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It's funny, Philza thinks.
So many kingdoms and empires and homes fall because of war and famine, because of overthrowing by the citizens, or arrogance by the leaders. They live for years and fall in the same number. They are beauty framed on the wall and they are vile poison hidden beneath the bloom. And history always takes after the winners, so knowledge of what truth they stand for is always lost, no matter how carefully it’s protected.
He finds it funny because it never changes. People try to enforce safety, limit crimes, and help the poor. People pray, people fight, people protect, people decide. People strive to create a utopia where everyone is cared for and things just work. Yet, despite the effort, there's always someone who will take the government or monarch and drag them through the mud until it's gone. It repeats with a new leader, and it goes on and on and on.
It never changes. Humans find the cons of everything. Even if it seems perfect on paper, they will find something wrong with it.
This is probably the reason behind the animosity between humans and hybrids nowadays. Hybrids are born with traits of animals, hostile or not, and they can do things humans cannot. The insecurity of humans creates the hate they glare with, and it fuels the mobs that drive the hybrids out of town. It provides the hunters with their gold, their jobs, and their entitlement. It gives the humans a reason for their anger, even if the proof is white lies created by prejudice. Humans and hybrids are two sides of a coin, and yet…
And yet hybrids are killed for wanting to play with their human neighbour. Hybrids are sold to the Kings and their Queens because they want to study the differences, find a use for the parts and see if they can transform a bird into a person by clipping some feathers and building a cage. Hybrids are met with stereotypes about being monsters who feel no empathy when they dare to step across the Border into human territory.
Philza knows what it’s like to be grounded. He’s had his wings clipped and his talons filled into nubs. He escaped, at the cost of living his life without having killed before. Faced with all the peril in the world, he had asked an old friend for a favor.
She came through, creating a barrier of trees and vines and thick vegetation around a valley, cultivating a safe space for those like him. This is the Border, something humans cannot get through, but hybrids can bend to their will if they wish to leave. He had spent years finding loopholes in contracts and openings in trafficking rings, leading kids by the hand and elders by their backs through the Border to the valley, which was eventually turned into a legend whispered among the humans.
It became something like his kingdom. He’s nervous, because history tells him that this kingdom will fall with time, but he can only hope that the reason is a good one.
And peace reigned for years. People were able to stop hiding their ears under hats, and stop ignoring their instincts to nest and hoard. People fell in love, so many babies being born with unique abilities and features, and did not face discrimination for them like their parents did. The bird hybrids could fly—Philza even joined them a few times, laughing with the kids and riding the adrenaline of free-falling only to catch himself moments before he hit the ground—the rabbit hybrids could burrow, the aquatic hybrids could live the way they were meant to.
It did get…lonely, sometimes, he’ll admit. Watching everyone live happily ever after and thank him while he sits at home on his own, goes to bed alone, has dinner alone, and pulls the weeds out of his garden alone. Silence was never something he could sit in without finding something to fill it, but in his little house, there was just too much silence, he couldn’t fill it all.
And She must’ve noticed that, because in the middle of a thunderstorm one night, he had been shaken awake by the loud cry of a baby, coming from his own living room.
Wilbur was such a joy to his household. Filled the silence all on his own, with his gibberish and laughter and noise and though Philza almost passed out from stress multiple times, he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Nothing could ever amount to the pride he felt when his son took his first steps towards him, when they locked eyes and Wil made his grabby hands to be picked up, the solid word of ‘Dad’ falling out of his mouth. He had cried, he was sure he had, and even now the thought still brings a tear to his eye. But it’s indescribable, the love they shared between them, the bond tying their souls together.
He watched Wilbur grow from two unsteady legs to easy walking to confident running. Watched the passion for music grow, the talent flowing the minute fingertips touched a piano and made a note sound, seeing an expert in the streets make people cry. Watched words climb from a collection of sounds to describe certain things, to mountains of sentences, complaints about dishes and excited storytelling from school.
For ten full years, barely over it, this magic existed in his house. His kingdom felt brighter, and more hopeful because he could share the story of its creation with his son, so that he could share it with his, and so on and so on. He was happy, they both were.
At the same time, Wilbur got too curious.
Philza can’t say he blames the kid. You can only explore the valley so many times before it becomes small, crowded. There are only so many warnings you can be given before you start to wonder why those warnings exist; what’s so wrong with going through the forest? Curiosity can only grow in you until it overcomes you, leading to consequences you never planned. It’s not Wilbur’s fault, he was just a curious kid who accidentally wandered past the Border, right into the path of some hunters looking for hybrids.
And, well…
They are right in that curiosity kills the cat.
Philza had felt Wilbur’s death. He had felt the sharp stab while he’d been talking to some old friends. His sentence had been cut short, the loss making him spiral into his instincts, an old desire to find his flock, bring his flock home, protect his flock, make sure flock is safe, make sure flock is alive.
Somewhere inside him, he already knew he’d be too late. The minute he started running, he could feel the connection slipping away, the tendrils slowly disappearing. The minute he flew down, talons spread, and killed the hunter that shot his son (still had his fucking crossbow out, bragging to his friends, they were all laughing, those heartless monsters), he knew it was too late. There was just too much red—red shouldn’t be on flock, flock should be clean, has to preen flock, flock shouldn’t be red—and Wilbur was too still.
Wilbur was too still.
