Night of Heights and Falls
~Original story~ Feathers and Flames Masterlist
Whumpmas in July DAY 12: Falling
CW: Nonhuman whumpee, nonhuman caretaker, child whumpee (Teté is sixteen), hypoxia, whumperless whump.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” There was no condescension in Freyra’s voice, only the faintest trace of concern. “We’re talking about the militia, the draconic militia. Their standards are exceptionally demanding, and the duty of protecting the kingdom could very well cost you your life.”
“I know. And I know this is what I want,” Teklómenes replied without hesitation. At sixteen years old, he was determined to become a true drakonic warrior.
Freyra swallowed the obvious words before they could escape: An avian could never become a drakonic warrior. But Teklómenes had spent nearly his entire life among drakones, growing up on stories of glorious battles and impossible victories, with Freyra herself standing before him as the living image of an undefeated, fearless warrior and queen.
How could he dream of becoming anything else? He was an avian, yet his ambition rivaled that of any drakón, perhaps even surpassed it.
“The examination will take place this week,” Freyra said after the boy submitted his application. “You’ll compete against other recruits in a series of trials designed to test your flight abilities. Fail even one of them, and you won’t be allowed to continue.”
“I know,” Teklómenes murmured. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “This is what I’ve been training for my whole life,” he continued. “This is where I’ll prove everything you’ve taught me. I’ll prove to them that even as an avian, I deserve to stand beside any drakón as a warrior.”
Freyra pressed her lips into a thin line. It was true that she had raised Teklómenes with the mindset of a drakón—she had never known any other way—but she feared what that might ultimately cost him. The boy was gifted, talented and remarkably intelligent, yet he was also reckless, impulsive, and far too willing to forget that, no matter how deeply it wounded his pride, he was still only an avian.
“Would you mind if I came to watch the trials?” Freyra asked, softening her tone in hopes of easing the tension lingering between them.
“I'd actually love for you to be there,” Teklómenes replied, his enormous golden eyes lighting up with excitement. The sight made tenderness flood in Freyra's chest.
“All right, little one,” she said, gently ruffling his hair. “I’ll clear my schedule for a few days.” Leaning down, she rested both hands on his shoulders. “Show me what you’re capable of.”
Teklómenes nodded.
“I promise I’ll surprise you.”
The first admission trial would take place across a vast mountain range surrounding a breathtaking lake of shimmering turquoise waters. Hundreds of young drakones, both male and female, all eager to earn a place among the kingdom's warriors, waited excitedly at the starting line.
The moment they spotted Teklómenes among them, many did not even bother hiding their merciless laughter.
“Lose your way, little bird?” one young drakona sneered.
“Sorry, but the chicken coop’s that way,” another called, pointing off into the distance.
Teklómenes said nothing. His expression never wavered because his confidence remained unshaken. A few of the young drakones gradually fell silent when they realized the taunts drew no reaction from him, while others merely gave him pitying looks.
“You're going to die out there, hatchling,” one young drakón muttered just before the horn signaling the start of the examination echoed across the valley.
“The first trial is... Endurance!” the master of ceremonies announced. “Participants will depart from this starting line and complete a one-hundred-and-twenty-five-kilometer circuit around the lake. Anyone who lands before returning to this finish line will be immediately disqualified.”
“How much you wanna bet the little bird drops before the first ten kilometers?” a another drakona jeered, earning a round of laughter from her friends.
Teklómenes ignored every word. He lowered himself into takeoff position, wings spread wide and knees bent.
“Ready! Set! Fly!”
The horn blared a second time, nearly swallowed by the thunderous beating of hundreds of wings. Drakones launched into the sky as though shot from catapults, many throwing mocking grins over their shoulders as they left Teklómenes behind. The avian quickly found himself near the back of the pack, but he refused to waste energy trying to keep up. He knew the journey ahead was long and that this was a trial of endurance, not speed. There was no time limit. As long as he remained airborne, he still had a chance.
Half an hour later, several recruits began dropping out, descending in exhaustion, some even crashing into the lake after their strength gave out. Teklómenes maintained the same steady rhythm, concentrating on each measured breath and taking full advantage of the mountain winds, letting his light frame glide effortlessly through the air whenever possible to conserve every ounce of energy.
After nearly three hours, Teklómenes finally crossed the finish line, passing the first trial to the astonishment of everyone watching.
“I knew you could do it!” Freyra congratulated him after they returned to the palace. “But don't let this make you overconfident. Every trial brings its own challenges.”
“I know. And I’m ready,” the boy assured her without the slightest trace of doubt. Passing the first day's examination had lifted his spirits tremendously.
The following morning, the second trial began, this time testing speed.
“You must fly through this canyon and reach the finish line within ten minutes,” the master of ceremonies explained. “The course stretches ten kilometers and is filled with obstacles. Your time begins the moment the horn sounds.”
Just as he had the previous day, Teklómenes took his place behind the starting line, wings spread and body lowered into takeoff position. Unlike yesterday, there were no jeers waiting for him this time, only lingering stares—confused, disbelieving, some resentful, others almost impressed.
