Chapter Text
Ț̷̝̦̺͖̌h̴̳͖̍̀͐̏̕ȇ̸͚̲͕͍̣̤̀͠ͅ ̸̞͈̹̠͕̠͓̀͊͌̎͘H̸̨͔͂o̵̻̻̽m̸̤̰̟͍͖̙̈́̀͊̄̿͌̅e̷̥̲̣̲͋̔͝͝l̸̡̦̠͈̮̥̼̽a̵̩͈̜͍̞̲͐͌̀͗̌͋̕n̶̞̣̹͐̄d̷͇̱̹͇͕̑̀̿̇͠͝,̷̨͕̳̦̼̪͒̀͌͜ ̴̨̗̻̮̝̙̑̀̌̃̀ͅ5̷͉̻̤̽̋̔́͠ͅ1̸͉̺̤̟̋͆̅̅ͅ2̴̙̤̮̳̬̭͓̎̋,̸̣͉̓̓͐̒̍̽̂0̶͈̈́͜7̶̘̳̘̲̤͙̪̏̿́̈́̎͝4̵̪̹͆͒̌̀t̷̳͒́̌h̶̹̼̔̐̅̄̀͜͝ ̷͕͇͎͙͍̤̋͑͛d̸̢͔̯̻͒̈́̿̋̆͘͘ͅa̵͔̰̬̠̭͑̀͋̽̕ͅy̵̝̺͝ ̴̻͚̝̺̓͆͋̉͝ö̶̳̣̫͉͖̼͎́͗̃f̵̛͓̈́̽͗̑̐̕ ̶̦͉͇͓̘̈́R̸͈̅͂͒̓e̷̜̊̔̊͘͝͝ͅg̶̭̭͖̖̽̍̓̇͌̈ṛ̴͒͂̔͛̃͛ë̷̢̤̙́͋t̶̩̤̹̂̌̄̽͠,̶̛̰͕̺͎͂̽̂ ̷͉̑̊Ỹ̷͇̱ę̶̰̲͕͓̪̮́̂͘a̵̡̛͓͚̫̩̥̻͑̐̍͌r̶͍͇̹͌̃̀ ̶̨̹̙̳͉̣̀̏́͐o̵͈͑f̴̥̙̣͙̪̱͂̑͝ ̸̡̛͍̎̓͛ẗ̴̡̩̲͙̖̅́̔͆͝h̷̡̪͚̃ȩ̵͓͌̔̏̋̓̿ ̸̧̜̰̜̝̙̤̎̚B̴̡̻͖̼̘̯̺̈̍̀͐̒̒̀l̴͖͈̯̠̒̊͋̌͌͜ä̷̧̢̘̙̠̘͇͆̍̈́̀͛c̴͙͈̻̩̏k̷̯̑̈́̄̚ ̶͓͎̝̖̫̍̈́̅͜M̵̡͍̰̀́͒̅͑̂͝o̷͇̻͓̫͈̽̈́o̵̡̧͇͓͛ͅn̶͍̱̭̲̆̈́ͅ ̴̢̛̫̬̈́̅̃̾́͝(̶͕̼̲͈̠̣͊́͗͝1̴̭̘̙̭̌4̸̡̟͗̾̄̆̈́͗2̶̣̈́͋̀3̶̙͌)̸̯̠͎̀
̸̟̭̪̲̭͘
̷̣̖̰̯̗͇̀̈́͝1̶̡̛̙̩̝̀̽͗̾4̶̡̔̂̌̓̾͂́0̸̢̯͈͓͌̄̈́̊̄1̷̥̘͎̠̜̓͊͒̒̐̎ ̴̫̭̋ỳ̴͓͙̖̬̗͚͌̆ē̴̢̮͌ā̴̛̤̠͂r̸͈͗͑̔s̴͚͍̮͍͗̂̑̿̒̐,̶͎̩̱̈́͛ͅ ̵͕̯̤̜̱̀͊̕1̵̬͕̐1̵̧̳̦́̐̉ ̷̞̬͙̹͚͉̅͑͠m̸̰̮̗̥̼̑̅̾̑̓͋ơ̷̤̲͚͍̿̇̍̽n̵̡͚͓͂̄́̑͝͝t̶̗͓̟̀̊̿̍͝ḩ̴̧̮̥̀̀͒̚ș̵̾,̷̢̩̠̰̖̎̕ ̴̘̯̭̘͎̹̀͘͝͝2̷̧̰̳̝̝̬̂̊̃̕͘4̶̡̻͕̠͖̂̂ ̸̧̨͈̇̀́̄̿̕d̷͍͆̀̽͒͗̕͠a̵̦̥͈̪̩̹̳̾̿̉͐͝y̷̢̡͕̦͉̓̃͛̅̈́s̵̮̔͂,̸̲̬͙̤͖̑ͅ ̵̺͖̙̯̓̈́͛̒̈ͅͅ1̸̤͚̂̃̀̈͒8̸̨̜̻͛̽ ̵̡̗͉̠̱̤̞͠h̵̘̝̰̲̹̜͎̀̾̈́̈́o̵͈̓͋̿͋̅̕ǔ̷̟̹̳̰͈̆̚ŕ̴͖̖̙̥̽̌̈́ṡ̵̺̳ͅ,̷̡̠̀̆͊ ̷̡̮̪̪̣̩̎͂̚4̴̡̳̭̈̒́̌͑̈́̐ ̸̭̈́̃̂̕m̸̱͍̲͈̋̒ͅi̵̡̛͈̳̯̖͊͂̃ṅ̸̜̠̥̝̑̔̊̓̕u̴̺̭̐͂́͛̉͆̕t̴̨͎̩̝̫̏̾͂̅͆̚e̷͎͓̹̝͑̂̓͂͠s̷̡̨̰̫̲̼̄͊̏́͝,̵̫̮͔̿̃̑̿̊͠͝ ̵̨̬̫̜̆̍̈́̏͝ả̴͎͎̥̮̠ǹ̵̰͈̺̪͕̅͗͌d̵̮͍̀̿̆͘̚͝ ̸̨̨͈͉͕͂̉̇̄̍͂͘3̷͍͗͒͂̌̀́́7̸̩̲̬̀͋̚͝ ̸͇͑͆̉͑͑͜͝ş̷͎͖̼̫͖͂͗͐̍ȩ̶̨̛̤̦̙͎̌́̀̈͜c̷̫̩͙͕̼̀̀̑̑̑o̴̪̪͈̹͆̈̀̓͑̅͝n̸͉̂̚d̶̨̯̯͕͔̫̰͗ş̸͕̮̠̃̉̑ ̸̞͙̇̐̿̋s̸̛̞͍̱̳̱̠̩i̶͍̻̣̳̭̋̿̓͐͝n̸̡̥̓̄̏č̸̮͋͘ȅ̶̡̛̼͉̽̓̌̌ ̵̢̗͔̥͂́͗̑̚ṭ̴͈͖̬̺̄̂͌̈̉h̶̲̤̹̆̈̚è̶͔̏̋ ̶͍̼̤̖͊i̴̘̘̞̳̐̔̊͊͛͜͝͠m̵̩̻͖̥̙͙͈͐p̵̨̧̜͍̳͙͎̑̾r̸̯̹̟̻͑́͌̚i̸̧̻̖͐̊s̸͉͙͙̱̣͇̎̔͜͠o̴̧͇̻̦̾͒͆͗̌̓͝n̷̨̠̹̪̓̍͜͝m̸͔̼̪̍̐e̷͔͌͂͒̏̉͂n̶̼̲͗͋̉̈́̈́̑̚t̵͓̯̘̪̪͉̫͐̊̈́͝ ̶̧̺͈͇̙̘̉̇̐o̴͎̝̘̎͝f̵͉̗͉́͂̾̔͋̉ ̷̨̥̫̬̝̓̎D̸̡͖̮͗̉̚͜r̴̺͍̒͊͛́̏̽̐ẹ̶̘͔͎͐a̵̢̬͚̍͊͂̌́̑m̶̧̗̙͈̞̪͆̈́̽̈́̃ ̷̬̪̗̻͚̤̬̾̃̓̃͌T̶̪̤̖͉̱͙͇͗.̵̩̇̓ ̶̢̪̪͉̩͎̘̾͛̿̿W̷̡̟̼̗͍͗͠a̴̡͙̳͖̼̙͋̏͘t̷̟̰̟̥͔̱͈̑̾̀̓͌s̴͕͑ò̴̧̯͙̺ͅṇ̷̗͖̀̆́͑͐͝.̶̛̞̜̟̺͔̖͎̓̎̒̂͘͠
I wonder, sometimes, if the stars look down upon us and weep for what we might’ve been.
