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The locals call it frigid woe, which is fitting, because Philza is both freezing and feeling pretty damn woeful.
He says as much to Techno, who huffs and dumps another blanket in his lap before plopping down behind him.
“You know how you said it was ‘definitely just a cold’, two weeks ago?” Techno says, carefully thumbing through Philza’s frostbitten feathers. His touch is uncomfortably hot against the freezing surface of Philza’s skin, but neither of them flinch at the temperature difference. “And I said, ‘Phil, there are whole icicles hanging off your wings,’ and you tried to hide them behind your back?”
“I wasn’t trying to hide them,” Philza rasps, and then coughs hard enough to wrack his entire frame. Another cough jostles through him, and another, and another, and he melts miserably into his pile of blankets as something wet and gross dislodges in his chest. He’ll probably hack it up later, preferably when Techno isn’t looking.
Once the coughing fit tapers off, Techno’s hands loosen from where they’d tightened on his shoulders, and resume preening the frost from his wings. “Yeah? What do you call it, then?” he says, as though the coughing hadn’t happened at all.
Philza says nothing, mostly because he doesn’t know if he’ll start panting for breath by the end of it. Instead, he focuses on his half-numb wings and leans to the side somewhat, resting his weight on the warm wooden walls of their borrowed room.
There are worse places to die.
As though picking up on that morbid thought, Techno laughs nervously. “The silent treatment isn’t like you,” he says, his voice undercut with worry. Philza shuts his eyes as he continues, “Well, with your age, it’s about time you started slowin’ down…”
“Very funny,” Philza whispers, crooking him a tired smile. If he had the energy to remind Techno exactly who in their party was the fastest in a no-holds-barred race (the answer would be Philza by the longest length), he would.
Mostly, though, he’s tired. And he’s cold.
“Phil,” Techno says, more urgently. Philza blinks, struggling to open his eyes and figure out exactly when they’d shut, feeling like his lashes are glued together with snow. “Phil, you’re not tappin’ out now, are you? At least move to the bed first. Niki’ll skin me alive if she finds out I let you faceplant into her oven.”
Philza hums. Vaguely, he remembers that half their party is still out in the frozen wasteland of Eiselcross, searching for an antidote in the ruins of an ancient civilization of mages—it reminds him of his own foolhardy quest for some sacred resurrective spell that could pull a soul from a hell it willingly ceded itself to.
The problem with True Resurrection, he thinks, is that even a holy-blooded war cleric like himself holds little sway against the hungry greed of the betrayer gods when they have an enthusiastic sacrifice.
(He does not think of the body left unrotting in an open grave, aasimar blood splattered all around the overgrown grove, divine healing bouncing off the unresponding body to feed the forest instead.)
“—keep moving,” Techno is saying, and his voice jolts into abrupt clarify. “As long as you can move, you’ll be okay for a little longer.”
Back on the speed thing, huh? It’s true that Philza’s mobility is what kept him alive in their Empire days, but tonight his wings are heavy and his head is cold, cold, cold. Even his arms seem struck through with unnaturally blue veins.
At least he isn’t shivering anymore.
“Techno,” Philza says, interrupting him from his next tirade about speed-enhancing spells and his wondering if they would help repel the cold at all. “Move over.”
“Heh?”
He shoulders him, or tries to. It’s more like a slight lean, and even that drains the breath from his lungs. He takes a moment to breathe, before continuing, “Move. Head hurts.”
“How are you the one aasimar with a cold allergy,” Techno says, but obliges, scooting over so he can lay down across the mat. “Like a pampered chicken. Don’t get your wings dirty, you’ll never shut up about it later.”
Philza pointedly swings a wing out and drags it across the edge of the fire, covering it in soot.
“Bruh,” says Techno.
“Mm,” Philza agrees, smiling. He doesn’t bother to pull his wing back in, but Techno rolls his eyes and folds it back for him.
Philza fights not to put it right back, because it was warm, but he knows he really shouldn’t risk burning himself. It might be better than this awful chill, but it’s going to give everyone else a panic attack.
As it is, he lets himself drift off. It’s easy, when he’s so tired and isn’t even shivering enough to make him uncomfortable anymore.
His everything feels numb.
Except for his cheek, which—there’s the lightest brush of a feather-light touch, and the familiar intonation of Lady Death, Queen of the Crows.
Hello, my love. Come by to visit?