Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A year and a day ago, the world shattered like clay. If the whole of the world had been set inside a snow globe, nestled atop a mantle piece, then forceful winds must have blown it over to shatter against the floor. Few noticed the resulting crash.

Some did, nestled in worn out spots where life was few and communities fewer.  Those in the far reaches of the winter frost or the center of a blazing desert, already hostile environments made worse. They looked to the sky as one and realized something had changed.

Nothing physical at first. There was no concrete evidence to point fingers at and call a symptom. Instead, it was watching the sky and feeling the tremble in your bones.

It was seeing but not comprehending tiny cracks, breaks in the sky. A spiderweb, really. A broken mirror made of reality itself only barely visible when the light hit it just right. Even then, it was more an experience than a sight.

Phil was one of those people. That is, he thinks he was. Phil likes to think a lot of things.

He thinks he was one of the people who first felt when everything started to fall apart. He thinks he stared and stared into a crack in the ceiling of the world for hours at a time. He thinks he hunkered down in his home. He thinks he was terrified of the change.

He thinks other people were similar. He thinks there was pounding at his door, the sounds of sirens, the firing of gun shots as the rest of the world came to know what he knew. He thinks it stopped, at some point.

He doesn’t think much about it now. It’s been a year and a day since that primordial terror took root in his heart, he hardly even notices it anymore. He certainly doesn’t notice how it warped him.

Just like how he didn’t notice his periods stopping, or how his hair no longer grew, or how his home warped until he started getting lost. Until he wasn’t quite sure which hall led to the door.

(He only had one hall, one floor, one home, hardly big enough to get lost in.

But this is another thing he doesn’t think about anymore.)

A year and a day is quite a long time in retrospect. Enough time for everything to become numb. Phil has repeated this day many times. He stands up from his bed, slips through the door, and walks down the hall.

The hall always changes, pictures shifting places and floorboards warping beneath his feet. It’s carpet today, an off color shade of rust brown closer to blood. But it’s soft beneath his feet and that’s enough.

In his kitchen is a table he’s always kept clean. A small, round thing with two chairs and supporting a forgotten cup of coffee he’s never gotten around to cleaning. One of the chairs is his, the other has been empty for far longer than a year and a day.

Sitting in the chair, he stares out the window, just as he has done many many times before. Outside the window is, naturally, the outside world.

Outside, yes, that place he was torn from, one of the many fragments lost when a plate shatters across the floor, never to be seen again unless by a lucky broom. It’s not a world he recognizes out there, outside the only window that still works.

(Though why it wouldn’t work, Phil doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t think about his other windows reflecting a bright, solid white. 

He doesn’t think about the void that is real but wrong.)

The world that has come to be after a year and a day is torn apart. Statues litter the road, chunks and limbs missing, with a thin layer of powdered rock covering the landscape. Where ivy should have grown to overtake abandoned buildings is barren. No life grows.

Bits of stars gleam from fractures in the otherwise pale blue sky. Oh, that ever changing sky, both day and night yet nothing in between.

Phil stares at it for hours, a sigh in his chest. It’s just like that first day, staring at cracks that have now grown to rifts and feeling himself be torn asunder. He does not know what he felt then beyond terror. He does not know what he feels now. 

People used to run by, escaping monsters that once made Phil’s eyes bleed but now barely cause him to sniffle. Those people became statues, those statues became monsters.

Maybe Phil is a statue. Maybe Phil is a monster. He neither runs nor hunts nor waits. He simply walks his path and watches.

(He doesn’t think about his pantry.

About the scent of rotted food.

About how he hasn’t eaten in quite a few days-months-a year and a day.

Why would Phil think of these things?

Why would Phil think of anything at all?)

Something is different today, a year and a day from the last year and a day, a stretch of time not told by the silent clock nor ever-broken blue sky. Today, there is a door in the kitchen.

He’s being silly of course. There’s always been a door in the kitchen, in the living room, in the hall. He can’t navigate his home, no matter how swirling and strange, without them after all. Why, otherwise he’d be trapped.

It’s a shift in the pattern. He feels the tremor in his bones, staring at that door outline with silver and gold filigree. Once, this tremor led to something sitting within the cracks in the sky taking and taking until all that was left was a man set to watch.

Now, that watcher stares at the door, stands from his table with two chairs, one unused, and a stained coffee cup. Now, that watcher walks out the door.

Any normal door should lead outside, or at least back to the hall. All the other doors did, back when he still had enough of something to explore his new home.

(Whether home or cage is another question Phil does not get to ask.)

There are no statues in this outside, no monsters, no running men. Phil does not think he is supposed to be here. But then, he does not think very often at all. Any concern is meaningless when there is curiosity to be found.

Wherever this is reminds him of ruins back home in a certain kind of way. The ruins that still stood in the world that existed a year and a day ago.

Uneven stones in shades of whites and yellowish grays in under the sun, colored in patchworks as light filters through the trees. Moss sneaks up from between the tiles, peppered with clover. Vines cling to ancient walls struggling to maintain centuries old carvings.

So much life. Phil hasn’t seen this much green in quite a long time. He hasn’t heard the birds quite so clearly, felt the wind whistle through trees and chill his skin. Phil flexes his hands and the world breathes.

The world stopped breathing a year and a day ago, everything since has been a death rattle. Now though? Now Phil is left to be a corpse in the midst of rigor mortis in a land that has never heard of the shattering.

He looks at the sky and it is whole, he watches. Nothing watches him back.

(What little of him remains is relieved. The majority that only knows to watch and be watched misses desperately its closest friend.

But there is still that feeling in the back of his mind.

If he has that feeling, the shattering will never truly be gone.)

“Dear Summoned Hero, can you understand my words?” A smooth, regal voice greets him. Right, there are people in this room, though Phil has seen people many times before. He pulls himself to his feet.

How he walked into being laying on the floor, he isn’t quite sure. It was one, then the other, but hardly the strangest thing to ever happen to him.

“Ah, yes. I can,” Phil mutters, almost surprised to hear his own voice. He should have lost it after not using it for so long, right? But then, that might be why those few words strain his throat.

“Wonderful, the translation runes are working. Do tell me if there’s any miscommunication regardless.” The woman bows.

Is she a woman? Dressed in long flowing robes, white silk that shimmers like a full moon, it's hard to see her body underneath. He has a feeling she’s a woman though. It’s always been a skill of his.

“I am High Priestess,” feminine title, he’s right, “Loreanna Von Strike, the fifth of my name. Welcome to Estoria, dear Hero. What may we call you on this fine hour?” Only as she finishes speaking does she lift her head.

“Philza,” He responds best he can. He hasn’t heard his full name in quite a while, can’t recall his middle or last name either. Hopefully just his first will do.

“Summoned… Hero?” Phil’s throat hurts. He clears it, tries to swallow, but neither really help. Instead, he drifts to stare at the rows of people kneeling in the ruins.

“Yes, I had expected you to not be aware. Rarely are summoned heroes privy to the natures of their prophecies,” High Priestess Loreanna hums, as if this is something that has occurred a thousand times.

(A thousand people, torn from their homes and forced to play hero.

Is that better or worse than a billion turned to statues and dust?

It is not Phil’s place to answer.)

If Loreanna is a High Priestess, the others in the room must be other members of that same church. All have the same white robes, with a strip of color that seems to deem how close they get to be to the white chalk painted over the floor.

“Three great calamities have befallen our lands, it is up to you to stop them, dear Hero Philza. Please, if you’d accept, let me lead you to the Crown so you may receive your mission and hear your fate.” It doesn’t sound like a question.

Yet it's phrased like one, making Phil wonder for a moment what would happen if he said no. If he was summoned, magic must exist here. He has no answer to magic, no knowledge of it beyond the vague memories of books he’d read more than a year and a day ago.

Would the chalk beneath him light up? Push him back to the ground and zap him into submission? Maybe the flame from interspersed candles would come alive, burning him to a crisp so they could try for another hero.

It’s not like he has any reason to suspect them of fall play beyond an adult’s perspective on this… fantasy dream. Phil thinks, once, he’d been distrustful of people with power. That was once, this is now, faded and lost.

“I accept,” Phil says, the only thing he can do. If the being who shattered the world followed him here in any capacity, it hasn’t shown itself capable of breaking this world two.

Not that Phil should expect to get any boon from it. The closest thing it ever gave was letting him watch instead of run, safe from the crumbling outside by a simple panel of glass. Glass that never smudged, never broke, never shattered.

“My graciousness for your acquiescence.” High Priestess Loreanna bows again, shorter this time. As she stands, so does the rest of the room in a rustle of fabric.

People are usually quite loud. Phil remembers screaming, remembers pounding, remembers bullets and bombs and flames. These people do not even whisper. Perhaps they are not people at all.

The chalk at his feet brightens and dims, melding into the floor and taking the candles with it. Only then is Phil led out of it and down the ancient sloped steps, each one a slightly different height.

High Priestess Loreanna guides him past the gathered figures, presumably other members of whatever Church this ‘Crown’ favors. Phil assumes the Crown is some kind of monarchy. He does remember England in a distant sort of sense.

(It hadn’t lasted long, nothing did.

What use is a kingdom in the face of a god?

Or, at least, the thing they assumed to be one. If it is, Phil has not been allowed to know.)

With her followers closing behind him, Phil is forced to keep pace with High Priestess Loreanna. She's quite a bit taller than him with a strong, wide gait, so it’s a bit of an effort.

Especially when he gets distracted upon stepping out the front gate. Though ‘gate’ may be the wrong term. Functionally, it’s a stone arch, though wrought iron does form fancy patterns in the shape of a gate that should fit the arch.

Phil doesn’t count it as one. Vines and plant matter curl around the iron so much he can barely make out the patterns. It’s an easy assumption to think the age of the ruins have rendered the gate worthless.

Beyond that is a distant castle and the matching form of what can only be a church, each resting upon its own peak. The sky is so very blue as, for a moment, Phil stands atop the world, searching for silver webbing that isn’t there.

The ruins had been their own peak, a path of flagstone and logs marking out the entourage’s path. As their altitude drops, his view of the church, stone with a marble facade and plated glass roof, diminishes. It disappears amongst the trees.

Trees, their own distraction. Phil doesn’t think he’s seen a tree for over a year and a day, none of them visible from the kitchen window. Various kinds grow in what feel to be impossible patterns around him.

Weeping Willows, Valley Oaks, Silver Birch and Sequoias. He remembers little about trees but he knows at least two of those live in opposing climates.

But then, this is not his world and those are not his trees. Perhaps they merely look like their counterparts, the resemblance nothing but coincidence.

(It leaves him curious.

Painfully, hungrily curious.)

He chooses not to ask questions about them. It saves his voice for one. A voice he’ll likely need when meeting this mysterious ‘Crown’. For two, he is not sure anyone around him will give an answer.

