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He used to be known as the Angel of Death, leveling entire villages in less than a day. Mercilessly draining blood from anyone in sight, marking his victims with a single feather. Then he sired the Blood God, who craved nothing but violence and bloodshed. Who slaughtered millions without care and without thought. And together they brought entire nations to their knees. The very mention of their names struck fear into the hearts of even the most ruthless dictators. They had the world in the palm of their hands… And then came a third, but this one was different… instead of craving quick, ruthless bloodshed he craved sick, sadistic, attention. He craved love and admiration and blood curdling screams. Instead of mowing down hundreds of thousands of humans at once he'd pick just one, just a single person to charm, to enchant, to torture, to break, and then disappearing as if he were never actually there. And together they made a perfect family.
But that was centuries ago, when they were young and easily bored, when it was harder to ignore the voices in the back of their minds screaming for blood and violence and death. And sometimes they still gave in and let themselves have some fun draining anyone and everyone in sight but it was only once or twice a decade. But the public didn't know that, they still lived in fear for the day the Sleepy Coven would return in full and the streets would once again run a constant blood red again.
But what the public didn't know and never would was that Phil had a bit of a soft spot for tossed out and abandoned children, something about them made his heart ache. That's how he sired his first son after all; he found the boy with a fighting spirit and bubblegum pink hair; or Techno as he was called, alone, beat up, and starving on the streets. But what truly caught his eye was the child's already reddish brown eyes, even if they were hidden by his long unruly pink hair. And something deep within Phil for the first time told him to give mercy to the child, not to kill but to take, and nurture, and love. So he did. He took the child with the pink hair and gave him crimson eyes to match, gave him a home to call his own, gave him everything he ever wanted and then some.
Next came the sickly sweet musician. He found the boy similarly to his other son, alone on the streets. But instead of hunched over ready for the next fight, he was in the town center playing music soaking up any and all attention he could. Instead of long, tangled, unruly hair; his fell in soft brown curls that framed his equally soft face. He looked open and inviting, he looked like he deserved to be listened to for hours on end and loved. So Phil did. He spent days standing just out of sight, watching the young man play to his heart's content as coins trickled into his bag. He watched for weeks, just enjoying him and his youth and his art. Until one day he stopped showing up at the town center or on street corners or anywhere, he had simply disappeared. And that scared Phil, and for the first time in however many centuries he felt real genuine fear. Not for himself but for his claim, his next child. So he searched, for hours on end until he came across a cramped room that smelled of death, or something close to it. And there he found Wilbur, lying sick and alone, at death's doorstep; skin so pale it was almost pure white, tremors racking up and down his lithe body, eyes unfocused and cloudy, the stench of sickness so thick it made the air around him heavy. So Phil saved him, the Angel of Death gave him a new life, one where he didn't have to worry about food, or freezing, or anything. Replaced his fading chocolate brown eyes with ruby red ones, turned his once hollow pale cheeks rosy and full again, gave him the strength to not only survive but to live.
And now comes their fourth…, a young boy no older than 16. He'd found him left for dead in an alley, the smell of a fresh wound and rival vampires drawing him in. And there he saw him, a mere child, curled up shaking. His soft blonde hair was dirty and stuck to his forehead with sweat and blood, his probably once diamond blue eyes faded and cloudy, two unmistakable holes on his neck weeping crimson. And a wave of sheer protectiveness washed over him. He wanted to know who would do this to such a young pure child and he wanted to make them pay. But first, he wanted to see the child smile, and run, and play, and live. He wanted to make them his. So he had to first he'd have to at least try and talk to the boy, so he crept over to him as carefully as he could to avoid further startling or frightening him. He knelt down and carded his hand through his hair watching as he attempted to lean into the warmth in search of comfort, but stopping before whining in pain.
