The sky is weeping.

Great wings of shadow eclipse the sky in darkness, rain sweeping through the streets in torrents of misty spray and sheets of glistening droplets, hammering against closed windows and worn streets slick with mud. The glow of lightning pulses like a heartbeat through the expanse of ink black, casting long shadows over a particular room in a particular wing of the castle, where a particular individual was asleep.

Phil. The king. He did not bother changing into a nightgown, and instead had simply lay down over the covers dressed in his rumpled white tunic and gilded silk cloak, dozing off from pure fatigue despite the incessant noise of the thunderstorm.

Sleepless nights take their toll, and worried as he is, he cannot stay awake forever, but his turmoiled mind appears to disagree.

Panic.

Pain.

A flash of red, and then an explosion of fire.

Agony. It burns.

He sees four figures, in wooden masks. They are coming, weapons drawn, wings flicked out in neat movements he recognizes to be indicative of well trained killers.

And there, clutched in a tight fist - a phoenix feather. It glows with a warm familiarity Phil would recognize anymore, and his heart lurches at the sight.

He panics.

Each moment stretches out into an eternity of laboured breaths and the frantic caged-bird beating of his heart, thudding like war drums in his ears.

They approach impossibly slowly, and suddenly minutes and seconds and hours don't exist anymore, mere concepts invented and scrapped in the space of a single heartbeat - he feels transient, yet anchored to this specific moment by an unseen force.

And then it stops completely. He is acutely aware of every detail - the glint of light against the chipped edge of a feather pendant one wears on his wrist, the specks of dirt that cling stubbornly to his own boots, the hushed sounds of nature playing its melody in the background -

The birds, for once, are silent.

It is midnight. The moon hangs like a bleached seashell in the sky, soft and luminescent.

But before the sun rises, the sky lightens in the glow of fire. Impossibly big, impossibly powerful.

A false sunrise. A new beginning.

Oh, he thinks. This is the end.

The fire sweeps over everything, and then, it is upon him.

His eyes fly open.

His heart is racing, and he's shaking - that was far too real a dream to feel like one.

He calls a messenger. There is someone he must speak to.

~

Phil is seated stiffly at the throne, eyes cast beyond the hall, the castle, and the great burden of growing up. His hands are shaking and he wills them to stop, because he doesn't want to be seen like this. It's bad enough already that he is here, in the middle of the night, panic stricken, and that he has awakened perhaps the one with answers - he cannot have anyone else thinking that the king is weak.

Not because he isn't weak, but because if anyone sees through his carefully crafted mask of power, it will crush the efforts of everything he is trying to protect.

A knock sounds at the front doors of the castle. It's small and hollow against the loud silence of the great hall, but it's enough for Phil to hear it and rise from his throne, reaching the door in several long, sweeping strides. The guards at the door look confused, maybe a little lost, because their King himself rarely comes to greet guests, but Phil inclines his head at them.

"I'll handle this," he instructs, and they drum the end of their spears against the ground in acknowledgement before backing away to stand stiffly at either side of the entrance.

He opens the door. Lightning streaks across the sky, followed by deep bellows of thunder torn from some unearthly creature that makes the world shake, dumping a torrential shower into the gloom. The paved courtyard and cobbled paths glitter as rushing rivulets of rainwater race to sink into the ground, every surface dripping in the tears of heaven that fall mercilessly from the obsidian sky.

To say, it's raining, is an understatement. It's storming, the sky is howling, it's terribly completely and utterly wet.

And standing before the door, drooping wings slick with rain set miserably on either side of his small frame, is a hooded figure.

Phil manages a weak smile. "You came."

Skeppy returns the grin, albeit uneasily, raising a hand to wring out his hair. "Hi, hey, yeah. Can I come in?"

Phil blinked. "Oh. Yes." He moves back, ushering Skeppy inside before closing the door with a vindictive thud. The flames atop the rows of candles dance wildly to the side for a few moments, before the air calms and they return to their upright position, flickering gracefully.

Skeppy stands a little awkwardly in the middle of the hall, water streaming down his feathers and pooling onto the ground. He's very carefully avoided the expensive rugs that line the chamber, but Phil really couldn't care less - he's always hated those rugs anyway. They were just so ugly and always dusty and once you stain them a little bit they decide to carry the offence with them for life and never let go, so he drags a small one over with his foot to mop up the puddle.