Looking back, he can’t say he remembers taking a minute to mourn. He’s not sure he even looked at Wilbur’s body for more than a second, enough to blink and take in the fact that this was real, not just some nightmare. Wonder what happened to the body, who found it. Did they bury it? Did they bury him? Or did they sell him on the market, wanting their prize for the parts of a hybrid?
He hopes it was the first, he needs it to be the first. Needs to be able to return home to a grave in the valley, safe from the humans.
It gets blurry from there. He knows what he did, and is able to recall breaking into buildings of hunters, killing all of them no matter what they pleaded. Every time he sleeps, a new body is in front of him on its knees, some excuse of having a family to feed or some similar bullshit about a sick brother. Always, no matter what, he doesn’t listen. But beyond that, the details of finding the buildings, of planning things out, there’s no memory for that.
Perhaps that’s why he was overpowered eventually.
The fights had gradually been getting harder, his eyes feeling heavier. His arms had been shaking under the weights of blocking swords that go for his head. It could be that he had been so focused on his revenge that he hadn’t stopped for a break, for sleep or food, or anything besides gulping down some water every now and then. This fixation is one he gets frequently, and it had calmed down significantly with Wilbur, so it must’ve returned tenfold when he died.
Yes, that’s why he had been caught by the net they threw at him. Why he had passed out almost immediately from the electric shock the net had caused, the pain turned higher than he remembers it being from years before the valley. Why he had woken up in the back of a wagon, wrists tied tightly behind his back, the rope digging into his skin, head pounding from a potion of weakness.
Why he was now being driven to some leader, a prey being led straight to the predator.
Philza is pushed to the ground, a foot on his back keeping him firmly in place. He hisses at the pressure, some kind of bruise being worsened. There’re voices above him, words being exchanged that he can’t hear because the ringing in his head has yet to stop. Through his squint, he can see two boots stop in front of him, the human crouching down in front of him.
The foot is lifted from his back. A hand quickly replaces it, grabbing a fistful of his hair and dragging him to eye level. Philza doesn’t give them the satisfaction of him being in pain, settling for a glare filled with the hate he’s gathered since he was a child.
The human holding his hand only chuckles back at him, amused. “Well,” they say, flashing him a grin full of crooked teeth. They’re almost black. If he could, Philza would recoil. “It seems we caught ourselves a feisty bird. Good. It was getting boring ‘round here.” They push him away and stand, walking away.
Philza catches himself before he hits the ground again. He shifts his weight. It’s disgusting to be kneeling like this, vulnerable in front of humans, but it can’t be helped. Luckily, it seems to be just the one human. It seems he had been taken to a room without windows, the ceiling wet and dripping. It’s made out of stone, and it’s rather dark, the only light source is the torches near the door and the lantern on the table the human is standing by.
Something slides down his face. Philza blinks. The copper scent fills his nose; he must’ve been hit in the head recently. Might not have been with these hunters, but when his head hit the floor, the wound must’ve reopened.
He doesn’t have time to worry about it.
The human picks something up from the table and walks back to him, hiding it from view. They crouch again. Philza watches them as they sit there, quietly, eyes slowly roaming over him. He wants to pounce on him and claw his eyes out, make him stop staring at him, but the rope makes his shoulders hurt and bites into his skin with every movement. So, he stays still, waiting.
“You know,” they finally start, eyes snapping back to his, “you killed quite a lot of people, birdie.”
Philza stays quiet.
“Lots of those people were my friends. One of them was my sister.” They tilt their head, curling their lips at him, “Your kind really has no care for family, do you?”
Did…did they really just…?
Oh, if only Philza could reach them—
Despite himself, he snorts. “That’s rich.” He reels in his laughter. “You hunters kill my son and expect me not to care? With all you preach about equality, that’s some irony.”
The hunter grabs his hair again, pulling him forward. “Now, now,” they tut, looking down their nose at him, “I thought birds sang. I don’t know any that talk.” They give his hair a tug, relishing his wince. “Can you do that for me, birdie? Can you sing? If you have a pretty voice, maybe I can make a plea for you and keep you for myself.”
Philza scoffs, and spits in their face.
They sigh, releasing him. “Can’t say I’m too surprised. Too bad. I’m sure you would’ve had a pretty voice.” They shift, playing with the thing from the table, letting it glide over his fingers. “It’s a shame to have to cage it.”
Philza’s gaze falls to it.
He stills.
He stares at the pair of shears, newly sharpened.
The hunter looks up at him, though their gaze isn’t on his face anymore. It’s behind him.
On his wings.
“But we can’t have you flying away on us, birdie, can we?”
Most of his time is spent just breathing, meditating on his feelings to make sure they don’t build up to an unhealthy amount. He thinks about his kingdom, too—who took over for him while he’s here, how they’re handling things, if the woman who was approaching her due date had her child yet. Guilt for leaving them tries to make him cave, spilling into the cracks of his anger and laying there, but he holds tight.
He needs to keep himself in check if he wants to prove these hunters wrong, live to watch their faces fall into frustration the longer they torture him and the longer he doesn’t break for them. Vindictive doesn’t even begin to describe it. He doesn’t usually care to hold grudges or get revenge if someone wronged him, but the presumption these hunters have that he doesn’t know of love or family when they literally shot his son down when he was just being a fucking kid makes his blood boil so much that the lid can’t be kept on anymore.
When Philza escapes, he’ll relish slitting the throat of the leader of these hunters, after killing the rest of them in front of in all the same ways they’ve killed his people.