A mere glance to the side has shoulders tensing, though none go so far as to flinch. Phil takes the signs of tension, of fear, and hums as he wonders what it’s for.

Maybe they’re afraid of making a mistake in front of their boss, a feeling Phil once understood. Maybe they’re afraid of falling down the admittedly steep path and making a fool out of themselves. Maybe they’re afraid of Phil.

So few have ever been afraid of Phil. Still, it’s a possibility. When all he did was watch, there were much worse things to feel. But now he must do more than watch, he must do whatever the summoned heroes do, likely assigned by the Crown.

Part of him that distantly remembers fantastical novels of magic and dragons assumes that he’s going to be asked to kill. A terrible, distasteful thing. Phil may not mind watching but he’s very against participating.

Blood stains. Phil does not like stains. They’re stubborn and crude and there are much better things to think about than this.

(All he’s meant to do is watch.

He doesn’t flinch or turn from sights, for how else would he watch them?

But those who watch and those that do are different breeds.

Phil has never been a statue, a monster, a runner.

But he’ll have to be.

That’s all he can assume.)

At the base of the path is what looks like a small rest stop. There’s a small wooden building, no bigger than one or two rooms, and a carefully maintained dirt road. On said road is a carriage. Phil’s never rode in a carriage before.

Carriages weren’t really a thing in the apocalypse, none certainly ever came into his view. He’s sure they once existed. Memories of cold, of winter and bells, flicker in his mind. They’re gone before he can linger.

Lingering isn’t something you can do in an apocalypse. Phil may occasionally think back to those times a year and a day ago but he tries not to stick to them.

“Dear Hero Philza, ascend into the carriage so we may meet the Crown.” High Priestess Loreanna turns, bowing her cloaked head slightly. Oh, he gets to ride in the carriage, how quaint.

Nodding back, Phil hops up the singular step into the bone white carriage. These clergymen certainly seem to favor that color. Such an easily marred color.

Inside is plush, two benches facing one another with gauzy purple curtains giving the outside world a rather fuzzy appearance, as if looking through frosted glass. He runs his hands through the silky material.

Curious, he runs his hands over every interior bump and detail he can. While the outside may be painted white, the inside is more pale wood. Ash wood, maybe, though bleached to be even paler than the sandy tint he’s familiar with.

“These carriages are handcrafted by Master Wheelwrights, nothing but the best for our dear Hero,” High Priestess Loreanna brags. She might just be indulging Phil’s curiosity but it comes off as bragging anyway.

“Nice,” Phil hums anyway, swallowing despite the burn in his throat. He hadn’t even gotten to drink his tea today before ending up here.

At least the seats are nice, a similar lavender shade to the curtains. The carriage jolts into motion, jostling Phil while High Priestess Loreanna remains still, though she undoubtedly has practice.

“We of the church strive to bring only the most genial hospitality upon any Hero who graces our doorstep. You will not find yourself wanting while among the clergy,” High Priestess Loreanna continues as if she hadn’t heard him.

“When you depart on your journey, do seek out our churches if ever you need assistance.” She lifts her hand like she’s holding the offer.

Phil hums again wordlessly, rubbing his throat with the back of his hand. His journey, right. He’s a hero here, not a man who watches but a man who does. A journey to do with calamities. So many questions, so little answers. They can summon him from across the dimensional divide but not deal with these ‘Calamities’?

(Man has a tendency to overestimate their capabilities.

He’s seen it in every person who tried to fight back against the monsters, the statues, the cracks in the sky.

Some things can’t be fought, yet they still try.

Maybe this is the same.

Maybe he is their hail mary.

The thing about hail marys is that they rarely succeed.

Phil has seen that many times over)

Even with the carriage, their pace is slow. The clergymen walk in time outside the carriage, blobs of white and color amongst a backdrop of green. It’s a lot quieter than any crowd of people should be.

Only the rocking of the carriage, wood rolling over stray stones, and the clicking of the horses’ hooves fill the air. Phil can’t speak after so long being silent. High Priestess Loreanna seemingly doesn’t care to-

“You are quite a respectful Hero, Dear Philza. Do you mind if I refer to you as such? It is a title befitting one such as yourself. Others claiming to be heroes are quite uncouth, though I shudder thinking ill of any of our legends.” Apparently, she is not as inclined towards quiet as he thought.

Phil nods if only because that’s the only thing he can do. To be honest, he doesn’t particularly want to talk to High Priestess Loreanna either. What little he knows of her gives him the impression of someone of great importance.

Whatever his opinion of those in power had once been, Phil feels himself irked by them now. A normal person would be terrified at being ripped from their home and forced to fight.

“See? How very delightful, quite the magnanimous exterior despite your lacking aesthetics Dear Philza. That, at least, may be remedied at the church.” High Priestess Loreanna gestures with one hand. She does that quite a lot, doesn’t she.

“Do not worry about paying back your provisions Dear Philza. We would not be holy folk if we allowed one such as yourself to entertain the Crown wearing rags. You shall only pay us by doing the duties the gods have summoned you here for.”

For someone calling themselves holy, they’re being quite rude. No one is Phil’s world insulted how he looks so blatantly. There’s nothing particularly wrong about his clothes either. Sure, they’re not fine silks but they’re hardly rags.

He rather likes this sweater in fact, soft and warm as it is. Phil’s jeans might have a few holes but that’s more a cultural difference with fashion and style.

“Let the Church of Creation guide you, Dear Philza, and we will take you far.” High Priestess Loreanna takes one of Phil’s bunched hands without asking, smoothing out tense knuckles with her soft, uncalloused hands.

When had he grown so tense? Phil forces himself to relax, or at least feign relaxation. It must be all the stress. So many new things are happening all at once, curiosity can only take him so far before he becomes overwhelmed. Yes, it must be that.

(How long has it been since he’s been outside?

A year and a day, Phil’s mind supplies.

The same answer it always does.

Phil accepts it, as he always does.)

It’s with his hand clasps in hers that Phil is helped out of the carriage. No one gives High Priestess Loreanna a hand, only standing within reaction time of an emergency.

To his left he can see the impressive form of the castle, all ancient standing stone building towers and parapets, clung to by ivy. It feels like something ripped straight out of history, a place with a history of great sieges withstood. 

But before that he has to enter this church. Honestly, despite the marble facade, he’s reminded far more of a greenhouse and a typical church. The glittering white marble is nearly completely hidden beneath crawling plants, great big windows sitting where statues and mosaics of apostles should be.

A few statues do still exist, two large ones standing either side the oversized entry door in place of guards. They too are covered with moss and greenery. Perhaps there are mosaics hidden beneath it all.

“Welcome home, Dear Hero, to the Church of Creation,” High Priestess Loreanna announces softly to the silent winds. Grand marble doors crack open on their own, creaking beneath their own might, shaking off bits of dying wood from the vines that cling tightly to the edges.

Phil can imagine the church being an awe inspiring thing. The exposed rafters, glittering stained glass windows, and overwhelming plant life create something straight out of a fairytale.

He’s only imagining. Phil hasn’t found much of anything he sees very moving since… since a little over a year and a day ago. It got too tiring after a while.

There’s only so long someone can watch tragedy occur before they grow numb to it. There’s only so long one can watch before they grow numb to everything. While the church is pretty, it is still only just another sight.

“Our holy grounds have stood, lived, breathed life into the capital of Estoria for a great many years. Myth and legends have born and died while ever-loving God continues to persist,” High Priestess Loreanna continues, taking his silence for a reply.

“It is here that every worthy story begins. It is here, too, that yours may join the ranks of our beloved ancient saviors.” The High Priestess gestures towards the clergymen.

At her behest, three people step forward. One is trimmed in forest green, another sunshine yellow, and the last a deep aquamarine. That means something, Phil’s sure. He licks over his teeth, biting back the questions.

Questions are lovely things but not something Phil gets access to. He didn’t ask anything of the bygone sky, fractured but whole, and he can’t ask anything now. Maybe once his voice returns.

“I trust in our clergy to ensure our Dear Hero has everything he could require,” High Priestess Loreanna addresses the crowd. Silent as can be, they all bow.

One person takes point either side of him, the last standing at his back. Phil finds himself carted off once again. He’s led past carved stone pews, down a side hall, and deep into the church.

A spiral staircase takes him down to a cool basement, the smell in the air reminding him of a cave or the roman catacombs. Beyond that, there is no resemblance.

For one, neither caves nor catacombs have such smooth stone floors, carved into tiles with tiny squiggles that he assumes must be some kind of runes. They’re in concentric rings, so they must be.

Lines of small rooms -confession boxes?- sit on either side of the main room. It’s in one of these that he’s settled into, none of his guides saying a single thing. Odd, he can’t tell if it’s fear, respect, or some third thing that forces them into silence.

(Fear, it must be.

Those with respect are only silent when things go wrong.

When their leader dies.

When the tensions are high.

When they must listen or all will be lost.

Phil is not someone they have reason to respect.

And with a shattered world clinging to his skin?

How could it be anything but fear .)

Gloved hands push a pile of cloth past the thick curtained door. Phil hums a quiet thanks, taking the clothes they offer. His outfit, while comfortable, isn’t acceptable in their eyes and he has no way of escaping them.

He should have expected them to give him a robe, not that he would have been very surprised either way. Phil switches clothes. He only fumbles with clasping the robe closed a little.

Unlike everything the church wears, his robes are not mostly white. Instead, they’re several shades of an almost black green, highlighted with stripes of a much lighter green, maybe emerald. Small silver details hold the entire thing together.

They even gave him shoes, fancy magical things that shrunk to just the right size when he slipped out of his sandals and into the ankle high boots. 

It’s not the worst thing he’s ever worn. No, it’s not the worst by far. It is a bit strange, flowy in places he’s unfamiliar with and tight around his chest, but not so tight as to be uncomfortable.

Phil stretches the best he can in the relatively small room. Nothing proves to be restricting, and if it is then he’ll just have to deal with it. Briefly, he wonders. How did they get his size? More magic like the boots? Did he not notice it shrinking?

Knocking on the wall twice for good luck, Phil slips out of the room and back into the hands of his silent guides. High Priestess Loreanna meets them again back in the main hall, hands clasped in front of her. 

“Excellent, you clean up quite nicely Dear Philza. One more thing before we embark to meet the Crown, a blessing from our divine mother to yourself. Come, it is best not to keep the gods waiting.” She turns on her heel.

Still confined between his three guides, Phil is forced to follow. He’s never been the religious type, admittedly, and a dull fuzz of discomfort settles over him at the thought of trying to commune with a god he doesn’t believe in. 

Not that he’s against the thought of a higher power, those clearly exist, but a true god can’t interact with the world around them. Trying hasn't ended very well historically speaking.

(Or was the thing that broke the sky more than a god?

More than can even be perceived?

Does it’s essence clinging to him make him more than human in turn?

Phil forgets, as he always does.

There is no use pondering what does matter.

No god will save his soul.)

