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“I,” says the figure clad in red, “am not a merciful being.”
“I know,” replies the child, “but I’m here, anyway.”
———
The Antarctic Empire is not a warm place. Its climate is frigid and unforgiving, not unlike its people. Nothing grows in the cold, and extra mouths to feed are unappreciated.
It’s easy to ignore a pair of street kids when you’re hungry.
Phil knows how to provide for his own. Still, stealing for two is hard. He doesn’t blame Techno, though. The cold is hard on both of them, but Techno’s not built for it.
If they had proper clothing, designed to withstand the harsh winter, it might be different. If they had access to medicine, it might be different. Hell, if they had a permanent roof over their heads, one that they wouldn’t be kicked out of, it might be different.
But they don’t, and it’s not.
So, Phil tucks his wings under an old cloak he’s had for years, ties them in place, gently, mind you, with cloth, and ventures out. They’re cumbersome, and serve only to draw attention in the lower caverns of the Empire.
The last thing he needs is attention.
He nabs a loaf of bread from a distracted vendor, slipping it under his shirt and out of sight. Easy. He’d take another, or some jerky from the port, but a guard is already eyeing him.
He’s been caught before. He still has the scars, and the fingers of his left hand are crooked. He’d been released after about three days (Techno had fussed over his injuries like a mother hen,) and he’d been ordered, rather harshly, to let Techno get food for the next few months.
But it had been summer, then, and food was, well, more plentiful than usual. Phil hadn’t needed to worry about Techno getting sick, or worse, from temperatures the nether-adapted kid wasn’t used to.
It’s winter, now, and Phil isn’t going to risk it. He keeps his head down, slips past the guard, and resolves to let Techno have a larger chunk of bread.
———
Phil’s dreamed of Death, since his mother’s passing, when he first met her.
A girl, his age, with dark hair, not unlike his wings, and kind eyes.
He was seated beside his mother, clutching her hand numbly. It’d been nearly twenty years since his birth, he recognized, but he hadn’t aged much, be it physically or mentally. It only served to make the townspeople hate him more. That was okay, he told himself, as long as he had his mother.
The appearance of the girl startled him, not because he didn’t notice her entrance, but because she didn’t make a sound. The floorboards didn’t creak where they were meant to, and the door was silent on its hinges.
Looking back, he thinks that’s what tipped him off.
“Death?” He asked, quietly.
“Yes,” she said, and her voice was like birdsong.
The rumors were true, he realized. Charcoal-colored feathers are an omen of death, the villagers said, at his birth. Kill the child, they urged , before it brings misfortune.
He smiled. Not bitterly, but with a fair amount of resignation; his mother hadn’t listened.
———
More often than not, Phil finds himself running. From an entire town blaming him for his mother’s death, from his guilt, from Techno’s endless repertoire of Art of War quotes.
Today, though, is nothing quite so hard to evade.
Well.
It’ll be bad, if he’s caught. He’ll leave it at that. Hopefully.
Phil ducks under canopies and pushes past oblivious citizens. He pointedly does not feel a pang of hunger as a basket of muffins is knocked onto the ground when he bumps into a baker.
He doesn’t have time to be hungry. Phil spares a glance behind him, and for a split second, he’s happy he’s a decent ways away from his pursuers.
Then, his ankle twists sideways, and pain shoots up his leg. A cart is overturned as he scrambles to catch himself before he falls. An instant later, he’s back on track, a burning pain festering in his ankle with every step.
It’s hellish, but the thin alleyway dividing the market from the rest of town is up ahead. He’s young and small and slippery, and the older kids chasing him won’t be able to fit.
Twenty feet until he makes it to the alley. His ankle is burning.
Fifteen feet to the alley. He readjusts the loaf of bread in his bag, so it doesn’t catch on anything.
Ten feet to safety. He flattens his wings against his back.
Five feet left. He can see the other side, now.
Three feet. He’s there, almost free, he angles his body to slip through.
One. A hand grabs the back of his collar, yanking him to a halt.
Shit .
Cloth tightens around his neck, cutting off his yelp. Phil goes down, hard . He crumples, cloak splaying out and exposing the tips of his wings.
Curling around the small loaf of bread he stole, Phil takes the hits.
