He didn't know how long he had been running.
He didn't care.
Get away, get away, get away—
He dodged the people in the street, ignoring their griping and complaining when he ran into them. His arms pulsed with phantom pains every time he touched something.
Get away, get away, get away—
He was scared—he had never been this scared in all his life.
But he was free.
He dodged into an alley and collapsed in the far back corner, behind the garbage bins and some cardboard boxes.
He tried desperately not to hyperventilate; that would only make him sick with the smell of rotted garbage permeating everything.
He laid his head back against the rough brick wall, forcing himself to relax. He needed to relax, calm down. He was useless to himself if he didn't get himself under control.
Get away, get away, get away—
His stomach pulsed with hunger and he barely suppressed a whimper. He couldn't remember the last time he had been given food. It was a wonder he hadn't passed out from sheer starvation at this point.
I don't have time to cry.
That didn't stop the tears from burning the corners of his eyes.
Angrily, he brushed them away and stood, shaky knees barely taking his weight, the cold cement bruising his bare feet.
I don't have time for this.
Get away, get away, get away—
…
Phil worriedly brushed his palm over Wilbur's forehead. The pale child whimpered and leaned into his touch with the desperation of a kid that wholeheartedly believes that no matter what is wrong, the parent can fix it.
" 'S hot," Wilbur murmured, voice slogged with mucus and exhaustion. His sweat had practically soaked the sheets and his pajamas. Even his wings were damp. The smell of sickness hung heavily in the air, sour and thick.
To say Phil was worried for his little boy would be an understatement of the century.
"Kristen?"
His wife's footsteps came up the creaky stairs, then into the room. Her dark hair was frazzled and messy, face drawn and concerned. She hadn't changed her shirt in three days.
"He's gonna need a potion," Phil sighed, dragging a hand through his own mussed hair and over his unshaved face.
Neither he nor his wife had been sleeping since Wilbur had gotten sick. The boy's wet hacks were almost constant—it sounded like he was trying to cough his lungs out.
Kristen bit her lip and joined him at the tiny avian's bedside. The boy responded to hearing his mother by reaching for her with pale, clammy hands.
Kristen pulled her baby into her arms and exhaled shakily. The sweat-saturated baby-wings hung limply and the boy coughed weakly.
She turned her tired eyes, filled with tears she didn't dare shed in front of her son, to her husband. "What are we going to do?"
Phil bit his lip at the question. He knew she was asking about more than just Wilbur's cold.
It had been over two years since Phil had emerged from the nether with the piglin hybrid clutched in his arms.
Since then, their tiny fishing village had proceeded to descend into some of the worst times in history (what history the elders of the tiny settlement had bothered to preserve).
The fields for miles around had been burned by passing raiders, and the fishermen weren't catching anything. A wave of bovine sickness had swept through, making most of the beef and pork dangerous to eat. The chickens had stopped laying two weeks ago, for a reason none knew why.
Phil couldn't risk keeping his small family here for other reasons as well. The villagers weren't hybrid-friendly and were giving Phil suspicious looks. They weren't even magic friendly—Kristen hadn't been able to use her powers in the entirety of them being there.
They were scheduled to set off in a week on a small passenger ship to the neighboring kingdom that was having significantly better luck at feeding their citizens.
The house was a mess, boxes everywhere, Wilbur was sick, Techno was getting his adult teeth, Phil wasn't getting any work, they were almost out of money—everything seemed to be going wrong.
"Phil?"
Phil jumped slightly at Techno's voice. The little piglin hybrid was standing at the door, peering in with confused eyes.
He had yet to master his shifting—right now he sported piglin ears and a slightly smushed nose with little tusks peeking out, but the rest of him was human. The poor kid had to be hidden away at all times—if someone saw him—Phil didn't want to think about that.
Both he and Wilbur were so little, they probably didn't understand what was going on, why Mom and Dad were always worried and stressed and snappish, why food was low and money almost non-existent.
"You can't be in here, mate," Phil quickly ushered Techno out the door and back downstairs of the shoddy, leaky house they rented for way too much than it was worth. "We don't want you to get sick too."
