Archive of Our Own

The Antarctic Guard—the standing (and now currently active) army of the dreaded Antarctic Empire—is truly a sight to behold. Orderly rows of combatants standing shoulder to shoulder, a cascade of horses, swordsmen, spearmen, archers, and casters united under the same banner. The forces sweep out and cover a large swath of the snow-crusted foothills, turning the scene from white to the iconic pale and royal blue of their ranks. Up at the front, a solitary figure sits atop a monster of a steed, his blood red cloak flapping in the biting wind and his pinkish mane rippling around the gleam of his golden circlet. The sight is a death sentence to the approaching army not four hundred blocks across the snowfield, though whether they realize it or not is a mystery. 

And if they don’t realize it yet, they will.

Watching from the mouth of a mountain cave, high above the Empire’s forces, is an elytrian man of probably about thirty years or so. His uniform is the typical Antarctic Blues, though there are some small red embellishments that make him stand out from the rest of his fellow soldiers; the chevrons on his sleeve mark him as the captain of a subdivision, and the reasonable collection of badges pinned to his fatigues mark him as a capable one. He stands against the wind without his cloak despite the freezing temperatures, black wings with white speckles at the feather-tips wrapped around his sides to ward off the chill. His long, sun-gold hair is tied back tight save for the single beaded braid that dangles next to his left ear, flapping in the wind. His eyes are the perfect cerulean blue of the sky on a clear day, and they watch the battlefield intently.

His taloned feet remain a shoulder width apart. His hands rest neatly folded into each other at the small of his back, black claws motionless save for the occasional, soft crape against his palm.

Here, Captain Philza Craft stands, and he waits, and waits, and waits…

~*~

The corridors of the Stronghold are never quiet, and Phil thanks his lucky stars that’s the truth. He doesn’t know what he would do with himself if he had to stand out here with nothing but his thoughts. Couriers, workmen, and fellow soldiers flow back and forth before him in the hall, rushing around with papers and weapons and tools and supplies. A human and a shulk hurry past, discussing something to do with quick-setting cement; a blazeborn officer—Phil can tell she’s a commander just by her walk—marches by, flanked by four other blazeborns and a couple starborns. Their boots drum against the cobblestone floors and their voices drone against the walls.

It doesn’t quite drown out the sound of the conversation happening in the room behind him, though. He can make out every third word, something about scouting missions and missing reports and messengers who haven’t made it back yet. He’s not entirely sure if he should be hearing this, so he goes back to rehearsing his talking points in his head. He went over the details with the others last night and then a few (several) more times with Sneeg this morning, so he really shouldn’t be so nervous. 

Phil’s clawed fingertips worry around the edges of the paper file clutched awkwardly behind his back. He’s got this.

A chair scrapes somewhere in the room behind him. Muffled footsteps move around. The door beside him swings inward. “—be sure to get those to you as soon as possible, sir,” says the enderian walking out—Major Aevum, one of Phil’s direct superiors, just above his own Commander Norrar. Phil politely averts his eyes to their jaw when they notice him standing beside the door, fixing up his lax, not-really-parade-rest into something more presentable. 

“Craft,” they greet with a nod.

Phil snaps his hand up in a quick salute. “Xir.”

“Could you?” comes the reply trailing after them, briefly pulling Major Aevum’s attention back to the room. “It’s not like we’re tryin’ to, y’know, establish political borders or anythin’.”

Major Aevum chuckles shortly. “Don’t worry about it, sir. I’ll get it done in a blink.” They glance sidelong at Phil— “Good luck—” grin into the room, salute laxly, and with a pop of displaced air and a flash of purple particles, they vanish from the corridor.

A chuckle. “Oh, done in a blink ,” comes a mutter from inside, barely picked up by Phil’s heightened hearing. “Did you see what they did there, Chat? That’s a good one, that’s a good one…”

A pause stretches. Phil’s feet won’t move. His hands tighten even more around the file. Okay, so, now that he’s actually, like, about to walk in, this might not be a good idea. Maybe he can just leave. Maybe today isn’t the day. Maybe an extra round of practice would do him some good—

“...So are you just gonna stand out there playin’ statue, Craft, or are you comin’ in?”

Well. That decides that. Phil tilts his head towards the ceiling, draws in a silent deep breath, squares his shoulders, and marches himself through the threshold. He’s got this, he’s got this, he’s got this, he’s got this…

~*~

Suddenly, the lone figure up at the front of the Empire’s forces raises something above his head—an enormous trident. His steed takes off towards the snowfield at a roaring speed. His red cloak is a beating crimson whip behind him as he tears up the terrain and leaves a plume of glittering white in his wake. The raised trident gleams a violent promise in the pale shine of the sun.

~*~

“Ah, there you are. For a second there, I thought you dipped.”

Oh, just nearly. Phil doesn’t say that, though. He’s too busy taking in the sight of the man sitting at the desk before him: the one and only General Blade. Phil can’t say he’s had many direct interactions with the man—especially not since the Empire’s recent growth—but the effect of his presence is something Phil is sure will never wear off. Even sitting down, General Blade is an imposing figure. Not even considering his iconic crimson cloak and shining golden circlet, his bulk is fully piglin brute in every way; ‘intimidating’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. Phil has to fight down the base instinct to flare his wings in response, knowing that the General will recognize the defensive gesture for what it is. At best, it would let on to exactly how nervous Phil is at the moment. At worst, the General would take offense.

Neither of those options are good. Phil keeps his wings tight against his back as he slips into parade rest, easy as breathing. “Sir,” he greets neutrally with a quick salute, not sure what else to say in response. 

General Blade huffs, something like amusement pulling at the corners of his lips around his tusks. “Fall out, Captain. There’s no need for that here.” He nods towards the chair sitting across from his desk. “You can have a seat if you want. I know those commanders and majors have got you guys runnin’ around at all hours—your feet must be killin’ you.”

