Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all began subtle. A feeling of pins and needles, of a slight twang in the shoulder after lifting something a bit too heavy- Techno’s sword is quite heavy after all, and Tommy knew that trying to swing it around yesterday was not the smartest move; but it was just a twang, just a tiny sprain that could be slept off.

Just a twang.

“Take care of that dough will you? I've gotta finish up the vegetables.”
Wilbur dashes around the kitchen in a hurry, gathering up a few spices from the cabinets along their walls, and a few potatoes from the nearest barrel; a hefty pile of bread dough sits on the countertop next to the stove, covered in flour and pressed into hell.
Phil had assigned Wilbur on dinner duty that night, being too caught up in trying to organize every chest and barrel in the vicinity- thanks to Techno’s organizational skills- and claimed to have such little time to cook in the day; even knowing that cooking isn't Wilbur’s strong suit. Though following a personal recipe that Phil wrote himself for Wilbur, how could it go wrong?
Tommy simply hums in agreement before rolling up his sleeves and kneading into the dough.
“Wil, shit’s gonna burn-“
The pot on the stovetop is filled to the brim with stew, furiously bubbling as the heat from the burner creates a warmth in the room that’s a little too warm.
“I still need to cut up the potatoes, it’s fine Tommy-“
The faint smell of smoke floats in the air while the bubbles inside the pot dare to overflow, and Tommy takes it as a signal to turn the burner off and grab the nearest rags; Grabbing the large pot, he lifts it off to place it to the side-

“Fuckin’ shit-!”
His shoulders wear out quickly and the pot slams onto the counter- safe, but loud and painful. A sharp stabbing pain that once ran through his shoulders and back now turns to an ache, leaving Tommy wincing at the slightest movement of his arms.

“Everything alright in there?”
Phil calls from the other room after the slam rings out,
“It’s fine, just dropped something!”
Wilbur calls back out.
He places down the knife and potatoes and directs his attention away from it for just a moment,
“You good Tommy? Or was the pot a bit too heavy, lil’ weak boy-“
Brief concern fades into laughter; Wilbur cared for him of course, and would never dismiss his pain- but damn, could it be funny sometimes. No harm in lighthearted banter every now and then.
“Fuck off man, I just got this damn crick in my neck or something- it’s kinda been bothering me since this morning. Don’t know why.”

“Probably from Techno’s giant fuckoff broadsword you tried to swing around yesterday.”

“Bullshit, I am a strong man that can wield strong things-“

“But not a pot of stew.”

Wilbur fails to hold back some laughter as Tommy lets out far too many strings of swears and extremely half-hearted punches; as the ache in his back only grows out to his shoulders. He was always decent at hiding things, but most certainly not at hiding his expressions.
Wilbur can only notice now how Tommy’s nose crinkles up at any movement of his arms, or how lifting something so normal as a pot would be too much for someone like Tommy. He knows too well the endurance of his brother and how much of a fucking beating that kid can take, knows too well that some minor soreness is nothing against him, and most certainly knows that this is something new. Something unlike him.

“But really man, you okay? You look all hurt and stuff. Physically, anyway.”

“Yeah really, I’m fine. Just a twang or something, I’ll be fine.”

But the aching grows. If an ache is what it should be called anymore, it feels much more like a burning sensation, the feeling of having a fire dangerously close to your back but not necessarily setting you on fire just yet.
It’s truly a mystery to Tommy where it could’ve come from as he’s handled broadswords many times in the past, and while soreness is not something new from it, it’s never to this degree.
Kneading dough becomes an entire battle, each press into it feels like the fire is being drawn closer and closer to his back; Controlling his expressions is out the window as he can do nothing but wince at the horrible ache all over- but the last thing wanted is to draw attention from everyone in the cabin.
He remembers the last time he fell ill with just a cold. Phil was near sent into hysterics trying to gather any medicine and cough syrup he could find, Techno refused to leave him without at least 6 blankets at a time, and Wilbur nearly pouring hot chicken noodle soup down his throat at any given moment. He’s grateful for the support from his family of course, but sometimes you need personal space to recover- which is something they have yet to grasp. And if it were discovered that his entire torso feels like it’s burning; May only god rest his soul before he gets lovingly smothered to death by his dad and brothers.
He quickly finishes kneading the dough until it’s just the right consistency before rushing off upstairs to cool off,
“Gotta run to the bathroom Wil, there’s the dough for you-“

“Tommy wait-“

Slam, and he’s gone upstairs.

Wilbur knows this is unlike him. Tommy’s been pissed, sad, depressed, happy, overconfident- anything from him, Wilbur knows it, and can see right through him. He can see right through Tommy now as well, knowing he’s surely hiding something; as he’s a godawful liar.

~~~

That night is impossible. Tossing and turning and flipping around in every way imaginable feels like rolling over molten rocks, or maybe even glass shards slowly slipping its way into your back if you stop moving for long enough.
Maybe this is the world’s payback for everything- though sleepless nights and an eternal back pain don’t sound like much of a punishment at all- Maybe this is life now, rolling around endlessly in a loop, never being able to stay comfortable or wake up feeling rested, never being able to have a decent morning and breakfast with everyone; Not ready for that change, huh? Never being able to sit comfortably at the dinner table again. Never being able to go out and run in the rain. Losing it all because of a bad back, huh?

The idea and last hopes of it being a simple soreness or sprain slowly dies out in his mind; Almost as if accepting his fate, Tommy rolls over one last time and lies flat on his back. Ignoring the burning and the stabbing rocks he lays on, the glimpse of moonlight through his curtains fade, his mind finally allowing his eyes to grow heavier and heavier.

-

“Wil, what are you talking about?”

Phil turns his eyes from the pan on the stovetop, giving his attention to Wilbur.
“I’m talking about Tommy, Phil- You guys don’t think he’s acting weird? Like unnaturally weird? Like constantly in pain kind of weird?”
Techno fiddles with a few strands of his hair, mindlessly weaving a small braid.
“I don’t know. Haven’t noticed anythin’ off I don’t think.”

“What do you mean? He’s just been weird-”
“He’s always been weird, Wil.”

Phil suppresses a chuckle. Unsuccessfully.
“I’m sure he’s fine. Being ‘constantly in pain’ sounds like something he would tell us about if it were really serious, anyway.”
Wilbur lightly huffs, turning his face to the window next to him. He notices that the watering can for the garden outside is nowhere in sight; one of Tommy’s daily chores to water the tulip patch- which is the easiest chore- has not been done still at this time of the day.
Wilbur doesn’t complain about the patch though, knowing that Tommy’s still just not gotten up yet, or still sleeping in.
“But how do you know? He’s such a bad liar Phil, something’s up with him and I can tell-”
Phil tosses down the spatula firmly onto the table in front of Wilbur, his wings behind him stretching out the slightest bit. Techno is unphased, still pleating at his hair. A slight tension fills the room and picks at the silence.
“Mate. Tommy’s good at hiding things, but he doesn’t need to do it anymore. If something’s really wrong with him, he’ll tell us-”
Wilbur sighs and props his head up on his palm, letting Phil rest his hand on his head.
“You can try to talk to him, but in the end he’ll come to us on his own. Just give him time.”

Wilbur meets Phil’s eyes, furrowed but not by anger.

“I know you’re worried. That’s okay, but Tommy will also be okay.”

Phil gives a light ruffle to Wilbur’s hair before turning his focus back to making breakfast. Techno’s finished the small braid in his hair, now just staring down at the table in front of him. He stands abruptly and turns to leave the kitchen.

“Be right back.”

Tommy is just about blinded by the faint sunlight of his curtained window, being woken up by a furious pounding noise; though unsure if it comes from the door or his head. He can only muster a groan back before hearing the familiar click and swing of his door opening.
Techno stands- or leans, rather- in the doorway with his arms crossed. He only takes this stance when he’s overslept or forgotten his chores in the morning and Phil sends him upstairs to wake him up. For a split second Tommy feels a light panic rise in his chest at the sight of Techno, which promptly fades off after realizing he has no energy; He can only strain himself to groan out,
“Fuck do you want, bitch?”

“Somethin’s wrong with you.”

“Yeah, no shit.”
Techno steps further into the room and shuts the door behind him. Making his way over to the window, Tommy can only sit by and watch what he knows Techno is about to do- at the very least, he can barely pull the blanket over himself a little further to block out as much as possible- He reaches out and yanks apart the curtains, letting even more burning sunlight spill into the room. Normally the gesture would prompt Tommy to whine and roll around in bed until eventually rolling out onto the floor like a kid- But he only sits still, flinching, but barely even whining.
Techno sits at the very edge of Tommy’s bed, facing him directly. It would be intimidating, almost scary, if his head allowed him to feel anything but a migraine. In the span of a second, the back of Techno’s hand is reaching over and pressed against Tommy’s forehead in the way Phil would do.
“You’re runnin’ a fever.”

“And?”

“And you’re barely movin’. Do I need to tell Phil that you’re deathly sick and frail again?”

Tommy weakly slaps Techno’s hand away and strains himself to sit up straight, wincing all throughout and making little progress.
“You don’t need to tell him shit Techno, I’m fine. It’s just a headache and a little soreness you know? It’s nothing-”
Trying to pull himself up out of bed is already out of the window when Techno lightly nudges him back down. He doesn’t know if he should be offended or grateful of the gesture.
Silence follows and hangs in the air for just a few, long seconds.

“Tommy, do you see yourself as an honest person?”

His eyes slightly widen up at Techno. It’s not out of the ordinary for Techno to go on rambles about something philosophical, but these kinds of questions have not been heard in months maybe. He recalls having talks similar to these with him during exile times; Questioning morality of oneself and others, defining self worth, what it means to be a good or bad person- conversations that carry like heavy chains on one’s shoulders. The question does help to ground Tommy closer to reality, to help snap him out of the groggy pain for just a hopeful second.
“Wha- What?”

“Do you think you are honest?”

“I mean, maybe, I don’t-”

Techno raises a hand up to halt Tommy’s words, still facing him.

“You don’t need to answer. If there’s anythin’ you learned from all the time you’ve spent out there, it’s that honesty is a rare value in a person. Somethin’ that should be kept close.”
Tommy gulps down a faint bump in this throat. His face feels hot, but it’s difficult to tell the reason why now, his head and body still feeling as if on fire.

“I know you’re honest. Don’t make me take my words back.”

Techno rises up from the bed, one hand in his pocket. He heads towards the door, leaving it and the window both open.

“Before I snitch on you, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t fuckin’ dare!”

-

A light knock comes from Tommy’s door, following it being opened rather slowly. An immediate sign of Phil.

“Morning mate, heard you weren’t feeling too well?”

Tommy mutters a faint yes, still laying in bed and watching Phil with tired eyes.

“We’ve gotten your chores out the way today, you’re welcome.”

Phil places his hand onto Tommy’s forehead and cheek, brushing hair out of his face with his other hand.
Tommy can only push out faint words, barely moving the rest of him.

“Just a migraine. And achy. Feeling achy.”

“Think you’ve just got a fever, mate. I’ll get some soup and medicine, alright?”

He nods weakly, and Phil leaves the room. While his whole body carries the pain from what was only his back once, he can’t help but feel warm about having someone there; Someone who he can ask for soup and medicine from and receive exactly that with bonus pats on the head.
He glances down to a cow plushie resting on the foot of his bed. He remembers when Wilbur got the thing for him a few months ago- even though he’s “too old for a doll, Wil, stop it!!”- and now he almost hasn’t been able to go to sleep without the damn thing.
Maybe being stuck in bed won’t be too bad if you ignore the pain enough? No chores, anyway. And free meals getting delivered to bed. He should get sick more often.

