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Chapter Text

“Has anyone seen my grandpa?” Fundy shouts. “Blond elytron with antlers and black wings! We lost him in medical when the withers were out! He was hurt!”

A black cat with yellow eyes pops out of the rubble wearing a Lemon City vest, shaking its form until a black haired elfin stands in its place. (Must be one of the search-and-rescue guys.) “Guy with all the big scratches on his face?” she asks.

Fundy nods frantically. “Yes, yes- he might be blinded by the explosions, we gotta find him!”

The elfin laughs nervously. “Oh, we found ‘im, alright.” She points over a hill on the edge of the crater. “He’s the guy that’s been sniping all the withers until everyone else could melee them. You sure he’s blind?”

“I don’t care, he needs a fucking doctor!” Fundy scrabbles on the hill, four tails lashing desperately for balance. “Grandpa! It’s Fundy!”

The figure on the hill startles violently, wings curling painfully around itself as it clutches a wood and copper rifle.

“...Fundy?” Philza says, just a step too late. “Is that you?” His wide bloody eyes squint hazily, antlers clicking with agonizing slowness. “I- I can’t-”

“I know, it’s okay.” Fundy gently grabs his grandpa by the shoulders. “Gods. Why’d you have to bolt like that? You could have died!”

“If I die, I die,” Philza flatly says.

Fundy lets out a pained noise. Philza sighs.

“Listen, no one else was sniping the withers. They were givin’ me a fuckin’ headache.”

“How were you even able to shoot?” Fundy asks. “There’s no way you can see out of- out of all… that.”

“Chatters is here,” Philza tiredly explains, gesturing to the frazzled but unharmed crows surrounding him. “And I don’t need t’ see jack shit to shoot, you know that. Just need to know where the soul is.”

“Okay. Do you know how to get back to the hospital tent?”

Philza goes silent for a moment, staring at Fundy with his blind, weary eyes.

“No,” he finally says. “I don’t.”

“Do you need help getting there?”

“I-” Philza’s broken, mantled wings drop listlessly against the ground. “Yes. I think I do.”

Fundy nods. “Alright. We can do that.” He holds out his arm. “Do you just want me to guide you or-” He lets out a grunt as Philza’s weight slumps into him. “-that works, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Philza whispers.

Fundy’s mouth flattens as he loops an arm around his grandfather. “You’re hurt. It’s fine.”

“No.” Philza’s antlers unevenly swivel back. “No, I’m sorry for-”

His body shudders with a wracking cough, but he never needs to finish the sentence.

I’m sorry for Wilbur.

“We can talk about it later,” Fundy promises. “I’m just glad you’re alive.” A pause. “And please promise not to bolt out of the hospital bed again.”

“I promise not to bolt out of the hospital bed again,” Philza drily parrots.

-<>♥<>-

“Hey.” A tiny golden axolotlin with an old tear on one of its right gills hops off a deerlin nurse’s shoulder and onto the table. “You lads brought in the birdy?”

“I-” Tubbo looks between the others- Quackity and Fundy- and decides to nod. “Yes. That was us.”

The tiny doctor graces their freckled face with a smile, though it’s not much different than their normal expression. “Ay.” They look back to an offered clipboard in the deerlin’s hands, and point to Fundy, Quackity and Tubbo. “Family is the three of you?”

“Uh- not me,” Quackity nervously says. “I’m here for legal shit.”

“Okay, I’m not talking to you.” The doctor grimly clasps their hands together. “We tried our best, but I assume you know how it is with his condition. It is very hard to get his body to respond to medicine. Many of the scars will be permanent. The ones on his face and eyes were already mostly cauterized when you brought him here, there is nothing we can do but make sure it doesn’t turn necrotic.” 

“The wings are a whole different ballpark, though,” the deerlin nurse pipes up.

“What’s wrong with his wings?” Quackity asks.

“The wound will heal,” the doctor says. “But the damage to the elytra may have permanent effects. The elytra complex of his left wing has mutated over some of his injuries. I don’t like it. Maybe he will be lucky and have no complications, but it could go either way at this point.” They wave their hand dismissively. “Eh. I already talked to him about this. If you want more, you talk to him.”

The deerlin nurse turns over to another page of the clipboard. The doctor’s mouth opens wide.

“Oh! Also!” The doctor claps their tiny, webbed hands together. “Please do not try him for murder!” they brightly say. “That’s my professional opinion!”

Tubbo and Quackity still. “Who said anything about murder?”

“You suck at having private conversations,” the nurse deadpans. “We know he’s a murder suspect.”

Quackity squints. “And… why exactly do you recommend not trying him?”

“We did a magic check because he’s hardcore- routine stuff- and then we found, ah-” The axolotlin doctor stalls. “-Seny, what is the Script word for that?”

“Tampered,” the nurse provides.

“Ayup. Somebody tampered with his brain within the last week. Not a lot, but it is there.”

Fundy leans forward. “Is he alright?”

“It hasn’t fucked with his cognition from what we can tell,” the nurse provides. “And it doesn’t look like it was ever meant to. But this does call the consent of anything he’s done recently into question.”

Tubbo hums contemplatively. “Couldn’t we just check if the tampering was done before or after the murder?” he offers. “That’s possible, right?”

The doctor chirps to themself. “It wouldn’t matter either way. Being tampered with at all throws out his verifiable consent. He could have been forced to do something, and then the evidence was pushed out of his memory! What can we do?” 

“If you want to take someone to court, you should find whoever did it,” the deerlin nurse concludes. “Any idea who it was?”

Fundy and Tubbo look at each other for a sad, silent moment.

“It was-” Fundy takes a shaking sigh. “-most likely the murder victim himself. I don’t think it could have been anyone else. He’s- he was the only person with those kinds of abilities who would have been near Phil at the time.”

“Wilbur… wasn’t well these last few months,” Tubbo haltingly adds. “It seemed like he was doing better, but- I guess not.”

“Well, that’s not a murder, then,” the nurse corrects. “That’d be a suicide.”

“We should still question him,” Quackity presses, turning to Tubbo. “We need to get a full picture of what the fuck Wilbur did.”

The doctor leans back, letting out a sharp noise. “AY-YO! Yes, bother my patients! Such a good idea, Mr. Cabinet Man!”

“Is- is that a no?” Fundy hesitantly asks. “Can nobody see him right now?”

The doctor squints suspiciously. “You can see him.” They prod Quackity away from the table with a stick. “Family only. Fuck off.” They rap on Tubbo’s hand with the stick. “And no murder talk unless he brings it up first. I don’t care if we’re in a tent, no fighting in my hospital.”

-<>♥<>-

The temporary hospital tents that Lemon City has set outside of the L’manburg crater are crowded with patients, but at least no one is lacking for treatment. The city’s overpreperations for what should have been a nasty skirmish at best have turned into just barely enough to house all the cases of rubble damage and creeper lung and secondhand withering.

(No one comments on the neatly packaged coffins being filled outside.)

“Did-” Tubbo frowns. “-did the withers really kill that many people?”

“Oh, no,” the nurse corrects. “The withers mostly just did some property damage. Nothing permanent. Pretty much all of this is just from the initial explosion.” The nurse opens one of the curtained-off areas.

“Hello, Mr. Craft,” the doctor says, “how are you today?”

