Chapter Text
“Goodbye, Grank!” My farewell was cheerfully annoyed as I brushed aside the curtain of vines and exited his hollow into the stale night.
“Just think about it, will you?” Grank called after me with a churr. The old owl knew he was getting on my nerves with his endless minor pesterings. A good while ago, he had finished an autobiographical tome detailing his life and hardships. Where he had come from. He spoke of his dear old friend and queen, Siv, and how she had entrusted him with her egg. He spoke of her story, and her mate’s tragic death. The Great Ga’Hoole Tree buzzed for ages about the book, poor Grank seemed to almost regret releasing his story. “Next time I'll release my life story when I'm on my death bed.” He had joked.
But now the owl was trying to convince me to write the next part! A slightly yoicks notion in my opinion, I know not why he didn't ask Hoole, it seemed more his story than mine. Besides, I feared that there would be major gaps in the story that, if I were to be the author, I wouldn't be comfortable leaving unfilled. Grank told me that he would help me with the parts about Siv, but I'm still unsure why, if not Hoole, he didn't write this tale himself. Though I suppose at that point he'd make something of a fool of himself if he wrote the next part, after leaving his note at the end of his book that it should be someone else's turn to tell the story. Oh Grank.
I wish I could say I considered his ask of me as I descended down the side of the Great Tree towards the roots, but that whole repeated conversation often left my mind halfway down. There were more troubling matters afoot, things that haunted me which I struggled to find any reasonable outlet for. When I was not actively in conversation with another owl, it's highly likely that I had one thing on my mind: battle claws. Oh, the terrors I've wrought upon this world at the creation of that weapon most evil! The Owl Kingdoms have a plague among them, a plague of metal and violence. And as much as any owl tries to console me, or Glaux forbid try to convince me that it's a good thing, I know in my gizzard that all of this is my fault. There are many reports of owls across the lands learning the art of colliering and blacksmithing, all so that they can create battle claws of their own. Most are crude, but regardless of if they're skilled craftsowls or not, a battle claw is a battle claw. Another dead owl is another dead owl.
The whole reason I had gone to see Grank in the first place was, admittedly, for another futile attempt to explain myself to him. You see, I had tried often to tell him of my plight, even all the way back then when I had first crafted those damned things. The old owl could never understand. Not truly. We were both born into that violent world, as all owls were at the time, but the path he flew was so opposite of mine, I find it to be some manner of miracle that we get along so well despite our enormous differences. All this is not to say he's never tried to understand me. He obviously has a basic grasp of my morals as a gizzard resister, but time and time again he always returns to all his same lines of “comfort.” He'll tell me that the claws have saved countless lives, that they were a necessary creation to defeat a great evil and save owlkind. But to that I say those claws were just an accessory to the war, does Grank truly believe that without battle claws, Hoole would not have been able to retrieve the Ember? Assembled the Guardians and led them to the Great Tree? I think that's a very misplaced credit to give it all to the battle claws. I think the kingdoms could do just fine without these deadly instruments. It'd all be better off that way.
And just as it had been time and time before, that very same night I was proven horribly right once again. I had hardly made it back to my earthen hollow when the gong sounded, marking the return of some of our guardians. But very quickly, it was clear something was wrong. Cries rang out, and in my worry I rushed out of the hollow and lifted back to the sky, a favorable gust of wind suddenly whisking me there as if Glaux itself wanted me to see this scene unfold.
A Spotted Owl was exhaustedly speeding towards one of the usual landing areas for our scouts, panic stricken across his face. The anticipation was tremendous, and upon his quick descent I spotted the stream of blood trickling from his starboard talon.
“Move out of the way! I don't think I can-” but before he could finish his exclamation, he barreled into several owls’ futile attempts to help catch him. Smacked into the trunk, the owl sat dazed for a few moments, and everyone, including myself, gathered around.
His talon was mangled beyond recognition, and there was a distinct lack of battle claws. An ill feeling began to wash over me. I did not seem to be alone in ill feelings however, as the surrounding owls wilfed at the sight, some averting their gaze. When a Screech owl landed on the scene, several of the owls seemed to wilf all the more.
