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chroniclackofselfpreservation · 3 years

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Creatures of the Night

Chapter 38 - something keeps trying but i'm not killed yet

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AO3

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(TW: graphic depictions of violence, blood/gore, panic, minor character death, malnutrition, self-sacrifice mentality)

(The title of the chapter comes from “Psalm 150” by Jericho Brown)

A/N: IMPORTANT INFO! PLEASE READ!

Hey, guys. Sorry for such a long wait for this chapter. Crazy how it took getting COVID for me to finally get my crap together and write this. I’m still not completely satisfied with how it turned out, but I didn’t want to keep you guys waiting.

I’ll be posting a new work to my COTN extras series right after this chapter drops with a bunch of new worldbuilidng stuff (for all you nerds out there, like me). Included is a map of the Witchlands. Due to changes in the city’s layout, I’ve gone back and changed the descriptions of the city in past chapters (specifically, section 3 of “heirlooms from sea funerals”, and section 3 of “make it make sense to make it better”) but nothing plot-altering. So you aren’t confused with this new chapter, basically: there are trains on bridges throughout the city now.

(also also: I won't be making these changes on the past tumblr posts, so if you want to read the updated versions, follow the AO3 link)

Two weeks later...

Roman slipped inside the blessedly cool interior of a tailor’s shop and leaned against the wall, wiping his face. Each day in the Witchlands was as hot as the last, like the dead of summer back in Wakeby, but far more humid. Thankfully, he was in the East Market, an organized, well-to-do grid of sixteen square blocks just south of the Djel Triba where the arcane district’s newest trinkets often made their first stop before the mass market. The source of the cool air was a thin wooden ring set up on a stand in the corner. Roman stepped up to it, sighing as a stream of cold air washed over him. Carved on the inside were four lines of alchemy, equally spaced apart around the ring. Roman couldn’t decipher it, aside from a few letters and numbers he recognized.

“You know, if I wanted my shop to smell like sweat, I’d invite the Wall Guard in here,” a voice said, and Roman turned. A man in all black stood behind him wearing a very stylish black scarf and circular glasses tinted a few shades darker, arms folded across his chest. It was the closest thing Roman had seen to normal sunglasses since arriving in the Witchlands. The tailor looked Roman and his gray uniform up and down, pausing on the gold insignia on his left shoulder.

“Working for Val, huh?”

He shrugged. “Community service, actually.” Roman riffled around in his satchel for a moment. “I’ve got a letter from the Chief Judge to… Rait?” he said, reading the name next to the address.

The tailor cocked an eyebrow. “You got a problem with my name, messenger boy? I’ll have you know it’s a family name going back ten generations.”

Unsure how to respond, Roman held out the letter. Rait plucked it from his hand and, unsheathing a pair of ornate metal scissors, sliced the envelope open. Roman waited politely, as was his duty, in case the recipient wished to send an immediate reply.

“These are all the same,” Rait muttered as he slipped a folded piece of parchment from the envelope. “Thanks, Rait, for designing me world-class outfits, even though I refuse to wear anything but that scaly suit of…” he trailed off. His face drained of both humor and blood as he scanned the letter’s contents. Roman’s interest piqued. Indeed, most of the mail he delivered for the Chief Judge consisted of complimentary thank-you notes to government officials or business owners. Only the truly sycophantic took time to send anything back.

Rait took a steadying breath, his expression carefully neutral. His quick glance at Roman’s hand, however, betrayed at least part of what he’d read.

It was about Roman.

Valerie had agreed that adding gloves to his uniform would keep him from getting mobbed in the streets by curious—or in some cases, pious—witches, though the ones he wore now were fingerless. Roman still wasn’t completely sure what his position as the Last Heir entailed, and Valerie only answered him with vaguery. Some thought he was destined to overthrow the Djel Triba and become a monarch. Some revered the old Witch Queen herself as a lower deity or handmaiden of Kaia, and considered him a sort of demigod. Roman tried to avoid these witches as much as possible. They tended to get weepy and try to grab his hands or arms. One man even started singing in the middle of the street. Thankfully, Roman had dashed off before too many people took notice.

Regardless, it seemed gloves would only hide his identity a short while longer. Rumors were spreading.

“Right. Well, um,” Rait said, pocketing the letter and composing himself. “I won’t be needing to send a physical reply, if you wouldn’t mind telling her my answer is yes.”

“Of course. Kaia cas de,” he said, giving a slight bow alongside the traditional farewell Valerie had taught him before he’d started his job. Kaia with you, it translated.

“O de,” Rait replied automatically, lost in thought.

Roman turned to leave.

“Hey,” Rait called, and Roman stopped with the door half open. The tailor fished around in his pocket, then tossed him two silver shils. Roman caught them and tried not to gape.

“I… I’m not supposed to get paid,” he said. “It’s kind of the point of community service.”

“Just get yourself something to eat, kid, witchgods,” Rait snapped, looking supremely uncomfortable at being openly kind. “You look like you’ll blow over in a stiff breeze. And don’t mention this to Val. She’ll never let me hear the end of it… because it goes against your sentence. Obviously.”

“Right,” Roman said slowly. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Rait muttered and disappeared into the back of the store.

Roman stepped out onto the street, a little stunned, pocketing his new wealth. He had seen little aside from gold shils, the lowest currency, since Valerie had sent Virgil and him clothes shopping when they’d first arrived. Roman looked down at himself. Sure, he’d lost some weight since being here, but he wasn’t sickly… right? It was probably from running all over the Capital six hours a day. Nevermind that the only meal he got was at the end of the night at Goldfire. Valerie hadn’t said anything about it, and Roman wasn’t about to. She was a busy person. He doubted she was deliberately leaving him destitute. Besides, he was getting by just fine.

Unfortunately, being “just fine” rarely kept his stomach from growling. On any other day, Roman would have snagged himself some nonperishable food to keep a stash of. Today, however, the small fortune would have to go to clearing a debt that had been looming over him ever since he’d taken it out to buy that muhlte—another gamble he’d had to take to make ends meet with no income coming from his messenger work, and the reason Virgil had insisted on taking up a job of his own as a clerk for that same clothing shop they’d visited on their first day in the Witchlands. He was just thankful he was a quick learner. Amaryllis taught him to play well enough to serve as nightly entertainment for Bodbyn’s patrons and earn himself dinner each night, as well as continued boarding once their two-week window from Valerie’s favor ran out.

Roman kept a hand in his pocket, fingers tight around the two silver shils, and glanced at his satchel. He had a handful of letters left to deliver. Thumbing through them, Roman found their destinations were around the south end of the West Market—a sprawling market district nestled inside the ruins of walls from when the Witch Queen had still been around, and the Capital had been a much smaller kingdom. If Roman hurried, he could finish his deliveries and run an errand of his own before reporting back to Valerie.