Philza is facing a blank spot on the curtains when they enter, barely acknowledging the notes he’s scratching into a book with a lapis pencil. “I’m fine, mate.”

“You have guests,” the nurse points out.

A tightly bandaged antler clicks slowly, and Philza turns to face them.

Tubbo tries not to flinch at the sight of his face. It’s not ugly or horrific, it’s just… shocking. Philza’s cauterized scars make him look almost like an inverted meteor shower- all white gold with the night sky streaking across his face.

(Even his eyes look like comets got stuck in them.)

“Oh,” Philza lightly whispers. “I thought it was just people in the hallways again. I can’t really tell when the curtains open.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” the nurse flatly declares. “If they start bothering you, we’ll kick ‘em out.”

Philza laughs. “Alright.”

The doctor and nurse leave them alone with nothing but themselves and the silence of Philza’s quiet pencil scratches.

“I’m blind, not deaf,” Philza deadpans. “You can start saying something.”

“You’re blind?” Tubbo blurts out.

Philza frowns, pointing at his own face. “No fuckin’ shit! The fuckin’ wreck on my face is pretty obvious, innit?” His hand curls gracefully. “At least from what I’ve heard. I can’t exactly check up on it myself.”

“Does that hurt?” Fundy says in a small voice.

Philza blinks. “I dunno. Everything’s kind of scuffed right now. Elytra hurts like a bitch an’ the doc said I had a concussion earlier.”

Philza’s being… weirdly upfront about his pain levels. It’s kind of concerning from a man as self-contained as him.

“Stop standin’ by the curtains an’ get over here,” Philza bluntly orders. “You’re all fuckin’ blurry an’ shit.”

Tubbo and Fundy awkwardly shuffle closer and take the seats by the bed.

“Didn’t- didn’t you just say you were blind?” Fundy hesitantly points out.

“I’m blind in my eyes,” Philza clarifies. He gestures vaguely at his antlers. “These sorry fucks work jus’ fine. So I can- I can sort of see shit?” His antlers swivel towards the two of them. “I can tell you’re there, and I know who you are without sayin’ anythin’. Tryin’ to get a read on anything that ain’t alive or chock full of magic is fucked, though.” He waggles the lapis pencil in his hand. “I gotta write with this magic bullcrap now if I don’t wanna be fuckin’ illiterate.”

He snorts.

“Chatters made it out okay. I’m the dumbass who tanked all the explosions. I’d try seein’ out of ‘em, but the docs don’t want a million crows in their hospital. ‘Sides, it’d be a bad fix anyhows. Takin’ their feedback for too long makes the migraines worse.”

He’s just- smiling. He’s sitting in a hospital bed, blind to the world and nursing the worst wing injury of his life, and he’s talking about it like a particularly annoying paper cut.

(Somehow, the sight of that is sadder than the idea of him breaking down in tears.)

“Do you-” Fundy draws his hands back. “Do you need a place to stay?”

Philza tilts his head. “Do you want me to stay?”

“We-” Fundy lets out a despairing laugh. “Fuck, we’re all we’ve got now, aren’t we? We-” Fundy pleadingly turns to Tubbo. “-we’re rebuilding- we can make sure he has somewhere to stay, right? Please.”

“Of course,” Tubbo hears himself say. “Of course.”

“Thank gods.” Fundy slumps in his seat. “Thank gods.”

And Tubbo almost wonders why Fundy cares so much about Philza being around, until he remembers. Wilbur was Fundy’s dad.  

And now Wilbur’s gone. 

Philza’s all that’s left of him.

Wilbur’s… gone.

Huh.

“You alright, mate?” Philza softly asks.

“Y-yeah.” Tubbo straightens his tie. “Let’s work out your citizenship, alright?”

Chapter Text

When Philza stops walking, cane loudly dug into the ground, Fundy pauses to look at him.

And he sees Philza’s frozen, shellshocked stare at the body of Wilbur Soot.

Fundy hisses out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, grandpa. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

“Hi, Fundy!” Wilbur’s corpse sweetly chirps. “Hi, Phil! It’s nice to see you!”

Philza shyly draws back. “I’m sorry,” he says in a small voice, “have we met?”

Wilbur’s body giggles, silvery cheeks pushed up with an amused smile. “Go on, guess! My face is familiar, isn’t it?”

Fundy pinches his brow. “Come on, man, I- I told you about this already, Phil’s hurt! He can’t see normally anymore.”

The body tilts his head limply, graying hair bouncing with the motion. “Did you? Oh, well. If I forgot, it probably wasn’t worth remembering anyways.” He walks closer, downy wings ruffling happily. “Guess! You can do it!”

Wilbur’s body lets out a line of gentle flock calls, and Fundy feels Philza flinch next to him.

“W-” Philza swallows a sad, aborted flock call in his throat. “Wil?”

“Noooo!” Wilbur’s body leans back comically. “No, you were so close! It’s me!” He spreads his downy, childish wings. “It’s me!”

“Wilbur-” Fundy takes a deep breath. “Ghostbur … showed up about a day after we found your guys’ bodies. He just- he just woke up like that.”

“And-” Philza’s hands stutter for a moment as he speaks. “-and Wilbur-”

“Oh, don’t worry, Wilbur’s still dead!” Ghostbur cheerfully says. “See?” He tugs on the neck of his yellow sweater, displaying overgrown flowers growing out of his blue-tinged skin and creeping up his throat. It’s the same sweater Wilbur died in- it still has the tears that Wilbur’s blood burned through, even more innocent blossoms peeking out from the gaps. “Still as the grave, as you might say! I’m doing fine, though! I don’t even need his help to move around!”

“I… see.”

“I’m the wings,” Ghostbur secretively whispers. “I’m like Beni! I’m a Beni boy!” He blinks. “Where is Beni? I want to talk to it! We can be Beni boys together!”

Philza’s starry eyes gain a tired tilt to them. “It’s resting right now.”

Ghostbur blinks, and then he smiles. “Okay! I’m going off to the catacombs, but I’ll see you later!”

Ghostbur disappears back from whence he came, and Fundy and Philza walk home. Well, ‘home’. It’s more of a temporary space they’re able to stay in for now.

Fundy doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Philza lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“You alright, mate?” Philza gently says.

“I’m okay,” Fundy waveringly answers. 

Philza stares at him expectantly. 

“It’s just- it’s just hard being around him sometimes!” Fundy bursts out. “He keeps on talking about how he’s not Wilbur, how he’s gonna be better than Wilbur, and then- and then- and then he tries to be my dad.”

“He just got here,” Philza diplomatically says, and Fundy isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince- Fundy or himself. “It’s not his fault he doesn’t know he’s oversteppin’.”

“Fuck him,” Fundy tearily hisses. “Okay? Just fuck that guy. I don’t give a fuck if he’s better than my dad or not.” He tensely forces his hands into his pockets. “If he’s really so great, he won’t try to fucking replace Wilbur.” He looks despairingly down at his grandfather. “How are you being so calm about this? That’s your son!”

“My son is dead,” Philza whispers. “If Ghostbur wants to act like my flock, we-” He takes a shaking breath. “-we both have to accept that he’s not Wilbur.” 

A weathered, star-dusted hand runs softly through Fundy’s hair. 

