Chapter Text
Within the blood-stained grounds of L’Manberg, Philza stood. A shining blade in his hand, he panted, drowning out the screams of people and cackles of fire. He stood, suspended, like a pendulum. Immobile as the carnage continued. His wings raised behind his back, poised, ready to strike anyone who dares to try and harm him.
Every fibre of his being, primed, hyper-focused on his surroundings. Breathing became harder after he inhaled the smoke. Every heaving breath more painful than the last. The battle was not over, not for a long time. He wanted to close his eyes. With each minute, the weight on his back felt heavier.
Heavier.
Heavier, like the weight of the world have been pushed to his being. Like Atlas, forced to bear the weight of the world. He turned to the sounds of fighting, of people shouting, of a loud bang as more fireworks were detonated.
He had long since lost his bow, still, he fought with the blade as his only weapon. He gripped the sword tightly before charging back into the fray. With practiced motions, he brought down the blade, with each strike he felt his body burn.
The fight was long drawn out, everyone doing their best to strike at the right moment. Between all the fighting and the burning buildings, Philza knew that somewhere, in the battlefield, were his—
No, you are not their father. How can you be? Your son is dead.
—sons, he knew they were there. Knowing them they would fight till the end. It was the only reason why he stayed and fought. Why he was there, after what he did. He stayed for them. Even if every part of him screamed for him to give up.
Give up.
A foreign thought. For as long as Philza lived and breath not once did he even consider giving up. Even in his loneliest times he held strong and soldiered on. But now, after years of living and surviving, he wanted to give up. He wanted to rest his laurels. Even in the middle of the battlefield, he felt tired, feeling weary. Weary of living on.
He began to shout instructions, warning the others that the Wither was about to change its attack patterns. Phil knew how dangerous the Wither can be, once it had its armour, tridents and arrows are basically useless against it. He rushed to the side of the mob, intent on dealing some damage. It was a mistake.
Caught off-guard, he was pushed unto his back. The air leaving his lungs. His wings were able to catch him, almost cradling him. He wanted to give up then and there. On the middle of the country his sons built up from the ground.
Nobody would be wiser; they wouldn’t know, his mind whispered treacherously to him. He looked up to the sky, noticing the stars. He blinked.
He took a hold of the sword, ready to fight again. His wings were bruised from the fall but he did not care. It was time to finish the fight, he was too tired to go on if it goes any longer. He fought while the stars were watching him.
Phil didn’t stay long. He left quickly before anyone else noticed. Before the adrenaline within him even had time to subside. He knew he had done the unforgivable. He should have been purged by the Withers that were summoned at the battle. He left the people he considered his sons letters, hoping that it was enough. He did not look back.
He did not look back.
Not when looking back means facing his... his sons and telling them why he wasn’t fit to be their father. His sons, they deserve better than him. Not when looking back means telling them why his hands were stained red.
Red.
Red from the blood of their brother. From the blood of his son. Red in ways that can never be scrubbed clean. Red that means death, pain, and guilt. Guilt of a father.
It was still dark when he left. The flames burning L’Manberg were the only things that saw him leave. His wings were folded in his back, hidden by his cloak to avoid attention. He followed the stars. They have never led him astray before. They gave him the world once, maybe they could give him the solace that he needed to find.
It was cold. Phil could see the air when he breathes out his mouth. He clung to his cloak tighter, his wings tucked tightly to his body, desperate to retain the heat. He needed to find someplace, he needed it fast.
The journey was difficult, exhausting in a way that his past travels never have been. The day quickly turned to night and by the time he found the mouth of a cave, his body felt numb. He wasted a whole day just to find the cave. He went in deeper, intending to find the proper place to camp.
He chose a place secluded enough that his light will not burn out because of the harsh winds outside the cave. He sat there thinking, as he tried to process the events that happened at L’Manberg. The flames of the campfire he just created began to warm up the cave. He felt his hands shake, trembling. He rubbed the together, trying steady them.
It wouldn’t stop shaking. He brought it closer to the fire. It didn’t stop. He clenched his fist, he avoided looking at them. He’s built monuments with his hands, created wonders that amazed people far and wide but still, he couldn’t help but remember what they did.
What he did.
There was a blizzard, Philza couldn’t see the stars. Only cold numbness awaits outside. He tried to finally rest after being awake for so long. He couldn’t. He tossed and he turned, trying to find the perfect way to sleep. With a sigh, he pushed wood into the fire. Watching as the flames rose higher, crackling as they mesmerize him.
It was the closest thing he had for a star. Its warmth washed over him, warming him deep into his bones. He stretched his wings, mindful at how they ached.
He made a torch. If he couldn’t sleep then he might as well explore the cave. He wandered in deeper. He stumbled across some ruins; ancient writings carved upon the walls of the cave. Putting the torch closer, he touched the markings.
“Where did you bring me?” Phil murmured mostly to himself.