~~~

“Night Wil, night Tech.”

Phil passes by Wilbur and Techno almost sprawled out by the fireplace; blankets, pillows, and books scattered all along the floor along with a couple empty bowls littered around. He makes his way upstairs, mug of water in hand.

“G’night,”
They both answer in unison.
The previous night, Phil had miraculously gotten Tommy’s permission to stay in the room mostly overnight to watch over him; he’s unsure how knowing that Tommy values his privacy, but he won’t complain, likely knowing that Tommy rarely falls sick and isn’t quite adjusted to being alone during it.
It’s the least he can do for Tommy other than giving him an endless supply of soup, water, and medicine.

Lightly tapping on his door, Phil enters the room and swiftly places the cup on the bedside table; reaching over to check Tommy’s temperature again, it’s still burning hot.
“Hey mate. How you feeling?”

Another muttered yes, barely heard. Within the time frame of this morning and now, Tommy’s energy rapidly decreased; from being able to move his head and respond to questions in sentences, to only being able to mutter yeses and no’s.
It’s worrying of course, but nothing can stop Phil from almost melting when Tommy just mutters and grabby-hands for his cow plush like how he did as child- or baby, rather.

“I’ll be here for a while. Just nudge me if you need anything,”
Phil reaches out one last time to brush through Tommy’s hair; resting the cow plush in his arms, tucking back his wings, and scooting onto the end of the bed.
“Goodnight mate.”
He lays down, and shuts his eyes.

-

The mug on the bedside table topples over, slamming onto the ground and spilling its contents all over the floor. Phil is promptly kicked in the gut by Tommy, jolting awake to the sounds of groaning, almost yelling.
“Phil?! Phil, wha- what’s-“
Tommy cries out in pain, arching his back up to keep himself off the bed; his face is red, teary-eyed, and he can only yell and writhe from the burning ache.
The flame, once held near his back, now envelops his whole torso. Knives feel like they’ve been planted in his shoulders, and all he can do is squirm around on his back like a helpless turtle, in too much pain to do anything for himself.

“Tommy?! Tommy, breathe mate,”
Phil cups his hands around Tommy’s face, wings fluffed up and looming over him.
“What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong-“

“My back- my back, dad it-“
Another cry out. He struggles and strains his words out, his eyes forced shut and his hands with a death grip on the bed.
Phil’s eyes widen in a state of shock, almost disbelief, lifting Tommy to sit up and holding him close.
“It burns, it burns so much, dad pl- please-“
His voice wavers and breaks, sobbing over his words and grasping onto Phil’s robe. Phil however reaches over and lifts Tommy’s shirt up, to reveal a deep red mark stretched across his back and two lumps on the shoulder blades, looking ready to break the skin any second.
He breathes out an almost heavy sigh of relief, his wings returning to a normal state, and combing his hand through the back of Tommy’s head; how could he have not guessed his own child had one of his biggest traits?
“It’ll be okay, Toms. It’ll be over soon, just hang in there.”

Faint stomps ring out from the hallway before Tommy’s door is just about slammed off of its hinges. There Techno and Wilbur stand; with Techno wielding a small dagger, and Wilbur Watching over his shoulder with widened eyes.
“We heard Tommy yelling? Phil?”
Wilbur almost shouts out, concern painted all over his face.

“It’s fine, both of you. Tommy’s just a late bloomer.”

“Heh?”

“Doesn’t matter. Get me the medkit and some water, will you?”

Before Techno can take one step, Wilbur’s rushed down the stairs to find the items needed, Techno soon following close behind.
Phil remains on the bed with Tommy, hand in his hair and the other resting just below the bumps on his back, eyes dead set on them and waiting for them to burst any moment. His chest aches at the sound of Tommy’s crying, the complete writhing and shouting from the pain of it all, he remembers it far too well and how brutal the process can be. How it feels for your back to burn so much, for your body and mind to be utterly consumed by a static ache that feels like it won’t ever end or be extinguished. How the flame of the phoenix feels.
It hurts him a little to think that his own son knows the pain too; but it hurts less to think about his own son eventually gliding through clouds with him. The thought of being able to take one of his own to the skies, just as he once was.
His heart jumps and aches all at once for so many things. A bittersweet ache.

“Got the stuff.”
Techno speeds into the room, dropping the medkit onto the bed with a few spare rags, already soaked in warm water. Phil takes a soaked rag and delicately rests it onto Tommy’s back over the lumps; causing him to cry out once more, though in good intention.
Wilbur snaps open the medkit and removes a bottle of alcohol for disinfection; Phil winces at the sight of the bottle, knowing what he’ll have to do later, and how horrible that final step can be. He’ll have to forgive himself now hundreds of times over before he can even think about pouring a single drop of it onto Tommy.
After placing down the bottle, Wilbur moves to sit next to the two on the edge of the bed. He grabs one of Tommy’s hands, allowing him to squeeze if need be. Techno does the same with the other hand.

The crying out, writhing, and hand-squeezing doesn’t end for almost thirty minutes. Tommy’s voice is worn out, gravelly, and so tired; but he continues to shout and cry. His skin just barely being broken, stretching to its very limits, his very bones adjusting and possibly fracturing or breaking.
Every part of his body is red. His back consumed by redness, his face red from the endless shouting and crying, his hands red from being squeezed to death by his brothers. His head pounding and spinning, and not even a slight grip on reality; he wishes he could just go to sleep, or maybe even pass out from the stress of it all, and yet his body refuses to fall. With everything he’s ever endured, he’s become adjusted to physical pain, being able to withstand and tolerate so much. But now, in this moment, is the new limit he’s found. The worst pain he’s ever felt, right now, in the arms of his father and brothers.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

With one final cry, his skin tears open under the soaked rag. Nothing but two tiny bumps emerge, bloody and bony. More blood starts to swell up and drip down his back as the wounds continue to open up larger and larger.
Techno hurriedly tries to wipe up the blood with another rag, but his hand is held back by Phil before he can get the chance to. Phil lifts up his own rag previously resting on Tommy’s back to see the two lumps, cooing at the sight, and even starting to tear up.

“Aww, they’re so tinyy! Holy shit!”

“You’re so damn weird, Phil.”
Wilbur says, not taking his eyes off of the bumps.

Tommy’s cries become quieter, his grips loosen, and he finally goes limp in Phil’s arms, letting his body relax. The two wounds now grow large enough to allow thin, bony, and oh so tiny featherless wings to emerge through them. Blood goes from dripping to now flowing down his back and onto Phil’s hands.

“Go ahead and wipe it off, bandage him up there please,”
He gives calm instructions to Techno and Wilbur, keeping his hands on Tommy to hold him in place.
“Don’t forget the gauze, Wil- Good, good.”

The three take a final look at Tommy, cleaned and bandaged up, asleep soundly in Phil’s arms, and now winged. A collective sigh of relief is released, and they all lay back closely to fit together onto the bed.

The birds nest, all curled up and warm, sleep peacefully that night.

Chapter Text

That following morning, with the sun shining through the sheer curtains over the bed, a young bird wakes in its family’s nest for the first time.

