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Phil never used to envision himself as a guardian. He’s a responsible man, but kids are a handful and he thought himself a loner.
Four monster kids is more than just a handful. He doesn’t regret it, no, but it wears away at his heart sometimes.
Tommy had woken the house in the middle of the night- not a new occurrence. He’s been up at all hours with coughing fits or in the bathroom choking back nausea.
But he says Wilbur left in a frantic hurry, speaking nonsense. There’s still footsteps in the sand, disappearing into the water.
Wilbur is a siren, but he didn’t grow up in the ocean. It is a wild place unfit for him. The land is not perfect, either, but they have their house together, They have their family.
“He promised to be back soon.” Tommy told them.
He knows Wilbur got lost in his head, sometimes. He spent a lot of his youth voiceless, looked down upon. If they didn’t pay close enough attention, sometimes the boy would retreat into his own head again. He’d let his thoughts spiral and spiral.
Songwriting helped him vent such thoughts, which led to his more somber music. Recently, he’s been writing more upbeat songs, ones for the all to sing along to.
Had Phil focused too much on Tommy that he overlooked something going on with Wilbur? He seemed fine just yesterday, frazzled but still smiling. They were all stressing about their youngest, but Wil hadn’t seemed distant or closed off.
As a siren he expressed missing the ocean, but he was aware full well he didn’t belong there. Sirens were often targeted or singled out, and other sirens were hostile to one another to protect their own territories. Wilbur didn’t understand the complex working of the sea and sea monsters, and made it clear though he’d like to live there again, he’d be fish food.
“Plus,” Wil smiled, “we have Techno doing most of the hunting for us. Why’d I go somewhere where I’d be alone and have to feed myself.”
Phil’s new and growing family is precious to him. But now one of his sons is bedridden and the other has jumped into the ocean with next to no explanation.
Somehow, Techo has become the best behaved son simply by doing nothing.
Phil worries. The trip to the Nether had been hard and painful, and still they came back empty handed. His failure is reminded to him every time he looks at Tommy’s bedroom door.
He stands outside, a palm pressed to the wood, and can quietly hear the soft snoring from his youngest. He’s sleeping, but for how long? How long will they exist in this limbo?
“Phil?” He’s startled out his stupor.
“Techno, hello.” He smiles, shoulders drooping.
Techno shifts, eyes darting everywhere but at him, “I might have something that will help, but...”
“But?”
“... it has to do with the voices?” The piglin winces.
Techno has trusted him with the knowledge of Chat shortly after they moved into the house. A cacophonous symphony of voices that’s been with him since he was a child. For the most part, something easy to ignore. Sometimes they promise him knowledge, but he’s wise enough never to indulge them. The Blood God is a Nether deity, but even Phil knows the history behind him was a dark one.
“No. Whatever it is, no.” He says.
“I’ve known Tommy a long time- he’s never been this sick before. We don’t have anything that can effectively help him, and we barely know how to heal a sick half demon. What other options do we have?” Techno growls.
“... Wil might have something, when he comes back.”
“Or maybe he’s gone off in a fit and will return with nothing.”
They both don’t mention what might happen if Wilbur doesn’t come back- because he has to. He just has to. And Tommy has to get better, he just has to. They’re Phil’s kids and he was supposed to take care of them, protect them. Now Techno has been placed with this burden.
He sighs, “... I don’t know what to do, Tech.”
“It’s just praying. I’ve got to pray, hold a vigil for the Blood God. In return, Tommy’s condition won’t get worse. That's what the voices promise.”
Whenever Techno has communed with his god in the past, it has ended in bloodshed and death.
“Are you sure it’s safe, though? Will you be okay?”
“Chat isn’t lying to me about this, promise.”
One of his sons is sick, spending his days in bed in fitful slumber. His other has run off to the sea with little explanation, well aware of the dangers. His third is going to pray to a vicious god of old, taking advice from the voices that plague him.
He sighs. Tubbo’s only been here a couple weeks now, but maybe he can be Phil's new favorite son.
At least he’s not doing anything crazy that could stress him out. To his knowledge.