Chapter Text
His chains rattled as they dragged him across the castle's courtyard.
The guards pulled at him as he stumbled, not giving him a second to recover, but at least the crowd surrounding him was not cheering. Eerily silent; a lot of them didn't even look at him, standing there out of obligation alone.
As Philza was led up a wooden platform, snowflakes melting on his skin and making him shiver almost as much as the shine reflecting off the executioner's axe did, he could only ask himself one thing.
Where the fuck is he?
Last thing he remembered, he was in his living room, finishing one last report and fighting to keep his eyes open. Had he fallen asleep? It made the most sense, though everything felt awfully vivid to be a dream; the ground solid underneath his feet, the chilly air making his nose ache.
Maybe pulling two all nighters in a row did damage something in his brain.
He was pushed to his knees in front of the executioner, his head pushed roughly against a wooden block.
A man stood in front of him, deep purple clothes lined in gold that pooled at his feet, and started reading off of a long manuscript. Phil could barely understand what was being said over the ringing in his ears and the way it felt like they had stuffed his brain with cotton.
He barely managed to catch the last sentence of his lengthy speech. "For the crime of treason against our emperor–”
Phil was pretty sure the man tried to say a name, but instead, he could only hear an awful, distorted sound.
No one seemed phased by this. "–is to be sentenced to death."
As much as he tried, he couldn't speak, he wanted to scream, to try and tell them this was a mistake, to get up and run, but his limbs were locked, words stuck inside his throat. He knew this was a dream, he shouldn't be this scared, and yet he couldn't do anything to stop the terror as the axe swung down towards his neck.
He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact.
The pain never came.
When he opened his eyes, he was met with an endless expanse of pure darkness. He was floating in the middle of it, though trying to figure out where up and down was seemed impossible.
A voice, deep and booming, startled him enough to almost send him spinning in place.
The text that appeared alongside it, right in front of his eyes, helped him figure out what the right way up was, at least.
[Long ago, in a far away, inhospitable land, a kingdom of ice and snow rose to life.]
The sound of the narrator’s voice broke through his panic, making him feel like a bucket of ice water had been poured on him, with the certainty that this was a dream. Phil scrunched up his nose, he recognized that voice–he had been listening to it for hours as he kept having to restart the game, running into unsolvable bugs every few minutes or dying at every random corner he turned. Was this really the intro to Antarctic Tales: Surviving As The Cold Emperor's Wife? Really, he couldn't at least escape this godforsaken game while sleeping?
[Its people were kind and hardworking, relying on one another to survive out in the unforgiving tundra. Despite its circumstances, their perseverance caused the kingdom to grow wealthy and prosperous.]
If he'd known that would mean playing mediocre-at-best, cash grab, copycat dating sims on repeat for weeks at a time, he'd probably have reconsidered before accepting the job. It clearly was affecting his sanity.
[Unfortunately, after the untimely death of their last king, a series of unfortunate events have led to the throne being usurped by a foul beast.]
At least the political aspects of this one had made it slightly more interesting. Still, dreaming of work wasn't exactly ideal.
[The kingdom soon descended into darkness as its new ruler, heartless and cold, ruled with an iron fist. Hundreds of people were drafted into senseless wars, dying in foreign fields while their own crops wilted without their care and their families starved, all the while the treasures ripped from their neighboring countries made their king richer and richer.]
A bit over the top, if you asked Phil, it did seem at times like the game was about to add that the guy kicked puppies in his free time just to make sure they'd made him evil enough.
[Princess Carmessy's kingdom-]
The text glitched, the voice distorting and warping as it twisted.
[Your kingdom has promised you to the Beast Of The South as a peace offering, you are to be wed to secure a future alliance and the end of the war.]
The feeling of dread curling around his guts at the pronoun change was definitely just the extra slice of pizza he'd eaten before going to bed. This was just a dream, after all, and he knew that, so it would be fine.
[Will you survive? Or will he drag you into darkness along with his people?]
The world lurched around him, as if he was falling, tumbling down with no way
It took him a moment to catch his breath. His hands clutching at anything he could to stabilize himself.
That ends up being a plush, soft velvet cushion, which rested right beside him in a ridiculously ornate carriage.
