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Gwyndor never felt like a proper mate.
In the deepest reaches of Tyto, the forest of his hatching, he met her.
They were a pair destined by Glaux, other owls said. Renowned for her beauty, and her standards—Gwynneth had disregarded countless masked owls to look his way, and he had won her attention without even trying.
Here was the perfect mate, right at his talons.
It never seemed like he had any other choice.
They settled down together, eventually leaving Tyto for Ambala. Gwynneth thought it a beautiful place to grow. She wanted a family.
He had doubts.
Peace began to wear thin. The flame flickered and burned low. She sought kindling, but she found none.
And yet, the last cinders ignited the blaze once more. Gwynneth was with egg.
Gwyndor was to hunt for her. It was the responsibility of a proper mate.
He found himself venturing further and further. The Barrens. Silverveil. The solitude was welcoming. He hadn’t felt like himself in a long time.
Deep within Silverveil, he caught sight of a peculiar glow. The sound of a hammer, and an owl humming to herself, carried across the still night.
Thora was her name, as he much later learned. Snowy owl, though with the state of her feathers she said she could be considered sooty. She was a rogue smith. A loner, an owl dedicated to none but the forge.
Gwyndor felt something stir within himself as he observed her craft. Thora recognized the spark in his eyes. She agreed to teach him. It was what he needed.
The egg never hatched. Gwynneth was torn apart. We’ll try again, said Gwyndor, and the unusual passion in his voice eased her pain.
She sat a second egg. Things were looking up.
Gwyndor would disappear for longer and longer stretches of time. He never told her where he hunted. The smell of smoke that lingered on his feathers worried her.
And yet he always returned with more than enough food. She could not complain. If she let herself be upset, she feared it would harm the chick. She would not lose this egg too.
But when she looked towards the future, she felt only dread.
And it threatened to devour her whole.
Gwyndor had been gone for quite a while, again. Storm clouds were rolling in. Lightning split the night sky, and the tree where Gwynneth nested groaned in the howling winds.
He finally appeared at the entrance to the hollow.
You’re late, she said.
Gwyndor was silent.
Her rage boiled over.
Where have you been?
Are you going to keep doing this?
Our chick is close to hatching, you know.
But you wouldn’t know, would you?
Do you even care?
He looked away.
In that moment, Gwynneth wanted to be anywhere but their hollow.
She rose into the night, her wings cutting through sheets of pouring rain.
Gwyndor let her go. He waited. Minutes turned into hours. Hours turned into days.
She never returned.
The storm had taken her.
Gwyndor would never forget that night. The dark clouds fell from the sky, turned to smoke, choked his lungs. His gizzard became a tempest. He gasped for air.
He had learned the art of fire. He built a forge. The warmth of the flames gave the egg life, and its shell cracked in tune with the strike of the hammer.
When his daughter emerged, he stared down at her with lifeless eyes.
He carefully wrapped the hatchling in a bundle of moss, scooped her into his talons, and lifted off towards Silverveil. Little Gwynneth would be happy there. It was for her own good.
Gwyndor knew he would never be a proper father.
He was better off with none but the forge.