“Kneel before the altar, let Creation itself flow through you, Dear Philza,” High Priestess Loreanna orders. Piss off. Wait, no, Phil takes a deep breath. Then pauses mid step. That was… odd. His chest kind of burns.

He kneels before the… altar. It looks more like a massive copper globe covered in massive cracks, a rush of water visible within, filling his ears with constant noise. Maybe he’s overstimulated and that’s why he’s being snappish.

Sun warmed stone seeps through the cool fabric of his new robes. Phil bows his head before the globe, feeling more than a little silly for it, when…

When… it’s a bit hard to explain, he finds. Easier than describing what it felt to stare at the shattered sky but harder than something mundane like a flower. At first, it was only a bit more warmth on him, the sun growing hotter.

Gravity pulled the warmth together until it was a hand pressed against the back of his neck. Wind drew to whispers in his ears, words that no one said but he could still understand. 

‘ Another one? How cute, and this one is so…’ The whispers trail off, Phil lifting his head to see what was touching him. Light twists before his eyes, not nearly as incomprehensible as the thing beyond the stars. Phil finds his vision focusing on it.

Feathers first, the same pale white, a full moon formed into four large sets of wings. Wings that float detached from the almost humanoid body. Only almost, formed entirely of robed bones instead of flesh and blood. A ribbed tail swirls around its digitigrade legs. Said tail trashes when it notices his eyes following it.

‘You can see me…’ The thing, the god of creation, says. This must be them, so much more than human yet so much less than the beyond. Phil finds himself rather unimpressed by the whole thing.

Of course it’s much more eye-catching than any human figure but it hardly even matches some of the monsters back in his world in terms of incomprehensibility. Still, it’s so surprised about being seen . There must be different standards here.

‘How queer,’   Creation breathes. Well, it breathes every word. Phil still picks up this one as being especially breathless, matched with a wings tugging inwards and its tail twisting towards its legs.

‘You are not among the favored… and yet…’ Creation slipped from its makeshift throne, a thing of twisting air that, similar to the god itself, only Phil seemed able to see. He idly watches it approach him, clawed feet barely scraping the ground.

‘Ha… you’ll be amusing, won’t you?’ Creation hums, whatever serves as its mouth -Phil can’t say because it was constantly warping from one jaw structure to the next with no clear pattern- twisting into a smile.

A hand, made of thin silvery bones ending in long curved claws, presses against his head. The knuckle of Creation’s thumb, in between his brows, seemed to burn. First of all, ouch. Second of all, rude. It could at least ask before touching him.

‘Best of luck, little hero, ’ Creation laughs, something dark and growling, an animal that caught its prey. That’s more like it. No divine being is truly benevolent, not if a world like Phil’s exists.

(Yet it’s still so disappointing.

The god tried to scare him, to intimidate him, to twist him into its favor.

It succeeded at nothing, falling short of even the statues’ attempts.

Impartial watchers are not swayed by mere desire.)

Creation twists, a flickering film real, before a gust of wind blows it out of existence, back to wherever it is gods rest. There aren’t even scrapes in the ground from its claws to imply it was there at all.

Quite overdramatic honestly. Phil stands, rubbing the still warm spot Creation had left. Was that a blessing? He doesn’t feel any different.

“It seems the gods have deemed you worthy, Dear Philza,” High Priestess Loreanna steps forward again. Is that what that was? It seemed more like Creation thought he was funny and burned him for it.

Which really makes him wonder what would have happened if he couldn’t see Creation, if it was just left to judge him with that almost lazy countenance it had had before it realized what Phil already knew. What if he hadn’t been deemed ‘worthy’?

The lack of answers doesn’t make him distrust this whole situation. That would imply he had any trust to begin with. Well, Phil’s used to going with the flow.

Even if he wanted to ask, to fight back, there is really nothing he can do. No way ‘home’, no real reason to want to return, and no way he can even begin to estimate the danger of the people around him. Hopefully he’ll get a free pass for being ‘funny’ like with Creation.

“Yes, Dear Philza, it is time to meet with the Crown. May Creation look fondly upon you.” High Priestess Loreanna gestures again, the same three men guiding him back towards the carriage and to the castle.

Being guided by them is even more quiet than the ride to the church, no High Priestess around to fill the air with chatter. It’s a nice balm for his ears. He’s really not used to there being so much sound around.

He zones out. The carriage is the same, the landscape outside a blur, and, while the carriage moves faster without the marching clergymen, there’s nothing interesting to look at. Time slips by so quickly.

Before Phil has time to blink, not that he does that very often anymore, they’ve already drawn to a stop. His guides shift in their seats as he looks up, showing what is very distinctly discomfort.

Odd, the carriage is rather comfortable. Phil takes a moment to breathe, matching even more oddly with the three relaxing. Is it because of that? Breathing is another thing Phil doesn’t do very often anymore. He’s rarely had the need.

(Blink and you’ll miss it.

Breathe and you may choke.

Phil is neither statue nor monster, but sometimes he is close.)

It might be good for him to get back into the habit if he’s going to be expected to be in close contact with people again. People rarely visited him in his home over the past year and a day.

Some habits are easy to forget when there’s no one around, things people are expected to do and so they do them. Isolation strips many of those habits, strips people of the society's pressure to do . Then again, breathing is usually a necessity instead of a ‘societal pressure’. Usually.

“The Crown?” Phil manages around some odd blockage in his throat, reminding his guides they’re supposed to be, well, guiding him. That spurs them into motion, clambering out of the carriage first. Hm, that must be the fastest he’s ever seen them move.

Phil hops out after, lighter on his feet and decidedly less unsettled. Well, his skin is buzzing and there’s a dull ring building in his ears to give his growing headache a warm hello but that’s definitely an overstimulation thing.

Up close, the castle is no more impressive and no less ancient looking. This place really seems to enjoy the worn look, doesn’t it? Well, maybe he’s being a tad cruel.

Lingering directly in the shadow of the castle definitely emphasizes how large the place truly is, grand walls standing many times higher than any castle Phil’s seen in person before. While plantlife still digs its roots into the sides, it seems to have weathered time better than a lot of places.

Appearances are deceiving, Phil finds as they walk past the walls, through an overgrown courtyard, and into the castle proper. Inside the castle is so very at odds with the worn exterior.

For one, there is much less plantlife, what plants do exist being confined to pots and carefully pruned. Tapestries and a long embroidered carpet depict legends Phil doesn’t recognize, a few with crowns likely being former rulers.

Instead of warm stone floors there is a checker board of marble, alternating between the color of a wane moon and a grayish tone of black, the cracks filled in with alternating colors in a hypnotic dance. 

Gold chains wrap around evenly placed pillars. Anchor points lash them tightly to the ceiling and floor though Phil can’t figure out why they would be there except as a meaningless show of wealth. Like the three chandeliers hanging from the rafters.

Chandeliers in general are a meaningless show of wealth, massive light fixtures that are designed to look pretty. The larger the chandelier, the more meaningless it ultimately is.

Yet another set of imposing doors opening rips Phil from his decisive opinions on chandeliers, the clergy mean bowing low as they do. The spot on his forehead warms up, informing him he’s supposed to take a step forward.

He’s certain he could say no. No amount of pain could actually force him to listen, if he even can feel pain anymore. Phil hasn’t tested it, has no real reason to, but he still doubts. Still, he listens for now.

While the throne room is much wider than the hall, the decor continues as if it isn’t. Pillars stretch higher, doors and tables and large glass windows sitting beyond them. The tapestries are far too short to obscure Phil’s vision of the area beyond, though it’s nothing interesting.

Directly head sits a dias, and on that the throne. Three imposing steps lead up to it. Phil’s lip curls at the sight of the throne, all gemstones and gleaming ivory, quite literally a throne made from bones.

Given what Creation was made of, and this entire kingdom’s penchant for white so far, Phil’s once again not surprised . He’s more disappointed.

Ivory was never his favorite thing. Phil can’t imagine what it would take to get an entire throne made from the stuff. Unfortunately, he still has to play nice while he figures out what’s going on.

(There are many other ways to make a throne of bone.

None more ethical, plenty more less.

Is that not what Phil’s planet became in the end?)

“So you are the hero the gods have provided?” The man sitting on the throne asks, lounging as if the entire world is set at his feet. Right, there are usually people on thrones. Those people are usually called Kings.

Kings are usually depicted in their older years, with wrinkles and gray hairs, but this one has neither. The hair resting beneath an oversized crown is a shimmering gold brighter than even the chained pillars.

Phil can’t quite make out his face, resting behind a thick white veil connected to said crow, but the rest of the King’s body is fit, lithe almost. As lithe as an eight foot man could be.

“I am,” Phil responds after realizing the King has made no move to continue speaking. Gold is threaded into his clothes, forming similar squiggles to the rune room in the church. Protection, maybe?

“Excellent, we have awaited your arrival for many years, hero. Tell me, what is it you call yourself?” The King rests his head on his fist, almost bored. Phil would prefer to be in the church actually. Better yet, the ruins. He should have run into the woods while he still could. It’s been a while since he had the option to touch grass.

“Philza.” He gives the same answer to the King as he had the High Priestess, getting a much different response. The King’s head lifts, as if surprised. 

“How bold of you, Hero, to give your Name when there could be fae lurking,” the King’s head tilts, “Good. Boldness will be a requirement on your journey. Do try to avoid selling your soul though. I’m afraid not even I could help with that.”

Fae? Phil stares blankly. Right, beings of various cultural descent, with most on the European continent having some form of them. Celtic, English, Persian, Germanic, Slavic… whether any of those are in any way similar to these fae is up for debate.

Still, Phil tries to recall the rules he’d learned as a child, when he’d learned about the stories in history class and as bedtime rituals.

No true names, don’t eat their food, be polite, don’t say thanks, don’t take gifts… that’s about all he can recall, though if any apply is also up for debate. The name thing, at least, seems to have some truth to it.

“I will remember that.” Phil coughs into his fist, mouth sticky. It clears when he swallows so it’s probably nothing.

“Do your best to. I go by King Exandrius, though my people refer to me as King Ex-Dri. It is with my blessing that you shall be sent off on your journey. Tell me, Hero, are you aware of what you may face?” King Ex-Dri tilts his head further.

“No.” Phil answers simply. It’s a half truth. He knows there are Calamities, he can assume what he’s meant to do about them, but that’s about it. It is very little in the grand scheme of things. Hopefully this King is a talker.

“Let me inform you then, as is my duty as King. It was many years ago that we first heard whispers of Calamity , a being of power so terrible that none could stand in its way. Many fell to this beast but, with help from a hero much like you, it was slain.”

“That would not be the end, however, as seers from the Chaos Realm spoke of Calamity rising once more. A different form, perhaps, but no less dangerous than the last. We had not wished to believe them, yet we were proven wrong.”