“Let go of my arm, Tech-“

Tommy not-so-gently shoves Technoblade off his arm, who was sleepily clinging onto him for dear life. His eyes are still heavy with sleep and his back aches, though not the same ache as yesterday, not the same burning feeling spreading across his back; it feels more like a soreness, like a tight squeeze in some muscles after going on a run or lifting something too heavy. Maybe Techno’s broadsword did do a number on his back, he thinks, before sitting himself up straight and flinching at the tickle he feels on his skin-
Whipping his head around, he’s met with something horrifying; a pair of bony, featherless, and still kinda bloody wings attached to him- complete with a fuckton of bloodied gauze and bandages hastily wrapped around the start of them.
The sleep in his eyes is blinked out quickly before he scurries off the bed, keeping silent to not wake his family but still scared and confused and aching all over. His knees nearly buckle under him as soon as he stands himself up, catching himself on the nightstand and almost tripping over a spilled-over mug of water on the floor. He remembers reaching for that very mug to take a drink before everything went cloudy and hazy.
His breathing is rapid, hands clenched onto the nightstand and staring down trying to regain all, if not any of his senses back. Even after blacking out, his head rings with fatigue, ready to collapse at any sliver of energy being used.
His mind screams at him trying to think of anything to do, blocking out the faint chirps in front of him.

“Tommy? Mate, breathe with me, okay?”

Hands reach out at him and grasp at his arms, hoisting him up from the nightstand and keeping him steady. His vision is blurred, everything looking wet and hazy, and his ears ringing so loudly he can barely process his own stuttering voice.
His breathing eases though, following the rhythm of the breathing in front of him.

“W-Where, what- h-happened-“

“Don’t push yourself to speak. You need to lay back down, alright? Come on,”

The hands holding his arms pull lightly, guiding his feet back towards the bed. It’s cleared out now, a large indent left on the surface, providing a cozy little pocket to lay back down on. He reaches out and practically throws himself on, opting to lay stretched out on his stomach instead of on the things in his back.
His eyes start clearing and his breath becomes steady, beginning to process that soreness more and letting his body relax again. A blanket is thrown over him by larger hands, tightly tucked over his shoulders but left carefully resting over his back.
Another hand- a shaky one- then brushes through his hair gently, keeping it out of his eyes.
With everything becoming hazy once more, he allows his eyes to drift back off into sleep, listening to the chirps and coos coming from above his head.

—————

“So, what do you think he is?”

The three talk in whispers as they hurry to pick up the scene from last night. Bloodied and damp rags are littered across the floor, and the first aid kit is wide open, supplies from its inside rummaged through and scattered across the floor; some supplies soaking wet from sitting in the puddle spilled over by the mug.
Technoblade is occupied mopping up said puddle while Wilbur sits, drying off the supplies with a dry rag and tucking them neatly back into the medkit. Phil sits at the edge of the bed, lifting up the blanket slightly and examining Tommy’s back.
He turns to Wilbur, who looks up at him from the ground expectantly.

“It’s hard to say with no feathers, though the shape surely isn’t of a crow or raven,”

Phil returns the blanket back to its place, covering Tommy up and standing up to his feet slowly.

“Could be a chickadee or a songbird considering their size, but they could also grow much bigger. Only time will tell.”

Techno continues mopping, eyes glued to the floor and intensely focused on getting every last drop of water, though he speaks without looking up,

“Aren’t you like our resident bird expert? You’ve easily identified baby birds before-“

“It’s not often I see another avian, Techno.”

Phil retorts, not truly angry, but stern enough to make Techno silent. He continues to mop, though with a strained expression hidden under his bright hair.
Wilbur’s face is unwavering, still staring up at Phil with an underlying determination.

“You’re an endangered kind, right?”

Phil nods with a sigh, still standing straight but with his head now facing down to Wilbur.

“Yes. I guess I didn’t expect my trait to be passed on, is all. I figured after having you, it wouldn’t be possible.”

“If he got it from you, why aren’t his wings like a raven?”

Techno’s now looking up from the ground, also staring to Phil in the same way as Wilbur.
Phil turns to Tommy this time, face softening and smiling at the boy.

“That, I couldn’t tell you. It’s even beyond me. Your mother is an angel, technically winged, though she has a swan’s wings. He could also be a swan.”

“If that’s the case, what if he’s just part angel instead of avian?”

Wilbur remains dedicated to his questions, though Techno turns back to mopping.
Pausing for a moment, Phil reaches over to shut the curtains more over the window, blocking out as much light as possible. He then turns to make his way towards the door, pausing in front of it and turning to the two with a tired smile.

“Anything’s a possibility, but all that matters now is that he’s winged, and has to recover.”

Silence hangs in the room before Phil nods, opening the door and leaving to the hallway.

“Finish up here you two, I’ll get breakfast started.”

—————

The three gather in the kitchen, a pleasant aroma of home-cooked food floating in the air. Spiced and roasted vegetables sit on the countertop while Phil finishes cooking a heaping amount of fluffy eggs in the pan, sliced tomatoes resting on top and cooking over the eggs.
Sunlight spills into the room over the table that Techno and Wilbur sit at, staring down and fiddling with their hands and hair as they wait for their meals. Techno pleats his hair mindlessly, eyes shut and content, and Wilbur watches intently as he squeezes his own palm.
A light stress hangs in the air, but is almost cancelled out by the kitchen’s default warmth it emanates. The kitchen was always their place to gather, to stay by the warmth of the stovetop or the sunlight of the window as they talk and laugh and discuss their day. Where all dinners are made and eaten together, where all recipes are taught from father to son, or brother to brother.
One brother, previously missing from the kitchen, enters with a blanket wrapped tightly around his form, and a severe case of bedhead. Yawning and rubbing at his eyes, Tommy flops his head onto Techno’s shoulder, pulling the older out of his braiding trance. Upon seeing Tommy, Techno scrunches up his nose a bit.

“Where’s your shirt, Tommy?”

“Piss off man, I don’t even know. Blanket’s warmer.”

Phil pours the eggs and tomatoes over four plates of vegetables, steaming with the knowing heat of a comforting plate of food. He picks up two and places them on the table, in front of the two older boys sitting down. Tommy perks his head up and watches the plates below him, earning a chuckle- or was it a chirp?- from Phil.

“We’ll have to change up your shirts anyway, they won’t fit you like this. Go on and eat.”

Phil turns to place the last two plates on the table in front of two empty seats. Taking one of the seats, he watches over the three younger boys, hands not yet moving to pick up his own fork. Tommy sits at Phil’s gaze and immediately scarfs up a few bites of his plate, letting the blanket slip off his shoulders as he feels the lingering warmth of the stovetop in the room.
A pleased chirp quietly rings out before Phil takes his fork and finally pecks at his meal. The four eat in a comforting silence, letting the stress and confusion of the previous night fade out into nothing. Wilbur is the first to break the silence, though talking in a hushed voice, tired eyes looking up to meet Tommy’s.

“So, how do you feel? Birdlike?”

“I don’t know how to feel yet. I just woke up scared with these shits on my back, you know.”

Phil chuckles a bit through his nose as Wilbur’s expression falters a bit.

“But like, nothing else yet? No chirping or weird obsession with shiny things?”

“Hey, it’s not weird!”

The three younger boys burst into quiet laughter, earning a huff and fluff of Phil’s wings. He chuckles after, rolling his eyes and smiling through his next bite of food.

“Your behavior will all depend on what kind of bird species you are, which is unknown right now,”

Placing down his fork, the three stare up at him, Tommy’s eyes lighting up with a mix of fear and curiosity. Phil’s hand fold in front of his face, elbows leaning on the table.

“But we’ll find out in maybe a couple weeks or so. That’s about when you get your feathers in.”

Tommy sputters, bewildered and hands reaching up to grasp the edge of the table. His wings attempt to flutter, earning a wince from him before he speaks.

“I can’t wait that long, Phil! You really can’t tell?!”

“I can’t, mate. Sorry.”

Silence once more hangs in the air as Phil quietly stands up, collecting his and Techno’s empty plates. Wilbur continues eating while watching Tommy, who stares at his own plate wide-eyed.
Techno scoffs a bit and returns to his unfinished braid resting on his shoulder.

“I bet he’s a chickadee.”

“I’M FUCKIN’ NOT!”

Three of the four laugh loudly over the curses and yells of Tommy, who flails his arms around to shut them up.
The kitchen is warmer than ever.

—————

“Mate, you have to let me do this. You won’t heal up otherwise,”

Phil stands over Tommy’s bed, bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand and a rag in the other. Tommy is sat on the bed, arms crossed and back against the wall, despite the aches he gets in return. He stares up furiously at Phil, almost threatening to bite him with his expression.
Techno and Wilbur are gathered in front of Tommy’s closet, shears in their hands as they cut away holes at the back of Tommy’s shirts. They listen intently at the two by the bed as they cut, exchanging glances occasionally, having full conversations with just their eyes.

“No! I know it’ll fucken’ hurt!”

“It might, yes, but you’ll feel much better after, Tommy. You have to trust me on this-“

Phil uncaps the bottle and begins pouring some out onto the rag, Tommy watching with wide, angry eyes. He crosses his arms more somehow and pushes himself deeper against the wall, basically smushing his wings in the process. Phil winces more than Tommy at the sight and moves forward, reaching the rag out.
Tommy shrieks and waves his arms out to shield his back the best he can.

“It’s just rubbing alcohol, it’ll only sting a little bit.”

Wilbur remarks from the floor, the smug grin on his face being heard in his voice. Tommy shoots him a fiery glare from the bed, choosing to flip him off instead of responding properly. Techno snorts, not looking up from the pile of shirts in front of him.

“He’s right mate. It’ll just sting, it won’t hurt nearly as much as you think.”

“You promise?”