Phil blinks. If he “wants”? Is this a test? No, no, that look in the General’s eyes is serious. He’s serious. Alright then. Phil can have a seat. Apparently. Part of him wants to stay standing just on principle, but refusing feels wrong—if the General tells him he can have a seat, he’s going to have a fucking seat—and, well, it’s true. Phil hasn’t sat down at all today, not between the drills and the patrols and the pacing back and forth worrying about this goddamn meeting, and skies above, it’s nearly 17:00 already.

Phil inclines his head again. “Thank you, sir. It’s much appreciated.”

“Sure, sure,” General Blade intones as Phil sits himself down in the offered chair. He tries not to visibly sink into it, though he’s not too sure how successful he is in that respect. His wings definitely sag a little before he pulls them back up. “Don’t mention it, really. I know how rough it can be, doin’ all the legwork all the time. Crazy what takin’ a load off for five minutes will do for the knees.” 

Phil feels an easy grin start to pull at his lips, one that he tamps down on instinct to maintain his professional neutrality. That doesn’t seem like something the General would care too much about, though, now that Phil is sitting (sitting!) here before him. Pretty much all of Phil’s interactions with his superior officers have always been chin flat, shoulders square, hands behind his back, feet a perfect twenty-five pixels apart. 

Sure, it’s not often that he talks to his superiors in a private setting when—according to what seems to be the General’s philosophy—there technically isn’t any need for decorum, but he seriously can’t imagine the likes of Commander Norrar or Major Aevum telling him to “take a load off” when he’s giving a personal report. 

“Alright,” says General Blade, pulling Phil from his thoughts. The General shifts himself forward so his elbows rest on the table with his hands neatly folded in front of him. The whole room feels like it shifts its weight with him, drawing Phil in. Those deep, Nether-red eyes are suddenly a whole lot closer. “I was told you wanted to speak with me about somethin'?”

~*~

Once the General has detached from the group, it only takes a split second for the forces behind him to shift, and now they’re all chasing after him, plowing down the foothills as they charge at the approaching enemy.

Phil supposes that there would be an awful lot of noise—the roaring of the impassioned troops, the thunder of the cavalry. His dark, feathered ears twitch in an attempt to catch the distant cacophony, but the wind snatches the sound away before it can reach him.

He draws in a deep breath, lungs stinging from the cold. So this is really happening. No going back now. Their moment draws ever nearer.

~*~

Phil’s hands tighten around the file now held in his lap. Right. The task at hand. “Yes, sir.” Unthinkingly, he adjusts his posture. He gathers his thoughts, remembering what he went over with Sneeg. 

He’s got this. Just breathe. 

“I joined the Empire nearly sixteen months ago,” Phil starts, “and I went directly into the Guard. I’ve seen our forces grow and change. I’ve seen how the troops have been redistributed over time in order to better play to our advantages—specifically, the Empire tends to utilize its greater population of hybrids and nonhumans.” 

Phil pauses, considers, then adds lightly, “Needless to say, I think it’s gone pretty well.” 

General Blade chuffs, a ghost of mirth in his eyes. “You could say that.”

Phil allows a hint of a grin to pull at his expression; he soundlessly scratches his fingers over the file as he braces himself and continues: “However, one thing that myself and others have noticed is that, despite this, the elytrian population in the Antarctic Guard has been—severely underutilized.” 

General Blade’s expression shifts, the mirth disappearing. There’s a tightness around his eyes. One of his ears flicks. The man is suddenly as readable as a brick wall. “‘Severely underutilized’,” he repeats slowly.

It’s the most tactful way they could come up with to phrase what they were all thinking without sugar coating the situation, but Phil knows that, effectively, he’s just criticized (insulted) the wisdom of General Blade. General Blade, a pioneer in the art of warfare, the greatest military mind in living memory—a renowned, respected warrior.

And Phil is just a captain who’s extremely fortunate to have landed this private audience with the General in the first place. 

Oh, skies have fucking mercy. Phil swallows. “That’s right, sir.” He can’t manage much more than that. His next words get caught in his throat at the look that General Blade is giving him. Phil doesn’t know what the look means, but oh, he definitely doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of it for a second longer, if he can help it.

The General’s ear flicks again. The piercings jangle in the ensuing silence. Then, something vaguely intrigued crosses his expression. “...Elaborate.”

Phil wants to melt into a puddle of liquid relief on the floor when he hears that instead of a dismissal, but he remains solid. He’s not out of the woods yet, he’s only just escaped the brambles. “Currently, sir, in the subdivisions that have an elytrian, we’re used to break headwinds for airworthy avian combatants and provide air- and ground-support for basic maneuvers. That’s it. Those are our two main roles in combat.”

“They’re helpful roles.”

“They’re menial roles.”

“Craft, you are aware that there’s only five combative elytrians in the entire Antarctic Guard, right?” the General fires back. “There’s not exactly much you can do on your own without havin’ the appropriate manpower.”

Phil sets his wings behind his back, raises his chin ever so slightly. (Be firm, Captain. Be confident. There’s a lot riding on this.) “Elytrians are natural, strong fliers, sir. We’re quick. We cover a lot of ground in a very short period of time. We don’t need a ton of manpower to be efficient—and we think that’s an advantage that the Antarctic Guard isn’t using. Not properly.”

Phil knows he’s pressing his luck, testing the General’s patience. A cool sweat starts to break out on the back of his neck. He keeps his jaw tight. 

The General regards him for a moment. “You’ve clearly got somethin’ in mind.”

“Yes, sir.” Phil stands and approaches the desk, holding out the file. Thankfully, he didn’t abuse it too badly. There’s no visible scratches on the thick manila. The General reaches over and takes the file with one hand while his other drags his small reading glasses onto his face, perching them on his snout as he gives the file a once over.

