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“Would it hurt you?” She asked. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”
Philza shrugged. “Nah, probably a bit weird I’d imagine? Like wearing a mask, except the mask has its own personality?”
He paused, scratching his ear. “Actually that’s a pretty terrible comparison.”
“I have no idea.” He twisted a crooked feather from behind his ear, carefully plucking it out from the quick before holding it out in front of him.
Towards the faint flickering of shadow, a shimmering of the here and now warping beneath the pressing of the then and when that prodded against the fabric calling itself ‘reality’.
The scent of roses and rain, fresh earth and a hint of dust, flickered in and out of his senses at the sight.
It wasn’t often he could see his love, not anymore, not since he had agreed to crossing the veil to live amongst the mortals so long ago. An effort to restore the balance of Life and Death, and it had led to his entrapment amongst this plane.
Sort of. He corrected his thoughts.
He wasn’t entirely trapped, he could always still die.
Again.
And return to his life beside his lover.
Not that he wanted to though, not yet.
As cruel and harsh as living within this plane was, Philza still enjoyed it. Had found friendship, had grown nations, had felled them too. As much as he longed to return to his love, being alive and amongst the living, in the sense that mortals were, was…beautiful. In its own, strange way.
Philza twirled the feather, still within his fingertips. The light of the nearby campfire flickered across the glossy black, leaving bright streaks of reds and golds and hints of purple and blue in its wake. Alight with a rainbow, an oil slick of dark beauty, flickering in time with the tongues of flame beside him.
Then, the ripple in time before him swallowed the feather, pulling it from his grasp, gentle and light and full of love and sweetness. And his hand was empty.
He felt a cold chill, a warm touch, brush a lock of hair behind his ear, tucking it into place.
“It won’t stay.” He chuckled.
And sure enough, the lock fell forward across his face at his laughter.
“I know.” She replied. “I just like playing with your hair.”
“You’ll turn it white if you’re not careful.” he grinned, a playful taunt. “Lose all the pretty gold you seem to admire so much.”
“Hmm, white would be a good look for you.”
He felt another cold chill run through his scalp, sending freezing hot shudders through his spine as he shivered, pulling away from the touch.
“Fuckin hell Kris!” he laughed. “I’m not ready to go just yet, holy shit!”
“And yet you’re willing to risk death just to let me experience life?” She asked, voice laced in genuine concern.
Philza sighed, staring into the flames of the campfire. Watching as the bits of reds and golds raced out across the clearing of forest, illuminating the trunks of ancient trees, bark blackened with age and the indigo night. The heat of the fire chasing the autumn night’s chill from the clearing, leaving a border of where the heat began and the cold ended, etched amongst the browned grass and berry laden bushes in the form of a clear line of frost and warmth.
All except where Death sat.
The flickering of reality, only broken by the growth of tiny mushrooms and dead grass forming about her feet. Decay ever present, ever gentle, ever beautiful.
“I’d like to continue living, yes.” Philza finally explained.
“But, to let you experience what Life is like,” he stretched a wing near her, not quite touching, yet a caress all the same.
“I’d risk it.” he grinned.
And so had begun their attempts.
Their trials of tempting the impossible.
There were no scrolls, no books, no history on how. Philza had to write down all his experiments himself. What worked, what didn’t, what nearly killed him.
More than a few times, more than enough times to concern him, he nearly slipped too far beyond the veil. Nearly broke into Death’s domain permanently.
Each time it happened, and he lay there within the magic circle he had scratched into the ground, blood seeping from his mouth and nose and chest aching with a pain he never could have imagined, he heard her protest. Heard her ask him not to try again.
He quickly abandoned any methods that could harm him. No blood rituals, no broken skin or bone, no holding his breath, no sacrificing of his feathers.
Harm was not a viable method, nor one he wanted to continue. Not with the way it hurt his soul to see her crying over his unconscious form. An image far too similar to one long, long ago.
It would be cruel to continue those methods.
Instead, Philza wondered if perhaps a ritual was required for the both of them.
It certainly put aside any fears of Kristin’s, giving her something to do to incorporate into the ritual.
A gift of flowers on his part, a gift of soil on hers.
And while that particular method did not have the desired effects, it still produced a beautiful and strange series of gardens that still grew, long after the kingdom it had flourished within, had gone. Deep black roses, thorns of decaying poison, a scent so beautiful and lovely that all who breathed it in could forget their troubles. A potent ingredient in the key to a long life.
And yet, as things often are, it was the simplest solution that worked in the end.
“It’ll work this time.” he assured her years later, sitting within the runes he had carved into the floor of his house. Runes of asking, of memories, of love.
“Hmm.”
He felt the brief hint of cold brush past his ear, pushing that lock of hair aside and tucking it back into place, only for it to fall back before his eyes.
He smirked.
“Trust me, it’s going to work this time.” he assured, closing his eyes, breathing deep the frosted air of winter.
The fire in his hearth was low, barely more than an ember. Letting the chill of the night air into the home he had built.
Letting her touch grow stronger.
“I dunno, this is, what, attempt number four hundred and fifty eight now?” she laughed.
He felt her form join him within the circle, the floorboards beneath her feet growing thin tendrils of mycelium veins where her touch landed. Decay, ever present. Yet still, only the scent of roses filled his lungs.