Techno tapped his palms together, then signed a few rough words. The piglin hybrid still had trouble speaking—trying to teach the boy Common was proving to be quite difficult. So far, he could only say Phil's name and a distorted version of Kristen's and Wilbur's, but he was taking to sign a bit easier.
Phil just made out "why," "hurt," and the custom sign Techno had made for Wilbur's name.
"He's just sick, mate," Phil said, putting his hands on Techno's shoulders. "And I don't want you to catch it."
Techno frowned, then signed "no," "sick," and then pointed to himself.
"Not yet, mate," Phil said, trying to be patient. "You will if you keep hanging around him."
Techno's brow furrowed and he pointed to himself again. "No, sick, can."
Phil bit back a groan of irritation. The language barrier was frustrating on a good day, and straight-up infuriating on a bad day.
And they were having a lot of bad days.
Phil hadn't slept in four days with Wilbur's wheezing keeping him awake and the worry about food and money on his mind 24/7.
"Okay, mate," Phil said gently, swallowing down the irritation. He couldn't afford to snap and set Techno back the months they had managed to progress. "Whatever you say. I'm gonna run into town now for medicine. You keep Kristen safe for me, okay?"
Techno hesitated, but nodded, still tapping his palms.
…
He barely managed to get his feet under him a second time.
He pulled the hood of his ratted, pathetic excuse for a cloak over his head and slipped back into the crowd.
Get away, get away, get away—
He didn't know what he was doing—all he knew was that he had to get away.
Away. Get away, get away, get away—
The sun was setting when he made it to someone's porch before he collapsed, unable to take another step. The hunger from earlier had turned into a muscle-mushing ache that made it impossible to move.
Not to mention his injuries—
I'm going to die here.
The thought didn't bother him as much as he thought it would.
…
Phil decided that he hated the potion's dealer.
The crotchety, old, fat witch with a wart on her nose and knobbed-up knees (Phil was really never one to let looks decided a person's character and how he judged them, but he really, really, hated this particular person) charged triple what the crappy potions she made were worth.
Phil thanked whatever gods were out there he knew how to make his own potions—the ingredients were thankfully a lot cheaper.
Still got overcharged to the Fourth Kingdom and back. With this last purchase—Phil's money pouch felt far too light for his heart to be happy he got the right ingredients.
He was so sunk in his worry he almost missed the kid passed out next to his porch stairs. In fact, Phil almost tripped over him.
He was a small little mess, curled in on himself in a ratted cloak and no shoes. He seemed really out of it—but lucid enough to shift when he heard Phil get closer to him.
"Oh, mate—" Phil's heart melted when a pair of green, broken eyes poked out from under long, greasy bangs. The kid lurched halfheartedly, making a grand-total of three centimeters up before going right back down. He huddled farther away from Phil, blinking owlishly up at him, looking very much like a kicked puppy.
Phil made the decision in under a second. He carefully shifted the bag of potions out of the way and scooped the half-dead kid into his arms. The boy didn't react at all to being manhandled into a strange house, just moaned and tried to fold into himself.
That was concerning.
With some difficulty, Phil got the bag off his hip and set it on the table, calling for Kristen.
His wife came from upstairs, wringing her hands. "He's getting worse, did you get—" Hey eyes landed on the child in Phil's arms. "Oh dear—" she darted forward, hands naturally reaching for the small face to offer whatever motherly comfort she could.
"Found him passed out on the porch," Phil explained, shifting his grip as the kid squirmed a bit. "Didn't wanna leave him there."
Kristen nodded slowly, eyes softening as she took in the state of the child.
"I only bought the supplies," Phil motioned to the bag on the table. "She wanted ten gold for a potion that I know didn't have the right amount melon in it."
Kristen wrinkled her nose in disgust and picked up the sack, going through the supplies carefully. "I'll go get started with the brewing. I assume you're going to try and clean him up?"
Phil hummed, hefting the kid and making toward the bathroom. The boy held still in Phil's grasp, blinking languidly in the light change and generally not putting up much of a fuss.
Phil set the boy down in the cramped space, back up against the tub and started digging around for soap and towels.
In the two minutes he left to find a spare change of clothes (a shirt too small for Techno and a pair of pants too large for Wilbur) the kid managed to get his feet under him and cram himself up under the sink.