“Boy, my poor sweet boy.” The small owl, whom I immediately recognized to be Lord Rathnik, spoke as he rushed closer to the much larger Spotted. It was now that I finally remembered how Rathnik had adopted several owls who had lost their families to the war. Of the ten or so adoptees, several were grown owls that he had a sort of mentor relationship with, much like Grank and I. This Spotted seemed to be one of those older owls that he considered a nephew, for he didn't seem much younger than I.
“Someone go get the medics, tell them to bring a stretcher for a Spotted.” Rathnik turned back to the owl now. “Dear Ivar, how could this have happened to you?” The panic in his voice worsened my sickness by the minute, and all I could do to keep myself from yarping was to stay completely still and observe the scene.
“The mission was going well,” For a brief moment, Ivar peered at his nearly severed talon, and it looked as if the poor owl was about to pass out. “Calming the uprising of kraals in the Bay of Fangs was easy enough. You know, some of those owls were quite nice, one of them even served us tea. We had the beginnings of an arrangement settled, they were going to move further north, away from the civilian hollows.” Ivar paused to catch his breath, he seemed to be pushing through the pain to get his story out quickly, as if he was afraid he might lose consciousness if he slowed.
He then continued, “It was their provisional leader that started the problems, but I'm honestly unsure if we had actually been duped. Perhaps the niceties were for show, a little bit of messing with us before showing their true intentions.
“That leader, Sitka, she would not keep her eyes off our battle claws. She kept prying about them. Complimenting them. Commenting on how intricately made they are, how she's never seen anything like them, how they must be the work of that famed Guardian blacksmith.” As he spoke, I could feel myself begin to tremble.
“She wanted them, but you owls didn't give them up, did you?” Lord Rathnik questioned with a knowing darkness in his voice.
Ivar could hardly hold back tears. “Johan and Lar are dead, sir. I barely made it out alive myself. They attacked later that day after our conversation with Sitka, and I only barely managed to make it out because I slept in a separate hollow from the two. The kraals pursued close, and managed to catch up to me. I was going to give it to them at that point, but they ripped the battle claws off my talons, and in the process, well… they were clearly eager to do it fast.”
Rathnik’s eyes wandered back down to the mangled foot, and he shuddered. Just as Ivar finished his story, several medic owls arrived, and before we all knew it, he was carted off. We were all left entirely stunned.
The first to leave was Lord Rathnik who, after recovering himself, flew off after his nephew. In my troubles, I remained near the landing for a long while, until not a soul was left but I. Among the many other thoughts far more dire that were plaguing me, I wondered how I could even manage to bring myself to take flight again. To return to my hollow, to make a cup of tea, to continue working in that damned forge. All while an owl, my victim, was suffering in this very tree. Another addition to the many wounded, and possibly killed, by my actions.
Eventually, I just slipped off the branch. I didn't even really think about it, and quite honestly if my wings hadn't caught me, I don't think I would have minded. But no, I hadn't gone yeep, and in a haze I soon ended up in my hollow. But the forge would go unattended for a while, that I was sure of. All I could manage to do was slip myself into a bed of moss and down, where I felt I could remain until hagsmire came to take me.
So how strange it was when, after an hour or two, I found myself resisting this urge to rot. It still eludes me where I pulled this strength from, though perhaps it was simply the will to face my judgement. The will to see what I had wrought. Soon after another hazy flight, I stood just outside the infirmary.
It was a small Scops owl who noticed me in the doorway, peeking through the mossy privacy veil. “Are you here for visit?”
I realized my throat had dried the moment I opened my mouth, a pathetic croak being the only sound that escaped at first. “Sorry, yes. Where's-”
But I needed not finish my sentence once my eyes scanned the room and landed on a heap of spotted feathers on a mossy bed. Leaning over it stood one of the tree's best healers, Vreta, a Snowy owl who had seen so much violence in her life that her once-white feathers were stained brown with old blood from the waist down. She had once mentioned to me that such a feature used to haunt her, all of that blood carried with her. Every kill she had ever made had become a part of her, and that terrified her. At some point she fell victim to a gruesome wing injury, and no owl expected her to live. Her medical attention was sparse, only giving her some bingle juice for the pain to ease her into her ascent to glaumora. But somehow she pulled through, and with that minimal medical attention her wing was left barely functional, only able to fly with the assistance of other owls.
