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A creature from the gutters. Who was covered in smog and dirt, who crawled, tooth and nail, who bit, scratched, and gouged. A creature of violence and bloodshed since the dawn of his existence.
When Phil finds him, the little ant is grasping at a single strand of his all too fragile life, clutching red, red, red gushing like a river. The ant is stacked short and frail, a hand pointing at him with shattered glass that digs deep into the skin of his palm. His elbows joint backwards and his legs parted in a stance that embodies aggression.
Pink hair, covered in red. Pale skin, covered in red. And a pair of frosty blue eyes that reflects his world. That of which is also covered in red.
Clothes tattered, teeth grit. Bones hard, hands rough. Expression unwavering and sharp, with purpose that brims and overflows.
He is the one.
The immortal wanderer Phil, who never believed in soulmates. He appreciates and enjoys, yet can never truly cherish and love. At that moment, in the face of a tattered child— an ant in front of a lion, his heart wavers and he knows he found the one.
“Do you want the world?” He asks.
And that was the beginning of it all.
The air was thick with smog; gunpowder and smoke, so heavy, the taste still lingered on the tongue. Normally, Phil was fond of the scent. He enjoyed the rich, smoky aroma that so often wafted in the expanse of his lab. It is the scent of his passion and of his home. But today, his eyes watered— he gagged in disgust.
Had he been here, would things have been different? Could he have saved them?
His eyes squeezed tight and a shaky, jagged breath broke past his lips. The thoughts that wandered his mind mattered not.
He could see the ashened edges of a burned flag.
Browned fragments of rusted utensils.
The loose, ripped shoe of a child.
The red-stained helmet of a father.
And a plethora of corpses that laid half-buried in the snow.
Before his eyes, was a tale beyond a story that will never be. These were the corpses of those who used to live— who once wandered along the grand, cobble paths of the Antarctic Empire, singing songs of praise of their great city and greater Emperor. Their morning chattering still carried in the wind— still sang along with the breeze. It was as if their shadows were still frolicking upon the delicate, snow-fallen cushions of the Earth.
There were people here, and Phil knew them. There was a tyrant here, and Phil knew him too.
In the eye of the storm, stood the lamenting man. For the boy he raised, the boy he nurtured, to be the cause of such suffering and carnage that has happened on this very floor.
Phil took a glance at the old, battered signboard of one all-too-familiar bar. He and the tyrant once sat here.
In the ruins, Phil continued to walk.
The scraggly ant eats a lot. Perhaps Phil should rename him ‘piggy’ for the sheer amount he consumes.
Though, eating is good. The runt can use some muscles.
“Give more, old man.”
He can also use some manners.
“Of course, what do you want, mate?”
Piggy glances around. His eye catches on the waitress. A brunette woman with olive skin and dark eyes. She’s quite pretty, Phil remarks. Piggy pointed toward the beer mugs the woman held.
“Oh, you can’t have beer yet.”
Piggy’s cheeks puff, arms cross in an indignant expression. He’s pouting. It’s cute. Phil wants to squeeze his face.
“Mister said I can have the world.” The runt mutters matter-of-factly, “but I can’t have beer? Mister is a lying adult. Maybe I made a mistake following him…”
Phil can feel a tick mark forming at his forehead. Cheeky little shit. Phil considers ordering a flask of beer and watching the fucker knock himself out.
But he is a responsible guardian. Or at least will become one. He should start by not taking a child to a bar.
“Ah—“ he paused. What a strange sight.
Phil saw a clearing. From behind a hut where he stood, there was a clearing. A single spot, empty of debri. Not a body around, not a brick, a sword, or loose plank in sight. And yet, the staining red on snow white indicated this place too, had been marked by the revolution. Phil quickly concluded that there was someone— a survivor— that cleared the land before he had arrived.
‘But who?’ He wondered. If there were survivors, then surely they would be too weak to move, or have already fled the ruins for the cities down south. Who would want to remain in this wreckage anyways? There was nothing to stay for.
Suddenly, his foot caught on stone. A small mound, a single boulder— no— a row of them. Spaced. Ah. Phil understood.
These. He gasped, huffed. These were graves. Small graves. Children's graves.
He blinked in disbelief. His eyelid caught for a moment, a result of the dried tears clinging at his lash.
There is no way. No way. No way. He chanted to himself.
Carefully moving past the building, Phil looked and— ah. More graves— tens— maybe hundreds. Rows and rows. Rows. So many rows. God knows how long they’d been here. Someone had begun digging before his arrival.
Phil began to follow the trail of headstones. He made sure to read the epitaph on each one.
Piggy is unflinching in the face of death.
