Chapter Text
Shouta follows behind him, swooping down behind a boulder, while Hizashi creeps toward the edge, steps silent in the night. The cliff—it could barely be called one, he thinks unkindly, undefendable and with too many handholds—faces the northern wind, carrying their smell away from the nest. There’s no trace of the adults, no sound other than the singing locusts.
They didn’t expect there to be. One of the adult had the habit of going away for several moon phases without checking back, and Shouta had followed them two sunsets ago, until they had crossed the Bucking Horse Mountain and disappeared in the horizon. The other, their mate, was down eating fermented fruit like they do every night.
That left the juvenile unsupervised.
At first, he wanted to help the travelling parent hunt in exchange for some time spent with the youngling. He and Shouta had followed them, ready to bring some big game as a sign of good faith, but they hadn’t been out for food; instead, their time was spent galavanting around with others, gossiping and preening each other while their young was left all alone. They only brought back an old chewy lizard- a lizard!- to feed them, when he’d seen them feast on larger, more succulent wildlife.
(The whole trip back home was filled with Hizashi’s furious chattering and Shouta’s silent seething.
They broke off, his mate flying out to calm down while he hunted for a meal. He had caught Shouta’s favorite, a gazelle, to improve his mood. He was more partial to fish himself, but he knew the situation was hitting Shouta more personally, bad memories dredged up from a murky childhood.
His meal prep is interrupted by his mate's distraught screams bouncing in the den, ear piercingly high pitched. Dread almost makes him regurgitate the trout he had snacked on earlier while he waits for Shouta to land, eyes already roaming his body in search of an injury, of the tell tale glistening of blood so difficult to find in the ebony coat.
He finds no wound or limb bent out of shape, but it doesn’t stop him from parting the black fur and feathers, prodding at skin and bone.
Shouta lets out another scream, and this time, Hizashi catches the grief interlaced in his voice, the only thing warning him before Shouta lets himself fall. He quickly catches him with his side, propping him up against the wall, mind racing. Who died?
He grooms his mate, to both calm him and himself down, trying to catch a hint of where he had flown to, in vain. The weight slips, and he has to contort his body to get him on his back, his breaths coming in faster. His wings press painfully in between their bodies, but he grits through it. Their eyrie is right there anyways.
He plops Shouta in the nest, who immediately curls up around himself, but he can’t do that, Hizashi has to know, has to prepare himself, who won’t he be hunting and playing and flying with anymore? Nudging doesn’t bring Shouta out of his sorrow, nor does nipping. He almost doesn’t want to whistle-call, because if Shouta doesn’t respond to that, what is he to do?
The decision is taken out of his hands when Shouta lets out a desperate coo, calling for a juvenile they both longed for, all choked up, and oh, he feels himself collapse like a pile of dry timber, barely notices the border of their eyrie giving away under him, because what did it matter, the baby was—they were—
A wail tears itself from his throat, he can’t, their death stomps on his chest like a thousand elephants. How could this have happened?
He should have listened to his instincts and taken them away as soon as he heard of them, should have acted sooner before it was too late.
A warbly squawk gets his attention. Shouta’s deep eyes pierce through him, and he can’t help the whine deep in his chest. His mate pushes him insistently, trying to get him off the edge of their eyrie, worry exuding in waves. He lets Shouta shift him, but doesn’t try to help, body limp like wet fur. Hizashi had been the one most excited about their nest, lining it with moss he found in far away lands, practicing his building skills in random trees to experiment and find out how to maximize its comfort. He can’t bring himself to care that he just destroyed two heavy rain falls of work. What was the point when the young was gone.
Shouta jolts in surprise, wings spasming like he hadn’t been completely able to control the instinct to flare them. His tongue is raspy, brushing his fur in apology. He’s quick to tell him that nothing happened to the juvenile, he’s sorry for the misunderstanding, and Hizashi doesn’t understand, if the youngling was fine, why was Shouta—?
His mate had flown into the others’ territory, to check on them, to guarantee that nothing tried climbing the cliff for an easy meal. He hadn’t come close to them, but he saw them from afar, Shouta quickly reassures him. He had mainly patrolled the bottom of the cliff where the other griffins seldom explored.
Shouta pauses, trying to gather his thoughts.