He inched closer, wary. Now that he knew that there may be traps laid out to protect the place. He lit up another torch before throwing it carefully forwards. He hoped no mobs spawned in the darkness. The air became stale as he went on onwards.
He found more ruins. Some kind of structure began to take shape. Pillars of stone bricks lined the walls. Some are cracked but many stood the test of time. It was grandiose, the celling of the cave grew taller and the sides wider the further he went on. Moss seemed to grow abundantly as he went in deeper.
Then there he was, standing at what looked like the entrance of the mysterious ruins. He was suddenly aware of how tired he was. His body ached, feeling the cold. He felt sticky, realizing he was covered in sweat and dirt. It felt like years since he last cleaned himself up.
In the end, he decided to return to his temporary camp. His mind full of questions, distracting him from self-loathing thoughts. As he drew nearer the fire, he caught a glimpse of the mouth of the cave. It was strangely quiet; the storm must have stopped. Making his decision, he went outside. Blowing out his torch when he did.
It was peaceful. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. He wanted to see the stars. No, he needed to see them. There in the night sky, they sparkle. Bright and mesmerizing to watch. Whenever when was troubled, he turns to them. The stars were the one constant in his life. They gave him everything.
He could not help but ask them, “Why did you bring me here?”
Phil could not help but wonder why. There must be something, a reason. Was he not done with life? Maybe this will be his penance, a price he must pay for failing. Failing his sons. He felt his eyes water, his breath stilled for a second. The coldness of the air kept him awake, making him feel more alive than ever.
He did not receive any response. No one answered him. In the frozen darkness of that night, he was alone. There was no one there but him and the glimmering shine of millions of stars.
Philza never felt more alone.
When he woke, every part of him ached. His head throbbed in pain. He felt cold, frozen stiff, the fire snuffed out during the night. He gave the dying ambers more wood. He watched as the flames rose like a phoenix being reborn from the ashes. Even after resting, he felt tired, small, unlike the flames that were growing bigger with each second. He wanted to curl into himself.
Every injured part of him was screaming for him to take care of it. He reached out to his inventory looking for something, something that will help him heal. There was nothing, only weapons made of glimmering diamonds. His inventory was full of things designed to harm, to kill, other people.
Wasn’t it always?
He needed to get his bearings. He needed to take care of himself. He went outside carrying a bucket before filling it with snow. It was beautiful. Apparently, he woke up just in time to see the sunrise. He wanted to share it. With someone? He doesn’t know. Phil shook his head before going back inside.
He placed the bucket near the fire, waiting for the snow to melt. With nothing to do, he began to think, clearing his mind. He remembered the sunrise outside. It was amazing. Techno would probably just ignore it, having seen it many times before when training. Tommy would just complain about being woken up too early to even appreciate it. But Wilbur, he would just say how beautiful it was, maybe he would even sing a song.
Phil knew that if he shared the sunrise with Wilbur, his son would create songs or poetry just for him. Wilbur liked to see the beauty of things. He loved seeing the sunlight pass through the leaves of the tree. Of seeing floating lanterns in the sky as they dance with the cosmos.
He felt something drip to his cheek. He looked up to the cave ceiling, looking if there was a leak. There was nothing there. He wiped it off with his hand, a drop fell again. His vision blurred.
Oh—
Oh.
He was crying.
Everything came crashing down on him. For the first time since the events in L’Manberg, Philza openly wept. He mourned for his son. He mourned for his family. He mourned for what he lost. He sobbed, unable to stop the tears from flowing.
He thought about his regrets. When he first got his sons, he never thought he would be the one to mourn for one of them. He imagined them to be the one who would mourn, they would mourn because he was reckless and stupid. He never knew how painful it was to be a parent.
A failure of a parent.
It was his fault he knew, somehow, he knew it was his fault. Wilbur, his dear sweet Wilbur was gone and it was all his fault. With his own two hands he—
“I’m sorry,” he whispers like a mantra.
“Wilbur, son—” he stammered, “I, I failed you. I wish it was me…”
He let out all the anguish that he felt. His frame shaking at the thought about his son.
“God, I wish it was me…”
He did not do anything productive that day. He sat there until the fire died down and became ashes. That night, in freezing wilderness he sat down under the stars. It was cold, but it didn’t matter because inside he was just numb.
In his hand was a lantern, the only thing that was warming him up. Phil wanted to remember his son in some way. Wilbur, when he was younger, he liked the stars. He said he wanted one of his own, he wanted to make a star of his own.
So Phil learned how to make floating lanterns, the closest thing they could have for a star. He learned for his son. They would make them together, letting it fly while saying that it was Wilbur’s star. He remembered how happy his son was when he first showed it.
Wilbur was so happy.
He released the lone lantern to the sky. Watching as it danced along the night sky. At that moment, he liked to imagine that it was his son who floated away. That it was his son who was waving goodbye while he was going back to the cosmos that gave him away in the first place.
Philza didn’t want to look at the stars.