Chapter Text
His father was a king. He was a tall man, built like an ox and mean as one too. His mother, an avian hybrid, was taken from her home for her beautiful golden wings and her wit. Hybrids of any kind were already rare, avians even more so. It was not a happy marriage.
When Philza was born his father did not rejoice. it became very evident that he took after his mother. He was small with pale skin, hair as gold as the rays of the sun, and had a smattering of black downy feathers growing from his back. His father handed him off to a nurse, leaving the room as his mother, face red and sweaty from exertion stared blankly out at the sea. She did not ask to hold him.
As he grew older, he became even more of an annoyance to the king. He was not tall nor strong. He could not play with the older boys lest he break one of his fragile, birdlike bones. When his father looked at him it was like he was a stain on his name. His mother did not acknowledge him at all.
When he turned six his father held a tournament. People gathered from near and far to participate. Philza tried to stay out of the way as servants bustled by with decorations, and trays laden with food and fine wines. A sort of stadium is erected hastily in the courtyard and Philza watched from afar as the bigger boys run in between the legs of servants, laughing as they go. His wings, not yet big enough to carry his weight in the sky, twitch minutely.
He remembers the fighters the best from all the games they held at that tourney. Men and women, young and old gathered in the stadium in front of where he and his parents sat. He sat next to a pile of various prizes to give out to the winners; Bronze bowls polished to a shine, wickedly sharp blades meant to be as beautiful as they were deadly, various pieces of jewelry and armor meant to catch the eye, but he held the real prize; a crown laden with jewels glinting in the sun. He tried not to fidget with it too much.
The youngest boys are up first, and one immediately catches his eye as he is given a wooden sword and brought to stand in front of his opponent. He is shorter than the other boys, but still taller than Philza himself. His hair is a peculiar shade of pink, long and tied back in a braid that flows down his back like a waterfall. When he turns to face the king and queen, his eyes flicker over Philza’s for a moment. Deep red meets cool blue. The boy’s face is serious, his gaze holding the others with a fierce intensity and for a second the avian hybrid forgets how to breath. Their staring match is broken when the battle begins.
The pink haired boy moves with the grace of a dancer. It is as if the wooden sword he is holding is an extension of his own arm. He has his opponent knocked down on his ass in five seconds flat. Philza stares as his father lifts the crown up and onto the other boy’s head. The crown looks like it belongs amongst the pink curls. The boy's mother comes to congratulate him. Their kingdom is smaller than his own, but it is richer in resources and their king is rumored to be a god. His mother raises him onto her shoulders, smiling proudly at her son. His own father turns to him and scowls, jealousy written in his eyes. He did not speak but he did not have to. The boy could hear what he was thinking loud and clear.
‘This is what a son should be. Strong and swift, not small and weak like his mother,’
Philza swallows the lump in his throat, eyes burning as he looks at the other boy. He is smiling down at his mother and laughing. He looks happy. Philza’s hands feel empty without the crown.
He does not remember much of his childhood after that. Just flashes of memories here and there, few good. His father’s scolding and ever-present disappointment in him, the teasing looks and jeers he gets from his peers, his very first molt. His favorite memory, however, was one he shared with is mother on a rare day when the fog cleared from her mind and her eyes regained a semblance of life. He was eight when it happened. She had looked over at him, sitting in the dining hall eating a quick snack before he had to attend his next lesson, and smiled.
They went out to the beach that day. He wiggled his toes back and forth in the sand where he buried them as she sat behind him, gently preening his wings. She was humming a tune, something soft and mournful but when he looked over his shoulder, he could see that she was smiling. He looked out at the sea, crystal blue waves lapping at the shore, and he smiled too.
It was one of the only times his mother acknowledged his existence. He cherished the memory for years until the fog of childhood muddled and warped it, until he was sure he had dreamt it. Looking back, he was sure he had imagined it. His mother’s gaze was as vacant as ever and it was not likely that she even knew he existed in the first place. Still, sometimes he will go down to the beach and sit, toes in the sand, head tilted towards the sun, and he thinks he can feel the brushing of soft hands against his dark feathers.