could pretend to have even a semblance of a painless breath again.
“They’ll heal,” she muttered; and if they hadn’t been going to before, he knew that they would now. Her statement was a rule, spoken into existence with nary more than a barely there inflection. “but your feathers will need to grow back. It might take—“ and Phil felt the way she paused, sighed. “—it might take a molt or two. You’ll fly again.”
It felt like forever and not long enough when Kristin spoke again. Death had let him cry silently into her shoulder, muffle his quiet sobs against her robes, but she could only still life for so long.
“It’s time now, Phil.” She said, and it was soft, and solemn, not cheerful nor bright, not like how it had been when they’d first met in her garden, so different from their current limbo, when the white lilies and roses had curled to meet her and he’d happily sealed his fate.
He looked up, if only to imprint the face of his wife in his mind, again, because he can’t stand to lose another face, not like he’s lost Wilbur’s, too soon, too early, has lost the face of his son.
She helped him stand, curled her fingers around his own. He was unashamed when he found he needed it, when the Void soaked and weighed down his limbs, again, because Kristin had always been stronger than him.
He accepted the kiss pressed to his cheek, closed his eyes as his wife, Death, curled her hands around his jaw and brought him down to press their foreheads together. He basked in the hot-warm-cool-cold touch, paradoxical, but so overwhelmingly, blessedly, inherently Kristin.
“Not now, not yet— but, I promise, angel — we’ll be together. Soon. For now, you have your own to look after.”
Phil sighed, pressed his cheek further into the hand that cradled it. He brought his own up, holding it before he pulled away. He brought the knuckles of her left hand to his lips, kissed the ring there gently.
“I’ll miss you.”
“Oh, come on now,” she teased, and it was brighter, tugged a wry smile to his lips. “you flirt with me enough.”
“Not nearly.” He trilled.
“Come on, pretty boy. Don’t come back too soon, alright?” She laughed, and he memorized the sound. The Void was brightening, tendrils slinking back from the light.
He stepped forward, knocked their foreheads together gently, intertwined his fingers with her own. He breathed in the scent of Death; roses, white lilies, the petrichor and moss that clung to himself always.
“Be well, love.” Kristin hummed.
It’s bright, and it’s cold, and he wakes.
He inhaled sharply at the dark wood, the flicker of a scarce torch, the feeling of blood soaking into the floor. He pulled the sword embedded in his chest slowly. He let his head tip back and hit the floor with a thunk as the ebbing nausea that came with a totem faded. He could feel the gold knitting his wounds closed, winced as his ankle twisted involuntarily, the bones of his wings splintering back into place.
Hot-warm-cool-cold brushed against his cheekbone, traced the path of a cooling tear. He sighed.
Not yet. Perhaps not for a long time. She had said soon, but time was odd, warped, for a deity.
But it was a when, not an if.
And he’d have to satisfy himself with that for now.
He pulled himself off the floor, weak-strong with the buzzing effects of the shattered idol. Benihime came clean with a flick of her blade, resheathed and satiated.
He turned towards the hole he’d shredded in the wood.
To find the only other deity, then.
A crow alighted on his shoulder as he stepped outside.
“So, mates,” he called to the murder. “any clue on where a bird might find a blood god?”