Phil considers sitting back down before dismissing the thought. It doesn’t feel appropriate. He slides into a casual parade rest instead. “We call it the Antarctic Guard Elytrian-Led Subdivision. Or, AnGELS.”

“Hm.” General Blade looks up from the file held in his cloven hands, red eyes glowing from behind his glasses. He clicks his tongue. “That’s a good acronym.”

Phil’s mouth twitches in a half-aborted smile, proud. “We’ve put a lot of thought into this, sir.”

“And who’s ‘we’?”

“Myself and some like minded individuals.” Phil inclines his head at the file. “There’s a list on the inside cover.”

General Blade cracks open the file and reads the list Phil indicated: “Captain Craft—elytrian. Private Skysee—elytrian. Private Cavyng—elytrian. Private Forge—elytrian. Private Nimbus—elytrian…” He raises an eyebrow. “‘Like minded,’ you say?”

Phil continues to smother his smile. “We’ve got a few things in common, sir,” he acknowledges.

~*~

Phil watches the battle below begin in earnest. His hands clench and unclench in the small of his back. The seconds tick by. Each one tolls deep in Phil’s chest. Every minute, it gets just a little harder to breathe. Yet all he can do is wait. 

Phil’s ears pick up on a soft, rapid pitter-patter in the cave behind him. It approaches steadily, unflinchingly. The pitter-patter comes right up to the ground beside his foot. There’s a tiny grunt, a scuffing of boots on stone, and little hands latch onto the lip of his right greave. The little hands—and little feet—start to swiftly ascend his pant leg. 

~*~

“There’s one more name on that list.”

The General looks down at the list again. He squints, dragging the paper closer to his face. “First Lieutenant Snag…inchling?”

“Yes, sir. He’s my right hand in my subdivision…”

~*~

At last, two tiny feet settle themselves on Phil’s shoulder, and a tiny hand finds stability by gently grabbing the feathers on his right ear. Together, they stand there and witness the battle’s progress. A subdivision of Antarctic blazeborns breaks through one of the enemy’s defensive lines. A party consisting of Antarctic humans and avians fall back when a barrage of firework rockets suddenly flies their way. The tides of war ebb and flow, rise and fall, crest and crash. 

It’s quiet for a time.

Then, a deep voice clears its throat right in Phil’s ear: “So, Captain—how goes the pre-battle brooding?”

Phil snorts and shakes his head, a smile cracking his stony face. A knot of tension in his chest releases. “Goddamnit, Sneeg.”

~*~

“...I can’t imagine doing something like this without him,” Phil explains. “We work well together.”

The General hums. “So I’ve heard.”

Phil swallows a startled chirp before it can climb up his throat, though he can’t completely hide his confusion. “Y…You have?”

“Yeah,” says General Blade. He sets down the file and taps his cloven finger against it idly. His gaze isn’t unkind, but it’s critical as he looks at Phil and continues, “You and First Lieutenant Snag are startin’ to be recognized for your continued efficiency, on and off the battlefield. You both come highly recommended by your commander, you especially. I mean—your major knows your name, Craft. That’s always either a really good thing, or a really bad thing. Lucky for you, it’s good.”

Phil…isn’t quite sure what to do with this information. Part of him wants to deny it—he’s just doing his job—but he knows that being overly modest isn’t always appreciated, especially when a superior is going out of their way to acknowledge you. To be modest, in most cases, is to undermine their judgment. 

Thus, a stilted reply tumbles out of Phil’s mouth instead: “I-I’m glad for it, sir, thank you, sir.” 

Phil inwardly curses himself and tilts his head just a liiiiittle higher to hopefully hide the way his cheeks are starting to burn. (Good going, Philza. Fucking nailed that one.)

The General just gives a huff of amusement, something that Phil is starting to realize he does a lot. He isn’t sure if he should take that as a win. “You should be glad for it. Half the reason I agreed to have this meetin’ with you is because of your reputation. The other half is because Major Aevum vouched for you. Told me that whatever you had to say was likely worthwhile. You should thank them the next time you see them, by the way.”

Phil nods stiffly. “I will, sir.”

The General picks up the file once more, leafing through it. “So,” he starts again. “Apparently, we’ve been sleepin’ on the potential of the elytrian combatants in our ranks, and to remedy this, you and these ‘like minded individuals’ propose the AnGELS…” 

Once more, the General meets his gaze. “What exactly are you suggestin’ with this, Craft?”

~*~

“Hey, I’m serious, Phil,” Sneeg insists over Phil’s growing laughter. “I am being so serious right now—is the mood right? Is the wind dramatically blowing your hair in the right direction? Does the cold properly match the iciness in your war-hardened heart?”

Phil scoffs. “‘War-hardened—’ Oh, fuck off—!”

“These are important questions, man! We can’t go into battle if our captain doesn’t get a good angst in first. How will we know he worries for us, that he cares for us?!” Sneeg puts a hand to his forehead and swoons. “Oh, think of the spirits of the troops, sir! Think of the morale—!”

“Alright, alright,” Phil cuts him off, still laughing, gods, did he need that. “I get it. I’ll quit moping around! Fuck’s sake!” 

His and Sneeg’s shared laughter trails off eventually. Phil’s eyes fall to the battlefield below. It’s not hard to find the General among the masses, even if he’s no longer elevated on horseback. Instead, he’s a living cyclone, tearing through the enemy’s ranks like they’re nothing but paper mache. He and his support team have made good progress, hell, the entire army has—but the battle is getting bloodier, the death toll rising higher. The General is fast approaching the heart of the conflict. 

“...It’s about time we got ourselves ready, anyway,” Phil says. 

He feels his friend nod beside him— actually serious this time. “Right.”

“Keep an eye out for me?”

“Sure thing.”

Sneeg leaps down and starts to peer over the ledge, keeping tabs on the field. Phil turns and leaves his post at the mouth of the cave to head further into the mountain, his iron-clad talons clicking sharply on the stone. 

