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It is late nights like these– ones where he is accompanied solely by the dull, dimming glow of his lantern, the final shrieking calls of crickets, and the tweets of the earliest birds that closely precede sunrise– that Phil wishes he were a heavy sleeper like Techno.
It’s astounding how many things Techno can sleep through, to be honest. You could bang pots and pans next to his bed, or ring the loudest bell you could find, or gather an orchestra and perform a full symphony just outside his tent, and the piglin would sleep like a baby. Maybe its a Nether thing; perhaps they needed to adapt to the sorrowful cries of ghasts or else they’d never get any sleep at all.
Phil, on the other hand, will be kept up at night because his blanket is too itchy, or because an owl hooted too loud and echoed too far through the night. Though this time he wasn’t kept up by an external factor, no, just some… feeling.
The feeling wasn’t anxiety; Phil knows that dread that settles between your stomach and your lungs like an old friend. In fact, if he disregards the inconvenience of how it kept his eyes open, he might even call the feeling pleasant. It bloomed in his chest, filled his lungs with fresh air. Unfamiliar, but inviting.
And it would not go away, no matter how hard Phil tried to think of nice but distracting things, like red dahlia fields or the prettiest tune his parents used to sing him. So now Phil is here: sitting on one of the logs placed by the river, dreading each second as the sky slowly grows lighter in hue.
By the time Phil casts a shadow on the grass behind him, he is forced to accept that this night has been lost, and he should focus his energy on getting breakfast rather than trying to get the sleep back. So he makes his way back to the clearing where he and Techno’s camp is, grabs his spear from his own tent, and sets off to do just that.
He moves along the riverbank, a keen eye peeled for any easy-to-pick fish, but he strangely finds that there are none in the river. He’s about to call this a day and simply hunt for something in the woods, but the feeling from last night blooms in his chest once more and it urges him to keep moving.
After twenty-five minutes of walking, Phil finds a duckling that had gotten distracted and subsequently been left alone. Just a moment later, he spots its siblings and mother across the river. He debates brushing it off and leaving the duckling to rejoin them on its own– he even turns and takes two steps away– but then he stops. The mother steps out of the other side of the river, growing farther from her duckling with each minute.
So he takes off his boots (because Techno would be rightfully pissed off if they were ruined for no reason) and wades into the barely knee-high water to nudge the duckling in the right direction. It is reasonably startled at first, enough to snap out of its little trance and rush to get back to its mother.
Phil fondly smiles, puts his boots back on, and continues moving.
Techno is still rather unfamiliar with Overworld and its many different warring kingdoms, and this expansive forest they’ve spent the last few weeks venturing through is across the world from Phil’s home, so the terrain is foreign to them both. Despite the fact he’s moving directly along the river, Phil still mentally takes note of as many significant landmarks as he can.
As much as he attempts to push it away, the peculiar feeling somehow persists, buried in Phil’s chest. It isn’t unwelcome, necessarily, it’s just… puzzling. The feeling can only be described as something smack in the middle of electric avidity and serene comfort.
After forty minutes of walking, Phil faintly hears a noise. So he picks up his pace, and he cannot help but notice the way the feeling grows more intense as the sound grows closer, more identifiable, until finally he recognizes the noise as… crying?
Sobbing it is. In the near distance there is a figure that sits on a fallen tree, draped in all black. Their face is hidden in their hands as they cry, something half-stifled but shattering nonetheless.
So Phil looks down to the ground to ensure his steps are slow and silent, until the figure suddenly gasps. When he looks up he sees a lovely woman, and though her face is still somewhat obscured by the dark purple veil that drapes from her hat, Phil can still pick out an expression of shock.
“Uh… sorry,” Phil puts his hands up in surrender and drops his spear. “I can leave.”
“No, stay,” the woman replies calmly as she stands, and it is then Phil realizes that she is definitely double his height, likely taller. “I can hear how fast your heart beats. I promise, you’re safe with me.”