Phil wishes the child he picked up was a normal one, who’d scream when he was scared, or cry when he was sad.
But Piggy is not a screamer or a crier. He has a long history, seasoned eyes that have seen too much for his age. Phil knows because he can see the silhouette of himself in the body of the child. Not ant, child.
“We will see more blood if we want to conquer, Mister.” Piggy speaks as if he were supposed to assure Phil. “Mister looks uncomfortable… I can do all the killing for him…”
Phil frowns at the idea. He is misunderstanding. Truly a child who has seen too much, to suggest killing in place of an adult.
“I am not uncomfortable with death. I just feel awkward with you saying Mister all the time. Call me Phil, okay?”
Piggy blinks blankly for a moment, before glancing contemplatively toward the ground. He hums, expression contorting, though still laxed as if he were not currently standing idly above a corpse.
“Okay, Phil,” he says next, now beaming. “I will be Techno, then.” He pauses, pondering again before nodding. “Yes. My name will be Techno.” He repeats it meaningfully, smiling.
On the day they killed their first together, Techno became his own person.
By night break, Phil had read and prayed for over fifty headstones. There were still more stretching along the horizon, and he intended to visit them all. No matter how long it took.
He pitched his tent and retreated for the night.
Before he fell asleep, he prayed that every nameless encountered today was now in the stars that rested above him.
At 14 years old, Techno proudly sports his own party of soldiers, the Antarctic Battalion.
He also sports a friend, a tall brunette named Wilbur.
Now, Wilbur is no fighter. In fact, the only reason for his recruitment is that he made delicious mashed potatoes and was the life of every party. He plays the guitar, sings well, tells incredible stories, and can juggle anything from apples to knives. He is an eccentric, charismatic man with a knack for putting people at ease, except when he was serenading fishes. That made everyone uncomfortable instead. He also has a cute little brother, whom he doted on and carried a picture of at all times.
“Tommy sings just like me.” Wilbur speaks wistfully, stars held in his eyes. “Isn’t that wonderful, Techno?”
“Not for the rest of us. God forbid there be two of you running around.”
“Well, that’s mean!”
Approachable, mature (when he wanted to be), and a good influence on Techno. Phil finds himself appreciating Wilbur very often. Now knowing he is capable of love (via Techno), Phil considers he might love Wilbur too. In fact, he considers he might love the entirety of the Antarctic Battalion.
As the battalion continued to grow, as did Phil’s pool of people to cherish. Where he used to be dried of affection and lacked any semblance of true warmth for anyone, he is now overflowing, abounding with limitless love.
It was so new. And it was so thrilling.
All of this is thanks to Techno, Phil concludes. He will follow him to the ends of the Earth.
Phil woke up at the crack of dawn. There were more graves to read today.
He pushed himself up from his mattress. The patches of tears pressed against his pillow had already long dried.
The Antarctic Battalion accomplished a great victory last night. Wilbur demands they go to a bar, to which Techno turns and stares expectantly at Phil.
He is 18 this year, too young, but Phil nods anyway. Damn him for being irresponsible.
At his approval, Techno runs off to Wilbur, sprinting and smacking the brunette’s head upon arrival. He leaves Phil alone at his table. At least he is alone until the waitress — the brunette woman with olive skin and dark eyes— offers him a refill. Their fingers brush briefly during the exchange. She blushes and scurries off.
Phil finds himself smiling after her. He truly is overflowing with love.
Not all the tombs had names on them. Most did not. Likely these were buried by any straggling civilians who stayed even after the battle ended, to honor the memories of the deceased. They likely did not even know the people they were burying, yet still worked, hands and knees sunken in dirt.
One stone in particular drew Phil’s attention. There was a name and a full description.
In memory of Robert.
21 years old.
Musician and friend.
One that taught love.
Phil dragged a finger over the grave surface. And he read the script again and again, until the words melded in his brain.
Robert. 21. Musician and Friend. One that taught love. Robert. 21. Musician and Friend. One that taught love. Robert. 21. Musician and Friend…
They meet Tommy for the first time. He is not the smiling kid in the picture Wilbur always shows them. He is a quiet, sobbing kid instead.
Things were not the same after Wilbur left, Phil thinks. The goal of obtaining the world is less fun when a part of your heart is lying 6 feet in the ground.
When they go to the bar again, Techno gets a beer. He is 20 now, more than enough to handle a drink. Phil orders the same.
The brunette woman comes out with their orders. She is a little aged, but still beautiful. Perhaps more so than before. She gives them both a regretful smile, before setting down the mugs.