"Oh you poor thing…" Phil cooed "who could do such a thing to you?", which was met with a nearly incoherent groan. A small wave of relief washed through him, at least the boy was conscious enough to hear him. "Hey, mate I'm gonna do something ok? It won't hurt but you'll get real sleepy and feel real warm ok? I promise you're safe now." he carried on, even if the boy didn't understand it just felt right telling him. Then as gently as he could lifted the boy up and bit his neck. He was met with no resistance other than a small whimper before going slack again and shivering as the venom started to enter his veins. He seemed to drift further into the void of unconsciousness before the sharp smell of something peaked his senses but only enough for him to blindly reach for the arm offered to him. Once it was put to his mouth he drank mindlessly just knowing he was thirsty or hungry or something else entirely he couldn't really tell, but once the sweet taste finally registered on his tongue he drank greedily taking as much as he could.
"Ah ah ahhh, that's about enough for you. You'll give yourself a stomach ache." Phil chided while gently pulling his arm away. The boy just sleepily looked up at him, suddenly feeling more exhausted than he ever had . "Aww, you seem tired… sleep my sweet changeling we'll be home soon." he commanded while picking his new son up and for some reason the boy felt compelled to listen; so compelled that he couldn't help but fall into a deep dreamless sleep.
Phil could feel the other ties of his bond snap to attention the second he'd bit the boy. Waves of familyhurtconfusedlovepainwhywholoveprotectmine and covenlovenewmineprotectfamilyprotectlovenew bombarding him, and he sent back waves telling of their new brother and love and knowledge in due time. The walk home was silent and quick, even with Phil carrying the now unconscious teen like a baby. And by the time he reached the door both his sons were (not so) patiently waiting to meet their new brother.
The second he stepped in he was overwhelmed with questions. Who is he?, Where'd you find him?, Why'd you pick him?, ect. and to all those important questions he had a single simple answer "I don't know, I found him in an alley cold and alone bleeding out. So I took him in." And the others knew that story all too well having lived it themselves, even if it was centuries ago. They knew what it was like to be left out and abandoned and more importantly they knew what it was like for the Angel of Death to give them new life and a family.
"Poor thing was left for dead… but that doesn't matter anymore. I found him and now he's mine." he paused, looking down at the boy in his arms and smiled, gripping him somehow tighter, "Techno, mate? Could you please go set up his room since I'm a bit busy here?" he asked before the other tried rushing away. He turned his attention to Wilbur who seemed to be hovering around them anxiously.
"Dad? Do you know who did this?" Wilbur asked after a while, anger and something else coloring his voice.
"Nope, just know it was another vampire who definitely should've known better than to hunt on our territory." anger and protectiveness filling his voice once again. Their brief discussion was cut even shorter by the sound of Techno shouting for them and telling them to bring the kid up.
Once they got up stairs and to the guest room they set him down on the bed and gathered around it, each being at most 7 or so feet away from their newest coven member. Ready to protect, comfort, reassure, and do anything he wanted. The room already having upwards of 30 protective spells, wards, and sigils on it. After all, changelings are but mere children who demanded their attention, closeness, and protection at all times. Especially when they were asleep and vulnerable to attack. And eventually, they settled into a comfortable yet still tense silence.
The entire room stood at attention when his breathing hitched and his heart rate picked up as a painful sob ripped its way out of his throat and fat tears began to fall from his eyes. Their instincts practically screaming PROTECT THE BOY KILL WHAT MAKES HIM AFRAID KILL WHAT HURTS HIM SPILL THE BLOOD OF THOSE WHO MAKE HIM CRY, but since they can't kill bad dreams they tried the second best thing, they crowded closer and tried to flood their bond with feelings of love and safety and closeness. And soon their little changeling, their baby, had calmed down; his tears slowing to a stop and his breathing and heart rate steadied. Now unconsciously seeking out their warmth and touch as though he needed it to survive. After a while they again settled into a comfortable silence again, this time it was laced with a blanket of tiredness as the other 3 fell into unconsciousness with him. And they stayed like that, protectively curled around their baby even in their sleep. Until they felt him stir again, but this time instead of helpless, panicked, whimpers there was simply a questioning noise as he slowly regained consciousness.