“But you’re still here, eyas.” Philza smiles, the motion pulling at the jagged scars cutting over his mouth. “So maybe I want t’ put you first for a little bit, alright?”

Fundy’s mouth wobbles. “Okay.”

Philza clucks to himself as he keeps going over Fundy’s hair. “It’s getting long. Do you want to cut it?”

“No, I, uh- I just wanted to try out a different look.” Fundy’s eyes flick to Philza’s jagged mop of hair. “I dunno. Maybe we could match or something.” A hesitant click-chirp trails away from his words.

Philza’s eyes soften as his own responding flock call melts into a fond trill.

Chapter Text

When Manberg fell, Old Saint Phil rose out of its ashes.

He walked out of the withered rubble with blue eyes growing out of his tattered wings, comets raking across his blind face.

His starstruck eyes looked at the crater that remained, and his lapis pencil drafted the New L’manburg. He wrote haste and efficiency onto the arms of its builders- the pillars and docks to raise a city above the winter floodwaters of the broken catacombs are built in less than three days, by his handiwork.

Now it is only a matter of putting buildings back onto the blank canvas he has made for them.

Tubbo tries not to fidget as Philza gently writes efficiency onto his wrists. He hasn’t actually asked if Philza’s antlers can see lifemarks, and he’s not sure if he wants to know.

“You’ve really been goin’ at it lately, huh?” Tubbo asks instead.

Philza hums quietly.

“I guess that makes sense. I work when I’m upset, too.”

“I’m not upset,” Philza corrects.

Tubbo tilts his head.

“I thought I would be,” Philza elaborates, “but I’m not. Ever since- ever since Wilbur died I’ve felt… nothing. Just this- calm. No pain, no sadness, no… anything. Everything’s so quiet now.”

Tubbo laughs nervously. “Wilbur always joked it would break your heart if you found out about half the scrapes he got into. Guess he really was joking.”

“No, I don’t think he was. I’ve just finally run out of ways to break.” Philza’s half-lidded eyes flutter shut. “It’s kind of nice.”

Tubbo doesn’t know what to say to that.

He thinks for a long, long moment as Philza keeps writing enchantments onto him, and decides that if he had to choose between the two, empty calm is better than breaking.

“I think I’m not as upset as I thought I would be either,” Tubbo admits. “I-” He looks aside. “-you probably don’t want to hear this, I’m sorry-”

“You can talk about him,” Philza allows. “Even if it’s not nice. You knew him, too.”

“He wasn’t a very nice person,” Tubbo hesitantly decides to say. “Near the end of it all. He was- I think you did the right thing. Even if Wilbur forced you into it.”

“I think… we did not raise him well. Me and Benihime both.” Philza’s fingers ghost over Tubbo’s broken life marks. “We should have been here for this, and we weren’t.”

Tubbo puts his free hand over Philza’s. “Wilbur was an old man, whatever he did with his life, that’s not on you-”

“No,” Philza quietly refutes. “No. Even before that. We did not raise him well. If he did- if he did all this, I’m the one who put him on that road to get there. We fucked up.” He smiles and lets out a sad laugh. “We fucked up.”

He sighs. He lets go of Tubbo’s arm. His hand reaches out to Tubbo’s thin, curling horns for a moment, his own bruising, marbled antlers leaning forward with the motion.

“Look at you,” Philza nostalgically says. “You went and grew up without me.” His smile trails off. Tubbo wonders, for a moment, if Philza’s faded sight can see all the scars on his face. “I shouldn’t have left you here. I shouldn’t have left you with him.”

“You didn’t leave me here, old man. I left me here. We both thought I’d be safe.” Tubbo scratches at a scar on his neck. “It’s not your fault we made the wrong call.”

“If you want to put it like that.” There’s a warbling sound that never quite leaves Philza’s mouth. “Enough of that now. Wilbur’s gone.” He grabs Tubbo’s hand and pulls them both to their feet. “Let’s try to fix what he left behind.”

Chapter Text

Tommy always loved Philza a little too much.

How couldn’t he? It’s Philza fucking Minecraft. Brave and strong, wings so massive he could have swallowed the sun. 

Wilbur was like a brother to Tommy. Why wouldn't he love the man who raised that brother? Who brought Tubbo into his life? A man he learned to love in Wilbur’s years and years of kind letters?

…Letters that will never be sent again.

Because Wilbur’s gone.

Because Philza killed him.

(And now Philza is all that remains.)

A suicide- that was how it was ruled in the end. Between Wilbur’s erratic mental state at the end of his life and Philza’s extensive injuries, it was- it was pretty obvious what had happened.

It wouldn’t take much work to trick a concussed, disoriented, injured man into defending himself.

(And Philza hadn’t known he would be killing Wilbur for the last time. The only two people who had known Wilbur was on his last life were Technoblade and Tommy himself- and Technoblade isn’t exactly around to speak up about it.)

Gods, Philza doesn’t fucking deserve to be yelled at. He’s the last man who deserves to get pulled into a row, his son is dead.

But he killed Tommy’s brother. He killed Tommy’s brother.

(Tommy’s brother killed himself. Philza was just the bullet Wilbur put into his gun to do it.)

Tommy… Tommy’s stayed away from Philza for the most part. 

Philza’s house is in the center of the city, right outside the town square with the main street and markets. Tommy’s probably passed that house every day just commuting to cabinet meetings- being Vice President is a tiring job- but he’s never once bothered to step inside.

There’s red roses and cornflowers growing along the windowsills as Tommy goes up the dainty wooden stairs, and a large mailbox built into the walls- the kind that can be opened from the inside of the house. There’s a bell hanging right by the door, too. If Tommy hadn’t already known better, he would have thought the place was a storefront- maybe it even is, considering Philza’s current line of work.

He knows it’s Philza that’s been doing most of the blueprint work for New L’manburg, drafting a city that will survive the floodwaters leaking into the land from the broken catacombs. But other than being part of the construction crew, Tommy stayed away. He doesn’t know if he’ll try to hug Philza or punch him in the fucking face the next time they see each other, and neither course of action is ideal.

But Wilbur was Tommy’s brother. Tommy needs to face what Wilbur left behind.

Tommy takes one last shaking breath and rings the bell.

A green eyed testificate with glasses opens the door.

Tommy draws back. “Sorry, mate, must’ve got the wrong house, I was lookin’ for Mr. Craft-”

“You got it right, mate,” the man kindly corrects. “I’m just from the other unit in the back.”

Oh. Right. Tommy forgot that pretty much everybody’s got roommates now. Even with the platforms up, the crater really fucked up available landspace, especially around the capital proper. Tommy lucked out and got to keep his house for himself (disregarding Tubbo, who keeps crashing on his couch), but it seems like Philza hasn’t quite had that same privilege.

“Right. I knew that,” Tommy said- you know, like a liar. “Is he in right now?”

The testificate furrows his black eyebrows. “Should still be upstairs. Might be comin’ down right now.”

There’s a stumbling noise, and Tubbo of all people pokes his head out of the upstairs door.

Tubbo has been hanging around Philza alot, on account of Philza being his not-dad. He’s pretty sure Tubbo spends half the time he isn’t in cabinet meetings crashed at Philza’s place. Or Tommy’s. Or Quackity’s. (Does he even have a house?)

So it makes sense Tubbo is here.

