Chapter Text
It was cold outside. Well, it was always cold outside, but that day especially. Phil watched all his people go into their houses, undoubtedly bundling up by a fireplace or furnace. He would have done the same, if not for his flowers.
They were tough things, surviving in such an unforgiving climate. Phil did his best to take care of them, of course, keeping them warm in the greenhouse half a mile from the palace. He wondered what it was like, to never be able to go outside. He doubted the flowers gave much of a shit, though; as long as they were watered and given sunlight, they would keep growing without a care.
He used to be a terrible gardener before he met Techno. Even as a child, the piglin had thrived when it came to farming. He was more interested in the fruit and vegetables side of things, though. Phil preferred his flowers.
He hiked the distance, bundled tightly in his thick, green cloak and the snow hat he found himself wearing more often than his bowler these days. It was a relief to finally be in the greenhouse. He filled a spare can with the building’s water reserves before beginning to douse his plants.
It was a lovely invention, greenhouses. They let him grow all types of flowers. There were irises for hope, sunflowers for loyalty, and roses for love. His personal favourites were the verbasca for protection. He supposed his flowers all had the same vague meaning, knew he also had hope and loyalty and love. For his kingdom, for his son, for his friend. Protection just struck a chord with him, though. That’s what it came down to, in the end. He was a protector through and through, as cheesy as it sounded.
Maybe he should have focused more on protecting himself.
He moved away a second too late to completely avoid the blade hurled at his head. He tensed, mind racing as he instinctively took stock of the situation. There was a thin cut stinging on his cheek, not deep enough to drip blood but enough to show it. It had been a while since he’d had to fight anyone. Ever since Wilbur’s birth, he’d mostly stayed in the empire. That didn’t mean he didn’t remember how, though.
He had no weapon other than his watering can, but his opponent had foolishly thrown a knife at him. He chucked the can at his attacker (tall but thin, probably agility-focused) and dashed across the room to where the blade had landed. It was a dull, rusty thing. He’d have to splash a potion on the cut or risk infection. He’d killed foes with less, though. If it came down to it, he had a good shot at winning even if he fought bare-handed.
His assailant didn’t give him much time to get his bearings. As soon as he’d picked the knife up, another one came flying at him, this one aimed at his chest. He side-stepped it, heart beating rapidly as he fell back into the swing of battle. Hundreds of years of practice never hurt when it came to muscle memory.
Blow for blow, they fought, the hostile never giving him a chance to get off the defensive. Phil barely managed to look at him between swings of the blade. He had blue eyes and blonde hair. Curly like Wilbur’s, although far shorter than his son ever wore his. He was wearing some sort of skin-tight suit. It looked warm, if not uncomfortable. He was a good foot taller than Phil, although still not as tall as Wilbur. He looked like he might grow to be, though, because–
Ah. Fuck. That was a kid.
Phil stumbled backwards at the realisation, the hostile–the child taking advantage to back him up against the wall. His expression was dull, blank like he wasn’t really seeing Phil as anything more than an opponent. He supposed he couldn’t blame him, though. He had been doing the same thing just moments ago.
“Wait,” he tried as the kid’s knife–this one much larger than the ones he had been throwing–raised into the air, about to strike. He just barely managed to block it, wincing at the impact. His arm radiated with burning pain from the sheer force, and he had to guess the kid’s did as well. “Just wait a minute!”
He did not, in fact, wait a minute.
Phil’s body moved faster than his mind could even realise what was happening.
His body was still too slow.
A sharp pain erupted in his stomach, causing him to double over. It wasn’t the first time he’d been stabbed–probably wouldn’t be the last–but godsdammit if it didn’t still hurt like a bitch.
He shoved his attacker away from him, mind fuzzing slightly as everything went into survive. He ran back around the plants, belly screaming at him as the movement shifted the now broken skin against itself. The hostile chased after him, fast, too fast, and Phil just barely managed to bring his too-dull knife up to block another hit. He had to end this quickly. Just one lucky hit to the heart, to the throat, and he could go back home and tend to his wounds. Could send for Techno and laugh about this, for Wilbur and share some hot chocolate.
He saw an opening as the boy raised his blade high above his head, most likely underestimating Phil’s capabilities with a stab wound. He tightened his fingers around his own knife. The entire torso was vulnerable like this. He lunged.
He dropped his weapon halfway there.
He wasn’t killing a kid.
The teenager hesitated, a deadly thing even with an unarmed opponent. Phil bet he could take him down like that, pin him down and snap his neck. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. His instincts were screaming at him, telling him to win, to survive, but he ignored them. The adrenaline rush died down, apparently heeding his sudden change of heart, and he grimaced as the pain intensified tenfold.
“We–” he forced air into his lungs. Like hell was he dying in a fucking greenhouse. He didn’t plan on becoming fertilizer any time soon. “We can talk… I don’t want to hurt–”
There was a skull-rattling blow to his head, and then the world went dark.