Content with his plan, Roman buckled his satchel closed and jogged to the nearest boarding station.

* * * * * * * * * *

The trains were, oddly, made of pale stone, rather than the hulking metal locomotives Roman was used to. Here, people called them railcars. There weren’t any seats either. Bars lined the ceiling—and the walls for those too short to reach—as handholds while the machine moved. There was a gap in the handles, forming a kind of aisle between people so passengers could exit more freely at stops, but otherwise, they all crowded together.

Roman stood near the exit alongside three other similarly gray-uniformed messengers in their designated seating area, one arm above his head as he gripped the support. Thankfully, messengers were exempt from rail fees, which meant there was one less thing he had to worry about paying for. The patches on their shoulders indicated which judge or noble family they ran for, though Roman was still having trouble memorizing them all. He glanced at the messenger to his right, who was about his age. The gold insignia on her left shoulder depicted an open book with a pen and a chisel crossed above it. She noticed him looking and gave an awkward smile.

“Sorry,” Roman said. “I’m still trying to learn all the crests. That’s Oberon, right?”

“Oh! Yeah, it is,” she replied, brightening. “Who’re you running for?”

For a moment, Roman considered lying. Too much of any kind of attention was precarious, for him especially. Unfortunately, the patch on his shoulder would reveal the truth no matter what. “The Chief Judge,” he admitted.

The messenger’s eyes widened. “Really? I thought—well, no offense, but I’ve heard she only lets the most powerful witches run for her because of all that classified information… and you’re so young!”

Roman fought a blush. “It’s really not that big of a deal. Just thank-you notes and—”

“You never know, Maize” one messenger from behind said, leaning forward between them, “he could be a warlock. I hear they’re allowed de-aging spells.”

“Whatever, Fentril,” Maize said, rolling her eyes. “I’m pretty sure those spells are illegal, even for warlocks.”

“You guys all know each other?” Roman asked, glancing behind him. There were six other messengers on the train. All eyed him with curiosity.

Fentril snorted. “Do you know how many runners there are in the Capital? Hundreds.”

“More like thousands, Fen,” one of the runners from behind them corrected.

“We know most runners from our own patronage,” Maize explained. “Maybe a few here and there that we see on the same routes,” she said, glaring pointedly at Fentril. “How long have you been running? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I’ve seen him,” a different runner from the back piped up before Roman could respond. He turned. It was a tall woman, taller than him, with thick braided hair done up in a top knot. She leaned on the side of the car, almost sitting against it. Roman was sure if she stood, she’d have to hunch over. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed her before. The crest on her shoulder depicted two hands grasping overlaying a star of Kaia. The crest of Alecto, that daunting, all-white witch from the trial.

“Runs the noble neighborhoods and both markets. Pretty easy to recognize, wearing those strange gloves all the time,” she said, eyeing him. Roman’s chest seized, and it took everything in him not to hide his hands and make his secret even more obvious.

“Hey, a witch’s entitled their secrets, Hava,” Fen said, then stage whispered to Roman, “Don’t let her freak you out, kid.”

Roman cocked an eyebrow at the nickname, given Fen didn’t look that much older than him, but didn’t argue the point. Blessedly, before they could ask more questions about his gloves, the train arrived at his stop. He waved a tentative goodbye to his new acquaintances, muttering a quick, “Kaia cas des.”

“O de,” Maize and Fen said. A handful of runners exited the railcar alongside him, including Hava, who had to duck through the doorway. Standing to her full height, the woman looked at least seven feet tall, towering above the crowd. The boarding station was a fully roofed building encasing a section of the railway, arching up over the passing trains and letting down to the ground through an enormous spiral staircase inside the leg of the railbridge’s arch. There were alchemy-based elevators within the core pillar of the massive stairway, but those were reserved for emergencies.

Hava gave him a sort of salute—touching the side of her fist to her lips—and bounded down the stairs, out of sight. Roman had run up and down so many boarding stations in only the first two weeks of him being here, he couldn’t imagine how many the other runners had. He broke out into a jog, spacing his stride so three paces landed on each of the wide steps, careful not to trip. Runners like him kept to the inside of the stairway, making tighter turns, but traveling less distance overall. The crowd of ascending and descending witches recognized their uniforms and knew to keep out of the way.

In all his time here, he only seen other messengers stop running when they were on a train or at someone’s doorstep. Roman wasn’t about to look lazy in comparison. Besides, he quite enjoyed the running—now that he’d started acclimating, of course. The first few days, he’d nearly vomited.

By the time he reached the exit at the bottom, Hava and the other runners were long gone. Compared to the East Market, the West Market was a bubbling stewpot of taverns, merchants, shops, and the occasional street performer. The crowded streets made random, illogical turns, and most witches he asked for directions simply said he’d get used to it eventually, and gave him landmarks to look for instead of street names. Checking the last few addresses once more, Roman had a general idea of where to find their recipients.

Eyeing the setting sun, Roman ran down the street.

* * * * * * * * * *

The sun had long since dipped below the city walls, the sunset giving way to twilight. Roman strode through the still-crowded West Market, enjoying the cooler air. Nightlife in the West Market lasted well into the night, and the streets would likely be full for the next three or four hours. He’d finished his deliveries at last, wending his way along the ancient stone wall bordering the south end of the market. Normally, Roman’s assignments never took him this close to the noke slums—where the badge on his shoulder was more a target than mere identification—but it was a risk Roman would have to take.

My shift’s over. I’ll be heading back to Goldfire soon, Virgil said suddenly within his mind. Roman nearly jumped out of his skin, garnering a few odd looks from passersby.

Jeez, Virge, he thought back, slowing his breathing. Scare me half to death, why don’t you.

Sorry. I keep forgetting you aren’t used to it.

It’s fine. If you see Bodbyn, tell her I’m running late.

A hint of trepidation shot through their connection. Did something happen?

No, Roman assured him. I ran into some extra shils and thought I’d clear my ledger sooner than later.

Alright. Just be careful.

Always.

Their connection faded, though not completely. If he focused, Roman could sense Virgil’s emotions. Speaking through the bond had taken Roman a good few days to get the hang of, and it still wasn’t as natural for him as it was for Virgil.

Amaryllis spent most of her time at Goldfire. After one day cooped up in their room, she’d ventured out while the two of them were gone and somehow made friends with Bodbyn, the owner. Though unexpected, the friendship certainly helped smooth things over with them not technically paying for the room and all.

Roman passed a shop selling pigment pipes as contracted brownies scampered down the street, activating the alchemical streetlights as they went. Through the store’s front window, Roman could see clouds of multicolored vapor swirling near the ceiling. A patron exited and Roman could smell sharp spices and cinnamon as the man exhaled a deep purple mist through his nose. Roman held his breath as he passed. He wasn’t sure if someone could absorb the effects secondhand, but he wasn’t keen on finding out.