Her voice, tranquil and smooth as a hometown melody, is enough to convince Phil of that. As if on cue, he begins to breathe easier. Only in a quarter-second flash does the thought cross his mind that maybe this woman is not to be trusted, but it is immediately swept away by the serenity she radiates. So Phil approaches, hastily noticing how the peculiar feeling he’s felt all day is practically multiplied by simply being around her.
“You’re wondering why I’ve been crying,” the woman states; she’s absolutely correct, but leaves no room for argument regardless. “My creations are suffering, and I can’t bear to see it. What power I have left dwindles with each passing day.”
Phil raises an eyebrow. “Your… creations?”
The lady’s gaze falls to the ground, she sits down once more, and she answers a different question. “War, disease, famine… there’s such little compassion left in the world.”
Phil does not know how to respond, so he doesn’t. He simply observes this person he’s stumbled upon, examines this feeling she amplifies, and continues to draw near.
“But you’re different. You’re compassionate.” The woman meets Phil’s eyes. He’s close enough to pinpoint how her eyes shine.
But they do not shimmer unnaturally. No, quite the opposite– they shimmer like the stars in the night, or perhaps like the moon reflecting on a calm lake. They’re unfamiliar, odd, but they’re also divine, alluring.
“What do you mean?”
“That duckling would have died, had you not saved it. You’re compassionate. And you’re not scared of me.”
“Scared of you?” Phil cannot mask the shock that lies in his question. “How?”
The lady closes her eyes and smiles under her veil; Phil decides immediately that it’s the most beautiful smile in the world.
“I’ve never seen you around before,” the woman comments. “Are you a traveller?”
“Yes,” Phil truthfully answers. “I come from across the world, and my companion is from the Nether.”
“The Nether!” The woman sounds astonished. “People in the Overworld are not kind to those from the Nether.”
“No, they’re not,” Phil agrees, “But Techno’s my best friend, hands down. I’d give my life for him if the occasion arose, and I say with confidence he’d do the same.”
The woman simply sighs. It reeks of longing. “Two worlds finding peace… it’s a dream. You and your companion have run from war, have you not?”
Phil hesitates– he does not want her to believe he’s a coward, but he can’t bear to withhold the truth. The latter wins the battle. “Yes. It’ll catch up to us eventually, but ‘til then… we try to prevent what bloodshed we can. It’s the last thing the world needs.”
“Yes, I agree.” There is a long pause as both the two are silent. The woman studies Phil, who now stands just beside her. “Your effort may not feel like a valiant one… but it is. Please trust me on that.”
“I do,” Phil practically whispers. “I do.”
“Good,” the woman takes Phil’s hands in her own warm ones. She holds them as she speaks. “I must go now, as should you– your companion is likely wondering where you went. I’m afraid you will only remember me very vaguely when you next wake up, but you will carry a piece of me with you for as long as you live, alright?”
Phil does not know what that entails– matter of fact, he still doesn’t even know who this lady is. But there is not a speck of fear that lingers in his mind, so he nods.
“I cannot give you a day, but we will meet again. You’ll know when it happens. Thank you.”
Then she is gone, and Phil is waking up in his tent.
The only thing strange about the nature of Phil’s morning is that Techno is waking him up. Usually, it’s the other way around.
“You finally awake, Phil?” Before Phil can even nod, Techno gets up from where he’d been sitting. “Cool. Just wanted to let you know I’m gettin’ dinner.”
Voice still heavy with sleep, Phil groggily asks, “Dinner? What time is it?”
“Uh…” Techno drawls, “Half past four.”
Phil rolls onto his back. It’s more uncomfortable than he remembers, but he ignores that. Might’ve just pulled a muscle or something. “I fuckin’ slept ‘til half past four?”
“Yeah. How much sleep did you get last night?”