“There is a table closer to the back. You won’t be seen or heard there.” She speaks softly. Phil smiles at her appreciatively. Perhaps he loves her too. The men heed her words and move.
Upon sitting at their new spot, Phil takes a sip of his drink. Techno mirrors his movement. They look at each other. Phil sets down his mug. Techno sets down his mug. Phil drinks again. Techno follows suit. Their moment of silence is stretched and tense, until…
Techno cries. He sobs. He curses. It hurts.
In true Wilbur nature, even in death, he continues to guide.
Unfeeling Techno in the face of death. Unfeeling Phil in the face of death. Today, they both learn what it truly means to mourn. Wilbur gave a parting gift that was irreplaceable— compassion— and Phil simply wants to return it. If he never learned to love, he’d never learn to mourn. If he never mourns, he never suffers. He just closes his eyes and wishes his emotions would go away.
But then, he remembers crying Techno, and he retracts that wish. He curses his slanderous thoughts.
To not have love, would mean to lose the one thing that matters most. And for Phil, his centuries of life have long melted away for the eternity that is Techno.
Phil spotted life for the first time since his arrival. A little white sparrow that perched upon a tomb. He wondered if the bird knew what wreckage— what marring— the land it stood upon suffered.
He stared in silence, thoughtful at the curious bird. Thoughtful at its tranquility. It reminded him of himself, after his departure from the empire. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bread he was saving for lunch. He hunched over slightly, before tearing the corner piece of the loaf, and tossing it at the ground. The bird quickly came to peck the crumble.
In the aftermath of blood and metal, Phil found himself a nurturer for the first time in years.
Despite Tommy swearing to resent them both forever, he approaches them in humility. He asks Phil to show him the world his brother went and died for. Techno is quick to agree, seeming to swear in protecting the last of Wilbur’s blood. Phil agrees too, though only to appease the whirling wind of his companion.
Tommy is clever and smart. He is funny and charismatic in the same way Wilbur was. He can make a damn good plate of mashed potatoes and he can sing as well. He tries to juggle, and partially succeeds, not before accidentally sending a knife straight at Phil’s head. In many ways, Tommy fills the holes that Wilbur left.
Though still, he and Wilbur were universally different.
Comforting, soothing Wilbur. Brash, lively Tommy.
Techno treats Tommy like glass. He can not hurt Tommy. And he can not let Tommy hurt him. Where he would be open and scathing with Wilbur, he is closed and polite with Tommy. He looked at Wilbur like someone to fight besides. He looks at Tommy like someone to protect. A legacy, not a person. He is like that with most people. Perhaps it is the guilt that eats him.
He spills everything to Phil. He reveals he can not live if another Wilbur happens again. He reveals that he must keep Tommy at a distance, yet close. Like a leash. A fenced animal. He tells Phil that he can not leave him or he will go mad. He also tells Phil he can’t tell anyone anything.
Techno is paranoid. So Phil will offer his shoulder in this time of need, for it is Techno who uplifted him first.
Though, there is a nagging unsettlement in his heart that doesn't quite go away.
Phil came across a half-burned tapestry during his reading of the 112th headstone. It was lying face down, ragged and teared, a couple meters from the gravesite. How it grabbed his attention, he did not know, yet, there was a pull the crumbled fabric had that drew his body forward.
Phil carefully picked up the piece. His gaze was critical, observing every detail formed by the intricate, hand-stitched embroidery running along the surface.
There was a threaded figure of a robed man. He had cascading hair, a brimmed hat, and what was supposed to be the overstretch of a large pair of wings. Though, the feathers that were strewn in its place were now charred away by fire. It seemed to suit the angelic depiction more than it had previously.
His gaze lingered longer. There was a single, piercing ruby embedded at the man’s neck.
“He, who is our guardian. He will return with salvation in hand.” That was what the calligraphic text scrawled at the bottom of the tapestry read.
Phil frowned. He felt heavy bouts of tension within his heart. Perhaps he was a bit ashamed.
“He never did a damn thing for you.” He muttered lowly.
Phil dropped the artwork, heading back to the graves. The red pendant hanging at his collar glistened in the morning sun.
Angel of Death is a useless pseudonym if you wish to protect.
Over half the battalion is wiped out at their last battle to conquer the entire Antarctic region. They won the war, and in turn, destroyed themself.
Tommy is alright though. At least physically. His mental state is in shambles, as two of his best friends, Ranboo and Tubbo, were killed in action. Both with arrows through their backs, and collapsed over their blonde friend. It seems they were a lot more useful than Phil, as they both passed, shielding Tommy, who meant the world to them.