Tommy just really, really doesn’t want Tubbo to be here.

“Hey, Tommy,” Tubbo obliviously calls out. “Phil! Tommy’s here!”

“Tommy?” Philza pokes his frazzled looking self out of the door as Tubbo goes down the stairs. “You’ve never swung by before. Something wrong?”

“Nothin’s wrong, I just… wanted to talk?”

“I’ll be down in a mo’.” Philza looks down at his, uh- roommate. “Thanks for answerin’ the door, Jeff. Go back to your thing, I don’ want to keep you from your stuff.”

Jeff shrugs dismissively and promptly fucks off to a door in the back of the common room.

“I’m downstairs, Phil,” Tubbo says. “Want me to put the kettle on?”

“I’ll do it,” Philza insists. “Go get a snack or some shit.”

Tubbo nods and grabs a box of toast crackers. He then proceeds to slather these crackers in the most ungodly amount of honey butter mortally possible, and then stuffing them as is in his mouth. He doesn’t even have a glass of water to wash it down. He just- he just fucking clamps down like a snake. It’s the most disgusting thing Tommy has ever seen in his fucking life.

All in all, a classic Tubbo moment. Our respectable President Underscore, everyone.

Philza, possibly sensing Tommy’s abject suffering at being forced to witness these presidential war crimes, finally makes his way down the stairs, his swinging cane hitting the walls as always. A few crows fly ahead of him, landing on the table and inquisitively judging Tubbo’s choices.

And then Philza turns to them properly, and-

“Prime’s fuckin’ sake, Phil, your face looks like a cracked geode,” Tommy bluntly surmises.

Tubbo chokes on his latest cracker. (As he deserves.) He punches into his chest, loud coughs jostling the epaulettes of his presidential suit. “Fuckin’ ‘ell. You can’t just tell an injured man shit like that!”

“What?” Tommy defensively asks. “We were both thinkin’ it!”

“I mean, yeah, but- but-” Tubbo’s ears wiggle stupidly as his crumb-dusted cheeks puff out. “-fuck you, too!”

“No, go on,” Philza daringly permits. “Please go on about my face looking like a busted colorful rock. No one’s actually bothered tellin’ me what I look like now.”

“I mean- I don’t mean it in an ugly way,” Tommy immediately says. “Jus’ like, y’know. It’s all shiny an’ shit. Like you’ve got an amethyst vein on your face.”

Philza raises his eyebrows as he puts a hand on his cheek. “Huh.” He laughs. “Alright!”

He clicks at his crows until one hops onto his shoulder, and he hobbles over to his portable stove. The crow watches him spoon tea stuff into a pot, but the man himself has his eyes half-closed with a light smile, not staring at anything in particular as his antlers, rosy and marbled with hairline cracks, flick about.

In retrospect, Tommy thinks Tubbo might have mentioned Philza’s eyes getting fucked up by the explosions, but he kind of zoned out through that damage report. He’s also seeing what looks like eyes on the man’s battered wings. And-

“Why the fuck do you have a tail now?” Tommy dares to ask. “I swear you didn’t have a tail before.”

“What?” A long black feathered tail knocks to the floor, glaring diamonds and a blue eyespot dragging against the ground. “Oh, that. Yeah, that’s new. My- my elytra fuckin’ mutated or some shit. Me and the docs were thinkin’ it must’ve overcompensated after my wings got fucked up.”

Tommy snorts. “Tailza.”

Tubbo stuffs another overbuttered toast cracker in his mouth. “Why are you here?” he accusingly asks Tommy. “You’re supposed to be at work.”

“You’re supposed to be at work,” Tommy lovingly reminds him in turn. “Bitch.”

“Fucker.”

“Bastard.”

“Are y’ done?” Philza wearily asks the two of them.

“Big Q wants to talk to you,” Tommy quickly tells Tubbo.

Tubbo startles out of his chair. “Fuck- I forgot my thing with Quackity-” He stuffs one last toast in his mouth. “-I- I’ll catch you later, Phil, alright? I’ll make sure to bring Fundy over for dinner!”

Philza blinks before turning to Tubbo’s direction with a hesitant wave. “Alright. Bye, mate.”

Tubbo kicks the door closed with his rude stupid sheep… paw hooves on the way out. 

“Any other guests I need to know about, or is it just you and Jeff in the house?” Philza asks. A tightly bandaged antler swivels slowly to different parts of the room. “It’s kinda hard tellin’ who’s in or out of the house when one of my antlers is still bruised. Too much traffic on the main street.”

“Just you and me,” Tommy honestly says. “Listen, Phil, I-” 

He looks at the lapis pencils scattered by the kitchen, re-labelings not yet finished. He looks at the cane stood by Philza’s spot on the table. He looks at marked out potion bottles and he looks at shaking wings.

“Have you been doin’ alright?” Tommy dares to ask.

Philza breathes out a small laugh. “You don’t have to worry yourself about me just ‘cus Fundy and Tubbo are waitin’ for me to keel over. That’s not your responsibility, mate.”

“Wilbur was my responsibility,” Tommy says. “He gave me my entire life and now he’s gone.”

Philza’s hands falter as he takes a cup out of the cabinet.

“I’m not mad at you,” Tommy quickly adds. “Gods, you’re the last person I’m gonna be mad at for this shit. I just-”

Philza turns off the stove, bringing the kettle over to a coaster on the table. “You don’t need to look out for me. We’re basically strangers. You know that.”

“We… we don’t have to be,” Tommy hesitantly says. “Right?”

Philza’s talons curl against the table.

“You miss him too,” Tommy points out. “We’re both- we’re both stuck with what he left behind. So, what I’m sayin’ is- is-”

I loved him, I loved him like my brother, he raised me and now he’s gone and I wasn't enough AND I DON’T KNOW HOW I’M SUPPOSED TO LIVE WITHOUT HIM-

“-do you want to go and grab some lunch with me?” Tommy awkwardly offers.

Philza stares at him.

And then he laughs with that- that weird crow-like cackle he always does.

“Wow, okay,” Tommy snarks. “Ouch.”

“Mate, no, it’s not that, jus’-” Philza snickers. “All that over lunch?”

“Why not?”

Philza scoffs and looks down at the table. “Alright. I can live with that.”

Chapter Text

For the first time, the empty houses of Death open their doors. 

For the first time, the voice of the Angel of Death reaches out to all Her domain.

I’ve been too harsh to you, the Angel’s sorrowful voice intones. No one has to board until they’re ready. Never again. Take as long as you need.

The shades of past, present, and future flock towards lit lanterns and warm fires. They dust off old chairs, open up unused kitchens. They walk into gardens that blossom with crops, beckoning anyone to take as much as they please.

Sometimes they visit each other’s houses. Sometimes they simply wait for a loved one to join them and board their trains without a single look back. Sometimes they tell each other stories through time, or indulge in a food they were never allowed in life.

Sometimes, they even dance.

And for the first time, Death’s domain snows.

The shade of a red-haired elytron with lapis eyes and black wings holds out his hand and lets frost fall onto his talons.

“Are you alright?” the shade asks the Angel.

The Angel tilts their head behind a faded veil. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re the one making it snow,” the shade points out. “I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”

“It’s just for a while,” the Angel says. “It’ll draw people inside.”