“Honestly?” Phil yawns. “None at all. Once the sun rose I called it a lost cause and went out for breakfast, ‘cause I know we have some food but you know fresh fish is a better way to start the day, and then…”
Phil draws a complete blank.
“Then what?” Techno prompts. “‘Cause as far as I’m concerned, there wasn’t any fresh fish when I woke up.”
“I… don’t know.” Phil sits up with less ease than usual, and he finds there’s a pressure against his back that he cannot recall feeling before. “I think I met someone by the river?”
“Fellow traveler?”
“No.” The answer comes without hesitation. “But they weren’t a threat. Don’t attack them.”
Techno critically squints his eyes. “No guarantees. I’m goin’ out for dinner, though. Should be back by sunset. There’s lunch for you in the meantime.”
And then Techno is off into the woods. What he comes back with and calls “dinner” is a complete wildcard, but Phil wouldn’t have it any other way.
The first thing that immediately comes to Phil’s mind is how hungry he is, which makes sense if he crashed before ever eating breakfast. But when he stands up it’s impossible to ignore the weight on his back that he truly cannot place any explanation for, no matter how hard he focuses.
So he reaches his hand up to his shoulder blades and he feels something… odd, to put it simply. It isn’t the fabric of his shirt, but it’s definitely not the skin of his back. It’s something entirely different. So he takes his shirt off and rolls his shoulders back a few times, just for good measure. And when he does that, he finds that something moves. And he feels it. He knows it moves because he feels the air against it, like waving a hand in the air.
There aren’t hands on his back. Phil rejects that thought because that’s stupid. But there’s something there– well, two, actually, because he tries to see what happens if he only moves his right shoulder, and he figures out that the hand-waving sensation only comes on his right side. So there are two things, but when Phil looks back they just look like little black lumps on his shoulder. That are really, really heavy.
With a deep breath, the assurance that he’ll have Techno look at this when he returns, and the lingering hope in the back of his mind that he hasn’t contracted some one-in-a-million deadly disease, Phil goes to eat the lunch Techno has for him. It’s just preserved salty pork chops from a couple days ago, but it really isn’t too bad.
When he’s done he goes to sit by the river. He stays there for a little while. It’s calming to an extent, but not enough to scare off the worry that pools in his stomach, makes him start to dread every moment that his friend has not returned. The sun blazes down from high in the sky at this time, typical for late springtime (at least, that’s the time of year the townspeople they met two months ago said it would be now), so Phil moves to the shade. He attempts to lie on his back in a particularly grassy spot with no outstanding sticks or rocks, but when he forcefully lands on his back it fucking hurts. So he sits back up with a wince. Techno needs to get back soon.
Techno returns to camp probably less than an hour before the sun sets. When he does, he finds Phil leaning back on his elbows, his ankles submerged in the river. He also doesn’t have a shirt on, so Techno assumes he probably took this chance to wash up, but upon further inspection he recognizes that the river is far too shallow and Phil’s hair is completely dry. It’s… strange, if nothing else.
“Oh, you’re back!” Phil exclaims, anxiety bubbling up in his words as he rises to his feat with noticeable difficulty. “I need your help with something.”
Techno puts aside the stuff he hunted. “‘Kay, what?”
“Okay, I’m prefacing this by saying I know this is gonna sound fuckin’ crazy right now,” Phil approaches. “But I think there’s something, like– attached to my back.”
Techno looks as though a snarky comment comes to mind, but he doesn’t say anything. He only assumes a perplexed look, which is fair enough. So Phil turns around and he shows his friend what’s been driving him up the fucking wall since he woke up.
“So– okay,” Phil starts, but the words are jumbled up. Shit. “They’ve been here since I woke up. It feels like– like a limb, to be honest, like an arm or something, but that just sounds crazy to say. Just– look, okay? Because I can’t get a good visual.”