The juvenile wasn’t their first.
Horror dawns on him, but Shouta doesn’t let him recover from the whiplash of grief-relief-horror, air rushing out from his mate as if he couldn’t hold onto what he had seen anymore.
Piles of broken shells and bones, littering the floor, exposed to bad weather and wildlife as if they were nothing more than trash. At least five.
All dead.)
The memory stings, bringing the swirl of sorrow-anger-frustration plaguing him since that day. He keeps his wings from moving, but can’t quite control his feathers as they puff up, sending a cloud of dark dried mud in his mate’s face. Shouta nips him in reproach, asking him to concentrate on the task at hand. He tries to settle his plumage, huffing in annoyance at the itchy dust; he can’t even complain with Shouta, his mate’s dark coat lending itself well to moonless skies, unlike his own.
With a last shared look, they launch themselves from their perch, toward the brittle nest built in a shallow nook, badly hidden from outsiders. If it rained, the sloped ceiling wouldn’t even cover the whole thing.
They hover over it, gliding in tight circles. They’re careful not to beat their wings, to not disturb anything around them with a rush of wind. Shouta is better at this than he is, at being silent and invisible, maintaining the same height while he clumsily tries to catch drafts, having to descend to gain momentum before shooting up again.
The young is asleep, a heap of feathers tightly curled in a corner. They’re cold, a noticeable trembling making the fluffed up bundle shiver against each freezing gust.
He wants to grab them now, impatience almost making him fall from the draft he’s riding. Their home is further south, with plenty of sunning rocks to warm them up.
A nod from Shouta and he’s shooting for the ledge. The landing is easy even with the short rocks jutting out, his paws softening the sound of crunchy gravel. He can’t rush this.
He approaches the nest, idly taking note of the dead branches unstriped from their rough bark, bowl lined only with unsanitary pellets that tumbled from their stack in the corner. They’re younger than he thought they would be, not even of fledging age. Their first molt hasn’t run its whole course yet, patches of white downy feathers stubbornly clinging to their body where the fuzz hadn’t relinquished their hold. He allows himself some time to admire them, to calm his racing heart. Shouta will warn him if someone comes back.
This was the hard part, the most unpredictable step of their plan.
He breathes soft air to ruffle the young’s feathers, making sure to stand back so he’s not looming over them. When they don’t stir, he croons, low and safe, nudging them with a paw. That does it, the young tenses, unfurling their wings blearily, and oh, they’re so small, soft duvet standing straight up on their head, fuzzy from sleep. Their eyes pass over him at first, night vision not quite developed, but they widen in shock when they finally spot him, puffing out even more in fright. They back away from him, tail whipping in warning, back arched as they stand on their toes. Their wings, tiny ungroomed things, flare open to make themselves appear bigger. The pitiful squawk almost makes him laugh; he’s not worried, they’re not loud enough for their ‘parents’ to hear.
Hizashi drops the meerkat he was holding, slashing its throat. Deep rich iron permeates the air between them, interrupting the young from calling for their parents a second time. He wanted to bring something bigger, tastier, to prove his and Shouta’s skills, but they can’t linger too much; their smell could settle, making it easier to track them back to their home. He nudges the prey away from him, trying to entice them to take a step closer. They hesitate, pawing at the ground anxiously, sending him suspicious looks. He chirps in encouragement, and brings his wings closer to his body to make himself less threatening.
Their dilemma is amusing to witness, torn between eating or fleeing. When they take too long to choose, their body lets its opinion known, a loud growl emitting from their stomach. The betrayed look they sport makes him snort, snapping them out of their staring contest with their belly.
The hunger wins over the innate alarms blaring at a predator in their territory. It’s alright, their unguarded nature serves Hizashi well, but Shouta and he will have to teach them better. Not every griffin offering food has good intentions.
They inch closer, and when Hizashi doesn’t react, they start digging in the meal, only sending him one last appraising glance. He reproaches himself for not tearing the meerkat in advance as their uncoordinated movements ineffectively cut the meat in smaller pieces, but he doesn’t move to help them, in case it shatters the thin trust between them. An unchewed strip makes them choke, coughing it back up on the floor. Hizashi winces when they eat the wet piece, but he doesn’t try to stop them.
