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There's fire in the bunker, fire everywhere. It licks at the vines and it burns through the moss, and Philza screams for his children. His children, his sleeping children - he can only pray they are sleeping, not already dead from the smoke. He runs to them, shaking them awake. Chayanne first, for no reason other than that screams wake Tallulah more easily than her brother.
Sure enough, by the time he has pulled him from his covers, Tallulah is already awake and looking around desperately. They are boh, confused, concerned, worried as they headbutt him and nuzzle against his sides. Chayanne grabs a few signs from his chest, and Tallulah does the same.
She walks through the fire to get to them.
Philza screams for her; she turns back, signs in hand, confused.
"Chayanne, Tallulah?" he doesn't hide the panic in his voice, it’s long beyond hiding now. "Can't you see the fire?"
They look at each other and shake their heads, and Philza's stomach drops. He can see - it's so obvious, he can see it, why can't they see it?
But he can, and he can feel it, the burning heat on his cheeks as it comes closer. If it's... If it's one of them again, then... Then the fire won't end until he finds the message.
But he can't, he can't, his home is on fire.
Unless…
He scrambles in his bag, searching and searching. In the depths of his potions pouch he finds one last potion of fire resistance - a splash one thankfully. He pulls his children close, clinging to them as he throws it on the floor.
"Run!" he tells his children. "Get out, please, get out of the fire!"
If he burns, he burns.
If his children burn, they die.
It’s not really a choice; once he finds the message the vision will end, and then they can all gather up in his bed and sleep again.
Chayanne and Tallulah look hesitantly at each other.
It’s only a vision - maybe he can breathe a bit easier now.
"Please," he begs them, already at the point of tears, knowing the pain his body will trick him into feeling already. "I'll fix it, just get out of here... Just get somewhere safe, just get fucking safe. Find Fit, yeah? He'll look after you. Chayanne? Make sure Tallulah gets there safe, okay? Tio Fit will be in his room, but you can wake him up."
There’s a few moments of staring before Chayanne grabs Tallulah's hand, and nods seriously. Tallulah gets a sign out to write something, but Chayanne yanks her up and out of the bunker before she can.
The kids are out, the kids are safe. They're safe.
Philza holds it for one second, then another.
Then he looks at the fire.
And he lets himself scream all over again.
His house is on fire. His house is fucking on fire, and he’s sat here screaming instead of doing something about it. With the potion the licking flames no longer hurt, but it’s psychosomatic. He knows its psychosomatic. He’s just…
The kida are safe, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’s just a nightmare, just a dream.
There's an obvious path towards Chayanne’s kitchen, made in fire and netherrack. To follow it down... To follow it down, is to step into the fire.
The only way to put it out, if the last are to be believed, is to find the book and read the message and take whatever it has to say in his stride.
The fire resistance potion will last a few minutes; he steps into the flames.
Philza walks through the fire, flames lapping at him despite the potion preventing them from catching. With every step he reminds himself the kids are safe, his children are safe - this isn’t real or maybe it is, but it doesn’t matter either way he just needs to get through it and everything will be over and he can go back to pretending everything is fine.
It’s fine, it’s fine, the flame cannot touch him, even if it is somehow real he doused himself in the potion - it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine-
He shuts his eyes as much as he can, squeezing them shut against the smoke. He coughs into his arm from the smoke and it feels so real, so very real, but so did the crystals and the flowers. Just because his lungs are coughing… She wouldn’t hurt him, would she? It’s just his body reacting to what it’s convinced it can see, that’s all, that’s all it is.
The flames lead him through towards the kitchen door. Philza shudders and pulls the doors open, the potion doing nothing for the scalding heat of the burning iron.
One door, then another, and then he’s inside.
And then he looks, and he sees, and his stomach drops - the floor all around is lava, only the narrowest path of burning netherrack leads to the far wall. In some places the netherrack has even burnt away, the small fragments connected by tight, black chains across where the lava has flowed in.
