Archive of Our Own

The road is dangerous, even without the threat of war at everyone's throats.

Phil had known that in life, has learned it even better in death. There is peace for no one during war. Not the humans, not even the undead. Of course, he's been around long enough that he doesn't need to fear the violence quite as much, but he can make mistakes. He may no longer be mortal, but he is still subject to human error. Caution during war doesn't hurt.

Regardless, he joins the army.

War is something that Phil is good at, something he enjoys. Something that lights the spark in his chest that is so often dim, these days. Besides, the army is paying well for undead fighters, and who is he to turn down an easy source of food? Everyone knows exactly why he and every other vampire is fighting, but most have the decency to ignore it. He's mostly avoided, and Phil is fine with that arrangement.

The battlefield isn't a place to make friends.

Phil studies the cloudy sky, face shielded by the brim of his hat. Some buried part of him still cries for the feeling of the sun on his face, but that's a quick and painful way to die. He doesn't need that part anymore. He's grown into something bigger, now. Something better and stronger. Something that can't die.

A shout interrupts his thoughts and he lowers his gaze. They're joining forces with a different battalion today, one devastated by their last fight. The survivors are straggling into camp, blood-soaked and exhausted. One is limping, dragging his sword behind him, and Phil bites back a scoff. He'll die off quickly, no doubt. The man looks up, feeling his gaze, and sneers at him. Phil curls his lip, letting his fangs show, and the man's eyes drop quickly with a startled squeak.

Phil smiles, satisfied. At least this human remembers his place. He's not at the top of the food chain here.

“Philza.” Phil turns slightly, raising an eyebrow at his general, Sam. The man meets his gaze evenly. To the man's credit, he isn't unnerved by vampire presence and he doesn't ignore them like the other humans do. “They're bringing in their rescued equipment. We could use a set of wings. Why don't you help?” Phil observes him for a moment, tempted to refuse and blame the sun. But he's here for a reason, so he just nods and secures his hat before he takes off, circling the field.

A few soldiers are leading in horses and dragging in crates. They're crushing white flowers beneath their feet as they move, staining them darker with blood Phil can smell from here. It's a shame, he thinks. War ruins everything, even the pretty chrysanthemum that can do nothing to defend itself.

Movement further into the forest catches his eyes and Phil swoops closer.

There is a child, yanking a crate across the uneven ground with a determined expression. There's a bandage tied messily around his arm and blood in his hairline, but he's still moving quickly. His hair is a bright pink, an obvious target in the dark trees. Phil turns his gaze away and goes back to the center of the field, startling one of the soldiers as he lands and relieves him of his box.

The presence of the child isn't as shocking as it maybe should have been. He's seen many child soldiers in his long life. The war affects everyone, claims so many lives, and the army needs all the fighters they can get. After all, fighting the wars during his own youth is how he got here, isn't it?

Phil moves on, forcing his thoughts away from the pink-haired child. He will either rise above and survive or he will fail. The child would hardly be the first to do so, and his well-being isn't any of Phil's business. He's here for free food.

Their new additions have less than a day of rest before the next battle is upon them. Tension is strong in the air, men running around and sharpening swords. Phil can practically taste the fear in the air as he slips smoothly through the camp, securing his helmet. It gets in the way of feeding, but so does an arrow through his skull. He glances to his left and pauses.

The boy from the woods is tightening the sword on his belt, helmet sliding down over his eyes. The boy scowls and adjusts it, only for it to start falling again. Phil bites back a snort. Well, he isn't going to look after the child, but he can certainly try to keep him from tripping and impaling himself.

“Here,” Phil says, stepping over and tugging the helmet off the child's head. He fiddles with the leather straps inside for a moment, tightening them, then places it back on the kid's head. “That should fit better.” The child frowns, reaching up and pulling at the helmet for a moment. It stays- or at least, better than before.

“Thanks,” the kid says cautiously. Phil shrugs and moves away, heading out into the night. A good helmet won't keep the kid alive, but at least he'll see his death coming. Phil hadn't had that mercy, though he hadn't quite met his death that fateful night that seems so long ago. Maybe he wouldn't have survived if he had. Those aren't thoughts he likes to think about.

The battle itself is easy.

Phil slips into his own familiar pattern. He stabs a man here, rips another's throat out there. He eats, he moves on. He chases and hunts and kills. That spark in his chest beats and grows louder and brighter until he almost feels alive again and then-

Then it's over, and the spark starts to die again.

He's used to it by now and hardly pays it any mind. Sometimes he wonders what would happen if the fight never ended. What would it do then? Would he become- but those are useless thoughts. Someone would have found out by now if it were possible, and besides, he thinks this might be something that only he deals with. The others don't seem to crave violence quite as much as he does.

The child is, surprisingly, still alive. Phil observes him out of the corner of his eye, watching as the child struggles to tie a bandage on his arm. He considers offering his help, for a moment, but then the child bites the end and ties it off. Phil leaves him be. The kid has survived at least two battles now- he doesn't need help. Even if he did, Phil reminds himself, he isn't going to risk anything for a human that could die any day. It isn't worth it.

The next day is more monotony.

Deal with the wounded, find supplies, and bury and burn the dead. Sam calls him to a meeting around midday and Phil forces himself out of his tent and into the godawful, gentle sun. He already knows what the general wants from him.

“He could eat our fucking own,” a man snaps at the general as Phil approaches.

“He has an advantage we don't have,” Sam says sternly. “He can fly. We need that.”

“I'm not doing it!” Another man complains. “Send the fucking kid to deal with the corpse! Let him get eaten.” Phil raises an eyebrow.

“Who's getting eaten?” He asks smoothly, and the men jolt, turning to him with slightly afraid expressions. Sam sighs.

“Listen, I need you to recover bodies and find survivors,” he says, then looks over to the side of the group. Phil follows his gaze to where the same child is standing, looking slightly alarmed as everyone turns to look at him. “Take the kid- he can help.” Phil shrugs, then starts off toward the edge of the camp. A moment later, the kid is next to him.

The walk back into the burned battlefield is quiet, the birds softly chirping. Phil hears a few crows among them, and though he scans the tree line, he can't quite see them. They're still upset with him, he thinks. Maybe they're afraid now too.

“There's a group of boxes in the center of the enemy camp,” the kid suddenly says, breaking the silence. “We could look at those.”

“We're looking for survivors,” Phil points out, frowning down at the kid. He just shrugs.

“There's not going to be any, it's been hours,” he answers. “I want to know what's in the boxes. They kept defending them.” The kid is right, of course. Searching for survivors is useless. Worse, now Phil is curious about the boxes. He's seen them, but they've never taken them with them. It can't hurt to look.

“Fine,” Phil agrees and starts toward the enemy line. The bodies grow heavier as they get closer, the stench of blood sweet on the air. It's stale, by now, though, and Phil turns his head into the wind to chase it away. He's still full from the night before, regardless.

A noise breaks the air and Phil's head whips over to a pile of bodies, yanking his sword from its sheath. A hand reaches up from the pile of limp limbs and he meets the eyes of a man, reaching for him. He's on the enemy side, horribly wounded, blood pouring from a gash in his chest. One of his arms is missing, the other sleeve soaked red from trying to keep the wounds covered.

“Please,” the man whispers. “Please, have mercy, I-” Phil drives his sword through the man's throat. The blood gurgles around it and the man's body chokes. The light in his eyes is already gone. It reminds Phil of a different battlefield so many years ago, where things could've gone so differently. Of him trying desperately to find shade before the sun rose. Of-

“There they are!” Phil jolts, glancing over at the kid. He'd forgotten he was there, and he'd- well. But the kid doesn't seem bothered, just annoyed that Phil has stopped moving. The kid runs up ahead to the boxes, climbing up on them and attempting to tug the lid off.

