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His earliest memory was not a pleasant one. No, rather, it was one he’d much like to forget, thanks very much.
Phil had been young—truly young, not the falsified eternal youngness of immorality—unknowing of what his endless future would hold. Unknowing that he had an endless future.
In the moment, his future—endless or not—had seemed to end prematurely, the force invading his village an unstoppable wave of blood and destruction, leaving nothing but carnage in its wake.
There was no escape, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, fighting on every side of him. No, not fighting. His people were peaceful, they had no ways to defend themselves. No fighting, only death.
And he was so sure he would be next.
The sky was aflame, red and orange and black soot covering the springtime sun, heat igniting what seemed to be the very air itself, making any form of flight impossible. Some tried, Phil watched them spread their great wings, watched them take to the air, watched their feathers ignite and watched the arrows from below pierce. Watched them fall. Watched them die.
He whipped his head around as the attackers let out a shout, a shout of glee, a shout of triumph, a shout that could mean nothing good for him or his people.
For there in the square, there amongst the death, there from not the heavens but the flaming caverns of hell itself stood a figure he’d only heard about in myth.
The Blood God was a hulking boar of a man, broad shouldered, taller than the crowd around him, an axe most wouldn’t be able to lift—let alone wield—across his shoulders. He radiated power, a haze of red, a haze of heat so suffocating it was almost tangible, a haze of blood that would send most running in fear.
And then they locked eyes. He found himself paralysed by his gaze, the eyes of a man who’d seen—who’d caused— death beyond measure, who’d felled beyond comprehension, who’d watered the earth and himself with the blood of entire kingdoms.
The world slowed in that moment, the flames stilled, the smoke stopped billowing, his heartbeat the only thing he could hear or feel, pounding in his ears, because this was the end, this was it, the Blood God was nearing him, was reaching to his hip and drawing a sword, was-
“Defend yourself, it is not your time,” the Blood God thundered, and the world sped up.
Phil found himself with a blade in his hands, he found himself with a god at his back, he found himself with strength and power, and suddenly he had a future once more.
The Blood God turned to those who had believed themselves to be his allies—turned on them—and together they repaid what the invaders had given to the village. What they had taken.
Life upon life, death upon death, one for another and another for one. Those who did not fight ran, and those who did not run perished, whether by blade or by terror.
And then they were alone. There was blood on the ground, blood on his blade and his hands, blood soaking the land, blood of friends, of families, of enemies and of innocents, blood enough to wash away any memory of what had happened. Blood enough to wash away the existence of his people.
The Blood God rested a hand on his shoulder as they looked out across the battlefield, out across the carnage. The sight brought no joy, only a heaviness unlike any other. A burden lain across his shoulders; one he would carry with him until death. Not that he could expect such, not that he could ever expect to be freed.
“Your people would be proud,” the Blood God said, intuitive in his gravitas.
“Proud of what?” Phil let the blade fall to the ground, fall out of his hand and out of his grasp. “I brought harm upon too many.”
“Proud that you fought.” The Blood God handed the sword back, an earnestness in his voice, a truthful tone, a knowledge that came with the centuries he’d done exactly that; fought. “Proud that you survived. You are their legacy now. You are their life. Make sure you live it.”
-- -- --
And live it he did.
Technoblade—for that was the Blood God’s name—was his only companion, and he to him. Together they travelled the world, following nothing but their own untrodden footsteps, nothing but what Fate laid in front of them.
The blade soon became comfortable in Phil’s hand. He’d shunned the notion at first, but it was inevitable. It was always inevitable.
Technoblade taught him everything he knew and several things he didn’t, and together they were strong. Together they were powerful. Together they were feared.
Cities perished by their hands; the swing of an axe and the strike of a sword, the ripple of power and the flap of wings. Kingdoms rose and fell, some allies, some enemies, some neither and some both. They watched them from afar, watched from the air and from the depths, watched greatness come into being, watched it fester, and watched it end. More often than not by their own hands.
Phil did not age; he hadn’t in a while. Years blurred into one another, decades bled their distinctions, time became insignificant, marked only by the memories it took, erasing his past before that one fateful day.
Illness passed him by, calamity sidestepped the winged immortal, only presenting itself when he chased after it. Only presenting itself when he sought it, when he sought the hardship that plagued mortals, the hardship he yearned to have because then he was human, then he was mortal, then he had purpose and then he had reason .
“Your pursuit is futile, friend.” Technoblade sounded worn, a tiredness that spoke of eternities.
“I have no pursuit,” Phil lied. For finding what he wished for would only mean losing what he had. He did not want to hurt his friend.
“Mortality is not gained, only lost.”
Phil was silent, knowing the truth but never having accepted it, reaching for what he knew he could never have.
“Together we take the mortality of others in hope to find our own, but together we will remain. Eternally. Death is a privilege, and life a curse we must brave.”