Phil’s eyebrows raise at the comment, an unexpected response and a clearly afraid Tommy staring back up at him. His shock fades immediately, nodding and smiling softly at the bird.

“I promise, Toms. It won’t hurt you.”

Tommy nods back and slowly pulls himself from the wall, eyeing the bottle and rag carefully. Turning his body, he pulls his legs up to his torso and squeezes his eyes shut, exposing his back to Phil who sits on the edge of the bed.
The bottle is placed on a blanket beside the two as Phil reaches out his empty hand to run his fingers through Tommy’s hair, the other reaching down to press the rag against the now open wound.
The bandages have been removed, showing the wings fully, still tender and bloody from their emergence. It’s only scabbed slightly, showing good sign of healing.
Upon the soaked rag meeting Tommy’s skin, his back arches and he whines out, the alcohol seeping into the open wound and stinging him so deeply. Phil holds the rag there for a few seconds, letting it soak and eyes strained, already letting guilt tug at his chest for being the one to do it. Maybe he should’ve had Techno do it, who was far more familiar with caring for wounds, but his instinct screams otherwise. It screams to be there, to be the one to heal Tommy; to be the one to let him grow into a strong bird as he is.
After multiple pats of the rag, he pulls back and reaches for the bandages in the medkit that rests on the bed. Placing gauze delicately over the wound, he wraps it back up in fresh and clean bandages, the two both letting out a sigh of relief.
Tommy throws himself back to lean on Phil’s chest, earning a winged hug and soothing chirps and trills from the older.
Techno and Wilbur, who were previously watching the exchange intently, ease up and chuckle to themselves, almost finished with cutting the shirts.
Phil chirps up once more,

“That wasn’t too bad now was it, little chickadee?”

“I hate you all.”

Tommy croaks out with the little energy he has left before promptly falling asleep in Phil’s arms once more; The three bursting into laughter.
The shirts, now all with two holes cut into their backs, are delicately folded back into the closet. The two hop onto the bed on either side of Tommy and Phil, laying back and resting against them.
The nest, now full once again, sleeps soundly.

Chapter Text

Each day that passes, feathers soon grow one by one, and with that the size of Tommy’s wings themselves. On the third day, small pin feathers emerge from the wings. On the sixth day, they grow longer. On the tenth day, they start growing slowly into proper feathers.

On the fourteenth day, he bears feathers; light brown ones that catch the sunlight easily. Only feathers of a fledgling of course, not enough to fly with yet; even if his wingspan grew rapidly to stretch out to about four feet beside him. A broad, large pair of wings for an avian fledgling entering young adulthood.

Phil sits at the foot of the firepit in their living room, eyes shut and taking in the pleasant warmth in front of him. His arms and legs are crossed; but body relaxed as his wings are spread out evenly on the floor, exposing themselves to Tommy, who sits behind him.
The whole house is dark, all windows curtained for the night, the firepit emanating enough light for the two in the room. Techno and Wilbur have long gone to their rooms since dinner allowing a peaceful silence throughout the home, Phil taking it as opportunity to teach Tommy an important lesson-
How to preen feathers.

“Don’t tug any too hard, loose ones will easily fall out-“

Phil quietly instructs the boy sitting behind him, who carefully combs through the older’s wings with his hands; delicately, like if the wings were so fragile a feather could snap, he shapes them in place and pulls out any loose or dirtied ones. It’d been Tommy’s second time ever attempting to preen, having watched Phil do his own for so long, and not being able to necessarily preen his own yet-
Phil says he’ll need to after his first “molt.” Whatever that means, he says it’ll be at least a year until that time comes.
Phil had always allowed his sons to preen, Techno being the first of his to teach- though he was much more rough than Tommy or Wil, leaving his wings a little more sparse than usual by the end- followed by Wilbur. He never really had a reason to teach them though, usually opting to preen on his own instead of relying on his children; it’s not like he’s too old and frail for it, of course. He just appreciates the gesture sometimes.
But this time around, teaching his youngest is far more important, far more of a reason to teach him. It warms Phil’s heart still to even think that he’s raised one truly of his kind, thought to be so endangered- that maybe there is hope for his little species.

Phil flinches at the light thwump on his back, turning to see Tommy laid on his wings, likely having fallen asleep mid-preen.
A sweet trill escapes his throat as he shuffles to pick up Tommy, managing to pull himself to his feet and carry the boy upstairs.
Tucking him into bed and his plush Henry into his arms, he gives a loving smile and last caress of his hair before quietly stepping out the room, shutting the door behind him softly.

A few doors over, the soft glow of a lantern fills a room.

Technoblade sweeps his hand over a row of books resting in his bookshelf, a small dust cloud floating out from it. These books specifically hadn’t been touched likely for years, the books Phil had given him in his teen years; education was not something easily sought out or found for families unless they were wealthy, turning Phil to educate his own children with what little resources he had at the time. Techno being the eldest of course, Phil was so eager and never held back on teaching Techno, lending him book after book and every piece of knowledge he could fit in his brain.

Techno sweeps his hand through again before settling on a certain book, pulling it from its place on the shelf. More dust flows out from its pages as he flips it open, fluttering through the pages to release all of the years sitting inside.
It’s a book of ornithology Phil had given him when he was 14, when he had so many questions of avians that Phil could not keep up answering on his own; the very idea of birds fascinated Techno even outside of avian hybrids, that a piglin such as himself would often find himself outside, watching random birds and collecting feathers he finds in the grass- even keeping an owl’s feather he found and turning it into his favorite quill.

He shuts the book and turns to his desk, where Wilbur sits reading another book of birds; a less science-y, illustrated book on different kinds of birds he had found once at an old library, passing through a village with Phil once.
He plops the book down by Wilbur, who flinches at the loud thud and waves his hand over it to rid of the floating dust.

“This one could help too. It has a lot more than that one.”

“Maybe,”

Wilbur picks up the book and flips to its table of contents, following the text with his finger before flipping many pages forward and landing on one. The pages are full mostly of text, with some scratchy drawings of a larger bird on it.

“Though I think he could be this one- a Golden eagle. His wings are so similar to it, if not identical,”

Techno leans over to view both open books, studying the drawing closely and trying to connect the dots in his head. Furrowing his brows, he steps back and takes a seat on the edge of his bed, fiddling at the fur coverings on it.

“But his are much smaller in size. What do they have, like a six foot wingspan or somethin’?”

“He could still be growing them though. There’s no way he’s a crow or swan at this point.”

Techno huffs and shakes his head, staring ahead at the lantern on the desk. Wilbur stares back down at the books, continuing to flip the pages of both of them. Techno fiddles more with the fur quilt, mindlessly ripping small holes into it with his nails.

“It just doesn’t make sense. He’s not either of the species’ of our parents. You don’t find that weird?”

“Don’t try to convince me it’s anything otherwise.”

Wilbur tugs at the pages to flip them, threatening to tear them, heightening the stress in Techno’s hand.

“I’m not tryin’ to convince you of anythin’. His wings are just unidentifiable.”

“I’m telling you right now, he’s an eagle!”

A soft knock at the door breaks the two from their staredown, effectively lowering Wilbur’s voice that was beginning to grow louder. The door doesn’t move, the two staring at it and waiting for further response.

“Boys, it’s late. What are you doing up?”

The two glance at each other, Wilbur shrugging and Techno pinching his nose bridge, sighing.

“We’re just talkin’ about stuff.”

Wil slaps his forehead with his palm, which would’ve made Techno chuckle under different circumstances. Techno only rolls his eyes instead.

“Could I come in for a minute, then?”

Techno keeps his gaze locked on Wilbur, now turned down and back at examining the pages. He nods silently, giving Techno the confirmation to keep going.

“…Yeah.”

The door clicks, then slowly opens up to Phil, quietly stepping in. His eyes are tired, somber, concerned; a lovely mix of everything covered by a stern face. He shuts the door calmly behind him and steps further in, arms crossed on his chest.

“What’s all this about, then?”

Wilbur is the first to open up, cutting off Techno as he is about to speak and turning his whole body in his seat.

“Dad, what is Tommy?”

Techno slaps his own forehead and audibly sighs, or grunts, at the remark.

“Really, Wil?”

Phil full-heartedly laughs, throwing a hand over his mouth to keep quiet. Wilbur only clenches his fists and straightens his posture further, face growing red.

“I’m serious! Like, his species? He’s an eagle!!”

“Oh mate, I don’t think he’s an eagle, he’s a bit small to be an eagle. It’s still hard to tell.”

Techno crosses his legs on the bed and scoots to the side, allowing Phil to sit with him, who does so then stretches his wing out behind him.

“Well, we know he’s from you and our mom, unless-“

“Nope. Don’t even try it.”

Phil’s smile drops for just a second before lighting back up, snapping Techno’s mouth shut before he can get another word in. Wilbur finally shuts both books and turns in his seat sideways to face the two on the bed.

“At this rate, we’re gonna sit around for at least a year before we know what species he is.”

“And we’re not in a rush to know, Wil. I understand how you feel, but Tommy will always be just Tommy.”

Wilbur’s face drops, turning to the ground and playing with his hands. Techno watches him as Phil stands from the bed, kneeling just a bit to meet eye-level with Wil. They look at eachother, both eyes somewhat sad, shining from the lantern beside them.

“Regardless of his species, he’ll learn to fly. He’ll be okay.”