It doesn't budge.

Phil can't help a snort as he climbs over the rest of the bodies and joins the kid. He pulls the lid off easily, ignoring the kid's huff, and peers inside the crate.

“Fireworks?”

“Oh, yeah,” the kid says. “They kept setting them off when they won last time. It was annoying but it covered our escape.” Phil sighs, closing the box. Useless. Humans were all about their garish celebrations, weren't they? He crosses to another set of different boxes and pulls the lid off those as well.

Ah. There it is. Phil grins, gesturing the kid over.

“TNT,” he tells him cheerfully. “Help me sort it so we can bring it back to base.” The kid takes a box, setting it down a few paces away, but sighs.

“The fireworks were more exciting.” The statement is so young that Phil is almost taken aback, but he steels himself. Of course a child would prefer pretty colors over something that could actually help them.

Phil doesn't chide him.

“You could take a few,” he says instead, but the kid just shrugs.

“What would I even do with them?” He asks, though he casts one last longing look at them. Phil shrugs, letting them fall silent.

“I know you're a vampire,” the child says suddenly, yanking another box off the stack. “I'm not afraid of you, you know.” Phil smiles at him with sharp teeth. The child doesn't flinch away.

“I'm not exactly hiding it, mate,” Phil tells him, slightly amused. The kid huffs.

“I know,” he says. “I just wanted you to know.” Phil turns the thought over in his head for a moment.

“What do you mean? I know I'm a vampire,” Phil finally says, still confused, and the kid rolls his eyes.

“Obviously,” he says. “But I'm not afraid, and you're always alone.” Phil blinks. Does the- does the child thinks he's lonely? Phil frowns.

“I prefer it that way,” he snaps, slightly offended, and the child shrugs.

“Okay,” he says and lets the conversation drop. The rest of their work is quiet, just the distant birds chirping. Phil wonders what they're saying. He wouldn't know, not anymore.

Phil doesn't think about the child for the next few days, or at least, he tells himself that. Just the one conversation has left him aching for another. He ignores it. He's beyond that, isn't he? He is. He has to be. That isn't what he does anymore.

The next battle rolls around and somehow, he's ended up next to the child again.

The kid looks up at Phil and he keeps his own gaze facing forward. He isn't staying near the kid or protecting him, if that's what he's after. Phil is violent and bloody when he fights, stronger than a human. Certainly stronger than a child. The kid will hold him back.

“I can kill more of them than you,” the kid suddenly wagers, grinning at him. Is- is the child challenging him? Phil raises an eyebrow.

“You think?”

“I do,” the kid says easily. “Scared?” Phil smiles, sharp. The kid holds his gaze.

“Never. You're on.”

The horns blare and Phil lurches into battle.

The routine is easy, familiar and comforting. Dodge, duck, slash. Phil isn't going to count, of course. If the kid even survives the battle, there's no way he'll come close. At most, he'll have what? Three, four kills?

Phil rips a man's throat out.

One.

Screaming, his teeth in another man's throat, his sword through another's gut, a stab he barely avoids-

Twelve.

The spark in his chest is fluttering, excited at his unexpected viciousness. He digs his claws into a man's chest. He rips another's head off. He feeds.

Thirty-seven.

A boom shatters through the air, a thousand different colored sparks lighting up the sky.

Phil blinks. Fireworks? Who's setting off fireworks mid-battle? Unless they're losing, which Phil hadn't considered. He doesn't think they are, though. He sees more fallen enemies than people on his side. The people around him pause for a moment, then surge back into each other.

It doesn't matter. They'll win regardless. Phil has only ever lost one battle, and he can't repeat the same mistake twice, right? He keeps fighting, mind wandering back to brighter times. The blood on his clothes is tinted blue when the fireworks light up the sky and shake the earth.

Seventy-two.

The spark starts to fade after the battle, but Phil tries to content himself. He's eaten. He's been satisfied. What else could there be? He's happy. His eyes still search the crowds, looking for pink.

The child isn't with the medics or around any of the fires and isn't with any of the men crawling their way back to camp. Phil's stomach turns. Stupid, stupid, of course, he wouldn't- he was a human child, he'd just gotten lucky before. Phil is so stupid. This is why he doesn't-

“83.” Phil jumps, turning and meeting a pale, ash-streaked face. The kid raises an eyebrow expectantly. “I got 83.”

“You did not,” Phil protests. 83 is a ridiculous number for a child to get. Most adults didn't even kill that many. The kid just grins.

“I found a box of fireworks and started shooting,” the kid tells him. Phil can't help the shocked laugh that rips out of him. So that's what that was.

“Smart,” he says. “You win this time. 72.” The kid grins at him, and that spark in his chest pulls again. This time, Phil ignores it. He doesn't want to think about it, the same way he refuses to think about the birds or the way his lungs don't quite work the same way. Unimportant. Inconsequential.

Phil tries to ignore the kid, he does, because war is unforgiving, but he can't escape him. They keep getting assigned together, and the kid isn't afraid. It should be annoying. Phil should scare him away. He doesn't.

He can't.

Phil will show his fangs and the kid will laugh at him. Bloodshed doesn't bother him, and violence intrigues him. He keeps challenging Phil. Sometimes, Phil will win, of course. But then the kid will think up some insane plot during the next battle and pull ahead. It's almost fun. It's terrifying. He's afraid that the child will start to mean something.

Little 83, Phil silently calls him, because he doesn't know the kid's name and he won't ask. He can't. That makes it real. That makes 83 something that Phil can lose, and he can't do that again. So he just calls him 83 in his head, and he plays their silly little game.

That's all it is.

Just a game to pass the time with a nameless child.

Still, he starts telling the kid stories from his childhood while they work. 83 loves myths, loves war stories. He soaks up Greek mythology like he'd starve without it, and Phil tries to remember every story he can. It's been so long since he's told stories to such a willing little audience. When was the last time he cared about anything other than his next meal? He doesn't like to think of it.

They're searching for survivors again, and like usual, no one has lasted the night.

83 skips through the tall grass uncaringly, not paying any attention to the bodies hidden within it. It's almost peaceful- there hadn't been any fire, last night. It had been a surprise attack, and everyone had fallen silently, covered. The kid squints up at the sun above them, nose wrinkling. His stomach growls.

“Ugh, we're missing lunch,” he says as if Phil also eats. Still, Phil reaches into his robes and pulls out a wrapped loaf of bread and some cheese, tossing it to him.

“I thought we'd still be out here,” he explains, gesturing for the child to follow him. 83 would probably be fine eating among all the dead. For some reason, it makes Phil's stomach twist a little. They head down to the creek, sitting along the shore as 83 digs into the loaf with surprisingly sharp teeth.

Phil stares at the sparkling water. It's running water, bright from the sun. Two things that are weaknesses, now. He supposes it's still nice to see, though it makes his throat close with some unspoken emotion. He tells himself it's fear.

It isn't.

“There used to be a creak like this near my house,” Phil says suddenly to stop the rising pain in his chest. “We- I would go swimming, every Saturday.” 83 tilts his head.

“That sounds nice,” he says simply. “I haven't ever really lived anywhere.” It's Phil's turn to look at the kid curiously. 83 doesn't really look upset about it, though Phil knows it's hard to miss something that's never been had.

“No orphanages?” Phil probes gently. That's where he'd come from. The orphanage, then the war, then- then war again, ultimately. Maybe he'd never really escaped it at all. 83 shrugs.