Clicking his tongue to get their attention, the young gives up their unsuccessful attempt at cleaning themselves, blood clinging to the edges of their beak. He chuffs at them to approach and they do with barely no hesitation, coming to the edge of the eyrie.
He moves slowly, bringing his front limbs close. The young only stares at them curiously now, and he’s struck by how unwary they are of the dangers an unknown griffin poses. It’s only when he brings his talons under them, suddenly conscious of their sharpness, that they start trying to back away, alarmed squawks and jaw clattering to warn him off. It’s easy to ignore their death grip on his wrists, their talons blunt from youth, while he brings them close to his chest, right under his brood patch to keep them warm. One last check to make sure their wings are tucked on their sides as he leans against the cliff side, before he pushes himself off. His heart lifts in the pleasant rush of gravity, before settling when his powerful wings stop their descent.
(An invisible weight aches for the young’s siblings left behind.)
The baby has stopped squirming, deadly still in his grip. He rumbles to reassure them, but their only answer is the pinpricks digging into his flesh. They’re lighter than they should be, he can feel their ribs under the stretched thin skin.
Shouta joins him, rolling and twirling in victory. Most wouldn’t notice, but Hizashi can tell he’s antsy, trying to get a glimpse of their young tucked in Hizashi’s fur and feathers. He'll only get to see and interact with them once they’re back home, both having agreed that pausing in the middle of the trip was dangerous, would risk leaving a trail. And while he’s certain Shouta and he could easily take the two griffins, they want to avoid conflict as much as they can. Killing the juvenile’s hatchers would make any possible relationship with their new acquisition more difficult than it could be.
Hizashi keeps up the rumbling, unsure on how to calm them while soaring so high up. He’ll just have to go as fast as he can without jostling them too much.
It’s a long trip, longer with the young in tow and without Shouta’s company. His mate is lingering back, flying a perimeter around him and his vulnerable cargo, in the event the other griffins notice the disappearance of their young too early. They were bound by their honour and instincts to go after their progeniture, even if they obviously didn’t want the baby.
Finally, they cross the Pebble River—his mate was thankfully not part of the naming process for their baby—marking the edges of his territory. Tension he hadn’t known he was holding releases their hold on his frame, the familiar sights and smells loosening his muscles. He goes straight toward their eyrie; it was better than the pile of twigs the young had been sleeping in in every way.
When he releases them, they stumble away in an unsteady tangle of limbs. Their panic is evident, head twisting around to inspect the unfamiliar place. He coos, but they twist away to avoid his touch when he tries to clean the dried flakes of mud that rubbed off on them, swiping their paws to keep him at a distance. He hadn’t thought it would be easy, but the lowered expectations don’t prevent the stab of hurt when they start calling out for their hatchers, desperate cries of help-allalone-lost-whereareyou ringing in the den. The way they’re hollow, like they already know the other griffins were not going to come for them, makes him want to bundle them in his molted feathers.
He tries to convince them he isn’t going to hurt them, they don't have to be scared, but they try to run past him, gunning for the exit. He tenses, prepared to grab them before they fall off into the ravine.
It’s unnecessary. They stop in their tracks when the low light coming from the entrance disappears, suddenly falling quiet as they stare at the large silhouette of his mate.
Shouta enters in faux-casual, carrying the meat to their eating corner. Even when he gives the youngling a wide berth, they still cower, eyes flicking between him and Hizashi, as if just now noticing how outmatched they were.
The ox drops with a thump. It invigorates them, their calls starting back up, sharp and distressed where-are-you’s repeated over and over.
Hizashi paces, his young’s distress starting to get to him. He chuffs at them, tries to convince them they’re okay, they’re safe now.
The soft rumbled I-am-here shocks them both into silence. The baby stares at Shouta with wide eyes, their thrashing tail still.
After long seconds where the tension grows so thick Hizashi could bite into it, they let out another whistle, unsure and quivering. This time, it’s Hizashi’s turn to respond, soft and comforting.
It stumps them, he can tell, the cogs turning in their head. They cry out again, inquisitively, staring at the older griffins as if they were a puzzle. When Hizashi and Shouta both respond, without a pause to overthink what they’re doing, it bolsters the juvenile, their next call louder, tinges of youthful excitement colouring their voice.