It was still awfully crammed, he'd guess it wasn't meant to transport more than two people, and even with only three in it, it already felt claustrophobic. The old man, dressed in fancy looking clothes Phil had only seen in museums before–though his own weren't much better right now, ornate and stiff, with shimmering necklaces hanging off of his neck, heavy enough they felt more like chains–stared at him with a sneer, while an uncomfortable looking guard tried very hard to look directly in front of him and not make eye contact with anyone.
"What now?" The aristocrat sighed.
"What?" Phil's throat felt scratchy.
"Why do you look like a scared off cat all of the sudden? What have you done now? I thought we agreed that–”
Phil tuned him out as he started to rant. He wasn't interested in knowing what he was talking about, he needed to focus on getting out. He just had to look for a way to wake up.
Glancing out the window again, he noticed they were passing awfully close to the edge of a cliff.
He'd wake up if he died, wouldn't he? He pushed down any hesitation he felt, it wouldn't even hurt, if the axe swinging down on his neck hadn't hurt this wouldn't either.
The man and the guard both screamed as he opened the door to the carriage and booked it towards the cliff.
Instead of waking up, he found himself back in that strange, empty void from before.
It took his nerves an awfully long time to stop screaming in pain, he could still feel the way his bones had shattered upon impact, could hear the cracking echoing inside his skull.
He was wrong, it did hurt. Weren't you supposed to wake up if someone pinched you in a dream? He'd reckon this counted as way more than a pinch.
[Game Over]
The white neon letters blinked down at him, still the only thing anchoring him to any sense of direction in the void.
Under them, a smaller, underlined red text slowly appeared, as if someone was typing it as Phil read.
[Hint: Wait for the carriage to stop before stepping off of it.]
He rolled his eyes, at least his awfully realistic nightmare had a sense of humour.
A button faded in right in front of his eyes, labeled with what honestly looked to be masking tape.
[Respawn]
Maybe he could find another option, shouldn't he be able to control what was happening if he focused? This was a dream, and he knew that, it couldn't be that hard to get his own subconscious to work with him.
He stared at the letters, narrowing his eyes in an effort to focus on them, to make a button to quit the game appear in their place.
They didn't even blink. If anything, he could swear they got brighter.
Unable to do anything else, he pressed down on it.
The lurching back into the carriage, that left him feeling dizzy and disoriented, did not get any better.
The aristocrat was ranting, still, about something he couldn't care less about. "–need to take your duty more seriously, it is imperative for the well-being of–"
If he couldn't wake up, or focus enough to take over the dream, he'd simply have to take control by himself.
The aristocrat was old, he could take him, so he tuned him out again, focusing instead on the guard. Phil was by no means a fighter, but maybe if he took him by surprise, and maybe with whatever dream logic this was following, he'd have a chance.
He lunged, trying to grab the dagger off of the guard's belt.
Unfortunately, he had better reflexes than Phil.
[Game Over.]
Phil kept his eyes closed for a few…somethings, he couldn't even tell how long a minute was in that place.
He could still feel the metal, lodged into his stomach, moving as he breathed.
[Hint: Sometimes physical force isn't the most effective option.]
Fuck off, he tried to say, but his throat wouldn’t produce any sound, his lips wouldn’t open.
Maybe he could just wait it out, maybe he'd naturally wake up. He kept trying to convince himself this was just a dream, despite the growing dread on his stomach.
The void was so silent that he could hear his own blood flowing through his eardrums. His own heart hammering against his ribs, he could almost hear the sound his eyelids make when he blinks.
He pressed down on the button.
[Respawn.]
He glared at the guard.
Partially, maybe mostly, out of disdain for the fact he'd just stabbed him. But the fact the guy was clearly starting to sweat gave him an idea.
Maybe he was awkward enough that he could intimidate him into helping.
"You could let me out of here. I'm sure I could compensate you somehow." He spoke, interrupting whatever the aristocrat kept talking about. He must have enough money to bribe him, if the clear threat of an uncomfortable social interaction did not work.
The guard seemed surprised to be spoken to, tensing immediately. "I'm sorry, your grace. That's not possible."
"Stop harassing the poor boy." The aristocrat scolded.
"I'm not harassing him."
The aristocrat didn't try and argue any more, he just looked kind of tired.
Good.
"We are almost at the palace." His voice dropped into something colder, more serious. "Please, do try to behave. For your own good, at least."
It somehow felt more like a warning than a threat.
Though the palace courtyard was empty now, he could recognize it from the execution.