Do you believe the stars can feel?
I believe they can grieve.
He remembers once, fields of sun and skies of blue, of a bright warmth in his chest that he has not felt before or since.
He remembers the taste of bright orange zest on his tongue, the sharp burst of citrus in sunlight, how it curled over his teeth and made him laugh—once, only once. The feeling of cloth left beneath his fingertips, warm linen on warmer skin. A world that breathed gently, without claw or rot.
He can remember.
He can remember how they would peel oranges together beneath the sun, legs folded in the grass. The underside of their nails would be orange for days, but they'd simply laugh and hand him a slice. He can remember the juice that dripped from their fingers, sweet and sticky, how it clung to their skin and then his as they reached over to grab his hand. The scent of citrus hung in the air, bright and sharp, a golden echo of a moment that felt too human to last.
He can remember their bright, free laughter—loud and bubbly and everything he had ever wanted to hear. He remembers how their smile would light up their face, would cast sunlight on even the blackest corners of his mind. Their eyes, green, no, blue...grey, maybe. A kaleidoscope of spring storms and morning oceans, shining with mirth.
He can remember them.
He can remember how it felt to stand beside them and think.
I am more than what I am. I am bone and flesh and blood. I am alive and breathing and true.
He remembers the strange, sweet ache of feeling human. Of almost believing he was. Of warmth that made his voice shake and his limbs soft. He remembers their hand in his, a tether to something bright, something fragile. Something real.
He can remember who they were.
He can remember how darkness latched its rotten claws into their soul and dragged—and dragged—until there was nothing left but an echo in their skin. Until the laughter curdled in their throat and their eyes began to take a different shine. Until they smiled only when their blade drew blood and stained their once clean hands. Until joy tasted like copper on their tongue, and mercy became something to mock.
He remembers the quiet slipping of the self, how kindness unravelled thread by thread, until their words were lies wrapped in velvet and their gaze grew too cold to meet. Until they danced in ash and spoke to the dark like an old friend, inviting it in, offering it names, sacrifices, his name.
Until they tried to make him theirs.
He remembers the spellwork stitched with desperation, the rituals cast under false stars. The way they clawed at the heavens—not to join him, but to bind him. To chain his divinity to their own hollow rise. So they might ascend together, so they might call it love while weaving shackles in silver and ash.
He remembers how close they came.
He remembers how the world held its breath, how the boundary between mortal and divine thinned and trembled—and how Lady Death herself reached out a hand and paused it all. Did not sever it. Did not unmake. Only stilled it, as one might still a pendulum just before the final swing.
He remembers the hunger in their eyes, the way it grew too large for their frame, the way it swallowed everything they had once been. All for the promise of a forever that would have turned his name into a collar, his will into obedience.
He can remember how they changed. How they bled the world dry in pursuit of what they thought was power. How they took, and took, and took. Until there was no line left between grief and revulsion. Until he looked at them and did not see them at all.
He can remember.
And so he watches now, distant and cold, far from fields and fruit and foolish warmth. He watches the mortals writhe in their hunger, in their rage, in their ruin—and knows that it will always be this way. That given the chance, they will all reach for the knife. That they will twist it into whatever soft thing dares to love them.
They are all the same. All of them.
He remembers.
He does not forgive.
Aldermere, 9th day of Night’s Depth, Year of the Black Moon (1423)
7 hours past the sacrifice of thine holiest
The air smelled like blood.