Unfortunately, however, it’ll take time to think of an escape plan.
They had shoved him in a tiny cell. A gap of sunshine is at the top, but the window is too small to crawl out of and there’re bars across it. The door to the cell was metal, with a gap at the bottom where they slid his food in. Wasn’t good food, either; stale bread and a small cup of water most of the time, two times a day. There wasn’t anything else, no bed or table or anything besides the dirt of the ground.
He’d been chained by the neck to a corner. The only good thing was that the chain was long enough so that he could get the food. There weren’t any other chains, though they had placed cuff over his wrists and ankles ‘as a precaution', so they said.
And his wings had been clipped.
He didn’t notice it as much when he was sitting or lying down. It was more apparent when he was dragged through the halls, standing up and having to walk with his balance off, back lighter than it should be. The hunters got angry when he stumbled but he just bared his teeth and they usually backed off, not wanting to risk any injury. He’d get better with his balance, he knew that much, but he dearly wanted to escape before they deemed it time to clip his wings again.
Philza really doesn’t want to feel those blades cutting his feathers in half more than once.
But he needs to think of his plan before he tries anything. He can’t afford to be foolish here. He needs to bide his time and learn his way around these halls, memorize the guards and hunters and their habits. He’ll need to work with the schedule if he wants to succeed.
He needs to wait.
Until it’s time, he’ll track his time with scratches on the wall. Watch the number climb.
Philza was once again woken up because of screaming.
It had started when there had been a couple of weeks' worth of scratches on his wall, a sharp, piercing scream sounding out for a full day before dying off for a few days, seemingly losing its voice.
Then, whoever it was clearly gained it back and started screaming again during the night when everyone else was trying to sleep. This meant the hunters had been more irritated, quicker to explode at him if he missteps or tries to stall leaving his cell. One of them had even disobeyed the orders not to hurt him in his cell and had managed to bruise a few of his ribs before they were wrested away. He’s been nursing that injury fairly well since then.
He's been feeling the effects of interrupted sleep himself. Despite himself, he finds that he feels the same kind of anger the hunters do towards the screaming, even if he knows that it can only be another hybrid they’ve captured making the noise. Every night, he goes to bed praying that the other hybrid will have some shred of mercy and not be so annoying, but it never works, and he’s rudely woken up just a few hours later.
If he could, he’d make sure the hybrid realizes there’re other hybrids here who need their sleep too. Some that can’t afford to sleep during the day.
He hates that he hates the other hybrid so much, but he can’t help it.
He rubs at his eyes as he sits up. The screaming is still bouncing through the halls. It digs into his head and under his forehead, making it pound in tandem. He grits his teeth and pushes through it, sitting up. The chain from his neck jingles slightly as it does. The only thing he can do now is lean against the wall and wait it out.
Either he’ll be kept awake or he’ll fall asleep anyway when all the tiredness builds.
However, unlike other nights where he’d be left alone until the screaming ends, tonight footsteps approach his door, and the lock clicks. He’s immediately put on alert, not standing just yet, but prepared to do so. The door swings open to his favorite hunter, the one who clipped his wings, and two of the guards.
They all look red, and irritated. Something’s up.
Philza hums to fill the silence. “Missed me already, hunter? Must be growing on you.” He hasn’t had a reason to talk much these days, so his voice is a little hoarse. They had also had their torture session already today, so it was unusual for them to be here again so soon.
They ignore him, motioning to one of the guards to point their crossbows on him so he doesn’t try anything as they take out some chain and connect it to his wrists. They disconnect the neck chain and let it fall to the ground and pull on the new chains until he stands with them. He gets pulled out of his cell, the two guards following closely behind, the one still pointing their crossbow at his head.
The screaming grows louder, closer, and when they stop in front of a new cell, it sounds like it’s coming from behind the door. He peers at it in confusion, glancing at the hunter when they motion to the guards again. The one without the crossbow gets some keys out and unlocks the door for the other one, who goes in quickly with their weapon poised in front of them. There’s a thwack sound as it's released and the scream gets cut off with a shriek.
Philza has only a moment to process this, if the silence means death or only injury, before he’s pushed into the cell himself with free wrists and the door closes behind him, locked again.
He blinks from his position on the ground. This cell is darker than his last one, so it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust. Not that they need to do much; elytrians and other avian hybrids have naturally good eyesight in the dark. He sits up, shaking his head to clear the fog of his mind. It’s a cell much like his, same gap on the door and the top of the wall.
The screaming hasn’t returned, and Philza quickly decides to ignore the confusion as to why he’s there and what the hunters are planning in favor of seeing if the hybrid was alive. There’s a familiar feeling in his chest that needs to be settled, for better or worse. “Hello? Are you alright, mate?”
There’s a slight shuffle from somewhere in the darkest parts of the cell. Hey, he said his eyesight was good, not perfect. A whimper of sorts sounds out.
Philza bites his lip. Some hybrids are afraid of the avian species, so if he tries his way of comfort, there can be two responses. But he supposes it’s better than nothing. He moves to sit cross-legged, appearing as little of a threat as possible, before quietly trilling, repeating a pattern his own mother used to calm him years ago during a thunderstorm.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Philza frowns, more concerned. He opens his mouth to say something else—
A questioning, hesitant chirp comes from the dark, sounding oh so very young.