Turning a corner, Roman moved away from the well-lit streets and into the shadows. Climbing a set of questionable wooden stairs on the side of a rundown tavern, he approached a lone door on the second floor and knocked.

Nothing.

Roman knocked again, cursing his luck. Had he gone all this way for nothing? Trying the handle, he found it unlocked and slowly opened the door. It stopped after a few inches, as if blocked by something. Roman pushed harder, hearing something heavy scraping against the floor as the door gradually opened wider. He peeked his head in to see an enormous iron hammer hurtling at his face. Roman lurched backward, saving his skull by a hair’s breadth.

“Oh, it’s just you,” a cheerful voice said from inside. Roman put a hand to his chest, trying to calm himself, as two slender hands appeared from behind the door and pried the long-handled hammer out of the hole it had smashed in the wall.

Linda poked her head out and grinned at him. “Come on in, Roman.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Logan puffed as he ran down the sandy beach, watching the morning sky lighten out of the corner of his eye. His shoulders and back ached from hauling water down to camp—an early morning exercise Mikhail had integrated into his training—though the pain wasn’t as debilitating as it had been during the first few days. It wasn’t getting easier, per se, but rather Logan was simply growing used to the physical discomfort.

Mikhail jogged next to him, not even slightly out of breath. Both the water hauling and the running were methods, according to Mikhail, of increasing Logan’s stamina and endurance. Logan didn’t know the exact distance they ran around the island’s perimeter, but it was easily upwards of ten miles. They ran barefoot, as the homemade sandals weren’t robust enough to handle such treatment. It wasn’t much of an issue, though. They simply had to skirt around the rocky portions near Eudora’s cave.

Logan’s breath had steadily grown harder, and he began wheezing as they approached the driftwood log that marked the halfway point. Mikhail put a hand on his shoulder and slowed to a stop, holding out the canteen before he could complain.

“It’s not about speed, Logan.”

He fixed Mikhail with a look, taking the canteen from him. “Says the man who could run this three times over in under an hour.”

“We both know I’m no mere man,” he chuckled.

Logan took a swallow of water and handed the jug back, fighting to calm his breathing so they could start again. Running got ten times more miserable once the sun rose and began heating the sand. Despite his fatigue, he noticed Mikhail’s eyes glaze over a bit, a reaction that had been imperceptible to Logan at first. He was speaking with the abomination.

Mikhail blinked, eyes refocusing. “Once you can run the entire way without stopping, we’ll move on, I think,” he said. “Hopefully, by then, we could spar a few rounds before you’re tired out. Have you thought over what I asked yesterday?”

“Yes. Though, I’d like your honest opinion as someone far more experienced in this field.”

“Alright.”

“Assuming the battery theory works,” he began, “I’m fairly confident in predicting our escape from the island occurring within the next month or two. Of course, this is a best-case scenario, but I’d rather be ready sooner than caught under-prepared.”

Mikhail gave a nod, though his expression hardened. None of them enjoyed bringing up the escape, as if they still didn’t quite believe him. Patton was the one exception.

“I figure any martial discipline will take a significant amount of time to become proficient in, let alone master, and due to my lack of magical abilities, I believe it would be more practical for me to learn the use of some kind of long distance weapon, magical or otherwise.”

“I agree,” Mikhail said. “A bow, then?”

“Exactly.”

“I do have experience with archery,” he admitted, rubbing his beard. “You’re planning to use this weapon against the dragon witch, though. Arrows won’t do much to someone like that. What’s stopping her from forcing the bow away from you?”

Logan grinned. “I thought of that. When Jorryn located iron deposits for the batteries, we didn’t have Eudora extract all of it, right? There could be enough to forge a bow.”

“An iron bow? Doesn’t sound very practical. It would be extremely heavy, not to mention you’d need a bowstring that could handle that much tension.”

“That’s where alchemy comes in. I need iron for its antimagic properties, not its hardness or weight. I’ll have to ask Killian about the specifics, but assuming we could counteract the weight and rigidity of the iron, it could work.”

“And the arrows? They could easily be diverted with magic.”

“Same principle as the bow, hypothetically,” Logan shrugged. “We’ll know more once we make them and can run tests.”

Mikhail eyed him. “You really thought this out, huh?”

“We’re already building the forge to cast the battery casings,” he said. “And Killian was a blacksmith before becoming a carpenter, so he should be able to help us. It…” Logan noticed the sun peeking over the watery horizon. “I spoke too much,” he said, shifting on his feet. “We should probably get going.”

“No, let’s head back to camp. We can cut through the middle. I want to hear more of this idea of yours, te’kundi,” Mikhail said, smiling.

“What?”

“It’s witchtongue. A title we give to those smarter than ourselves.”

Logan flushed, following him into the trees. “I really don’t think—”

“Take the compliment, te’kundi,” Mikhail chuckled, slapping him on the back. “We’ve got work to do.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Linda held the two silver shils between her fingers, lifting them up and admiring them like a jeweler, letting out a low whistle. She leaned precariously in a chair, feet propped up on her desk. Her infamous iron hammer lay across her desk. Its thick square head tapered down to a wickedly sharp point at the other end, the handle about the length of Roman’s arm. Iron weapons were expensive and Roman rarely saw one outside of the iron-spear-wielding Court Guard, but they were some of the most effective weapons against witches. For a non-magical witch like Linda, it was the main reason she kept her more powerful clients under her thumb.

“Well, you were right. That’ll just about do it for your loan,” she said with a sigh, tossing the coins up and catching them in a fist. Linda eyed him with a grin. “Sure you don’t want to borrow some more?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll be sure to call on you again should the need arise,” he said with a bow and flourish.

Linda’s grin split, showing her teeth, and she sat up. “That uniform’s taught you manners, I see. Shame to see you go. You’re one of my best behaved clients,” she pouted, glancing around her office. It was a wreck—like someone had tried to rob her. Or kill her. The heavy object blocking the door had been a chest made of dark wood with brass fittings. Framed maps lay shattered on the floor, drawers hung at odd angles from dressers as if someone had yanked them open, and Roman was pretty sure that was blood spatter in the corner, though Linda didn’t look injured.

“Thank you, Linda. Kaia cas de,” he said sincerely, ready to put as much distance between him and this woman as possible. She was nice, yes. But something in that smile told him if he didn’t part ways with her now, he never would.

Linda’s face softened, but before she could so much as utter a reply, the door slammed open and three people rushed into the room. Roman whirled, only to get tackled to the floor by a short, burly man. Linda leaped atop her desk, swinging her iron hammer at one of the two, cracking the woman in the head with the flat end. The other hesitated.

A fist met Roman’s face. He saw stars as the man pinned him to the floor with surprising efficiency, clamping a grimy hand over his mouth.