It pooled thick and black beneath him, syrupy and wrong. The forest floor drank it greedily, soaking into roots and moss and stone, as though the earth itself had been waiting for his fall. Phil lay there, half-buried in leaves and shadow, his breath shallow, his vision swimming. His left wing—once proud and wide—was broken, crumpled beneath him like snapped canvas. Feathers lay strewn around him, ragged and blood-slicked, a once-beautiful ruin of what had once marked him divine.
Pain clawed through him, white-hot and unrelenting, but he did not cry out. He could not afford to. Not yet. Not here.
His hands trembled. Blood clung to his fingertips, tacky and black, like ink scraped from the bottom of a well. With aching slowness, Phil reached behind him, feeling through the matted mess of feathers and flesh until his fingers curled around one of the larger plumes still tangled in the ruin of his wing. It came free with a sickening tear, sinew clinging for a moment before giving way. The pain made his vision white out—but he gritted his teeth, tasting copper, and endured it.
The feather was heavy, dense with bone and blood. Perfect.
A quill, for now.
He dragged himself forward through the loam and rot, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Every movement was agony. But he did not stop. He would not. The dirt awaited him—soft and damp, the perfect canvas. With one shaking arm propping him up, the other drew the feather through the earth.
The first line came simple and steady, cutting through the dirt with all the reverence of a priest’s blade. The base. The foundation. The first whisper of the spell’s body.
Then came intent. His hand faltered, barely for a moment, before carving the second stroke beside the first. Heal. Not all of him. Not now. Just his wings. Just enough to move. Enough to fly.
The third line curved sharply, branching out and up. Power. But not from within. He was too broken, too spent. He needed more. He needed her.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment. Let his mind stretch past the veil.
“Lady,” he rasped, barely more than breath. “I offer this body. Use me.”
The fourth line trembled beneath his hand as he carved it. Direction. Encasement. To bind the magic, to shape it, to keep it from tearing him apart. Let it flow to his wings. Let it heal.
The runes shimmered. One line from each Velcran glyph, written in sacred sequence—H, E, A, L. Four strokes of divine structure. A spell.
The sigil glowed faintly at first, then with growing intensity. Veins of violet and shadow spread through the dirt like frost. The ground hissed beneath it, the sheer force of the spell’s power burning into the earth. Smoke began to curl around the edges of the lines. The heat of it was unnatural, not fire, but something deeper—raw force, made manifest.
Something stirred.
A whisper, thick as dusk, coiled around him.
"You bleed again, little crow."
Her voice did not echo, and yet it filled the air. Not a sound, but a presence, slipping between his ribs, curling around the shattered pieces of his soul. Phil’s breath caught in his throat. He bowed his head low, letting the feather fall from his hand.
“Lady Death,” he murmured. “I call you. I carry your mark. I ask for your mercy.”
The runes answered her presence, blazing brighter. The sigil erupted in brilliant light—searing, holy, agonizing. It branded the dirt, turning soil to ash in a perfect ring around the spell.
Pain slammed into him. It wasn’t healing—it was reconstruction. His broken wing jolted as the bones twisted, realigned, reshaped. Muscle burned as it reformed, fiber by fiber, every inch of it screaming. The sound that tore from Phil’s throat was guttural, inhuman.
Still, he did not resist.
He endured.
"You are so fragile, for something so powerful," she whispered, her voice curling around his spine.
Magic surged through the sigil like a tide breaking stone. It wasn’t just the shape of the spell—it was the force behind it, the weight of a goddess’ will channelled into the runes he had carved with bone and blood. It blistered the earth beneath him, and still he held steady.
Light flickered along the feathers as they began to regrow, sleek and dark and new. Not all of them. Not yet. But enough. Enough for him to rise again.
When the light faded, it left scorched lines and smouldering ash. The sigil remained a moment longer, burned deep into the earth, before crumbling away like old parchment. The forest was silent.
Phil exhaled shakily, the pain still echoing in his bones.
He shifted, wings twitching behind him. The left was whole again. Not perfect, but whole.
"Thank you, My Lady," he whispered. His voice cracked.
She did not respond. But she lingered.
He reached out, brushing his fingers along the edge of the scorched sigil, and then picked up the feather. Tucked it behind his ear.
He does not have time to wallow.
this is how the langauge works!! :D