I’m going to prove them wrong, the avian boy thought.
At the signal, every participant shot toward the canyon like a bolt of lightning. Massive boulders and fallen tree trunks littered the narrow passage, slowing many of the young drakones, but Teklómenes slipped through them with effortless precision. His smaller frame let him weave between obstacles too tight for larger wings, while his feathers caught the shifting winds, carrying him through sharp dives, tight turns, and graceful aerial twists without losing momentum for even an instant. He pushed himself with everything he had, swift as an arrow. Though the leading drakones steadily widened the gap ahead, he refused to give up, to let it shake his focus. His only goal was to keep flying.
He crossed the finish line with forty-five seconds left before the time limit expired.
“Congratulations to our finalists!” the announcement echoed across the canyon. “We’ll see you all tomorrow for the final trial.”
Exhausted but beaming with satisfaction, Teklómenes hurried back to Freyra, who stood among the spectators, applauding proudly. Despite all her earlier doubts, the drakona had begun to believe it might actually be possible: that, against every expectation, the young avian truly had a chance of earning his place among the selected warriors.
“I’m proud of you,” she said, pulling him into a hug.
Teklómenes felt his feathers instinctively fluff up as heat rushed to his cheeks. Becoming a drakonic warrior was never only his own dream. He wanted to do it for Freyra, too. He wanted to become someone she could be proud of, someone as strong and fearless as she was, someone who could protect others and make the world a better place.
I know I’m going to make it, he thought, surrendering completely to that innocent, unwavering belief.
On the third and final day of the examination, the finalists were brought to the shore. The tide was low, washing over black, rocky sand, while deep sapphire waves merged with the ashen-blue dawn at the horizon. Atop a hastily built wooden platform, the twenty remaining contestants prepared to face the final trial: altitude.
“A drakonic warrior must be as enduring as the mountains, capable of flying for miles without surrendering to exhaustion,” the master of ceremonies proclaimed. “A drakonic warrior must be as swift as lightning, ready to answer danger in the blink of an eye. And a drakonic warrior must soar higher than all others, proving that even the sky is not their limit.”
Cheers and applause broke out as contestants and spectators alike waited in eager anticipation. At the blast of the horn, every young flier hurled themselves into the air. Teklómenes climbed at a measured pace, conserving his strength as he had during the endurance trial, while skillfully riding the wind currents whenever they allowed him to surge upward, just as he had in the speed trial.
With every passing minute, the world beneath him grew smaller. The beach dissolved into a narrow strip of black against the sea. Freyra was reduced to nothing more than a tiny golden speck among the dark sand. From this height, the lands of the drakonic kingdom stretched endlessly toward the horizon, their towering mountains, winding valleys, and vast plateaus beautiful, wild, and full of promise. Teklómenes had never flown so high before.
For one brief, perfect moment, he felt as though he owned the sky.
But the illusion did not last.
The higher he climbed, the harder each breath became. Barely ten minutes had passed, and at the pace he was flying, there was no reason for him to be exhausted already. Yet air no longer seemed to fill his lungs. He inhaled again, deeper this time, but the suffocating tightness in his chest only worsened.
His breathing became ragged. His heart pounded violently against his ribs. Every desperate breath burned. His lungs screamed for air that somehow wasn't enough. His wingbeats, once smooth and effortless, grew uneven and heavy; every stroke demanded more strength than the last. Above him, the other drakones continued climbing, growing smaller as they disappeared into the endless blue.
Teklómenes forced himself higher. His vision wavered.
What's happening to me?
His chest burned as though it was being crushed from the inside. His fingers tingled. His thoughts became strangely slow, slipping away from him.
Why can't I breathe?
He beat his wings again. Nothing.
Without warning, his body simply stopped responding.
His wings fell limp as darkness flooded the edges of his vision.
And the avian plummeted into the void.
~🪶🔥~
Freyra knew something was wrong the instant she noticed Teté struggling to keep his wings moving.
Ever since takeoff, she had been tracking him through a pair of enchanted spyglasses. It didn't take long to realize that the higher the avian boy climbed, the more something seemed to be going terribly wrong. His wingbeats lost their rhythm, his speed faltered, his posture sagged. Even from that impossible distance, she could tell his body was fighting against something.
Had he exhausted himself already? she wondered.
And then she saw his wings stop.
For a single heartbeat, he simply hung there, suspended against the infinite sky.
Then he fell.
And it felt as though Freyra's own heart had fallen with him.
~🪶🔥 ~
Falling.
When Teklómenes regained consciousness, he realized he was falling.
The wind roared in his ears. Through half-lidded eyes, all he could see was the endless ashen-blue sky stretching above him. His chest felt crushed beneath an invisible weight, and a relentless pounding behind his eyes made his stomach churn.
What... what happened?
Had something struck him? His thoughts drifted sluggishly, refusing to come together. He remembered flying upward. He remembered struggling to breathe. Then... Nothing. His wings refused to obey.
And now he was plummeting through empty air.
The other drakones were nowhere to be seen, already swallowed by the clouds far above. He didn't need to look down to know what awaited him. The ground was racing closer with every passing second, ready to break every bone in his body and stain the sand with his blood.