The shade tilts his head. “Didn’t everyone go inside?”

“Some people are still lost out there,” the Angel sadly reveals. “I just want them to come home.”

“I guess we’re not so different, then,” the shade dares to say.

The Angel looks at him.

“I’m waitin’, too,” the shade says. “My brother. He’s the only one left in my flock that hasn’t boarded. He’s got no one waitin’ for him here, so here I am.” The shade shrugs. “Someone has to.”

The snow starts to pick up. The Angel stands up from their seat.

“I have to go,” they softly say. “I need to keep searching.”

A lantern appears in their hand, and the Angel of Death walks back into the blizzard once again.

Chapter Text

Ghostbur loves Philza very much.

He thinks he does at least. Wilbur loved Philza very much, and Ghostbur was Wilbur once, so he should love Philza, right?

(Right.)

He was Wilbur- was part of Wilbur? He remembers being Wilbur’s wings, a very long time ago, and then Wilbur put him to sleep. (He agreed to it.)

And then he woke up in a body nearly 20 years older, and Wilbur was gone.

He remembers some things about what Wilbur did in that time. Wilbur didn’t like himself, and, well, nobody liked Wilbur. He was just so horrible to everyone, and horribly sad. Horrible to everyone because he was horribly sad.

That’s okay. Because now Ghostbur’s here! He can be different than Wilbur. He can be better than Wilbur. If Wilbur was horrible because he was always so sad, then Ghostbur will just never be sad again. No matter how much it hurts. (No matter how much he has to forget.) And he will start out by being better to Philza.

Philza loved Wilbur very much, he had to have- Ghostbur remembers so much of Philza. So many happy things!

But it’s the strangest thing. In his memories with Philza, Wilbur always felt sad. He didn’t like it when Philza loved him. It made Wilbur feel… bad. Guilty? Especially when Philza did very nice things for him. Wilbur wouldn’t ever be happy no matter how much Philza loved him, because he was always waiting for Philza to stop.

Because Wilbur was a horrible person. He was just waiting for everyone else to realize it.

Ghostbur wonders how the flying fuck that guy managed to live like this. Didn’t he ever get tired of being so sad and angry all the time? Ghostbur knows he sure would. And does. Because he’s stuck with all of Wilbur’s hand-me-down brain bits and they’re all sad and it’s fucking gross.

But it’s ok! He has something to make him not sad. Blue! 

Blue makes everything better. Just have enough cornflowers and sugar and spider eyes and enchantment bottles, and blue can make everything better. It can take all the sadness away, every day, all the time. He just needs enough blue and he’ll never be sad again!

…Come to think of it, why does he need this much blue dyuers, exactly? There isn’t- there isn’t such a thing as too much blue, right? There’s definitely not such a thing. There can’t be any side effects, right?

If there are, he can’t remember any.

And if he can’t remember, it wasn’t important, anyway.

(He was thinking about something.)

Ah, yes. Philza. Dear old dad. There he goes- the man himself, walking around on his cane.

(Did his eyes always look so empty? Ghostbur can’t remember.)

Ghostbur waves the man over. “How are you, Phil? I’m very tired.”

Philza’s antlers click- very adorably- as he tries and fails to keep up with Ghostbur’s bouncing movements along the street. “You were staying up all night again, weren’t you?”

“It’s not my fault this body doesn’t have a sleep cycle anymore,” Ghostbur defends. “Wilbur must have had terrible sleep before he died.” He stretches, popping his bones loudly. “And terrible self-care. Good fucking riddance. You know what the doctors said, Phil?”

“You mean after they stopped screaming at your re-animated corpse?” Philza drily asks.

“That was hilarious, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ghostbur waves a taloned hand flippantly. “They said this body had like a fuckhundred different drug withdrawals! Drugs! My darling host, a drug addict! Can you believe it? And an alcoholic.” Ghostbur squints bitterly. “I still wake up hungover some days. It’s awful, Phil. Just awful.”

Philza laughs at that, but he tends to laugh at everything anyway, even when he’s sad. And this sounds like one of his sad laughs.

(Ghostbur should fix that.)

Ghostbur starts fiddling with a noteblock board. “How have you been enjoying L’manburg?” 

“It’s okay,” Philza chirps as the Chatters along his arms look at the waving flags of the street market. “It’s pretty nice. Y’know, it’s, uh-”

“Only okay?” Ghostbur says with mock offense. 

“Yeah?” Philza balances along the bridge fencing as he follows Ghostbur’s footsteps. “I mean, it is definitely on top of a graveyard,” he flatly notes. “Which may or may not be haunted.” He looks through Ghostbur. “By a certain person’s ghost.”

“I don’t think it is,” Ghostbur refutes. “Honestly, I- you know what? The circumstances of L’manburg’s existence shouldn’t be giving you a different opinion on L’manburg.” He sets down his note block board on an empty stall. “What’s your favorite song, Phil? I’m gonna play it.” He looks down, suddenly realizing just how few noteblocks he actually has put on his board. “With three notes.”

“What could you play on noteblocks?” Philza asks. “With three notes.”

“What do you think I should make the notes?” Ghostbur asks.

Philza clicks to himself. “Maybe guitars? You can do guitar, right?” Philza tilts his head down at the board. “I haven’t really messed around with them much, though.”

Ghostbur hums. “Not sure about that one.” He dusts off the stall. “I think I like it being pianos.”

“You don’t like guitars,” Philza says in a small voice. He holds his hands together. “Okay.”

“I’m keepin’ it as little pianos. What should the notes be?” Ghostbur slaps down the tent of the stall. “I’m thinking C- Cs a good one. How ‘bout C, D, and E?”

Ghostbur twists the tuning key of the first note block. C, C, C. He hums to himself. C. Surely that’s C.

He moves to the second note block.

The first note was not, in fact, C.

“I fucked up, Phil.”

Philza runs his hand lazily over the scars on his face. “It’s okay! Don’t worry. It’s not permanent, you can just-”

“Can I break it?” Ghostbur twists the tuning key back around until the block resets with a loud pop. He tunes the blocks again. “Yes, yes! And then it’s E, and-” He puts the key in wrong on the third block. “FUCK!”

It’s fine, it’s fine, he’ll just play a little tune and-

“No!” Ghostbur knocks his head onto the stand. “No, it’s not Mary Had A Little Lamb!”

He fucked it up again, he just keeps fucking things up just like Wilbur all over again-

“Mary had a little lamb,” Ghostbur hums to himself. “Mary had a little lamb- it’s fine, it’s fine. Phil, it’s fine.”

Philza’s smile softens.

Ghostbur taps out a flippant flourish on his board. “There’s a flat in there!” He pops the noteblocks back to their defaults. He looks back up at Philza. “Don’t leave! I’m gonna get this. Stay right there.”

Philza’s smile does sort of glaze over a little bit as he watches Ghostbur work, but that’s fine. Philza’s just like that! (It’s fine.) Or maybe it’s because he’s eyes blind now. Could be that, too. If Ghostbur was eyes blind, he probably wouldn’t bother having his eyes open all the time, either.

Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow.

Ghostbur lets out a joyful sound, feathers ruffling happily. The board is perfect now! Everything’s perfect! 

“Phil, I think we have a good time,” Ghostbur decides, leaning over the stand.