“You just be nice and compliant,” he sneered. “Don’t try anything, and we might let you live.”

“You killed her!” the man left standing screamed, kneeling by the one Linda had struck. He was leaner than his companion, with a purplish birthmark across his face. He reached out to the bleeding, unconscious woman with trembling, hesitant hands.

“You’re both trying to kill me, Dossen,” Linda said, rolling her eyes. “It’s basic self defence. Now, I’d thank you to leave and tell whoever sent you to come themselves next time.”

Roman’s mind raced, trying to orient himself. The right side of his face throbbed, and the man’s fingernails dug into his cheek, keeping him from opening his mouth. They don’t know if I’m non-magical or not, he figured in the back of his mind. He’s keeping me from using witchtongue. Not that he would have used it, anyway. He’d only started learning more witchtongue from Amaryllis a week ago. Roman didn’t trust himself not to overdo it again if things got ugly.

“You know that isn’t how Kildev works,” Dossen sneered, retreating from his friend’s limp form and unsheathing two curved knives.

Linda’s flippancy wavered. “Kildev? Since when do you work for him?”

Dossen shrugged. “Since he pays more.”

Roman? Virgil’s voice filled his mind. What’s wrong? Where are you?

Linda’s. The man squeezed Roman’s arms to his sides with his legs. Roman’s breath picked up through his nose even as he fought for calm. He couldn’t afford to make a scene here. He just had to wait it out and hope, for their sakes, they didn’t attack him.

Roman felt scales. He shivered, cringing.

“Vero Kaia,” swore the one holding him down. “He’s one of the Chief’s runners.”

Dossen backed toward where Roman lay pinned, not taking his eyes off Linda or her hammer. “Looks like I’ve got a hostage, and a pricey one at that.” He pointed one of the knives at Roman.

“Leave him out of this.”

“Drop the hammer.”

Roman, I’m coming. I’m coming. Hold on.

Linda charged, and Dossen yelped, clearly expecting her to have hesitated with his new leverage. Against a hammer, his close-range knives were practically useless unless he threw them. And he did. Linda barely dodged the one soaring at her face, though it scored a nasty gash from her cheek to her ear.

The other sank hilt deep into Roman’s thigh. One last-ditch effort to pull the hostage card.

Roman!

The sudden pain tore through any semblance of control he had. Roman’s ears began to ring. The man atop him gasped and yanked his hand back, like he’d touched a hot stovetop. Roman surged upward, toppling the man backward. He pressed a hand against the man’s chest. Through the haze of pain, every defensive spell Amaryllis had taught him since they’d arrived fled his mind, and he growled the first thing he could think of.

“Baesta.”

A deafening crack split the air as the wooden floor beneath them buckled inward. Roman lurched forward, his hand slipping through the gaping hole in the man’s chest. He was dead instantly. Blood ran from his nose and eyes, like he’d imploded from the inside. Dossen was nowhere to be seen. Linda stood with her hammer held limply at her side.

“Mother of magic,” she breathed, staring at the horrendous sight. Roman pulled back, hand covered in gore. His glove was gone. Torn apart. What was the word for healing again? He couldn’t think straight. He was too tired and hungry.

Something shot through his connection to Virgil. A sudden, far away surge of power. Roman, what’s going on? Please, talk to me. I’m almost there.

Roman was somehow numb and barely holding it together at the same time. He couldn’t meet Linda’s eye as he extracted himself from the bloody corpse. “Isumani,” he whispered. Heal everything. Just make it all normal again.

Magic burst out of him, filling the room. The floor creaked and shuddered beneath them as it knit itself back together. Blood flowed back into the man’s body, the hole Roman had punched through him slowly healing. His own leg sewed itself shut, the knife clattering to the floor.

And it didn’t stop there.

The room began righting itself, shattered glass coming back together, frames rehanging themselves. Linda gave a surprised gasp as the gash on her face closed without leaving a trace.

The woman Linda had bashed in the head shuddered and stumbled to her feet, wound still healing. She took one look around the room and fled. Linda did nothing to stop her, staring in astonishment at the scene unfolding before her.

The man beneath Roman gasped back to life. He scrambled away, shoving Roman away. The stranger was too shocked to scream, but his eyes were full of fear. Roman let him leave, squeezing his eyes shut against the fresh memories of what he’d done. All the healing magic in the world couldn’t fix the lingering feeling of blood on his hands. The fear in their eyes.

I’m supposed to be their savior, he thought numbly.

“Roman. You can stop now,” Linda said, sounding like she was trying very hard to remain calm. Confused, he cracked his blurry eyes open to see leafy branches sprouting from the floorboards and poking through the paint on the walls. Healing magic still flowed through him like an open faucet. Strange golden light dappled the room, flickering across Linda’s face as she stared at him.

He looked down at his hands and yelped in surprise. Amber splotches of light moved across his skin like air bubbles underwater. Roman’s pulse thundered in his ears as he tried to brush the light off of him, but it just felt like his skin. The moving patches were warm and sent tingles up his fingers when he touched them. Was this some kind of magic sickness? The idea sent a stab of panic through him. He couldn’t handle one more thing to worry about. Running for Valerie, and performing for Bodbyn, and learning from Amaryllis, and keeping his identity secret, and saving all his friends, and defeating Ursula.

He was so tired.

A monstrous thud shook the roof, and Linda swore. The building creaked under a mysterious weight that moved down toward the door. Of course, Roman thought half-hysterically, grabbing his head. One more magical beast I’ve got to defeat.

An enormous feline head poked through the doorway—now nothing more than an archway of curved branches. Roman, Virgil asked, blinking amber eyes the size of dinner plates at him. Are you hurt?

Roman couldn’t form a coherent reply—vocal or mental. The branches grew thicker and longer, a multi-armed helix of trees reformed from planks of wood, a crown of greenery blossoming high above them. It all sprouted from where Roman knelt. The trees responded to his thoughts, and at that moment, there wasn’t anything Roman wanted more than for Virgil to be close to him. The opening widened, and Virgil padded past a dumbfounded Linda. Leaves sprouted from the handle of her hammer.

It’s okay, Roman. I’m here. You’re safe now. Virgil curled up around him. Roman clung to his fur, trembling.

“What’s happening to me?” he breathed, looking at the strange light taking over his body.

Your core’s showing. It’s totally normal, Roman. All witches have them. I’m in my core form right now, and I’m not too scary, right? he replied, a thunderous purr rumbling through him. Take some deep breaths for me, yeah? Everything’s going to be all right.

Roman took a shaky breath, burying his face in Virgil’s fur. He could feel Virgil’s underlying fear and worry, kept carefully in control so it didn’t freak Roman out more. It was nice, however, not having to be the mentally strong one this time.

