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The rain sprayed his face as he ran, lungs collapsing on themselves as he went. Phil, with his ragged clothes and his hands bright with magic, didn’t dare look back at the burning masses behind him. He pushed himself forward, using his newly acquired wings to propel him forward. Blonde locks were stuck to his pale face, heading turning and spinning in every single direction.
“Fuck!” He cursed, ignoring the fact rain wasn’t the only thing running down his cheeks. “Shit!” A stone trips him, body tumbling down a perfectly placed hill. He cries out in alarm as he tries to hide his face. Jagged rocks poking at him as he goes down. When he finally gets to the bottom, body battered and bare, Phil could only look up at the storm above him.
At the swirling clouds and the dark sea of feathers that dance for new friend. He ignores the voices, because surely crows couldn’t talk . He hasn’t gone mad, not yet at least. Growing wings and being marked was enough, he didn’t need to be losing his mind too. He groans, pushing himself up into a sitting position.
He can still hear them shouting profanities, see the fiery torches over the hill from already down here. Pitchforks were sure to be raised, ready to dam him for something he couldn’t control. Phil takes a moment - just one tired moment - to look at his forearm. There embedded into his skin for the rest of his years was the mark of a witch. Of magic. He scowls at it, wishing that like the blood flowing down from his temple that it’d get washed away with the rain water.
It doesn’t though, only staring back at him like he was the butt of a horrible joke. “He’s here!” Someone yells, their face appearing over the hill. “I found the witch boy!” Phil scrambles to his feet, limbs not yet having given up on him. He backs away, trembling. When more men show up on the hill top, armed and ready, he bolts. He lets his instincts guide him over stones and fallen trees until there’s nothing but the darkness of the night to hold him.
It’s only when he’s alone - except for the crows who had followed him - does Phil finally collapse. His knees hit the muddy grass as he rolls onto his sides, heaving out quiet breaths. It doesn’t make sense, Phil’s parents weren’t witches, they didn’t have magic. So why was he cursed? What has he done? He went to church every Saturday, never laid a hand on another person without them doing so first.
So why was Phil cursed? Why was he chosen? It wasn’t fair-
Caw
He snapped his head up, eyes wide as he looked for the noise. He stops at a small crow, it’s head cocking to the side as it hops closer. Phil sighs, letting his head fall back to the ground. “Go away.” He mumbles into the dirt, eyelids heavy as his limbs refuse to move any longer. The crow in fact doesn’t move away, only hopping closer. “Really, I mean it!” He growls out, glaring at the small bird.
It did nothing to warrant the screaming but he couldn’t be bothered. The crow opens its mouth and Phil gets ready to hear its shrills. Already sensing the migraine coming on. “Hello! We are Chat-“
Phil recoils and screams.
Unlike most, Phil didn’t see the unfairness of the world until late into his teens.
You wouldn’t believe it by how he holds himself, like royalty who’s never seen a speck of dust on his shirt. He guesses he was royalty, no matter how much he dismisses the title of king. But no, he wasn’t born into it like many believed. Phil was born into a village long lost with time, when the age of magic was but a curse to be burned out of you at the stake.
He was lucky that his parents cared enough for him to let him climb out their bedroom window, but of course that kindness was taken and thrown away. Just like their body’s were shortly after they were run through for letting a witch like him get away. He was forever grateful, but the pain never subsided. The guilt never went away.
Phil saw himself as a survivor more than he saw himself as blessed. He learned of the unfairness and cruelty with time, and when that time began to stretch on far past its due date, he learned of a new type of cruelty. The type that leaves you staring at gravestones and wandering why you weren’t six feet under one yet.
That type of cruelty could only be summed up with one word, with magic. It all came down to magic in the end, the only thing that effortlessly defies the logic of the world and spits in the faces of those who possess it. A wild thing that drives the innocent to either crumble and fall, or to transform into something worth hunting.
Phil refused to become either.