~*~

Phil feels a rush of anticipation, of excitement, of sheer joy at those words. Finally, after months of planning, weeks of workshopping, days upon days of preparation—they’re getting to the meat of it. Phil fights an elated smile (Keep it professional, Captain) and reminds himself to talk at an appropriate speed. “I mentioned earlier that us elytrians can cover a lot of ground in a short amount of time. That’s one of our biggest advantages—our mobility. To confine our effort to a single subdivision, or division, or even a single unit on the battlefield is a detriment. 

“We can do so much more than that. Creating a separate group of elytrians entirely independent of a single section of the Guard would grant us the ability to move to where we are most needed on the battlefield — not just where we’re useful.”

“Okay, pause for a second,” the General says, raising a hand to silence him. Phil snaps his mouth shut. “Let me get this straight: you guys want to break off from… all other defined sections and form your own group?”

No use trying to downplay it. “Yes, sir,” Phil answers steadily.

The General prods a finger into the list. “And given that you're the highest ranking officer here, you would be leading this new section?”

“Yes, sir.”

The General narrows his eyes at Phil, glances down at the file again, and looks back up at Phil. “...So you do realize that this technically puts you in a pretty similar position to…at least a commander, right?”

~*~

“Well, there’s our captain! Are you finally done looking wistfully into the sunset, sir?”

This is how Phil is greeted as he comes down the slope in the cave and stands before the seated forms of the rest of his subdivision: Skysee, Cavyng, Forge, and Nimbus—the four other elytrians of the Guard, all wearing Antarctic Blues like him, all decked out in full flight armor like him, all geared up with weapons like him, all awaiting their mission like him. 

They’re loyal and willing. After he initially gathered them and suggested the idea, they spent weeks upon weeks with him working through the details of the proposal; the four of them had just as many skipped meals and late nights as him while trying to get this operation off the ground. If you ask Phil, the only considerable differences between himself and them are some experience and a couple chevrons on his sleeve.

Outside of the uniform? Those differences dwindle even further.

Nimbus scoffs, lightly nudging Skysee in the arm with xer elbow. “Don’t be ridiculous—how could he look off into the sunset if it’s barely noon? I think he was reminiscing over the snow on the mountaintops.”

“Oh, reminiscing . That’s a good word, dude.”

“Thanks, I know.”

Phil rolls his eyes. First Sneeg, now the rest of them. He’s got an idea of what—or who —they were all chatting about while he had his back turned. “The only thing I was ‘reminiscing’ over was the battlefield,” Phil corrects the two of them, “which, might I remind you, is what I was supposed to be doing.” 

“Excuses, sir,” Nimbus declares. Forge nods sagely, one of their elusive smiles ghosting over their lips. “Lieutenant Snag says you do this every time.”

“Fucking snitch,” Phil mutters without much heat, though it still earns him a squawk of laughter from Skysee. “Remind me to have a talk with my lieutenant about the topics he chooses for gossip, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” says Forge. 

The private says it in a way that makes Phil think that they’ll actually follow up with that ‘order.’ Phil snorts, and he juts his head towards the entrance to the cave. “Alright, come on, guys, form up. It’s almost go-time.”

Now, Phil knows that his presence doesn’t exactly have them snapping their heels together, but “go-time”? Yeah, that gets them moving.

~*~

Phil hears the implication buried in the General’s words, the professional, well-earned suspicion. “I’m not looking for a promotion, sir,” Phil says firmly. “I’m not trying to finesse myself to a higher position of power by technicality. That is not why I’m here.”

~*~

“Shouldn’t you call us to attention or something—sir?” Cavyng innocently suggests as the four of them flex cold-stiff muscles and stretch cramped wings. His mouth still curls hesitantly around the honorific, not yet used to the shape of it like the rest of them are but unwilling to part from it and face the potential consequences. 

“Would all of you actually listen if I called you to attention?” Phil jokes.

“Well—”

“I wouldn’t!” 

Phil smacks his lips. “Thank you, Skysee, for reassuring me that you’ll follow my command and have my back as we head into our first combative mission together! Really appreciate it, mate!” 

She laughs. “Don’t mention it, sir.”

~*~

“Besides,” Phil continues, “the group, as it currently stands, is really small. I don’t see it growing very fast either. The most recent census says that the elytrian population remains the smallest in the Empire. Of course, we’re open to strong, air-worthy avian combatants, and we’ve been toying with the logistics of allowing beelins to join our ranks—hence the ‘Elytrian- Led’ —but, the point is, sir: we don’t believe it’s necessary for my rank or role to change, just who I’m stationed with. That’s why we’re still classifying ourselves as a subdivision. A specialized one, sure, but a subdivision nonetheless.”

~*~

“How is the battle going, sir?” Forge inquires as the five of them are marching out of the cave. Forge walks to the right of and a little behind Phil, perfectly in sync with the click of Phil’s talons. 

Phil hums, shrugging. “Nothing of note to report. The plan is going accordingly—assuming nothing’s gone to shit in the sixty seconds I’ve been away,” he adds a bit louder. This is directed more at Sneeg as they come up to the cave entrance.

“Not quite!” Sneeg shouts back. “But I’m not gonna lie, things are getting pretty hairy up by the General’s position. Enemy spearmen are giving him and his support team one hell of a time.”

“All going accordingly…” Cavyng echoes softly. Phil just barely hears the edgy trill he swallows back.

“I’m sure the General’s got a handle on it,” Phil calls in response (and not just for Sneeg.) “If not, then that’s what we’re here for, right?”

~*~

“But ‘subdivision’ implies that you’re still receiving and acting on direct orders,” the General points out. “What you’re proposing sounds more like you lead your group out onto the battlefield and do whatever you see fit—which, let me be clear, Craft: I’m not exactly big on that.”