“Three Calamities terrorize this land. The Terror of the Wolf, the Terror of the Phantom, and the Terror of the Moth. With each came an army. Our own could not beat them off, only managing to create a border around their infernal empire after months of careful planning. It has been a decade since the barrier was erected.”

“It has, too, been a decade since the Seers return. They spoke of a hero, one like the last, who would remove the Calamities from their power. From their words, we have summoned you.”

“With a heavy heart I must ask you to be our hero, to slay the Calamities terrorizing this land.” King Ex-Dri rests a hand over his chest. Meanwhile, Phil regrets ever wanting the King to be a talker. That is far too many words.

He still gets the gist of it. He doesn’t have to kill the Calamities, only dethrone them somehow, but the King wants him to. They have armies, are associated with two animals and whatever a phantom is, likely a magic animal?

Oh, and Phil is one guy who has to fight all these armies. Phil has to be a hero of legend despite having not left his house for over a year and a day. He has to be their weapon.

“Alone?” Phil asks, the first of many questions. King Ex-Dri laughs, a cruel thing despite its warmth. He shakes his head, as if Phil is being ridiculous. Phil would like it on the record that he is being incredibly calm and logical right now. He hasn’t screamed once.

“Of course not! I will be granting you a warrior to aid you and guide you through these lands. My very own heir, Sir Dream,” King Ex-Dri explains.

The king must not like his heir, likely a brother and not a son given the title used. Phil can’t imagine why else he would put someone so important on what is essentially a suicide mission.

(A watcher and a prince, one more than human and one that might not even be that.

Phil is not a statue, not a monster, not a killer.

He wonders, for a moment, if the prince is any of those things either.

He wonders if this is a quest or a ploy to ensure the King’s power.

He wonders if these seers are real, if these Calamities are anything more than rivals.

He wonders and he wonders.

But Phil is not allowed to wonder.)

“Thank you.” Phil bows his head to the king. He does not want to watch this man anymore. No, not a man. King Ex-Dri is mortal but he is also something else, something with pointed ears and sharp teeth peaking at the edge of every grin.

Phil can’t see his smile, his face, but he doubts King Ex-Dri is wearing that veil without something to hide. Besides, no one as healthy as the king is naturally eight feet tall. Magic is at play here.

“Naturally. Now, Sir Dream, come and meet our Hero, your new companion!” King Ex-Dri announced to the room. From behind one of the pillars, another man steps out.

Sir Dream does not match his brother’s -cousin’s? Uncle’s?- height, evening out at around five feet, but his pointed ears are much more pronounced with his short cut hair. A simplistic white mask stops Phil from making any more assumptions about the humanity of King Ex-Dri.

Green appears to be a pattern here, one that only the King and the High Priestess break. Sir Dream stands wearing a suit, the jacket a pale, pastel shade of green that fades into and out of his white, frilled under shirt. 

Brown pressed slacks are almost too stark a contrast from his top, only tied together with a one shoulder cape the same shade of green, ending about mid thigh and held on by golden chains. More green accents decorate thick brown leather boots.

“Greetings to our great summoned Hero,” Dream acknowledges him bitterly with all the grace of someone forced to practice a greeting against their will. 

“Hi mate.” Unfortunately for King Ex-Dri, Phil cares little for formality. Not that he’d have any clue what formal even means here. He’s still struggling to talk too! Nothing should be expected of him ever.

“Now,” King Ex-Dri boomed before they could talk anymore, “We shall let our Hero rest. That summoning must have taken quite a lot of energy out of him. Sir Dream, take care to guide your new Hero to his rooms.”

“Whatever you need, God King Exandrius,” Dream bows, somehow even more bitter than before. He hides it well but Phil’s very familiar with what bitterness looks like.

“Do follow me, Dear Hero.” Dream turns without waiting, just like literally everyone else, and Phil is once again led off. Does no one trust him to wander on his own? Good, Phil would get lost immediately and can’t be trusted without supervision.

Out of the throne room and down the hall, they take a left through the courtyard, treading down flagstone paths to places unknown. It’s only then, far from the King, that Phil tries talking again.

“He always like that?” Phil tries, speeding up to walk next to Dream. Well, a step behind since Phil has no idea where they’re going but much closer than he has with any of his other guides. After all, he’s going to be with Dream for a while.

“...Who? King Exdrianus?” Dream’s spares him a glance, maybe, more a slight tilt towards Phil. There’s a shift in the air.

“Yes, terrible vibes him,” Phil nods. Now Dream’s definitely staring at him, watching Phil like a puzzle. Unfortunately, you can’t solve a puzzle by staring at it. Phil’s tried. It didn't go very well.

“What?” Dream… doesn’t know what Phil means by vibes, does he? No, he wouldn’t have a reason to. That slang hasn’t been used in Phil’s world for over a year and a day, it might not have even been invented here.

“Feels like a bitch,” Phil explains in plainer words. Dream freezes mid step, stumbling. For a moment, Phil thinks he messed up and will have to deal with the terrible awkwardness that is insulting a loved one.

Then, Dream laughs . A strained, tepid thing far less cruel than King Ex-Dri’s but no less sharp. Laughter is better than silence. Phil perks up, smiling at the Knight-Prince.

“Yeah, that’s cause he is,” Dream chokes out and wow , what an accent shift. Gone is the light, floaty tone everyone has talked to him in so far, as if they want their words to drift into the sky and be lost in the wind. It’s also not what the King used, far more booming like a lightning strike given form.

This is gritty, with a heavier emphasis on vowels and a sharp cut from one word to the next. It’s much more human, despite the magical nature of Dream. For the first time in a while, Phil relaxes.

“Be honest with me, is your name really Philza? Or did they just put you up to this to make me suffer?” Dream, breathless from laughter, pulls himself back up.

“No, it is,” Phil denies, “call me Phil though.” Another cough builds in his throat, he swallows it back down, that bitter copper taste. Unsettling!

“Phil. Mundane, but it suits you. You actually got summoned here then?” Phil shrugs, “Poor bastard. I can’t believe they expect you to take down the Calamities. No offense, but you do not look like a fighter,” Dream says with full offense.

“You don’t speak like a prince,” Phil shoots back. Dream shoulders him, nearly bowling Phil over. He squawks, rubbing at the abused skin with a glare. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Dream retorts, tone oddly tame, “I’ll use princely talk when you become a noble. If you become a noble.” Dream picks up his pace, forcing Phil to walk awkwardly fast to keep up.

“With the way you’re looking, you’ll die before then.” Rude, implying Phil can die. He’s not so sure the thing that broke the sky would let him at this point. Then again, Dream has no way of knowing about it, of knowing where Phil came from. Still rude.

“You don’t care?” Phil asks, giving into his curiosity for a moment. Aren’t princes, or at least knights, supposed to care about their people? Or does Phil not count?

“About you? Why would I? About the King? Not particularly, but he already knows that. About the kingdom? That’s kinda complicated, let’s go with ‘sometimes’.” Dream shrugs as if he didn’t just explain his love is conditional.

“I’m not sure why you care though. Shouldn’t you be mad? Shouldn’t you want to go home? Kind of heartless for you to be so okay with all of this.” The accusatory words slide off like water.

“My home is dead,” Phil answers honestly. The only thing truly alive anymore is the thing beyond the stars, the sky breaker, and that’s if you can even count it as alive. Phil does. It seems to get angry, to pick favorites, to cling. Is that not a sign of living?

“Oh…” Dream falls silent for a moment, “Guess that makes two of us.” How morose, but this is at least familiar. There is nothing quite like the silence between two survivors.

Though Dream did not go through Phil’s apocalypse and Phil is not privy to whatever Dream went through, they are both survivors nonetheless. Both were changed by events outside of their control. That, Phil can see clearly.

(It is not a solidarity he gets to share often.

To be kept safe from the statues, the monsters, what falls from the remains of a broken sky…

It meant to be kept alone.

So alone, for so long. A year and a day.

How long is a year and a day?

Phil does not wonder.)

He breathes again when Dream’s stop, remembering again that’s something he’s meant to do. Dream turns to him. They’re inside, in a hallway, in front of a door. Phil is a person and something a bit beyond. He blinks and he breathes.

“I’ll leave you here and pick you up in the morning. If you wander and get lost, it’s on my head, so just stay inside. Someone will bring you dinner at some point.” Dream lightly shoves him closer to the door, a hand on Phil’s back.

A cough catches behind Phil’s teeth. He stumbles in, nodding at Dream, closing the door, and waiting for Dream’s quiet footsteps to fade. Then he waits a little more.

Only once he’s certain Dream is gone does Phil crumble. He squats, presses his forearm over his mouth, and gives in to the coughing fit.

Pain, dull but real, wracks his chest, burning up his throat. The spot on his forehead beats in time with his fluttering heart. Air fails to get into his chest. His eyes start watering.

A glob of blood spits from his mouth. Against his dark robes, the stain almost looks like water and Phil can finally breathe. It’s shaky, a bit painful, but the clearest he’s breathed in… a while. In an amount of time surely less than a year and a day.

“Much better,” Phil rasps. He straightens up, stumbling and light headed. The room he’s in is surely interesting yet, for once, he can’t bring himself to care. All he narrows in on is the oversized be pressed against one of the walls. Phil has had a long day.

A long day, a long week, month, year, whatever those spans of time even mean in the grand scheme of things. Time means little when the moon refuses to rise, the sun refuses to leave. When the sky breaks, time breaks too.

(Phil broke with it, but that’s alright.

At least he got put back together.)

Chapter Text

Quite a bit of time has passed since Phil last woke up slowly, last felt the rays of a rising sun warm his face. The void, white and ever present through his bedroom window, was far colder than this. The sun, lodged in the sky, never cared about rising.

So it’s quite the novel experience to lean out an open window and feel the morning breeze. His skin prickles with dual sensation. Warm sun, chilling wind.

There’s no ash in the sky. Glass does not fall to the earth in bits of broken stars, a god’s tears ripping into the people below. Instead, it’s pleasant. Sleep clears from his head and there’s only the distant sound of servants and birdsong.

Honestly, the peacefulness of it all is more disturbing than anything else. The manufactured quiet of a society ruled over by an arrogant king and a prideful High Priestess.

But Phil’s being mean. He knows so little about these people. They could be happy here. Maybe he’s just bothered because the only quiet he knows is the natural silence of predator versus prey, though he’d been neither.

Pushing back from the window, Phil decides to take his fill of the room while awaiting his escort. He had ignored it so rudely last night after all.

A rich mahogany, almost bloody in color, makes up the floor he’d so rudely crashed on during his little fit. While a fanciful carpet made of a diamond pattern covers most of it, the places that would have saved his knees were unfortunately bare.

Fancy patterned wallpaper is almost identical in color, maybe a few shades darker, with thin gold lines running up towards the crown molding. The texture is raised when Phil runs his fingers over it, the bumps reminding him of embroidery. 

Do people embroider their wallpaper here? Phil dismisses the question without bothering to answer it. Everything else in the room is also made of mahogany, though the shades vary.