Vreta became a healer after that, and she learned the craft fast. It was much more fulfilling for her to be saving others instead of killing, as the new blood on her talons was the blood of hope. Compassion. Life. Sure, the stains would forever be a reminder of her history, but with every life saved, she was brought closer to self acceptance over her past. It was something I could admire greatly in her.
It was easy to tell she had done all she could for now with Ivar. The only thing left was to wait and see how he would fair, but judging by the look on Vreta’s face, it didn't seem like there was much hope. Still, I mustered up the strength to approach. Ivar laid on the moss bed in a deep, but irritable sleep.
“Infection is already starting to take.” Vreta spoke loudly in her thick accent, a Krakish variant that could only place her as one who hails from the Shagdah Snurl. Any owl who grew up in those parts had a roughness to their voice that subtly changed the way they spoke, and such was very much the case with Vreta. “I am considering amputation, though he is very weak already. He may not survive such an ordeal. I am awaiting Lord Rathnik’s return with some more special herbs to help ease his pain before I make the final decision.”
Even if I could have brought words to my throat, what was there to even say? Nothing. This owl was to die, surely. He would be added to the long list of owls dealt a horrific death because of the claws. And how soon would the next death come? How many more could I withstand before I broke completely? Before I finally committed to plummeting myself into the roiling sea or catapulting myself into the earth?
Vreta seemed to have a good guess on what was going through my mind, for she quickly placed a wing around me in comfort.
Don't say it. Don't even dare to say it.
But of course, as always, those dreadful words were thrown at me once again. I could feel my ear slits trying to close as the words left her beak.
“This isn't your fault, Theo.”
×××
It was some manner of miracle that the Spotted owl survived the night. There was no hope for that foot, the flesh had already begun to fester on his panicked flight back to the Great Tree. The amputation was clean and careful, and though Vreta still doubted Ivar’s chances of survival, she did everything in her power to give him the best care. After all, she had pulled through from her own injuries, so she vowed to never let another owl go through the same thing she had.
I stayed by Ivar's side throughout the following day, and well into the night. After he had survived the procedure, something in my stress-addled gizzard figured that if I dared to leave the Infirmary, Ivar's condition would worsen, and he would pass away. So I stayed with him, comforting him whenever he stirred back into some manner of consciousness. Never did he seem truly aware of his surroundings though, not like he had when he first arrived. His body was desperately trying to recover, so for now, all he could manage was a mumble or a moan here and there.
Halfway through his second night back, when I had just managed to doze off for a few minutes, there was a rush of feathers past me. Three owls had come scrambling in with a stretcher, a thin trail of blood following.
“Theo, watch over Ivar. You can give him more of those numbing herbs if he needs them. I'm going to be a while!” Vreta quickly called to me, then disappeared behind another curtain after the wounded owl.
I didn't want to listen. Glaux knows I didn't want to listen, but of course my keen hearing betrayed me. “Deep lacerations in the breast stretching down the port side. Battle claw wounds.” Vreta's cold, professional tone vocalized to her assistants over the pained gasps of the injured. “Internal damage likely, bring my tools.”
My focus on the horrific scene near me was so intense, that I had not realized that Ivar had come to, and was staring directly at me. When my eyes finally drifted back to him, I jolted in shock.
“Where did Uncle Rathnik go? He was just here.” That was not exactly true, for Lord Rathnik had left from his last visit hours ago, but in Ivar's mind it was likely that the last thing he could recall was his recounting of his story to his uncle.
It took me a moment to respond as I tried to tear my mind away from the wounded owl. “He stepped out. He had a lesson to teach today for the H’rathian Chaw.” It surely eluded me how that Whiskered screech could simply go on with his life, teaching owls about ice weapons as if his very own nephew wasn't mortally wounded, but that seemed to be the way of violent owls. To those hardened warrior types, they figured it disrespectful to the injured to let the grief disrupt their way of life. It was considered more productive to carry on. I don't believe in such nonsense, I find my beliefs to be quite the opposite. I would want my loved ones to have time to process things, and I'd absolutely want them to be there if I were to pass. To think anything else is completely yoicks to me.
As I was lost in thought, I hadn't realized that Ivar had fallen back into sleep. I watched him for several nerve-wracking moments to make sure that he was still breathing, but everything seemed to be fine. His condition remained the same. My attention returned to the other owl, or rather the disturbing silence that had overcome the room.
After an uncomfortable stretch of time, Vreta emerged from the curtains, new blood spattering her snowy plumage.