It stings somewhere inside him to have that lack of faith stated so explicitly, but Phil understands. He knows his place, and he knows it well—captain. Head of a subdivision. Lowest ranked leading-role apart from first lieutenant. He doesn’t have the experience or clearance necessary to make his own calls, not to the extent that the General thinks Phil is suggesting. “I assure you, sir, we would still be acting on orders.”

~*~

With Sneeg still keeping an eye on things down below, Phil commands everyone to secure each other’s gear. They go through the motions, tugging roughly on buckles, jostling armor plates, refastening leather belts that have naturally started to cinch in the freezing temperatures. Phil gives Cavyng’s armor a once over, straightening all of the twisted lines of leather straps around the base of his wings—they’re particularly finicky, and Phil knows all too well how much those can start to pinch after a while. He adds in a firm squeeze on Cavyng’s tense shoulders and gives the young private an easy grin before turning around so Nimbus can check his own armor.

After a moment, Nimbus gives one more strap a yank and chirps conclusively. “Perfect as always, sir! You’re all set.”

Phil gives a nod of thanks. He starts for the mouth of the cave with the four others naturally falling into step behind him. He swaps places with Sneeg. Phil hears the click-whoosh of the hydro enchantment on Sneeg’s boots, then the swish of his trident giving him a boost into the air. He lands expertly on Phil’s right shoulder, where he slips down behind it and starts to tether his left hand and forearm to the additional small leather belts on Phil’s armor.

~*~

“And whose orders would that be?”

Phil raises his shoulders in a small shrug, barely disrupting the frame of his posture. “Your orders, the lieutenant general’s orders, the majors’ orders, the commanders’ orders—we could be assigned to anyone,  and they could put us wherever they like. Whoever needs us that day could have us…”

~*~

After a moment, Phil feels a tiny yet sharp tug, and Sneeg makes a satisfied sound. “All good?” Phil prompts.

“Oh yeah,” Sneeg chuckles lowly, tucking his feet into the bigger straps on Phil’s shoulder. “I’m definitely not going anywhere unless I decide I’m going somewhere, big guy.” 

Phil looks over his shoulder at the four elytrian privates behind him. “And the rest of you?” he addresses, the steel of command slipping behind his words. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Yes—sir.”

“Pff, wouldn’t you like to know—”

“ Private Skysee. ”

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”

Phil narrows his eyes at her warningly. Then, he faces forward again and sets his shoulders. He feels Sneeg do the same as he curls his talons over the side of the cave’s ledge, high above the battlefield, the mountain winds biting at his face once again. “Angels—fall in!”

~*~

“...Because that would be the point of the AnGELS, sir. We would be a tool. We could be given any orders, be put under any conditions, and be positioned at any location…”

~*~

Talons scrape and snap over the stone. He can feel their presence behind him, two perfect branches of four level-headed, determined elytrian soldiers, fanning out behind him like an extra set of wings. The weight of his friend on his shoulder is as familiar as the weapons strapped to his back, as comforting as eyes on his six. 

Phil draws in a deep breath. The Antarctic fills his lungs, and he revels in it.

~*~

“...We could offer air support, act in defense, cut through enemy lines—whatever the Guard might be lacking or needing that day, we could provide it…”

~*~

Silence at the mouth of the cave. Phil finds the General and his support team and keeps a wary eye on their floundering flanks. He hones in on them, scarcely blinking, refusing to lose sight of them in the chaos of gleaming weapons, flares of hybrid magic, and the back-and-forth flash of weaponized firework launchers…

~*~

“...We would be a bit like a bolt, sir. You load us into a crossbow, lock us in, point us in the right direction…”

~*~

…A single firework goes screaming straight up into the air above the epicenter of the chaos. It bursts into red and green flares, stark color against the white of the wintry slopes.

~*~

“...and shoot .”

~*~

“LET’S MOVE.”

Phil throws himself from the ledge of the mountain cave, diving to the battlefield, barreling head-first towards the icy foothills below. The rest of the elytrian Angels follow, whooping and hollering and trilling at the glory of the drop, the weightlessness, the forward-pitch of the world around them. Even Sneeg lets out an elated cackle. 

Phil is tempted to join in—the feeling of flight has an unknowable something singing in the depths of his chest—but he needs to focus. Phil’s second eyelids flick wildly as he squints through the snow flurries rushing against his face and bears his teeth against the icy burn. The wind whistles over his wings, starting to shriek as he tucks his wings in a little closer. Being in the front means he’s breaking the headwind, letting the others coast. He is the one setting the pace and controlling their descent.

When General Blade approached him with the plan, Phil assured him that his subdivision could achieve a response time of under sixty seconds; they are not about to miss that deadline. Phil keeps his eyes locked on their final destination, and together, the Angels advance on the battlefield.

~*~

As Phil speaks, General Blade flicks through some of the first pages of the manila file, skimming their contents: the AnGELS mission statement, followed by sketches of flight arrangements, ideas for attack formations, records of achieved flight speeds, long-distance communication strategies, and so on. The later pages contain concepts of potential assignments, both combative and non-combative, as well as potential plans for further expansion of the subdivision into a proper squadron. 

However, General Blade doesn’t quite make it that far before he sets the file down. He takes off his glasses. 

~*~

They’re closing in now. Phil’s head and eyes twitch in rapid, minute movements as he takes in the scene, now that they’re close enough to see the details: split support team, situated northeast and west of the General’s position; northeast flank dealing with spearmen and shield wall, Guard can’t penetrate the defenses, being forced back; west flank under heavy archer barrage, both plain arrows and fireworks, Guard can’t get a hit in, stagnating, faltering; the General and his immediate support facing off with swordsmen, holding steady for the moment. 

Phil mentally juggles his options, performing triage on the battlefield itself. The process takes only a couple seconds before he’s made up his mind. “Northeast is a priority,” he says to Sneeg. “West needs help before shit hits the fan.”

“The General?”

