When Phil slept, he dreamed.
It was something he couldn't help but do, a natural inclination that had plagued him as far back as he remembered. No matter what he ate, drank, or slept on, when the curtains of night drew close and he shut his eyes there were always colors and sounds, sensations that toed the line of reality but never fully crossed, illusions that bordered on being tangible. Worse still, they weren't the abstract mish-mash of thoughts and experiences played out in a relaxed and empty mind; no, Phil dreamt only of the past.
When he was younger, the dreams were about mundane activities he had completed during the day: hauling water, hunting for food, sewing new clothes, making additions to his small shelter. It was one of those mundane mornings that, on his usual trek into the surrounding woods, longbow in hand, he happened upon something decidedly not usual.
A woman, her skin earth-brown and her hair black as coal, sat under the shade of a hickory tree, dragging her nails through the soil with a contented expression. She looked up as Phil stood there, staring, and startled, jumping to her feet, which were bare and caked with dirt.
That was when he noticed she wore no clothes, which made heat rise to his cheeks and his gaze quickly dart upwards above her bosom to meet her own dark, luminous eyes.
Phil thought that might have been the moment he fell in love for the first time; seeing the curiosity and apprehension that shone within those eyes, the inquisitive tilt of her narrow face, the slight smile that graced her thin lips.
Phil hadn't come into contact with another person in nearly ten years, not since he had left his family and struck out into the wilderness on his own, as was the custom of his tribe, and he remembered being nervous to speak, worried he would trip over his words and ruin the moment, but as he tried to ask her where she had come from, he realized she could neither speak nor understand him.
So instead, he held out his hand; an invitation.
She laid her slender fingers on his with a grin.
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The woman did not have a name, so he gave her the title Hickory, after the tree he had found her under. Phil dreamt of her every night, yet when he awoke beside Hickory in the morning it was like he was rediscovering something breathtaking all over again.
Slowly, he taught her words and phrases, making up gestures along with them so she could use the language. Hickory learned fast, and after a year she could hold her own in a conversation with Phil.
She taught him words too, ones for the trees and the smell of the rain and the warmth of the earth. He cherished the special gestures like they were gold, because when he used them she smiled, and whenever she smiled, Phil fell even more in love with her.
Ten years passed in quiet bliss. Hickory had faint creases around her eyes and nose and thin streaks in her hair, but nothing could diminish her beauty to Phil, who was aging right alongside her.
Sometimes Hickory would trace the lines of his face while Phil played with her thick black tresses, running his thumb over the faint gray hairs, and in those moments nothing else mattered to him.
They never married; two rings and a promise couldn't begin to convey what they felt for each other, and it would've been insincere to pretend.
Perhaps, though, they should have conducted the ceremony anyway, for it would've given Phil something to hold on to after Hickory fell ill.
It started with a light cough that became heavy and rattled Hickory's frame in the winter; and for three winters more it stayed that way, until during the fourth it didn't melt away in the spring and instead lingered in her chest.
Phil made her hot tea with honey in the mornings and gave her licorice in the evenings, hoping that the sickness might resolve itself with just the simple remedies, but it grew worse and worse, and by the time snow covered the ground once again, Hickory was bedridden.
Phil kept her company day and night, refusing to leave the room except to fetch her things and occasionally bring them both a meal. He talked to her when she had the energy to gesture back, sat perfectly motionless when she was able to rest, and held her silently when she needed him, cradling her frail body in his arms.
Phil's dreams were full of fear and worry, but he was sure she would make it through the winter. Hickory would see spring. She had to.
It was a cold and dreary day. Hickory was quiet. No coughing. It gave Phil hope that maybe she was getting better.
She rolled over to face him, so close that her eyelashes brushed his cheeks, and kissed him softly, drawing away with a melancholy smile.
She raised her elegant fingers and, with trembling hands, signed a final message to Phil: "I love you".
Then Hickory lay still.