A book, a blaze rod, a piece of blackstone, a quartz crystal, and a tapestry depicting a giant crystal before a white fortress, all suspended in the darkness.
He knows, he doesn’t want to know, she is kinder than the Ender King but he Does Not Want This. He does not want this, he wants them out of his head, he wants dreams to stay dreams and reality to stay real and to drive his children around the racetrack and plant flowers with them and-
And he knows this will not end until he reads the book.
Just read the book. Just read the book, and it will end.
He can barely breathe now, between the smoke and the panic, but his balance has always been good. His feet are steadier than his hands or his mind as he crosses the path of black chains, nibble feet hopping across the burning expanse with habit and memory alone. Before the book are a few blocks of soul sand, safe enough to stand and read, even if he still cannot breathe, breathe, breathe…
In an age long gone, there was a warrior brave. His great wings, black as stone, stretched to the ends of the earth. On them he flew, fearless but alone, seeing all there was to see, living in the moment, his joy discovering the world. There was no foe too great, no obstacle too tall, no battle too fierce… Dragons and withers and zombies feared, the warrior brave slew them all.
He would visit me sometimes, in my fortress of quartz and stone. We would spar, we would plan, I would tell the warrior boy of our wars. One day he stopped coming, for my friend was stolen away. Long years I have searched, through realms and through lands. Finally I have found you, my little friend, and I will not lose you again.
And now the Ender King would dare steal you away? He will pay for his insolence. You are my ally, not his, and I will show him his place.
Come back to me, Philza - I will show you the way.
The book terrifies him. He reads it over and again, not quite able to grasp the words. In fact, they become less clear with each reading, his confusion and his headache growing in turn.
This he knows: she is angry - so angry - that the Ender King found him first. It is only a few lines, but he remembers her, remembers the Empress. She promises aid, but it will be aid in arms, to cut down his enemies on the path, to be feared by all, and Philza does not want a war he wants to sleep, sleep, sleep, to love and be loved and to breathe. She knows him, he can see that she knows him, but it's not in a way he wants to be known, it's not a him he remembers - it's not a him he wants to remember, he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, why, why is he-?
“Oi, Phil!”
The call of an old friend - one Philza truly remembers, one Philza actually knows - echoes through his basement. Fit, it’s Fit, hopefully without his children because the call alone made Philza sob, and the fire evaporated his tears straight away - now only salt stuck to his face - and he doesn’t think he can survive seeing them in the fire again.
“Kitchen,” he manages to call back, his voice strangled. “Be- be careful!”
It’s strange, to see the realities overlap. Fit steps into the kitchen, and Philza can only stare as he walks over the lava as though it was any other block.
Levitates over it, almost, if not that the movement is distinctly steps.
“You good?” Fit asks. “I was worried, so I asked Pac to watch the kids. Chayanne and Tallulah said something was wrong…?”
Thank fuck, Fit didn’t bring them back; Philza slumps somewhat against the wall, heart still fluttering and choking on the air.
He tries to reply, breathes in imaginary smoke instead. He coughs, and he coughs, and he coughs, bent double and falling to kneel on the soul-sand beside the wall.
Distantly, he’s aware of the fire resistance potion running its course. But it's fine, it's fine, he’s on the soul sand right now. And anyway Fit is walking over the lava, so surely it cannot hurt him?
No matter how hot it feels, or how pained his lungs are.
“Easy, easy,” Fit gestures a bit as he steps forwards. “What can you see, Phil? Because whoever’s talking to you, they’re not talking to me.”
“Not talking,” Philza stutters out. “Fire. It’s… it’s fucking hell in here. Lava, netherrack, soul sand, the whole- whole lot, Fit, the whole damned lot.”
“What else?”
Fit steps over more of the lava; Philza screws shut his eyes over the coming headache.
“Book, blackstone, blaze rod, quartress.”
