Volume I: Forged

Chapter 3: I'll Give You the World, Someday

"Do you have to go?"

Phil looked up from his satchel, his wife standing in the doorway with little Wilbur perched on her hip. She was pale and sallow, dark lines marring her under-eyes, hair hanging limp and lifeless. The baby, barely a year old, wasn't looking too much better. He rested his head on his mother's shoulder, listlessly watching his father.

"We need potions, love," Phil said. "We don't have the money to buy them and you need them."

Kristin bit her lip. She knew, before she got pregnant, that there would be possible repercussions to carrying the fusion of two powerful magics within her own body for several months, all while maintaining her own extensive magic. It had, frankly, drained her mortal form of every drop of energy she could muster. Standing was exhausting.

The baby was suffering too, still reliant on his mother for both physical and magical nourishment. Both of which Kristin was having trouble providing.

She just didn't think it'd get this bad.

"I'll be quick, I promise," Phil held his hands out and Kristin came toward him, pressing herself to his chest and relaxing as Phil wrapped his arms around her. "It won't be more than two or three days."

Kristin squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself not to cry. Wilbur squirmed against his parents and Phil pulled back, chuckling.

"Someone's impatient," Phil cooed, tickling the baby under the chin.

He pressed a kiss to Kristin's forehead. "I'll be back soon."

He picked the satchel up and said goodbye to Wilbur, gave his wife one last hopeful smile, and left.

...

The Nether was hot. Hot enough to combust discarded fabrics and wooden tools. Hot enough to house great oceans of lava that bubbled and made the Nether all the hotter.

Phil hated it.

His feathers hung in clumps off his wings, and though they were fire-proof with ancient magic, they still felt as though they were on fire with every little movement.

Harvesting the gold needed to trade with the piglins took forever, considering it was only in small veins and patched around. Major mines had taken over the landscape in the past few years, leaving only scraps behind for the wandering travelers.

Luckily for Phil, he didn't have to wear any hot, heavy golden armor to keep the piglins from immediately marking him as a threat—his golden hair made the piglins love him.

Unluckily for him, they still traded hard.

It took a whole day to harvest the needed materials, and another to trade enough ingredients for potions.

Day three left Phil stumbling and exhausted, fingers and palms blistered and head heavy from lack of sleep and food. His wife had packed him bread and apples, but he had slipped it back out of the bag before he had left.

She needed it more than him.

...

The ground hurt. It was rough and gritty and dug into all the little scrapes on his side.

He wanted his da and his big arms and his warm heart. He even wanted his ma, though she didn't seem to like him as much.

Patience, young one.

The child whimpered. The voice had been whispering to him for hours, but it was inside his head and he didn't like it.

I know. But you must wait a bit longer. I will be with you.