There’s stomp on his leg, he feels a pop in his injured ankle. A kick to his temple, rolls him over slightly and onto his wings. They burn in the awkward position.
A hand yanks the bread away from him after a particularly brutal blow to the arm. It goes numb, then tingly, then heavy and painful.
He knows what comes next; he hates what comes next.
“I’ve heard feathers go for a lot, on the market.” The oldest, strongest kid says.
They always go for the wings.
Arms and body weight pin him down as grasping fingers spread his left wing. A boot is planted firmly at the base of his primaries to keep it pinned. Two bend and snap under the pressure.
The blows to his sides lessen their pace, but increase their strength.
Six of his secondaries are roughly yanked out, he flinches away, or tries to, and the boot on his wing shifts, crushing a third primary. There’s others, tertiaries shoved out of place, about three broken blood feathers. Techno will have a field day over them, but that’s later.
Phil wishes it were now. Stars, he really wants to go home, bury his head under the blanket, and let Techno tell him a story. He’s good at that, storytelling. They’ve spent many an evening sitting, Techno spinning tales of heroes and gods and mortals.
———
Sad as it is, Techno and Phil aren’t the only kids without homes in the Empire. They are two of the weaker ones, though. Techno’s constantly shivering, and Phil’s bones are hollow, built for flight. In the right climate, Techno could be the scourge of battlefields; with training, Phil could be deadly, a true angel of death.
Alas, they’re little more than kids, discarded by an empire that doesn’t need them to thrive.
———
Phil waits for them to stop, trying to breathe through the pain. Inhale, brace, exhale, until it’s over.
They leave him with one last kick to his ribs, he wheezes, just laying, limp, breathing.
When his vision clears, he pulls himself to a standing position. His ankle gives out, and he scrapes his palms catching himself. He’s more careful with it the next time, but it hurts. Phil grits his teeth and his footsteps fall into a pattern of step, slide.
Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, slide.
———
When Phil flops down next to him, wincing as the motion puts pressure on his ankle, Techno takes note.
“Phil?” He frets, “What happened? Who did it?”
“It’s—“ Phil’s voice breaks. He takes a second to collect himself. “It’s fine, mate. I— I tried to run from the usual culprits, is all.”
Techno’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t press the issue. Phil can’t help but feel glad for it.
“Okay,” Techno says, slowly, “let’s get your wings fixed up, yeah?”
Phil nods. “Yeah.”
They sit down on a pile of moth bitten cushions and ragged blankets. Phil lays a wing over Techno’s lap.
He can preen on his own, but it’s faster when Techno helps.
Gentle fingers adjust his feathers with practiced motions, nudging them into place. There’s a soft warning, before each broken feather is pulled. Phil sighs, practically melting into the pillows.
It’s nice.
“You wanna talk about it?” Techno says, without faltering in his task .
Phil mulls the question over, nearly falling asleep at one point.
“It’s not a big deal, Tech, I promise. I just got caught off guard.” He’s lying. They both know. “Don’t worry too much about it.”
A large, dramatic sigh from the piglin, but no further questions.
“Fine. But you can’t walk on that ankle.” Techno states.
“I can, actually. Got back, didn’t I?” Phil protests.
“You were limping.” Techno states.
“I was strolling. Very big difference.”
“Sure.”
“I can walk just fine.”
“Sure.”
“I can!”
“Y’know, as Sun Tzu once said—“
“Techno, mate, I want you to think very carefully about finishing that sentence.”
———
Death stands on starlight, suspended in a void her angel has become familiar with. He soars through it, bound not by the confines of gravity, but an oath sworn by his feathers.
He lands beside her, knees bending slightly to counter the momentum, with a low, rumbling greeting and a smile.
Death grins back, glad to see her Chosen alive and— well, his feathers are ruffled and mussed.
“My angel,” she broaches the topic softly, “what happened to your wings?”
“M’lady,” he starts, draping his legs over the edge of her platform, letting them dangle into the endless dark, “it’s nothing you need trouble yourself with.”
“You’re my angel, and one of the best. I do care, you know.” The second sentence is soft, kind, but it doesn’t feel tacked-on.