“Kind of,” he says. “But I was always getting moved around to whoever needed extra hands. That's why I'm here now.” Again, 83 doesn't seem bitter. Phil remembers being bitter, he thinks. But maybe that was for the short eight years he'd experienced something else. Maybe that's when he had learned to be bitter. It was so long ago now, it doesn't matter.

“I did that when I was a child,” he says instead. “Farms, mines, then war. It's not a bad way to live- I'm still fighting.” 83's head tilts.

“When did you get the house by the stream?” The kid asks, curious. Phil's heart stutters. “When there weren't any wars? It seems like there are always wars.” There always are. No one is ever done with the bloodshed. Phil takes a steady breath in, though he doesn't need it.

“No, no, I left for a while. Before I got turned,” Phil tells him. “I returned to fighting after.” That's not entirely true, but the child doesn't need his entire backstory. Phil's not sure he could tell it, even if he asked.

“Oh,” 83 says, frowning. “Was the house nice, at least?” It was very nice. Phil stares at the water. “What did it look like?” He's tempted to snap at the child, tell him to stop asking questions, but-

“It was a little cottage in a meadow,” Phil says before he can stop himself. “Stone and dark oak, with white lilies and ivy crawling up the sides. The stream ran west of the house and it was secluded in the mountains, safe from all the wars. It was- it was a good house.” He still can't look away from the water. It looks so similar to the way the stream by the house had looked. But this one probably didn't flood when it stormed. This one probably didn't get deeper unexpectedly.

“That does sound nice,” 83 says, unperturbed, interrupting his thoughts. “I'd like to have a house like that one day. Maybe- maybe with a ton of dogs. I can build a barn for all of them to live in.” Phil blinks, startled, a laugh pulling out of his chest beyond all the pain.

“Couldn't they live in the house, mate?” Phil chuckles, and 83 shakes his head.

“There wouldn't be room in the house for all of them!” The kid tells him. “My favorites could stay, though.” Phil reaches out and ruffles the kid's hair.

“That does sound nice,” Phil says. “Loud, but nice.” 83 rolls his eyes.

“My dogs would be very well behaved,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “I'd train them. Like a dog army.” Phil's smile falters slightly, though he's not sure why. Of course, the kid would think of fighting, of the army- who wouldn't? The world is a dangerous place.

“That's an idea,” Phil comments lightly. “Come on, now, we have work to do.” 83 groans, but pulls himself off the ground and starts off into the field with no more complaints. Phil follows, keeping an eye and ear out, one hand on his sword. There will be no survivors- some have possibly perished during their break, if there were any. Phil supposes it doesn't matter.

The world moves on, with or without the people lost in the field.

Another two battles pass and then Phil is wandering the camp at night, still trying to remember all the details of the myth of Prometheus and how he stole fire. 83 would like that one, he thinks. A noise catches his ears, and Phil frowns, heading toward it. What is anyone else doing up this late? At least he has an excuse.

“What, is the little vampire supporter upset?” Phil peers around a tent.

A group of five men have backed 83 back against a tent. One of them has a knife and the others sneer at him. Phil bites down a growl. 83 can handle himself, of course. Phil just doesn't like injustice.

“Fuck you,” 83 says, baring his own flat little teeth. It's not very intimidating. It's like how fledglings bare their teeth at sires, not that Phil has ever had one. It would almost be endearing if Phil's undead heart didn't feel like it was going to start hammering again.

“Really?” One of them sneers. “Maybe we should find out if the vampire has turned him, hmm?” One of the other men grabs 83 and yanks his shirt collar down. His neck has no bites, of course, but they still laugh, shoving 83.

“Maybe he's his next meal, if things get tight?” One asks, and 83 snaps at him, flat teeth clicking. They laugh again, and the man's grip on his knife tightens. Phil's feet move, and he steps into the group.

“I think it's time for you to leave,” Phil hisses, and one of the men raises an eyebrow. The others seem more nervous, shuffling away from him. Phil lets his wings flare, widening his stance.

“Why? You worried about your investment?” Phil shows his own teeth, and the men recoil. The man with the knife raises his hands.

“We don't want any trouble, bloodsucker,” he says, though he punctuates his sentence by spitting at Phil's feet. He grits his teeth. He gets free food here. He can handle a little prejudice.

“Don't talk about him that way!” 83 jumps in, not as concerned. His fists are clenched tight. The men laugh at his face, still red with anger. Phil settles a hand on the kid's head.

“Just go,” Phil says, and the men do, laughter ringing in the air as they go. The kid scowls, crossing his arms. “Why are you awake?” Phil asks. “There's another fight tomorrow- you should get your rest.” 83 huffs, pointing at the supply tent behind him.

“I was trying to! That's where I sleep.” Phil blinks. Most of the soldiers either share or have their own tents- the vampires, certainly, since they can be a bit territorial. Especially him, with all his left over avian instincts.

“You didn't get assigned a tent?” The kid sighs, looking down.

“Those men ripped my tent up,” he says. “No one else wants me with them. So I've just kind of been sleeping in supply tents.” Phil rolls his eyes. 83 could have told Sam and gotten a new one, though they're spread thin on supplies as it is. It might not have kept it from happening again, either.

“Come on, then,” he says, offering a hand. “I don't need sleep, you can use mine.” The kid squints at him, then takes his hand, letting Phil pull him through the shadows. Phil's tent is black- a sign to the humans to stay away. He holds up the flap for 83, who ducks in.

Phil's nest- something that isn't necessary, not really, but he still does- is in the center. It's messy, not well kept at all, and his chest pulls with embarrassment. He needs to make it nice for the child, doesn't he? He slips around the child and starts rearranging blankets with a fervor he hasn't felt since before- before-

Phil settles the last blanket in place with unpracticed hands. It isn't perfect. He can't bring himself to do it again. Phil gestures lamely.

“There it is,” he says awkwardly, getting up and scooting back toward the entrance. “Knock yourself out.” 83 lifts an eyebrow.

“Awesome,” he says. “Thanks.” The kid doesn't seem to mind, or even notice, how unsatisfactory the nest is as he crawls in. The sight of the child curled up pulls at the spark slightly, and Phil slams down on it harshly. No. No. He's not- he's not getting attached. It doesn't even matter. It's just dead instincts, is all.

“Goodnight,” Phil manages to force out, then slips back into the cold night air. He stalks to the forest, instincts warring in his head. 83 isn't his nestling, isn't his fledgling, or whatever matters more now. Phil is just- he's just tired. Just anticipating the next battle. He pushes through hyacinths beneath him as he moves, crushing the purple away into nothing and keeping his head up.

The birds don't chirp when he enters the forest.

They're just asleep.

It doesn't mean anything.

The next night rolls around, and Phil still hasn't managed to clear his head. He's been avoiding 83 like the plague. If the kid is pulling up dead instincts and thoughts, then he just needs to avoid him. Clearly, he hasn't been careful enough. He'll wait for it to all settle, and they'll go back to their meaningless game, to their little stories.

Phil won't mourn when the kid dies.

The horns go off and the fight starts, Phil's head spinning, the spark struggling to keep up. Hacking here, biting there. Man after man falls under his rage, the spark screaming. He bites another. His stomach is so empty. It never seems to be filled. Nothing is ever enough to fill the void. Flesh bends beneath his teeth and his stomach turns.

A bite had ended it all, hadn't it? The spark flickers. One bite was all it had taken to ruin everything. When has the last time he'd spoken to her? He'd run after, after all of it, but maybe they could've salvaged something. But then, then he'd known. Known what her verdict was and he run again, ashamed, and hid. Phil had- he'd-

A firm weight slams into him and Phil falls to the ground, palms and knees rattling. He doesn't feel the sting. He hasn't felt the sting in so long. He snarls, turning, and-

Phil looks down at the stake through his chest.