The white stone clicked below his heels, snow piled along the edges of the yard, walls rising around it in a way that would make it so light would be blocked off most of the day. It was colder than on the outside of the castle walls, somehow, and Phil tried not to think of how realistic the bite of the cold felt.
He tried to focus on anything but the memory of an axe swinging down on him. Which unluckily leaves him with having to listen to what the aristocrat that brought him here and the noble that came to greet them at the door were saying.
"I see you made it safely," he looked at Phil, scrutinizing, eyes scanning him from head to toe. "He looks to be in good health."
The comment made him feel a bit like a horse being checked before being bought.
"The deal is sealed, then?" At least they were honest about what this was, he supposed.
"Not so fast, the other half of our agreement?"
"Yeah, yeah. You southerners are all the same–twenty piglins, all ready for battle, their shipment has already been arranged for." Phil was sure that the aristocrat would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't so prissy.
"Only twenty? You said you'd procure us an army."
"And I have. A piglin, a well trained one," he emphasized that, with a look of almost disapproval in his eyes, "can easily take care of a battalion on his own."
"You better not be lying, it is his head hanging on this." The noble glances at Phil, for just a second, but it is uncaring enough that it lets him know that he would not have any qualms in fulfilling the threat. "When can we expect them to arrive?"
"They should be here in a month, maybe longer, we'll need you to procure the trade agreements for–”
Maybe it hadn't been better to listen to them speak.
Thankfully a woman, dressed in far simpler clothes, came along after a few minutes. "Come along, your grace, let them worry about these silly things, we must get you ready."
Philza just nodded and let her guide him away.
He was ushered around, dressed in–or more like shoved into, everyone was in a rush–even fancier, more ornate, stiffer clothes; his face was powdered despite his protests and sneezes, and his hair was tugged at harshly until an older woman shooed the girl that was doing it away.
"Your hair is beautiful." She commented, slowly de-tangling it.
"Thank you."
The other servants silently scurried out of the room as she took over, casting nervous glances at him before leaving.
He wasn't sure why they looked so anxious, the woman was softer with him than they themselves were.
"You should keep it shorter." She said as she examined a strand.
That took him by surprise. "What for?"
She started carefully weaving his hair into something more proper for a celebration, for a wedding. "Beasts like destroying beautiful things, you'll be better off not calling attention to it."
"Is he really as bad as they say?"
"You are not the first one they sent to wed it." There was something like bitterness in her voice. "They don't last longer than a week."
"What happened to them?"
She hummed. "Accidents, they say."
"But you don't think so?"
The woman didn't answer, instead continuing to braid his hair in silence. It was methodical, practiced, she'd done this before countless times and thought she probably would do it again.
This is a dream, he tried to remind himself, just a dream.
She reached for a pair of scissors that had been left in the vanity in front of him, the light reflected off of its edge, they looked to be sharpened carefully.
"Keep this," she handed them to him, "to cut your hair, we don't have time for it now"
All in all, the ceremony was unremarkable.
An old priest droned on and on about duty and the connection between nations that Phil did not give enough of a fuck about to even remember the name of. The guests all stayed silent, but more than seeming attentive, they looked uncomfortable.
They looked to him more like someone would look at the casket in a funeral than to a groom on their wedding day.
He couldn't blame them, not when he couldn't stop staring at the thing he was being forced to marry. He had a vague idea of how it would look, from having played the game that this nightmare seemed to have taken all of its plot from, but the pixelated figure did not make justice to the creature that stood in front of him.
It was tall, bigger than any human would even be able to be, his hulking figure making Phil feel tiny standing by him, to the point the clothes it was wearing were so very clearly too tight on it. Its fur looked coarse and almost freezer burned, unkept and matted at certain spots.
One of its ears hung limply to the side of its head, mangled by some battle wound. Sharp teeth protruded from its lips, scuffed, Philza didn't want to think of how that had even happened.
It stared down at Phil with dark eyes, its expression completely devoid of any emotion. At least it didn't look angry, and didn't look like it was happy to receive him either, though Phil wasn't quite sure if complete indifference towards his existence was actually better.
They didn't ask him if he accepts being its husband, they didn't even bother to pretend he had a choice. They just declared them married.
At least it didn't try to kiss him, he tried to look on the bright side, he was not sure how that would even have worked.