Phil kind of hunches over and curls in on himself, and Techno observes as the two things kind of… spread out, for lack of better word. Broaden. “I can feel them moving against the air, like a hand,” Phil says, and when he straightens up, they return to looking like black lumps against his back.
“Do that again,” Techno says, so Phil does. And when they spread like the last time, he adds, “Keep it like that.”
The next thing Phil feels is what is definitely Techno’s hands against the things (whatever they are) and it feels like someone just laid their hand on his arm. With care, he kind of straightens them out, and it simply feels like straightening an arm or leg. Phil doesn’t actually see what’s happening– his gaze is locked directly in front of him. His hand lightly shakes.
And when the thing on the right is done straightening out, Phil focuses really hard and attempts to recreate the feeling on the left side. Techno must see that, because he retracts his hands. After a minute or two of trying really hard, it feels straightened out enough to say that he did it, but he isn’t entirely sure. He refuses to look back.
“Oh, yep,” Techno breaks the silence, “Phil, those’re definitely wings.”
“They’re what?” Phil asks, even though he heard Techno fine, he just– needs to think about this. “No fuckin’ way. No fuckin’ way.”
“They’re nice lookin’, at least,” Techno shrugs. “They’re black with little white feathers at the end. Like, I’m no bird expert, but they look pretty much fully formed. Around twenty feet long if you spread them out fully. It’s fuckin’ cool, to be honest.”
For no good reason at all, tears gather in Phil’s eyes. Immediately he brings a hand to his face and clamps it against his mouth as hard as he can, but it doesn’t stop him from crying, and it doesn’t stop him from lowering himself down to his knees, and it doesn’t stop his wings from falling limp against the grass, oh shit that feels weird against the grass, he hates this so much.
He must be saying something, likely repeating “oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” because behind him he can hear Techno say, “Wait, what? Phil– what?”
And then Phil hears the shuffle of footsteps in the grass, so he hides his face in his hands, hopefully before Techno can really see him. He has approximately zero reason to be upset about this. Techno said it himself, they’re fucking cool!
“I’m sorry,” is what Phil blurts out. Before he gets the awkward Techno brand of consolation, he clarifies, “They’re cool, I guess. But I don’t think I want them.”
“Why don’t you want them?”
“This is unheard of, Techno! No one just... gets wings overnight,” Phil sniffles, “And I’m fine how I am! I don’t want to learn how to fly or how to fight with these fuckin’ things! But I don’t have any choice!”
“Well…” Techno trails off, likely searching for the words that would be good here, “I’ll spar with you. We both need it. And I won’t let you die on my watch.”
Phil laughs bittersweetly, and it feels cathartic until it doesn’t, when it dawns on him that he’ll have these forever. As long as he lives. And with that realization comes another wave of stupid, humiliating tears.
“It’s– I’m sorry,” Phil apologizes once more, for reasons he doesn’t know, he just figures this must be hard to watch. “I know they’re cool. I’m sorry. But they’re also a big fuckin’ pain in the ass and I don’t want to be stuck with them the rest of my life.”
“Yeah, fair,” Techno shrugs. He pauses for a moment, and then he asks, “Uh… do you want me to go?”
He recieves a nod in response to the question, so he leave Phil near the river under a setting sun. Phil only moves enough to face the water. He stays there for hours, practicing little movements with his wings– spreading them out and bringing them in, gently flapping them but not forcefully, once or twice even curling them around himself gently– and trying his hardest to come to terms with the fact that this is a lifelong thing that’s been forced upon him. His wings are real, and they are his, and they will not be gone when he wakes up tomorrow.
Phil tries to come to peace with it that night. He doesn’t. That much is made clear when he tries to sleep on his side and it’s so newly uncomfortable that he sheds a few tears.
After that Phil resigns himself to another night spent awake– a night accompanied solely by the dull, dimming glow of his lantern, the shrieking calls of crickets, and the gentle flap of disliked wings– though this night, he is kept awake by a much different feeling in his chest.