Philza freezes, instincts perked. He automatically chirped back, but his mind wasn’t at the present moment anymore. The hate he had felt quickly dispersed, replaced with grief for this hybrid and a need to wrap his arms around them and hold them tight—take them to nest, smother them in safety, preen flock, protect flock, never let flock go again.
From the dark, two bright blue eyes peer out at him.
Another avian hybrid.
And a child at that.
They didn’t speak for the first night.
Despite knowing that the other person in the cell was a hybrid, and another avian one at that, the child—because there was no doubt that he was one, probably one that hasn’t even learned to fly yet—didn’t let Philza near him. Whenever he deemed him too close, he would growl and move further back in his corner. The only thing he would do was follow his wishes and stop advancing, settle down against the wall opposite him.
He tries to keep himself entertained. The thing he found himself doing the most was meditating. It seems to be the one thing that doesn’t take any energy. In fact, sometimes he found himself close to falling asleep. He just tries to breathe and clear his mind, letting his thoughts move past him.
In one such meditation, he hears the avian kid come closer.
He continues on unbothered, though he’s no longer meditating. Eyes still closed and face schooled into a mask of indifference, he strains his ears to map out what the child is doing. The dirt crunches in one dry spot and he comes the closest he’s ever been. Right next to Philza, close enough to touch his wing if he wanted to.
And he does.
The hand just brushes it, but his wing twitches under the graze and he bolts away. Philza curses himself, knowing that it was only because no one’s touched his wing without some kind of ill intent in a while. Still. The habit could’ve waited for a bit before kicking in. It was the least bit of comfort he could give to the kid.
Now that the jig is up, Philza opens his eyes.
To his surprise, the kid hasn’t retreated back into his corner. He’s close, but he’s crouched in the light of the window, just barely. The light makes the dirt and dried blood on his face stand out. And that’s not the only thing that’s noticeable.
Blond hair and blue eyes.
He looks…like Philza.
Almost exactly like him.
It’s a little unnerving. The only difference is the wings. Where Philza has large wings the colour of the night sky, able to blend in perfectly against the darkness, his child clone has bright red wings. They’re short, maybe a little underdeveloped, and they’re clipped, no doubt the hunters’ fault. But they are a lovely shade of red.
It matches him.
“You’re an elytrian.”
Philza blinks.
The avian kid looks back at him. There’s no sign of distrust in his eyes right now, just curiosity and a touch of child-like wonder. It must be the first time he’s seen someone like him up close that wasn’t family.
Philza nods. “I am.”
The kid shifts, sitting down with his legs crossed. One of his arms is pulled close to his chest. “I thought they were all gone. That’s what my mom told me.” There’s a hint of some greater emotion in his voice.
Phila lets it go unacknowledged. “The others are,” he says, letting the wistfulness through. “It’s only me now.”
“Oh.”
The kid falls silent.
Philza glances at his arm.
It had been injured by the arrow from the guard, he knows it has. He had tried to see it the first night, but the kid didn’t let him close. It needs to be cleaned sooner rather than later. He hopes he can get the kid to trust him enough so he can look at it.
“I’m sorry.”
He looks back up at the kid. “Don’t be.” He smiles, lowering his head in a bit of a bow. “My name’s Philza.”
The kid stares at him. “Tommy.”
“Nice to meet you, Tommy.”
Tommy snorts. “You think this is nice?” He gestures around with his good arm.
Philza laughs. “Well, I guess not, now that you mention it.” He leans forward. “Why are you here, exactly? I understand why they have me. But I don’t know why you’d be here.”
Tommy’s gaze sharpens. “Why are you here?”
Clever little shit.
Philza chirps softly in amusement. “I don’t think I’m ready to tell you yet.” His voice is low.
Tommy looks at the ground. “Me too.” Tommy’s voice is low too.
Tommy let Philza look at his wound after that.
None of the hunters or guards enter the room for a while. It’s peaceful. The days are spent telling each other stories, Tommy getting excited during his and using them to spend his energy by running around the cell with a stick that fell in from the window. He drew some of the scenes in the dirt, explaining what they meant to Philza in return for compliments of his stick figures. For someone his age, his drawings were actually pretty good.
Philza told stories of his childhood, things he usually didn’t care to remember. Some were of his mother, some were of his father, some were of friends he’d made before the valley and some were of his people. But he never told any with Wilbur, not yet. They lingered on his tongue but fell away before they made it out.
During dinner one day, this time a very watery soup and decent bread, Tommy asks a question. “Is it true?” There’s soup dribbling down his chin.
Philza can’t hold himself back from wiping it away. “Is what true?”
Tommy takes a bite of his bread. “The rumors.” He talks with his mouth full. “Of there being a valley full of hybrids. No humans, just hybrids. And it’s safe, completely safe.” He falters before the next bit, voice lowering. “My mom used to tell me about it. She—she said that I’d be able to fly as long as I want there. Can I?”
Philza looks away.
Tommy’s wings were clipped, and by looks of things had been clipped for a while. Depending on how long they stayed there, and how often they get clipped and how short, the kid might not get to learn how to fly. He’ll have his wings, and they’ll be functional, but the feathers might not grow back correctly enough to let him fly.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell him that. “Yeah. It’s true.” He smiles, letting his pride shine through as he leans closer. “I live there.”
Tommy snaps his head up to look at him, swallowing. “Really?” He seems to remember something very important because his eyes widen and his mouth falls open. “Oh. Oh!” He jumps up and Philza has to be swift to make sure his bread doesn’t touch the floor. Luckily, he’d already finished the soup. “You, you mean you’re actually the Philza? Who created the valley? That Philza?”