“I know, but it’s a mortal affair—“
“I hadn’t realized you were mortal, Phil.”
“—one that you can’t do much to influence.”
Death lets her flowing skirts fall into the void, a waterfall of silken fabric, as she sits beside him.
“I can still listen, can’t I?” She says.
“I suppose you can.”
———
Phil’s woken by the light shifting of fabric. He can barely make out the shape of the corner they’re resting around, which means it’s still nighttime. Techno’s sleep is restless, a consequence of his years fighting in the Nether, so shifting fabric isn’t unusual. Phil pats his friend’s arm, and goes back to sleep.
He’s cozy, wrapped in blankets, like a nest, so it’s easy to drift back into slumber.
———
Techno’s never been particularly discreet. Graceful, yes. Subtle? Never. He has a flair for the dramatic, to say the least.
So it’s odd when he doesn’t regale Phil with tales of glory, when Phil asks about his bloodied knuckles.
“Hm? Oh, yeah. Must’ve... bumped into something.” He doesn’t make eye contact.
“Tech, you’re a terrible liar.” Phil states.
Techno runs his thumb over his bruised knuckle, scratching at a spot of dried blood.
“‘s not a lie.” He mutters.
“Techno, I told you not to worry about it.” Phil says, gently guiding Techno’s hand away from the scab.
He huffs, moving to sit lightly on his relatively uninjured right hand. “You won’t have to worry about them tomorrow,” he says.
There’s no guarantee about the days after that, but they both know even a spat with Techno isn’t enough to keep the bullies away for long. Phil sighs, and feels his resolve crumble.
“Fine,” he says, “and thank you, Tech. Just... don’t pull something like this again.”
“Okay, Phil, I won’t.”
He will, but Phil doesn’t say that.
———
Two days later. Phil comes home to find Techno wrapped in both of their blankets, shivering heavily.
“Tech?” Phil says, and Techno cringes, making a soft shushing sound. “You okay?” This time is a whisper.
“‘m cold.” Techno mutters, “head hur’s.”
Phil frowns. He knew letting Techno go out without proper clothing would bring consequences.
“Okay,” Phil whispers, “I’m gonna check your temperature.”
He does. He lays his hand over Techno’s forehead gently, then pulls it away in surprise. Techno usually runs cold, and this is nearly equivalent to Phil’s normal temperature. That’s... concerning.
“You’ve got a fever.” Phil sighs.
“‘m sick?”
“You’re sick.”
“Tha’s odd.”
Phil’s going to kill him. He’s going to kill him.
“Techno, this is what happens when we go out in a blizzard—“
“Wasn’t a blizzard.” Techno mumbles.
“—without proper clothes.”
“‘n my defense, we don’t have ‘proper clothes.’” says Techno.
Phil heaves a long, tired sigh. He sits next to Techno, draping a wing over him.
“I know, mate. I know.”
———
Techno’s bouts of sickness are nothing new. His body hates the cold, and the Empire hates him.
This time, though, this time is bad .
His fever hasn’t broken, even after a week. He’s pale, and clammy, and his breathing is labored. Phil makes sure to give him most of the food he scrounges up, but the younger boy just keeps getting worse .
“Techno?” Phil calls, “I’m back.”
There’s a small, pained grunt of a greeting from the lump on the bed.
“Hey, mate. How’re you feeling?”
There’s no response, but Phil wasn’t expecting one.
“The baker lady from the eastern quarter gave me some soup today, it should be easier than bread.” He says.
Techno wheezes, makes a move to sit up. Phil’s next to him in seconds, propping him up with a wing and a pillow.
“It’s alright, don’t push yourself.” He says, softly. He’s waved off with a weak gesture.
With Phil’s help, Techno gets through about a quarter of the bowl, before he falls into a coughing fit.
———
Techno stands at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the entirety of the Empire. It’s an odd experience, looking at it from above. It’s always felt like it looks down on him, but now it’s the opposite.
His lungs aren’t weighed down, if anything, this is the freest he’s ever felt. The Nether had a roof, leaving the dimension feeling cramped and claustrophobic. The pits had chains, shaking his hands and preventing him from writing, or reading, or escaping. Even now that he’s free, the memory of those limits press on his chest and restrict his being.