It took time, more time than a mortal man had, but soon enough Phil carved his own path. With the black wings on his back, an eye for design and Chat by his side, Phil built a kingdom. One that would welcome any and all people, magic or not. It started off small of course, a few settlers running away from witch hunters. But soon enough the streets were bustling and Phil was standing in front of hundreds.
He was crowned by the people, his people, despite him saying he wasn’t worth it. A castle was built, a statue in the square was carved and he was content. For a while he ruled like no king before him, who willingly put himself on the battlefield. Not one man died alone, not one fallen soldier fell and didn’t get caught in his trembling arms. He made a name for himself by the will of not being like others.
But it was so very lonely.
“King Philza.” A servant bows, hand on their chest as he walks by. He nods his head to them, a withering smile on his face. They don’t see it - they never do - and pass on by down the empty halls. Empty wasn’t a word Phil would use much, not when guards and workers rushed by every so often. But it was the only word that could describe the hush silence.
The castle was empty, almost unbearably so. “Where are we going?” Chat ask, bobbing its head while perched on his shoulder. Phil's smile turns a little bit more genuine as he reaches up, scratching under the magic infested creature's neck.
“To the market.” He says simply, turning and twisting down the endless halls. “I have a few… errands to run.” He ignores the look the bird gives him as he makes it to his chambers, throwing open his doors. He doesn’t bother locking the door, knowing no one will enter here without his permission.
Instead he heads for his walk in closet, moving all of his royal clothing out of the way to reach into the back. Chat hops off his shoulder and glides over to the balcony doorknob. It tries and fails to balance on it. Phil snorts, as he digs out a ratty old cloak. One big enough to hide his wings. He ties it around his neck before turning to Chat, who’s now sulking on the floor.
“Chat, Chat, stop sulking.” He couldn’t help but laugh as the bird rolled on the ground, looking way too sad for just having fallen off the door handle. Phil makes his way over to Chat, scooping them up with his hands. He holds the crow up to his face, the magical animal making whining sounds. Well, if whining could also sound like needy peeps that is.
“You're laughing at us!” It cries as he opens up his balcony door, pausing for a few seconds to just let the wind hit his face.
“Maybe next time sit on something bigger.” He replies, continuing on towards the edge. He sets down Chat on the railing, hands pressed against the beautifully carved rails. He takes a deep breath as the wind rushes on by. The sun was high in the sky, beaming down on the world around him. Phil looked across the land, finding it forever unfinished. No amount of work would make it so. But he always tried.
“It’s beautiful, right?” He finds himself saying, looking down at the witches mark on his forearm. He doesn’t know if he was talking about the kingdom anymore.
Chat waddles over to him, pecking at his sleeves. “It is! It definitely is!” It caws, loud and annoying as always. Phil sighs, looking back over at his kingdom. It would have taken generations to get here, but he had seen it through since the beginning.
Phil lifts himself onto the railing, causing Chat to swauk in shock as it stares up at him. He raises his arms into the air, stretching them out. As the wind rushes past him he snaps his wings out. Black feathers catching the breeze, even shimmering underneath the sun's rays. Phil takes a second to stand there, a rocky fall below him. It doesn’t scar him anymore to have dangers below him. For as much as the world around him could strike him down, Phil could always do the same.
“Come on Chat.” And with that Phil lets himself fall forward off the edge, Chat letting out an excited chip as they jump off after him. His wings catch the air easily, causing him to shoot forwards towards the horizon. He lets out an array of whistles, Chat coping them as his cloak billows in the wind. He flies for a while, far beyond the square and into the dirt covered streets of the outer edges of the kingdom.
He frowns at the smell, but does nothing else as he flies overhead. Using the sun to block his civilian view of him. He’s been doing better recently with class division, but it could always be better. It will be better, in the future. Magic was still heavily looked down upon, even in a kingdom where their king was a witch. But people at least wouldn’t get burned at the stake here, he wouldn’t allow it.