As Tommy stares blankly into the sky, Techno stands alone in the midst of the dead. He is soaked in the same red that Phil saw him in when they met. And for the first time, Phil believes blood is not a suitable look on Techno.
He will remember today as a day of great failure.
Techno soon collapses onto his knees, after his foot catches on one of the founding members of the battalion. He grabs the body of his people. He screams. He screams and screams.
Phil wishes he can do the same. But if he crumbles, how can he continue to delude Techno into thinking everything will be alright?
It is suffocating.
There was a headstone that he knew. Of a woman with brunette hair, olive skin, and the most bewitching pair of dark eyes he’d ever seen. A woman with bright smiles that always reached her eyes, light blush like blossoms on her cheeks, and comforting words that always lulled Phil from his stray, terrible thoughts. She who’d serve him mugs of beer, who’d sometimes sit with him and laugh together as the children— the youngsters— drank the night away.
He could still feel the ghost of her touch upon his arm, the tracing of hands brushed within his hair.
Kristin. 47 years old— 37 when Phil left— and apparently the mother of 2.
Phil couldn’t help but feel bitter. So she did move on, after all. That is to be expected. Forever is a moment to him, but a lifetime to humans. Though still, it did not make his vivid memories of her any less clear.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered quietly. Shame. Deep shame. It was all his fault. Why did he leave?
God of blood. Angel of Death. A pair of soulmates who conquered the World.
Today is Techno’s coronation as Emperor of the Antarctic Empire.
Tommy is on the left, Phil is on the right. Techno is adorned in blue, red, and gold. So much gold. A crown of sapphires, rubies, and every jewel under the Earth’s sky, entwined together to form a wreath that spoke of future and power. The dream in which they began together, the promise Phil had given Techno was fulfilled today.
Do you want the world? Then you can have it.
Techno looks radiant, smiling brightly toward the crowd, and smiling brighter at Phil. He looks joyful, though still with the lines and wrinkles of death and Wilbur creasing beneath his eyes. He gives Phil a look, which indicates he wanted to speak later. Phil nods back.
At nightfall, Phil returns to the throne room, in which Techno stands, peering out the window that is draped in red curtains and standing several stories above ground. He holds two flasks of beer. When Phil approaches, he hands him one. They talk about the future. Techno says they will run the world together. And Phil concludes that if Techno wills it, then it is only right he follows. Since when did Phil have a right to freedom?
But then, his eye catches on his reflection. He sees a man in the glass and it is not him.
He then turns and stares at the room, as Techno continues to speak. He sees a golden crown. A golden throne. Golden walls. He sees Techno. Then, he sees a golden cage with his name inscribed at the bottom.
Everything seemed to stop. The delicate snowfall that descended the earth— every individual snowflake frozen in place. The sounds of the world, of the wind, of the birds, of his own thoughts, melted into a silence. A rare moment, in which the immovable object that is Phil, standing everlasting against centuries, felt so vividly as if everything and nothing were happening at once.
Phil met the gaze of an ant. He met the gaze of a lion. He met the gaze of Techno.
Techno was upon his knees. He had his hands dug into the earth, the snow, unaffected by the biting cold that likely scorched upon his fingers. His cloak was off, draped onto the ground, where the outline of something laid beneath those folds of red. Consequent to noticing Phil, Techno stood, staring lifelessly, seemingly in a state of trance. He blinked once, blinked twice, gaze scrutinizing Phil from where he stood.
Clearing his throat, the ex-emperor spoke, voice hoarse from a long time of silence.
“Ah. It’s you.”
Three lonesome words.
Phil snapped, his fists clenched. Was that all he had to say? Ah, It’s you? A decade apart. An empire destroyed. People dead. And all he offered was an “Ah, it’s you?”
A strong rush of emotions burst within. Phil didn’t understand, he simply felt. It was only Techno who could shake the walls of apathy he had long constructed through centuries of existence. It was only Techno who could make an immortal man such as himself, shutter and dare to crumble. By simply the tired gaze of a broken man, Phil’s entirety wavered, at loss and conflicted. There was dissonance in the calm lake that was his soul, and the person before him was to blame.
Through the silence, he soon approached closer, toward the object of both his rage and grief. Phil did not know what he was going to do next. To embrace or to slaughter. His body simply moved. After all, his mind long melted to follow in accordance to his instincts since the dawn of their reencounter.
Meanwhile, Techno continued to stand rooted in place, unflinching and acceptant to the intentions of his friend. He stared dully, with an all-consuming void in his eyes. There was not a drop of the purpose he had when they first met. Phil watched and observed him for what felt like an eon. And then, he saw it.