Philza hums, writing something onto the stand with his funny little lapis pencil.

“What are you writing?” Ghostbur wonders. He hops over the table to get a better look.

Greatest Musician in town! the thin, mechanical Script reads. Pls subscribe :)

Ghostbur looks at Philza’s sleepy smile with wide eyes. “Really?” he trills.

“Yeah!” Philza easily says.

“Oh, that is so cool! I am- I am on cloud nine, Philza Minecraft. I am on cloud nine.” He gently pushes Philza to the inside of the stand. “Come on! Give us a song. It’s easy notes.”

Philza slaps at the noteblocks a few times. Right against the tuning keys.

Undoing all of Ghostbur’s tuning work.

(Ghostbur feels his own soul leave his body for a few ticks from the sheer absolute tragedy that has just occured.)

“Oh.” Philza’s battered wings ruffle nervously, eyespots darting about with embarrassment. “Oh, I fucked up.”

“By ear, Phil,” Ghostbur despairs. “By ear!”

“I’m sorry!” Philza's tail thumps into the stand as he sidles away from the off-tune noteblocks, marbled antlers turning an uneven red. “I hit things on reflex- it’s how I interact with shit, I’m sorry-”

“It’s fine,” Ghostbur deadpans. “You can’t be angry at a baby for putting things in its mouth. That’s how it interacts with the world, y’know?”

Philza cackles. It’s a happy sound this time. 

He sounds so nice when he laughs. 

(And Ghostbur is so happy that he doesn’t need to use the dyuers in his pocket for the rest of the day.)

Chapter Text

-NEW L’MANBURG NEWS-

Honeylemon Re-Opens

Our neighborhood Honeylemon is back in business! After an unjust shut-down under the tyrannical Schlatt administration, this family owned and operated bakery is one of many core establishments that have been rebuilt at no personal cost, courtesy of the Underscore administration’s Reconstruction Act.

OBITUARY: Kirin Laufeysbur

Local tailor Kirin Laufeysbur's body was recovered from the L'manburg explosion site today. Mx. Laufeysbur, elytron, was a non-citizen with a client base in both Greater Prime and Manberg. Their name will be added to the L'manburgian Explosion Monument. 

The crowsworn were unable to identify Laufeysbur’s family or next of kin. The body of Kirin Laufeysbur will be planted in a potter’s field if it is not claimed within 3 days time.

Reconstruction Act Still Hiring

New L’manburg is out of danger, but that’s no reason to quit while we’re ahead! President Underscore is still looking for any able-bodied persons willing to join the efforts of the Reconstruction Act in order to continue providing housing and other necessary buildings. Interested citizens please leave your information with head architect Mr. Craft in 216 Saint’s Row.

A Tragic Presidential End

And what has been left behind

L’manburg’s founder and long-time muse, President Wilbur Sam-Seong Soot, was found dead on the 18th. As you may know, the unlawfully exiled president was the face of the Pogtopia resistance movement that dissolved Manberg. He was reported missing after the terrorist attack on the 16th and is presumed to have perished on the same day, losing his final life to either the resulting floods or excess of rubble.

The terrorist who brought about our late president’s death was stopped by the heroic efforts of Philza JWM Craft, who retained debilitating injuries in the incident. The body of the culprit was unable to be identified. The violent anarchist known only as The Blade, whose traitorous acts aided and abetted L’manburg’s destruction, is considered an enemy of the state and still at large.

The Founder believed in a special community- a united symphony. Even after Manberg’s desecration of his legacy, he died still believing in that symphony. He lived and bled and died for L’manburg. Let his devotion to the people be an example for us all.

A Silent Service 

A small private service was held for Manberg president J. Schlatt on the 19th of Endekamon, following his untimely death on the 16th. The funeral was presided by Badlands lord Halo in accordance with demonic funeral rites, in compliance with the late president’s own last will and testament. Among those in attendance were members of his former cabinet and a few select veterans from the battle of the 16th. 

He is survived by his husband Quackity, who is listed as the sole heir to his estate aside from the current New L’manburg president, Tubbo Underscore-Beloved.

-<>♥<>-

Honey snorts to herself. A silent service. The Prime Reporter wove a much different story about Schlatt’s ‘loving’ widower getting shitfaced drunk, singing a loud break-up song over Schlatt’s grave, and eating his fucking heart.

What a mess. And they’re still putting out obituaries. Hopefully they’ll have a proper one for Wilbur in a later publication- that shitty propaganda piece was a sorry excuse for-

Someone lets out a startled yelp as she hits their body.

“Jeez!” Honey grabs her hat before it falls into the watery depths of the flooded crater under the bridge. “Watch where you’re goin’, smartass! What are you, blind?”

“Funny you should say that,” Philza drily says.

Honey stares in shock at Philza’s thoroughly fucked over self. “Y’know, darlin’,” she slowly says, “when the news said you had debilitatin’ injuries, I was expectin’ a snapped leg an’ the like, not…”

“Having the wrong amount of useless eyes?” A cluster of eyespots on the wrists of Philza’s battered wings squints daringly at Honey. “I wasn’t exactly expectin’ it either, but here we are.”

There’s a lot of things Honey could say to the older man right now. Good fucking gods, are you okay? ranks relatively high on that list, right up there with your son’s dead, that’s kind of awkward, and spicier openers like if I poked your wing eyes, would you feel it?

There’s just so much to unpack here.

“Wanna grab a drink back at my place?” Honey asks instead. “I still got all the Pogtopia alcohol we used for preservin’. It ain’t classy, but it gets the job done.”

A silence.

“Sounds horrible,” Philza says. “Gimme that shit.”

-<>♥<>-

“So- so, here’s the thing, right?” Philza stutters, an uneven flush on his face peeking past his scars. “There’s this library.”

“What library?” Honey asks. “I ain’t seen no library.”

“It’s up in the fuckin… catacombs. An’ Ghostbur-” Philza hiccups. “Y’know Ghostbur-”

Yep. Honey knows him, alright. That cute little sequel to Benihime that’s running around in the bluing, greying corpse of Wilbur Soot. He looks and acts so different that she’s pretty sure most of the people in New L’manburg don’t even realize that’s their founding president’s body. It’s- she knows it’s not Ghostbur’s fault, but it’s still hard to watch sometimes.

Gods. She can’t even imagine how Philza must be taking it right now.

“-he got all my dead son’s shit, an’ Wilbur had a buncha books, so now Ghostbur’s bein’ a…” Philza squints. “...a fuckin’... an-ti-qua-rian. Wants me to write him a lil’ book. As if I’ve got anythin’ o’ L’manburg historical value.”

“You were in charge of th’ rebuildin’,” Honey points out. “You could write somethin’ about that.”

Philza snorts. “An architect’s diary.” He raps his hand against the table, a jilted, jaunty voice coming out of him as he sarcastically rocks his head. “My first day on the server! I killed my son! It was pogchamp, and then I cried.”

Philza throws his head back, takes a long, long drink, and roughly knocks his jar back onto the table with an unhinged laugh.

“You- you wanna elaborate on that?” Honey slowly says.

Philza smiles just a little too casually. “Oh, shit! I forgot they din- didn’ want the news findin’ out about that!” His tail thumps gracelessly against the ground. “That unnamed terrorist who brought about the death of the glorious founder was MY SON!”