At first he couldn't move, shocked; and then he was sobbing, shaking her and pleading with her to wake up as her body became unnaturally rigid and bark began to cover her once-soft skin, and as he begged the piece of wood shaped like a woman to come back, he at last understood that Hickory was not flesh and bone like him, but wood and leaf, like the hickory tree he had found her under so long ago.
Phil did not move from the bed.
He held Hickory and cried, and when he slept he wept too, so that his eyelids were sealed shut with tears. He did not move when his throat grew dry or when his stomach panged with emptiness, or even when the tears stopped because there was no more water left in his body.
He did not move for weeks, waiting for death to take him, until finally he closed his eyes and they didn't open again.
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Phil remembered feeling like he was dreaming, though his mind and body were completely awake. A palpable darkness made up the entirety of his surroundings, but it had a flexible, illusion-like quality, as if it might shift or fall apart at any moment.
He found that he was no longer hungry or thirsty, and he wondered if that meant he was dead.
By his side a woman appeared, sliding gracefully into view like a pool of water. She wore a kind of silky fabric the same color as the abyss around them that accentuated her many curves. Her face was round and pale as snow, framed by black locks that encircled her ears and cascaded down her back. She was tall, much taller than Phil, nearly double his height, which should have made her cold, distant gaze all the more terrifying; but Phil was too numb to feel much of anything. He met her regal glare with a wan smile.
Then something changed in her expression, a small flash of interest in the man before her who did not cower in her presence.
She spoke, but not with her mouth, keeping her pomegranate-colored lips in a prim line as words coalesced from thin air like a giant inhale and were exhaled into a sentence that vibrated with prestige and power.
She questioned who he was, and Phil answered with as much truth as he could, because he didn't quite know anymore.
She asked how he had come to be here, and he told her about Hickory and how he was now an utterly broken man.
She talked with him for a long time, even discussing trivial things like his favorite seasons or foods. Though she retained her queenly demeanor, it was clear she was curious, and when she finished her formal interrogation, Phil returned the favor.
He learned the woman's name was Void, which was also the place they were in, and that she was a deity of sorts who both was the corporeal form of and existed in the dark space below the world. She controlled the passage between life and death, guiding the deceased to the afterlife when they arrived. But Phil was different from the other corpses, and Void reluctantly admitted she didn't know why.
Neither did he.
So they continued their conversation, which was now a little warmer. Phil had no way of judging how much time had passed, but such a great deal of words had been exchanged he was sure if he were alive his throat would have burned with exhaustion.
Mostly he spoke of Hickory, for she was the only thing on his mind, and Void listened attentively, never interrupting or changing the subject until he had nothing more to say; then, to his surprise, the woman comforted him with tender affirmations and gentle reassurances, bringing tears to his already moist eyes.
Phil realized he had entirely misjudged Void, assuming her to be aloof and haughty when perhaps a reserved exterior was essential to the completion of her cosmic duties. She was a witness to all death, a hard burden to bear by oneself.
He told her this, and her pomegranate lips bent ever so slightly upwards.
For the first thousand years he was dead, his dialogues with Void were amicable. They spoke almost constantly about everything, even discussing what was happening on the surface; Void told him snow and ice blanketed the earth, and the animals had grown thick coats of fur to protect themselves from the bitter cold.
The talk did not grow old or tedious, which pleased Phil greatly.
Time is a fickle mistress, but it did indeed heal wounds. The holes in his heart that ached for his beloved Hickory had begun to draw together, and agony at her memory was replaced by lugubrious fondness.
The second time Phil fell in love, it was soft and slow.
It blossomed in quiet, each petal opening separately to reveal a different facet of the pistil, and when it had fully matured, pollen rose from the stigma and drifted towards the man and the goddess, washing over them in a dawning of unspoken feelings.
And what else could they do but discuss it?
Void often said that Phil was like the sun, descending from above to give her warmth and life. If that was so, then Void must have been the moon, beaming through the dark to light his way.
For nine millennia more they shared joy and sorrow, humor and anger, friendship and romance. They did not lie together, but Phil was satisfied without physical passion; their love was of mind, not flesh.