"Glad to see you're still with us," Phil said calmly, subtly closing the door so the kid couldn't make a break for it. "What's your name?"
The boy's throat worked, eyes wider than dinner plates and more lucid than before, then answered in a hoarse voice, "Dream."
"Nice to meet you, Dream," Phil said softly. "I got some clothes for you—" Phil held them up and smiled kindly. "How bout we get you cleaned up?"
The boy blinked.
Phil turned his back to the child to start the bath, trying to show he was harmless.
The boy didn't move.
Phil tried to make himself busy while the bath filled, lining up the soap and towels and clothes in a neat line, and grabbing a scissors and a comb after a second thought. The boy's hair was down to his shoulders and matted in almost one giant clump.
Eventually though, Phil couldn't stall anymore.
"Alright, mate," Phil kneeled down in front of him. "Ready?"
Dream hesitated before shifting forward. "Are you going to hurt me?" His voice was quiet and crackly, like he had either not used it in a while or screamed for hours at a time.
Phil didn't know whether the question or the way the boy asked the question worried him more.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Phil said assuredly. "There's no reason to."
Dream regarded him with an over-healthy dose of suspicion before he carefully began to ease the filthy shirt off, wincing in pain.
Phil found out why soon enough. He stopped dead at the bandages on the of the boy's arms. They were clear bled through, and stretched from the top of his upper arms to his wrists.
Besides that, his entire stomach was one massive bruise—purple and blues and green and yellows. Old mingled with the new, to the point Phil couldn't tell where one started and one ended.
"What happened?" Phil breathed. There was iso much blood/i on those rags—and the bruises—
Dream tucked his injured arms to his battered sides, looking at the ground. "I don't wanna talk about it. Please."
Phil wanted to talk about it. Especially after he saw the wounds themselves under the rags.
There were three on each arm, long—from mid-forearm to mid upper-arm—and surrounded with purple blotches that centered around the crooks of his elbows.
Made to make someone bleed for long periods of time without actually killing the person.
They had long since scabbed over, obviously infected, leaving Phil to believe that Dream had been forced to use the old bandages for a long time.
Phil didn't push anything though. Dream looked ready to fly out the nearest window, and Phil wanted to help this child.
The same fatherly instinct that had overwhelmed him when he had found Techno and when Wilbur had been born was bubbling back to the surface, telling him to protect the boy.
He had to run the bath twice to get all the dirt, sweat, blood, and grime off the child. They used a whole bar of soap and three washcloths and it took close to half an hour to work through the mat that was Dream's hair.
The poor kid was positively covered in smaller bruises and cuts, outside of initial wounds, all relatively old but still fresh enough to make Phil wonder.
What was somehow more disturbing than the multiple wounds that covered the child was Dream's behavior.
Though obviously scared and skittish and hating his current situation, the boy was quiet and subdued, and let Phil do whatever he wanted to him.
Wilbur had laughed at his father before he splashed him with his feathers, and Techno had flaunted an anger and resistance as if he was proud of it when Phil tried to get the kid to eat.
Dream was more or less a doll, resigned to whatever fate Phil had for him, limply responding to any gentle request as if he were a puppet and someone else was pulling the strings.
Even though Phil asked if Dream wanted him in the room—he could leave if he wanted to—Dream didn't respond. Phil asked if he wanted help scrubbing his hair, and got nothing for an answer but a few half blinks.
Dream did manage to wash himself, rubbing the sudsy cloth over himself gingerly, watching Phil out of the corner of his eye, shoulders slightly hunched as if expecting to get hit.
It made Phil sick.
If someone else would've found you—
Phil cringed at the thought while he waited for Dream to dry and dress (back turned) so he could bandage the wounds.
The boy stayed quiet, no whimpers or anything, while Phil
smeared the expensive cream on the boy's ribs and arms and wrapped them in clean, white strips of cloth. Phil decided a few sips of healing potion would clear the infection and probably the fever the kid was carrying.
He didn't speak until Phil started on his hair.
"What're you going to do with me?" Dream asked quietly as Phil combed through the dirty-blond waves with as much care as he could.