It's missed his heart, but he's still slow as he tries to stumble to his feet. There's darkness at the corners of his vision. If he gives in, will he hear her? Will the birds speak to him again? The hunter sneers at him.

“This is it, Angel,” he says, spinning the ax in his hand. “Hear me, Lady of-”

The hunter gurgles as an arrow goes through his throat, eyes wide. He slumps off of Phil, falling to the ground. There's still screaming around him, but Phil turns his head.

“91,” 83 says cheerfully, yanking the stake out of Phil's chest in a fluid motion. “You're welcome.” Phil splutters as he sits up. The stake wouldn't have kept him down, but the hunter might have taken his head off first. The kid doesn't seem to care, still merrily shooting at men around them. He's covered in blood and wearing a sharp grin.

“You're winning,” Phil grits as he stumbles to his feet, old blood pouring from his chest. He doesn't know if 83 is winning. He wasn't keeping count.

“Getting stabbed counts against you no matter what,” 83 informs him seriously, giving his wound a dubious look. Phil groans, then swings his sword at a man that's aiming at the kid, slicing his head off. The kid laughs, and Phil takes off back into battle.

83 keeps up with him, slashing and occasionally grinning when Phil does something overly complicated. It should be morbid. Phil should be trying to lose him in the fire and bloodshed. He watches his back instead.

“Watch this,” 83 says, pulling a firework out of his belt and leveling his crossbow at a crate in the center of the enemy. “TNT.” He lights the spark and fires, and a moment later, the ground rocks.

The TNT explodes and Phil flinches back as the bright colors mix with the flames. The men around the explosion shriek in agony, falling away. The kid laughs, unshaken and bright, turning to him, and Phil can't help but laugh with him. The spark is burning.

“How many do you think that was?” 83 asks, surveying the fire. Phil shrugs.

“I think you're still winning.”

“Of course I am,” the kid says easily, turning to fire again at more enemies, and Phil can't help but agree. Of course, 83 is winning. In what world would he not be winning? The battle comes to an end quieter than it should, and he treks back to camp with 83 by his side. The kid is still full of energy, but he's silent, at least.

Phil's chest doesn't ache.

It should.

Phil sits outside his camp, crossing his ankles and tugging his helmet off his head, shaking out his bloody hair. 83 sits next to him, taking his own helmet off. The kid is, somehow, covered in more blood than he is. It's even in his teeth. If Phil had to decide which one of them was the human, he's not all that sure that he would pick 83.

A few birds sing hesitantly in the forest and Phil closes his eyes, letting his head fall back.

Little 83 had saved him.

A part of him is furious. He'd been so close to it all being over. The rest of him is terrified. What does the afterlife look like for him? He isn't sure, but the child had risked it all for him. He hadn't cared about the rules. The rules about not caring about people.

That doesn't mean Phil has to abandon his rules. It doesn't have to mean anything. The spark is still singing and it doesn't mean- it doesn't-

It means everything.

“Philza,” Phil suddenly says, opening his eyes. The sun is starting to rise. The kid huffs.

“Philza?” The kid asks, almost sounding offended.

“Well, most people call me Phil,” Phil defends himself. “It's an old name!” 83 laughs at him. The sound is softer than it was on the battlefield.

“Technoblade,” the kid offers. “But most people call me Techno.” Technoblade. Another old name, one that Phil hasn't heard in a century or two. It was common when he was a child. His stomach turns.

“That's a strong name,” he finally says. 83- or, Technoblade now, Phil supposes- tilts his head.

“Do you think so? Most people make fun of it.” Phil shrugs.

“It's also an old name,” he just says. “It's not surprising you've lived so long. Technoblades are often warriors.” Techno considers that for a moment, then nods. He looks at the sky.

“Are you going to burn? I just saved you.” Phil laughs at the kid, ruffling his hair.

“Come on,” he says. “The ne- my tent is still made up. I think there's room for two.” He pulls the kid inside his tent and Techno settles down into the blankets, still covered in ash and grime and blood. The avian side of him cries a little. The vampire side grins, and Phil lies next to him, staring at the cloth ceiling.

The birds are singing, somewhere, closer than they usually come.

He closes his eyes as the kid's breath evens out. If he pretends, he can imagine that he can hear her voice. He can pretend that it's a different time entirely, that short period of eight years when he was happy. It's not quite the same, but it's closer than it's been in centuries. It's not because of his brush with death- he's had enough of those to know that those are empty affairs.

The child shifts in his sleep, moving closer to Phil.

A croon rises out of him before he can stop it, and he slams down on the emotion quickly. It's not the same. He isn't there, and Techno isn't- well. Phil doesn't need to tell himself that. He knows that too well. She's never let him forget what he did, certainly.

Phil closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.

The days pass quicker, now, with Techno by his side. He's not always around, but he sees the child at night when he goes to his tent to sleep, which has become a routine. The odd feeling in his chest sticks, and he wants to separate himself, but he can't. How long has it been since the spark was this active? Phil feels almost alive again.

The last few days, he's been sent out on scouting missions at night to track down enemy camps, so by the time he gets back to his tent, Techno is gone. He has no tasks after, so normally, Phil would sit in silence and try to find a way to pass the time. His tent is once again empty, and he should create space, yes, but he goes to find Techno instead. Perhaps the child is doing something Phil can help with.

He finds Techno by the supply tent, doubled over and coughing, face screwed up and red.

The kid waves distractedly at Phil, wheezing to catch his breath. Phil frowns, resting the back of his hand on Techno's forehead. The child is hot to the touch, as far as he can tell. Not that temperature is something he's very good with, anymore.

“I'm fine,” Techno chokes out, still struggling for air. “I'm good.” Phil shakes his head, already ushering the child back toward his tent.

“You're sick, mate,” he tells him gently. “You need to rest.”

“'m fine,” Techno protests, but still lets Phil manhandle into the cool, shadowed tent and into the nest. Phil studies him for a moment as he gets the child tucked in. Techno won't be able to fight like this, but he won't be excused from the battle just for a cold. Still, Phil has a few days at best for him to get well. Phil can try to remember what to do for human sickness.

“I'll be right back,” Phil promises, slipping to the door, then fixes Techno with his best stern look. The kid rolls his eyes. “Stay there.” Then, he heads back out into the sun, fixing his hat. Techno might not stay, but he can always find him again.

The mess tent and the medics give him odd looks as he collects food and medicine for Techno, but at the very least, they don't question him. It could be apathy, it could be fear. None of that matters. It's working in Phil's favor. He goes back to his tent and softens a little as he enters.

Techno must have been feeling worse than he let on because he's still curled up where Phil left him, blanket clutched to his chest miserably. Phil settles next to him and gives him the food and then the medicine, letting him eat in silence. The kid's head bobs slightly as he finishes and Phil takes his bowl, setting it outside the nest to be dealt with later.

“Go to sleep,” Phil tells him gently, laying down next to him. Techno curls up toward him and Phil tucks a wing over him. “You need your rest.” Techno closes his eyes for a moment, then reopens them and looks up at Phil.

“Can you tell me a story?” The request is so childlike that Phil blinks, trying to associate this kid with the one that laughs on battlefields and has killed hundreds, at this point.

“Okay, mate.” Phil never did tell Techno about Prometheus and his fire, so he starts that one, words still stilted by the holes in his memory. The kid doesn't complain about it either way, just shifting closer and listening. He's asleep before Phil is finished, which is lucky. Phil doesn't remember how it ends.

He brushes back Techno's hair gently, his forehead slightly less warm than it was before.

The child will be fine. Techno is strong. There's no denying that- he has taken out more enemies than most of the others combined. More than that, he's bright- a little spark among all the other horribly dull humans and vampires.

