As the Crow Flies

Here Lies Wilbur Soot

It was a cold and grey morning. The kind of morning that left a stale scent of gunpowder in your nose and the bitter taste of war on your lips. The kind of morning that left the world depressed in a deep dreamless sleep. The morning's breath flooding in and out of every person like the sighs of a new born ghost caught in the fluttering ashes of a smoldering home. The people that lived were always quieter than the ghosts. Everyone had gone and shut themselves away in their homes, hiding from the unrelenting low bellows of complete and utter failure. But Phil walked in it.

He pushed himself forward, trekking through the deafening silence as if it were a merciless white blizzard. Still, he was careful not to disturb the left over pieces of structures and décor that had once belonged to that oh so self-indulgent place. L'Manberg. The poor country that had been made into a frozen wasteland of forgotten friendships and broken dreams. Phil stalked near the massive crater, his feet light with care. Earlier, he had made a promise to himself that he wouldn't look down, but then again, fear made people do stupid things. So he looked down into the chasm and instantly recognized the depth of its wounds within himself. He caught his heart in his throat, just in time, before it leapt out of him and into the abyss. He stabled himself using the broadness of his wings and began to move quickly over the debris. He kept going until he came upon the room.

But "room" wasn't quite the right word. The floor had been blown to bits along with the country, now a hundred feet under. The walls had fallen away along with the man, now six feet under. The roof had crumbled to pieces along with the angel, now five feet away. And the headstone stood still along with a boy, now slaying the white blizzard with his fiery red hair.

Phil was surprised. He hadn't expected anyone else to be out this early, especially in order to visit the grave of the man that stole their home from them with about two tons of tnt. Phil wrapped his wings around himself in caution and silently came up to the headstone and stood next to the boy. The low wind wisped between them, stirring in a strange way that made Phil feel like he was standing on the edge of a very tall cliff.

Soon the space became too much for him and he glanced towards the boy. His red and white locks swirled like strawberry and cream under the stretching rays of the rising sun. The hair was so thick that Phil could just barely make out two pointed peaks of perky fox ears that hid under the boy's cumbersome curls. The boy was also wrapped in what appeared to be a long, multicolored blanket, but when Phil looked closer at its design, he recognized it as the fallen country's flag. Phil noticed that the boy was holding a dark scouting cap respectfully in his hands as he stood and stared at the gravestone. The look on the boy's face was something that Phil had rarely ever seen on someone so young. It was hurt, and tenderness, and contempt, and hatred, and want, and regret, and all of the things that a boy should never have on his face. It made Phil want to reach over and wipe it all away, like he used to do with his own son's tears. But Phil did nothing. He turned away from the boy and laid his eyes on the gravestone.

Here Lies Wilbur Soot.

Phil once again forced his throat to catch his heart, but this time his lips rolled in and his jaw tightened because if they'd been loose and open, he might've cried in front of the boy. God damn it. Perhaps he should've come at an earlier time. Perhaps he should leave now and return tomorrow. But something about the wind made him stay. The way it whistled over his wings and twisted between his fingers like a ghost wishing for him to wait. So he waited. And while he waited, he wondered about the world beyond this one. The world that his boy might have entered less than forty-six hours ago. He prayed for peace to come upon him and love, and joy, and all the things that he didn't have during his departure from this life. Then Phil stuck his hand in his right pocket and wrapped his fingers around the last thing he wanted to give to his son. A small note. A letter he'd written a long time ago with the intention of sending it, but always too afraid to let the crows bare its most precious contents. He wanted to give it in person, but it was far too late for that.

By my own hand.

Tears crept at the inner corners of his eyes, but a small voice pulled him back to the present.

"I saw you." It was the boy. His voice sodden in soft sadness. "I saw what you did." Phil's mouth went dry. He'd expected the accusations, just not so soon. The guilt had already eaten him alive the night before, so now Phil was just a sad sack of bones covered in the dank scent of sour regret. Still, the fiery flame of hurt and guilt was unrelenting and almost impossible to keep at bay.

"I'm sorry." Phil said. And that was all he could say. It was the only truth that mattered now. Phil glanced in the boy's direction to better gage his reaction, but all he could make out was a familiar cold stubbornness that he'd only ever felt from one other person in his life.

He waited for the boy to speak again, but the kid was silent for an awfully long time. So, Phil asked the question that had been itching in the back of his mind ever since he spotted the red buddle of hair clashing against the November snow that surrounded Wilbur's desolate grave.

"How did you know him?" The boy swallowed hard before answering.

"He was my dad." And then the floor blew to bits, and the walls fell away, and the roof crumbled to pieces, and the headstone stood still.

His father.

The boy's gaze never left the headstone and his expression never changed as he placed his scout's cap on his head. Phil watched as the boy walked closer to the grave, so close that he probably would have been standing on Will's head if he weren't buried so far below. The kid snapped the flag off his shoulders, allowing it to catch in the wind like the majestic flag it used to be, but only for a few moments before carefully laying it over Wilbur's headstone, as if he were tucking his father into bed. The he knelt down and gave the headstone a tight hug. Now that the flag was no longer draped over him, Phil could see that the boy had come to the snow soaked grave completely barefoot. He wasn't sure why, and was too afraid to ask.

After a while, the boy stood up and stared down at the grave. Phil wondered what he could be thinking. Did he even know that Phil was Wilbur's father? Did he care? Who was he staying with? Did Will have any other secret children or family members? Phil searched his mind, but came up with nothing. Will had never written a single thing about having a family. The closest he'd gotten to describing one was with Techno and Tommy.

Then the boy spat on Will's grave.

"Hey." Phil called. And for the first time, the boy looked directly at him. His eyes were sharp and full of warning. Nothing like the children that quaked and cowered in fear at the authority of Phil's voice in the past. Nothing like a child at all. And from that singular look, Phil backed down. The kid was a stranger, and perhaps his own son was one as well.

Here Lies Wilbur Soot.

The boy held Phil's gaze for a while, it was as if he was searching for some secret that he knew existed, but could never find, or a wish that he made, but never fully believed in. Eventually he gave up on whatever he was looking for and began to walk away, but this time Phil's throat couldn't stop his heart and the careless words fluttered out of him.

"He was my son." The boy dug his bare heels into the snow and stopped. Phil swallowed down the rest of his grief as the ghosts swirled around his head, and he waited. The boy didn't turn around and for a while, he didn't say a word. Then finally, like a pick to the ice, he broke the silence.

"I know. I have one of the letters. He's a sack of shit, specifically bull." Then he continued to walk away and Phil didn't stop him.

By his own hand.

Phil turned around and faced the blanketed headstone. The boy that Phil had known for so long. The boy he'd written to every single week for months on end. The boy that he'd cradled in his arms as a younger man and promised the world. The boy whose dreams were hardly sky limited. The boy that Phil carried. The boy that Phil loved. The boy that Phil watched die in his arms less than forty-six hours ago.

Phil walked up to the grave and pulled the letter out of his pocket. Spots of wet teardrops splattered onto the envelope when he looked down at it. Phil took a deep breath and tucked the letter into the folds of the flag. He couldn't care less what the letters said, all he really cared about was the smile on Will's face, and the beautiful songs he wrote, and the messy curls that always caused him problems, and his relentless stubborn pride that he'd inherited from the angel of death himself. All he cared about was his Will. The Wilbur that he knew.

My son.