Philza chuckles, embarrassed slightly by the excitement. “Well. I wouldn’t say created it. More so…found it.” He shakes his head in fondness and raises a hand to his chest. “But yeah. I am, indeed, that Philza.”
“Cool!” Tommy jumps from foot to foot before stilling. His expression breaks down into concern. “That’s…why you’re here.”
It’s not a question.
Philza’s smile strains. “It’s…part of it.” He brushes himself off, patting the ground next to him as an invitation. “There’s more to it.”
Tommy sits down next to him, subdued.
They’re quiet.
“Can,” Tommy speaks, before stopping. He glances over at him. “Can you…tell me about it?”
Philza knows he’s asking about the valley. “What would you like to know?”
“Everything.”
“Oh, well, for that, we’d have to go to the beginning…”
Philza’s humming.
The grief that led him here hit him all at once and he was suddenly yearning to hear a melody of Wilbur’s making. One that he had repeated over and over again until he got it right. The words practically sang themselves, the image of his son singing them so vivid in his head that he can almost fool himself into believing he’s in the memory, that it’s still happening.
But he’s not. He’s not.
He won’t get to hear his son sing again. He won’t get to listen as he explains his songs, the inspiration for them or the choice of lyrics. There’s no more laughter in his home and the guitar will remain untouched for years until he finally decides to donate it to someone in the valley. It’s silent.
He didn’t like the silence anymore.
“What song are you singing?” Tommy breaks his concentration. He’s looking up from whatever game he was playing in the dirt. “I like it.”
Philza blinks and smiles. “Thanks, mate. It’s a song my son made.”
Tommy straightens, frowning. “You have a son?” His tone is a little accusatory.
Swallowing, Philza looks away. “I did.”
“…oh.”
Tommy falls quiet.
Philza stares at the ground.
In front of him is a picture Tommy drew earlier when he was explaining his family. He had drawn himself—the little one in the center with the wings. His mom was to his left, a bigger stick figure with hair and wings on her back. His dad was to his right, no wings on his back. There was also a dog, named something he couldn’t remember.
It’s a cute family, all things considered.
Was.
He wants to talk about Wilbur. He needs to talk about Wilbur.
“His name was Wilbur,” Philza finds himself starting. “When he was a baby, he used to try to eat the sand at the lake. No matter how many times I explained it wasn’t edible, he would counter with ‘it’s crunchy’ like that solved anything. He also hated anteaters, all because of a book he stumbled upon. And he always wanted me to preen his wings for him, even when his wings were perfectly fine.”
As he laughs to himself in remembrance, Tommy comes over to sit beside him.
“Wilbur’s favorite thing to do was create music. You should have heard some of the songs; I think he just strung together sentences he liked with some of them, they were that outlandish. But he also created ones that were good, really good.” Philza inhales, his smile turning wistful. “I think he would’ve grown up to be the greatest musician in the valley.”
Tommy leans against him. “Wilbur sounds nice.”
Philza puts his arm around him and draws him closer. “He was.” And he thinks to himself, you would’ve been good brothers.
He’s not exactly sure when he started thinking of Tommy as his son.
“I wish I could meet him.”
“I do too.”
Philza wakes up to a shriek. Rolling over, he bolts upright, eyes flickering around the room looking for the threat, maybe a guard or a hunter—but there’s nothing. Just the same cell, the same walls and dirt floor.
Confused, he looks over to Tommy, who had fallen asleep curled up under his wing. Now, though, he’s shivering and upright, legs tucked close. He has tears streaming down his face and his bottom lip is wobbling, as he stares up at him with pained eyes. Red wings try to wrap around him in comfort, but they’re too short.
A nightmare. That’s all it was. He relaxes, falling into his parent role.
They’ve never hugged each other in this cell, have leaned on and held each other’s hand in solidarity and companionship, but they have never actually hugged or cuddled or anything of the sort. It breaks his heart to not be able to comfort someone like a son the way he knows how to, but he respects Tommy and will let him decide if he wants that comfort.
Philza goes to speak, but Tommy beats him to it.
A sad little chirp sounds out, low and mourning and young.
Philza twitches.
It happens again.
Tommy is gazing at him with such despair. Too much despair for someone his age.
But he can’t—he should let Tommy decide if he wants—
Philza’s arms move without his input. They’ve only been raised a bit and Tommy is already launching himself at them. He catches him and pulls him in close, feeling his shirt get wet from the tears. Hands clutch his shirt tightly.
Tommy’s sobbing again, loud and young.
Philza’s arms tighten, his wings wrapping around them to shield them. Soothing chirps fill the room, muffled under the sobs, but that’s alright. He knows Tommy can hear them just fine. He’s already quieting down.
“Shh. It’s okay now. It’s okay,” he whispers, as comforting as he can.
Tommy sniffs. His hands tighten. His voice breaks when he talks. “They killed her, Phil. They killed my mom.”
Philza’s chirps hitch, but he continues with them. “It’s okay.”
Tommy shakes his head, continuing. “She—she was on her knees and—and she was begging—she never begs—but she did for them, and they only laughed—they laughed.” He whines, scared, and Philza draws him even closer, heart breaking for him. “They—they took their sword and cut—cut off her, her w—”
Tommy cuts himself off, but the rest goes unsaid.
Her wings.