A few pieces lean violently towards cherry, as red as they are, where others are a much tamer brown, standing out in the red room. So much red.

(His gaze is frantic, hungry.

The bloodied room soothes his needs, however fake the blood may be.

When he calms, he forgets he was stressed at all)

Red cushions too. Phil blinks, suddenly sitting on a low backed chaise. This kingdom has dressed him in greens, Dream much the same, yet the room he’s given could hide a massacre.

If that says anything, Phil isn’t sure what. Maybe there’s been a massacre here, maybe he’s being morbid, maybe they expected him to get assassinated in the night.

That last part is definitely not the case. He would have noticed if anyone was trying to kill him. Poison in his food, someone sneaking in with a knife, something like that. Yet, he slept safely until he woke up naturally.

Speaking of food, he never actually ate last night. In fact, Phil hasn’t eaten in… quite a while… not quite a year and a day but certainly longer than he should go without. Longer than anyone should go without. Enough to die? Maybe?

Phil isn’t a survivalist so the mere fact he isn’t dead must mean he didn’t starve for that long, even if he should be hungry and all he feels is numb. The covered silver platter on the low table before him doesn’t inspire hunger either.

Uncovering the food reveals a selection of fruits, meats, and crackers in one of the fanciest charcuterie boards he’s ever laid eyes on. Purple grapes, pomegranate seeds, and pre-peeled oranges are the only things on it he can actually name.

Everything else is odd. A watermelon colored green with a flavor closer to apple juice. A blue toned cheese sweeter than cotton candy. A purple toned meat more similar to teriyaki chicken than anything else.

Nibbling through it doesn’t cause his appetite to return but he does it anyway. Phil’s meant to eat. People eat and Phil, while more than a normal person, is still a person.

(He doesn’t often think but this is something he Knows)

He doesn’t finish the platter, couldn’t if he wanted to. After a while of not eating, people’s stomachs shrink, reducing the amount they can eat. Phil is still human enough for that to happen to him.

Cover replaced, Phil settles in to wait for Dream. Well, ‘settles’ is the wrong word there. He still has plenty to explore within this room, a couple doors on the far wall opposite the bed that he hasn’t looked at yet.

One is a walk-in closet, filled with miscellaneous clothing more befitting a princess than either Phil, Dream, or anyone else he can imagine living here. It’s not nearly fancy enough for a Queen, if King Ex-dri even has a queen. 

Queens usually sit next to Kings from what Phil knows. There was no room left for a queen on the throne room dias, giving Phil doubt that Dream’s mother, aunt, or whoever he is to the theoretical woman is alive. That is, if she even exists and Dream is not related to King Ex-dri through a grandfather or unknown brother.

Many questions, many assumptions, few answers. Phil brushes at one of the lace draped sleeves of an old ball gown before letting the door shut. Next is the other room.

A bathroom, which does make sense. With as much money as the king must have, every bedroom should have an en suite, including guests. It’s a simple way to show wealth. Well, Phil assumes so. He wasn’t particularly wealthy before… before.

There’s something resembling a shower in the room, unexpected considering the medieval look of everything else, as well as an oversized clawfoot tub. Both the tub and the ‘showers’ tiling is some green sort of stone threaded with a golden color. Neither keeps his attention very long.

By the sinks is a mirror. A large, standing mirror with an ornate frame that returns an old thought he hasn’t owned in a while. Phil hasn’t looked at his reflection in over a year and a day.

Quietly, he’s allowed to ponder what he looks like, trying to see if he even remembers. He knows he’s pale from his hands, certain he has some shade of blonde from the wisps of hair that plagued him when he woke up.

What color are his eyes? Does he have any wrinkles? Scars? A sense of disquiet washes over him like a wave, there then gone before he could fully appreciate the rare moment of true emotion. It’s fine. Phil’s always fine, if nothing other than fine.

Curiosity still spurs him towards the mirror with that same thinly veiled hunger he’s been trapped in since being summoned. There’s no need to be upset with such a simple answer. He just has to look.

Blonde hair closer to straw than gold, skin a deathly shade from a year and a day without sun, a scattering of scars over half his face that he doesn’t remember getting.

Glass caused them, that he knows, but the memory of how and why burns in the back of his head, searing around the hollow spot where it should be but isn’t.

No facial hair, Phil never could grow any no matter what he tried. Even the sky shattering couldn’t change that, though it changed so much about him. And then his eyes…

Those aren’t his eyes.

(But they are, aren’t they?

They’re in his skull, so they must be.

A hallowed blue.

Hollow, empty, a void in place of a soul.

Only the casing on a human, the rest squirreled away by an entity beyond comprehension.

It was so, so greedy it nearly forgot to leave any of Phil for himself.)

Very blue, those eyes. A burning shade of superheated flames, the pupil dilated in what might look like fear to anyone else. That color could sear his soul. Phil can understand why the clergymen found his gaze unsettling.

Phil presses his thumb under one eye, right above where a scar near took it out. Maybe it wasn’t glass, maybe it was just shrapnel. Either way, it almost highlights the unnatural color. Dull pink against vibrant blue.

He doesn’t recognize the face in the mirror at all before the quiet certainty that these aren’t his eyes. It’s his face, it must be. It must be.

A knock at the door draws Phil out of his self-enforced staring contest. He finally blinks, looking away from the stranger before him. That should be Dream.

The sun has risen when he wanders back into the main room, at least an hour after he entered the bathroom, if not more. An hour he spent staring at himself. That feels rather narcissistic. Except he wasn’t praising himself at all, so maybe not.

“Good morning Dream, did you sleep well?” Phil inquires politely, running off of a vague autopilot somehow still hardwired into his brain. Dream startles, hand still in the air to knock for a second time.

“Huh, you’re noisy today,” Dream comments. It’s hard to say his opinion of Phil’s noisiness with no face to read. Phil thinks his voice is pleasant, if still a bit raspy from underuse, so hopefully it’s a good opinion.

“Did you eat? Actually, I don’t care. You’re going to the armory today.” Dream is as blunt as yesterday. His orders do give Phil some guidance, so it’s fine.

“I’ve never used any weapons before,” Phil informs his reluctant guard. Dream sighs, a bit heavy to be healthy, a dull ringing at the end of the sound.

“Yeah, I know, you don’t look like a man with callouses. A warrior’s hands are pretty distinct.” Dream tilts his head down. Phil raises his hands, fairly smooth if you ignore the scars pock marking the back of one hand.

Like the glass, he can’t remember where he got them. This one looks closer to a burn though, reminding Phil of boiling oil and smoke, though if either of those sense memories are accurate, he can’t say.

“Do you have a warrior's hands?” Phil asks curious, curious, curious. Dream’s gloves, a clean white, don’t give him much to inspect.

“You’ll see,” Dream promises. He raises a hand halfway to doing something unknown, drops it, and starts to walk. Phil walks with him, paying a bit more attention to his surroundings than yesterday. An odd energy helps him focus.

The red mahogany continues into the hall, the carpet a deep woven black, some thick fiber built to be sturdy. Red climbs up the baseboards on the wall, offset by that moon white tone that honestly comes off far too close to bone given the rest.

“Is this place supposed to be so morbid?” Phil asks. Another curiosity he can now invest in with answers to get and people to inquiry. Much better than spiraling alone.

“Morbid?” Dream draws his shoulders back, somewhere between discomforted and surprised. Does he not see it? The only wood more morbid than that shade of mahogany is the bloodwood tree, the only plant Phil knows off that bleeds.

“With all the red, quite similar to blood. It reminds me of a massacre.” Phil glances out a passing window, staring out over a worn angel statue crying azalea leaves.

(It reminds him of runners, survivalists, during the early days, weeks, months.

It reminds him of monsters, always faster, more enduring, more stubborn.

It reminds him of those that lost, lost, lost.

It reminds him of blood staining the window, obscuring his view for hours, days, until the rain wiped it away.

It reminds him of the statues left behind.

Runners, monsters, statues. Statues that become monsters.

Humans that already are.

He doesn’t quite like being reminded, he thinks, however little he’s allowed to think.)

“ Blood? No, this is the Hero Wing. The red represents strength, pride, and the gold is victory. And a few other things, I can’t remember.” Dream waves one hand over where blood meets bone, mahogany and wallpaper.

“No… this is definitely the color of blood. Unless people don’t bleed red here,” Phil amends. What a silly assumption to make. This world is clearly not his own.

“Most people have red blood but this isn’t blood . It’s the context, Dear Hero,” Dream spits the title since he can’t roll his eyes. Phil wrinkles his nose.

“How was I supposed to know the context?” He mutters to himself. Really, there was no way for any summoned hero to know the context unless they were summoned from somewhere in this world.

Or, perhaps one closely attached? Portals are a thing in fiction, there could be attached worlds here. Unfortunately, Phil is from none of those theoretical worlds. He looks at this place and sees a corpse-stained hall.

Leaving towards the armory is welcomed, turning into a main hall about half the size of a ballroom with red and white marble floors, looking for all the world like a cut of meat. 

Walking along flagstone paths, Dream leads him towards the back of the castle grounds, deep within the veritable forest of the gardens towards the flattest area he’s seen so far. Packed dirt makes up what appears to be a training ground.

Straw dummies makeup targets by one side. An arrow lies abandoned in the head of ones. White lines mark the shooting lines from it, a few bows sitting on a display near them.

Two buildings sit on opposite corners by what appears to be the back wall of the barrier. One is far smaller than the others, free standing where the other is built into the wall itself. That one… the barracks, wouldn’t it be?

Phil hasn’t seen a single guard thus far, so it can’t help but feel like a useless build. What use are barracks without anyone to live in them? But then, it’s been at least a decade or two since the last hero and they still have an entire wind dedicated to them.

“Are there other knights in the castle?” Phil abruptly remembers that Dream was addressed as Sir Dream by the King. That makes him a knight, should the titles share the same meaning here.

“Yes. I’m not allowed to meet with them,” Dream grounds, walking faster towards the smaller building. That’s the armory then.

“By King’s order?” A huff from his reluctant companion, “That’s ridiculous. You’re a knight, aren’t you? How are you supposed to practice?” Phil nearly runs to keep pace. That’s odd, he’s taller than Dream but Dream isn’t running.

“Prince’s, as the highest of nobility, are obligate pacifists. To answer directly, I’m not. Well, unless in a ‘state of emergency’.” Dream stops at the door, turning to Phil, “That’s you. Feeling special yet Philza?”

Special? Given the literal summoning, Phil supposes he should feel ‘special’. Except, he was ‘special’ long before this. Being doomed to watch the world die is far more special than being summoned to save it, in his experience.

One had him staring into the void until he couldn’t tell it from himself, if there’s even a him anymore. The other is just… an environment change. A lot to adjust to but certainly nothing special.