When he gets closer to the ground Phil tucks his wings in and dives, slicing through the air like a hunting hawk. He finds a secretive spot in the darkness, maneuvering himself over. He flings his wings out once more, slowing his descent as he flies towards the darkness. He forces the top of his body upwards, wings flapping hard to slow him down. He bends his knees, ready for the impact.
The second he hits the ground pressure builds up in his joints and he runs, using his wings to get rid of the extra energy. When it finally runs out he’s left stumbling. “Oldza-“
“Shut!” He laughs, swatting at the crow as they try to land on his shoulder. The only response he gets back are chip-like cackles as the bird finds a new perch on a dusty barrel. Phil quickly tucks in his wings the second he’s got his breath back, taking out a bandage from his cloak's inner pocket. He uses it to tie his wings to his back. It’s tight and his wings are already screaming to be free, but he ignores it as he puts up his hood.
Chat lets out a sad croon as they watch him hide his identity, but they don’t speak up on it. Instead they look out at their surroundings. “This isn’t the market.” They chirp, head bobbing up and down.
“It’s not our market.” He corrects, walking out from the alleyway he found himself in. “It’s the people's market.” He gestures around as Chat flies onto his shoulder, hiding in the thickness of his hood as he walks. No one bats an eye at him as he makes it to the populated streets. Someone even bumped into him and cursed him out, it was amazing! No one knew who he was, the disguise - as sad as it was - was working perfectly.
Phil was here on a mission after all, one that couldn’t be distracted by people catching sight of him. The mission wasn’t all that important, but it took priority today. His only day off for the whole day. Well, unless another kingdom decided today out of any other day this week was the best to attack. But that was unlikely, so he was free to do whatever he wanted outside of his duties.
That being looking for tea. A special kind of tea that only a select few gardeners in the kingdom grow. He could always order his workers to plant them, but he always finds that it tastes better by the hands of the people in the outer rings of the kingdom. They do their craft well. So he holds his head down and scans the stalks on the side of the road, eyes peeled for a certain tea seller.
He doesn’t know how long he walks for, but when he stops to take a break Chat was fast asleep in his hood. The little crow chirps almost silently, muttering about worms. Phil tries not to laugh, knowing that wouldn’t look good to the people around him. Not everyone was a witch, never mind the fact not every witch has a Chat.
He makes his way over to a shop, using it to lean on. He’s careful with the wings strapped to his back, maneuvering them slightly so he doesn’t squish them too much. People rush on by, busy with their days. A few were dragging screaming children behind them, others were scoffing and cursing at passersby. Phil tries not to stare too much at any of them. It wasn’t his place to tell people how to act.
It was quite nosy in the grimer areas and villages, people covered in dirty clothes with their faces smudged. A guilty feeling crosses over him then, crawling up his back and curling around his spine. He’ll have to put this town on the long list of towns he needs to put more attention to. Phil leans off of the wall then, shaking out his legs. The tea wasn’t going to wait for him. He takes a step forward, ready to start looking for the seller once more.
A shrill scream causes him to stumble, eyes growing wide. He whips his head up, blue eyes scanning the crowd of people ahead of them. Not one person looks up. Phil tries his hardest to spot where the sudden scream had come from, turning on his heels over and over again to get a glimpse at something.
Then, when he’s about to rip the bandages off his back and take to the sky’s to get a better look, he hears another scream as a blur runs out of the sea of people and into the alleyway across from him. He doesn’t even care to see how many people are chasing after them as he pushes his way through. He didn’t care about the people he jabbed in the side with his elbow as he pushed his way across the street.
He let the swears go into one ear and out the other, not caring for the empty words. Someone was hurt and no one was doing anything! Phil pushes past the last person and stumbles, feet skidding across the ground. He looks up, eyes being met with complete darkness. “..What?” He breathes out, walking forward. It was high noon, it shouldn’t be this dark in the alleyway.