Phil tries to help, and techno appreciates that, but it doesn’t make the memories leave him be.
Techno looks around the cliff, finding a small bench. He sits at it, and it’s more comfortable than he thought it’d be. He glances at the sky, at the stars, and his jaw falls open.
Stars. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of them. They glitter in Techno’s vision, millions of brilliant pinpricks of light dancing across black velvet.
From those stars, a figure materializes. She glows with ethereal light, a smile painted on her face. She’s beautiful, but a certain darkness clings to her robes. It rises into the air, and Techno recognizes it as the smell of a battlefield: blood, ash, and the breathless feeling of surviving.
“Hello, Techno.” Death says.
———
The stones are hard beneath his feet, uneven with cracks, and Phil keeps stumbling over them.
He’s distracted. Techno had a moment of awareness the night before: He’d woken up, still lukewarm with fever. He’d babbled about a beautiful woman made of starlight, with long, dark hair the color of Phil’s wings.
The description left Phil reeling, because Kristin only ever visits the dreams of those to whom she will give a smooth transition between the boundaries of life and death.
Phil can’t have that; he won’t have that.
———
Phil pulls various strands of pink hair into a braid. It’s lopsided, and rather ugly, but it’s something to do, a small comfort he can provide.
They used to preen every night and morning, before Techno took ill. Phil’s wings in the evening, Techno’s braid when they woke. It’s been nearly a week and a half since they last did so, and Phil’s wings are itching.
He runs his fingers through his feathers, straightening and cleaning and ignoring the spots he can’t reach.
He misses preening with Techno. He misses the nagging. He misses their banter. He misses sleeping without worrying if he’ll lose his friend.
He drapes a cool cloth over Techno’s head, and then time seems to slow to a crawl, and the light in the room takes on an almost ethereal quality, and Phil knows they have a visitor.
Death stands in the doorway, like she does in Phil’s dreams, only, this isn’t a dream.
“Lady Death, it’s odd to see you in my waking moments.” He greets.
“Yes,” she says, solemnly, “it is.”
Her eyes stray to Techno’s immobile form, and Phil’s blood turns to ice.
“No,” he breathes, “Not him.”
“I’m sorry, Angel. It’s time.”
Panic surges in his chest. She can’t take him, not yet. It’s so soon, too soon.
“M’lady, please,” he tries, “he’s all I have.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, but I have to.” She says, moving toward Techno.
He acts without thinking.
“Kristin,” he grabs her arm, and she freezes. “Please. You can’t. Not yet.”
There’s a beat of still, tense silence, before she breaks. Her shoulders slump, and Phil breathes a sigh of relief.
“I can only give you one day,” she turns to him. “I made an exception for you. I can’t do the same for him.”
Then, just as quickly as she came, Death is gone.
———
He takes to the library. He scours book after book, looking for something, anything, that might help Techno.
He finds nothing: no gods to pray to, no miracle cure.
He’s all but given up when his fingers find an old scroll.
It’s yellowed with age and looks as though it will crumble to dust with a light breeze, but it tells Phil what he needs to know.
———
It’s six hours to the temple on food, he estimates, but he has twenty-four.
Twenty-four hours until his best friend’s breathing ceases.
Twenty-four hours until his body goes limp and numb.
Twenty-four hours until Phil has to bury the only person he has left.
———
Phil hates to leave Techno alone, when he’s so weak. It feels wrong, like he’ll come back to find his friend surrounded. Like he’ll come back, and it’ll be too late. Like his only plan is little more than a wild goose chase.
He’s six hours away from the capital, though, and he doesn’t have any other options.
A ragged line of stone pokes out from the ground, making him faceplant in the soft snow. He gets up, dusts off the fluffy substance, and follows the ruined wall. It leads him to the foundations of a building, nearly worn away, as though the sleeping god’s sword had slashed through its middle. He runs a finger along a pillar, it arches up, then down into a basin, one that’s remarkably untouched by the sands of time. Phil dusts the snow off, revealing a track, like an aqueduct. There’s a line of brownish residue running down the center of it.
He takes a breath, clears the snow off, and chants.
The scroll wasn’t very helpful, mostly a legend, but it did give him a name: Velve . Phil never was great at learning the language of the gods, but he did recognize the word.