“I can��t do it,” he whimpered.

Can’t do what?

“Everything.”

You’re right—and you shouldn’t have to. I keep forgetting that none of this is normal for you. I’m sorry. We’ll talk to Valerie and figure something else out, okay? Trust me.

Roman, finally, relaxed. The lights across his skin faded away, and the trees around them stopped growing. His stomach growled petulantly, and Virgil’s ears perked up.

Have you eaten, yet?

Roman shook his head, exhausted. He just wanted to sleep.

Roman, you need to eat something. Can you climb onto my back?

He swallowed back a sigh and clambered up onto Virgil’s back, grabbing loose fists of his thick fur to keep himself from falling off. Virgil stood and padded to the exit.

“Sorry about all of this,” he said as they passed Linda.

Having recovered from her initial shock, she just laughed. “Are you kidding? This’ll be great for my new business!” she said, gesturing to the massive tree around her. “Now I just have to figure out what that business will be…”

“Right,” Roman chuckled weakly, feeling scraped hollow. “Good luck, Linda.”

She gave him a nod, already surveying the interior, muttering to herself. Roman turned his attention to the street below and his heart sank.

A crowd had formed around the tree. People pointed up at them, most shouting in excitement and wonder, though a thick-armed tavern keep standing atop a root as thick as his own torso looked particularly upset about the impromptu redesign of his shop. What made him the most nervous were the undeniable mutterings of “heir of prophecy” he could hear even from this distance.

You going to be okay?

Roman took a deep breath. “I certainly hope so.”

The climb down wasn’t easy, and Roman had to cling to Virgil’s back to keep from falling as they scrambled down the trunk. People backed away, clearing a spot for Virgil to drop the rest of the way to the ground, landing nimbly without jostling Roman too much.

He craned his head back and marveled at his towering creation. “At least it’s pretty,” he muttered. The experience sure hadn’t been.

A deep growl from Virgil snapped his attention back to the crowd, who had inched closer, curious.

“Stay back,” he warned, voice gravely and inhuman—similar to Dorian’s. Roman hadn’t heard him speak like this since their fiasco in the basement with Remus. It was comforting and unsettling at the same time. Thankfully, the crowd didn’t push their luck, remaining where they were.

“Is it true?” a voice from the sea of faces called. “You’re the Last Heir of prophecy?”

“He’s too young,” another retorted.

Roman swallowed, his throat dry. “Um…”

“No, no, look at his hand!”

“The Star of Kaia!”

“I want to know who’s paying for damages,” the tavern keeper said, arms folded.

“Quiet!” Virgil said, fur bristling. Everyone’s eyes went wide, mouths shutting. “The Heir has arrived, and he is very tired. So help me, if any of you disturb him, you’ll be taking your questions up with Kaia herself in the afterworld. Am I understood?”

Most either nodded or looked away, terrified. Resigned as he was, Roman couldn’t help but feel for them. They were just curious. He doubted they meant any harm.

“I’m sorry,” he said, raising his voice so hopefully they could all hear him, “for any damage I’ve caused.”

“Sorry won’t fix my ruined business!” the tavern keeper shouted. Several witches shot him dirty looks. One even elbowed him and muttered something. “What?” he said, rounding on them. “I’m just supposed to grovel at his feet cause he ruined my livelihood in a flashy way?”

Roman was so tired he wasn’t sure if he would start laughing or burst into tears. He didn’t know what to do. He was this supernatural hero who could grow mystical trees without a second thought, but couldn’t for the life of him fix what he’d screwed up.

Virgil let out a low, warning noise, and the man paled.

“Oh, stop your whining, Galphin!” Linda shouted down from the tree hollow, brandishing her leafy hammer. “Cut out a new door, or something. This witch just made your tavern the hotspot of the Capital and you’re crying like a Brownie over tarnished silver. Get over yourself.”

Galphin spluttered, face flushing red. A few in the crowd let out soft laughter. “You’ve got no right—”

“In fact!” Linda said, that same grin spreading across her face. “I’m the reason Golden Boy was even here to begin with, so looks like you owe me for the renovation.”

“Owe you? This is ridiculous. I let you run your shady little business above my tavern, noke!”

Linda laughed. “Oh, please, don’t you know the best way to get what you want is to let the other person think they’re making the deal? Now, there’s going to be a steady interest on the property tax I’m issuing, so I suggest you get to work before I call the Guard for substantial debts taken without intent to pay.” She shot Roman a look and winked.

Roman nodded his thanks, patting Virgil on the shoulder. The familiar started away from the tree, the crowd silently parting around them. He noticed a few cheeks wet with tears, and Roman desperately hoped no one broke out into some kind of religious preaching. Thankfully, they all kept a respectful distance. Roman did his best to sit up straight, despite wanting to pass out, and even managed a weak smile.

An adolescent, perhaps fourteen, reached a tentative hand out, brushing Virgil’s leg with their fingertips as they passed. Virgil looked down at them, and they instantly retracted their hand.

Be nice, Roman admonished, scratching his fingers through the fur between Virgil’s shoulders.

I am being nice, he said, tail flicking. We can be a parade attraction some other time, though.

Agreed.

It was a long walk from Linda’s place to Valerie’s estate. Nearly across the entire city. Roman couldn’t guess the distance, but figured at the pace they were going, it’d be at least an hour before they arrived. Thankfully, it was late enough now that the streets were somewhat empty. Roman couldn’t imagine having to make this trek in the middle of a bustling market. While the crowd that had formed around the tree incident had indeed remained respectful and quiet, Virgil’s threats hadn’t kept them from trailing behind as they made their way through the city.

The ride wasn’t very comfortable either, despite the softness of Virgil’s fur. Felines weren’t exactly meant to ferry around passengers, no matter their size. The bumps of Virgil’s spine pressed uncomfortably against him, and despite the fact that he’d removed his messenger’s jacket and bundled it up into a makeshift cushion, Roman was sure he’d be regretting it in the morning with bruises in unsavory places.

Still, he silently enjoyed the distance it put between him and the people, and despite the aches, the gentle swaying motion as Virgil walked lulled him into a kind of half-awake daze.

You should try sleeping, Ro. It’ll be a while before we arrive, Virgil said, glancing over his shoulder at him.

Yeah, he said absently, but made no move to lay down. This form isn’t… hard for you to keep up, is it?

Witchgods, Roman, just let me take care of you, he laughed, exasperated. After a moment, however, he conceded, explaining, I could stay like this as long as I wanted. It’s the transformation itself that takes magical energy.

Right, Roman said. How’s it going with Amaryllis and your talisman? They worked on Virgil using his powers without the talisman while Roman was busy playing muhlte for patrons at Goldfire, so Roman rarely saw the training himself.

She says I’m making progress, he admitted after a pause.