Philza would never. He would never hurt his own flock, not for anything. He would rather die.

“No,” Honey bluntly says. “There’s- there’s no fucking way. I could believe Wilbur pullin’ some shit like that, but not you! You wouldn’t do that!”

“But I did.”

“That makes no fucking sense! How could you?”

“He asked me to,” Philza simply says. “And- and- and you know what happens when Wilbur starts askin’ for things. I- I couldn’t say no.”

Honey goes silent.

“I can still feel it sometimes,” Philza whispers. “These fucking… bits climbing out of my brain whenever I try to talk about what happened. Just the other day I heard me tellin’ myself my son was an idiot and I did the right thing.” His hands curl tighter around his drink. “Why the fuck would I ever say something like that?” he shakily asks. “In what universe could that possibly be fine?”

-<>♥<>-

“An’ now he’s gone,” Mr. Craft’s shaking form quietly murmurs. “An’ I’m still here.” He slumps his head on the table. “Fuck.”

Niki Nihachu slaps her hand over her mouth and closes the door to her boss’ house, stumbling back down the stairs to the bakery.

(She manages not to flinch when Mr. Craft staggers out the door himself one click later.)

Chapter Text

The day after the incident.

-<>♥<>-

“WILBUR!” an Angel calls out into the storm. “EYAS!”

-<>♥<>-

I felt cold, guilty, torn apart from the inside. I remember leaving after the battle, many perished.

-<>♥<>-

“Wilbur? PLEASE, WHERE ARE YOU-”

The Angel spreads his wings as if to take flight, only to collapse against the ground as a searing pain burns through his limbs.

“Please,” he begs as the lights of every house of death burn bright, seeking out the path of every lost soul in Death’s domain. “Please, I’m sorry. Just come home. Come home.”

-<>♥<>-

This new place is very nice, though empty of all life. I like the ice. it reminds me of something from a long time ago.

-<>♥<>-

In a snowed over train station, a half-frozen crow lands roughly on the ground, its beak holding a freshly printed, unpunched ticket titled Wilbur Soot.

The Angel of Death cradles its tiny body in his cold hands. His brittle heart never breaks again.

He lifts his head up and lets snow melt on his comet-struck face.

-<>♥<>-

An empire I once helped a friend grow to power and take over the world. 

That was fun. simpler times.

-<>♥<>-

Every day, an Angel’s son is never found.

Every day, a station waits, and Wilbur Soot’s ticket is never taken.

Every day, the blizzard in Death’s domain rages on.

-<>♥<>-

After much thinking and solitude I have grown to learn the meaning of the afterlife.

-<>♥<>-

A red haired elytron shade with black wings smiles, lapis eyes squinted with contentment. “I like the houses. They’re very nice!”

“I’m sorry for keeping them closed for so long,” the Angel apologizes.

“You’ve opened them now,” the shade decides. “Which means that they were open all along.”

The Angel laughs. “Gods. The time bullshit here really can be confusing.” They tilt their head. “You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you? What do you think of the changes?”

“It’s alot,” the shade bluntly admits. “But not in a bad way. There won’t be unfinished business if they’re able to make their peace here. There won’t be trainblockers if they’re allowed to choose how they leave.”

“But not you?” the Angel good-naturedly wonders.

“You know what I’m waiting for,” the shade smiles. “This doesn’t change a damn thing but givin’ me a nicer place to wait.”

-<>♥<>-

I found totems, many totems of gold and gems. 

-<>♥<>-

“Come here, mate.” The Angel beckons over a shade, holding a copy of their ticket. “I notice one of your lives has been punched twice, why is that?”

Their eyes brighten. “Oh, that! I fell into a real sharp cliff once, but I had a totem of undying on me, so it fixed me up real nice.” They gesture to the golden cracks on their hands and feet. “Gave me some wild scars for my trouble, though.”

“Totem of Undying?” The Angel leans forward. “Tell me more.”

-<>♥<>-

Ancient scriptures tell me of a way to bring people back to life.

-<>♥<>-

The houses of death are starting to have libraries now. Shades passing the time in the storms by writing down the things they knew in life. Stories, recipes, travel logs, textbooks.

Fables.

Rituals.

The Angel of Death passes over them all, and the storm begins to lift.

-<>♥<>-

This is my calling, I have to save him from the cold emptiness…

-<>♥<>-

Philza had shown up in Ghostbur’s library earlier, drunkenly put a book into his hands, and promptly bunched up on one of the reading chairs to fall asleep, tail and wings defensively curled around himself like a very old, tired cat.

Which was sort of cute, at first, but then Ghostbur looked under his wings for a bit and saw Philza shaking in his sleep, clutching a whole gourd of some kind of beer.

And then Ghostbur read the little book in question. Cold, guilty, torn apart from the inside.

…No one was supposed to like Wilbur. No one was supposed to miss Wilbur. Ghostbur remembers Wilbur being quite adamant about that.

(But even when he’s dead, Wilbur can’t stop breaking his father’s heart, it seems.)

Philza’s eyes flutter open. “Wil…” His eyes focus a little more, and he winces. “Shit, sorry…”

“It’s okay,” Ghostbur decides. “You can call me Wil sometimes. I know it’s hard.”

Philza’s eyes close again. Ghostbur sighs, gently patting at Philza’s unkempt wings. 

The feathers are growing back quickly, and his hair has been freshly clipped- signs of the regen potions he’s no doubt been taking. Ghostbur cards a hand over them, and the eyespots along Philza’s wing wrist and shoulders squint hazily with the movement.

Ghostbur doesn’t like looking at this.

He doesn’t like thinking about how much Philza got hurt, it- it makes him sad. He’s not allowed to be sad. He holds a fistful of blue dyuers in his hands until he stops.

(Until he can’t remember who broke Philza’s wings.)

Chapter Text

"I will pluck my love some roses, some wild Irish roses,” an elytron voice distractedly sings. “I will pluck my love some roses, the fairest that ever grew. And lay them on the grave of my one true lovely Mary, in that cold and silent churchyard where she sleeps ‘neath the dew.”

Philza is wearing one of Wilbur’s old shirts, the jagged remains of his crowsworn coat draped over him in a repurposed shawl.

“I loved her very dearly, so truly and sincerely. There was no one in this wide world I loved better than she.” The scars cutting into his mouth warp oddly as he sings. “Every bush and every bower, every wild Irish flower, reminds me of my Mary on the banks of the Lee.”

Blue scarred eyes look through the Blood of the Covenant.

“Gods,” Techno’s human form dares to whisper. “What happened to you?”

“I finally ran out of ways to break,” Philza peacefully smiles. 

He taps his cane against the docks near an unused boat. Techno takes the unspoken request, bringing the boat closer so they can both board, and Techno slowly rows them out into the water, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the world.

“Chatters keeps telling me about all the wanted posters people have for you here,” Philza notes. “But here you are, anyways.”

Red eyes blink, and a five-fingered hand runs over greying black hair. “I’m not exactly recognizable right now.”

Philza tilts his head, cloudy eyes barely flicking over Techno’s human appearance. “Hm. I wouldn’t know, anyways. You look just the same to me. I’ll have to take you and Chatters’ word for it.” A feathered ear flicks. “I lost my emerald and shawl in the- after the detonation. So did Wilbur.” He blinks. “Why are you here?”