“Monitor the situation.”

“Right. Flyby after the flanks are secured.”

“Exactly.” 

Phil whistles, a sound that is high and shrill and not at all human; it carries on a frequency that only more sensitive ears are attuned to. Phil lifts his right hand to signal to Nimbus and Skysee on his right wing: two fingers up, then pressed together and flicked twice to the west. It’s accompanied by a series of sharp trills that carry basic meanings in Birdsong: bow-air-enemy-arrow-draw-elytrian-distract. He gets a quick pair of chirps of understanding, and they detach from the group. Forge moves in on Phil’s right to fill in the gaps they leave behind, maintaining balance.

Phil whistles again. He lifts his hand in a fist above the back of his neck, central to who remains. He trills a series in Birdsong again: spear-dive-enemy-shield-break-elytrian-kill. He gets two chirps of confirmation, and he banks northeast. The others follow directly on his wings. 

~*~

“You’re paintin’ an appealing picture, Craft,” says General Blade, and he says it frankly, the phrase teetering dangerously between a flat compliment and skepticism. Phil says nothing. “The versatility you’re claiming this group would have could be incredibly useful to the Guard.”

“That is,” the General adds, voice lower, “assumin’ you and your associates can follow up on what you’re promising.”

~*~

Phil reaches for the halberd strapped to his back as he hears Sneeg pull the ripcord on his restraints, his trident humming with charging magic. Forge and Cavyng grab their spears. Meanwhile, on the other side of the battlefield, Nimbus and Skysee knock arrows into their bows. They all have their targets in their sights.

~*~

Phil allows himself the barest of smiles.

~*~

The trident comes out of nowhere.

A spearmen watches it sail directly into the front of her compatriot’s shield with a THUNK, loud enough to make her freeze in surprise. The wicked-sharp prongs are buried just deep enough to remain lodged in the network of wood and metal sheets, warping the emblem. The weapon hums ominously.

The spearman gapes. “What in the—”

A figure comes crashing down, his talons extended so that he lands with his full body weight upon the trident, sending it clean through the rest of the shield and the soldier holding it. Great black wings snap out and crash into her and the spearman on the dead soldier’s other side, flinging everyone back, sending her and her allies tumbling over each other, spears flying, shields falling.

THUNK! THUNK! Two spears from the fucking aether, right into the exposed chests of her allies. THUD! THUD! Two more figures crashing down, snapping their wings out, ripping two more holes in her allies’ defenses.

They fall into chaos. The spearman picks herself up and joins in with her fellow soldiers as they attempt to form up, facing off with this new and sudden threat, but everything is out of control. People are shouting orders, confusion, demanding aid, demanding answers. The winged figures (Avians? Elytrians?) thrive in the pandemonium, two lunging and thrusting with their spears like the shafts are mere extensions of their bodies, one whirling what has to be a goddamn halberd around like it weighs nothing, lethal arcs cutting through the masses. She even spots a tiny figure darting about the shoulders and heads of her fellows, magic trident snapping to full size, then shrinking down to fly into his little hand before being sent right back out and into another skull.

The Antarctic soldiers seize the opportunity and rush them from where they had previously been gaining ground, tearing into the gap in their defenses like a blade into an open wound. They’re being attacked from inside and out, and they’re falling like flies.

She eventually sees an opening and makes a dive for one of the winged figures, spear poised and ready to take vengeance for her fallen fellows, but the figure—eyes wide and young and frightened but fiery— sees her coming. A flash of feathers and Antarctic Blue is the last thing she ever sees.

On the other side of the battlefield, at the exact same moment the spearman takes her final breath, a soldier snaps another rocket into his crossbow. He flicks the ignite, aims, and fires for the millionth time at one of the feathered bastards spinning around overhead. 

Xe twirls in dizzying swirls, and the rocket whizzes past xim where it explodes fruitlessly in the open air. Xe cackles, loads up two arrows into xer bow at once, and lets them loose; each one hits dead-on. His fellows around him fall to their knees. 

The other flying asshole streaks past, and she lets out a bird-like cry. “Good one, Nimb! GET FUCKED, LOSERS!” 

The first one lifts xer hand and flips him off with a grin that’s all sharp teeth.

He grinds his jaw and starts to load up his crossbow again, but in his distraction, he doesn’t see the sword of an Antarctic foot soldier swinging right for his head. As the blade sinks home, all he can hear are whistling arrows and cawing laughter raining down from the sky.

~*~

“I assure you, sir,” Phil says, “we’re extremely capable.”

General Blade chuffs, clearly impressed with his confidence. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“We’d be happy to give a demonstration,” Phil agrees. “We’ve been running through drills and coming up with attack and flight patterns that best play to our strengths. My own Commander Norrar was even willing to sit in on one of our personal training sessions and give his critique, which we folded into our plans immediately. I could give you a run-down with what we have in mind, but I’m afraid we’d be here for a while.” He nods at the file. “Everything we have so far is in there.” 

“You’re very prepared,” the General remarks as he picks up the file again.

“Like I said, sir—we’ve put a lot of thought into this.” 

General Blade pauses to put his glasses back on and look at the file again. Phil can tell he’s just flipping through the file as an excuse to sit and think his decision over, though—his eyes aren’t moving across the pages. 

Phil speaks up after a long moment of silence: “...If I can be honest, sir—” oh skies, he’s going entirely off-script here—“I’ve personally been thinking about this since I heard that a second elytrian had joined up. All of the ways we could assist each other in battle, tactics that the Guard previously couldn’t execute—it kept running through my head, over and over. I thought for sure Forge would be put in my subdivision.

“And then they weren’t. Then, the others joined up, and they were all put in their own separate subdivisions too. We are the only soldiers of the same species that are actively spread out across the Guard—and I know that’s because of our low numbers, but I can’t help but feel like the Guard is...”

The rest of Phil’s words wither on his tongue. He shuts his mouth.

