Fatherly Instincts

Tensions fun.

      Phil resided, leaning up against the side of the fireplace. Occasionally grabbing a log and tossing it in. He was sitting in a comfortable silence. Next to him were a great deal of potion bottles that had been emptied to their last drop. Even then he shifted uncomfortably every once in a while. A whisper of an ache still lingering in his back.

      This feeling wasn't unfamiliar, though; he has had moments like this before. When he had to use every ounce of adrenaline his body could provide to look for shelter, some form of safe haven. He was honestly surprised he was able to get him and Savannah off the ground.

      Especially with how mangled his back was after the first life-or-death flight he took.

———

      The trees that lined his wobbly path were dark and dull. The wind that wove itself through the trees seemed to whisper a soft song; it was an eerie one, though. It made what was left of the hairs on the back of Phil's neck stand. One look at his back could make anyone question how he was still standing. What made it worse was what was left behind him. Blood trailed the path he took in two parallel lines.

      Phil dragged himself through the forest. His wings limp behind him. They were burned and bloody with few feathers still left on them. Right now they were nothing more than dead weight that added to the constant stinging in his back. Though part of him had to admit he was lucky, he was partially numb from all the burns.

      Something caught his eye that caused him to huff; his throat was so raw he didn't even have it in him to scream. It was a trading cart lined with warm lights. A familiar horse tied to a tree was having a good night of beauty sleep. The colored pattern of the cotton used to line the cart was intimate. Friendly. Welcoming.

      He weakly limped his way closer; he could feel what was left of his energy fizzling out as his legs somehow got shakier. He felt faint. He didn't know if it was the reality dawning on him that no matter how long he slept, tonight would have always happened, or it was the feeling that maybe he was safe enough to go to bed. To not have to feel and worry right now.

      Once he reached the trading cart, he went limp against the back door. His body slammed into it with a harsh thud. Barely above a whisper, he huffed something that vaguely formed words. "Savannah... please." Seconds later footsteps were heard. Next to him a cloud of particles appeared, making the hazy shape of a person before they dissipated just as quickly as they came. Leaving a woman where they once were. She had a sharp and stern eye that was filled with tears. Her voice that was usually playful and sarcastic with a sort of wine aunt air to it. Right now it was distant and shaky and doing everything it could to not reveal its tremble.

      "I should let you rot—I hope it burns... I beg the gods it aches."

      She showed little sympathy for the scorched man in front of her. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the cart.

      "You fucking killed him, Phil. You killed your son. You killed Wil."

       "He was... he had lost it."

      "And now you've lost him."

      She let out a choked sigh. The man collapsed onto the floor in front of her. Not one part of her felt the impulse to help.

———

      He felt the pressure it took to push the blade through his chest. He felt the wall of his son's ribs hit by the cold metal end, and that didn't stop him from pushing harder. He felt the red-hot liquid seeping into his hands and down his wrists, yet he felt the guilt and shame flood over his body like a cold shower. It was an odd and unfamiliar feeling that soaked his palms. He saw that face. That fucking face. The soft brown eyes that used to be so bright are now nothing but a dull pool of muddy hue. The cheeks that are bruised and scuffed were once the ones he used to cradle and coo at.