He jogs forward, the yelling he had heard pushing him on. Shadows engulf him as he enters, sending shivers up his spine. He gets close to the corner, enough to pick up the sound of a scuffle and mumbling. “Let go of him!” Someone scream’s, the voice high pitched. But it was so clearly a child that it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end.
Phil turns the alley corner quickly, getting whiplash himself from how fast he craned his neck to the side. What he sees isn’t a pretty sight. Two men were holding the arms of a boy, one pressing the end of a dagger to his neck. Blood bubbled from the small cut, spilling out onto the iron. Shadows were covering the men’s faces, making it impossible to see. Witches, his mind spits.
A second shorter boy had a dagger of his own, raised like he was going to dart forward and do something he was sure to regret. “I’ll let go of him when you pay for the fucking bread you stole, pig.” One of the men spits, the child recoiling at the word.
Phil steps forward then, hands up. “Let the kid go.” He orders , staring down at the two men. All four of them flinch at his voice, eyes shooting in his direction. The two men waver slightly but stand strong. Wrong move. “Now.” He adds, taking another step ahead.
“Or what?” One of them snarks, arm squeezing the kids harder. The boy lets out a startled scream, trashing to the side to try and get away. The dagger at his neck digs further in and that’s when Phil loses it. He darts forward with a speed only he could muster after years of being slowed down by his giant wings. The men startle but are too slow to act as he grabs at the man who has the dagger, twisting his hand until he hears a loud pop.
The man screams, Phil using the few seconds to sweep under the man’s feet as he stumbles backwards. He falls to the ground and immediately the shadows disappear, leaving the alley bright with the sun's rays. He turns on his heels, coming face to face with the other attacker. Blue eyes lock into brown. “Are you going to let him go or am I going to need to pop your wrist out of its place too?” He asks, narrowing his eyes on the other.
The man shakes his head as he lets the kid go, screaming about something as he runs. The boy trips forward into him, Phil quickly grabbing him by the shoulders as the second guy on the floor shortly takes off also. He watches them go, eyes on the open part of the alleyway. It’s only when he feels the boy in front of him move backwards does he look down. Once again blue eyes meet brown, but this time they're not full of fear. They're full of hesitance.
A sniffle rings out and in a flash the boy is running away from him. Phil doesn’t dare move from his spot as he looks over at where the kid went. The kid who was holding the dagger drops it as he reaches for the taller boy. Immediately said boy takes the other in his arms, rubbing his back up and down. “You’re stupid!” The younger one cries, pushing his snout-like nose into the other’s soaken and dirty sweater.
It’s only then that he realizes what the men meant by pig. Anger turns inside of him at the thought as he stares at the young witch. His witches mark was nowhere to be seen, probably hidden under all of those rags. But the effects were plain as day on the small boy. He had a small spring-like tail with a pink tuff at the end of it and even smaller tusks poking out of his bottom lip.
The kid looked like a mix between a fluffy pig and a human with how his curly pink hair framed his face. The other didn’t at all look like he had magic, he looked utterly human. “I know, I know. But I’m safe now, see?” The older boy kneeled down, cupping the young witches face in his hands. Blood trained down the small cut on his neck, staining his sweater with even more ungodly colours. “We’re safe now.”
Phil readjusted his hood as he took a step forward, clearing his throat. The two immediately stiffen up, heads snapping over to him. He puts his hands up, smiling despite the fact they couldn’t see his face. “I come in peace.” He says, watching as the two inch towards the exit.
“You broke a guy's wrist.” The younger boy spits, glaring at him. What did the other say his name was? Techno? If it wasn’t for Techno’s puffy eyes then Phil wouldn’t have known he was crying a second before. He sized him up, holding his head up high as his hands curled into fists.