Pale, slender hands, though clearly marred by war, cuffs of a military sleeve, red of a jacket. Phil almost didn’t recognize them. But then he saw from the top. Though the face was covered, Phil could distinctly see tufts of blond. His heart dropped.
“I-is that Tommy..?” Phil whispered in a quivering, pained tone.
Tommy. Bright child, wild. The epitome of a free spirit. Wilbur’s brother. That child was now lying beneath Techno’s cloak, lifeless and unmoving. Phil felt queasy. This couldn’t be happening— surely not.
At his shakey inquiry, Techno, finally out of his dulled trance, glanced at Phil. His blue eyes— a cold color that matched that of crystalline ice, a snowy shade with a tint of blue— were dead. An abounding number of emotions drew on his brow, yet the most prominent were exhaustion and grief.
“He…” Techno’s voice was as gravely as ever. “He fought me, yknow? He told me I was hurtin’ people. I had to cut him.”
Techno laughed dryly. His voice, his timbre, was so, so distinct and so familiar, it hurt. It made an illusion that Techno never changed, still the young kid Phil had known so long ago.
“You were. Why? Why did you hurt people?” —‘ What made you stray so far? Was it me?’— Why did you do it!”
“I sliced him.” Techno flatly said again. “No, why did I do that?” He faltered. His eyes whipped around, glancing. First the sky, then the ground. “I didn’t mean to. He tried to fight me— no, he tried to stop me—“ his bottom lip quivered. His voice trailed. “Why didn’t you come back, Phil? Why did you leave me? You said you would give me the world! I killed him, Phil. He’s dead.”
“You…” Phil’s voice was hoarse. “You did this.”
The words came barely above a whisper. And yet, it seemed Techno had heard him clearly. In a mere instant, his eyes, which were dull and sunken, shook. They widened. The truth that hung so clearly in the eyes of Phil, had just now smacked Techno across the face. His expression contorted— he gasped, breath hitched, body almost lurching forth. Techno turned, glanced toward the graves. Glanced toward the wreckage. Glanced toward Tommy . Toward Phil. Then at his hand.
“Ah.” He mouthed. “I see.”
His breath gasped once more. “Hah, hah..” he laughed. More breaths. Phil gazed from his distance wordlessly, as Techno’s arms folded into himself. He watched as his friend— enemy— soulmate— whoever— clutched at his stomach, doubling over in hysterical laughter and pants. He watched as the man who once stood proudly against him, covered in red, or stood beside him as the great emperor of the world, collapsed to his knees and cackled.
Tears dribbled down the scarred cheeks of the boy he raised.
“I’m sorr—“ his voice cracked, his breath now labored, heavy, quickened. Puncturing breaths retched and squeezed every drop left of him. “Phil, I—“ he wavered. Realization dawned. As if he’d just noticed Phil’s presence all over again. He gasped for more air. “Phil. It’s you. God fucking hell, it’s you. It’s really you.”
10 years since they’ve last met.
10 years since Phil had seen Techno. Standing above his people as a conqueror, bestowed like a protective halo of red and gold.
Techno now fell into himself, palms crashing to the frostbitten ground.
“They trusted me, Phil,” Techno’s voice was a choked sob, “how long do you think they prayed?! Prayed that their leader will become sane again and save them?! How long?!”
Phil remained silent, eyes squeezing shut as if begging the burning world to vanish around him. Techno had returned to the same boy Phil knew. In front of him again, in the exact form in which he appeared; small and weak. His heart faltered, just as it did all those years ago. He felt guilt and shame, toward the many who have fallen in the mess that was revolution. Toward Wilbur whom he failed. It was unlike him, yet vibrantly him at the same time. Techno had destroyed the kingdom that Phil loved . Destroyed the livelihoods of the people he cherished . And Phil couldn’t even bring himself to resent him for it. A pair of soulmates indeed.
How pathetic.
Wet tears clung beneath his eyelids. He should walk away, or comfort his companion— he knows he should. But he couldn’t bring himself to.
“I don’t know.” Phil, ever so comforting Phil, couldn’t sweeten his words like he would way back then. He could only muster a bitter smile. “But the prayers never reached, did they?”
Phil could see the moment when Techno knew. Knew that God wasn’t real. A young child who's been kicked around since birth, who was cursed with misfortune and death, who wondered why God never reached forth in rescue. He now knew that it was because there was never a benevolent deity in the first place. Prayers were letters addressed to no one; scriptures were fairy tales that made the world a fool. There was no God; only sinners, saints, and the tyrants sitting above them.
And in those the hate-filled, crimson eyes of his friend, Phil knew that among those tyrants, Techno despised himself the most.
And maybe. Maybe Phil did too.