Am I going to die?
He never had the chance to dwell on the thought before something caught him. His body jolted violently before settling into the firm embrace of two powerful arms, one supporting his back, the other beneath his legs. Warmth surrounded him. The touch awakened a familiar memory, an unmistakable feeling of safety.
He blinked several times, struggling to focus, until Freyra's terrified face slowly emerged from the blur.
“Teté! Can you hear me?! Are you hurt?!”
It took every ounce of strength he had left to answer.
“What... happened?” he whispered. Even those two words left him gasping for breath.
Freyra didn't answer. Teklómenes couldn't see himself, so he had no idea why the drakona was staring at him with such fear. He couldn't see how deathly pale his face had become, nor how his breathing still came in shallow, uneven breaths.
They continued descending until, moments later, Freyra landed on the black sand.
“We're leaving,” she ordered, motioning for her royal escort to follow them back to the palace.
Leaving? The word echoed dully through Teklómenes's mind. But... the trial...
If he left now, he would be disqualified.
A cold knot of dread tightened in his chest. His head still spun. His vision blurred whenever he tried to lift it. Every breath remained strangely difficult.
No... I can't leave. I have to fly again, I have to reach the finish line...
Without giving him the chance to protest, Freyra pulled him tightly against her chest and carried him away from the beach.
Away from the competition.
Away from the examination.
Away from his chance to become a drakonic warrior.
Teklómenes buried his face against her shoulder before anyone could see the tears spilling silently down his cheeks.
~🪶🔥 ~
As soon as they returned to the palace, Freyra brought Teklómenes straight to the royal healer for an examination.
“It appears to be a case of hypoxia. His body wasn't receiving enough oxygen,” explained Eyra, the elderly drakona healer.
She unrolled several scrolls and laid them across the table. One showed the anatomical diagram of a male drakón, and beside it—brought from a distant kingdom precisely for cases like this—was that of a male avian. Her finger traced several structures within the chest.
“An avian’s lungs are smaller than a drakón’s,” she said. “And because drakones produce fire, they absorb oxygen from the air far more efficiently in order to generate the spark.” She adjusted her spectacles, folding her arms. “The higher the altitude, the thinner the air becomes. In simple terms, once the boy reached that height, his body could no longer take in enough oxygen and he lost consciousness.”
For a moment, Freyra exhaled in relief. It wasn’t something worse, not a wound nor a curse. But then she turned toward Teklómenes and her relief collapsed the instant she saw him.
His face was drained of color. His eyes were wide and unblinking, fixed somewhere far beyond the room. The anguish there was so complete it made her chest tighten painfully.
“B-but… will I be able to fly again?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“You will,” Eyra replied. “But I recommend waiting at least twenty-four hours before attempting any flight again. You need to recover fully.”
Teklómenes let out a slow breath, as if trying to steady himself.
“Alright… the militia admission exams are held every six months. I can always try again later…”
“Don't even think about it,” the healer cut in sharply. Her expression held no anger, only unwavering resolve. It was the kind of certainty that did not allow argument. “Don't you understand? Your lungs were never meant to function at those altitudes. Today you were fortunate Her Majesty reached you in time. Under any other circumstances, you would have died up there.”
“But then…” Teklómenes whispered, barely audible, “how am I supposed to become a drakonic warrior?”
And then came the answer he had feared most.
“You won't,” Eyra said. “You can't.”
That was the final blow.
The realization hit Teklómenes like something breaking inside him. He would never become a draconic warrior—not because of failure or lack of effort, but because of who he was, what he was. Tears spilled before he even registered them as he suddenly turned and ran out of the infirmary.
“Teté!” Freyra called after him, but he was already gone.
“Let him go,” Eyra said quietly, stopping her. “He has to understand. No matter how many times he's told, until he accepts it, he will only keep hurting himself.”
Though her stern expression remained, her violet eyes now looked weary. Decades of experience, years spent witnessing countless stories, patients, and tragedies, were written plainly within them.
“It isn’t his fault,” she added. “The world simply works that way.”
~🪶🔥~
Teklómenes did not make it far before his legs finally gave out. He sank into a corner of the palace, curling in on himself as sobs tore through his chest. No matter how desperately he tried, he couldn't stop crying. Every ragged breath only made it harder to breathe. His head still throbbed, dizziness still lingered, and his body ached from the ordeal, but none of it compared to the pain hollowing him out from within.
He felt like a complete failure. Not simply because failing the third trial meant failing the drakonic militia's admission examination, but because of the cruel truth it had forced him to face: an avian's body simply wasn't made to fly where drakones could.
He could never equal a drakón.
He could never become one of them.
No matter how relentlessly he trained, how fiercely he fought, how badly he wanted it. His body would never become something it was not.
That truth destroyed him. Once again, Teklómenes felt himself falling—not through the sky this time, but from the impossible height of his own hopes and dreams. He was plunging toward a reality too cruel to escape, certain to break him the moment he hit it.
He was falling.
And this time there would be no one to catch him.
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