General Blade looks up at him, Nether-red eyes low and smoldering. “Is what, Craft?”

Phil fidgets his hands behind his back. (...Is making a mistake.) “...Is missing out on a huge opportunity to try something new.”

~*~

Phil twists his halberd and yanks yet another spear out of the hands of yet another enemy soldier. They barely get the chance to process it before he’s running up on them, the blade of his halberd driving a welt through their chestplate, then the pike on the end of it piercing the small opening with perfect precision. A gush of blood chases after his weapon as he tugs it from their body.

Phil snaps his wings out again to ward off the soldiers advancing on either side. One is taken out by an Antarctic blazeborn, to which he nods a brief thanks, and the other is leveled by Cavyng. Phil has been keeping a particularly close eye on the younger private during the fight even though Cavyng is technically paired with Forge and Phil’s been trying to keep tabs on Sneeg as well—and of course, not get his heart skewered by an enemy spear.

It has been several minutes since they first landed, at least twenty. Reevaluation is in order. Phil falls into fighting formation with Cavyng, covering each other’s blindspots for a moment with practiced ease. “Cavyng, report.”

“A-All’s well, sir!” Cavyng manages, stuttering over his response as he focuses on dodging a spear thrust his way. He parries it, and Phil brings his halberd blade down on it, cracking the shaft and sending the spearman to the ground. “No, uhm, no significant injuries, uhh—objective is still clear. I’ve kinda lost a visual on Forge, though?”

Phil’s eyes dart around. Shit. “Lead with that next time, mate,” Phil advises, no bite in his words, but undeniably firm. He whistles, high and shrill, a questioning lilt to his tone. 

An answering one comes a few seconds later: distant, somewhat distressed. 

Phil tightens his jaw— “Cavyng, with me—” and they take off into the sky.

It isn’t long before they find Forge, right in the epicenter of the chaos, starting to flounder. They have a couple Antarctic soldiers with them, but it’s clear that they’re outnumbered. Phil and Cavyng come crashing in to give some much-needed relief.

“Forge, report,” Phil demands the moment he has a breath to spare.

“All’s well, sir. Got a nasty cut to my right arm, but the armor took the brunt of it. Objective’s still clear.”

“Good.” Phil whistles again, and while it’s loud and distinctly elytrian in its tune, it’s definitely audible to those with normal-range hearing. He continues, “You two need to stick together. Keep a tight formation, call out your positions in Birdsong—I don’t care what it takes, you’re joined at the fuckin’ hip. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

There’s a whoosh of a trident, and Sneeg lands on his shoulder. “Yo rang?”

“The Lieutenant and I are off to survey the situation with Nimbus and Skysee, and then General,” Phil carries on.

“Oh,” says Sneeg. “Serious moment. Got it.” He straightens himself out, shoulders squared, ever the sentinel; he chucks his trident at an approaching enemy.

“You’re to remain here and continue the assist mission as planned. Listen to superiors for further instruction. Don’t leave this area unless directly ordered to. Understood?”

Phil gets another pair of ‘yes sir’s in response, and just like that, he’s off. Sneeg grabs his ear feathers for support as he runs and launches into the sky, leaving the northeastern flank behind and approaching the western one mere seconds later. When he doesn’t see the other Angels in the sky, he whistles and is able to locate them on the outskirts, moving swiftly on the ground with their spears. 

Phil lands for a report and learns from Nimbus that Skysee took a direct hit to the wing when covering Nimbus’ six, so they landed to continue the mission on foot. Skysee assures him that she’s fine, and Nimbus is being a worry warbler, and she could totally continue their mission from the air, but she’d rather not face Nimbus’ wrath. Phil and Sneeg see the wound for themselves, and even Sneeg feels the need to remind her not to do anything stupid. Phil passes on the same orders to Skysee and Nimbus before leaving them as well.

Phil coasts high above to get a bird’s-eye view of the battlefield. The fluctuating offensive lines of the Antarctic Guard far below are straightening out and pushing forward now, more orderly than they were some moments before. While it’s a small change, it’s certainly a nudge in the right direction—a nudge that may prove invaluable down the line. Phil spots the General and the immediate support team up ahead, and he rockets over.

~*~

“Yeah, somethin’ new,” General Blade echoes. He waves the file at Phil. “This is highly unconventional, I hope you know.”

“Trust me, sir, I’m well aware,” Phil answers with an exhale. “But, I’m a firm believer that this is something that the Guard and the Empire will benefit from. In fact, I know we’re gearing up for a second campaign. If the Empire is going to experiment with its tactics, I’d say now is a good time.” Phil chuckles feebly, casting his eyes off to the side. “In my entirely unseasoned opinion, of course.” 

Techno nods to this last fact. “Yeah, yeah—your file says that you never served in a military body prior to this. That right?”

“That’s right, sir,” Phil confirms, because it’s the simplest answer. This certainly isn’t his first experience in a combat setting, but in the form of a full, official military? Absolutely his first time, yes. “So I might be entirely out of line for proposing this, but I feel like I have to at least try. Honestly, sir, I’m here with the full intention of trying to convince you to even just— entertain the possibility of implementing something like the AnGELS.”

“Oh, entertainin’ it...” 

General Blade, with the file in hand, rises from his chair unhurriedly, and Phil somehow straightens his back even more.

“Funny you should say that, Craft,” the General continues, removing his glasses and lumbering forth. “I’m entertainin’ it as we speak.”

~*~

“Alright, that little foxlin guy with the short-sword—bets on if I can land directly on his head from here?”

Phil hums, adjusting his halberd in his hands as he circles over the General’s position, looking for a good opening to land. “Five emeralds say you miss—”

“Deal.” Sneeg jumps. “WOOOOOOOOOOoooooo…!”