Philza wants to cry for Tommy, for his mother. He wants to kill the hunters that caused his son such harm. He wants to do many things.
“They killed her, Dad.”
Philza stills, his chirps dying off in his shock.
(Wilbur’s voice fills his head, repeating the title over and over again until it no longer feels real.)
Tommy sobs again and Philza snaps out of it. He rubs his son’s arm lightly. “I know.” He doesn’t really, but he can empathize in a different way. “But you’re alive. And that’s important.” It’s the only important thing.
After all, if Tommy wasn’t alive, Philza would’ve never met him.
Tommy quiets down, no more tears left.
He almost thinks he’s fallen asleep when he speaks up, voice so quiet it’s almost silent. “I’m scared of them.”
It’s a confession.
Philza sighs. “I know.” He nudges Tommy until he looks up at him. “But as long as I’m here, I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.”
“Really?” Tommy looks at him in awe.
Philza smiles. “Of course.”
He won’t fail another son.
The door clicks.
Philza springs to his feet, wings spread. Tommy freezes in the middle of his performance, hand stuck in the air miming holding a sword. Wide eyes stare at the door in front of him, and his wings twitch. He slides backward as the door pushes open, grasping behind him and clutching tightly to Philza’s pant leg once he reaches him. He pushes Tommy behind him, watching the door intently as a crossbow appears, aimed straight at them.
Tommy’s breath hitches. Philza clenches his teeth but doesn’t speak, silently reaching back to set a hand on his head. The crossbow holds steady and a guard appears, apathetic as they give the clear. The door opens all the way and the unfortunately very familiar hunter walks in, hands in their pockets as the door shuts behind them.
Tommy chirps in worry.
Philza has to hold himself back from coddling him.
The hunter grins. “Hello again. Enjoy your break?”
“Was until you came along,” Philza mutters, keeping an eye on them as they wander around, smearing Tommy’s pictures in the dirt until they were gone. Another guard is setting tools out on a rotting table. There’s only so much time before things really get ugly.
“I’m hurt.” The hunter pouts, making the words drag on. They’re not really hurt, although they might be amused. Their gaze swings down and settles. “But it seems you managed to tame the little birdie. That’s good.” They grin, wider this time, and Tommy presses further against Philza’s leg. “It’s screaming was getting on my nerves.”
“I didn’t tame him,” Philza growls, a clicking sound coming from deep in his chest.
The hunter only flicks their gaze to him, disinterested. “Anyway.” They turn, walking over to the table, picking something up, and coming back. “I heard an interesting thing recently.”
When they start getting too close, Philza tenses, forcing Tommy backward, following close behind. “Don’t touch him.” The clicking sound in his chest grows sharper, rapid.
The hunter only sighs. “Calm down,” they say, fiddling with the torture tool. It’s just a small dagger, almost like a letter opener. It shouldn’t be scary.
It shouldn’t make him shiver so much.
“You see, this little birdie here mentioned something. A…valley, I think it was? We hunters have been looking for a valley for decades now. It’s rumored that’s where the hybrids are.” The hunter pauses. They glance up and hold eye contact with Philza, a dangerous gleam in their eyes. “And it seems the birdie we caught ages ago is the one who created that valley. And I think they can surely show us the way.”
Who the fuck do they think they are?!
Philza barks out a laugh, the sound shrill and peppered with a manic chirp. “Oh, fuck off!”
He doesn’t get how this hunter thinks he’d be willing to just hand over the only safe haven in the world. He’d never do it. It’d not only be betraying the trust of his people, breaching the delicate line he’d worked so hard to build, but it’d be going against his own belief, his own morals, and everything he was taught about loyalty and leadership.
These wings may be clipped, and he may be caged. This building may be the place he dies in and Tommy might be the last hybrid he protects—the last son he has. But it will never be the place he breaks. Nothing will, because he won’t let some arrogant humans think they deserve to take his kingdom, that they deserve to breach his border and raze the castle and homes and hybrids who live there to the ground.
He won’t let them. He won’t fucking let them.
He is an elytrian. The last one of his kind. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have people to protect, or a flock to hold close; the exact opposite. Every hybrid who comes across the Border, whether by chance or on purpose, becomes part of his family, of his land and of his heart. Everyone in that valley is his and his alone, the protection an age-old instinct of his kind, one not found in the wild anymore. It would be a defiance of who he is, a disappointment of his ancestors if he does not keep his promises to them.
So no, hunter. He would not show them the way, and he would never show them the way. He would do everything but.
“I’d rather die than show you the valley.”
The hunter tilts their head. “Really?” They sound intrigued. They snap their fingers and the guards start closing in. “Let’s test that.”
Philza tries to keep backing up, but he eventually hits the wall and is cornered. Hands reach behind him to grab Tommy. He lashes out with his talons, but another guard interrupts his attack and pulls him forward onto his knees, yanking his arm back until it pops.
Philza hisses through his teeth and holds in any other sound. His shoulder sends bolts of pain to his brain the longer the guard doesn’t let go.
Somewhere in the cell, he can hear Tommy start to sob, screeches of his name.
He tries to get up. The guard kicks his back and forces him down to his stomach. A separate hand tangles itself into his hair and raises his head, only to slam it against the ground.
White falls over his mind and the voices muddle down like the sounds are trudging through molasses. He squeezes his eyes shut as he adjusts. He’s unable to struggle when someone sits down on his legs to keep him pinned, someone else dragging a sharp blade through the skin between his shoulder blades.