Phil has no new abilities, no new powers, nothing that would deem him any different from anyone else. At least, not that he knows of. All he can do is observe.

(But he’s so special, he knows.

People like him, the ones who watch but don’t participate, they’re not common.

Not common at all)

Dream enters the armory, returning in short order with what looks to be a charm bracelet. The charms are weapons. Phil has enough literary knowledge to assume that those charms can grow into weapons.

“We’ll start big, then go small, see if you have any talent. If not… pick a favorite, you’re not leaving castle grounds until I’m more than zero percent sure you won’t walk into a bandit encampment unarmed,” Dream clicks the bracelet around his own wrist.

“First axes. Careful, they’re heavy.” Dream pulls free a battle axe more befitting a cartoon series than real life. In its fully sized state, it stands taller than Dream with a primary blade larger than his head.

It should be far too heavy to use, and it is. Phil can barely lift the thing, arms trembling trying to hold it in any position Dream deems ‘right’. Before he even swings it, it’s taken from him.

Next a trident, a lighter than the axe but seemingly not by much. Considering it's a thrown weapon, it must be a lot lighter, Phil’s just weak. He’s been a hermit for over a year and a day. Not a lifestyle prone to a lot of muscle mass.

The spear actually gets somewhere. While the head is heavier than expected, Phil can hold it in both hands without toppling over.

He can only throw it about two, maybe three feet, and it’s considered a loss. Phil’s almost grateful to see it go. He’d rather not use something so unwieldy.

Several swords are given, at most a dozen slashes or stabs guided through, and taken away when it becomes clear Phil won’t be able to keep it up. Well, until he gets to the rapier.

Phil doesn’t think he’s ever held a rapier quite like this, so fancy and evenly weighted, but when he holds it in his head, he can almost remember a time before. A time of face masks and white uniforms. A time of second place trophies and wide smiles.

Camera shutters, photos, a team. As quick as it’s there, the memory is gone. Still, Phil knows that muscle memory is a lot more long lasting than the memories themselves. Even if he hasn’t done this in a year and a day.

Dream seems surprised when Phil only needs a couple corrections. His foot is a bit off, his arm is raised a bit too high, but that could be excused by different fencing practices.

Nostalgia, that’s what this is. Phil feels warm going through the little motions his body remembers, bouncing on the balls of his feet and stabbing forward. He still gets winded far faster than he feels he should.

But then, he hasn’t used his lungs properly in quite a long time. A year and a day is so long ago, so long to be sitting at a kitchen table drinking tea.

Regular people need physical therapy after only a few months of bedrest, though usually that’s because of what caused them to need bed rest. The situations are comparable enough to count in Phil’s mind.

“I stand corrected, you are a little bit of a fighter. When’d you learn that?” Dream takes the rapier from him anyway, once his chest has started to heave and his eyes have begun to water. He misses it already, somehow. That drop of familiarity.

“When I was younger,” Phil answers, the only answer he has. Time holds no meaning to him, a year and a day being words he knows but doesn’t quite understand. But he knows what younger means. He knows it was far before that year and that day.

“Vague, how sweet of you,” Dream grouses, “Any other skills you hiding?” Phil smiles guilelessly. He’d reply if he could. All they can do is keep going.

Swords become bows. Bows are a far vaguer memory, forests and sunny days, small children and brightly colored shirts. He misses all but one shot. Dream calls it a loss, Phil doesn’t mind.

And then he’s given a knife. A dagger really, dual sided for both slashing and stabbing with that sharp tip, the bottom edge curving up towards the straight spine.

Phil’s used cooking knives before. He can’t quite remember but he knows from his knowledge of food and cook prep that he has to know knives too. This… is… different?

(He’s seen these knives before.

White knuckled grips, pale faces, stubborn men, women, children.

They were protectors, dumb and naive but so painfully kind.

He’s seen these knives used before.

The monsters didn’t care for pain but they could be hurt.

Blood, a black fuzz of tv static.

Screams, cutting, desperation, failure.

He’s seen professionals, journeymen, beginners, desperate fools.

It all ended the same)

The knife is embedded in one of the dummies over thirty feet away, the hilt sticking out of the shoulder where it narrowly missed the neck and chest. Still, that spot would cut into a vital artery on a human.

Quite an important artery, that one, though all are. The axillary artery, he thinks. Why does he know this? A biology class? Had he been a nurse? A doctor? Does it matter? It doesn’t, he knows, because if it did then he’d have to think.

Phil does not think. Phil does not remember throwing the knife, only the burn of the handle against his fingers when he violently flicked it away. Phil does not want to remember. Phil does not want to hold the knife.

“So what are the chances that was a fluke?” Dream asks, tossing him another knife. No thank you. This one too enters the dummy, closer to the leg, just beneath the hip.

Not deadly but certainly immobilizing. A third knife hits the stomach, it feels like a lucky throw. Phil does not want Dream to keep handing him knives.

Knives are useless things. They are the tools of desperate men and Phil does not want to be desperate. He refuses to take the fourth knife. Dream can’t make him, he can’t make him at all.

“Right, not a fluke. I get it.” Dream can’t roll his eyes. Instead, he lazily flicks his wrist, the knife sinking into the dummies head, right through the nonexistent eye. For a prince who isn’t allowed to fight, Dream is quite good at it.

“No knives,” Phil asks. It fails to be a question in any way. His voice is flat, his hands faintly trembling at his side from what could be exertion. He can only look at Dream in what should be his eyes.

“Really? They’re your best ranged option. You’d have better luck hitting yourself with a bow,” Dream snips, offering a fifth knife. There were not five knives on the bracelet. Phil glances at the dummy, the knife in the shoulder is gone.

“Knives are a desperate man’s folly,” Phil carefully informs Dream. They’re convenient, yes. Anyone can use them. They’re simple to learn. All good things.

They’re too common when survivors die. No one can use them right. No one has the time to learn when the sky has shattered and the earth no longer belongs to humans. Maybe it never did.

“Big opinions on this one. What if I forced you to take it? What would you do then? You can’t stop me. I’m not scared of you.” Dream flicks his wrist, the knife in the leg appearing in his hand. He offers one of the two to Phil.

“People who aren’t scared rarely feel the need to say it,” Phil says. He knows, objectively, that his flat voice makes it closer to a threat.

“A spar then. If I win, you take the knife and get over yourself. If you win, no knife, only rapier. You can feel like a big boy when you stab people.” Dream pokes him with the hilt of the knife.

Phil can’t say anything to that. He can’t explain what knives make him feel like, that would require explaining how he doesn’t really feel and instead merely knows what he should be feeling. It would require explaining what can only be experienced.

It requires telling Dream about the monsters, the statues, the survivors. Those that died, that changed, that hatched. The ones that were none and neither because they stared at the sky for a touch too long.

He can’t tell Dream. It’s another thing he knows instead of feeling. Dream wouldn’t understand, couldn’t, and Phil doesn’t have the words to make anything make sense.

(It doesn’t make sense to him.

He lived it, saw it, comprehended it.

But it didn’t make sense.

He can’t tell Dream how the gods are ants.)

“A spar. Hand to hand,” Phil decides. It’s easier than explaining, though he’s never fought with his hands in any meaningful way. 

Once, when there was anger, with hot faces and hot blood and counselor appointments for a bone deep rage he’ll never feel again. He thinks there were sirens. It doesn’t matter now. There were no sirens in the end.

“I can do that. We start when my cape hits the floor.” Dream turns, marching several steps away while Phil stays strong.

A dramatic flourish unlinks the chains of Dream’s cape, this one longer than the other yet still that same pale green. He tosses it into the air. Phil follows its rise, its descent.

It has only barely hit the ground and Dream has already crossed the distance. How unfortunate for him that he is still slower than some of those things, the ones that swept and flew on broken limbs pretending to be wings.

Phil is weak, with low endurance, but he knows he was once fast too. An agility that must’ve won him a reward at some point, when he learned the rapier during that time he cannot remember. He twists away from a punch.

Dodge. Jump over a kick. A hit to his stomach, but Phil does not remember to breathe so there is no air to lose. He punches back. It’s sloppy, glancing off Dream’s side.

None of the swings try for his head or nose, though Phil is about half a foot taller than Dream so that must be why. Phil makes up for it by tanking a hit to his sternum and elbowing Dream’s skull.

There’s a stumble, an opening, but not enough skill to take advantage of it. He tries, going for a kick. It unbalances him.

His back hits the floor. Dream pounces, pinning him with a knee against his stomach, still sore from the previous hits. The fight barely took more than five minutes.

Breathing is hard anyway, not just from the pin. Phil has not been pinned in a while. He was never stuck under a building, earthquake rumbling a home off its foundation, or beneath a monster, the ones he never got close enough to touch.

Despite that, his reaction is the same. Dream starts to pull back, to announce his win, and Phil throws his weight up. It’s not enough to destabilize Dream, the pin is too good, but that wasn’t Phil’s goal.

Teeth break skin. Blood coats his tongue, for once not his own, and Phil growls into the wound on Dream’s neck. It’s animalistic, dizzying, he hates it. He thinks he should, at least.

Numbness swarms his chest, his limbs, so it doesn’t matter what he thinks. Dream yelps, slapping at the back of Phil’s head, trying to remove him in a way that doesn’t cause Phil’s tight grip to tear out his throat. 

Right, tear out his throat… why had that been Phil’s first instinct to being pinned? It doesn’t matter, not really. He lets go, jaw dully aching, and lets himself be pushed back down. His head hurts.

Faster than his first attack, Dream scrambles up. A white gloved hand presses against the wound on his neck, turning the fabric pink and red with blood.

“Fine! Fine! No knives. By the gods , did you really just bite me? ” Dream pitches up, voice high with incredulousness. Phil slowly pushes himself up. He’s dizzy, the spot on his forehead burns, but it’s probably fine .

“Oops,” He mutters. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, it comes away smeared with blood. The second wipe is more of a scrub with the edge of his robe sleeve.

Dream laughs, just as terribly pitched, devolving into a wheezing thing that reminds Phil again to breathe, to blink. He’s laughing. Phil earnestly tried to kill him for a few seconds there and he’s laughing.

“You are feral ,” Dream cackles, “Maybe we will get along.” The musing is light, a dawning of understanding. Phil very much does not understand. Phil has several questions. Phil does not get to ask these questions.

“Rapiers it is then. No armor, sadly, the Creation Church is picky and it ‘ruins their aesthetics’. We can pick you up a mage shield when we get our assigned spellcaster though. I think they picked a healer,” Dream rambles.

“Probably for the best if you’re going to be biting people . By the gods, I need to see the look on the High Priestess’ face when she hears that.” Another wheeze, a half aborted laugh.

(He doesn’t understand.

Nothing he’s seen could make this interaction make sense.

People don’t like pain, monsters, blood.

Dream is laughing.

He doesn’t understand.)