Phil laughs, instantly realizing his mistake. “Oh, he took that one way too fast.” Phil continues circling for a second more, just long enough to see the foxlin down below take a direct hit to the head and crumple to their knees; Phil swears his heightened hearing picks up on Sneeg’s elated cackle. 

Accepting the loss of his pocket money, Phil banks west. He knows exactly where he wants to land amid the shifting masses of the soldiers—right on the General’s vulnerable six, where a foot soldier is clearly looking to get the jump on him. Phil tucks in his wings for a dive, then flips himself around at the last second so he lands with his talons outstretched. 

The foot soldier beneath him lets out a pained shout before Phil lands with his full weight on them, slamming them into the ground and sending the reinforced edges of one of his armored talons straight through their throat. They’re dead upon impact, bloodied snow fanning up and out from beneath them. Phil snaps out his wings to give himself some space to work with and whirls his halberd in a wide arc, cutting down anyone who hasn’t gotten the message to piss off.

When Phil turns, he comes face-to-face with General Blade, in all of his snow-dusted, gore-splattered glory.

~*~

The General stands before him, arms folded, file tucked under his elbow, looming over Phil with the same sort of casual ease that an iron golem stares down a straggling zombie. His eyes burn a much deeper red than an iron golem’s, though.

“You see, you’re not wrong in that we want to experiment with our battle tactics,” General Blade explains. “You’re not wrong in that our greater hybrid population is a serious advantage—not to discredit our human compatriots, of course, but there’s no denyin’ the potential for interesting attack formations when you’ve got a legion of people who can shoot fire out of their hands, y’know?”

General Blade briefly holds up the file again. “However, I won’t lie to you and say that the AnGELS was not entirely out of left field,” he continues frankly. “It’s not anything like what I had in mind when I was discussing plans with my subordinates to diversify the Guard’s skillset. It's... crazy. Completely out there. ”

Phil inclines his head, eyes falling; he resolutely does not let his posture slump, no matter how much he wants to. “I understand, sir.”

“...But maybe that’s a good thing.”

Phil lifts his gaze. He won’t go as far as to say that the General is smiling at him, but the stoniness of his expression has definitely shifted into something less imposing, more open. (Wait—is this happening? Is this really happening? Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit—)

The General clicks his tongue. “Hard to diversify a skillset when you don’t have every viewpoint at the table,” he admits, idly tapping the file against his upper arm. He’s staring up at the ceiling now like he’s talking to himself and Phil just happens to be here, overhearing this. “Might’ve been an oversight on my part. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.

“As for right now, though, I’m glad you came forward with this, Craft. Really. It’s not often people of your rank or role attempt…” He makes a collective gesture between himself and Phil with the file. “...anythin' like this, especially now that the Empire has grown so big and the rank gap is just an absolute cavern of middlemen and paperwork to cross.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I've got wings, then,” Phil quips before he can stop himself. He clears his throat. “Sir.”

Still, the General lets out a short bark of laughter, leaning back against his desk. A subtle upturn of his lips cracks his facade further, and Phil once more finds himself fighting a smile as hope, as pride, as joy, as the satisfaction of being heard wells up inside him.

~*~

Both of them pause momentarily, taking the other in. Phil hasn’t seen General Blade up close in the midst of battle since the beginning of his enlistment: bathed in blood, battered and bruised but still standing tall, enormous trident stained every shade of crimson imaginable. 

When their eyes meet, Phil spares a second to snap his hand up in a brief salute. “Sir,” he greets.

The General inclines his head. “Craft,” he returns.

~*~

“I can’t promise anything right now,” the General continues, “but I can assure you that I am interested in that demonstration you mentioned earlier. If I like what I see, then we can proceed with a ‘test run’ at the next border dispute. We’ve been havin’ a lot of those recently. Assumin’ your demonstration impresses myself and my subordinates, it shouldn’t be long at all before you and your associates get the chance to prove yourselves on a proper battlefield.”

General Blade inclines his head meaningfully. "I hope you’re ready.”

~*~

Phil’s ears twitch as he hears footfalls crunching in the snow behind him. He snarls and spins around with his halberd and slams the blade into the approaching enemy soldier, leveling them instantly. 

~*~

Phil nods briefly. “Always, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.

It’s then that the General extends his hand.

~*~

General Blade breaks off from his position to charge at a pair of swordsmen, spearing one with his trident while he deflects the desperate counterattack from the other by drawing the sword on his hip with his free hand and parrying in one smooth motion. Phil spots an opening on the General’s left, so he flips his halberd around and digs the head into the frosty dirt below. With a push and a flap of his wings, he’s launching himself at a pair of archers before they can even get their arrows out of their quivers. On the ground once again, he ducks low on instinct when he feels more than sees the General rearing back. The enormous trident goes sailing over his head and into the face of a spearman approaching on Phil’s right. It whips back to the General’s hand in time for Phil to stand up and snap out a wing at another advancing swordsman, sending them stumbling into the General's path, where the General kills them with a few expert swipes of his sword.

Phil flutters and lands with his back to General Blade's, talons gripping the frigid earth, wings flared and teeth bared at the enemy. There’s a low, otherworldly warble in his throat. He can hear General Blade making a similar sound behind him, the rumble like distant, boiling lava lakes.

~*~

“I’m looking forward to seeing what you have to offer, Craft,” says the General, “and, perhaps, working with you in the future.”

~*~

Phil spares a glance over his shoulder. He finds the General staring right back at him, giving him the exact same look over his own shoulder, the Nether-red fires of his eyes burning dangerously, and Phil—

~*~

—doesn’t fight a grin this time. He takes the General’s outstretched hand and gives it a firm shake. 

“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

~*~

Phil turns back to the approaching soldiers. With an inhuman shriek, he whirls his halberd out and fights on the General’s six, falling right into step with him, launching out when General Blade pulls back, pulling back when General Blade launches out, ebb and flow, perfect tandem, easy as breathing—like they were made for this.