Eternity could do wonders for Technoblade.

Phil wouldn't have to be alone anymore.

Wouldn't it be beneficial for them both?

Phil hasn't ever sired anyone. He tends to keep humans and other vampires at an arm's length distance, choosing to live his life alone. But it wouldn't be so terrible to have a family again, would it? He braids a tiny section of Techno's hair as the child sleeps. He could keep this. She would let him keep this, surely.

Despite his acts against her, she might still care for him.

“Would you like a child?” Phil asks softly, staring at the child in his lap. “He's strong. He reminds me of you.” Phil knows that it isn't up to him. It's Techno's choice. Techno is still too young to even know if he wants immortal life. Phil had been, and he'd been an adult when the choice had been thrust on him.

He tries to imagine Techno as the hollowed-out thing that he is now. He can't. What would the child be like without his spark? Is it life itself that gives it to Techno, or is it who he is? The spark in Phil's own chest tugs.

Is he selfish enough to take Techno's just to light his own?

Phil looks away from Techno, staring at the ceiling again. He isn't. He could never be. Maybe another, maybe some hapless fool on the battlefield, but not Technoblade.

He isn't quite as cruel as some would say.

Techno gets better before the next battle, back to his regular self, but Phil stays close to Technoblade after, to the point that he almost laughs at himself. He'd thought that the child was following him, but here he is, actively seeking him out. It's almost foolish, the lightness he feels when the kid is close to him.

Phil hovers unnecessarily close- making sure the child eats and staying close during battles. He watches over him while he's asleep. He tells him as many stories as he wants to hear. If Techno notices the change, he doesn't point it out. He just stays.

There's only one more battle before they reach the capital and regroup. If Phil wanted, he could leave. He had never intended to fight past there- he'd be too close to old memories if he did. He doesn't have to stay now, of course. He could leave. But, he tells himself, where would he even go? There's nowhere left.

(There is a place. There's a cottage in the woods that he could go to, one he hasn't seen in centuries. One with beds meant for smaller people, built when the house had been meant for so much more. Maybe it still can mean more. It's likely still standing, isn't it? He'd built it to last for ages.)

Still, Phil stays.

He has time yet to consider. After all, will Techno even leave with him? Phil can't leave him, won't. Can Techno even leave the army? Phil doesn't know why he's there. Was he forced in, was he sold, did he volunteer? Techno has never brought up his past, but then, Phil knows his own.

Children don't fight wars voluntarily, no matter how good they are at waging it.

Techno grins up at him from his place beside him in the formation and Phil smiles back, less sharp than usual. It's a question for after the battle. It's a bridge he can cross later. There is always later.

The horns blare.

Bite, stab, count his fallen. Kill, hunt, listen for childish laughter. Lick the blood from his lips, drench his sword in more, look for- look for-

Technoblade.

Phil's vision goes red.

The other side has given up on hunters. They have a vampire. A vampire that is on top of Technoblade, fangs bared and ugly, blood dripping onto his face. The wind is under Phil's wings and he's launching himself up but once again, he's not fast enough and Techno is going to- he's going to-

Techno scoffs and digs the broken end of his crossbow into the vampire's heart, swinging up with the axe and taking off its head. The vampire slumps, body disintegrating into ash as it hits the ground. Techno coughs, wiping the grime out of his eyes.

Phil crashes to the ground next to Techno, gathering him up and desperately tilting his head. No, no, not like this. He can't have Techno ruined like he was. He would have made it gentle, if such a turning could exist. He'd like to believe it does, but- but-

But Techno's neck is clear of all but blood and bruises, and the child bats his searching hands away.

“I'm fine,” he grouses, already climbing to his feet. “It's dead now, isn't it?” But you could've been, too, Phil doesn't say, just nods stiffly.

“Yeah, it is.”

Phil hovers close behind Techno for the rest of the fight, watching. Some come too close, some look at his child for a second too long. Not all of them are the enemy.

There are crows over the battlefield.

They're screaming.

The crows cry into the morning, cries echoing in Phil's ears as he holds Techno close in the nest. Are they angry? Vindicative? They always did get attached so quickly, but then, Phil doesn't know them anymore. It could mean anything. It could be the promise of revenge. He wouldn't let them.

“Shut up,” Phil spits quietly into Techno's hair, wings wrapping around the child.

They don't.

The cries follow them to the capital, the birds circling them as night falls. The city itself is far too crowded, with people standing on the corners to gawk at the marching army. Phil keeps Techno close to his side, his hood firmly up. They're all staying in utilized mess halls, and while sleeping inside will be a relief, Phil is still fighting down the anxiety.

He chooses a spot in the corner, away from the others. The spots around them will fill up soon, but Phil doesn't quite trust a human not to sneak up on him and try to slit his throat. Too many people in one place never ends well. Besides, the loss of his nest is making his instincts turn. It doesn't do for his child to be too exposed.

Techno's head is slightly nodding by the time they reach it and Phil settles the child against the wall, tucking himself into the outside of their bedroll. Phil doesn't need to sleep, but he still curls around the child, hand gripping the knife under their pillow, waiting. Listening. Techno's breath is warm and soft against his neck as it evens out, pink hair tickling Phil's nose. A few people pause when they see them. He tries not to bristle.

Phil is infamous, he knows.

The winged vampire.

The avian that fell.

The Angel of Death.

It must be a sight, to see him looking after a little human child. Still, he doesn't appreciate the stares. He tucks a wing over Techno, hiding him from most of the stares. A vampire pauses, her eyes sharp as she studies them.

Phil rises up to sit, showing his teeth slightly, Techno still curled into his side. The other vampire only tilts her head.

“He's yours?” The other asks, and Phil already knows what she is asking. When will he turn him? Is he waiting for him to be older? Phil can't answer. As cute as it would be to turn Techno now and have him as a child for what would likely be a century or two, he has no plans to turn Techno anytime soon. If ever, he firmly tells himself. Still, he glowers at the vampire.

“He's mine,” he spits, and he finds that he means it. Coven or not, the child is his. The other vampire raises her hands and steps back.

“Understood,” she says. “He is strong- he will make an excellent fledgling. Good choice.” Phil makes sure that his fangs are showing until the vampire is gone and everyone has looked away from the little scene. He glances down at Techno and softens, smiling a little. His hair is plastered to his face, burrowed into Phil's stomach. He brushes the soft pink strands away and tucks them tenderly behind his ear.

He sinks back down, making sure to close his wings entirely this time. Techno curls gentle fingers into his feathers and Phil coos softly at him. They've made it this far. They'll make it further. The hall grows dark and silent, and Phil watches over his child.

The morning doesn't bring the same peace.

“General Sam would like to see you in his office,” a nervous-looking soldier tells him. Techno looks up from where he's eating breakfast.

“Why?” The kid asks, muffled.

“Don't choke,” Phil chides gently, ruffling his feathers like his mother used to do when she was scolding him, but raises an eyebrow. “Why?” The soldier shrugs.

“I don't know,” he says. “Inn across the street at your soonest convenience.” He takes off, steps quick as he leaves them. Phil frowns, half tempted to make Sam wait. His convenience could be at anytime. Still, he stands with a sigh, shaking out the faux ache in his bones.

“I'll be back,” he promises Techno. The kid nods, and then Phil fixes his hat and sweeps out of the building. The streets are busy, and a few pause to look at him suspiciously as he goes. A group of soldiers scowl as he passes and he observes them carefully out of the corner of his eye. They're familiar- they're the same soldiers that were bothering Techno, before.

Well, they've learned their lesson, Phil hopes.