It’s shallow, but the sting is amplified by the pain in his head.
It seems to be carving something.
Or is that just him? It might just be him?
The carving continues for a while. It spreads down his arms and legs, turning from words to symbols—or initials.
He doesn’t know what it is anymore.
There’s a liquid coming down his forehead, thick and heavy. He thinks he might have a concussion. The floor was hard, and the guard had a good throw. It certainly feels like one. Or at least a head injury similar.
Someone’s still crying.
He can’t figure out if that’s in his head, memories of Wilbur haunting him, or if it’s coming from the cell itself. He’s certain it’s not coming from him. But he can’t think of any guards who would be crying right now.
But it wouldn’t be a guard. It would be Tommy—
Someone pulls him to his knees, holding him in place. Voices sound over him and he thinks he hears the word ‘clip’ and he can’t pin down what that means until there’s a sharp pain from his wings as feathers are cut too short.
Instinct takes hold of him and he starts struggling again—
—Being caged, can’t be caged, not meant to be caged, you have flock to protect, why are you here, need to protect flock, flock’s too young for this, need to be able to fly to protect—
—angry chirps falling from his chest, scratchy with the lack of use.
“Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind?”
A hand grips his chin and Philza steels himself, cutting off his chirps. He squints his eyes, wincing as the action causes his head to pound. The hunter is leering down at him, expression vacant. They seem to be waiting for something.
Despite the situation, Philza is amused.
This isn’t the worst torture he’s been graciously a part of. It’s nothing like being whipped in public for trying to argue with a seller who raised his price simply because he had wings. It’s nothing like being waterboarded until he passed out, only to be slapped awake and the process repeated until he says he learned his lesson.
In all honesty, this was rookie behavior.
Philza laughs, and some of the blood from his head wound falls into his mouth. He spits it out, and it coincidently lands on the hunter’s face. He grins. “J’mp right off a cliff.”
“Hm.” The hunter lets go of his chin. They step away and motion for something. A guard brings them a sword. “I’d have thought you hybrids would have more common sense. How…disappointing.” They walk around him, the previous guard moving away. “It seems I have no more use for you. But before I kill you, might as well take a souvenir.”
A hand takes hold of his wing and Philza stops breathing.
A blade is laid against the base of the wing, the metal cool against Philza’s skin.
It presses against the joint.
Everything in Philza is telling him to run.
“I’ve heard elytrian wings are like diamonds on the market.” The hunter’s breath is hot against his neck as they lean in. “Any last words?”
Philza inhales. “Not to you.”
“Fine.” The hunter laughs.
The pressure increases until it starts to breach the thin skin under the feathers.
—break free, break free, break free, break free, this is danger, danger, danger—
“DAD!”
Philza whips his head up in time to see Tommy bite down on the guard holding him back. They let go with a yelp and his son is immediately running, heading straight for him.
Another guard shouts something and steps in between them. They have a crossbow. They have it aimed at Tommy, whose eyes lock onto the arrow and falters, eyes going wide and he looks scared and—
—Wilbur is looking at him with shocked eyes, an arrow sticking out of his throat, and he falls and falls and falls and he’s dead—
Philza snaps.
Headbutting the hunter behind him, he stumbles forward, reaching back to steal the sword from them. The guard with the crossbow startles, whirling around to him. Philza spares him nothing as he drives the sword through his chest. A different arrow shoots at them and grazes against his shoulder.
All this commotion has the guards outside opening the door to check on them.
“Tommy!”
He rushes forward. Tommy clings to him.
Scooping him up into his arms just as another arrow fires, he holds the sword tightly in front of him, trusting Tommy to keep himself close with how tightly he’s holding on. He makes his way to the hallway, killing the guards in his way and shutting the door on the others that try to stop him.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
They run.
The world passes by in a blur.
Philza’s legs start burning after they stumble out of the building. Tommy’s clutching him tightly, burrowed as tight as he can be against his chest. It’s almost bittersweet to watch, as those instincts wouldn’t exist if the hunters hadn’t caught him. But it helps right now, and really, that’s all he can be grateful for.
He doesn’t know where he is or where he’s headed. All he knows is that he needs to go away. Away from the danger, from the cage, and back to whatever safety there is. And he needs to keep Tommy safe and unharmed.
A crossbow bolt barely grazes his arm.
“F—”
He hisses, swallowing the swear, and forces himself to speed up.
Trees and trees and trees.
There’s nothing to tell him which way to go. He can’t slow down to get his bearings. He’ll be caught. They'll be caught. He can’t run blindly and expect everything to be okay. He’ll get lost and be caught in no time. Tommy will be caught. Something needs to compromise here.
What does he do? What does he do?
What can he do?
The trees disappear and he brakes before he realizes it, wide eyes staring at his feet.
There should be ground there.
There isn’t.
It’s a straight drop down into the rest of the forest. It goes on to the horizon, vaguely fading out into a thin line of blue. There a river down there to his right.
There’s nowhere else to go. It’s a dead end.
What now? What now?
Philza’s eyes trace the river.
Or…is it?
He stops on a line of vegetation at the far end of the river. It’s small now, but familiar. So familiar. It’s almost jarring to see the sheen of magic over it, just the hint of brightness too unnatural to be sunlight. Something only hybrids can see.
The Border.
He hears shouts and almost whirls around. He holds himself back, remembering his precious cargo, hold tightening on his legs. “Tommy, I need you to close your eyes, okay?”