“Thank you Theo. I think it would be best if you went and got yourself some rest. Ivar seems to be stable, but I'll be sure to send a messenger for you if anything about his condition changes.”
I couldn't argue with her. As badly as my paranoia was begging me to stay by Ivar's side, my dread about the other owl was pushing me towards the exit. And so I left.
×××
In the coming nights, I could feel the expectation of indifference weighing on me. I knew that my peers would all pray I'd quickly move along, nauseatingly reminding me time and time again to look at the bigger picture. To see the “greater good” of it all. So to avoid the same old conversations, all I could do was lock myself away in my forge. I would not take visitors, not even Hoole was permitted in, a wish which he respected.
Vreta was kind enough to send reports on Ivar's steady physical improvement, which helped my mood slightly, but there was never any mention on what had happened to that other owl with the lacerations. I was certain that she was simply trying to spare me of what I already knew. Another death to add to my tally.
In my time alone, I contemplated my life up until now. So much of it had been rife with violence despite my utter rejection of it. I thought back to those days when I was oh so young, merely a year out of hatching and dead set on becoming a Glauxian Brother. The home I had left behind was in a war of its own, my father trying to rule over us like a vicious tyrant. Pye never stood down, some of my earliest memories as a chick were of her screeching back at our father. Once, she had even raked at his belly with her talons, which got her a painful swat to the head. It was no wonder she left as soon as she had fledged.
I recall being certain that my father would kill my mother or brother some day. Shadyk was always so soft as a hatchling, and it was so often that I had to resort to an aggression of my own to protect him. Our only reprieve was when our Uncle Hallr visited, bringing his wisdom to my impressionable mind. Oh how wise I had found him, and still do to this day. His philosophy changed me on a fundamental level, I do not believe I'd be quite the same owl without his influence.
Hallr was a pure opposite to his brother. Where my father was led by a rage and sense of superiority over others, Hallr led himself with a sense of peace and order. Every animal had its natural place on this earth, and as long as we followed such natural ways, Glaux would bless us and accept us into its open wings. It was the defiance of this order that had spiralled our world into chaos. War could not be won through means of violence, only through the establishment of peace, lest the world descend into hagsmire. That was why the crowls were among us now, Hallr believed that they left the shadows when owls began to fight over one another for power. We foolishly opened the gateway to owlkind’s demise by demonic forces.
All of these teachings enraptured me as a young’un. This ideology did, however, send me into a horrendous conflict with myself. I had adopted these beliefs, yet I was in no way able to adhere to them, not within the hollow I had been born to. Every night, my father and I were catalysts for hatred and pain and suffering. I had to separate myself from it. I had to extinguish the violence I was harboring in this world.
There was only absolute turmoil within me over the impossible choice I had to make. I knew I must leave home, but to leave my younger brother to face the wrath of Hakon alone would be cruel, to put it simply. He was too young to bring along with me, nor was I in any position to care for a dependent, practically being an owlet myself.
However, it was one catastrophic fight that pushed me over the edge, after which it would have been impossible to convince me to stay any longer. Father had been drunkenly ranting at mother for some petty thing that eludes me even to this day. When he inevitably began shoving and pecking her, I rushed in as always. But for some reason, this time it struck some different nerve in Hakon. The usual wing-smacks were suddenly, and without warning, followed by a full on lunge as if the owl had lost his mind. He was on top of me, his talons digging into the flesh of my wings as he screamed incoherently in my face. In my utter terror, I unwillingly yarped a pellet that managed to pelt right into his eye. He flung off of me with a series of swears, a moment in which I tried to make my escape into the night. I did end up making it out, but not without losing some tail feathers to his furious beak attempting to stop me.
It all happened so fast, the loss of my home. I was as free in body as a gadfeather, but in spirit I lacked their whimsy. I was entirely lost with no owl to turn to, for the only one I would have gone to, my uncle, had died recently. In a horrid twist of fate the peaceful owl had gotten caught up in a battle and beheaded by hagsfiends. Though I could no longer turn to him for help in the physical sense, his morality that had impacted me so became my compass. I knew I must seek out other kind owls, and who other than the Glauxian Brothers hold such high morals?
It became my quest at that point. Every owl I met along my journey, I asked for their aid in locating the Brothers. For each one I passed along my own kindness, helping them hunt or clean up their hollows. I believed I had a lot of universal damage to make up for with all of my previous unsavory outbursts.