He doesn't mind making sure if they haven't.

The inn is empty, supply crates packed in corners and on tables, and a few leading officers lounging around the bar. Phil bites back a sneer. Of course, they'd treat themselves to luxury and their own rooms while the rest of the army bunked up on the floor in piles. He doesn't know why he expected anything else. One of the soldiers gestures to a door at the back of the inn.

“The General is in there,” the soldier slurs slightly. “Don't keep him waiting.” Phil sweeps past him toward the door. As if he didn't already know- his instincts are sharp. No one can hide.

The door creaks as he pushes it open and steps into the dark room. Sam looks up and smiles, tight and strained, gesturing for Phil to sit across from him at his desk. Phil sits, arranging his wings so they don't catch on the armrests of the chair. He raises an eyebrow.

“What is this about, General?” Sam sighs, scrubbing at his face.

“Some of the others have concerns, Philza,” Sam says. “I appreciate what you've done for this army and this country, but I cannot have you turning Technoblade.” Phil stiffens.

“I have no plans for that,” Phil snaps. “I am merely looking after him.” Sam laughs, putting his head in his hands. It makes him vulnerable.

“I'd like to believe that, Philza, I would,” he says. “But I can't.”

“You should,” Phil bites back. “I have no intention of turning Techno. Not while he's a child, certainly.” Sam sighs.

“It doesn't matter. I ignored the issue for too long and it went above me,” Sam tells him. “Your services are no longer needed. Technoblade stays.” Phil's stomach twists. No. No.

“You can't take my fucking child.”

“Philza. Technoblade is a ward of the state, he is not your child.”

“He is,” Phil growls, half rising out of his chair. “You will not take him from me.”

“It's out of my hands,” Sam snaps back. “There's nothing you can do.” Phil smiles, sharp.

“Really, mate? You think that?” Sam stiffens, meeting his gaze. There's finally fear in them, and the spark sings. A crow screams outside.

“Whatever you're thinking of doing, do not,” Sam warns, hand tight on the handle of his sword. Phil turns and stalks out of the office. He storms through the inn and out the door, ignoring the stares of the other soldiers. They won't take his child. They won't.

Phil returns to his bedroll and finds it empty of a certain pink-haired child.

His gut twists. Did they take him? Surely they hadn't- he and Techno were supposed to go to the stables today, that's right. Techno wouldn't know any of that had changed. He'll go find him there. Phil heads back into the street, tugging his hood up to keep away unwelcome eyes. He'll find Techno, and then-

Then what? What if Techno won't leave? Phil can't stay as close, though he could follow the army to watch over Techno in battle. It won't be the same, and doing such a thing could make Techno a target. He'll just have to find a way to convince him. A battlefield isn't a place for a child to grow up. Phil could do a much better job- he could protect him, if anyone came after them.

No one could find them at the cottage.

Phil swallows. He hasn't been back there- she could be angry if he brought a child to their old home unbidden. She could also understand. Phil can explain it to her, and surely, she'll understand. Just a few years. Just until Techno is old enough and the war is over.

Phil slips through dark alleys, weaving down the streets. He's been here before, though it's been ages. He still remembers where it is. He still remembers when he built it himself. There's still the fountain out front, and the daffodils are still blooming in the yard.

Her temple is dark and empty.

Phil's footsteps echo on the stone as he goes to the altar, slipping to his knees and staring at her veiled face. She could smite him where he stands. She may not. The temple is deadly silent, the birds outside quiet.

“I did not choose this,” Phil says hoarsely. “I never wanted any of it to happen. Do you hate me for it, still?”

She says nothing- of course, she says nothing because it's been centuries and why would she speak to him now? Perhaps she is angry with him. His own mistakes are not Techno's fault, she should not hold them against the child. He'd never known her to be cruel, but that might've changed. So much else has.

“He's only a child,” he tries again, praying that her compassion has somehow held out. “He's a child and I- this is no place for him to grow. I could take him home. Take him home and raise him. I know I'm not cut out for it, not anymore, but someone has to.” The temple is still silent and Phil drops his eyes to the stone beneath him.

There is a shrine at the perfect cottage, covered in flowers from when he was still trying to gain her forgiveness. He imagines they are dead, now. Crumbled into dust over the centuries. Phil lowers his head to rest against the altar.

“I'm sorry. Please,” he begs. “Please forgive me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run.”

She does not answer.

Phil closes his eyes, listening to the silence. A crow squawks outside the temple, growing louder. Danger, it screams. Danger, danger, danger-

“Phil!” Techno's voice shatters the air, sounding so unlike him, high and terrified, that Phil almost doesn't recognize it as him.

Phil jolts to his feet and races to the door, flinging the heavy metal doors open. The square is more crowded than before, and a group of soldiers are tugging Techno away from the temple, trying to put restraints on him. Several more have their weapons drawn, eyes trained on him.

“Let him go,” Phil snaps, stepping forward and- he stops. He can't pass past the temple grounds. Why can't he- Phil looks down.

There's a salt line separating him from Techno, a heavy thick pile that can't be interrupted by the uneven cobblestone. Phil whips around. The circle closes behind him and a soldier holding an empty bag sneers at him. Another cries out as Techno bites him, fighting to get free.

“We'll kill the vampire,” one of them tells Techno, who freezes, staring wide-eyed at a soldier who's stepped closer to the salt circle, brandishing a stake. Phil snarls, but the man leers right back.

“Good luck slipping out of this one, vampire,” he says, as the other steps around the salt carefully to join him. “We've checked all the boxes this time.” They have. There are iron stakes tied to all of their belts and torches burning in some of their hands. Phil swallows down the fear.

“You want me,” he says, keeping his voice even. “This is about me. Let Techno go.” The soldier holding onto Techno laughs.

“No, no, I don't think we will,” he says, shaking Techno a little. “This one's grown too comfortable. How do we know he isn't infected already? How do we know you haven't given him some kind of unholy power? He kills far too many on the battlefield.” Phil hisses, but the soldiers don't seem unnerved. They know the salt will hold him.

“Phil's my friend!” Techno snaps at them. “Leave him alone! He hasn't done anything.”

“Vampire supporter,” one of them spits, slapping Techno across the face. His head snaps to the side and the familiar scent of iron hits the air. There's a growl rising in his throat but Phil is trapped. Trapped behind the salt. He can't get out.

“Witches float, don't they?” Someone from the growing mob shouts, and the soldier grins, wicked. His gaze turns. There's a fountain in the middle of the street. No. No. They drag Techno to it, the boy finally fighting again. He's still wearing the restraints, but he manages to twist himself, giving Phil a terrified, wide-eyed look.

“Dad!” Techno yells, reaching for him. “Dad!” The soldiers shove him under the water.

“No!” Phil shrieks, the sound inhuman and yet familiar, though he hasn't screamed like this since before his turning.

Techno is under the water, arms struggling. Several men are fighting to hold him down, and there's a spark of pride in Phil's chest amongst all the fear. Sam steps into the square, studying the scene calmly.

“Sam!” Phil shouts at him. “Stop this. They're- he's a child. Please.” He sounds like he's begging by the end, and Sam turns to him, considering.

He smiles.

“Your services are no longer needed, Philza,” Sam says lightly. “We must make peace with the Lady of Death, however, for using them. I imagine she'll find your death an amenable sacrifice.”

“You fucking bastard,” Phil snarls. “Techno has done nothing. Let him go!” Sam just turns away, watching Techno struggle in the water. His movements are getting weaker. Phil- Phil can't- not again.

A croak sounds by his feet and Phil looks down.

A crow is staring back up at him, cocking their head. Then, they start dragging their beak through the salt. Forgiveness- forgiveness, after so many years, and Phil can't help the laugh that threatens to bubble up and choke him. They've grown attached too, it seems.