Roman’s head bobbed as he struggled to stay awake. That’s good… I’m proud of you…

Virgil said nothing, plodding along at a steady, hypnotic pace. Roman slumped forward, which distributed his weight and relieved some of the pain from sitting up on Virgil’s back.

He let out a tired sigh, and, at last, let his mind slip into unconsciousness.

* * * * * * * * * *

Most of the crowd had dispersed when Virgil reached the edge of the West Market, the last few stragglers only trailing behind for a few minutes more as he followed the rail lines through the arcane district—the most direct path back to Valerie’s estate. The Djel Triba came into view, and Virgil felt a measure of relief. He’d kept his worries in check as well as he could manage, not wanting to wake Roman up. But walking alone through a potentially hostile city at night, despite his current size, was paranoia-inducing. The scuttle of various city-dwelling fae in the shadows kept him on edge.

We’ll be fine, Virgil, Amaryllis assured him for what felt like the hundredth time since they’d picked her up from Goldfire.

We don’t know how Valerie will react, he said. Some of the judges wanted to throw him in prison. What if what just happened convinces her they were right?

Something’s got to change, Virgil. Roman has to master these powers in three months, and we’ve only covered the basics of witchtongue in the past two weeks. I’m sure Valerie will understand.

What if she doesn’t?

What if she does? she countered. Virgil sighed, dropping the issue. Roman snored softly against his fur, completely asleep. He had to be careful not to shift his weight too much, or he’d risk Roman sliding off his back.

Passing the Djel Triba itself, they made their way down a long cobble drive that split off every half mile or so, sectioning off the different judge’s estates. Valerie’s was in the back, a stately building of skilled stone masonry with tall, well-lit windows. Not nearly as big as Virgil had anticipated.

The two guards stationed at the front door looked at each other, confused.

“You’re… the Heir’s familiar. Right?” one of them asked.

Virgil turned a bit, revealing the sleeping Roman. He didn’t like speaking aloud in this form unless he had to. Reminded him too much of Dorian.

The two guards stiffened.

“Is he injured?” the other asked, stepping forward.

No. Let us in, Virgil snapped in both of their minds. The two of them jumped, startled.

Amaryllis floated ahead of Virgil, shooting him a chastising look that he met with defiance. “He’s perfectly fine,” she amended. “Just asleep. However, we have some pressing matters to discuss with the Chief Judge, if you would be so kind as to escort us.”

These guards, thankfully, didn’t look at Amaryllis like she was the undead scum of the earth. One nodded to the other and led them inside. The doorway wasn’t quite big enough for Virgil, but he was agile enough to slink through without displacing his sleeping witch. They were handed off to one of the house staff, who bowed silently to them and guided them down the hall. The servant was a short woman—or, at least, she looked short from Virgil’s perspective. She kept shooting glances at Roman’s limp form. He followed her line of sight and found she was interested in the gold mark on Roman’s hand hanging over Virgil’s side.

So was everyone, it seemed.

Virgil kicked himself for not realizing how overtaxed Roman was getting earlier. They shared a mental link, for Witch Queen’s sake. He still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened at Linda’s. The echo of Roman’s pain he’d felt still haunted him. Whatever had occurred, Roman had erased with healing magic. Maybe once he was awake, Virgil could pry the story out of him.

They stopped outside another large pair of doors. The servant pressed a hand against a small panel in the wall inscribed with lines of alchemy, and it sunk inward about an inch. The massive doors swung open of their own accord, revealing a spacious, but noticeably empty, sitting room. The servant strode inside and squatted near a fireplace on the left side of the room. Muttering a soft, “Merint,” a fire burst to life from her fingertips.

She stood, facing them. “The Chief Judge is in her personal quarters at the moment. Please wait here while I inform her of your presence,” the woman said with another deep bow to both Virgil and Amaryllis before exiting.

Virgil ducked through the doorway, once again careful to keep Roman balanced across his back. Amaryllis trailed throughout the room, looking at the artwork on the walls. A row of tall windows lined the back wall, revealing a lush garden lit by amber lanterns. Virgil positioned himself between the sitting area and window, giving him a good view of the entire room—doors included. He slowly lowered onto his stomach, resting, but ready to get up and run if he had to.

Amaryllis looked over. “You know, he’d probably be more comfortable on one of the couches.”

He’s fine where he is.

She conceded with a shrug. Truth was, Virgil wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his anxiety in check if he didn’t have the comforting weight of his witch on his back, his soft puffs of breath across his fur, or the occasional shifting that reminded Virgil he was still alive and well.

His ears swiveled, picking up steady, clinking footsteps growing closer to the sitting room’s open doors. Valerie appeared in the doorway soon after, in her typical suit of scaled armor. Her smile disappeared when she saw Roman unconscious, and she stepped into the room.

“What happened?”

He’s just asleep.

She relaxed a bit, folding her arms. “While I’m glad to hear that, Virgil, it doesn’t answer my question.”

Virgil vacillated on how much to tell her. He still didn’t trust the woman, though he liked her more than the other judges. There was another incident. Similar to what happened with the Captain of the Guard when we arrived.

Valerie paled. “Is anyone injured?”

I don’t think so. I wasn’t with him when it happened, but if anything, he healed things a bit too much.

“What do you mean?”

I mean you’ve got a giant tree growing in the south end of the West Market, now.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” Amaryllis said. “I could see it from Goldfire.”

Valerie began pacing around the room. “As long as no one was injured… Wait, why weren’t you with him? Aren’t you two inseparable?”

Virgil’s tail whipped back and forth. That’s why we’re here. You realize you left us destitute, right?

She stopped, staring at him. “What? Did you not contact Bodbyn? She should have—”

She fulfilled her favor to you and let us use a room, but food was never a part of the deal. Virgil tensed, fighting to keep his anger in check in case he woke Roman. It wasn’t working very well. Roman wasn’t making any money from running for you, so he took out a loan to buy an instrument so he could work for one meal a day. I had to get a separate job just to help pay off his loan. That’s why I wasn’t with him.

“One meal a—why didn’t he tell me?” Valerie said, running a stressed hand through her hair. “I saw him every morning! I thought… I had no idea…”

He didn’t want to impose, Virgil sneered. And now, because he’s been so busy running all over the city for you, he’s wasted two weeks where he could have been learning to control his powers instead. You have no idea what’s at stake here.

Amaryllis came between them, holding out her hands. “That’s enough, Virgil. Valerie is aware of the situation now.” She turned to the Chief Judge. “We’ve come to rework the agreement. Roman needs time to study and practice using his powers, otherwise incidents are going to keep happening.”

“I agree. I’ll speak with the other judges. Hopefully, this won’t turn into another trial.” Valerie bowed her head in Virgil’s direction. “Regardless, I apologize for my ignorance, joka iskaia. It will not happen again.”