All of this is what led me to that island in the Bitter Sea. There was word that the Glauxian Brothers intended to settle down in a new retreat after the war encroached upon their old monastery. Though, it seems that nowadays just about every owl knows that they were not what I found, at least not at first.
There's a million things I could say about Grank, but to summarize he's as much a foolish owl as he is wise. I love him dearly, as he filled a role in my life much similar to that of my uncle. When it came to my destiny, all that I would ever come to be, that owl led the way. I acted as though I'd follow him to the ends of the earth, for better or for worse.
How my mind expanded the day I first bent metal to my will. Possibilities were endless, my creations could impact owl society in untold ways. I thought of all the good I could do for the world, never quite realizing what this new power I had discovered would lead me into. Grank couldn't have known how deeply it would torture me, for if he had known I am certain he would have thought twice of making me create the claws. Or at least I deeply hope for that to be the case.
It was at this point in my reminiscence —my meditation which was all I could do to be as Glauxian Brother-like as I can these nights— when I was struck with my epiphany. I had for years now resigned to make battle claws for these owls, allowing my spirit, my gizzard, to slowly wither.
But why? Was I truly so blinded that I couldn't see the good I had done? The hundreds of coal carriers I had made, the devices for squeezing the juices out of milkberries, the digging claws that were not used for violence, but to enhance the natural abilities of a Burrowing owl tenfold. My very favorite creation was an elaborate bowl for drinking water. Countless hours were spent carefully shaping it and applying decorative details, truly turning it into a work of art with function.
Though not a craft of metal, my very own forge was its own beautiful masterpiece. Grank and I crafted it together, stone and clay carefully nestled into a perfect little niche in the cave wall. That spot seemed as though it was beckoning to become the fiery heart of the tree, for just as the rest of the tree had grown, the root caverns seemed to have formed so perfectly to suit my needs as a smith. There were sky ports for ventilation, and an entirely separate hollow area to live and sleep in. With a good week or so of work, everything came together. He truly didn't have to, but Grank really helped me make the place feel like a home all to myself.
The entire chamber that I sat in was carefully decorated with my achievements. Not the claws, not blades nor armor. The whole room was screaming for me to acknowledge it for what it was: a gallery of creation and innovation.
My feathers ruffled in agitation over my own foolishness. In the past I had vowed to make up for the violence I had put into the world by performing acts of kindness to outweigh them. I once thought myself a good owl those years ago, so why now had I stopped adhering to my morals, just as I had felt I'd done when I was but an owlet fighting with my father?
My hammer and tongs were before me within moments of those final thoughts. The heat of the forge beckoned me. Begged me to speak my next work into existence. I donned my goggles and began.
×××
There was not a single owl in the world that could pull me from my focus. Night and day I worked, first creating a crude prototype for my grand idea. It was really just a test of hinges and vague shape, the final version would need much more planning. So, I moved along to quill and paper, sketching up a blueprint for the first ever metal prosthetic owl foot.
Back in the N’yrthghar, it was not often that owls survived any manner of amputation after a war wound. For the very few who did survive, the rest of their lives were plagued with challenges as they struggled to work around their new limitations. A bird with a missing leg might try to fashion a crude replacement with a carved wooden peg, but landing would always be difficult. I figured I could do something at least marginally better. With my experience in battle claw forging, I could modify my existing blueprint to function not as an item that slips over the talons, but as something that substitutes one.
Several drafts later, I began to feel more confident in this idea, so the first real attempt was underway. Tirelessly I fiddled with the thickness of the metal as I started on the talons, each toe needing to be light enough to fly with, but sturdy enough to maintain its shape. The hinges were easy enough, but the real challenge would be in figuring out the mechanical function of the piece. I envisioned a sort of locking system, where the claws would remain in a closed position that could be opened with a flick of the metal wrist. When the claws hit the highest position possible, they're locked in place until the owl lands or seizes prey. A small pressure plate of sorts in the palm will release the lock, and the claw will return to its closed position. It sounded like it would take a lot of practice to get used to, but with a determined owl it certainly seemed possible. I just had to hope Ivar would be such an owl.
