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Phil originally thought that the cries were from a little wounded animal.
Looking around, he frowned slightly. If there was an injured baby animal, there might be an angry parent animal somewhere. That, or there were hunters. Traps. Grabbing his sword and drawing it, Phil glanced around. Tramped through the snow and looked around.
Above his head, there were cracked branches. Looking up, he studied them for a moment. Swallowed. Whatever had broken the branches and crashed into those trees, they had to be large. There were hybrid hunters in the area. Phil walked through the trees. Glanced around.
Blood spattered the snow.
Freezing, Phil glanced around. Frowned. There was more blood scattered across the snow. Dripping down some of the branches. In the middle of the clearing, snow and ice had been thrown to the side in massive lumps. Swallowing, he walked to the middle of the snow crater. There was someone there. Lying in the snow, unmoving. Swallowing, Phil moved closer.
There were arrows sticking out of the person’s back. Two wings stretched to the side. Owl-type wings. Oh, no. Phil thought. The wings were beautifully colored, patterned with light browns and dark gingers and ruddy tones. Red streaked the white undersides of the feathers. Phil sheathed his sword. Crouched by the downed avian’s neck. Blond curls fell around her shoulders. She was wearing a dark brown jacket but pyjama bottoms. This was sudden. She was running. Feeling for a pulse, Phil waited for a couple moments. Nothing.
Sighing, he brushed the woman’s hair away from her face, set a hand on her shoulder and closed his eyes for a moment. There was no sound. Just them and the quiet winter shielding the landscape.
Then, a sharp wail pierced the air.
Opening his eyes, Phil looked down. The woman’s eyes were half-open and glazed over, bluish-gray in color. Gently, he moved her to the side. The wailing was coming from below her.
There, in her arms, was a tiny little baby. Blond curls, screwed up red face, and blurry blue eyes. Sniffing, the kid looked up at Phil. Started wailing even louder. Their mother’s arms were wrapped around them protectively. Quickly, Phil scooped the kid and bounced them, cooed softly. “Ssh, ssh.” Looking at the dead mother, Phil pulled away and cradled the baby closer.
“This way!” An unfamiliar voice yelled. Glancing over, Phil froze. Thought for a second. Then, he glanced between where the hunters—they were hunters, he could hear the traps clinking together—were coming from, and then the mother.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered. Then, opening his wings, he shot off into the sky. Pushed his wings harder. He wouldn’t be able to bury the woman. But he could keep her baby safe. Cradling the baby closer, he kept flying. Turned towards where his home was. It was a long flight there.
Holding the baby closer, Phil decided that it was worth whatever sore muscles he’d end up with.
+++
The baby—a boy—was very, very sickly.
Holding the baby in the crook of his arm, sitting on a rocking chair, Phil tried to get some more water into him. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace. Blankets wrapped around the kid. Sniffing, the baby reached up, tiny little fingers finding Phil’s wrist. “Hey, hey, ssh, ssh. I know, I know.” Phil kept rocking them both, one foot on the floor. There was another sniff. There was a flutter of feathers, and he glanced over to see a crow hopping out of the fireplace. Shaking off soot, it hopped over to Phil. Jumping onto the side of the rocking chair, it poked Phil with its beak. Unfolded a wing. Then, it produced a tiny little leather pouch.
Smiling softly, Phil tipped his head to the side. “What is this, mate?” He took it with one hand, setting the baby bottle to the side. Then, he shifted the baby. Pulled out a little scrap of paper from the satchel, as well as some baby medication and some money. Blinking, Phil glanced over. “What?” He quietly pulled out the money. The bird bobbed up and down, nodding. He read over the scrap of paper.
Four months pog name the gremlin Tommy OURNA OURNA OURNA OURNA
He stopped reading after the fifth “ourna”.
+++
Tommy was crying, which was both infuriating and relieving.
Babies cried. It was a fact of life. It was something that they should be doing. For Tommy, except for that first time, Phil had never heard him cry. Not once. So, hearing Tommy cry, as infuriating as it was, meant that he was actually healthy enough to do so. Thus, the relief.
And then, of course, there was the stress of figuring out what Tommy wanted.
He’d already been changed. Phil had been holding him for hours. “Colic?” He asked, turning to look at the crows. Immediately, he put the hand that wasn’t currently cradling Tommy on his hip. “Sunny, Beans, quit trying to steal cookies. It won’t work. Wolfy, Ian, you said you would be controlling them.” Outside, he heard more squawking. “And someone control the plebs!” There was some chirping from a crow he’d named Sarah (because of the princess tiara-looking mark on her chest). Then, she fluttered off to control the plebs with her motherly grace.
Bringing Tommy to where he had placed the baby formula to cool off, Phil checked it against his wrist. It was cool enough, but just to check he quickly squirted some into his mouth. Good enough. Gently, he held the bottle to Tommy’s mouth. Wrinkly, pudgy, four-month-old baby arms found the bottle and then Phil went to sit back in the rocking chair. Kissed Tommy’s forehead. Sarah returned, the plebs settling on the carpet and anywhere else they could. The mods and some of the more “higher-ranking” crows (he swore the one he called Ian called them “subs”) had found their places across the furniture and in more comfortable areas. A couple plebs attempted to take spots. The mods chased them off, bobbing and wings flapping.
Sarah hopped over to Tommy. Leaning down, she combed through his curls with her beak. There was a humanlike intelligence to her eyes, something beyond the rest of the crows. Less of the lovely craziness Phil enjoyed with the others, something more tame. Motherly. She really was such a mother, particularly towards Tommy.
Some avians had a belief that they would return as birds after death. Phil had never had the chance to ask Kristin. Besides, he had never died. Possibly never would, thanks to Kristin herself and his role with her.
Tommy finally finished off the bottle, sneezed. Sarah preened his curls a little more, chirped lovingly. Tommy chirped back.
Smiling, Phil held the baby closer.