Phil ruffles Wilbur’s hair before reaching over for the books on the desk. Dusting them off, he makes his way to the bookshelf and nestles them neatly back into place. The younger two watch in silence, taking in the words left by their father.
Making one last walk across the room, Phil pulls in the two boys into a quick hug, placing just as quick kisses on their heads before turning back around and heading to the door.

“Head to sleep now, both of you. Goodnight.”

With one last smile, the door quietly shuts behind him, leaving the brothers staring at the ground in silence. With a huff, Techno lays back and tucks himself into his bed, throwing the heavy furs and pelts over him until he’s almost blended into it; his pink hair poking out and giving him away. His voice calls out muffled and barely heard under all the thick cloth.

“I’m goin’ to bed. Go to your room, Wil.”

“Whatever, goodnight bastard.”

Wilbur chuckles and blows out the lantern, leaving it on the desk and pulling himself up to leave the room, shutting the door a little less quietly than Phil on his way out.

—————

That morning, the kitchen is quiet, Techno taking the responsibility of breakfast. He moves swiftly across the room gathering up potatoes and carrots and chopping them up in the blink of an eye, Phil barely even watching him as he sips at a mug of steaming tea. Wilbur stares out the window, somewhat bright but mostly dull and cloudy skies claiming the view. Likely a rainy day ahead, which is a goal considering the garden work can be so rough on the back sometimes.
Tommy is nowhere to be found yet; though of course him sleeping in well past his chore time is becoming a little too common nowadays, and Wilbur won’t have any of it. If he has to wake up early just as Phil or Techno, then Tommy does too, winged or not. He stands abruptly, earning a confused stare from Phil, though he simply ignores it and marches his way up the creaky stairs.

Face determined, he gives three hard knocks on the door before swinging it open. Tommy lays there in bed, on his back and clutching Henry tightly. If Wilbur wasn’t mildly pissed, he might even coo at the sight, already trying horribly to suppress a loud “aww, Tommy!”- which would always make Tommy’s face go pure red and shouting.

Instead he marches over the room and yanks at the blanket covering the boy, triggering the sleepy whines and pleads from the younger already.
Though Tommy doesn’t move much, he shuffles around in bed and holds Henry tighter, groaning and continuing to whine rather than shouting something coherent. Wilbur’s disposition fully shifts, the blanket being placed at the end of the bed gently. He immediately reaches out an open hand and presses onto Tommy’s forehead.

“Fuck, not again.”

Tommy’s eyes stay shut, though his face shifts to Wilbur’s direction, mumbling and groaning something he can’t understand. It sounds like a question, with his tone.

“You’re sick again, aren’t you Toms?”

Before Tommy could even attempt to answer, Wilbur is out the door to get Phil, and probably to get a warm soup going for the boy.
Tommy lays flat in the bed, every inch of his body feeling far too warm similarly to the first night he changed. His back fortunately doesn’t ache this time around with his wings resting neatly under him, the pain instead focusing his whole body, making him feel queasy and dizzy from the heat of his head.
He refuses to open his eyes or move, concentrating his very best on his breathing, grasping onto Henry to try and cool off somehow. He knows he’s sweating all over, yet a cool bath feels so distant and impossible. He’s not sure if he could even mutter the word “bath” without wanting to hurl.

His door swings open a second time, Phil rushing in and sparing no time to place his cool hand onto Tommy’s forehead, who melts into the cold touch.

“Your immune system isn’t doing too well, huh?”

Downstairs, he can still smell a meal being cooked, the potatoes surely giving away it’s Techno’s cooking. He doesn’t complain though, as he knows Techno’s cooking rivals Phil on the comforting meals scale. He’d take a bowl of his any day if offered.
Dreaming of food, he doesn’t pay attention nor process the words being said above him before he’s scooped up out of bed and into Wilbur’s arms this time, arms carefully hooked around his back without pressing into his wings.
Still clinging onto Henry, he wraps one loose arm lazily around Wilbur’s neck, huddling into him and how cool he feels compared to Tommy.
The three make their way downstairs and into the living room, plopping Tommy down onto their couch and bringing up a blanket to Tommy’s chest before he can protest against it. The best he can manage is weakly kicking it off like a child while mumbling his best “too warm.”

More muddled words are exchanged before one of them- likely Phil- turns and heads off into the kitchen. Wilbur is left with the boy, sitting by him on the couch and running a hand through his hair, still feeling cold against his head.
In such a delirious state, he doesn’t have enough power to control the pleased chirps from his throat, making Wilbur’s hand falter for a moment before continuing on. He only leans further into the touch, starting to regain some sort of consciousness as he opens his eyes up at Wil.
Wilbur stares back down at Tommy, face grinning wide but eyes soft as he keeps running his hand through his hair. With the little power he gains back, he finally mutters something out,

“Bitch.”

And with that, Wilbur’s warm smile drops; his hand still running through his hair, of course, just less willingly.

“Little shit,” he retorts.

Chapter Text

The clouds don’t go away the following morning, filling the skies with grey and casting a dark haze over the gardens of their home. Techno takes his chances of rainfall and hurries in the garden, pulling weeds and watering flowers in place of everyone who remains inside. 

Tommy’s chores in the garden are far too easy for his liking, he’ll have to remember to tell Phil about it, maybe he can give him an extra task or two. He’s had it too good lately.

Plopping the watering can next to the door, he swings it open and steps inside, eyes immediately falling on Tommy who rests on the couch. He still clings onto Henry, choking the thing like he used to when he was afraid as a child; always ending up at Techno’s door first to sleep next to him.

Techno passes by quickly, ruffling Tommy’s hair on the way then retreating back upstairs for a change of clothes. Tommy barely even groans, unmoving, pale and stiff upon the couch. 

The last time he was “sick,” was excruciating in a different sense than this. The last time was quick, a burning flash of pain that made him scream for some time before passing out. But this, this kept him awake. It pried his eyes open and held them there so he could feel himself burning alive all over again.

His body still feels impossibly warm, his pants and sleeves rolled up fully and a cold water-soaked rag resting on his forehead, something Wilbur had given him without Tommy asking; or rather without being able to ask. Speaking made bile crawl up his throat, so to have Wilbur finally understand something he needs, was a godsend.

The rag helps a little bit, but the heat still gnaws at his head deep down. It makes him dizzy, nauseous, and dehydrated from how badly he’d been sweating. Techno even tried dragging Tommy upstairs for a bath, to which he only slumped over and refused to move.

That’s the biggest one, isn’t it? He can’t move. Tommy tries to move, but his arms and legs feel pinned down by their own weight. Everything is so heavy, and far too hot, he’d be touching magma if he dares to bend his knees.

From what Tommy could hear, two muffled voices in another room not so far off, they discuss him.

“I’m sending Techno out tomorrow morning to get more medicine and things for stew. He has a stomach flu of some kind.”

“Why not send him out today? We have the time-“

“The cart is still broken, remember Wil? One of the wheels is snapped off along with the metal, it won’t be as easy as popping it back on.”

The voices go silent, and he wonders for a moment if the two caught on, realizing Tommy could hear them, maybe even eavesdropping on their words. The lighter voice sighs.

“..Right, I know.”

There’s a long pause between words, hanging in the air but giving Tommy relief knowing that they’re not aware of him yet.

“Take care of him today, yeah? Soup when he needs it, keeping his head cooled off-“

“I know, I know don’t worry. I’ll be here.”

“That’s good. Thank you, Wil- You’re far better than either of us when it comes to this stuff.”

“Pff, coming from our dad? The one who’s meant to be good at this?”

“Shut-!”

There’s quiet laughter and the ruffling of clothes before a door gently shuts, followed by light footsteps approaching the stairs. During that time Tommy had somehow managed to pry his eyes open, everything bright and blinding him though causing him to squint. It looks more like he’s scowling at the stairs, waiting for whoever to come down and pick a fight with him. It’s what he would’ve done anyway, if he weren’t ill, picking random fights with his brothers for no reason. Well, for some reason- it was fun.

Wilbur trots down the steps and meets eyes with Tommy halfway down, shock flitting through them. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, however, a rather easygoing grin slides its way onto his face as he approaches Tommy, squeezing into a seat by his side. 

“Awake now, gremlin?”

Tommy mumbles something barely under his breath, likely some sort of curse or insult to the best of his ability. He stays unmoving, gripping onto Henry and eyes locked on Wilbur, using him to focus away from the nauseating heat.

“You look pale. You need anything, food? Water? Medicine maybe?”

Wilbur shifts the cold rag away before resting the back of his hand on Tommy's forehead, his cool skin replacing the cold water. He needs the cold, anything cold, stick him in the fridge maybe! 

Tommy tries to call out, anything and everything, he strains his throat to try and speak; only to tense up further and slap a hand over his mouth. He doesn’t care that his arm screams out and his head spins ten times faster. He doesn’t care that Wilbur notices, and sprints into the kitchen.

He doesn’t care that something crawls up his throat, feeling like magma about to burst.

Just as quick as it started, a bin is shoved in his face, and he releases into it, retching and heaving up remains of stew and bile. At least after throwing everything up, he feels slightly less dizzy and nauseous, enough to speak now. He coughs up more and chugs down the water bottle that is also shoved his way, head hovering over the bin still.

Wilbur’s hand combs through his hair, keeping it out of his eyes while also keeping his head cool. He looks up at Wil, eyes dark and heavy as he leans around, struggling to keep himself balanced up. Wil only smiles again, though a somber one, his eyes relaxed and fixed onto Tommy.

“Keep yourself up, I’ll get you some medicine-“

Letting go of Henry for just a moment, his right arm grasps at Wil’s, pulling him back to meet eyes with him again. Pleading, tired eyes.