Talons alone were just the beginning. There was much more to craft, much more to get wrong, and much more to try again and again. Those hours upon hours of careful smithing were able to soothe my mind and gizzard for the first time in months. It seemed Grank detected the importance of this, as he did not dare to disturb me. Rather, he was kind enough to provide me fresh prey and tea so that I may continue my work uninterrupted. Looking back, I do feel for Grank. He must have been horribly worried for me in those troubling times, but his quiet support was the greatest comfort the old owl could have given me.
Meanwhile, after a good couple of weeks, Ivar had improved enough to be released back to his hollow. There would still be daily check ups, and Lord Rathnik was carefully watching over him and tending to his needs, but everything was looking up for him health-wise. I deeply appreciated that the nurses informed me of such a thing, for it only further fueled my determination.
After all that time though, it was only inevitable that I would run into a roadblock.
“Stupid thing.” I muttered and tossed the metal claw aside. I wasn't worried about it breaking, it was made to endure a good battering. The issue came with the toes themselves, which flopped loosely at the middle joint. They were so carefully made to fit stiffly into their proper places, but I suppose as time went on and I continued to bend and straighten them, the metal rubbed together and wore away ever so slightly enough to loosen the joints. My first draft didn't have that joint at all, but the toes felt stiff and would be incredibly hard to land with, so the addition of this now-so difficult middle joint was necessary. While I had considered the possibility of needing to forge new toes, I figured that it would not be a feasible solution. I would merely repeat the same mistake again, without finding a true solution.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I left the roots to clear my mind. My wings felt absolutely starved for flight, no amount of daily stretching could supplement the freeing feeling it brought. This was immediately dampened by the thought of Ivar, who likely hadn't lifted to the air since the injury. I wondered if he would try to fly again, even without the ability to safely and efficiently land. My mind wandered into many more thoughts about him, the most prominent of which were about his current state of mind. I could only imagine what he must be going through after such trauma, and with an injury as severe as his there was no toughing through it the old N’yrthghar warrior way. It would be impossible for him to return to his old way of life, at least not any time soon.
As I ascended around the lower branches of the tree, I began to hear the gentle plucking of the Great Grass Harp. It was not yet time for good light, but practice must have been underway. There was a notable distinct lack of vocals, but the mystery of the singer’s whereabouts would be quickly answered when the Snow Rose herself glided in next to me.
“So the troubled blacksmith leaves his cave at last.” She commented, but there was no edge of sarcasm to her melodic voice. It was only an observation free of ill will.
I had not often talked to the Snow Rose. It was Grank and Hoole who had formed more of an attachment towards the Snowy, for she was such a loyal friend to Siv towards the end. What little conversation we did have had always been decently pleasant, so I decided to strike up conversation.
One thing led to the next, and before I knew it I was in the musician’s hollow with the Grass Harp. The snakes had taken a break, so the Snow Rose and I were allowed some privacy for our conversation.
“This Great Tree has brought me many wonders I had never dreamed of in my previous life. Never did I think I would have a home, the stagnant always struck not fear, but an unrest in me. However, nothing here stays the same. It's all growing so rapidly, this thing we've all created together. This community. I wish to see it through.”
The way the Snow Rose explained her thoughts was like a song itself. Her whole existence seemed to be a work of art to her, from her mind down to the decorations in her feathers.
I sat in thought for a moment, unsure if I could follow up her words with something even nearly as lyrical. “Is it hard for you? To stay here?” The question escaped my beak as I thought of Pye, who as a gadfeather herself would have loathed to be tied down to a singular place. The few times I had gotten the chance to meet up with her in her travels, she always made it clear how she wouldn't live any other lifestyle.
The Snow Rose turned her gaze to the nearest sky port. “The life of a gadfeather is all about freedom and new experiences. Is that not the perfect way to describe this place? Therefore I do not find it hard to stay, quite the opposite. As long as there are things for me to learn here, I think I will have no trouble remaining.” Her explanation made me wonder if Pye could be convinced to come live at the Tree. Oh how wonderful it would be to have my beloved sister living alongside me, just as we had when we were chicks. It didn't seem like a reality that would ever come about, though. Where the Snow Rose was calm and elegant, Pye was wild and erratic. It was impossible for me to imagine her leaving her nomadic ways for a simpler life.
“Are you troubled, Theo?” The question interrupted my thoughts.
“Troubled?” I mimicked back.