Skeppy watches with wide eyes. "Dude - those cost a fortune!"

Phil shrugged. "So does the floor," he pointed out, which, to be fair, was true. Skeppy looks down with an apologetic noise, but Phil isn't here to discuss rugs and hardwood flooring or even worry about flooding the castle - he asked Skeppy to come for one reason, and one reason only.

"Any new leads?" He makes a halfhearted attempt at motioning to Skeppy to get a more comfortable seat, but the detective waves him off, opting to stand rather than drip water over the entire castle.

He wants to know, needs to know, but at the same time, cannot imagine knowing, cannot imagine the life-shattering grief of being told the news he tells himself he is ready to bear.

"Yes, actually." The blue jay peels his soaked feathers apart and runs his hands gently over the edges, preening them carefully. "Due to... various clues, and observing patterns of cases from the past, we believe there was interference from the Circle of Vultures."

Oh.

Phil feels his blood turn to ice.

"Do they have him?" He scarcely recognizes the words that spring from his mouth, but somewhere between the cold numbness and throbbing hurt, it is spoken. Alive, is what he wants to add, yet the word lodges somewhere in his throat and never leaves his lips, a silent scream that yawns into the chasm of stillness. For just a moment, even the raindrops outside hover, suspended in time, and Phil is acutely aware of how unprepared he is for the answer, and how much he needs it.

"I don't know," Skeppy sighs. "The most likely outcome is... well, that they got to him before we did... But there's still a significant chance he's out there," the blue jay adds, glancing up to meet his gaze.

"I... understand." His entire world rises and falls. It's hanging now over a precarious drop, a helpless chick dangled over the edge of the nest. One wrong move, one strong breeze, and it would plummet.

"Have you seen him at all?" Skeppy's voice lowers, and Phil knows he's referring to his phoenix bloodline. Few people know, but Skeppy does.

Years and years of friendship have earned him the right.

Phil shares phoenix blood. Not enough to be a phoenix, but sometimes, sometimes, he sees things.

Besides, Skeppy had come the moment Phil's messenger had reached him in the dark rain, requesting his presence in an audience with the king, and Skeppy had asked no questions, demanded no answers, and had come. He deserves to know.

"I dreamed of it," he whispers, "but it wasn't just a dream. I don't know how I know, but I'm certain. It had to have been some sort of vision."

Skeppy blinked, eyes round.

"Something is coming," he says quietly, wings clasped. "A false sunrise."

~

Phoenixes are born from fire.

Flames. Blood.

Passion.

Sheer will.

Phoenixes are linked to each other through their ambition. The strength of their souls resonate in their wings - beautiful fire-flecked feathers a testament to all that they are willing to burn.

And so, through this ambition, they may feel other phoenixes.

Phil has been trying. Every night. He reaches as far along his weak threads of phoenix-ness as he can, floundering for anything that feels like the familiar touch of his younger brother.

Night after night, he tries. Night after night, he fails.

Night after night, the hope that rises in his chest falls to the ground yet again, wings clipped, thudding painfully into some empty cavity in his chest he had never realized was filled before until it wasn't.

Techno is either too far away to be reached, specifically shielding against Phil's grasp, or... dead.

Phil does not accept this last possibility. To him, it does not yet exist - nor will it ever exist, not until it is staring him in the face, pale flesh and hollow eyes boring into his own. To accept its existence is betrayal. Betraying Techno, betraying his family, betraying his responsibilities as king, and he will not give up.

Skeppy retreats to a guest room Phil lets him occupy every visit, presumably to do more thinking. He stares out at the window, eyes fixed on the raindrops that trace their invisible paths down the glass. Fated to fall, in all their pristine beauty they are dragged to the ground.

He puts his head in his hands, but does not give up.

Right now, they are not fine.

He is not their father. He is not a good king.

Techno is not facing good odds. Tommy and Wilbur are not deserving of this cruel fate.

They are... not fine.

But they will be. He hopes, dreams, wishes. If he does not give up, perhaps that false sunrise will save them all.