The barrier breaks and Phil sprints forward. A soldier shrieks, his cry cutting off with a gurgle as Phil sinks his teeth into his throat. The crowd cries out in alarm, some falling away while others press closer. Phil snatches the dead soldier's sword and starts stabbing, dodging the torches and the iron swinging at him. Stab, dodge, run.

He rips out the throat of the man holding Techno under and the man collapses, blood splattering across the top of the child's head. Phil ducks a slash and stabs back, hissing. Techno doesn't move, head still in the water, and he yanks him out. Techno's body falls limply into his and he wraps a tight arm around him, rocketing up into the air.

Techno isn't moving.

He's not moving, and Phil dodges an arrow, heart hammering and gaze darting around.

The doors to the temple are still open, and Phil lets himself fall, stumbling to the ground and flinging himself back into the temple, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them. He tugs the heavy wooden bar into the spokes on the door, locking it. Men start yelling and pounding on the door, but he can barely hear them. All he can hear is the stuttering breath in Techno's chest.

Phil pulls Techno away from the door and falls to his knees. His breath is too weak, his lips are blue. He won't make it- how long was he without air? Even if Phil could get all the water out of his lungs, would he even make it? Would that just be wasting time?

“Come on,” Phil whispers. “Please, no. Come on. You can make it.”

The temple itself is silent, soaking up the sound of the mob outside. Techno doesn't answer. She doesn't answer.

“Please, please no,” Phil begs, and he knows that he has no choice. He is selfish. He has always been selfish. What is one more choice? Phil tilts Techno's head back as gently as he can. It still falls, limp, wet hair dripping onto the stone. Phil swallows hard.

He won't lose his child. He won't. If he has to drag Techno into an unwilling eternity, then so be it, but he won't lose him.

He won't lose another child.

Phil sinks his teeth into Techno's neck, blood pouring into his mouth.

He wants to throw up. When does he stop? His own turning had been unintentional- and Phil never leaves anyone alive. When does the vampirism take hold? Techno twitches slightly and Phil comes up, coughing. He doesn't want to swallow it.

“I know, I know,” he gasps out, the sweet taste of Techno's blood still sticky across the back of his throat. “I know it hurts. I'm sorry.” He presses his sleeve to the wound and Techno's face screws up, turning his face into Phil's stomach. He runs his hands through Techno's hair, pressing a bloody kiss into it. “I'm so sorry.”

There is a sick sense of relief in his stomach as he rocks Techno back and forth, listening to the child whimper as the venom takes hold. He's moving. He's alive, in some sick and twisted sense. That's all that matters, isn't it? Phil can't help the soft laugh that rips out of him as he clutches Techno closer. He can keep this, against death and the gods themselves.

The wooden beam in the door snaps and the door flies open, slamming against the wall. Soldiers pour into the temple and Phil bares his bloody teeth at them, hunched over his child and hissing. Do they think that Phil won't kill them for doing what they did? Sam freezes, staring at him, eyes flickering to Techno.

“What have you done,” Sam snaps. “You have damned him alongside yourself.” Phil laughs again, pressing another kiss into Techno's hair.

“I have. You would've killed him and I can't lose him,” Phil tells him sickly, swallowing back the tears and blood. “I can't.”

“It's wrong,” Sam bites back, drawing his sword. Phil can't unlock his arms, still clutching Techno to his chest. “I cannot- the Lady of Death will handle you. May she have mercy on the child whose humanity you have stolen.”

“If she kills me for the crime of saving my child, so be it,” Phil murmurs. “I would do it again a thousand times.”

“Your child? He is-”

“Yes, your child?” A voice cuts through the air, crisp and cold. “He is our child, no?”

Sam flinches back, eyes wide and trained behind him, some of the other soldiers yelping and scrambling closer to the door. Phil closes his eyes for a moment, then turns.

She's just as beautiful as ever.

Her face is veiled, always, but she tilts her head in an inquisitive, cautious motion. Her dress sweeps the floor as she steps over to him, kneeling. Her fingers hover over Techno's cheek. Phil can feel her eyes on him, waiting. Asking.

“He is if you want him to be,” Phil finally says, and her palm settles against Techno's cheek.

“We are still married,” Kristin says, voice carrying a weight that he has not heard since that wretched moment so many centuries ago. “What is mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.”

“I would not change that,” Phil says, and finds that he means it. “With or without your blessing, I still love you.”

“I love you,” she says back, and Phil drops his head to rest against Techno's. Forgiveness. He does not deserve it, but she was always kind, wasn't she? Kristin shakes her head, humming. “There is nothing to forgive,” she scolds. “None of it was your fault. Just- it was an accident.”

“Perhaps,” Phil manages, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder at the soldiers still backed to the wall. Sam's face is pale. Kristin laughs, but it's cold. She rises to her feet.

“I will handle them,” she says, stepping around him. “Take Techno home.” Phil gathers up Techno, wrapping the child carefully in his cloak, and stands, shooting up into the air and ignoring the cries of the soldiers behind him.

The stained glass above the altar shatters easily for him, though he makes sure Techno's face is tucked against his shoulder. He doesn't want the child to get hurt- or, worse, burn. The sun is still high in the sky and while the vampirism hasn't quite set in, Phil's not taking any chances.

The people in the square below scream as he soars above them, circling high enough that their arrows can't hit him. A few crows join him, croaking inquisitive questions and trying to peer at Techno. As he reaches the walls and glides away from the wretched city, he gently shoos them away.

“Shut,” he scolds lightly. “There will be plenty of time to meet him later. Let him rest.” The crows groan in disappointment, but still give Techno space, though they still fly close to him, watching the ground below for danger.

It takes him almost two days to reach the mountains even with his wings, a journey that he barely rests during. Techno cries the first night, feverish and coughing, though he doesn't wake. There is nothing Phil can do for him. He just holds him close and tries to soothe him, not entirely sure he can hear him at all. The second night, Techno is quieter, his skin colder than it should be. His teeth already look sharper in his mouth, skin paler than normal.

Phil reaches the valley at sunset before the third night.

His eyes scan the overgrown fields of flowers, golden in the setting sun. It's as beautiful and peaceful as it always was. There's no smoke or houses that he can see- it seems the valley has remained unfound by humans. Finally, he sees it, stone washed in orange light.

There are still flowers and ivy crawling up the walls, though they cover the windows and the roof now, too. But it's still standing. It's still standing after all this time, looking almost as it always did. Phil lets himself glide to the ground, legs and wings exhausted. The door is covered in vines and he sets Techno down in the grass for a moment to hack away at it, cutting them away.

Phil pushes the door open cautiously.

He almost expects to smell something cooking in the oven, music playing in the living room. He almost expects fresh flowers on the table. He almost expects an excited voice and pattering feet racing up the hall, bright brown eyes.

But the house is silent.

Phil sneezes, nose wrinkling, and turns to fetch Techno. He'll need to dust and open some windows- time hasn't done the inside of the house any favors. He'll need to check to make sure any animals haven't moved into his attic either. He carries Techno into the dark house, decidedly not looking at the vase that no longer holds anything in it.

There are several unused bedrooms upstairs, but he puts Techno in his own. It will be easier to keep an eye on him here, and Techno can decide what room he wants when he wakes. For now, Phil just needs to take care of the house.

He spends the night opening the windows and airing out the house, sweeping dust out into the field and making the murder of crows on his porch angry every time they have to dodge the dust. The well is slightly crumbled, and Phil has to find a new rope, but he manages to fetch water to start washing some of the sheets in the house. He'll probably need to go to a village and buy more.