The Snow Rose churred now. “You've locked yourself away for an eternity. Any owl flying near the roots can hear you hammering away at your metals, you seem entirely engrossed in something. What it is that you busy yourself with, that is what no owl knows.”
“Right.” There was no point in not explaining myself. Besides, I figured it couldn't do any harm, perhaps it would even benefit me. Often I would find inspiration for my inventions in unexpected places. “I'm trying to create metal talons.”
“Is that not what you create all the time?” The Snow Rose questioned earnestly.
“No, not like this. It's not for fighting.”
The Snow Rose nodded. “So it is art.” Her expression exuded approval.
I pondered on that for a moment. “I suppose so. But it's not without function. It's for Lord Rathnik's nephew, he lost his foot recently in a mission that went terribly wrong.”
“Ah, I see now. What a wonderful gift. Flight is an important thing to an owl, but our ability to connect back to the earth is equally so.”
My own talons shifted on the ground. Oh how often we all take for granted the wonderful abilities Glaux gave us. Such a thought led me to wonder if Ivar was regretting anything now that he was no longer of able body. I simply had to work out the kinks of my project, I had to rescue him from his peril.
“I wish I could say that it's all going well.” I began woefully. “I've run into some issues. I need the tips of the talons to bend, but it's not like battle claws. Without a foot inside, there's nothing to keep things from moving about every which way.”
“Like wings without talons.” She stated simply.
“What?”
She reiterated. “Like wings without talons! Strings without a harp. There's no anchor.”
I cast my eyes to the harp, approaching it thoughtfully. Each tightly woven grass string was strong, pulled into its proper note. Raising a talon to the strings, I carefully plucked a few notes. When I rotated my head towards the Snow Rose, I could see that she was studying me. It seemed as though she was waiting, giving me the space to come to some sort of conclusion.
And then an idea did indeed strike me. After finishing my pleasant visit with the Snow Rose, I was eager to return to my work. Bundled in a neatly tied cloth, I carried back some spare harp strings that the singer was gracious enough to part with. I knew not exactly how I would put it all together, but I knew that those strings would be the key to my success.
I just had to remain determined. For Ivar.
×××
“So this is what you've been up to, eh?” Grank fiddled with the prosthetic, flipping the switch that controlled the rotating outer talon’s direction. The foot was entirely in working order, though I still considered it to be a sort of prototype. This one was ready enough for Ivar, but I could see myself returning to the project for further improvements.
My experimentation with the grass strings had been a success, finally figuring out a way for them to work as tendons of sorts. The string would lay relaxed when the claws were closed, but upon opening, the strings would wind onto small wheels inside the knuckle joints, tightening them and pulling the ends of the toes into an open position. It would remain tightened as long as the claws were locked open, returning to the relaxed state when closed again. Nothing was loose, it all appeared to work well enough. Of course, that could be proven only once Ivar put it to use.
“Do you think he'll like it?” I asked.
“Like it?” Grank raised an eyebrow at me. “He'll love it. It's fine craftsmanship. Perhaps even your finest so far.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
“Of course. This…” He turned the talons over, inspecting every detail, “... I can tell that you put your soul into this. This was more important to you than any battle claw.”
He often acknowledged my reluctance in the crafting of battle claws, but for some reason this time indicated a deeper understanding that I didn't believe he had. Perhaps it was the way he said it so earnestly without a hint of that unintentionally patronizing tone, perhaps it was the way he didn't follow it up with the usual justifications for violence. But in that moment, for the first time in a very long while, I felt seen by Grank.
Very shortly, I was off to see Ivar. I thought he would have been in Lord Rathnik's hollow, for last I heard, that was where he had been resting. His usual hollow was one he had shared with his two friends, the very ones who had been killed in the incident with the kraals. I was not alone in thinking that Ivar wouldn't wish to stay in such a lonely hollow after losing his hollowmates, it was recommended by Vreta herself that he stay with his uncle. But alas, the owl was free to do as he wished, and after a small search I was able to locate him in his old hollow.
Ivar sat on a disorganized mass of downy feathers and old moss. The nest definitely needed a good clean up and a refresh of mosses, but Ivar didn't seem to be in any shape to do such a thing for himself. I noted it to myself as something to help him with in the near future.
The owl hadn't noticed my entry, so I tapped the floor a few times with my claws to alert him of my presence. Still, he did not turn around. So, I stepped closer and cleared my throat.
