Philza being a greedy little bird father once more (WIP)
Philza can’t help but roll his eyes. Mortals, in all their mess and misery, always found the most creative ways to disgust him. The woman kneeling at the young priest’s feet is sobbing as if the heavens themselves have spat her out.
Her tears streak down her ruddy face, catching the afternoon light that filters through the churchyard trees. Her hands clutch at the priest’s robes, fingernails digging deep into the blue-grey fabric as she wails about her wrong, unholy child.
“He’s not mine,” she gasps between sobs. “He was taken, I know it. They’ve replaced him with— with something foul!”
The priest looks down at her, his mouth drawn in that tight, sympathetic line priests often wear when they want to seem kind but are really exhausted. Philza can feel the irritation radiating off him like heat off a forge.
“Ma’am,” the curly-haired man says, lowering himself to her level, “please—calm yourself. I’ve met your sweet boy before. Perhaps this is a misunderstanding. Children change with time, don’t they?”
But she jerks her hands away, her sobs rising to shrieks. “No! You don’t understand! His eyes—they glow! His skin’s gone pale as chalk! His hair— it’s golden, like his father’s, and not that pretty brown he used to have! He’s a freak! A mistake!”
The woman’s words spill out like venom, flecks of spit hitting the priest’s cheek. He flinches, a flicker of irritation darting across his face before he hides it behind saintly patience.
“That’s enough of that,” he says, his voice as calm as ever, but he keeps it threaded with a command that makes her flinch. The fae magic in his tone hums, faint and shimmering like light on water. He offers his bare hand to the young priest, helping him to his feet. “Up you get, lad.”
The moment their skin touches, Philza feels it: the hum beneath flesh, the melody of the soul. Warm. Resonant. Faintly melodic. Ah—siren. The discovery curls at the edge of his grin like smoke. The priest straightens, dusting off his robe, and blinks at Philza in faint confusion.
No doubt wondering why the stranger’s touch felt like a spark against his palm. Philza only smiles, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. The poor lad probably doesn’t even know what sings in his blood. The priest looks at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly, suspicion flashing quick and bright before he masks it behind politeness.
Philza only smiles, tilting his head slightly as he turns to the woman. “Hello, ma’am. I’m a hunter, and I deal with most things… mythological. If you truly think your son is a different being, I will know. Would you be so kind as to let me speak to him?”
He offers his gloved hand this time. He’s no fool; he doesn’t want to touch this one’s soul. Not if this is the kind of venom that drips from her tongue about her own blood.
She takes his hand anyway, her sharp nails biting through the worn leather. “Please. You can get rid of him, right? You can take him out of my house once you find proof he’s not my baby?”
Philza hums and roughly pulls her up to her feet before swiftly withdrawing his hand. He wants to wipe her touch on his glove away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he straightens his coat, lets his shadow stretch long across the stones, and smiles with teeth too sharp for comfort.
“Of course,” he says, his voice soft as smoke. “I’ll take him from your house.”
The woman weeps with relief at his words, shoulders shaking with ugly, grateful sobs. It only makes his stomach twist. There’s something rotten in her soul—he can feel it even without direct touch. Greed. Shame. Disgust.
The priest beside him steps forward, placing a steadying hand on the woman’s shoulder. His voice is gentler than it has any right to be. “Let’s go inside, ma’am. You need rest, and I’ll fetch you some water. Perhaps after that, we can both go see your boy.”
Philza tilts his head, studying the man. There’s a shimmer in the air around him—like sunlight dancing across shallow waves. Siren magic, dulled but still there. The priest must be using it subconsciously, a charm meant to soothe the distraught.
Clever little thing. Maybe he should take him, too.
As the woman nods and allows herself to be led toward the church doors, she throws a quick, hopeful look over her shoulder. “You’ll come soon, won’t you?”
Philza smiles. “I’ll be there before nightfall.”
When she disappears inside, her sobs muffled by the heavy wooden doors, silence folds over the courtyard like a shadow. Philza breathes in the sharp scent of burning incense wafting from the open windows, mingling with the faint salt tang that follows the young priest around. It's not a bad smell, one Philza could get sued to.
The priest lingers near the threshold, half-turned toward Philza. “You said you’re a hunter,” he says carefully. “Funny. I’ve been here for three years and I’ve never heard of you before.”
Philza’s grin widens, showing his teeth. “I’m more of a traveller than a local. Folk only call me when something’s gone wrong, but I was honestly just passing through this time."
The man’s eyes flick down to Philza’s bare hand, then back up to his face. He return Philza's smile. “And what is it you plan to do with the boy?”
Philza shrugs, wings twitching faintly beneath their illusion. “Depends on what I find.”
“Whatever that woman says, the boy is still just a child,” the priest says sharply, his voice laced with that subtle melodic undertone sirens can’t quite suppress, as if he's trying to coax Philza into listening to him. Philza can't even find himself to be annoying at the young mans attempt to manipulate them.
It comes from a place of good intentions, and the priests urge to protect the boy is sweet, even if it's a lost cause. Philza's already made his choice. “He’s innocent.” The man persists.
“He is?” Philza steps closer, gaze gleaming faintly gold in the low light. “You’ve seen him, then. Felt the magic on him?”
The man hesitates, lips pressing thin. “Children sometimes change. They don’t always look like their parents.”
“Mm.” Philza’s tone is pleasant, but his eyes are cold. “And yet, despite you saying this, you doubt me and what I'll find?”
“I doubt anyone who promises to take a child from his home.”
Philza chuckles, low and quiet. The sound drifts through the air like the flutter of feathers. “Careful, lad. You’re treading in dangerous waters.”
The man straightens, chin lifting. “So are you. This is my town." ah, right. Sirens are quite territorial, aren't they?
Yes, this one is coming back with him to, he decides. Philza’s smile softens, though the edges remain sharp. “Of course. I don't mean to intrude, just to…assist."
The priest doesn’t reply, but his eyes follow Philza as he turns toward the treeline at the edge of the churchyard. He can feel the man’s suspicion pricking at his back like thorns. It amuses him.
Because, of course, he’s right.
Philza has no intention of handing the boy over to his mother. The woman’s heart reeks of fear, of cruelty that makes bile coat his tongue. Whether the boy is human or not makes no difference, she's already given him up.
Besides, Philza hasn't had a child of his own before. Techno will be pleased if he brings two home.
I don't even know where to go with this fic, but it's something. Idk i like magic and some feral children.
Also, Tommy is def NOT that woman's kid, LMAOO, he's some fucked up little godling who accidentally was left there.
She just THOUGHT he was her son, even tho she was lowkey never pregnant. S'ok though, Tommy will soon be adopted by his new family, as will his older brother! (Wilbur will go kicking and screaming)