“Sorry?” Phil tries. Generally, you’re supposed to apologize for hurting people. Dream snorts, waiting him off with the hand not staunching blood flow.

“It’s fine. The mages will fix us right up. Besides, I did you one worse.” Dream leans down, digging his fingers into Phil’s sternum. Something that is very much not supposed to shift does, a burn of pain. Phil winces, eyes watering.

“Did you not notice? I’ll add pain tolerance to your tiny list of skills besides rapier and the ability to terrify everyone you come across,” Dream quips. The tone of voice seems joking at least.

“I scare people?” Phil changes the topic, any concern he once had stripped back in layers, peeling the bark off a tree. He stands, cupping his apparently broken ribs. Broken, not cracked. He knows the difference.

“You unnerved the King , Philza. This isn’t philosophy,” Dream points out. Did he? Phil couldn’t tell, not between the distance and the veil. He’ll have to take Dream’s word for it.

“But, anyway, we should start over to the mage tower. If we’re quick, we should be able to be healed and steal food from the kitchen before we get kicked out so you can go die trying to kill the Calamities,” Dream estimates, looking at the sky.

Phil can’t tell the time by the sky, he can’t tell the time at all. Looking at the sky only makes him miss the sky staring back, though its subtle shifts in color are fascinating to behold. It's too different.

“Why would they kick us out?” Phil asks. Dream walks away, still cupping his neck and seemingly unbothered by it. Phil is distinctly less unbothered by his ribs. Each step hurts, no matter how numb he can apparently be to pain.

“You really ask a lot of questions,” Dream comments in place of answering. Well now Phil actually wants to no. A non-answer only fuels his curiosity, even if Phil knows needling Dream will only bring ire instead.

“I should ask you a question,” Dream decides, “Did you alway bite people or is this a new development?” Dream should really stop asking about Phil’s past.

Asking about his past makes Phil have to think about his past to answer and the thing that broke the sky took his past. Not all of it, leaving enough for Phil to continue to walk and talk and breathe, but most of it. 

There are no answers to his past, only to his present. The apocalypse he can’t explain, the future he can’t see, the deaths he can’t mourn. Phil doesn’t know if he has anyone to mourn, if anyone mourned him. Could they mourn him when he still walks on?

“Always, it’s effective,” Phil lies as if he wasn’t driven purely by animalistic survival. Maybe that’s why, actually. He lost so much of himself that there’s far too much room for his base instincts, that part of humanity that never left the animal kingdom, couldn’t if they tried.

Not enough of himself to be human, leaving him both a little more and a little less. There’s something poetic about that. Phil can’t say what.

“Good point, people never expect the wild animal to bite,” Dream nods. Is he joking or seriously considering it? Phil wonders for a few seconds before deciding it works out either way. Not that Dream can bite with that mask in the way.

Following around the back wall, they enter into a majestic garden cut through by a roaring river and a gazebo playing at being a bridge. They don’t linger.

Past that, curving around the side of the castle, sits what looks to be a set of cellar doors. Dream flings them open without care, only fumbling a little at having to do so one handed. Phil doesn’t help, Dream doesn’t ask.

“Tower?” Phil mutters as they head down into the cellar using clean cut stone stairs. Each one has carefully carved runes on the edge, almost invisible in the slowly decreasing light.

“It’s an inside joke. Towers are apparently ridiculously common for lone mages. Couldn’t guess why but, then again, I’m not a spellcaster,” Dream shrugs.

He can’t argue against that. Dream runs his hand against the wall, somehow prompting the runes on the stairs to start glowing. Fantasy LEDs, Phil’s mind instantly classifies them as. That, too, brings nostalgia.

(A desk, monitors, glowing keyboards.

Jokes, laughter, frantic clicking, yelling.

Friends, rivals, enemies? More.

Lost, all gone. Never had them, not in the end.

A year and a day. 

For their own sake, let them be dead. )

A blink, they stand at the bottom of the stairs in the middle of a room. A single door sits in front of them, carved from quartz. Dream marches up to it like he’s done this before.

“Lotus Entry,” Dream speaks clearly, resting his hand on the door. From that hand, color shifts through the quartz, turning the door from white to a rich walnut. On the door rests, fittingly, a rose quartz in the shape of a lotus blossom.

“Magic door, changes to whatever entrance you tell it to. There’s a bunch of passwords though. I only get to skip them because I’m-” “Special?” Phil ends. Dream coughs, winces, and presses his hand harder against his neck.

“Yeah, special. I was going to say the crown prince but that works too.” Another instance where Phil is half certain Dream is rolling his eyes.

Past the door is a large lobby. Geometric patterns of white quartz and topaz cover the floor of the room. More pillars stretch up two floors, framing a pair of double staircases. At the other end of the room, a curved counter with several figures sitting inside it.

It is, by far, the busiest place Phil has been so far. Dozens of spellcasters, for that must be what they are, bustle about in groups or on their own. A seating area directly to his right sits a group of young teens chattering nervously.

Large stacks of paper or leatherbound journals are darted about, passed along, with stray pieces flying off without a care. They run up stairs, through doors, never in one place for too long.

Except the ones behind the counter, words obscured by a constant input of noise. Phil steps back behind Dream. It’s so much , his gaze flickering between every new face.

“Stick close, they’re busy,” Dream has to talk louder to be heard. Phil does what he’s told, hunching over Dream like he could hide behind the smaller man. His vision fuzzes at the edges. Here he thought the outside was overstimulating.

Somehow they make it through the crowd. Phil knows he has forgotten to blink, to breathe, but doing either would surely be too much effort to withstand.

Behind the counter is a young child, no older than eight, with dark black hair and eight equally dark eyes reflecting the oranges of the topaz floors. A set of sharp teeth like mandibles peek out from his lips.

(Familiar. A survivor half mutated.

He calms.)

“Hi Prince Dream! Here to pick up Ranboo?” The child chirps, a low hiss to his voice like a snake, forked tongue peaking out from behind his lips. Dream tilts his head.

“I see, that’s to whom we have been assigned. You may feel my graciousness for this effort.” Dream smoothly transitions back into his princely accent, so very different from his usual voice that it's jarring. Phil would flinch if he could.

“You can find him in Healer’s Hall B!” The child, who is apparently a receptionist, holds out a folded paper airplane. Dream takes it. That must be normal here, for some reason.

“May Creation smile ever upon you.” Dream nods. The child repeats, and Phil is led away. They squeeze past the crowd to one of the only doors not actively being run through. 

Phil really does not understand what’s going on but Dream throws the paper airplane at the door, causing another bleed reaction that fades to a bamboo door marked by aquamarine.

“I have many questions,” Phil informs Dream blandly. Dream tosses him a look, opening the door with his free hand. 

“This is not common procedure in the Other World? I see. It is quite simple. On that parchment lay a rune. That rune informed the door where we wished to be, and so the door became what we desired.” Dream steps through.

“And the child?” Phil glances back, then lets the door shut behind him. They enter into a hospital, almost identical to one if it weren’t made from marble and terracotta. 

“What child? Ah, you mean Mage Shroud. Nothing to be concerned over, merely magical backlash resulting in a physical, though not provably mental, regression. The details were not explained but he shall recover in due time.” Not child labor then, good.

“Now, shall we retrieve our magnanimous healer?” Dream heads to the next reception desk. This time it’s an older woman, time bringing heavy wrinkles and sunspots to his skin, dressed in what closely reminds Phil of a qipao, though the color is hospital gown blue.

“Greetings to our beloved crown prince, Sir Dream,” The woman stands, bowing with an aching back. Her eyes are warm, looking at Dream with exasperated fondness.

“Greetings Healer Cecilian. I have brought our Dear Hero to retrieve an assigned spellcaster referred to as Ranboo. Perhaps a few of your services would not be ary either.” Dream does not appear to return her fondness. His tone is princely, his body carefully held, his face hidden as always.

“A task in which Healer Ranboo may undertake. Let it be a first trial, an honor to the ender of Calamities,” Healer Cecilian redirects Dream. She gestures towards a door on her right.

“The first door on the left,” She guides. Never once does she look Phil in the eye. Never once does she look at Phil at all. Phil lets that be. A patient, testing a bandage wrapped hand, brushes by his back. He lets that be as well.

The first door on the left is fittingly labeled ‘Visiting Area One’ in hand done calligraphy, though clearly etched into the glass window. Inside are terracotta floors, walls so white Phil would not be surprised if the void overtook them, and a tall man sitting on one of two couches, a table between.

No, not a man. While they are tall, less so than King Ex-dri but more so than Phil, their facial structure reminds Phil more of a teen. Gangly limbs, too long and thin for the body they are attached to. 

Vitiligo colors black skin, closer to that of a marker than a genuine skin tone, painting them half white in a line so neatly it must have been done with a ruler. One eye is green, the other red.

(Don’t look.)

Their robes are short, ending at their calves, and every bit of skin below their head is fitting with fabric, white over black skin and black over white skin. It seems whoever commissioned their robes had a sense of humor.

Checkerboard reminds Phil of chess, the poncho overtop their robes held in place by a gleaming jewel that is not a jewel at all. Instead, it is an eye encased in resin, staring. 

(The eye can watch. It is not blind.)

“Hi mate, Ranboo was it?” Phil finds himself speaking first for once, talking to this teen with a soft smile that feels unfamiliar on his face. He ducks his head in greeting like so many did to Dream.

“Greetings to the Dear Hero, Greetings to our Crown Prince, Sir Dream,” Ranboo carefully enunciates. While they appear calm, a long tail ending in a puff of fur like a lion swishes with anxiety. Clawed hands clasp, subtly flexing as they sheath and release.

“Call me Phil, everyone does. We were told you were going to join us on our mission? That’s great, you seem sweet.” Phil sits on the opposite chair, ribs flaring with the drop.

“It’s quite the honor to-” “No need to be so formal. We’ll be traveling together for a while Ranboo, that would be too stuffy to deal with.” Phil scrunchies his nose, sticking his tongue out a bit in an attempt to seem more silly than unsettling.

“P-pardon?” Ranboo stammers. The long ears either sided his head flick back, pinning for a moment before righting themselves, silver earrings clinking against each other. Phil is heavily reminded of a doe. It’s adorable, he’s sure.

“No formality,” Phil enunciates slower, “Couldn’t keep it up if I tried. Besides, if I have to listen to Dream play Noble Prince any longer, I’ll claw my ears off.” Dream makes an offended noise.

“I am a perfectly noble prince,” Dream argues back, struggling to keep the noble accent and therefore proving Phil’s point. Ranboo jumps between Dream and Phil like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Say that to my broken rib,” Phil snips back. He presses against it to make himself hiss, eyes watering from the pain. There’s a wounded noise, a high pitched whine from Ranboo. Is that worry? It might be.

“And you tried to tear my throat out, I think that makes us even,” Dream scoffs. For the first time, he shows his wounds, pointing at it.

