Chapter Text
It was the smoke that alerted him to that poor village's demise, followed by the crows taking flight, cawing and screaming for his attention and without a second thought he picked up his sword and followed them.
With his weapon strapped to his back, he took flight, large black wings stretched out cutting through the air like razors propelling him closer to the village before it was too late. He was only about a 20-minute flight away, they were far over the mountain but it felt much longer, each beat of his wings feeling like he was miles away, each second feeling like a million years
His weekends had been spent in this village, he would trade his crops for materials and drink with some of the older men in the pubs, and now they were dying, needing the angel of death to protect them and he was too far away. He had founded this village 148 years ago, he had fought for it twice before and this time he had no warning of a battle other than the rising of smoke. He should not have moved so far away. He should have stayed close.
His crows travelled behind him, worried for their master, worried for the people who would give them crumbs in the village. They followed behind like a thick black cape, the murder accomplices to the angel of death.
Smoke thickened as he approached, making it harder for him to breathe, choking his lungs and clouding his mind with doubt. As always he offered up a silent prayer to his goddess, to protect him and watch over the souls which would be lost in this town.
Feathers ruffled as he landed, knees taking the brunt of the impact. The wind chilled him to his core and with the added sight of a pillaged town, he was frozen. Feet rooted to the ground. He doubted there were even survivors.
The town square surrounded him, well, what was left of it anyway. The area once filled with life, music and food stalls now was filled with rubble and soot. Embers of the buildings that once stood tall now danced through the air, an echo of the dancers who once performed in the square.
This was a calculated attack, and the remains of a ripped green and white flag flapped in the wind.
Buildings crumbling, burning and smouldering, fragments of the lives once lived littering the ground. Animals once beloved pets wandered the streets, lost and bleeding looking for an owner that would never return.
No one was left, he searched for survivors but only found death but not the type he loved. Over and over, finding old friends left dead on the ground, now in the care of his wife. Tears brewed with each new discovery of his slaughtered friends. His crows cooed, filling the area with a low song, a farewell to those lost. Phil felt comforted by their company, knowing that even here he was never truly alone.
Once again the Angel outlived his legacy.
Smoke still clouded his vision, swirling around his head, it made him dizzy, nauseous even.
And then their song stopped.
Silence filled the air, broken only by the rhythmic beating of his heart and slow shaking breaths.
With a boom from the heavens and in a ball of purple light from the ground bloomed a glowing white flower only a metre from his feet, small white petals grew into bell shapes and nodded in the breeze. Taking a step forward, a sign from Kristin, the same flower as the first sign he had ever gotten from her when she had first guided him towards her temple.
And with that first step he took towards it more began to sprout, each about a metre apart glowing with the slightest tinge of a purple halo, winding around buildings, twisting through the streets.
The Crows took flight. A black mass swirling through the skies chasing the flowers wondering what could possibly be wherever it leads.
Phil burst into a full sprint, following the trail left by his goddess, hoping that maybe she herself was standing there waiting for him to turn the corner. It had been too long since he had met with her. He needed her right now. After the loss of his friends, and the loss of his town he needed her. Large brimmed hat and a veil covering her face, dark purple robe and silver heart brooch adorning her chest, a matching one nestling in the robes of her servant. He pictured her perfectly standing there in the rubble, shrouded in smoke and ash, as beautiful as the day he first met her.
But his Goddess was not there, instead greeted with a ring of flowers surrounding a small bundle of cloth, a yellow colour, smudged with soot, dirt and what Phil could only assume was blood.
He moved closer, taking in the sight and with horror realised that this was not just a bundle of cloth shrouded in Lily of the Valley but rather a baby.
All alone surrounded by these choking tendrils, still and cold. No sound escaped this baby's lips. Phil pitied the child, a boy lost too young. With quick steps through the rubble, the haze began to swirl around him, almost as if it was excited to see him, guiding him towards the boy.
Phil had moved to pick up the child and give him a proper burial. No child should have to feel the effects of war, he guessed that is what his goddess wished of him, she had always had a soft spot for the children lost to war, but here this child lay, not in the arms of a mother but on the smouldering remains of what should be his home. He prayed, begging for forgiveness from the child's parents, The Angel of Death had failed to protect the innocent, he was too late and he wished to remember this failure, this town and this child, even if he could not save them.
His crows began a low coo again, a lullaby for the fallen child. A final song of comfort delivering the boy into the afterlife instead of singing the boy off to sleep.
As soon as his hand made contact with the boy’s chilled skin, the child's eyes fluttered open, glowing in an unnatural purple, the signature purple of the Goddess of Death.
And the boy began to cry.
Phil smiled, bringing the boy to his chest, whispering a quiet thank you to Death herself.
He would raise this child as his own. His resolute boy, his brilliant boy, his survivor. And with that, he named him Wilbur.