Lionhearts ||Skephalo||

37

Philza combs his hand through his hair, eyeing their map and humming softly in frustration. Wilbur leans over it, and points out softly,

"They're in Gotopia, aren't they? We should go this way if we're flying."

He drags his finger from their position to Gotopia in a line that weaves around the obstacles Phil had been puzzling over.
The mage shakes his head in response, and answers bluntly,

"If I try to fly through there, Will, we will both be dead. There's barriers that dispel enchantments, and while it won't get rid of my wings, I can't exactly breathe at that altitude. And you can't fly when you can't breathe, y'know?" He then maps a different path. Wilbur studies it, his dark eyes momentarily obscured by him blinking, and he glances up again.

"...I think this works Phil," he agrees softly, "Now, you should probably drink something, shouldn't you? It's been six hours."

Philza cocks a brow.

"It's been two."

Despite his relief over being able to keep Wilbur's spirit in this world, his son's odd relationship with time became clear relatively soon after his death. Not that Wilbur was ever PARTICULARLY good with time— but confusing two hours for six was certainly a downgrade.

Wilbur apologetically laughs, and glances over his shoulder at the horizon.

"So, Phil...do you think I'll melt? In the rain, I mean. I think I might. My body doesn't feel very...water tolerant." Philza waves slightly, and informs him,

"You'll probably melt. But I'll figure out some spell to keep the water off of you, and worst-case scenario...I guess you'll be sent to the ethereal realm for a bit while you get enough energy to rebuild your body."

Wilbur nods, and bites his lip in thought.

"...so we definitely can't do any resurrection, can we?" He asks, a hopeful hint in his voice. Phil shakes his head.

"...not really. Resurrections are poorly recommended anyway, and we don't have any of your body, I vaporized it by accident."

He rolls up the map and shoves it into his bag before setting off once more, Wilbur floating closer with a now-anxious look at the horizon and the clouds drifting over it.

Somewhere, Phil knows, poor Tubbo thought Wilbur had died for real. He was probably crying, and Tommy was probably also upset.
He regrets not knowing how to save Wilbur other than pulling the trigger himself, but...what's done is done, and it can't change.

He still has his sons, after all...and one wayward son with a god complex to handle.

Techno, you're not going to keep me out of the Nether forever.

* * *

Aching. Burning.

Two things Bad was currently aware of as he hung between consciousness and unconsciousness.

He could feel the fire lapping at his skin, burning him only for his magic to eagerly heal over the injuries.
His arms ache from bearing his complete weight as he limply hung from them. His head is ringing and he almost can hear someone murmur his name.

A hand brushes his face, and he almost flinches, but somehow his body is beyond his control now.
Everything just seemed to go on, and on, and on. He could feel his heartbeat coupled with the second heartbeat of Assu's amulet. The two rhythms reverberate through him, and he slips back into the dream world, back into the ashes.

-

He struggles forwards, now up to his chest in ash. He can see light, so close, almost in reach, and yet it feels so far.