They seem to come to a conclusion, steeling themselves as they approach Shouta and him, false confidence only betrayed by their folded wings quivering in apprehension. It falls away when Shouta unceremoniously nudges them toward the meal.
Hizashi wants to join them, smother them under his wings, and burrow in their eyrie. He wants many things, but he has to clean up, the dried flecks of dirt adorning their otherwise clean home ruffling his feathers.
He settles with intertwining his neck with Shouta’s, re-interlocking some of his barbules. His mate absentmindedly returns the favor, but Hizashi interrupts them with an amused huff, butting their foreheads together teasingly. Shouta eyes are fixed on their young.
He lets out a parting chuff, a promise to come back as fast as he can. One last glance, and he flies off toward the Pebble River.
When he comes back, droplets are still clinging to his fur. He was hasty in drying himself, doing the bare minimum of shaking off the majority of the water before heading back home.
Despite the water and wind snatching the heat from his body, soft warmth spreads in his chest when he notices his mate’s own portion laying untouched in front of him. Shouta waited for him to come back.
He whistle-calls for his mate and for his youngling, pleased when both respond. Even if the juvenile chirped in surprise, like they weren’t expecting him to come back so soon. Or at all.
They’re laying near the ox, wings fluttering contentedly. There’s still a wingspan separating Shouta and them, but he realizes it’s more for show than real worry; they don’t flinch when his mate tears rib meat and feeds it to them. They even lean into Shouta when he caresses their face.
Shouta grumbles when he teases him about spoiling the new addition to the family when he finds the fatty part of the ox’s cheeks already eaten, his head lowering in embarrassment into his ruffled feathers. He tugs on their intertwined tails in an attempt to stop Hizashi from picking on him. It’s only the call for food that diverts his attention from his mate.
Their shared meal is interrupted by their eager attempts to feed the young, and Shouta’s and his answer-calls when they cry for them. The calling tests frequency slows down when they finish eating and the adults’ attention is solely on them.
They stay obediently limp, if a bit stiff as if unused to being carried, when Hizashi picks them up, taking them to their eyrie. They examine their new surroundings, sniffing and batting at the downy black and sandy feathers lining the bowl as if they were going to bite them. Irrational worry crawls up his throat. He hopes they like it, the physical representation of the bonded pair’s love for them and desire to take care of a young. Rejection at this stage would sting bitterly when they got so far.
His worry is for nothing, dashed away when they flop down and rub their face in the soft lining, a tiny unpracticed purr rising from their chest. He wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t so close. It’s one of the best sounds he has ever heard, wrapping around his heart and squeezing until Hizashi feels like he's going to melt.
Shouta interrupts his reverie, climbing into the nest without preamble. He hid it well, but exhaustion makes him less aware of himself, his sluggish wings trail a bit on the floor. He’ll be keeping first guard in the comfort of the eyrie, a dangerous thing, but Hizashi trusts his mate. There’s no one as dedicated as him.
Now that the day—or rather night—is coming close to an end, fatigue hits him all at once. He can’t help the happy crow at having acquired a juvenile. Not only did their plan go off without a hitch, they successfully bonded with the baby.
The hatchling flares at him in affront when he pushes them away from the soft walls, but they’re easily mollified when they realize he’s placing them in the middle, sandwiched between him and Shouta, wiggling a bit to get more comfortable. One last test-call, muffled where they buried their face in feathers and fur, and they’re fast asleep.
Tomorrow, they’ll have to untangle their fur and preen them, the dirty bent feathers poking his sides, making him jittery. He arranges the most glaringly obvious ones so Shouta and he can rest without being too itchy, reveling in the young’s softness despite how unkempt they are. Their fuzz tickles his cheeks, but when he inhales, he has to stamp down the rising anger, that the other flock’s scent is old and unmaintained. That’ll just make getting rid of it and replacing it with his own easier, he tells himself. They’ll smell right, like home and Shouta and himself, deterring others from stealing them.
Fatigue pulls at his eyelids. There’s still the Naming Ceremony, and Hizashi thinks that he can allow them to keep their previous name if they’re attached to it. His last thoughts before he falls into the cozy darkness is that he still hopes they’ll accept the one he chose.
Hitoshi has a rather nice ring to it.