“Yah de'dro,” he whispers, hoping, “ de'jiv'undus,” he retrieves his knife, “ de'vlos—” sweet, metallic red drips from Phil’s palm, landing like rain on a snow-topped stone, “— Velve.”
The ground hums, softly. Snow melts into the soil, leaving Phil standing in the middle of a perfect circle. It’s not a lost cause after all, then.
“Ja'hai nindol or'shanse lueth pahntar lil'videnn.” He says, and feels the ground give way.
———
There aren’t many who enter the Blood God’s realm. At least, not willingly. It comes as a small shock, when a child steps in, through layers of reality, like he’s done it a million times before.
There’s an aura of death around the child, of wisdom, and a certain resignation in his movements. A recollection of a conversation with Death crosses the mind.
“He’s but a child. You can’t expect much.” A stern remark, a reminder of reality.
“He’s one of the few of mine to survive infancy.”
“Because you wouldn’t take him.”
“Perhaps, but perhaps not.”
The child’s stance is confident, but his wings tremble. The god almost takes pity. Until he speaks, that is.
“I need your help.” The child says, firmly, as though the blessed curse of a god will do anything to aid him.
A chuckle, and then: “I am not a merciful being.”
“I know,” replies the child, as though he’s trying to convince himself, “but I’m here, anyway.”
“I cannot help you.” A fact.
“I’m not asking for help. He just needs to survive.”
There’s a moment, taken to consider, to plan.
“It won’t be a blessing.”
“You’re awful negative, mate.”
A pause, time is taken to mull the statement over.
“You’re bold, child.”
“I’m desperate.”
“I am no savior.” It’s true, any action that the blood god takes, the mortal will suffer for.
“He doesn’t need saving. He’s strong.” The child says, without any hint of doubt. It’s impressive, for such a small creature to harbor so much certainty.
“Is he?”
That brings the smaller figure pause. A count of one, two, three.
“I can’t lose him.”
Oh. That’s not a difficult trade. A simple one, really. Not a curse, nor a blessing.
“You won’t see his end.”
The words ring through the space, tantalizingly simple, but the child is smart.
“And the price?”
Death Chose well, it seems.
“Blood, little one, is payment enough.”
The child seems satisfied by this, and extends a hand.
Shadows condense, gain form.
Buried deep under the weight of life, a god and a child make a deal.
———
Phil blinks back to awareness slowly. He’s sprawled out, laying in a circle of flowers— Chrysanthemums, hyacinths, begonias. It’s snowing, but he’s not cold. In fact, every snowflake drifts away from the flowers, landing on the powdery white around them.
He stands, and finds that he’s still bleeding. The stream is lessened when he wraps a bit of cloth around it, but it never completely stops. He checks to make sure he has everything— water, food, the map he copied down —and heads back the way he came.
———
He’s still bleeding when he stumbles home. It’s concerning, but Phil decides to take it as a sign that Techno’s alive, that he’ll stay alive.
He falls against the doorframe of their current residence, a dilapidated old storage shed, forgotten by the Empire, just like them.
A drop of blood escapes the confines of its bandage and splatters on the ground. Phil’s vision spins.
“Phil?!” It’s Techno. Phil nearly collapses in sheer relief. Actually, he does. He goes down hard, all exhaustion and desperate joy, as well as a fair bit of blood loss, but his friend is there to catch him.
He buries his face in Techno’s shoulder, listening for his heartbeat, feeling his chest rise and fall. Both patterns are steady, grounding. Phil clings to the piglin, simply reveling in the fact that he is alive.
———
When the Empire goes to war, both Techno and Phil are drafted. There’s a strange sort of kindness to it: They’re lifted off the streets, given food and warm clothing, and a chance to matter.
That’s all they needed, really, and both seemed almost too stubborn to die.
They make it through training, they work their ways up to the rank of Captain, and the Empire’s icy exterior melts for them, if only a fraction.
———
One mission takes them through a mountainous region. They’re going in nearly blind, but so is the enemy, and they need the element of surprise. They camp in a valley for the night, careful to be both quiet and discreet while Phil soars through the air.