He nodded back to her, blinking slowly.

“I will have my staff prepare quarters for you immediately. You are welcome to the meals as they are served during the day—” she glanced at Roman—“but you may help yourself to our kitchen tonight, though the cook has retired for the evening. Myla, the woman who showed you here, will take you to your rooms once they are ready. Ask her for anything you may need.”

“Thank you,” Amaryllis said. “I’m sure Roman will thank you once he’s awake.”

Valerie shook her head. “He doesn’t need to. I’m simply doing what I should have from the beginning. Goodnight.” And with that, she departed.

Amaryllis turned to Virgil with a smile. “That went well!”

Yes, Virgil admitted. He may not trust Valerie yet, but this might have been the first step in the right direction they’d taken since arriving.

#graphic depictions of violence #panic #tw panic #tw blood and gore #tw violence #minor character death #COTN #creatures of the night

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chroniclackofselfpreservation · 3 years

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Dream tried to stop Wil from creating L'Manburg, Phil tried to stop him from blowing it up, BOTH value people over items and builds, Phil has said that they're replaceable but people aren't, Dream traded spirit for his best friends fishes (we kno he's not someone to talk abt feelings:[) BOTH were kind and selfless but used by almost if not everyone, BOTH were ready to be THE VILLAINS if it meant everyone else could live better after. ONE of them always had someone there, ONE didn't. Intentional?

aaaa sorry for the really inconsistent posts ,, im gonna try to post a little more in the next few days. i have a few things written up, so look out for them? maybe? for now, have this *gestures vaguely* thing ,, it’s kinda a mess but *shrug*

phil is such a fun character, anon, especially for all the reasons that you mentioned in the ask!! he’s a really fun character with a lot of complexities that go (sadly) overlooked by a large portion of the fandom, but he’s super cool even tho i havent analyzed him too much. hope you enjoy (and i hope my interpretation of c!phil isnt too ooc lmao)

tw: mentioned blood, injury, implied torture/abuse, starvation, trauma, mentioned death, prison arc/pandora’s vault

When Techno first brings Dream back from the prison, Phil doesn’t quite know what to think.

“I don’t trust him either,” Techno assures him, but there’s a flickering anger in the backs of his eyes, one that had emerged ever since he came back from the prison with the other man in his arms, and Phil knows his friend well enough to know that the words are empty in the face of the piglin hybrid’s particular brand of to-the-death loyalty. He shakes his head in reply, refusing to voice his thoughts for Techno’s sake, at least, but the look that the other slants at him suggests that he’s caught onto them all the same.

At first, the work is thankfully mindless; even if Phil has reservations on the man that Techno has more or less dumped into his house, he would hardly wish the clear suffering he’s been through on anyone. The first few days pass in a flurry of brewing potions, wrapping and rewrapping dressings, stitching up cuts and setting broken bones straight. The damage is extensive; Phil has to take more than a few breaks to just leave the house and breathe - he’s far from a stranger to blood and carnage, had received the title of ‘Angel of Death’ for a reason, but even he had never been particularly familiar with this form of cruelty. Torture was a level of violence that extended beyond what even he was willing to bestow - his hands may have caused many deaths, and the weight of each one would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life, but even those had the mercy of being a quick end. The wounds and scars that ripple over Dream’s skin, thin and stretched tightly over his bones with little muscle and fat left to cushion them, speak of horrors that were anything but merciful.

“I didn’t know they were capable of all of this,” Techno says, once, as they huddle of Dream, wringing towels in cold water to wipe his feverish skin. Techno’s hand reaches for the ribboning gold-filled scars that remain from the execution - carefully, Phil raises his hand to let his fingertips brush over them as well. “I mean, I knew he was dangerous and all, but-”

“I know, mate,” Phil looks back at Dream’s face, tight even in unconsciousness, at the darkened, hand-shaped bruises that remain around his throat, at the scar that runs over his left eye, clearly meant to mirror the same one that makes its way down the duck hybrid’s own face. “You said that Quackity and Sam were working together?”

“Yeah,” Techno’s expression darkens, eyes focused somewhere on the wall, seemingly very far away. He said that nothing happened to him in the prison, and he seemed relatively unharmed when Phil activated the stasis chamber, but ever since he came back, sometimes he’ll have moments, and Phil can’t help but - wonder. “Quackity does the dirty work, Sam gives him the way in and out, probably also the tools to do it. It’s-” he huffs a short, self-recriminating laugh. “It’s bad, Phil.”

“Mate-”

Techno shoots him a look, and Phil cringes, knowing already that he’d used the wrong tone. Even with the execution, Techno had been adamant to hide all traces of his own terror and fear away from him, masking it all with fury for Phil’s own sake. He knows, just from the way his old friend looks at the ribboning scars that remain sometimes, that he is far from as over the whole ordeal as he acts, but Techno never wants to talk and Phil never knows the right time to ask and they smooth it all behind plans and explosions and hope that the TNT can blow apart the trauma, too. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the same thing is going to happen, here.

“As soon as we can,” Techno starts again, pointedly shifting his eyes away from Phil’s face, “we’re calling a Syndicate meeting to figure out what we’re going to do about the prison. Like- come on, man, you couldn’t make a more transparent abuse of institutional power if you tried, really-” he looks over, uncharacteristic uncertainty warring over his features. “If you think that’s good, I mean-“

“Of course, mate.” Phil’s voice softens. “Whenever you’re ready.”

‘Whenever he’s ready,’ as it turns out, is easier said than done, becoming even more evident when their charge wakes up from his days long spell of unconsciousness. The worst of his injuries have, under their careful care and the benefit of many potions, healed enough to no longer directly threaten his life, but the vast majority have quite some time to go before being healed completely. Being as the goal was torture and not death, most of his injuries weren’t made to be life-threatening, but rather to cause as much pain as possible - from the grimace that twists Dream’s face when he struggles to force himself awake, they’re doing their jobs.

“Hey, mate, slow down,” Phil murmurs, pressing the man down by his shoulder when Dream weakly tries to push himself up and off the bed, and his struggling only lasts for a few more minutes before he gives up and slumps against his pillow, eyes cracking open and seeming surprisingly lucid.

“Where-“ his voice is wrecked, and Phil reaches for the glass of water at the bedside as Dream coughs. “Where am I?”

“You’re at Techno’s house,” Dream’s eyes widen and then slip closed as he processes the information, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as they knit together. “We broke you out, after Techno escaped with a stasis chamber with your book. Do you remember?”

Dream gnaws on his bottom lip. “Um- yeah. I think.” His head turns as his eyes crack open again- “Techno-“

“He’s out, right now. He’ll be back in a bit.”

“Oh.” Dream falls back into the bed, strength seemingly sapped from the short conversation. His breathing stutters, then steadies. “Okay.”