He awoke to the feeling of warmth and safety and someone's arms around him, but he never woke up with a warm body near him making him feel safe and he never woke up on soft beds feeling well rested. So he assumed it was just a dream, just his brain using its last bit of hope to make him feel something other than awful even if it was bittersweet. And then he looked up and saw the violent red eyes and his heart dropped… and it suddenly didn't feel like a dream anymore, and the feelings of safety and warmth faded, and the arms around him now felt ice cold and like they were keeping him prisoner, and he felt sick to his stomach. He felt a scream crawling it's way out of his throat as ice cold terror flooded his veins. But before it could make it out it was quieted with whispers "i'm here" and "you're safe" and pulses of love and safety and it paralyzed him because he knew these thoughts and feelings weren't his, but they wouldn't stop coming and floating in his brain making the panic jumbled and almost fuzzy, hard to grasp like sand. And as much as he tried to fight these outside thoughts and feelings he couldn't help but want to listen to them, he couldn't help but want the whispers of a family and the promise of unconditional love to be true. And that little seed of hope made him do a double take, he hadn't realized until just now that there wasn't just a pair of arms wrapped around him but also a pair of large, black, soft wings that felt like the softest things he'd ever felt. And those blood red eyes weren't looking at him with anger or hunger but with concern and hope and love .
And he wanted to savor that feeling, savor the feeling of warmth and safety he so seldom felt. But then he came to a bone chilling and terrifying realization. He should be dead. Dream left him out cold, alone, and bleeding out for a reason. He'd been ungrateful, he'd been selfish, he'd been greedy. And he got what he deserved. But here he was very much alive, or at least not dead. So maybe he's in heaven or something adjacent… but that didn't make sense. He didn't deserve heaven, he was too scrappy and selfish to deserve heaven. So, this must be a dream, but that didn't make sense either, because in his dreams the creatures with blood red eyes were never kind or protective or caring. No, they were angry and hungry, feasting on him without mercy or second thought. So, perhaps he was somewhere in the in between, in between life and death, conscious and subconscious, heaven and hell. And maybe just maybe he was fine with that, maybe just maybe it didn't matter.
It had been a few days since they had taken him in, and, if he was being honest, it had been the best four or five days of his life. They were nothing like the orphanage where he was just another problem child to keep in check or like Dream where he was hated and worthless. No, they treated him with such love and care it felt as if they were afraid that if they were too harsh he'd break. They never pushed him to do or say things he didn't want to. Especially not his name, or his past, or what monsters haunted his dreams when he woke up in a cold sweat. Yet they freely told him things about themselves. Like that Technoblade who insisted to just be called Techno loved to read and even read him to sleep when trying to do so himself led him to waking up in tears. Or that Wilbur had the softest singing voice he'd ever heard and loved giving people nicknames, which is how he got that name sunshine. Or that Philza who insisted on being called Phil or even better dad, loved flying more than life itself.
And with them opening up to him came the urge to open up to them. Every story of adventure, every fable, every myth proven not quite wrong, all pushed him to want to talk about himself. Only problem… there wasn’t much to talk about. He wasn’t much to talk about, as much as he wanted he didn’t have any stories of grand adventures or crowns of gold or even a home to his name. All he had before now was the clothes on his back, his friends turned brothers, and whatever trinkets he’d managed to pocket over the years (not that he had many of those either). But still, here he was sitting up at night wishing to tell his new found family everything about him, even if the stories would pale in comparison. So he did.
When he told them his name both nothing and everything changed at once. Everything suddenly felt so much more real and yet they treated him no differently. Techno still read him classic novels when he couldn’t sleep. Phil still told him of his travels around the world throughout the centuries when he woke up heart beating out of his chest, air being too thick to actually breathe. Wilbur still ran his hands through his hair while humming softly. And they all still loved him with every fiber of their beings.