“Cold. I n- … I need something cold. I feel like I’m- Like I’m melting.”

About three different times Tommy had to suppress more bile just to speak, pushing and straining through his words and leaving his throat with rocks in it. He lets go and tosses himself back, clutching Henry closer to his face and refusing to further speak. Wilbur says nothing and nods, placing the bin down on the ground and turning back into the kitchen.

From the stairs, another pair trots down hastily.

“The hell was that? Sounded like an animal dyin’?”

“Tommy just threw up, relax.”

Techno rushes over to Tommy on the couch, cringing at the bucket that rests on the floor but quickly forgetting about it in favor of checking his temperature again. 

Techno’s hand is just as cold, if not the coldest of the three; he swears he could almost see his sweat evaporating into the air as Techno presses his hand on his head, it feeling so icy. Tommy leans into his hand and presses his whole face into Techno’s palm, who just stares at him, brows furrowed and confused. He doesn’t care. He’s taking all the cold he can get.

Wilbur returns with a bowl of something and a glass of icy water- or is it just a glass of ice? Either one is acceptable. He pauses and watches the sight before him, meeting eyes with Techno and just shrugging before placing the bowl in Tommy’s lap. It’s ice cold through his clothes and sends a chill up his spine before he melts into that instead, letting go of Henry and wrapping his hands around it. 

From above him, Techno pulls his hand back and scoffs.

“Dude, ice cream? He’s sick, and probably gonna vomit that right back up.”

Wilbur’s hands shoot up defensively, his voice becoming that familiar pitch of ‘I didn’t do anything wrong, it wasn’t me!’

Tommy just stares into the bowl, absorbing it’s comforting cold instead of actually eating it. 

“He wanted something cold! Ice cream is damn cold enough!-“

“Wil, it’s pure sugar,”

Techno stresses pure sugar, raising his hands up almost to grab Wil by the shoulders.

“PURE. SUGAR. He’s gonna throw it up.”

Wilbur’s tongue clicks and he rolls his eyes, moving them back down to Tommy, who watches the two silently with bug eyes.

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m not cleanin’ it up. Goodbye forever.”

Techno keeps his arms raised as he stomps off upstairs, never to be seen again. Wilbur is already waving him off though as he takes a seat back by Tommy, smiling at him and running a hand through his hair. Tommy remains unintentionally scowling, staring down at the bowl like it insulted his mother.

“Just have a little bit at a time, don’t go scarfing it down. It’s nice and cold,”

He places the cup of ice water into one of his hands as well, the chill of it seeping into his hand and making it numb. 

“Same with this. Little sips.”

Tommy nods ever so slightly, picking up the spoon with a shaky hand. He remains silent, scooping up a tiny bit of the ice cream and eating it hesitantly; the coldness of it seeps throughout his head and chest, finally alleviating some of the horrid nausea and heat. He scoops another spoonful into his mouth and sighs- if he were any warmer, he would’ve been steaming at this point. 

With one more spoonful he places the spoon back down and takes a couple hearty chugs of the ice water, feeling it travel down his throat and cool off every inch of his torso. With a final huff, he hands the bowl and cup back to Wil.

It feels incredibly relieving, yes- but any more food and he may throw up all his progress.

Wil nods and takes the dishes, getting up and transporting them to the kitchen counter. 

Making his way back, Wilbur sits himself down behind Tommy’s head, tucking himself into the corner of the couch. Tommy then lays back, resting his head on Wilbur’s leg, his hair being brushed through once again by his cold hand. He clutches Henry close and lets his mind wander peacefully.

—————

“I don’t, I don’t know what’s going on, I-“

Rapid breaths flow from Wilbur, voice breaking and wet with tears. A hand clutches at Tommy’s shirt, the other cradling his face. It doesn’t feel cold anymore. Everything is burning.

“Breathe, Wil, what’s happening?”

“H-he, I don’t know, he was fine earlier today, I-! He won’t- won’t answer me anymore!”

Techno grabs at Wilbur’s shoulder, then the other side of Tommy’s face with the other hand. He’s staring into Wil, eyes wide and afraid of something. He’s shaking under his facade of ease.

“He went limp, h-he won’t move, won’t answer, but he’s breathing so fast- and, fuck, Techno he’s burning up!!”

Henry is on the floor, Tommy’s arm hanging over the side of the couch, fingers barely grazing the floor. 

A hand reaches at his forehead, no longer cold, filling his head with flame. A voice, broken and shaky, sighs and pulls the hand back. 

He stares, but doesn’t know where he is. Everything is so foggy. Everything is burning.

“I’ll go get Phil, you- stay here with him.”

Techno sprints out the room and up the stairs, leaving Wilbur holding him close and trying not to sob over his head. Tears are rolling down his face rapidly, some even dripping onto Tommy, but they aren’t cold.

His voice is so shaky, so gravelly and tired, and afraid.

“T-Tommy, you’ll be okay, yeah?”

He can’t open his eyes or move his head to answer. He can’t muster a groan or mumble without his head being sent everywhere. He breathes so fast, air feeling thin and his chest becoming heavier and heavier by the second; it makes his head feel lighter and dizzier, but he can’t stop himself from trying to catch his breath so desperately. 

Wilbur chews on his lip and bites back another sob.

Two pairs stomp down the steps hurriedly, the one in front taking charge and just as quickly bringing a hand up to cup his face. 

“Gods, he’s burning hot. Tech, get the cold rag-“

Techno just barely turns to the kitchen before Tommy musters up his only sound, a horrible whine from his throat that’s strained and agonizing. Everything is burning; The flame that once engulfed his back and changed him forever, returns to take his full body and mind. The words in his throat burn up before he can utter them, only turning them into screams again just as before. Arms squeeze around his chest tighter, and hands wrap around his face, and above him is something being muttered too quick for him to understand. 

He writhes, finally gaining the energy to move, but only to shout and stretch himself away from the flames. He kicks his legs around, instincts kicking in and believing himself to being attacked- screaming more and more. 

Wilbur cries out, breathing and heaving under his voice,

“What the fuck is happening to him?!”

Techno never enters the kitchen, returning back to the couch and pinning down Tommy’s chest to keep him from writhing. Phil and Wilbur also hold onto Tommy, tears trickling down all three’s faces, watching him with shaky hands. 

Phil watches him all over, eyes pausing to just under Tommy’s head.

“His- his back, his wings!”

From under Tommy, where his wings are pinned under his weight, his feathers poke out; Instead of the golden brown of an eagle-

They’re bright red. A fade of luminescent orange into bright red, the feathers seeming to glow ever so faintly. 

The glow of the wings start traveling into Tommy’s torso, illuminating the veins under his skin. His face, arms, legs; his whole body is consumed in a soft glow, still writhing and crying out in a burning pain. Tears stream down Tommy’s face, but are evaporating off into steam, too cool against his skin. 

Phil yanks his hands back with a yelp, eyes still locked onto Tommy in terror. 

“H-he- he’s completely burning! I can’t touch him-!”

Wilbur also shouts out, letting go of Tommy and squirming off the couch, his arms marked red from where he touched him. Techno’s hand remains on Tommy’s chest, his face wincing and his fingers curling in pain.

Phil yanks back Techno’s hand by the wrist, both still concentrated on Tommy, even if Techno’s hand is burned fully red. 

The glow of his skin grows, becoming brighter and brighter, until he’s fully shining like a burning star. The three can only watch and stare on, unable to touch him, slowly backing away from the heat he emanates like an open flame. Wilbur falls to his knees, Phil cries out, and Techno just stares; eyes wide and tearful and fists clenched at his side, despite the burn.

Tommy cries and cries and cries, and keeps screaming as the light wraps around him, his face unable to be seen and still steaming from his tears. 

His wings are now fully engulfed in the flame, his feathers turning into fire themselves, remaining a still bright red rather than charring.

One last cry, one last muster of energy, he pleads. He pleads for help, for his brothers, his dad; pleads for them to do anything. But they just stare. They stand and stare, helpless and powerless to the open fire of the star before them. Beneath the writhing, he turns to them, sobbing before remaining still. The light begins to fade away, the flame on his wings shrinking back down to nothing; His wings remain red, the light of his skin dulls slowly until eventually, no more.

It’s over, the flame now burned away, leaving ash in its wake. Tommy’s body is mostly charred, though his face is sickly pale under the ash. He faces the three with hollow eyes, once a bright blue now faded into grey. Remaining tears flow from his eyes, staining his cheeks and picking up the ash, only a slight bit of steam flowing from them.

Wilbur shrieks out, throwing himself back to Tommy’s side, quivering and holding his face in his hands. He cries and cries, gently shaking his face, then his shoulders.

“T-Tommy, Tommy!! Wake up, p-please, I-!! WAKE UP!!”

Phil joins him after, silently sobbing and staring in horror, not uttering a single word. He only runs his hand through Tommy’s hair again, muttering pleas under his breath, pleas to a person, pleas to keep Tommy safe. Techno doesn’t move. He freezes in fear, his face remaining in a stilled shock.

Sickness, or whatever it may be, has taken Tommy. 

It’s taken the only avian’s son, his only hope of his species remaining.

It’s taken a brother, from two still eager with lessons to pass on to their youngest.

Death has betrayed her only love.

The charred parts of Tommy’s body grow, spreading up to his neck and darkening him into an ashy grey. He lies completely still, eyes still dully pointed out to the side, no longer focused on the three as they crowd and hold onto what remains of him.
Starting from the tips of his fingers, they crumble up into dusty remains, slowly reaching its way up to his forearm, then his elbow, then his knees-
Phil and Wilbur don’t take notice, clinging onto the boy’s face and chest, leaving Techno to witness him falling apart to nothing.