“I- I wanted to find Wilbur’s grave.” Techno looks aside. “If you know where it is.”

“They didn’t give him one.” Philza’s wings- gods, his wings, what’s happened to him? His wings wrap around himself in shaking, halting motions. “With his body bein’ occupied at the moment, it- they decided it wouldn’t make sense.”

Techno sighs sadly. “Alright.” He looks back to the city. “You plannin’ on sticking around this area?”

“My grandson still lives here,” Philza points out. His cane knocks into the floor of the boat. “And I want to understand what’s so special about the little country my son died for.”

Techno’s mouth flattens nervously. “I guess that doesn’t exactly make me your favorite person right now.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Philza softly asks. “You’re my friend.”

“Everyone else in the L’manburg camp doesn’t like me at the moment,” Techno explains. “Decided I betrayed them for doing what I always said I was gonna do- destroy the government.” He lets out a worn noise. “I dunno. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it changed your opinions a bit. You always called me a bit extreme.”

“You’re my friend,” Philza gently repeats. “The only person who gets to change my mind about that is you.”

“They used me, Phil. Not just them, maybe Wilbur too, and I don’t know when it started- I just-” Techno lets go of the oars, holding his face in his hands. “-gods, it makes me feel sick.”

His shoulders shake.

“I’m just tired, Phil. I’m so tired. What’s the point in fighting if all it does is help put the next well-intentioned idiot in power?” He looks up at Philza’s face. “I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, I’m sorry-”

“Why not?”

“Phil- Phil, you just lost your son.” Techno’s eyes rake desperately over Philza’s injuries. “Look what that cost you. You lost so much in a single day, I- I can’t bother you with my politics again. You need to grieve.”

Philza’s eyes soften. “What about you?”

Techno shakes his head. “We can’t make this about me, you need-”

“I told you, Tec’. I’ve run out of ways to break.” Philza’s smile turns sad. “I don’t think I even can. So, I’m gonna ask you again. Do you need to grieve?”

Techno’s hands curl uselessly into his clothes.

“You lost so much in a single day,” Philza repeats back to him. “You lost him, too.”

…Did he?

Did he really lose that stupid boy? That gangly, wide-eyed child with too many questions and even worse ideas. A people-pleasing child, a lovestruck teenager, a too-young father, a man with too many dreams who finally got tired of seeing them get ruined one by one.

An obituary of a child Techno helped raise, turned into propaganda and wanted posters.

Did Technoblade lose Wilbur? (Was Wilbur ever his to lose at all?)

The human sitting across from Philza disappears, and a worn piglin stag takes his place.

Philza opens his arms.

And Technoblade cries.

It is not loud, wailing sobs. A general is too well trained for such dangerous displays that could compromise his position. But he mourns- he mourns in huffing growls and golden tears and the shake of his body. He mourns every broken feather that slowly wraps around him, and he mourns the scars of the face he pushes his snout to, and he mourns the body that was last held in these callused, stardusted arms, never to wake again.

Their long tails wrap around each other’s legs, and they cry. Not a single tear leaves Philza’s hollow eyes or unmoving smile, but the Blood of the Covenant can mourn for them both.

(They cry.)

Chapter Text

Old Saint Phil lives in 216 Saint’s Row. (If the street was named after him, he’s neither confirming nor denying it.) He grows roses and cornflowers in his windows, and his grandson visits him sometimes.

It’s been getting easier to live.

He gets up in the morning and he no longer needs the painful eyes of his crows to guide him down the stairs. His antlers see the lapis labels he’s written onto his medication, and he’s cooked up breakfast with his eyes closed so many times that doing it blind is no different. The magma of the portable cooker has enough energy to be as bright as a streetlight to him, anyways.

He’s changed the head of his cane to be a bit easier to grab and lean on- no more white raven, just a raven’s head will do. And maybe he does knock his cane into more things (and ankles) than he used to, but he thinks he’s allowed the privilege, and it’s a satisfying sound.

He wakes up when he likes, goes out when he likes, falls asleep when he likes. He never worried about day or night before, and he doesn’t start now. Though he does try to pretend he cares- people worry, after all. The first time he runs into a skeleton, his sword catches on fire- blue sunfire, his son’s fire- and to his credit, he only shakes for 15 tocks afterwards.

It’s been getting easier to live.

His roommate Jeff is finally fighting off the tail end of that Rot infection he caught and got a desk job at a paper shop. After the first five times of being told not to treat Philza like glass, Jeff cracks a joke about how much lamp oil he must be saving upstairs, and Philza actually laughed, just the one time.

His next door neighbor is a half(?) enderman named Ranboo, and Chatters thinks his swooping face patterns look like a crescent moon. The second time Philza hears tall tailored clothes dripping with too much water for any enderman’s comfort, he asks if Ranboo would like some enchantment templates for water protection, and Ranboo borrows them with a grateful nod.

(Ranboo claims, two days later, that he doesn’t remember why he absolutely needs to give Philza two packs of nice venison steak, but he’ll do it anyway just in case.)

It’s been getting easier to live.

The underworld thrives within the houses of death, and the Angel of Death lets it. His Lady seems to approve, after a fashion- he has not seen Her since before he left for L’manburg, but he sees the ghost of Her in places She’s walked, in shades that She’s spoken to. (He does not know if he can face Her just yet, but he leaves gardens and carvings and loving songs for his wife, regardless.)

Fundy cannot always be there for lunch, but he makes a point of being there for dinner. Tubbo keeps on harassing him for breakfast. Tommy does take Philza out for lunch- and they do, despite it all, find a little more in common than the dead body of WIlbur Soot between them.

He’s… adjusting. Benihime is, too- every day the silence in Philza’s mind grows a little less so, a murmur growing stronger and stronger with every feather that returns, every heartshell crack that heals.

The tail is a trainwreck and a half to adjust to when he walks, and children seem to think it’s a fun new kind of skip rope game to dodge the defensive swinging said tail does when it senses anything behind him, but it’s- it’s fine. Between his antlers and the new eyespots on his wings and tail, he’s suddenly more aware of space than he used to be.

He’s only blind in the way mortals know it- blind in his eyes, blind to the living- but he sees the life in the world and by gods, it’s beautiful. He sees flowers on windowsills. Herbs grown on roofs. He sees vibrant colors of soul on people’s faces, and the fish and corals creeping under New L’manburg’s docks. His eyes miss the weave of fabric on flags and clothes, the color of papers and the words on newspapers, but Chatters has always been happy to be his living eyes, and what he cannot see he can write for himself.

It’s been getting easier to live.

Techno sends him new clothes for winter, and the old ice car seems to take them somewhere different every time. He watches Ghostbur play piano, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.

He opens a pack of magic colored pencils Tommy rudely shoved in his mailbox the other day, and Philza starts to draw something he can see.

An instant (an eternity) later, his son’s face is staring back at him. Not a child, or an embittered aging man, but… Wilbur. Just Wilbur. A face Philza might have seen holding Fundy’s hand on a festival day.

“Hey there, son,” Philza quietly says. “I’ll bring you home soon.”

It’s been getting easier to live.

He leaves his drawing on his bedside desk that day, exactly as he found it, and the world continues to spin.