“Don’t laugh.” he held his hand out, smirking, eyes closed. “I mean it this time.”
He felt her hand lightly brush against his, cold and creeping within his veins. But soothing, gentle.
“I’m a thousand percent sure this time.” he assured her.
“Okay.” her voice drawled slowly. She didn’t believe him, not fully.
“It would be nice to feel the sun again though.” she continued. “Oh, and the wind. It’s been ages since I’ve felt the wind.”
She was humouring him, he knew.
After the times he had nearly passed beyond the veil, after the failed, dangerous attempts he had made in his earlier days of studying the ritual, he doubted she truly had hope for it to fully work.
But it would work this time.
He knew it would.
He sucked in a breath.
Released it.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think it's gonna be great.” she laughed.
Philza took her hands fully within his, squeezing them tight, focusing all his thoughts on asking the Universe. Just once, just this one time. It didn’t have to be for long, just this one time would be enough.
And as the cold settled in his veins, racing up his arms and into his shoulders and chest and heart, as he heard his lover Death call out his name, concern laced across her lips, he knew something was happening.
Magic, old and deep, poured itself around the two. And as if he had been knocked into her arms, he felt himself holding her close, drawing her into a warm and freezing embrace as the rush of magic screeched past his ears, billowing his hair and fluttering through his wings.
For a moment, he was weightless, as if falling. And then….
_____
Kristin dropped hard to the ground, landing on her hands and knees within the rune circle. Facing the wrong way from what she remembered…feeling something heavy across her back, feeling skin and clothes and scars and hair and a body that was not hers….feeling…
Feeling a heartbeat within her chest.
Every muscle, every vein, every beat of the heart sending blood throughout the body, every single fibre within the clothing upon its back, every feather and the ways they shifted across one another- burning and aching and tender along the wing that was ruined- every scar pulling across muscle and skin, tight and angry along the ribs and backbone, every joint that ached with shards of glass between the knuckles as the cold of winter burned its way into the old bones and healed wounds of long ago.
This was life.
This was what it felt like to be alive.
This was…Philza.
Her Philza.
For a moment, she was bombarded with a slew of emotions. Rage at those who had left their mark across his body, never fully healing, still in pain even now. Guilt, at how she was unable to help him, unable to interfere in the lives of mortals, guilt that he had lived within this pained form for so long.
Fear, as she suddenly realised who she resided within.
“Philza?!” she called out in his voice, his hand/her hand reaching across the rune circle. His legs/her legs, unsteady and shaking as she tried to direct his body to…anywhere…where was he?! Where was his soul?! If she was here, where had he gone?!
Kris? His voice called out within her mind.
She sighed in relief, leaning awkwardly against the wall of the room, still unsure of her footing.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “I don’t…I don’t know where you are.”
I’m still here. He assured her.
“Can you-can you see what I’m doing?” Kristin held a hand up in front of her/his face, waving the fingers about.
Yeah I can see. His voice was laughter within her mind. It’s kinda like looking through a tunnel though.
“What about feel? What do you feel?” she asked. “Nothing hurts right?”
Nah. He chuckled. I actually just feel warm, it’s nice.
Kristin laughed. “What do you mean?”
Well… his voice went quiet for a moment. Can you feel what it’s like in my body?
She nodded.
Pain, cold, hunger, mortal bodies she knew were fragile. And even someone like Philza, with his contracted immortality, of a sort, still felt the same pains as a mortal.
She could only imagine the relief he must be feeling now.
“Take a nap.” she grinned. “You’ve earned it.”
Yeah…yeah I think I’ll do just that. Philza agreed. If you need help with anything, just ask the crows.
And with that, she felt his presence within her mind, drift off into what must be the best sleep he had in decades.
For a long moment, she stayed there against the wall, slowly gaining a feel for gravity and the awkwardness of a body with weight and wings, rather than an intangible form. After a while, she found herself able to direct each limb how she needed it to, and soon enough was able to walk. Albeit, still awkwardly. Her/his legs ached something awful from the cold, her/his core shivering as she nudged another log onto the fire.
She’d seen him do it before, poking at the flames with a stick, holding his hands just above the heat as he warmed himself. Yet the process of actually doing such an action sent a thrill of giddy laughter through her.
She was alive!
She was alive and living and it hurt but it didn’t and she felt warmth and cloth and wood and everything and oh! She could touch things and they wouldn’t decay! She could hold someone and they would die!
Eagerly, Kristin whistled for a crow, ecstatic when one fluttered down from upstairs, hopping onto her leg.
“Yes! Hi! Hello! Oh my gods!” she held a hand out and squealed in happiness as the crow nipped playfully at the fingertips of her/his hand.
“Can I pet you?” she asked, motioning with her fingers. And to her utter delight, the little crow nudged its head into her/his palm, croaking softly.
Soft, downy feathers caressed her/his fingers, and for a moment she dreaded that the little being would suddenly drop. Falling dead into her lap.
It never did. Simply croaking happily as she scratched behind its head.
She was alive!
She was alive! Gods she was alive!
“I need to celebrate.” she decided.
“How does one celebrate when one is in a mortal body?” Kristin asked the crow.
The little creature cocked its head, fluffing its neck feathers at the question, before cawing; ALCOHOL! ALCOHOL!
“Alcohol it is!” Kristin stood, wobbling slightly, as she made her way to the pantry.