Wilbur Soot was a lot of things. Stubborn, a liar, self-loathing, not always the best at admitting when he's wrong.

But he wasn't a hypocrite.

When they had returned to camp after their exploration of the castle ground, they had sat around the fire in an oddly oppressive silence. Even Tommy had barely spoken for much of the return journey, which was very unlike him. Wilbur watched Phil bite at his lip in indecision and he had known then, that they would be taking that strange guy home.

Phil himself didn't know it yet - still weighing the risks against the rewards in his mind. Actions rarely didn't go preceded by thought for him. He wasn't one to make commitments without the needed considerations first. Wilbur knew this.

But Wilbur also knew that Phil could not turn his back on what was broken without at least making a token effort to fix it. Because over a decade ago, when Wilbur met the man, the same thing had happened.

—

[ "Stay still, little phoenix."

Tommy did not listen to him, he never did. The child renewed his fidgeting as Wilbur tried to wrap the cloak around him, small hands reaching out to entangle their fingers into Wilbur's hair and pull. He hissed, gently grabbing Tommy's wrists to push them away.

"I don't wanna sit still," Tommy complained, almost close to pouting. "And I don't wanna walk either."

"I know, but we have to. We have a long way to go and I don't want you to start complaining you're cold halfway there, okay?" Wilbur bargained. He secured the cloth around Tommy with an old pin, straightening it across his shoulder. Back when Tommy was a baby, Wilbur had used this same cloak to carry him around, hoisting Tommy onto his back safely secured in the makeshift carrier. It was a technique he'd been taught by his mother, who used to be a midwife when she was alive.

Wilbur was never allowed in the room for the actual birthing as a kid, though he often heard the shrill cries of women in labor from his place waiting in the hallway. But then his mother would emerge, a small squirming newborn in her arms still fresh with blood. Wilbur helped her clean them and bundle them up securely before they were handed off to their parents.

She had shown Wilbur from a young age how to take care of infants, and unwittingly saved Tommy's life in the process. Wilbur wouldn't have been able to take care of the foundling if it weren't for her teachings in his own childhood.

By now Tommy had grown too big for the carrier though, since he was already five. Wilbur's back would hurt if he was forced to haul him around all day like he used to.

"Where are we going?" Tommy asked, tucking his head against Wilbur's shoulder when he was lifted up from the table, where Wilbur had put him to help him with his welly boots. He'd already forgotten all about his complaints over having to walk.

"Into town. We're almost out of bread. And milk. And everything else, really," Wilbur said.

"Oh… did you play the guitar well?"

Wilbur eyed the guitar sitting against the wall. Tommy was asking him if he'd gotten gold coins while playing it on the street, which he was supposed to do to earn money.

"Yeah," he lied. "We got plenty, Toms. It'll be alright."

"Will you get medicine too?"

Wilbur put him down and grabbed Tommy's hand instead as he opened the door. "Probably not."

"Why?"

"It's expensive."

"You were coughing last night…"

Wilbur exhaled through his nose a little. "It'll be alright," he repeated. "I'm more worried about having something to eat tonight, yeah?"

Tommy nodded. "Yeah, I'm hungry."

Swallowing past a clump of guilt in his gut, Wilbur answered. "Don't worry, we'll do something about that soon."

The big city was only a twenty-minute walk away. Living inside it was too dangerous, even those abandoned buildings that could be suitable for them to find shelter in were owned by somebody. Somebody who could come check in on their real estate, and who certainly wouldn't take kindly to two orphan kids squatting in their building. The shack they had found out in the woods was much better, nobody ever came to visit it. Wilbur wasn't sure it belonged to anybody.

His grip on Tommy's hand tightened a little as they joined the throng of people making their way into the city through the gates, a guard on either side observing the procession with clear boredom. They had to walk on the outer edge of the road to keep out of the way of the merchants and their wagons. Those were headed towards the market, the same place Wilbur was getting to.