Tommy’s chest caves in as his ribs shrivel away, then leading up to his neck.

Wilbur screams, squeezing tight to the cloth that lay on the piles of ash.

Phil twists Tommy’s head to face his own, watching his son’s eyes fall into his head as his skull, then skin, then hair crumble in on themselves.

Thus all that remains, is dark ashes, crawling into the crevices of the couch, leaving its smudge on his family’s hands.

In the pile of it all, a sliver of light glows a bright orange.

Chapter Text

Ashes lay on the couch, some beginning to spill over and onto the floor, nestling its way deep into the carpet. In the utter shock of it all, everyone remains unmoving, staring down at their hands and the ground in favor of not looking at the ashes.

Phil is silently crying, eyes glued to the carpet and gripping his hands tightly in his lap, endlessly muttering why to himself.

Wilbur dashes out the room, running into the kitchen and retching into the sink, coughing and sputtering against his tears.

Techno remains still, fists relaxed by his sides and pulsing with a burn injury. Approaching the pile, he delicately picks out the tiny orange glow, careful to avoid even touching the ashes as if they’d burn him further.

After the heat of it all, everything pieces together with one click in his mind.

He grips onto the light and marches upstairs, careful to step around Phil or any ashes on the ground, the two others not bothering to look up or acknowledge him, locked in their grief. His bedroom door swings open with a slam and he hurries to the bookshelf, tracing a finger over the dusty book spines and finally stopping on one. He pulls it out with a huff, waving the dust away and near yanking the book open in front of him, almost dropping it by how shaky his hands are.
He lands on a page, and tears finally flow down his face, having been welled up in his eyes for minutes; he turns and sprints back down the hall, shouting out.

“L-look, Phil!-“

He throws himself onto the ground beside Phil, ignoring how his knees bump hard against the carpet; Phil does not move nor answer, eyes dulled and stuck to his hands below him. His face is strained and full of tears, red from crying and his eye bags darker than ever.
Techno shoves the book into his view impatiently, huffing and out of breath, stifling an entire panic attack to show Phil the page.

“PHIL, LOOK.”

Phil flinches and follows the drawing on the page with his eyes lazily before turning back up to Techno, only a strained face meeting his, grief and despair occupying his face.
The page is filled with lengthy passages of text, but more importantly, a drawing of a large and whimsical bird.

A bright red and orange bird. A phoenix, chosen out of Techno’s book of mythological creatures.

Techno stutters and follows the text with his finger, reading out as follows.

“A p-phoenix may obtain new life by arising from the ashes of its predecessor,”

He swallows down the lump in the throat, voice still quivering and broken.

“Some legends say it dies in a show of flames and combustion, before it regenerates or is born anew.”

Phil stares at the book with wide and tearful eyes, almost snapping out of his grieving trance and grasping onto the page. His breathing picks up as he sobs, staring so intently at the illustration. He coughs and chokes out before he can mutter a word.

“T-that’s- he- Tommy’s wings-“

“Tommy’s wings. They’re- they’re identical…”

Phil only responds in a shouting sob, turning and clinging onto Techno and burying his face into his shoulder. Techno squeezes him just as tight with one arm, holding the light in his other palm, pinned close to his chest.
Wilbur staggers in from the kitchen, face completely wet and red from whatever it could be- tears, bile, sweat, or just water from the sink- and falls to his knees with Phil and Techno, grasping onto them and staring into the open book.

In the arms of his father and brother, Techno cries. The three remain, and cry, holding the youngest’s soulfire in the palm of their hands, the only thing illuminating the room around them; the warmth of it wrapping around the family, almost mimicking another pair of arms.

—————

A sudden brightness fills his vision, making him squint and bring a weak arm over his face. He feels light and floaty, wherever he is, like floating in a pool of water; but still able to breathe fine. Fully opening his eyes, he floats around in a closed white void, just barely being able to make out the walls and floor of a sophisticated ballroom, like ones out of fairy tales or children’s storybooks.
Wasn’t he just on the couch? Everything was so warm, too warm, but now a gentle chill cradles him in this weird world.
There are clocks everywhere floating alongside him in the room- or rather, phantoms of clocks? They all glow a soft white, and tick silently as they pass by him, all reading a different time.
Among the clocks are stars, or mini galaxies surrounding him. The sight of it all; the elegance of the ballroom, the serene ticking of the clocks, and the beautiful shining stars around him, it’d be enough to put him to sleep.
But he just floats, watching the sights around him. Even with all the clocks taking up his vision, it’s hard to tell how much time passes in this place.
From below, a voice calls out- gentle, warm, and familiar.

“Little bird, why are you here so early?”

In the middle of the ballroom watching under him, stands his mother, eyes soft and grinning at him, a chuckle lacing her soothing voice.
With one extension of her arms, Tommy is floating downwards now, and landing into her embrace. He holds her back just as she holds him, tears floating out and away from his cheeks.
She only giggles and wipes his tears with her dark sleeve, head tilted down at him.

“You aren’t meant to be here so soon. What happened, my dear?”

Tommy doesn’t even know. For one minute, he was eating some ice cream Wilbur had given him- and then he felt hot. Too hot. And now- he’s seen his mother for the first time since he was a baby.
He shakes his head, almost scared to use his voice, worried about straining it too hard or wanting to vomit again; but no bile stirs up. He forgets that his sickness is gone, that there’s no more heat biting at him, no more dizziness or sweating. He breathes heavily, filling his lungs with fresh air and drawing out a long needed sigh.

“I, I don’t know. I really don’t. Everything was fine.”

“But was it fine, little phoenix? You have to rest up now before I can send you back home.”

Phoenix. That makes more sense, doesn’t it? He turns to peek at his wings behind him that are now a bright orange and red, eyes bewildered as he stares at them.
Death chuckles again sweetly, turning on her heel and walking to a far-off door, away from the whimsical ballroom.

“Your father must be worried sick, as with your brothers. I do wish I can send you off sooner,”

She places Tommy down on the ground, gravity seeming to find its way back into him. He walks beside her, staring up at her with wondrous eyes, noting how much Wilbur looks like her.

“But your soul needs more time to heal. It’s your first time being reborn, after all.”

Tommy pauses in his tracks, Death turning to face him. The hall around them, similar to the ballroom, is elegant and bright white, illuminated by warm sunlight seeping through a window off to the side. The light shines off her eyes as she looks to him.

“R-reborn?”

“You’re immortal, dear. As is your father and brothers.”

His breath hitches and his mouth snaps shut, everything clicking together in his head.
No wonder why Techno always had that chant, Technoblade never dies!
No wonder why Phil never talked much about what he used to do. Who knows how many centuries he’s lived.
No wonder why Wilbur’s never had a wrinkle on his skin. Tommy thought it was just a case of permanent babyface.
His shoulders rise up to his head, staring down and studying the patterns in the floor.

“They… They never told me.”

“Oh, chickadee, they don’t know you’re immortal yet. You just started your death cycle a little early, is all.”

Death comes closer to him, oddly enough without a single footstep being heard. She cradles his face in her hand, smiling softly before she pulls back and continues down the bright hall.

“Come now, you’ll be with me until you can go back.”

—————

“I… I just don’t, I don’t understand.”

Phil shakes, breathy and fatigued.
The three boys huddle in Phil’s bedroom, all grouped on the bed together. They hold each other tightly, examining the soulfire in Techno’s palm.
They all speak in hushed, torn voices, Phil’s dragging tiredness behind it.

“Why so soon? She… She would’ve told me.”

Wilbur’s face is dried now, but tense and staring down at the soul with exhaustion pulling at his eye bags. His arm is hooked around Phil’s, the other holding Techno’s shoulder reassuringly.

“How long is it gonna be, Techno? You’re sure he’s coming back?”

Techno’s body is stiff, still focusing his mind on regulating his breathing, using the warm glow of the soul to try and reassure himself. He shakes his head, still staring down.

“I- I don’t know how long it’ll be. But he will come back, he will.”

The night sky takes over the room, the soul providing the only light. None of the three dare to move or leave the room, since having abandoned the sight of the ashes downstairs, no one wishes to return; even if hunger bites at Wilbur’s stomach after having released any previous meal into the sink.
Faintly, the pitter-patter of rain knocks against the window.

—————

“So, you’re telling me- Crossing an avian with an immortal angel makes a phoenix. Why isn’t Wilbur or Techno a phoenix then?”

Lady Death throws her head back, laughing; a sweet laugh, even if it makes Tommy’s face red. He huffs and rolls his eyes slightly, a grin creeping up on his own face.

“Techno was taken in, love. Wilbur was just… lucky, I suppose. He takes on my features more than your father.”

“Clearly, I mean- you straight up have his eyes!”

She laughs again, Tommy now joining her.
Technoblade should’ve been obvious, though the immortality still doesn’t connect- maybe he was gifted it or something like that. No need to find out, anyway.
Tommy is curled up on presumably her bed, fluffy and black with elegant purple swirls lacing the edges. She’s definitely where Techno gets his spoiled elegant tastes from.
The curtains and furniture match with the bed, different shades of black and purple dominating the room, save for the walls and floor themselves being that bright, shiny white. The sun is still beaming through the window, casting a pleasant warm light on the bed.
Lady Death sits in a grand chair- basically a throne- across from Tommy, facing him as they talk about anything and everything.