“Is it really so damnable to simply wish for different?”
“Futility brings nothing but pain, lies bring nothing but hurt. I wished it too, once, as you do now. I do not want to see you following my footsteps.”
“I know not how to follow footsteps I have never seen,” Phil argued back, though he lacked venom in his tone. “If we track the same path it is merely coincidence.”
“Then let me divert you. Let me show you the ways I wish I had known, for you do not want to reach the end of this path. Do not let yourself become what I have; the world has no need for two Blood Gods. Life may be a curse, but it is your curse. Make of it something great, for what other purpose do we have?”
-- -- --
But then the Blood God died.
An impossible act, unfolding in front of Phil’s very eyes. It shouldn’t happen, it couldn’t happen. And yet it did.
The enemy only had moments to rejoice in their victory, for as soon as the light extinguished from the great warrior’s eyes, his winged companion unleashed himself.
Alone, Phil brought retribution like never before. Alone, he spilled blood to wash out that of his friend tenfold. Alone he executed his wrath.
And alone he mourned in his anger.
For Technoblade was gone, a promise made and a promise broken. A wish put to rest but a wish granted. He had looked happy when he died, he had smiled up at Phil.
“We will see each other again,” he’d said. “It is not my time.”
But it was. It was his time, and he was gone. He had left Phil alone, had left his life behind. Had lied.
And thus was born the Angel of Death. A vengeful being, with wings of darkness, and an unrelenting mercilessness. Wrathful and reckless and seeking what he dealt, but destroying those who dealt it. Heart cold and broken with loss and with lies.
Time had passed—it always did, it always would—and he was still alone. Trust was no longer something Phil believed in, no longer something he gave out. Love even less so. For why love when inevitably, loss will follow? Hope was quashed, drowned in the blood of a friend. Its remains curdling it to become the blood of an enemy.
Phil had never expected to see the face of that same enemy again. Had never expected to cross blades with the Blood God’s axe, had never expected to feel his power in his very being.
Had never expected to be on the wrong side of it.
“I don’t want to fight you!” Technoblade called, defending the very people Phil had come to serve retribution.
Phil only pushed harder.
“I know you don’t want to fight me!” The Blood God tried, taking no opportunity to do anything but defend.
“You know wrong!”
It was no longer a war on the simple city, no, it was a war between two who had called themselves friends. Two who had always fought beside each other, not against, two who had loved and who had trusted.
Phil had banished love and trust decades ago.
“You’ve changed,” Technoblade noted, wiping away his own blood.
“You died,” Phil answered, striking again, only to be blocked.
“You never used to strike to slaughter. You never used to kill without reason. I’ve heard the stories, old friend. I’ve seen the ruins.”
“Do not call me that,” he spat.
“But I taught you all you know, you cannot best me,” the Blood God continued, still yet to strike back.
“You taught me all you know,” Phil corrected, taking to the air. “Your life may have ended, but mine has not. Mine never will. I know things you can never know.”
“Is this what this has all been about? Friend, do not deal wrath for something you don’t yet understand.”
“I understand as much as there is to understand, what more can you tell me? I no longer trust your word, not after you did the very thing you told me I could never have. The very thing you told me not to search for, lest I follow the path you had taken!” Desperation fell from his eyes, wetting his cheeks, emotion overflowing for the first time in too long.
Phil dove before he could stop himself. Before he could think too hard—or at all.
“Let me explain, let me-” Technoblade looked scared. Scared, and in his fear, he left his body unprotected.
The sink of metal into flesh was not unfamiliar to the one who wielded the blade. It never would be.
“The death of my body is not the death of my spirit,” the Blood God said, felled well and truly, blood once more seeping out, this time over the hands of the one who had called him friend. The one who had deemed him enemy. The one who knelt beside him, only now conscious to all that had happened.
“Do not mourn what you have not lost, my friend.” Technoblade reached up, weak already. “And do not wait for me. Live your life, I will find you again. I always will.”
The Angel of Death left the battlefield alone, the corpse of the Blood God lying where he had stood.
A feat no single being had ever managed to achieve, no less make it out untouched. His name would last centuries.
-- -- --
One life lived as friends, and another as enemies. One life together, one apart. And many more to come.
Once more, Phil roamed the world alone. Alone, but content, for he knew he would not be alone for long. It was only a matter of time.
The Blood God—Technoblade—greeted him warmly, and once more their paths became one.
Once more they travelled, once more they kept each other company. Once more they lived.
Nations continued to come and go, rulers and rebels, wars and peacetimes, and together they watched it all.
Sometimes Phil would turn to his friend only to find him gone once more, but it no longer worried him. It no longer pained him. Fate had tied their existences together, weaving them throughout eras, two undying threads in the tapestry of all that was and all that ever would be. They would always return to each other, always find each other once more.
And so, the immortal lived.