It’s soothing, flying after so long traveling. Phil dips, glides, and slices through a cloud, just enjoying the weightlessness. If he closes his eyes for a moment, just to take it all in, no one will care. If he misses the small enemy team perched on a mountain, no one will know.
No one will know, because that little detail brings an avalanche down on the valley, burying everything.
———
When Phil falls from the sky, he’s not like Icarus. No myths will be told about him, no songs will be written, no ballads composed. It’s just him, the air, and pain.
Techno’s been buried, he can feel it in the sudden, burning pressure in his lungs. He falls, but the snow is soft enough to break his fall.
It takes an hour. The pressure in his chest heightens to an odd sort of agony, but he keeps digging. When he uncovers Techno, it’s almost unbearable.
The piglin should be dead. Techno seems to know that, too.
He blinks up at Phil, and with every breath he takes, the pain in Phil’s chest lessens. Techno gives him a look, one that means ‘we’ll talk later,’ and Phil nods.
They have more pressing matters, like the thousand-some buried soldiers.
———
“Phil.” Techno says. It’s not a question.
“Yes?”
“I was buried for over an hour, with no air.”
“Yes, and?” Phil asks, turning to the map.
“I’m still breathing.”
“Mm. Very strange.”
“You weren’t.”
“Oh.”
“Do you happen to know anything about that, Phil?”
“Nope, can’t say that I do.” Phil states.
There’s a few moments of still, tense silence, before:
“Phil?”
“Yeah, mate?”
“You remember when we were kids— actual kids, —and I told you about Death?”
Phil tenses, then nods.
“She said I’d see her soon.” He says.
“Did you?”
“Nope, not once. It’s almost like the whole thing was a fever dream, only I wasn’t sick.”
“Weird.” Phil says.
“I did meet a different god, though.” Techno states, and Phil’s heart shudders to a stop.
“One ‘Blood God.’” Techno continues, “Said you’d come to visit.”
“If you say so.” Phil brushes Techno off.
Techno, for his part, refuses to be ignored.
“Phil,” He says, “What did you do?”
He’s mad, genuinely angry. Phil, frankly, can’t find it in him to care.
“What I had to, Techno. You should have died, and I stopped it.”
“You should have let me.”
———
They don’t speak for two days. Two long, painful days. They’re both far too stubborn to fight.
Phil gives in first. Techno finds a mug of tea next to him, and Phil hovering ten feet away.
He sighs, and feels his resolve break.
———
Techno isn’t sure how long he’s been fighting. He knows he was drafted some seventy years ago, that Phil has been running for longer. Even before the war, Phil was on his feet, and Techno had a weapon in his hands.
Techno waltzes through the battlefield, dancing each opponent through hell and then to Death, cutting ribbons of glittering crimson that trail in his wake.
He detaches a head from its shoulders, a limb from a torso, a life from its body.
It’s surprisingly easy, concerningly so. He mourns, he grieves, but with each life he ends, a voice tells him at least it’s not him .
And then, suddenly, it is him: a single arrow finds its mark, directly through Techno’s heart.
———
Phil sees it before he feels it. He blinks, his guard is down for only a second, and there’s an arrow in Techno’s chest. Through his heart. The world slows, and Phil’s thoughts tunnel onto Techno, and then there’s a burning tearing through him, and his soul is screaming.
He falters, goes down. Techno’s— he’s disarmed the attacker. Good.
“Phil?”
A shadowed hand grabs something fragile, deep inside Phil, and crushes. A small, pained whine is drawn to the surface, and then Techno is there, supporting him as Phil’s soul is torn to bits.
That attack should have killed him. Phil knows it, and he’s sure Techno does too. But Techno’s not the one on the ground, Phil is.
———
The sky is a crystalline blue. Clear. Not a cloud in sight. It’s in direct contrast to the bloodstained earth below it.
Phil almost laughs. Blood gurgles through the hole in his lungs. He’s spent, stars , he doesn’t know how long he’s spent in the sky. Dark wings carrying him, steady and constant and damning .
He’s in the sky, now. Lost in its blue, drowning in the color, drowning in freedom and weightlessness and blood .
The blood god kept his end of the bargain, after all: Phil never did see Techno’s end.