The thing Phil seemingly forgot is that Dream had been wearing a silk color. Said silk is not particularly health, a chunk torn off around a bloody wound on Dream’s neck.

A clear indentation of teeth, several bits of flesh torn off, dried blood and bright pink skin coloring around it. Ranboo whines, broken and higher pitched.

“You’re worrying the child Dream, cover that up,” Phil chides, gesturing to Ranboo. That seems to be the teen’s breaking point, slipping their face into their hands.

“I’m twenty years old?” They reply weakly. Oh! Not a child then. Looks are deceiving, how silly of Phil to make that mistake so soon after Shroud. That must be insulting to Ranboo and their hard work.

“Sorry, I’m still getting used to having all these other species around, it was just humans back where I’m from. That isn’t an excuse to be rude though. Assumptions are terrible,” Phil explains. Ranboo peeks from between his fingers.

“Really? You reacted so well to Shroud and the King, most of the heroes of legends did… well, there was an adjustment period, according to the church.” Dream sits on the armrest closest to the door.

“I assumed there were other races than humans in yours. ‘Special’, and all that.” Dream sets his blooded glove lightly over his neck again.

“There were other things, they were not living. Not in any way that mattered,” Phil answers. Ranboo freezes, face still half obscured. Dream tosses up his free hand.

“Okay, okay? What the fuck. You talk to him all soft like and I get that? ” Dream complains. Phil doesn’t think he acted much differently. Of course, he’s certain he likes children and teens a reasonable amount but that means little.

“ What?” Ranboo wheezes, somewhere between regret and morbid curiosity. Phil smiles again, that’s a question he can answer. He enjoys those kinds of questions.

“The living are never truly free, neither are the dead. Those in between, however, remain landlocked to the plain, they change and shift, and they will never be human again,” Phil explains carefully. It’s the best explanation he can give.

“ Why did I accept this mission?” Ranboo mutters to themself. Back to questions Phil has no way of knowing the answer to. It was nice while it lasted.

“It gets worse,” Dream assures Ranboo, “If it helps, you can try doing your job and healing this. Philza broke a rib too, like he said. Show us what you can do.” He gives a lifeline.

Ranboo takes it. They stand, circling around the table to get closer to Dream. Gentle, he pulls Dream’s hand back, inspecting the wound.

“He bites hard,” Ranboo assesses, “Rough break, uneven teeth. You fought back. No bruising, which is odd, but that will make the healing process smoother.” The words are careful, practiced. They’ve done this many times before.

“I can heal it closed today but it will be tender for the next two to three and the skin more susceptible to breaking. Wash carefully.” Such a smart kid- adult. Still, smart, Phil is proud, maybe. He should be.

“Noted,” Dream responds, unable to nod. Ranboo whispers a few words, meaningless syllables to Phil. They’re rhythmic, almost a song, inspiring a bright glow over Ranboo’s hand. Even after the whispers end, they keep up a low, stead hum.

Careful as can be, they brush over the wound. Blood fizzles softly, pop rocks in his mouth, disappearing. Then, the flesh starts to knit.

(Knit, bone and muscle and blood and veins tying together.

Knit, no skin, not really, a carapace of concrete and metal and rubber.

Knit, rough and incomplete and dead and moving.

Knit, threads formed for broken stars, the sky that bleeds.)

Pink skin sews itself over the bites, leaving the area raw but otherwise unharmed. Ranboo tests it with his fingers, Dream slightly tensing, before pulling back and letting the light die. 

“You were the right choice,” Dream hums, cupping at his neck reflexively before pulling back. Ranboo turns towards Phil, body obscuring Dream as he quickly replaces the glove, out of sight. Or, so Phil assumes, since it’s pure white again once he can see.

Ranboo assesses Phil, first at a distance, never meeting his eyes, then pressing two fingers over his collarbone. Phil mimics Dream, remaining still and quiet.

They press over each rib, going down his chest until he hits the spot that shifts and hurts. Ranboo freezes, glancing up, then back down. A soft hum, a different colored light.

“Uh… are you not breathing?” Ranboo asks. Considering breathing hurts, Phil would hope not. It’s much easier to stop in this case.

“I fell out of the habit, I’m afraid. It’s been difficult to return to.” Phil smiles, attempting reassurance. He’s fine, honestly. The rib will heal on its own, the pain will fade.

“ Breathing is a requirement of every living thing?” Ranboo stresses, stammering over their ‘e’s. Phil recognizes that statement, most assuredly from a biology class. It had been true then. When the sky broke, everything stopped being.

“I, well, I guess it did- help? You have a rib, in your lung. You should be, probably, drowning in your blood? But they didn’t move so the rib is kind of- acting like a block. Like not removing a knife from a wound,” Ranboo fumbles.

“Even if I hadn’t, drowning wouldn’t remove me from this world. I’m not allowed to die,” Phil assures Ranboo, “it would hurt, but I wouldn’t die.” Ranboo’s tail thrashes.

“Everything you say is concerning. You do know that, right?” Ranboo stutters, “Um, but I can heal this. Internal organs are tricky but, well, I should be able to at least move the bone away and close the gap.”

“It’ll be ridiculously easy to break the rib again but it won’t puncture your lung. Unless you break a different rib. I… don’t do that, Mr. Hero Immortal Sir,” Ranboo order. Phil nearly laughs, what a strange sound.

“Don’t be silly, I’m not immortal,” Phil waves off the ridiculous notion. Immortality, honestly. Dream leans closer, judging him.

“You just said you couldn’t die. That’s textbook immortality,” Dream argues back. Oh, that’s a good point. Phil can see where the misunderstanding occurred.

“Immortality is the state of a soul unable to leave its host. That is not what I said I was,” Phil reminds Dream. He can’t leave this realm, that doesn’t make him immortal. He knows, somehow, that other watchers have changed before.

Not mutations, but different. Faces, bodies, personalities, the same in every way that matters and different in any way that doesn’t. Phil is one of the few who haven’t changed.

(Does that make him lucky?

Does it not?

If he changed, he would not be here.

The answer may lie in the future he can’t see.)

“Incredibly feral answer. You sound like you eat rats,” Dream decides, nodding. Ranboo’s humming breaks, noticeably stuttering Phil’s rib before it continues. Phil tilts his head, considering.

“I ate a raw egg once, is that similar?” Phil has had it in place of tea when he ran out, sometime during that year and a day. Since then, his cup had been filled with all manner of things, none of them exactly tea. Tea it will be called anyway.

“Depends, shell or no shell?” Dream props his chin on his hand in feigned seriousness. A seriousness that grows increasingly less comfortable the longer Phil has to think.

Had it had its shell? The memory of drinking an egg is faint, though not nearly as faint as the before. Phil doesn’t believe he’d ever add the shell but, then, he hadn’t been the one to fill his cup. He might not remember how.

“It was crunchy, so probably?” Phil hums. Ranboo stands suddenly, hands at his sides. Phil blinks, the first time in at least fifteen minutes.

“Has the Hero had his magical assessment yet?” Ranboo asks. Ah, a change of subject. He’ll allow it if only to stop trying to consider the concept of time. It is not something he is allowed to understand.

“Nope, should we? I gave him a sword, he knows the pointy end goes out, are you really going to try and train Philza on magic?” Dream stands too. Phil also stands, because otherwise he’d be the only one sitting.

“I may try,” Ranboo replies noncommittally, “it depends on the result.” Phil could have magic? He would have thought he’d be able to feel such a thing.

Apparently not, if he needs to be assessed. Dream shrugs, leaving the room first. Ranboo seems less okay about letting Philza stand at his back so, naturally, Philza follows suit. Their little trio leaves the Healer Hall.

Back in the lobby, Phil retreats into himself, shutting out all the extra noises. He’s seen this room before, he doesn’t need to see it again. 

Receptionist, paper airplane, door, a dark room with a robbed mage and a crystal ball atop a round golden display. There is so little to look at, so little to care, that Phil barely comes out of his shell.

Noise washes off his like water. He cares more about the incredibly faint lines in the floor. There is texture beneath his boot. Runes, maybe? That is usually what those textures are. Maybe the room is artificially dark.

Why? The crystal ball must be the reason. Maybe it glows, maybe the glow is usually faint and the darkness helps them see it. Maybe it will not glow for Phil at all.

He isn’t sure if it should. There is no such thing as magic where he is from. The thing that shattered the stars is so much more than magic, than life, than death. The monsters never needed it, the statues never fed off it, and the survivors never used it to fight back.

Magic is not a thing Phil is supposed to have. Yet, he’s pushed forward and made to press his hand against the top of the ball. He’s not sure what he expected from it.

Not another figure, flickering into place, made of faint lines the color of sunshine. Only the outlines of eyes, of lashes, blink open. She swirls around him, suggestions of clothes and hair.

Such a faint light. Phil wouldn’t be able to see it if it weren’t so dark. She cups at his face, a cold fuzz, an autumn chill as the days turn to winter. He lets himself look at her.

A scream. No one reacts, making him assume only he can hear her scream, feel her hands dart away as if burned, see her faint light break against the outer wall.

“A very high magical aptitude! Fitting of a great hero, is it not? Whatever our Dear Hero may wish to learn, I see great success,” The robed figure, pot bellied and gruff, speaks excitedly.

High magical aptitude… Phil stares where the woman disappeared. With that reaction, he’s not sure he should use it, magic so terrible that she ran the moment she could. He’s certain it’s related.

“No thanks,” Phil denies. The figure splutters, their name lost to him. Dream and Ranboo seem to agree, sharing confused and startled looks at his blatant dismissal.

“But whyever not? You could be good! Powerful ,” They insist. Phil has no need for power. Artificial power helped no one when the time came. All their bullets and bombs could not stop what had already occurred.

Phil looks at the figure, at green hazel eyes obscured by shadow, ringed with gold and flecked with an orange shade of brown. The figure looks back, slowly tensing and shifting. He recognizes this figure, abstract as it is.

One who sees power, who encourages it even if they themselves lack. One who delights in the next big ‘boom’, certain that none may match. One who brags at accomplishments not their own. Own who doesn’t care what it costs, only the results.

A figure who does not deserve the power they hold but have it anyway, whether because of money, influence, birthright, luck. Phil sees them and he does not smile.

“You shouldn’t ignore the screams,” Phil ends up on, “They will haunt you in the end.” He removes his hands from the ball. The figure startles, speaks back,

“What are you talking about? This room is soundproof.” They argue. Perhaps it is, perhaps that’s why Phil can focus so easily. Perhaps the soundproofing only makes their argument worse.

“If you aren’t aware now, you will die ignorant.” He turns around to find the door, then realizes he can’t actually see it. Dream stares at the figure for a long moment, Ranboo staring at the ceiling, before Dream takes Ranboo and guides them out of the room.

The doors shut behind him, soundproof. Phil has nothing planned but, still, he thinks something terrible will happen behind them soon. A locked, hard to escape, soundproof room is rarely a good thing to have.