As he stepped out of the palace's cathedral, the same a low, electronic voice he'd heard at the very beginning of am of this echoed again inside of his head.
[Mission Unlocked: Get through your wedding night.]
Oh, hell no.
Stabbing himself with the scissors he was given seemed to be as effective in getting him out of there as jumping off a cliff had been.
Slightly less painful, though, which seemed like a win by now.
The shine from the letters managed to annoy him more each time he saw them.
[Game Over.]
He tried to kick them, they were too far away for him to actually be able to.
[Hint: Careful! Scissors are sharp and capable of producing damage.]
Oh, really? Noted.
[Respawn.]
He snuck away, gave excuses to the servants that surrounded him that he just wanted to freshen up a little. The beast didn't seem to care, so it wasn't that hard to hide in any nook and cranny he could find until night came, until he could be sure people had given up looking for him for the day.
Until he could sneak into the emperor's chambers.
It made a horrible growling noise while it slept, stirring and baring its teeth every so often, making Phil pause, heart on his throat as he slowly approached it.
As soon as he was close enough, he brought the scissors down on the emperor's chest–
This time it felt like someone had grabbed him and forcibly thrown him back, plucked him away from what he'd been doing.
[Game Over.]
He wanted to scream, it was unfair, he didn't even die this time. Why had he lost?
[Hint: You can find your list of tasks at the desk located in your personal quarters.]
He was going to find a way around this, there had to be a way around this. He couldn't be seriously expected to go through with...that.
That little voice inside of him that kept telling him everything felt too vivid, too solid to be a dream was getting harder to shove down.
[Respawn.]
[Hint: If you get lost, try talking to an NPC for helpful advice to get you back on track.]
[Respawn.]
[Hint: Keeping balance on ledges might be harder than you think. Try looking for alternative routes.]
[Respawn.]
[Hint: Before reaching three relationship levels, hound dogs don't make much distinction between a chicken and you.]
[Respawn.]
Each time he died the pain lingered for just a bit longer. It didn't hurt as much as whatever had killed him did, but still, it was a persistent ache, pins and needles along his bones at times.
He was running out of options, and what if he needed to defend himself? Every death made him less likely to be able to fight, to be able to run, for a growing amount of time. What if the ache just stopped going away after he'd died enough times?
Somehow he got to the emperor's chambers–his chambers too now, he supposed–before the emperor did.
He looked around, but there was nothing there he could do that he hadn't tried already, escaping through the window? Already fell a couple times, deceptively sharp curtain rod? He couldn't kill himself or the emperor, mysterious looking liquids in fancy bottles–?
Actually, if his only option truly was to go through with being with that thing, could he at least get hammered?
He eyed the bottle, picked it up with the carefulness of handling a live grenade, swirling it a bit once it didn't immediately explode into a thousand shards. Specks of purple dust dance inside the yellowish liquid. Was this even alcohol, actually? Could he be completely sure?
He uncorked the glass bottle, sniffing at it, it smelt oddly sweet, if strong. Probably some kind of overly sweet liquor, or perfume, at this point he was just hoping that whichever it was had enough alcohol to get him drunk.
Judging by the way the liquid burnt down his throat as he chugged it down, it definitely did.
The world spun around as he sat on the bed, waiting, at least this made it easier to relax, to forget what was going to happen.
The door creaked open, and the monster he'd been married off to walked in, hooves clicking against the stone floor.
He drowsily got up and stumbled his way to the emperor. It was surprisingly easy to push him against the door.
Good, if he had to do this, it was going to be on his terms.
That thought was stopped on its tracks when the emperor whined.
It did not sound like it was enjoying this, it wasn't that type of whine, like he might have expected, it didn't sound annoyed either. It sounded scared, like a dog being kicked away.
It shocked Phil so much that he had to take a step back, had to look at it, at...him, properly.
Despite how big he was, he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller, pressed firmly against the door, trying to put distance between them. Some of his unmatted fur rose like the hackles of a cat would, and it probably was meant to make him look bigger, but it just made him look fluffier. His ear, the one that wasn't droopy, pinned back, tail tucked between his legs, his snout twitched a bit in what looked like a nervous tic.
His eyes were wide, staring back at Phil with an amount of fear that he had become intimately familiar with the last few hours.
Ah.
Shit.
He was too drunk for this.
[Tutorial Completed]