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Philza missed flying.
He stared at the sky at night, wings twitching at his side. He climbed high up, just to feel the breeze flowing through his feathers and hair. His talons twitched, stained with years of built up gunpowder burns that would now no longer heal. Fireworks were made when he made plans to leave the house, because it was second nature to make plenty for a trip so his wings wouldn’t get too tired on their flight.
But he couldn’t fly.
Not anymore. Maybe even never again.
The fireworks sat unused. He could not glide down from the heights he dragged himself to, only drag himself back down. The stars simply twinkled above him, because he could not join them in their path across the sky. Not as he once had. Not as he had for thousands of years.
The wings could not carry him. Not anymore. The feathers were ruined, burned beyond repair. He had pulled out so, so many, had long ago lost count, since it had happened, but it really didn’t matter the exact number, because every time he preened what remained, he found more.
He started to wonder if any healthy feathers would ever grow again. If he would ever feel the sky around him one last time. He wished he had savored his last flight.
If only he knew it was his last flight.
His wings were ruined. He had bound them, so that others would not have to see. Tucked them under his cloak when he went out into public, so they would not stare, because it was a sad sight to see.
An avian without proper wings. An avian missing nearly all of his flight feathers, and only burned and broken stumps remaining. An avian who had ruined them in trying to protect his son from his own demise, only to deliver it himself moments later. He had grown tired of the stares within the first day. It had only been three days before he hid them away, as if he had never had them to begin with.
He almost wished he hadn’t. Perhaps he wouldn’t have felt the loss as hard as he had. Maybe he could have just focused on losing Wilbur, on his new property in L’Manburg, on anything else at all, because the loss of his wings was not something he could ignore.
Flying was freedom. His wings were his access towards the heavens. He had been known for the way he could use them, and now, he was bound to the ground. Unable to take to the air that belonged to him, and was supposed to be his home. His wings weren’t healing, his feathers remaining broken even as new ones grew. The wings he had his entire life were now useless. They were parts of him that he still felt, could still move, but could not use.
He was so used to having them, that he didn’t know what to do without. He had lived thousands of lifetimes with his wings, and now, they were gone.
Oh, sure, he tried other things.
A slow falling potion he had been able to bribe from Technoblade, just to try it, was first. Just to see if it would help the loss. He had built as high as he dared, until the ground below was lost to the sky, and chugged it. It let him glide down, his broken wings flared behind him, and let him feel the air rushing around his body.
But it wasn’t the same.
The next was a trident, gifted to him by the owner of the server himself, on the condition that he gave a God Apple to him if it was found. A simple price to pay, to be able to fly again. He would have given a stack of them, if it meant he could really, truly fly again. He had even offered such to Dream!
He had told Philza, through a frown that seemed to break the clay his face was molded of, that he couldn’t. He wished he could. The best he could do was the trident, if Phil enchanted it right. Riptide in the rain, and it would be like…
It was almost. But not quite.
The trident was closer than the potion. It let him soar in a broken sort of way, through the rain. If he stood in water and launched himself, it would even let him soar in small leaps.
It just wasn’t the same. None of it would ever be the same.
The trident was the closest he would ever come. Ponds built, clothes soaked, as he launched himself in the air via an enchantment’s need to soar. His wings were even freed, the first time, because it was so close, surely it could
almost
feel the same. He had even used it from high atop the grid built above L’manburg on the final day, when it had to die. And as he stared down at the city that had taken every thing from him, his son’s voice roaring in his ears- how could you?! - he spoke without thinking.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. Maybe one day you’ll understand.”
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Wilbur never had wings. His son was still alive, even if they didn’t talk. He would never understand. He wasn’t sure he ever could.
But that was all he said, and stared at the city as it burned, broken wings flared and trying to catch the updrafts that would never carry him again.
The trident was closer, but it wasn’t right. Right at the edge of being just what he needed, but never being exactly it. If only it was a bit closer to truly flying. If only he had his feathers back. If only his hollow bones would heal. If only he could have saved Wilbur, and made the sacrifice truly worth it, because he would happily have given his wings to have his son back in his arms. If only if only if only.
Those were all he had. Wishes carried on the backs of his dead wings, with feathers that would never grow right again. Close, but not quite. Almost, but not right. He could not truly fly.
He would never be able to again.
Philza missed flying.