Philza isn’t sure where that word came from, except a dream, and that that is what the tapestry must be of.
He tries to explain.
The words catch.
He coughs again.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” Fit calls, and Philza obeys. “See this sexy bald head of mine? I’m not going to let any Ender King hurt you or your kids.”
“Not him,” Philza struggles out, and why is it getting even harder to breathe? “Blaze Empress. His enemy.”
“That’s why she set your house on fire? Pissed he got to your first?”
“A friend,” he chokes out, certain of that despite everything, despite it all. At least, she was a friend? His mind cannot catch the details, but his heart remembers what he does not. She’s terrifying, terrifying, harsh, but a friend. “She’s… A friend. But she’s… Also the Nether… You know? I think… Fuck, my head hurts.”
“Not really,” Fit admits. There’s more in his tone, but it’s pushed past before Philza can identify it. “Let’s get you out of here, and grab some water.”
Water sounds amazing.
Even better, Fit’s here now; he reaches out, and touches Philza’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Philza struggles to say, clinging to Fit for support standing. His legs are shaking… Much too much to get up otherwise. “I must look… I’m sorry.”
“You’re scared,” Fit replies. “It’s fucking scary, just thinking about the idea. Entities from elsewhere lasering shit into your brain? Making you think your house is on fire? No thanks.”
No thanks? As if he has a choice. But, yes, it’s fucking scary, it’s scary, it’s scary, he’s pretty sure Fit is real but everything else?
What about everything else?
Philza laughs, and laughs, and it turns into a coughing fit. He means to say more, but he’s quickly bent double.
Only Fit’s arms save him from the floor, and a plummet into the lava entirely.
“Easy, easy,” Fit says, one arm supporting him and the other rubbing his back. “Let’s just get out of here. We can talk outside.”
Outside sounds amazing. Embarrassing, but amazing - maybe Fit won’t judge him if Philza cries about apparently being caught in the crossfire of a war which might not even exist.
Probably doesn’t exist.
He really, really, hopes it doesn’t exist.
There’s lava all over the floor. Lava that isn’t real - he saw Fit walk over it - but that Philza’s mind cautions him against anyway. But, he knows what he saw, he knows how these go. Nothing is real, so there’s no point navigating Fit across a chain he cannot see, cannot touch, cannot perceive. It’s not real, it isn’t there, if he just walks he’ll be fine.
He’ll be fine… right?
Stepping into lava still goes against his every instinct, and it’s probably a good instinct to keep.
So, he shuts his eyes, and lets Fit’s arms guide him. He feels weak, dizzy and desperate from the panic. All he can do is cling to his old friend, and hope he can calm down enough to actually, someday explain.
It’s funny how only Fit ever believes him - though Philza doubts he will any more, not after seeing there’s nothing here, even when Philza is still reading.
He’d laugh, if he could catch enough air to start.
One step, two steps, then the floor gives way and Philza is - he’s falling, falling, falling. Just a second. He only falls for a second. He reaches out to catch himself, to keep his already hurting head from crashing into the floor. He hears Fit yell, feels the lava across his legs and all up his arms.
There’s a moment of shock before the pain kicks in, and Philza screams.
All at once there’s a flurry he doesn’t understand. Fit’s words make no sense, so Philza just keeps screaming as something pulls him up from the floor. It’s hurting, it’s still hurting, why is it hurting?
Dreams aren’t supposed to be able to hurt him.
He coughs and chokes and sobs and screams, trying to fight against whatever has him, whatever continues the pain. Fit’s voice barely registers, but he hears doors and - someone is taking him, someone is taking him, and all he can do is scream for Fit to save him, Fit’s here, right, he just promised he would be, right? He promised, he promised, he promised -
Philza is dropped, and something cool covers his arms and legs. He cannot stop sobbing, stop choking, stop coughing, but the screaming at least he can end. Vaguely he can hear the sound of the shower. Distantly, he recognises this place as Chayanne’s little pool.
