Take My Wings

Chapter 2

The last thing Phil had been expecting was to break out from his house arrest. But seeing the chance, he knew he had to try. It'd been a skirmish, the butchers following him to the edge of the water before he'd finally pulled the tracker from his ankle.

Now he sailed, a cool, salty breeze blowing over the ocean toward him. He paused his rowing for a moment, stripping down another layer. He shivered slightly, although he knew he'd warm up. The weather was chilly, but he was working up a sweat easily, besides, there was still a while to go before he reached Techno's place.

Luckily, he knew the way. It was much easier to travel through the nether, much quicker, but due to his...followers he didn't have the time to enter through the portal.

It was a small relief, the nether region was hot, and somewhat resembled hell. The fire would burn your skin, making the obsidian warm to the touch. Various bridges erected over bubbling lava lakes, several portals to and from. Easy to get lost in, huh?

Phil shook his head, ignoring the ache in his arms, even the small ache in his heart as he left L'manberg behind.

His mind wondered over his sons. He heard something had happened to Tommy, but what, he didn't know. Just one of the perks about house arrest.

Tubbo refused to tell him anything. Every time Phil bought up the blonde, Tubbo would look away, changing the subject quickly. No one else had been allowed to visit him, not even Technoblade had been able to sneak past.

Phil just hoped his youngest was alright.

Soon enough another land mas came into view. It was a plain biome, the most common, a few trees scattered to the edge, a forest in the distance beyond. A small beach followed, the man falling to notice the remnants of its use; a wind-blown chair, sat broken, water swirling at its base. A fallen-over umbrella, a chest, bleached from the heat of the sun.

Sand lodged its way into the cracks of his boat as Phil pulled up to the shore, discarding his oars hastily in the cockpit as he left.

He waded through the shallow water, sand making its way into his boots as he reached the shore. Breathing in the salty air, he smiled. It was peaceful out here. Away from L'manberg, away from the wars that kept raging on, away from the place he slaughtered his son. For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace.

The peace didn't last long.

Looking up to the plains, he noticed the canvas white tent, flailing in the wind. He noticed the half put together Christmas tree, decorations hanging from its breaking branches.

As Phil got closer, he noticed the larger structure, hidden away in the trees. A sign had been placed, big letters reading "Logstedshire" on it. He wasn't dumb, he could recognise the writing. The writing he hadn't seen in a long time.

Tommy.

~

A still sense of dread settled over his stomach. Tommy-his son had been here. What was he doing so far out from L'manberg? So far from the country he'd helped create?

Phil approached the broken nether portal, noticing the way the obsidian had cracked, as if someone had been using a pickaxe to break the substance. He noticed the way a trail of footsteps could be seen leading to the structure in between the trees. He noticed the half-erected tower, run down from the harsh wind that had begun to pick up.

Something wasn't right.

Breathing in, he walked slowly over to Logstedshire. "Tommy?" he called, drawing the netherite sword sheathed at his side. "You there buddy?"

No answer came.

Phil held his breath as he peaked in, his face going pale.

A figure lay, propped against the wall. His blonde hair was mud streaked, his eyes closed.

Phil panicked, recognising the boy instantly, recognising his son instantly. "Tommy!"

The boy lay, his wings bent at awkward angles. Bleeding wounds were exposed to the open air, the red liquid far from clotting. Phil rushed over to the other, kneeling and pulling him gently into his lap.

"Tommy...Tommy!" he called, although it was hopeless. He was out cold. Phil's eyes wandered to his son's wings. the feathers were ruffled, and only then did he noticed the clipped feathers surrounding them.

Feathers that didn't look ready to moult.

Feathers that looked to young.

Baby feathers.

Phil felt his stomach churn, his food from earlier coming up. His son's wings, bloodied, the red blending with the few crimson feathers. His six-teen years old's wings. Too short. Unkept. Covered in blood.

Two wounds ran down the base of his left and right wing. They were deep, and not far from becoming infected. He felt the hate building in his chest. Whoever did this to Tommy, they would pay.

And so, alone in the unknown place, Phil picked his son up, carefully, and began to carry him to the haven among the snow.