Sometimes, Phil would dream of the conversations they had, and those were his happiest dreams, because in them he found solace and understanding on a level deeper than anything he had previously experienced.
When ten thousand years had passed, Void came to him with tears in her large purple eyes, lashes damp and clinging together.
She explained in a somber manner that he could no longer stay with her; that he would have to leave, return to the mortal world. Other powerful forces had demanded the return, insisting it was dangerous to keep a half-living spirit like himself. He must be sent back to the surface to die naturally.
Her voice quivered as she spoke, but Phil assured her it would be all right; he was human, and would only take half a century or so to expire.
Void shook her head, a fresh wave of tears bursting from her watery eyes. The torment was audible in her speech, a great wave of grief that swallowed him whole.
"You noticed you've not aged a day while with me? It's because I'm immortal. I will never die, and as long as you are by my side, neither shall you. When you return to the human realm, it will be the same. You'll live a thousand mortal lifetimes before I see you again."
He remembered her words and he dreamt of them often: a thousand human lifetimes.
Time was a cruel mistress.
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The surface was an overwhelming menagerie of sound and light, a thousand sensations crashing down on Phil at once.
It was all too much; he craved the dark peace of Void.
Like desperate prey in the jaws of a predator, he struggled to free himself, grabbing hold of a sizable rock and bashing it into his head, but it crumbled to sand in his palm.
Shocked, he staggered to his feet and wildly searched for a way to return. He stuck his head in a river and the stream was reduced to a trickle, making it impossible to drown. He taunted viscous looking beasts, yet they turned away, refusing to kill him. He jumped from ledges and cliffs, but the ground rose to meet him. He could not kill himself. It was as if the earth was preventing him from an early grave, taunting him.
He sat for a while and wept, yearning for Void's presence.
The cottage was built not far from where he appeared. It was a grassland at the time, arid and sparse, but Phil didn't care enough to scout a better location. He cut trees, hauled lumber, and carried stone, working for months to create the modest home.
When there was no more building to be done, he hunted for meat and gathered plants, eventually creating a garden behind the cottage. He didn't seek out other people, and when they passed by as he was hunting, he hid until they had disappeared beyond the horizon.
That was how he lived for the first millennium: alone, counting each day with a small mark on his wall.
Moisture had made its way into the savannah, turning the environment green and lush, a forest filled with life.
The cottage was still standing, though every century or so Phil had to repair cracks and damage to the structure. He had also made additions to the house, creating a cellar and a second story. And he had started hearing things; voices that spoke to him through inanimate objects. They sounded like Void, gentle and kind, so he accepted them into his life without much protest.
Especially they came from the big metal chest in the cellar, which was full of ice collected during the winter used to keep food cold. Phil brought the box up into the house so he could be closer to it.
His plan was to survive, secluded, by himself until he died. There was no point in getting close to people; he would outlive them by centuries anyways.
He hadn't meant for Techno to show up on his doorstep halfway through the second millennium.
It was an accident that Wilbur had appeared soon afterwards, Tommy in tow.
Tubbo was simply a fluke.
But they weren't anything important to Phil. They were like roommates, ones who ate with their hands and gave him hugs and asked for bedtime stories and called him dad.
It hurt so much, knowing he would see them die and live on. He tried to distance himself, seem less like their father and more like a friend, but it didn't work in the slightest. Phil was stuck with them.
Maybe that wasn't such a terrible thing.
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Phil had dreamt about Void that night, predictably.
His time away from her had not dampened his love, which meant it ached as if it was still fresh. It wasn't something that got better, but something he had learned to deal with.
He rose from the bed, making his way to the large bay window that looked out over L'Manberg. The sky was gray, a few ornery stars dimly twinkling.
Tonight would be Techno's execution.
Phil had failed Hickory.
He had failed Void.
He had failed his family, killed Wilbur, abandoned Tommy.
He would not fail again.
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Hey! Hope you enjoyed this longer chapter! If you have any theories, questions, or thoughts, I'd love to hear them! Thank you for reading!