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For practicality’s sake, Phil says he’s thirty-two years old. When he used to tell stories of his adventures in taverns and inns, people would gawk at his multitude of tales. When they expressed disbelief at the relation between his age and his travels, Phil just throws on a smile says that he started young.
Technically, he’s not wrong, thirty-two is pretty young for him, but, then again, Phil has been thirty-two for a very long time.
When he settled down to raise Wilbur at the ripe age of thirty-two, his son was a constant reminder of the mortality of humans. Every scrape, every bruise, every near-death experience (which his son had experienced too many of, in Phil’s humble opinion) fortified in his mind that his son, his child , would one day die, and that Phil would outlive him.
Oh, how he dreaded that day.
But Phil was a survivor. He had to be, or he wouldn’t be alive to tell the tales he did. He would have to teach Wilbur how to survive, too. He’ll have it no other way.
He wants Wilbur to be able to tell outlandish tales and stories to those willing to listen. He’d be very good at it; his dramatics lend help in that area. Phil wants his son to create something for himself, that’s his own , something he can be proud of. Something he’d be willing to fight for.
Wilbur grew up, as all humans do. His child grew in age and size, eventually becoming taller than him, causing Phil to grumble at him light-heartedly every time his son brought it up. Wilbur found friends everywhere he went, sending letters to him of adventures with Tommy, Tubbo, Niki, and countless others. Wilbur created friends and family alike with the people around him.
Phil was proud of him. Very proud. Even with the letters and the reassurances that his boy was doing alright after he left the nest, the nagging thoughts never left. You didn’t do enough, he needed a parent, not an adventurer, you failed-
No, he couldn’t afford to think like that. His boy had to survive, he’ll be okay. He had to be.
~
When a bird looses their wings, it is treated as a death sentence. They lose their sense of freedom, their independence, their everything. Phil lost his wings the same day he lost his son.
Phil never realized that loss can hurt deeper than any sword could.
The Angel of Death finds himself sitting on the edge of a cliff, high in the clouds. In his youth, Phil loved to sit cliffside; it was the only time that he felt like he could get some peace. Alone, with the wind as his only company.
Right now, the wind seems more like an enemy than good company.
He doesn’t know how he got up here. His wings don’t work, they haven’t worked in a long time. He tries to think back to his day, but it comes up blank. He can’t even remember getting out of bed this morning.
Philza is thirty-two years old, and he’s tired. Gods, he’s so tired.
The gravel shifts underneath his hands, his vision blurring on the trees below him. He doesn’t feel peace up here anymore. His thoughts are too loud for him to find the peace he once underappreciated.
His son is dead , by his own hands. Something he never thought he would have to do in his lifetime. When he closes his eyes, he still sees his son’s twisted smile, he can hear his child’s pleas, begging for death.
Phil doesn’t know what to do with himself.
He should go back to the cabin, Techno worries too much for his own good.
Phil goes to stand, his vision darkening around the edges. When was the last time he slept?
The wind picks up relentlessly, taunting him as he tries to stable himself. He takes a step away from the cliff, but a gust of wind catches his lifeless wings, and the momentum threw him off the cliff.
Phil screams as he tries grab onto the side of the cliff, falling fast and out of control. His hands grasp a branch, and he holds on for dear life. His arms ache from the exertion, his shoulders clench, trying to use his wings to get him up, up, up.
His wings fail him.
He’s holding on for too long; his fingers slip. Phil grunts and tries to get a better grip, but the branch escapes his hands.
The Angel falls, and he imagines he’s flying once more.
~
Phil blinks.
“Oh, my darling,” a sob resounds in the space next to him, “I’m so sorry, my love,”
Phil focuses on the space next to him, and a smile graces his features.
“Kristen,” he breathes, a light laugh leaving him.
Death looks sad; dark, black tears cover her face. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I’m so sorry, my love,”
Phil leans into Death’s embrace once more.
~
Ph1LzA hit the ground too hard