"You wanna check out the cows again?" Wilbur asked once they got there, not mentioning he could already feel Tommy pull on his arm in that direction.

"Yeah!" So he allowed Tommy to drag him along.

Several cows were standing around in a makeshift paddock, chewing their cud and swatting at flies with their tails. Tommy loved petting them, always saying he would get one when he was older and they could afford it. Wilbur never robbed him of the delusion, but he was pretty sure the animals for sale on the market were all meant for slaughter.

"Once I get one I'll call her Henry," Tommy said, hand reaching through the wooden beams to reach the cow that had curiously stepped closer upon their approach. She seemed disinterested when discovering they didn't bring any treats, though she still allowed the pets to proceed.

"Isn't Henry a boy name?"

Tommy scowled as if Wilbur had said the stupidest thing imaginable. "It's a cow name."

"Of course, my bad." Wilbur straightened his back, watching the crowd. It was already well past noon, the square was as packed with people as it was going to get on a weekday. "Tommy, you stay here. I'll be right back."

Without asking what Wilbur was going to do, Tommy nodded. He probably assumed Wilbur was just gonna run his errands, as he had done many times before.

And in a way, Wilbur supposed that wasn't entirely inaccurate.

Exhaling to release some of the tension in his muscles, he stepped forward and effortlessly slipped into the rows of people milling around the market. He was small enough that most didn't pay him any mind, nimble enough to squeeze through the rabble unnoticed. Quick enough to lift the coin purse of somebody's belt and disappear into the mass of other people before his victim could react.

Wilbur didn't like stealing. He didn't feel bad for doing it either, but the risk of getting caught frightened him. City guards were not expected to be lenient on pickpocketers, not even if they were children. If it weren't for their hunger, Wilbur would have stopped at the very thought of what could happen if he was arrested. He'd be sent to an orphanage no doubt, Tommy too. The chances were pretty high they'd be separated. They'd never see each other again. It scared Wilbur.

However, he was even more scared of Tommy starving.

He was careful to pick a suitable target. A lone traveler was always good, somebody who was new around these parts and more easily distracted by their surroundings than a local going about their weekly errands. Then it was as simple as getting close enough unnoticed, doing what he had to do, and disappearing before they could realize what had happened.

Today, he settled on a blond man in weird robes. Their flowy green clothes marked them a tourist, their wide-eyed expression even more so. They were so enamored by the stalls and the wares being sold there that they didn't even notice Wilbur coming to stand right up beside them, the child pretending to be looking at the same books the man was preoccupied with.

Wilbur was acting as if the covers interested him a great deal, while discreetly glancing to the side every few seconds in the hopes the man turned more to the left. If they did, Wilbur would have no problem grabbing the purse that was dangling openly against their hip. Only a fool who was asking to be robbed would keep their money on such clear display.

"Don't you think those are a little too hard for you?"

Wilbur froze. The man laughed, mistaking his surprise at being spoken to for offense at his words.

"I don't know you, of course. But you don't strike me as the dense literature type, given your age. Books about politics sound boring, right?" They smiled, clearly trying to invite conversation. "What books do you usually read?"

With a shrug, Wilbur averted his gaze. As he hoped, his silence was interpreted as an unwillingness to talk to strangers and after a few seconds, the man went back to browsing. When they turned away to ask something of the vendor selling the books, Wilbur took his opportunity to strike.

He made a swipe for the man's purse, lifting it up diagonally because that's where the strap attaching it to their belt would be weakest, the leather mostly worn down by constant chaffing. With a sharp pull, it snapped loose. Now he just had to turn around and sprint away, blending into the crowd as quickly as possible.

At least, he would have done that, if it weren't for the fact that somebody had latched onto his wrist immediately.

"Hey!" The man's voice was sharp, but not hostile. "I know music doesn't earn you a lot of cash, mate. But I need to eat too."