Recovery is slow. Phil doesn’t actually find himself seeing the man very often; now that he doesn’t need around-the-clock care anymore, he’s moved back into his own house, letting Techno do most of the work when it comes to rehabilitating the escaped convict crashing at his house. As he begins to spend more of his time awake and aware, he brings a whole slew of new problems; Phil catches him screaming one day, blurting harsh, angry words as Techno reads, unbothered from the other side of the room, and he stops in his tracks standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Um-“ he winces when Dream curses, smashes something against the floor, and then curls into himself at the sound. Techno doesn’t even flinch. “Am I interrupting something?”

Dream stomps away, face flushed, arms wrapped around himself. Techno raises an eyebrow.

“You lookin’ for something, Phil?” he asks, and the unpleasant knot in Phil’s chest refuses to unwind.

The episodes, unfortunately, don’t seem to get much better. Though he’s rarely outright violent, Dream looks constantly murderous, usually muttering underneath his breath about something or another while he stalks the grounds of Techno’s house. It’s not too long before Techno sends him out to work around the house instead of just moping within the cottage, which also means that Phil sees him a lot more - tending to a small farm behind the house, feeding the dogs, hacking away at mobs, and usually complaining the entire time. It’s unnerving, even as injured and unarmored as the man is, to see him walking around like this; despite his rather pathetic appearance, swamped in sweaters that dwarf him thoroughly and thin enough to look like the slightest breeze will knock him over, his eyes are flinty and intelligent and bubble with promises of revenge.

“FUCK!” Phil turns to see him slamming a shovel into the snow, stomping away into the woods, and his hands tighten around his cup of tea. Next to him, Techno shrugs.

“Nerd’s got a few issues,” he drawls, and Phil laughs shortly.

“That seems like an understatement.”

“He’ll ease up in time,” Techno sounds surprisingly confident, completely content despite the muffled curses that come from the woods next to them. He’s probably used to it, with Chat and all, but Phil can’t quite seem to find the same calm.

“I just don’t know, mate,” Phil shakes his head. “You sure having him around is the best idea? He doesn’t seem...stable.”

Techno looks up at him over the rim of his cup of coffee. His head tilts, considering, but there’s a small smile on his face that tells Phil that Techno, inexplicably, doesn’t share the same sentiments. There was always a part of him that was, for the lack of a better word, softer than the rest of the server for his self-proclaimed rival, a sort of understanding that Phil could hardly hope (nor would really want to) understand.

“Don’t worry, Phil, if he tries anything I can always just tie him up in the attic or something,” Phil huffs a small laugh, amused, and nods to concede the point. “And- well, call it intuition. You could really try talkin’ to him, you know. He reminds me of you, sometimes.”

The words stick in his head despite his best efforts, rattling in his skull when he tries to sleep, lingering when he catches glimpses of the green-clothed man stalking around their properties. He can’t imagine what would’ve prompted his old friend to make the comparison, can’t think of a single thing (besides their affinity for the color green) that would mark him as similar to the - from what he’s heard - deranged menace with a particular penchant for destruction (not that his rants and fits of anger are doing anything to correct that impression). Even so, Techno had sounded so sure when he’d made the comparison, the words offhand like he’d thought them a million times before, like it was a simple observation that held no more weight than commenting on the color of the sky. Phil watches as Dream lugs a pile of logs behind him, huffing at one of Techno’s dogs that comes to chase and nip at his feet and grumbling loudly before faceplanting into the snow. He just...can’t see it.

Days later, Wilbur comes to visit, a grin on his lips as he dramatically recounts his newest exploit: a nation by Las Nevadas, a supposed safe haven away from the glitter and glory of Quackity’s city; it sounds brilliant, it sounds lovely, and more than anything it sounds stupid, and Phil tells him as such immediately.

“You’re being reckless,” he rants at his son, wings flaring outwards and only barely noticing Dream watching from the corner of his eye, “What are you doing- picking fights with Quackity? Starting another nation- didn’t you see what happened to the first two you made? You’re going to get yourself killed, Wil!”

“Well, I’ve already seen what’s on the other side of death, and it’s really not that bad-“

“You’re my son!” The words are angrier than Phil would’ve liked, and he knows that he looks ridiculous and overbearing, criticizing the actions of his fully grown son, but all he can see is Wilbur’s face, slack with pain and grief, stained with ash and soot as his eyes flutter to half-mast in the midst of the rubble of a country he loved and destroyed and destroyed him in turn. “I can’t lose you again, Wil!”

Wilbur doesn’t quite storm out, but it’s a near thing, leaving with a clipped goodbye and leaving Phil seething on his doorstep. He spends the rest of the night pacing around the house in a sort of mad frenzy, wings stretching and folding over and over. Not for the first time, he longs for the sky, to feel the air through his wings and let the world fall into pinpricks below him; it’s this that leads him to the roof of his house, staring stubbornly at the clouds as the sun sinks down to the horizon.

“Hey.”

Phil startles; there, down below him, is Dream. He rocks back on his heels, seeming awkward, before clambering up the wall (Phil rolls his eyes at the ease with which he scales it, the feeling in his chest almost fond) and settling himself on the shingles at Phil’s side.

“Hey, mate,” Phil shakes his head. The fondness leaves, and the irritation that had risen at Wilbur’s words, earlier, comes back full-force. “Sorry- Wil came to visit, we talked. I just needed some time to think.”

Dream hums in acknowledgement, and they fall into a comfortable silence, watching as the sun dipping down past the mountains in the distance.

“You know,” Dream starts, sudden, “I told him the same thing.” He looks up at Phil, eyes faraway with old memories. “Wilbur, I mean. When he made L’manburg- I told him he was being reckless.” He shrugs. “I guess he never listened.”

Phil pauses, Techno’s words ringing in his ears. He reminds me of you, sometimes.

Dream looks surprisingly normal up close - face no longer reddened with fever or pale from blood loss, even the scars fail to really take from the boyishness of his face. He bites his lips, eyes falling away at Phil’s scrutiny, golden blond hair flopping over his forehead, newly trimmed to be something a little closer to his old length, at least in the front, the back pulled into a small ponytail. He’s young, and shockingly awkward, teeth worrying his lip, hands fiddling with each other, shifting his weight from one foot to the other several times a minute. He looks like a kid.

“He never does,” Phil lets himself smile, watches as Dream smiles back, almost like they’re sharing a joke. He wonders how well he really knows the man behind the mask. “Want to come in for some tea?”

Dream smiles wider, and something old and worn in Phils chest, knocked loose ever since he felt his son fall limp in his arms with his own sword shoved between his ribs, falls back into place.

“That would be great,” Dream replies, the words almost hopeful, and they go inside.

#this was so good #but ow my heart #others’ writing #dsmp #dsmp techno #philza #dream

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