A warm hand touches his back, rubbing gently.
“Phil?” Fit’s voice is low, even for him. “Can you hear me, Phil?”
Trying to answer leads to vomiting in a bush; as soon as he is done with that, he tries to turn and find Fit.
He’s there, he’s right there, keeping Philza’s head above water and his burning limbs below it.
Fit’s eyes are also blown wide with terror, but still his hands move to comfort, and the rest of his expression keeps its forcible calm.
How perfect are his friends, to put up with him through this, to trust him and comfort him even in these small hours of the night?
Philza’s scared, he’s so scared, and Fit... Fit is a rock. He wants him, he needs him, because right now he’s the only thing that makes sense.
“Fit?” he manages to tremble out, voice shaking even more than his trembling body.
“Right here, big boy,” Fit reassures. “You with me?”
Not quite trusting himself, Philza nods instead.
“Okay, fuck,” Fit takes an audible breath. “If I let go for a second, can you keep yourself above water?”
It’s not even a foot deep. Philza still thinks he might struggle with that; careful of the agony in all four limbs - he doesn’t quite understand why; sure, the lava, but it was just a dream - he moves himself to sit instead, leaning against the side of the little wooden house.
Still, he nods, and braces aching limbs against the floor.
Why is the ache there? A dream cannot burn him, not once he’s awake. Maybe he worked to hard yesterday?
Fit watches him for a moment, before diving into his pockets. He pulls out a single potion, uncorking it and putting it to Philza’s lips, “only got the one on me, but it should help a bit.”
Philza is confused - moreso when he reaches up to take the bottle and has his hands pushed back underwater - but he drinks.
The tingle is the sensation of healing, so perhaps he sprained a wrist?
Fit watches closely, relaxing only a fraction when Philza keeps the liquid down.
“What happened?” Philza… can only whisper, his throat hoarse from the screaming.
“Fuck if I know,” Fit says. “The lava burns are real, though. There was nothing there, it was like watching… I don’t fucking know, you glitch into the floor? Then you screamed, and there’s lava burns.”
Philza glances at his arms and legs and… Okay, they do look like lava burns. It makes no sense, though, he doesn’t - he doesn’t understand. He could see the lava, but Fit couldn’t, and Fit wasn’t hurt when he walked in the same place, so what - what even -
Hallucinations cannot burn him, they can’t! So what… what…?
“Can I message Pac about this?” Fit asks.
“Assumed you’d already told him, mate.”
Its easier to agree than to think. Philza trusts Fit with his very soul right now, more than himself. If Fit thinks it will help? Then he’ll let him do whatever he wants.
“Not about this,” Fit promises. “But… Look I can stop the burns killing you, but I can’t treat ‘em properly. And I’m pretty sure your lungs are fucked up.”
His lungs?
Philza puts a finger to his lips. What comes away is… discoloured mucus? He glances up to Fit and - yeah, he sees it too.
Huh.
“Can we not scare the kids?” is all Philza asks of Fit, because he’s terrified himself, because he wants someone else to deal with this for him, to treat the injuries and tell him its fine, and he doesn’t care it’s embarrassing doesn’t care if it makes it real doesn’t care if it’ll fuck them up too - because he doesn’t know what’s happening and he’s hurt and he’s scared and he just wants his chicks close and the island to stop fucking with them!
And every fucking thing else too, because like hell is the Blaze Empress from this island!
There’s some playing with Fit’s comm, and then he looks up again.
“Pac says they’re asleep already,” Fit offers. “They’re going to notice, but we can just tell them in the morning.”
Morning. He’d rather shield his precious children entirely, but… But better to let them sleep than worry them now, let them see bandages and maybe Philza having had some sleep and among friends giving their aid, than let them see raw burns and scared adults.
Philza nods.
There’s a few more messages, and Philza leans back and lets his stinging eyes rest as Fit types away.