Wilbur stared at them, shocked and half-expecting them to call for the guards at any moment. They didn't, that stupid smile still on their face as they patiently waited for him to hand their coins back.

Which Wilbur didn't do.

No, Wilbur kicked them.

Hard.

The man yelped, jumping back when the tip of Wilbur's boot connected with their shin hard enough to make Wilbur's own toes hurt. Which meant it probably would have been twice as painful for them. Their hold on him loosened automatically and Wilbur ran.

He weaved between densely packed bodies, then crawled beneath a fruit stand so he could take a shortcut and dodge from the other end. Within seconds his chest was aching from the exertion, sharp stabs of pain making themselves known in his lungs and cutting his breathing short.

Last night had been bad, but Wilbur had really hoped he could have held out a little longer.

Still, even if the man tried chasing him, there was no way they could keep track of him in the crowd. There was no way-

Wilbur ran right into them.

"Oof." Their collision knocked the air out of both of them, the man also trying to suppress their own chuckling. They were clearly amused, as if this was a game. Wilbur was sent into a coughing fit, and they grabbed him by both his shoulders - so he couldn't take off again, but also because they were concerned. "Damn, you're fast. You okay, mate?"

"How- How did you-" Wilbur cut himself off, mouth open and closing several times as the coughing died down. He had been sure the guy was far behind him a mere second ago. Had they just materialized out of nowhere?

"How did I know you play music?" The man asked, completely missing the point. Wilbur nodded though, because that actually was also something he wanted to know. "Your fingers. Those callouses mean you play some kind of stringed instrument, right?"

Wilbur glanced at them, then back up at their face. "Guitar."

"That'd be the most common yeah. I play a bit of lute myself. My name's Phil."

Before Phil could continue he stumbled forward and almost fell over. Wilbur looked down, only to see that Tommy had somehow managed to tackle the guy's leg.

"Let go of my brother you bastard!" Tommy shrieked with all the zeal a child of his age could possibly possess.

Phil looked down contemplatively. "Your brother?"

Wilbur reached out to tug Tommy to his side, pulling him behind himself. "Uh, yeah." They really needed to have another conversation about how bad Tommy was at following instructions.

"Where are your parents?"

"We don't need any," Tommy said before Wilbur could stop him. Phil frowned in that way adults often do when they find out children are without supervision and that's something they don't approve of.

Wilbur didn't want him to trace that thought too far. "Look, I'm sorry about your stupid purse. I don't suppose I can give it back and you'll forget about this? We'll just get out of your hair-"

"I'm afraid not, mate."

Fuck. Wilbur knew this was going to happen. Phil was going to deliver them to some home for lost kids so they could be 'raised properly' or whatever and Tommy would be adopted immediately because he was the little blond-haired blue-eyed boy all parents dream off while Wilbur was…

Wilbur wasn't.

"I want to at least make it up to you," Phil said, completely derailing Wilbur's train of thought.

"What?"

"This was going to get you your dinner tonight, right?" Phil asked, indicating the purse still held in Wilbur's tight-wound, nervous fingers. "I'm going to need that back, but in return I'll make sure you won't go hungry. Deal?"

Wilbur bit his tongue, hesitating on what to answer. There was the possibility this could be a trap, maybe Phil was some freak trying to lure them somewhere planning to sell them. Or worse-

"Do you have a big house?" Tommy asked, totally oblivious to Wilbur's hesitation.

"I'm afraid not," Phil admitted sheepishly. "I'm a nomad."

Tommy tilted his head, chubby cheeks even more pronounced when his entire face scrunched up in confusion. "What does that mean."

"It means I don't have a house at all."

"Oh, we don't really have a house either!" Tommy beamed, clearly already feeling kinship with this strange man Wilbur still didn't trust as far as he could throw him.

"Then where do you sleep?" Phil asked, but Wilbur cut in before Tommy could answer.

"Don't tell him that!" Tommy shrunk back a bit at his harsh tone. Wilbur could apologize for that later, when they weren't on the brink of being possibly kidnapped.

