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Phil’s age is hard to tell. Some refuse to believe that he is older than 30, most assume that he is around 40 years old, but no-one can say for sure. His laugh can make you believe that he is no older than 20, but his tired eyes have seen millions of sunsets, his movements are so quick and precise they could put the youngest of athletes to shame, but his skilled, calloused hands look like they’ve leveled mountains and rid deserts of their sand.
He sometimes looks like an ancient statue: his hands firmly holding his heavy, two-handed sword, head tilted down, brows moved together, eyes gazing somewhere far, beyond the horizon. His features are smooth, but if you look closely you can see countless wrinkles scattered around his eyes like cracks in the old stone, withered by rain, wind and winter blizzards. He resembles a mountain. Ageless, but incredibly old.
He can be seen like this quite often now-days.
Listening to the heavy, wet November wind. Watching the birds soar above the crater. Waiting for the sun to set.
He has looked like this for centuries, he has walked this earth for just as long, and if there’s anything he has learned over those years it’s that everything ends. Every flower decays, every lake dries out, every mountain crumbles under its own weight. No matter how beautiful, how meaningful the day was, the sun sets on it like it would on any other. And Phil has to watch it set.
Phil hates to reminisce. It is painful, distracting, and it can cost you your life if you’re not careful, and Phil, unlike everyone else, can’t afford to loose one.
Phil hates to reminisce, but can’t force himself not to. He assumes that it’s only natural: he has never lost anything that important before.
Will was a very special child. A very protected one. Of course, Phil saw that his little boy doesn’t have wings, but it didn’t mean anything. Yes, he doesn’t look exactly like him, but Phil has seen fate play so many cruel jokes he doesn’t even want to give it a chance to play one on him. His wonderful, precious boy is so small. So soft. What if he is just as fragile as his father? Even if he’s not, is Phil willing to risk it? It doesn’t matter if his boy doesn’t have wings, Phil will lend him his own. He can’t imagine himself watching his boy fall.
His boy doesn’t have wings but really wants to fly. His boy can’t stand fighting but constantly gets into fights. His boy is articulate, smart, cunning, charming and ambitious. His boy can’t wait to leave the nest.
Phil is scared, obviously, but he can’t always keep his boy by his side. He knows he can’t. His boy is growing up.
Phil loves the letters. Will was always a great writer, and Phil loves every single line he receives. He misses him, for sure, he worries about him, of course, but he won’t come if Will won’t ask him. Will doesn’t need his help, it seems. He has friends by his side, he has a wonderful son of his own (Phil can’t help but smile reading about his “little champion”), he has a country of his own, after all.
But one letter scares Phil so much it almost makes him wish he’d never received it. Maybe, it would have been better if the raven with the stiff brown envelope in his claws never came.
No, of course, the letter is, as always, wonderful. His grandson is now twelve, and Will attaches a picture of them together. Will looks very proud, his lips are pressed together in a calm smile, there is a familiar twinkle buried somewhere deep in his brown eyes, but Phil’s gaze fixates on one detail. His hair. There is gray in his hair. His boy is growing old.
He was preparing himself for this for a while now, but he thought he had much more time. How stupid of him, how naive. To think that his boy would face death of old age. To think that his last moments would be calm. To think that he would die in the comfort of his own bed, surrounded by his friends, maybe grandchildren of his own. To think that Phil wouldn’t have to watch it happen.
His boy is sick, angry and bitter. His boy is on the verge of tears. His boy has grown tired.
Phil doesn’t want him to die like this, in the ruins of his sand-castle that he has destroyed in childish rage. He doesn’t want him to die on the cold, dusty stones, as the world watches him bleed out. He doesn’t want him to die.
He hopes that his broken wings are still soft enough for his sweet, precious boy, he hopes they hide him away from the prying eyes, he hopes they provide him warmth. He hopes his shoulder is comfortable enough and he hopes that his sword is sharp enough. He hopes that his boy will die before pain really gets to him.
His boy is tired, and it’s time for him to go to sleep. It’s a shame that he falls asleep crying. It’s a shame that the day is coming to an end.