Memories of Tommy as a baby, Wilbur, Techno- even some embarrassing stories of younger Phil he can use as blackmail- times long gone.
Responsibility catches up to everyone eventually, she explains, even to the point of needing to be away from home. She could never stay around for long, away from her duties as the angel of death.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t truly be there, chickadee. I’ve watched you grow from afar, and your fathers and brothers have raised you so well.”

The name bites into Tommy. Chickadee, his mother’s chickadee. Maybe now he won’t mind the nickname as much.
Death stands from her seat and moves to the bed, sitting by Tommy’s side and wiping tears- oh, tears- from his cheeks. The sound of his mother’s love and praise, something he only knew from such a faint childhood memory; his chest swells up and he sobs into her shoulder, staining her gown with tears.
But she doesn’t mind it. Not at all.

A wing from behind Death extends and wraps around Tommy’s own red wings. A black swan’s, with giant sparkling primaries. The feathers are warm against his skin, but no longer an agonizing warmth. She soothes and coos at him, petting through his hair with long dark nails; Once he’s mostly settled down, she whispers above his head, giving one last tight hug around him.

“It’s time for you to go, my Tommy. I love you, I’ll see you again. Say hello to the boys for me.”

And with one kiss on his forehead, he falls soundly asleep in his mother’s embrace.

—————

Minutes, agonizing hours pass in the room. Wilbur’s stomach is shouting out for food, as is Techno’s, but not one person budges from the bed.

Phil sleeps with his head in Wilbur’s lap, his hand fiddling with the blond’s hair gently as he continues to stare at the soulfire resting on the blanket.
Techno’s eyes are shut as he’s hunched over, almost locked in a meditative state, refusing to sleep or move.

Wilbur swears he can see the sun rising in the window out the corner of his eye.

Finally something to break the heavy tension; the soulfire flickers for just a second, prompting enough energy in Wilbur and Techno to sit up straight, eyeing it closely for its next move.
Wilbur silently shakes Phil awake with a free hand, eyes never breaking from the flicker. Phil mumbles and pushes himself up, immediately fixing his gaze onto the soul, now more awake than ever.

The sun rises through the window, light starting to pour into the room, slowly but surely.

The soulfire flickers again, then again, before it begins glowing. It glows and glows brighter until it blinds the three, hands being thrown up to their faces to block out the light. They all scoot back, mumbling and trying to watch the soul through the light- a flash, like lightning, throws them further aback as the soulfire grows in size now.
In a fit of light panic, Techno grabs the nearest end of the blanket and tosses it over the soul, covering the blinding light and sparing their eyes. The three ease up and try to catch their breaths once more, watching the lump in the bed warily.

It takes up a significant space on the bed, morphing into a round sphere shape that presses deeper into the blanket as weight grows in it. It morphs one last time before the light seeps away under the cloth, leaving nothing but a big mound under it.

No one moves or shifts, remaining completely still for whatever is in the blanket- then it shuffles. The blanket twitches around, and blond hair pokes out the edge, followed by a tired young face. Phil laughs out, crying once more; Wilbur immediately lunges at the boy, twisting his arms around Tommy and squeezing him so tightly. Techno gives in and does the same, piling on Tommy and squeezing him and Wilbur in a fit of tears and laughing.

“Oi! Get off me, dickheads, I can’t breathe-!! Phil, are you crying?”

Phil squawks out a laugh once more, being the last to lunge and wrap around Tommy, hands caught in his hair and around his face. Tommy laughs as well, holding the blanket around him tightly and allowing himself to be smothered. Tears pick at his eyes, seeing his whole family in such tears at just the sight of him. Phil and Wilbur are fully sobbing and snotty and completely red-faced, and Techno is failing miserably at hiding his sobs.

“Y-You’re back, you’re-“

“We thought we lost you, absolute prick!! Don’t do that again!!”

Wilbur is the first to pull back, shaking Tommy by the shoulders; he pauses to turn to Tommy’s wings, eyes in awe and jaw hanging wide open. His wings are orange, fading into red- but now accompanied by a golden, shiny sheen that glitters like stars in the sunlight through the window.
Lady Death must’ve given him a bonus. Speaking of,

“Mum says hi, by the way.”

—————

Tommy launches himself off the roof, careening into the bushes below him. Phil winces from said roof as Wilbur howls with laughter on the patio.

“Thank god I clipped the hedges yesterday,”

The corvid mutters before spreading his wings out and gliding to the ground, landing by Tommy’s side. He reaches a hand out, to which the younger huffs and grips it, pulling himself up and stretching out the new crick in his neck.

“Wanna give it another go, mate? You almost had it-“

“Oi Tommy, I know you love the taste of dirt, but don’t go eating too much of it!!!”

Wilbur shouts from the patio with cupped hands, leaning against the railing with that shitfaced grin of his. Tommy snaps his head to Wilbur, face already red. Phil sighs and pinches his nose bridge, already feeling the grey hairs coming in.

“SHUT IT PRICK, TRY FLYING YOURSELF!! OH WAIT, YOU CAN’T-“

Tommy flips him off with both hands, flapping his wings like a maniac behind him.
Wilbur only laughs like a madman, hunched over and clutching his stomach.

“BECAUSE YOU’RE A WINGLESS FUCK!!”

“Alright alright, you all can shut up now, please.”

Techno steps out on the patio holding a tray of cups, all four filled to the brim with iced lemonade. The sun beams down and shines on the glasses, illuminating the drink in all of its glory.
Tommy darts over, tripping on the grass and almost his own ankle a couple times, but makes it to the patio with a victorious grin. He scoops up one of the glasses with the most lemonade in it and chugs it down, getting halfway before stopping and wiping his face off with a huff. Techno just stares at the boy, deadpan and stoic.

“That one was mine.”

“It’s all lemonade, dickhead.”

Phil climbs the short stairs of the patio and grabs himself one of the cups, taking a sip and sighing contently. His dark wings flap once behind him, catching a stray breeze and cooling him down.

“I think that’s enough for today. You’re getting better at gliding, at least!”

Wilbur coughs laughing, dribbling his drink on his chin a little bit, earning another cringe from Techno.

“HA! Gliding. Chicken boy.”

“THAT’S PHOENIX TO YOU, BITCH!”

“Chicken. Cock. Little chicken boy.”

Phil and Techno exchange glances, the older sighing, Techno shaking his head.

The garden is watered and blossoming, and the sun is warmer than ever.

Death gives back in odd ways.

Chapter Text

The living room curtains sway under the light breeze of the window, only just cracked open to let in the cool fresh air. Moonlight seeps through and shines over three boys, nested soundly into the couch; all asleep and huddled under thick blankets and pillows- Wilbur and Techno tucked under either side of Tommy’s bright wings.
Phil grins at the sight and tugs the end of a falling blanket gently back over the shoulders of Wil, ruffling his hair briefly before stepping out towards the patio.

The wind is crisp and cool, sending a chill up Phil’s back but then settling into a serene cold. Sighing, his arms fold over his chest and rest against the railing, staring out into the still forest before him. The garden below him is trimmed and fixed, the hyacinth bushes and alliums swaying gently against each other, catching the light of the moon perfectly with their purple-blue hues. A murder of crows caw and chirp in the distant trees.

His eyes watch the above, slow moving clouds over the bright moon and stars twinkling and filling the dull spaces of the sky. A sight he’s seen for many a years now; whether by himself, with one of his sons, all of them, or with-

“My love.”

Phil’s head swings to his right, meeting eyes with Lady Death on the patio steps. Her hat and veil aren’t found on her, her face eyes smiling with love at the reaper before her; Phil stares back in awe and adoration, arms hovering ahead of him, wary of reaching out.
Death breaks the distance, stepping forward and taking Phil’s hands in her own. Phil brings up his own hand and cups her cheek, laughing softly, eyes still on her.

“How long can you stay, angel?”

The two remain close for a few silent moments before Death sighs, her smile faltering for a second.

“Just for this night. How are the boys?”

“They’re… They’re doing good.”

The couple both falter, arms and faces lowering to point to the ground. The breeze is slower and gentler, flowing through their hair and pushing it out the way of their faces. Death’s eyes meet Phil’s again, dark, full of stars, and shiny with tears. Her smile remains, albeit soft and barely noticeable.

“I’m sorry, angel. I should’ve told you sooner. I scared you and the boys deeply.”

Phil’s head shakes as his hand shoots up again to cup her face, her leaning into it and letting her eyes fall, tears threatening to spill. Her own hand rests gingerly over Phil’s. His wings behind him curl around his sides, trying their best to conceal the two from the light.

“You don’t control death itself, love, no one does. Just their spirits. You didn’t know.”

They both chuckle softly, standing in their embrace and listening to the sway of the trees. The reaper pulls Death into a hug, one hand in her hair and the other wrapped around her waist. She brings her arms up and around his neck, the two holding each other tightly, unmoving and silent.

“Not everyday your child is born into a mythological creature, anyway.”

Death breaks out into laughter, ringing out into his ear and feeling her breath against his chest. His wings flutter and he resists the chirps and trills in his throat, chuckling with her.
Still holding onto her reaper, Death sighs and shifts her face to bury it in his shoulder.

“Could I see them?”

“Of course, angel. They’ll be so happy to see you again.”

With that, the couple step back from each other, hands still interlocked. Phil turns and leads her into the door behind him, where the boys rest soundly.

The murder of crows in the trees now caw again, having been silent in the presence of Lady Death. The trees sway and the garden glows under the moon.

In the sky, a red star twinkles brightly beside three others.