Tommy tightens his grip. He’s staring over the cliff too. “Why?”
“Just trust me, okay? It won’t be for long.” He waits. Tommy looks back at him for a few seconds. He hesitantly nods and buries his head in his neck.
Philza waits.
He flexes his wings, pulling at the clipped feathers. It’s more painful than he remembers. Right. He had forgotten that they had been in the middle of that before Tommy stopped it. They never got to finish it, some of the feathers are holding on by a thread.
But he needs to do this.
Clipped wings stop the caged bird from flying high. They don’t stop it from falling.
The wind will help.
A branch breaks behind him and he senses that the hunters have found him.
He doesn’t wait any longer.
Philza spreads his wings and jumps.
The river is cold.
And fast.
Philza gasps as he breaches the surface, coughing up the water in his lungs. Tommy isn’t next to him. He had thrown himself off the cliff and let the wind carry him, but he was unable to stop when it dropped them into the river. Tommy isn’t next to him.
He thinks he blacked out.
Tommy isn’t next to him. Or anywhere in sight.
Panic claws at him. “Tommy!” He coughs, water getting into his mouth. He struggles to keep himself from sinking. “Tomm—my!”
Nothing answers him.
He can’t breathe. Is that because of the water? Or because—
He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead.
His son can’t be dead again.
“Phil!”
Philza snaps his head around, searching for Tommy. The voice was faint, but close. He’s here, somewhere. Where? Where?
Red flashes in his vision.
There.
“Tommy! Hold on, I’m coming!” He starts swimming, tucking his waterlogged wings close to him so they don’t get in the way.
“Phil!” Tommy shouts in panic, clutching his branch. His eyes are wide. He looks like he’s slipping, a hand falling off and the other close behind. No. No. He can’t let him get away, not again—
Tommy slips.
Philza catches him, grabbing the branch. “I’m here. I’m here.” He draws Tommy close to him, letting him throw his arms around his neck. “Don’t let go.”
“Never.”
The rivers pulls them forward. Philza eyes a tree leaning over the water, almost like a bridge to the shore. When they reach it, he abandons the branch and lets it go, watching it break against a rock. Wincing he draws himself up, nudging Tommy to let him know where to go. He tries his best to help him get up, hearing a slight sizzling sound.
He pulls himself up next, struggling to get his lower half up. There’s a strange feeling like arms wrapping around him and pulling him up. The sizzling sound is louder, almost right in his ear as someone grunts in pain.
Philza doesn’t question it right now.
He pants, denying himself the luxury of going limp and resting against the grass. They’re still out in the open. They can rest once they’re past the Border.
Pushing himself up, he crawls over to Tommy, who lays curled on his side, shivering. He places a hand on his back, rubbing soft circles in comfort. “Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good.”
There’s a sound like someone walking over to them.
Philza tenses, ready to defend.
“…Dad?”
He freezes.
That—that can’t be right—that voice can’t be—But it sounds so much like him.
But it can’t be him.
He’s dead.
He’s dead.
He’s dead.
It can’t be.
A small part of him says that it can be.
Despite himself, Philza gives into the small part and looks over his shoulder. His mouth opens in some kind of silent pain, all movements of his stilling.
There’s a boy on his knees a foot away from them. He looks about twelve, about the same age as—he has brown hair. It’s curly, swept to one side—just like someone he—his sweater is yellow. It’s torn and dirty and—there’s a hole in his stomach leaking blue blood; there where he was shot, and only he can have that wound—he’s transparent. The trees poke through his skin, tinted purple from death, lips blue and eyes blank.
He looks like a walking corpse. He looks like—he—his hands are burning. Smoke drifts up from them, the palms black from what he can see of them. He looks concerned, and worried, and shocked, and solemn, and happy, and pained, and—and—and—
He looks just like Wilbur.
But it can’t be—
(He swears he can hear Her laugh in his ear, almost like bells. It rides the wind, Her fingers running through his hair as it blows.
She says it took him long enough to find this gift.
He thinks about what he owes Her now.
She says he doesn’t owe anything, just to be happy and live.
He thinks he owes her everything and more.)
But phantom hybrids exist.
They’re rare, but they exist.
Formed by memories of someone who died, it takes something like a god to create a living being from those remains before it vanishes. They usually appear at the place of death with no memories, besides faces they can’t name and a memory of death they know to be their birth. They wander until they find their family, and then they remember.
Most of these hybrids are rejected, their presence too painful for the family to live with. Most of them are lost on the market, reduced to shells.
Philza swallows.
He won’t let that happen.
His voice shakes.
“…Wil?”
The ghost lights up, tears falling down his cheeks and leaving a black smudge in its wake. Water burns phantoms. He’s hurting himself. “Dad!”
He reaches forward, but Philza shakes his hand, gathering Tommy up.
He looks at Wil’s confusion and hurt and smiles in reassurance. “Border first,” he says softly.
Recognition flashes in his eyes and he nods, standing to join him. He reaches a hand out and Philza takes it without question, shifting Tommy over. It’s a bit surreal, but he’ll get used to it.
He’ll get used to it.
They pass the Border and enter the Valley.
Tommy raises his head, looking in awe. “Are we safe?”
Philza smiles down at him. “Yeah. We are.” He turns his smile to Wilbur, who floats a bit off the ground. He squeezes his hand and he smiles back. “All of us are.”