"I live in a tent myself, got it set up out in the woods west of here for now," Phil offered, not prying into their own living arrangement any further than that. "It's not much, but I got everything I need to make a pretty decent stew. I don't mind sharing."

Despite how harmless it all sounded, Wilbur still hesitated. Paranoia was such a mean beast to shake. He had been looking after himself for so long, had found and raised Tommy all alone. And they had been fine by themselves. A little malnourished, sick sometimes. When Tommy got the flu last winter, there hadn't been anything Wilbur could do but swaddle him in blankets and sit as close to the fire as he could stand, holding a shivering Tommy in his lap while the sweat poured down his back. Wilbur hadn't asked for any help, hadn't needed any help.

The last thing he wanted was this man's pity. Or for him to think they wanted him to take care of them.

Then Tommy tugged on his sleeve, muttering under his breath in a way Phil would definitely be able to overhear. "Wilbur, I'm hungry…."

In the end, Tommy was the more important thing here.

"We can come over. Just this once." When Tommy grinned, that almost made the lingering anxiety worth it.

"Do you have a cow?" Tommy asked next.

"Nope," Phil said, confused. "There's a lot of crows out in the forest though. They're smart little shits. If you feed them they'll remember you can be trusted."

Wilbur couldn't help but feel that was an allegory or something.

One night had turned into several nights, which had turned into every night for the entire month that Phil had remained camped out near the city.

And when Phil packed up to move, Wilbur and Tommy hadn't needed much prodding to collect the few personal items that lay scattered around their cabin so they could join him. ]

—

Thus when Wilbur sat by the fire that first night, watching the gears turning in Phil's head, there was nothing more certain in his mind than that this Blade person would be joining them.

"How long ago was that big fucking war again?" Tommy asked, poking the flames with a stick for no real reason since they weren't even close to dying out. It made embers spark up, flickers of it reflecting in his eyes. Watching him made Wilbur nostalgic.

"Haven't you been paying attention in your history lessons, little phoenix?" he couldn't help but say.

Tommy frowned at the return of his old nickname. "Oh fuck off, if that's anybody's fault it's yours, innit?"

Wilbur snorted, but he supposed he couldn't exactly deny that. "I think Phil said something like 150 years? Something close to that."

"That's a long time to be alone," Tommy said.

"Yeah," Wilbur agreed. "It is."

"Wait, if you were a soldier in the Age of Blood war, how old are you?"

"I don't know."

"How old were you when the war started?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know when you were born?"

"I don't."

"Tommy, could you please stop interrogating the poor guy." Phil found what he was looking for in his supplies, bringing the rolled-up leather over to where Wilbur and Tommy were sitting, each on either side of Blade.

"If he minded the questions he would have told me! Wouldn't you, Blade?" Tommy said, looking sure of himself.

Blade didn't immediately answer, eyebrows drawn together so there was a small crease between them. Wilbur had quickly noticed there were only two ways this guy reacted to questions: short but straightforward answers, or utter confusion as if he could barely comprehend what was being asked. This one would fall in the second category.

"I mind," Phil said, kneeling on the ground in front of them. "I need to concentrate for this."

"Do you need help?" Wilbur asked stupidly, even when knowing he'd probably not do any good with how squeamish he was. He still felt as if he had to offer.

"Let's see how bad it is first." Phil opened the pouch, revealing the medical instruments inside. "Could you take your shirt off, just for a moment?"

Blade did as he was told immediately. Wilbur pointedly did not stare at the man's body, as if that would somehow keep him from noticing the frankly ridiculous amount of scars that covered a majority of his skin. Tommy was not as tactful.

"Holy shit…How did that happen?"

Once more, the forehead crease. "Which one?" Blade settled on eventually. Phil was inspecting the wound on his stomach.

"They all look fucking gnarly!" Tommy insisted. "Did you get them in the war?"

"Some of them."