“I popped it out of its socket.” He corrects, stifling a laugh at the two’s wild expressions. “I just want to make sure you boys are okay after that.” He carries on, taking another step closer. “Where are your parents? Do you know where you guys live? I could probably take you to them-“
“They're dead.” The taller kid cuts him off, standing up to his full height. Which only reached Phil’s chest by the looks of it. He startles from the bluntness of it, mouth opening in surprise. Dead? Did the kid just say their parents were dead? “And before you ask, no, we don’t have any other relatives.”
“I killed them.” Techno adds on, squatting down to pick up his dagger. His brother - they seemed like brothers anyways - scowls at the comment. Making him believe it wasn’t all that simple.
He maybe takes a bit too long to think over the words handed to him. He wasn’t new to loss, he was however new to learning about other people's losses. When you live as long as he has, everyone else's loss seems so small compared to his. You don’t dwell on the after effects. But standing in front of him are two children clearly drowning in the after wave. Maybe it was stupid, reacklace even, but he finds himself wanting to reach up towards his hood.
He keeps his hands down however, mind thinking over his next few words. “Would you two like something to eat?” He asks. And before they could say no, he carried on. “Also a bath, I don’t mean to be rude but you're caked in mud. A meal would do you two some good also-“
“You're kidding.” The older brother states, like it’s a fact. Phil just shakes his head. “…Why?” At that he pauses, shuffling from side to side. His wings itch to burst free from their confines. They ache to be stretched and tended to. He holds them tightly to his back, not letting them. Because the question stumped him. Why? It was so simple, yet so confusing.
“I don’t know.” He replies honestly. “I guess when I was young I’d wish someone would do that for me.” And maybe that’s it, but he knows deep down that that wasn’t all of the whole answers. Phil was guilty, truly and utterly guilty. He was king and yet two of his people, two of his youngest civilians, were orphaned and without guidance. We’re caked in mud and yelled to a crowd of people who didn’t care.
He felt bad, is what it is. Despite all the good he’s done it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t—
“He feels guilty.” Techno pipes up, running his fingers across his daggers hilt. He then turns to him, a frown placed on top of his lips. “Why do you feel so sad?” The words send shockwaves through him, causing him to take a tiny step back. Techno flinches but continues to stand tall, ruby red eyes peering into him like they could see everything.
“I’m not.” He lies, putting his hands up.
The other kid snorts, rolling his eyes. “If Techno says you're sad, then you're sad.” He pats his brother's shoulder, staring at him. “How about you tell us the real reason?”
Phil huffs, shoving his hands into his cloak pockets. “Your children.” He points out. “You shouldn’t be on the streets.”
“I have you know I’m eight!” Techno shouts, then points to the other. “And Wilbur’s ten. We’re not children.” The other, Wilbur, rolls his eyes at the younger boy's shouts.
“Still.” Phil sighs, looking at the two. “You two deserve better.”
“And you're going to give it to us?” Wilbur snarks, unbelieving.
Without a second between them Phil nods his head. “If you’ll let me.” He confirms. The two brothers look at each other, a full on conversation passing between just looks at glances alone.
Then, like it was bad to break the silence, Wilbur whispers back quietly. “I’ll burn your house down if you turn out to be a creepy kidnapper.” It took Phil everything in him not to laugh. He fully believes the ten year old would do it.
“I think my home will be very hard to burn down.” He notes, walking over to the boys. “But I give you permission if I turn into a crazed kidnapper.” Techno looks all too pleased with hearing that as Wilbur gives him the deadliest cut eye he’s ever seen. He uses them out of the alleyway nonetheless, mind now set on getting the two boys home.
“What’s your name?” Wilbur asks after they break out into the crowded street. Techno takes his hand as they push past people, dagger pressing dangerously close to his palm.
Phil looks down at the boy, a true smile growing on his face. He ignores the ruffling of feathers as Chat pokes their head out of his cloak hood, looking like it just woke up. Knowing the bird, it did. “Philza Hardcore.” He whispers, watching as the two brothers' eyes widen. “But you two can just call me Phil.”