Phil manages to get the kitchen, living room, and his own room fairly clean by the time the sun begins to rise. He avoids the room at the end of the hall, the one that's door has remained shut for several centuries now. It would be the exact same as it was left, so long ago. Toys and clothes scattered on the floor, a guitar left in the corner. He can't stand to see it still, not yet. But maybe soon. Maybe he'll be ready then.

Techno still hasn't woken in the morning, and Phil stands on the porch, watching the sunrise. He used to drink his coffee out here, sitting on the porch swing. He doesn't really drink anything other than blood anymore. A lot has changed.

Phil sets off into the field, heading toward the forest. The path that led to it is gone, now, but Phil still remembers it. There should be a fork in it, leading away, and he turns to the right. There's a grove just beyond a field. The grass in the field is still wet with dew, the bright sun shining into the center. Phil swallows.

The grave in the center is crumbled and broken, and Phil kneels, bending his head.

When he buried Wilbur here, the clearing was full of lilies, but they haven't bloomed yet. His son had been so excited every summer when the flowers would bloom, checking every day as the weather warmed. It had been Wilbur's second favorite place to go. That's where Phil had thought he was going after the summer storms. To check on his flowers. He hadn't thought he'd take the left fork instead, Phil had told him-

“I miss you,” he chokes out. “I'm sorry I was gone for so long. I- you have a brother now.” Wilbur doesn't answer, but Phil has grown used to the silence. He isn't expecting one. The crows are watching from the trees, but they, too, are silent as Phil starts the trek back to the house.

He gets the house fixed up over the next few days, as best as he can. Techno sleeps through it all, still pale and cold to the touch. Phil's heart breaks every time he looks at him. He can only pray that Techno won't hate him for what he did and will somehow understand. Phil will find a way to explain, he's sure. For now, his child just needs to be alright.

Despite them being perfectly safe, now, Phil still curls around Techno during the night. He'll grow much slower, now. Who's to say how long he'll be a child? The thought admittedly, makes Phil smile a little. He'd been sad every time Wilbur had a birthday- childhood is not nearly long enough. But he doesn't need to worry as much about that now, does he?

At the end of the first week, Techno makes a soft noise and shifts in the bed. Phil's head snaps over from where he's looking through what's left of his clothes. The child's nose scrunches and his fists raise to rub at his eyes. Phil is instantly by his side.

Bright red eyes blink blearily up at Phil and he croons. Techno groans, struggling to sit up. His stomach growls slightly and Phil hums.

“Hey, mate,” Phil says softly. “I imagine you're pretty hungry, hm?” He tugs his sleeve up and bites his own wrist, just to start Techno off. His fangs aren't as sharp as they will be eventually. He holds it out and Techno latches onto his wrist immediately, almost feral. Phil pulls him closer and Techno follows, not letting go.

“Don't choke,” Phil says mildly, pushing his hair back so blood won't get in it. Techno makes a slight sound of protest but doesn't take his teeth away. Phil doesn't stop him. He'd almost starved when he was a fledgling, regular blood unable to satisfy him and no sire to help. Phil settles back.

Eventually, Techno won't need to drink just his blood anymore, and Phil will need to start hunting to find blood for him. He's well versed in finding stray travelers and hunters by now, though. But he's still excited by the idea. He won't be alone, next time. He'll be teaching Techno.

Techno lets go of his wrist with a slight gasp, lungs heaving for air he doesn't really need anymore. He scrubs at his bloody mouth with a frown, looking down at where it's staining his shirt sleeves. Phil's stomach twists, and red eyes look up at him.

“Am I- what-”

“You were going to die,” Phil says softly. “I could not let that happen.” The room is silent for a moment, wind and sunshine catching the curtains at the open window. Techno looks away for a moment and Phil steels himself for hate. For rejection.

“Thanks, I guess,” Techno says. “Dying like that would've been pretty lame, wouldn't it?” Techno stares at him, and Phil stares back. Techno doesn't... seem bothered at all. He just runs his teeth experimentally over his new little fangs, grimacing at the odd feeling.

Phil remembers that- his teeth weren't something he'd ever really considered prior to his turning. He'd never thought about how they were supposed to fit in his mouth. It's strange to get used to.

“Is this the house you told me about?” Techno asks, breaking the silence. Phil pauses. He'd forgotten he told Techno about that, honestly.

“It is,” he finally answers. “It's been a long time since I've been here. We'll have to fix it up.”

“We'll have to build a shed,” Techno adds immediately. Phil laughs, shaking his head.

“If you want, mate,” Phil says. “Whatever you want.” He'll have to find a dog for Techno when he goes to a village- he'll add it to the ever-growing list. Techno shifts to the edge of the bed to get up. Phil yelps slightly, grabbing his arm.

“You should still be resting,” he tells him sternly, but Techno rolls his eyes.

“I'm bored, though,” he protests. “I want to see the house!” Techno manages to slip away from him and darts to the door, slightly stumbling. He opens it and peers out into the hall. Phil chuckles, going after him.

“You just woke up!” Phil tells him, but Techno ignores him, heading to the stairs. The kitchen door is open and a few crows have found their way onto the counters, hopping around. Techno blinks at them, and Phil takes the chance to bustle him into a chair.

“What's outside?” Techno asks. “Where are we?” A crow hops over to the table and peers up at him. Techno stares back. Phil considers the question heavily. Techno will have questions. He'll notice things Phil won't want him to- but he can't run from it. It's better to tell him upfront, isn't it?

“We're up in the mountains,” Phil tells him when the silence has stretched for a moment too long. “Far away from danger. No one can get to us here.”

“That sounds boring,” Techno says. “What about the war?” Phil shrugs.

“Give the war a rest for a few years, hmm? You have plenty of time now.” Techno pauses, considering the statement. For the first time, something new crosses his face. A crow takes the moment to jump into his hair.

“I guess I do,” Techno finally says. “That's... weird.” Phil takes the crow off his head and ruffles his hair.

“You get used to it,” he tells him gently. “Here, wait here and we'll go out and explore, okay?” It's better to get Techno's energy out quickly so he'll go back to sleep without arguing. Techno brightens.

“Okay!” Phil digs through a chest he'd set up. He'd found some extra time to weave some dry grass together, and he pulls out a straw hat, flourishing it proudly and settling it onto Techno's head. “Ta-da!” Phil says, tying the pink ribbon on it firmly under Techno's chin.

“Do I have to?”

“Keep it on,” Phil says sternly. “You get used to it.” Phil takes Techno's hand and leads him outside. Techno peers around under the brim of his hat at the crows all gathered on the porch, croaking excitedly as they emerge.

“Hello,” he says almost nervously.

Late, some of them croak at him, though Techno can't understand them. Phil smiles anyway, pulling him past them and out into the sunny field. Techno looks out at the surrounding mountains.

“Have you ever been to the top?” He asks immediately. “Can we go?”

“One day,” Phil promises, giving up on shooing the birds away. Two of them take up residence on Techno's hat. “I promise. But that's a trip for later.”

“Where are we going now?” Techno asks. Phil tightens his hold on his hand, leading him toward the forest.

“I have a story to tell you,” he starts softly. “One that isn't very nice, I'm afraid.” Techno considers the statement, letting silence fall between them as they head to the forest, to the fork in the road that's no longer there.

“What's this way?” Techno finally asks, pointing to the left and peering into the dark trees. The stream is down there, probably still merrily gurgling. Phil turns away silently, leading Techno up the missing path to the right and walking through the field.

The grove is still just as quiet as it was, the sun shining down through the trees. Techno looks around, eyes wide, seeming enchanted. Phil swallows back the lump in his throat.

The lilies have bloomed.