"Well," Phil tried not to show that the question bothered him, clipping the scissors quietly near Dream's ear so he could get used to the sound. "What do you want?"
Dream shook his head. "Doesn't matter."
Phil didn't even wanna know what that meant.
Well, he did, but now the was not the time. He started cutting, snipping at the mats to find the shortest point so that his hair could be even. The boy's hair would be quite short, but long enough to give him that cute, curls-around-the-ears look that Wilbur mastered.
"You hungry?" Phil asked as he cleaned the supplies up, Dream sitting listlessly on the edge of the sink where Phil had left him.
He just caught the slight tensing in Dream's shoulders before the boy shook his head.
"Well, we're about to eat anyway—did you want to try some bread? It'll be easy on your stomach."
Phil wasn't about to tell the little boy that it was almost all they had left.
Dream didn't respond, just loosely crossed his freshly-bandaged arms.
"C'mon," Phil said warmly, scooping the kid up in his arms again. The kid stiffened, but didn't fight. For half a second, Phil was sure he had relaxed into Phil's hold.
Techno was at the kitchen table, slowly eating a bowl of watery soup. Kristen was moving around the kitchen, the rusted brewing stand that had seen several better decades bubbling away.
"Hey Techno," Phil said, catching his son's attention. "Found this guy on the porch." He set Dream down in a chair across from the piglin. "Be very nice, okay? He's really hurt."
Techno looked hesitant, but curious. He fiddled with his palms for a bit, then signed some words.
Dream blinked, the only thing he seemed comfortable doing, and stared.
"I don't think he understands, mate," Phil said, ruffling Techno's hair. "Wanna try using a few words?"
Techno immediately shook his head.
From upstairs came Wilbur's sopping, thick coughs, followed quickly by cries for his mum.
"You wanna watch this?" Kristen couldn't hide her exhaustion as she waved to the stand.
"Sure." Phil handed Dream a bowl of soup and small nubbin of bread. Kristen left and the crying was soon muffled and soothed.
Phil watched the brewing stand with one eye and the two kids with the other. Techno ate his food dutifully, slowly enough to make it last longer.
Phil wished the boy didn't know how to do that, but at the same time he was grateful both his kids didn't have large appetites right now.
Dream merely stared at the carrot-potato broth, shoulders trembling slightly.
"Dream, mate," Phil said, pausing his melon-cutting.
The boy froze—Phil wasn't even sure if he was breathing.
"Eat for me, okay? Don't let it go to waste."
Dream hesitated, but picked up the spoon and ate a mouthful, letting it sit in his mouth for a bit before he swallowed.
Phil finished brewing the potion. It wasn't as bright as it was supposed to be, and not near as shimmery, but it would have to do. He poured a bit into a cup for Dream—he'd give it to him later after he'd eaten.
"Techno, I'm gonna go give this to Wilbur," Phil said, turning the brewer off and putting the rest of the ingredients away. "Keep an eye on Dream for me, okay?"
Techno nodded, gaze fixing on Dream and not moving.
"Dream, I'm gonna be right back, okay? Try and eat what you can, but if makes you sick you don't have to."
Dream's eyes were on the bowl and not moving, but his head nodded minutely.
Phil left the two and went upstairs.
Wilbur was half-in his mother's lap, panting and laboring for each breath. His face was flushed, and soaked through.
"It's worse—" Kristen sounded like she was just stating a fact, but Phil knew his wife well enough to recognize when she was borderline scared.
"This'll work," Phil said, trying to reassure himself as much as her. "Tilt his head."
"Wilby, sweetheart," she lifted him up and tipped his head back slightly. "Dad's got something for you. It'll make you feel better."
Wilbur barely acknowledged her, but let Phil open his mouth and pour the potion down his throat.
Due to past experience, Phil immediately locked the child's jaw shut with a firm hand. Wilbur fought, whining, but swallowed when he realized he wasn't going to get to spit it out.
His parents watched with bated breath, waiting. It took half an hour, but the fever broke. Within minutes, the child was relaxing, face slack with relief.
"Oh, thank Ender." Kristen pulled her baby close and almost started crying.
Phil almost burst into tears himself, but frankly didn't have the energy.
Thank Ender indeed.