“Don’t sleep just yet,” he’s told.
Philza does his best to make a lewd gesture in reply.
It earns half a snort, and a little more typing.
“Okay,” Fit eventually says. “Pac’s got stuff at Chume Labs, and luckily for us that’s also where he took Chayanne and Tallulah. He can either meet us there, or at the Order.”
Philza doesn’t even need to think - not on where, and not on why Pac might have stuff to treat burns and smoke in a laboratory.
“Kids,” he replies.
He wants them close, he wants to at least see them safe and asleep.
He needs that.
He needs to know they’re safe, that the fire that isn’t fire didn’t hurt them too.
He just-
He just…
He doesn’t know, he doesn’t even know.
“Right,” there’s a little more typing, and then. “Do you think you can manage your warpstone?”
With burns on his hands? Philza really shouldn’t, but he has pushed his body through much worse before - and without anyone to pick him up if he fails.
He grabs the purple crystal, and thinks of Chume Labs. Seconds later he’s sat by the turtle, Fit at his side.
He’s not allowed to walk; Fit picks him up, hits the button, and hops on.
Philza doesn’t sleep, but he does permit his mind to blurr. He’s safe enough, here. He’s safe enough, for now. He coughs a bit more, but it’s fine.
He’s survived worse and more, after all.
Time stutters, and freezes, and then Philza is sat on a red armchair with an oxygen mask and a clear view of his sleeping children through a nearby, open door. Fit leans over the side of the chair, cleaning the burns along one arm with something from Pac’s bag, while Pac treats his legs.
“Sorry it stings,” Pac says, and it does sting - like a bitch - but it's fine.
Philza lets them fuss, though he doesn’t get entirely why. The fire is gone, he’s alive, really he just needs to sleep it off. “It’s fine, mate, just means I still have feeling.”
Both look up at him with something like relief when he speaks, before returning to their work, and Philza isn’t sure what to think.
“Only you, Phil,” Fit tisks a little as he reaches for another bottle.
That’s really not fair; Philza turns to give him a dead-eyed stare. Thinking of a reply is… A little hard.
Very hard.
He’ll just not.
“You have said that before,” Pac seems to be taking Philza’s side. “It is true. Still hurts, though.”
“Don’t worry about it; I’ve survived worse.”
And, well, he really has.
“You know that’s not actually reassuring, right?” Fit asks, shifting to his other arm. Philza flexes his fingers, just to prove he can.
Philza shrugs, and winces at the pain. It takes him a second to remember how to breathe. One, two, both Pac and Fit giving him worried glances, and then he finds his voice again. “I do appreciate the help, guys, but I have fallen in lava and been fine before. Didn’t even have bandages then.”
Fit gives him a look, and Philza would rather pass out than spend energy dissecting it.
“I get it,” Pac nods along, not looking up from the burn he’s working on. “We didn’t either. But… It will heal better. Faster, cleaner, less infection risk.”
“Don’t you want us to care about you, Phil?” Fit squeezes his shoulder, with no hand clear enough of injury to grab. There’s teasing in his voice, yes, but even like this Philza can hear the hurt. “Are you saying you won’t let us worry? Don’t want us to care?”
Of course they can care, it’s just not necessary! A waste of resources, a waste of energy and time and… And…
Philza tries to reply, only to descend into a coughing fit again. He pulls off the mask to spit, still bent double and choking. Despite being sat down, both Fit and Pac move to grab him, keeping him steady and rubbing his back.
By the time it is over, he’s exhausted. When the pair help him to lean back onto the chair, he can only shudder and try to catch his breath.
Fit leans over, and fixes the mask back into place, while Pac hesitates.
It’s hard, it’s so hard, but Philza looks at Pac, wondering what question he wants to ask. As he waits he takes what deep breaths he can, letting the oxygen try settle his lungs.