"And the others?"

"Arena. Punishments. Training."

"You were in an arena?" Phil asked. "When?" He was using a cloth to clean out the worst of the dried blood around the injury, as well as the dirt inside it. Wilbur thought it must be painful, just looking at it - which he tried to avoid doing - was making his skin crawl. Blade didn't even flinch or give any other indication that what Phil was doing hurt.

"Before my mast-" Blade stopped himself. "Before my previous owner bought me."

Wilbur swallowed, tearing his eyes away and up to the man's face. "When was that? Do you know the year?"

"I don't."

At least partly, they were all trying to figure out this man's exact age. Clearly, he was an adult, and going by the accounts of his part in the war he had been an adult then too. But it would be hard to know how long he'd been with the lord he was serving before that.

Wilbur couldn't help shake the feeling that Blade was younger than him, even with all the scars and grime on his face. He looked younger. But Wilbur knew how fragile that illusion was if he just thought about the fact that this man had been alive and fighting wars over a century before his birth.

Phil was wiping his hands clean. "It doesn't look too bad, thankfully. Probably just a minor infection. Does it hurt?"

The Blade considered this. "Yes," he decided.

"Then why didn't you say anything?" Tommy asked.

And then the crease returned. Wilbur was starting to notice a bit of a pattern.

"It's alright, I've got some salve that will help. We'll just bandage it up and then we can eat, hm? Tommy, will you get more wood for me?"

"On it!"

As Tommy marched off on his new mission, Phil smiled up at the man he was tending to. "I'm glad you don't mind his energy, I imagine it can be a lot to get used to after being alone for so long. If he becomes too much you can just say something though. Tommy gets excited, but he's also very considerate of others. He'll listen."

Wilbur saw the crease deepen twofold. There was something about what Phil had said that Blade really couldn't place.

"And if he doesn't, just snitch to me and I'll get him to listen," Phil added on as a joke.

Blade did not look less bewildered, but he did nod. Maybe only to satisfy Phil.

"Great, you're all done!" Phil drew back, giving the properly wrapped up wound another once over but coming away satisfied. "Wilbur, do you mind if I go check the traps or-"

"Nah, it's fine. I'll stay with him."

Then it was just the two of them. Wilbur didn't force conversation, because frankly Phil had been right. Going from living in complete isolation since basically forever to suddenly having three people around you all the time would be enough to overwhelm anyone. Blade just kinda sat there, lost in thought. Wilbur wasn't going to disturb the guy.

Except, well…

"Don't you want to put your shirt back on?" Wilbur asked.

There it was, the return of Wilbur's favorite expression. It was almost like he could see Blade's brain shortcircuit in real-time.

"I mean, you probably should," he amended. "It's going to get cold at nightfall."

The Blade scrambled to follow the direction now that it had become something he could interpret as a command. When he picked up his shirt though - which he'd had kinda left balled up on the ground until then - Wilbur stopped him.

"Wait, actually uh…" Wilbur was trying to gauge clothing size by eye but he was really bad at that. He could wait for Tommy to be back, but that might take a minute. "I don't think that shitty thing is going to keep the cold out any better. Hold on."

Maybe if they'd met a century ago, Blade would have been too big to fit Wilbur's clothes. They were almost the exact same height, but Wilbur was consistently described by people as being lanky - perhaps to a ridiculous degree. Once a warrior, malnutrition had now brought Blade close to the same shape.

So Wilbur got up and fetched one of his own spare buttons-ups, and a dull mustard-yellow sweater that was a whole size too big and which he kind of hated, but always hauled around just in case. Finally, it would serve a purpose after all.

Combined with the mess of hair, bare feet, and the fact he still was in dire need of a bath, it made a comedic sight. But at least it would keep the guy from freezing.

Wilbur could not fault Phil for anything, least of all for taking in somebody who needed help learning how to look after themselves, even if they didn't know that yet.

After all, Wilbur was not a hypocrite.