“Ivar?”
Only a grumble in response. I thought perhaps he was sleeping, until his head finally turned and looked to me with distant eyes. He said not a word, it seemed as though he was peering straight through me.
“Ivar, I've brought you something. I think it will help you.”
He churred weakly, ruffling his dull feathers. Indeed, the depression appeared to have aged him significantly in the several weeks of recovery, his once rich brown feathers now resembling the color of tree bark. “What's the use, Theo? My time as a knight for this tree is over. Every owl who's come here —my friends, my family— everyone has tried to tell me that there's hope for me. I wish they'd all just leave me be. You should do the same.”
I furrowed my brow and took off the satchel I had strapped to my body. “I won't leave without giving you this. Please, at least give it a look.”
The Spotted owl glanced at the satchel, then back to my soot-stained face. He gave a nod, which was good enough for me. Though I needed not to be careful with such a hardy thing, still, I presented the claws with a tender gentleness. Ivar's eyes widened just a moment before a skeptical look set in.
“Look,” I began after setting the metal talons between us, “Whether or not you can still fight, you'll always be a knight and a Guardian.”
Before I had a chance to continue, Ivar cut me off sharply. “I will never be the same again, not with the way I am now. I'm a broken owl. I can't hunt, I can't make a landing, I can't perch properly, and no shiny piece of metal is going to fix that. What in Glaux's name is the point of trying?”
“Shiny piece of metal?” I repeated, my feathers puffing out in anger. “So you're content to just rot away here? You're not even going to consider letting me help you?”
“Why do you even care, Theo? We don't even know each other. I've never even talked to you before. If my own friends can't help me, then there isn't a chance in the world that you can.”
His bitter tone shook my gizzard, choking the words of my now pathetic sounding explanation. “Because this is my fault. I made the battle claws that got you hurt.”
“Chrr!” He let out a baffled little laugh. “Ah, so this is about you, then? You're not trying to help me, you're trying to make yourself feel less guilty. Well leave me out of it.” In a matter of moments, I went from being puffed up two times my size, to wilfing to an extraordinary thinness. I was so deeply ashamed, I was unable to tilt my face back up from its focus on the ground. I couldn't look him in the eyes.
After a painful silence, he huffed and turned away. “I just want to be alone. Get out of here, before you manage to frink me off even more.”
×××
Idiot! How could I have not seen it? The act I had done, the creation I had made, Ivar was merely a token in my selfish quest for inner peace. I toiled away for weeks in my own little world, thinking myself a hero. Thinking that this was the act that would forgive my sins.
You're not trying to help me, you're trying to make yourself feel less guilty.
With those simple words, Ivar had shattered my entire reality.
I had long since returned to my hollow, metal talons brought along. I wouldn't dare leave them behind, that would merely show Ivar that I hadn't heard him or cared to understand him. The prosthetic now lay askew on a table, tossed there upon my arrival so that I could retreat to my bed immediately.
There would be no sleep, however, for there was much to rethink. I had long thought of my actions as a push and pull of good deeds and harm, and while I still did hold those beliefs strongly, part of me had become agitated at the idea that many of my past actions may have been motivated by personal gain. With that in mind, did any of it even truly count? It was a Glauxian Brother’s duty to assist in a selfless manner, how many times had I not abided by that rule?
I had often wondered that if I had become a Glauxian Brother rather than follow Grank, would I have become a better owl than the one I am now? I would surely not be the same owl at all, it was difficult to imagine myself separate from my forge, a life without smithing. But if I hadn't become a smith, there was a possibility that the world would have less harm in it. How incredibly selfish of me to feel pain at the thought of that life without metals and flames.
Agony, I toiled in for hours. The hatred I had for myself burned brighter than ever, and it felt as though I'd never escape it. That is until the night turned a deep blue with a hint of light on the horizon, the time at which a loud thud sounded outside my high hollow entrance, followed by the desperate scratching of an owl trying to regain its balance. The ordeal roused me from my nest, and warily I approached. Glaux, let it not be Grank of all owls. As much as I cared for him, I was in no mood to hear any of his usual dense reassurances.
My preemptive irritation immediately ceased the moment the curtain of leaves parted. A Spotted owl had come to see me, but not Grank.
It was none other than Ivar.