“How, ah, bird are you?” Pac’s words are unsteady, and he keeps glancing to Fit for support. “I don’t know crows, but…”
It takes another moment, but he gathers the air to speak, “not sure, sorry. I just live like this.”
“We’ve run through fire together before,” Fit answers for him. “If he took the smoke worse than me, it wasn’t enough to notice.”
Something in Pac relaxes a little, “still… you really need a hospital.”
Philza has to hold in a laugh, just so he doesn’t start choking all over again, “welcome to the island, Pac; you read an out of date medical textbook ten years ago, and it makes you about the best we’ve got.”
“It was a biochemistry book,” Pac corrects. “And some websites. I’ve practiced on Mike, though. We both set many things on fire.”
Even snorting has a recovery time, and he hates it. By the time he has recovered his burns are bandaged, and the two friends seem to have settled that discussion.
“Phil…” It’s Fit who asks, hesitant this time. “I have some idea, but what did you see?”
“Not a lot, kinda like the other two,” Philza wishes he could curl around his legs, but even twitching them is exhausting. He feels too open, too exposed, too watched by the pair. “The bunker was on fire, there was a trail to a book and some items and pictures. Used fire res, but I only had the one… Ran out about when you arrived.”
“And the book?”
“What do you want me to say?” Philza asks, just wanting to sleep. To scream or to sleep, but his throat is a wreck, so he’d rather sleep. “It’s the Blaze Empress, but what does it matter?”
“Is she liable to kidnap you?” Fit asks, voice serious. “I know you were worried about…”
Fit glances at Pac, who tilts his head in confusion.
“I don’t know, Fit,” Philza is exhausted, trying to keep his breathing even and tone level just so he doesn’t choke. “In my dreams of her realm, the lava is people, and the quartress has a bee farm. In the Nether. It’s not… It can’t be… There’s no sense there.“
“You burnt from the lava,” Pac says. “I don’t… Think you can hallucinate that?”
The two of them stare at Philza. It’s too much, it’s far too much, he wants to cry, he’s not sure he can answer, but his hands are wrapped in bandages and he can’t even hold a pen with his tongue, given the mask.
“If she’s real, the war is real,” he tries not to cry, he tries so hard, he keeps himself detached as best he can, but maybe it just isn’t possible. “She… She can reshape reality, but the Ender King can steal it. Has stolen it. Entire swathes just gone, in the blink of an eye. He did it to her, the quartress… hangs… in a void… I can’t… They’re fighting over me now, Fit, they fought over the world and now they’re fighting over me and there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s… There’s not going to be a world left, Fit, not if they fight again!” he glances at his eggs still asleep. “If… If they come, if they take me… Don’t try to stop them, don’t come after me - please. Just…”
The sob comes, and Philza cannot stop it. It makes breathing - life - harder, but he cannot stop it as first large tears fall, and then the shuddering sobs begin.
“I- I’m scared,” he whispers, looking at Fit, at the one person who knows all of this. “I don’t… I-”
It’s awkward, when Fit reaches over to hug him. He’s pulled against a soft shirt and solid muscle, allowed to continue crying there while Fit holds him close and Pac moves to perch on the other arm of the chair, leaning against his back to hug him from the other side.
At one point the tears trigger another coughing fit, wheezing and struggling to catch air. He can’t see either companion as they try to help, only feel them nearby, and their begging for him to breathe.
He would, if he could; hopefully they know that.
He’s too busy choking to reply.
Nobody tells him it’s okay, everyone knows that’s a fucking lie. Instead they tell him they’re there, that he’s hidden, that he needs to calm down before he triggers another coughing fit and hurts himself. He’s held, and his kids are nearby, and he can cry until he gets over it, and get back to the point.
He doesn’t get back to the point; crying is exhausting. Between the pain, and the difficulty breathing, and the panic, and the fear, he ends up drifting off against Fit’s chest.
The last thing he’s aware of is being scooped up by strong, familiar arms, carried to a bed as two voices softly talk…