Chapter Text
Offset by the twinkling stars of a cloudy, crisp spring evening, a flash of white soared high and fast across the skyline. A young Barn Owl fluttered between the treetops, seemingly in search of something as he dove with a frantic urgency.
Mote was on his first real test flight since he began his training with the Guardians only a mere few weeks prior. At the outset he'd starved the nervous roar in his gizzard with visions of great achievement. He'd envisioned Woodyryb, the newly-appointed head of the navigation chaw, praising his ability to find each checkpoint, returning the great tree victorious with every marker in his talons.
The false triumph Mote built so high crumbled further still as he circled over the same acre for the third time. He used every sense he could to single out the location of the third marker.
Of all the markers, the first few were by far the easiest to find, as Woody told the chawlet. Bells, shards of glass hung on twine, and other whirlygigs any owl could hardly miss. In later stages flags of fabric hardly rippled in the wind, which left even a Barn Owl without a wing-up in this task. On top of everything, the markers had to be retrieved in order. At every station, their proctor would give directions to the chawlet's next marker for collection. Mote, the student, had to find his way there using the skills learned at the great tree as his guide with no one and nothing else to help him.
Mote took the top limb of a coniferous tree between his talons. He settled among the needles for a moment's rest and to regain his bearings. How can anyone remember the names of all these dots? They don't look like anything to me, just sand in an eddy of water, Mote mentally groaned.
Mote had spent most of his early life in Tyto Forest, as had most Barn Owls. He'd rarely left the hillock hollowhood he called home, yet considered himself a proficient navigator. No matter how far he'd flown from the hollow, Mote always found his way back. Thus, once he began studying to find a suitable chaw at the great tree, the navigation lessons felt redundant to Mote. Every lesson a chore. He'd thought, How hard can it be, old Woody? Let me at it! Mote avoided group studying and quizzes because, in all honesty, he didn't know his constellations, nor did he care to learn them. He was sure he wouldn't need to.
Boy, what a bite in the tail feathers! Mote's dark eyes swam in the cool spring's night sky. Where was he? Ambala? The Barrens, over the foggy horizon? He considered his lesson learned -- oh, yes, he'd study hard when he got back! He'd only have to figure out how to get back, first. From which direction had he arrived?
Out of options, Mote worked with what he was certain he knew as a fact. Nevermoves was easy, any owlet knew Nevermoves. He remembered the Golden Talons, which to him looked much more like an anthill than anything talon-like. He swiveled his head as he tried his best to remember everything he'd brushed off during Woody's driest lessons.
I know where I am! Mote took off from the branch with an equal burst of confidence. He didn't, really, and he had no idea what it meant that he could identify a few constellations. Why did they have to change so much, anyway? Mote waggled his primaries as he spun in the air, shaking off his worries like dust.
His proctor would be at the next checkpoint awaiting his arrival, but wouldn't wait for him long. Mote would simply meet him back at the previous point as they'd all discussed in case of this very situation occurring. As he watched the trees passing below thread with thick fog, Mote mentally practiced how he would explain his failure to Woodyryb.
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"Never panic. If you find you're lost, stay put, we'll find you." Woody's lectures bounced around Mote's skull on repeat. He'd been flying for ages and he knew it. What Mote didn't know was that he turned in the opposite direction he'd meant to when first lost. Oh, just his luck!
Mote wasn't frantic, he was just trying to find his way faster. Tall wood of thick-trunked trees had long since given way to a more open landscape, which Mote accepted as a sign of progress. He hardly knew Ambala to begin with, hardly enough to find his way back without a guide. This place his wind-worn wings had flown him to, however, was completely new territory to the young Barn Owl.
Anxiety pressed deeper into Mote's gizzard as the gravity of the situation weighed on him. If he didn't find his way back, there was no guarantee anyone would find him. That considered, he was far from a helpless nestling. He was confident he would find passable shelter and eventually make his way back to the great tree. He'd ask for help, if he ever found someone. Indeed, Mote had not seen or heard much of anyone else during his long flight. Where was everyone?
As Mote pondered his predicament, he decided he would search for a spot to hunker down to avoid flying during the day, as well as some much needed rest. He was starving, and surely if there were not so many owls living in this place, he thought there should be easy prey to be caught there as well.
He scanned the broken stands of trees below him for a nice hollow, even a niche or dead log would've sufficed. He recognized these trees, which his da had taught him; sycamore, aspen, oak. Mote himself had grown up in a sycamore tree and was quite partial to them, and as he kept an eye out for one, he spotted something in the limbs and leaves that jolted his exhausted flight.
Couldn't be! Could it? He'd seen something flagging in the wind -- it looked an awful lot like one of the markers he was meant to retrieve! Mote's wings ached as he drew them close to his sides in a steep dive, getting closer to the hanging shape in the tree. He felt a rush of relief and excitement, his feathers unfurled around him poised to land on the oddly curved branch ahead to retrieve his prize. Talons out, Mote closed in on the object, and with deadly precision snapped it up with ease.
Then -- whoosh -- a screech tore from Mote's beak as he lurched backward. The wind under his wings fell flat in an instant and the woods closed in around him. He was falling!
One beat, two beats of his wings. He only had so much strength left, none of it enough to clear him of the treetops. He swung back to the tree in such a frightful commotion of snapping twigs that the moment after he slammed into the trunk, Mote felt a terrible stillness in the wood. Or had he hit his head that hard?
He was upside-down! The young owl's head spun; he could hardly process what had just happened to him. Why was he upside down? Why couldn't he fly away? Mote desperately tried to quell the fire of panic raging through him and with great effort called upon the memory of his limited first-aid training with the Guardians. "If you're injured, first you must take stock, so to speak..." Which of the rybs had said that?
No matter. Mote's vision was clearing, allowing him to check his surroundings. He wasn't bleeding, that was good. When he saw what was holding him upside-down, though, Mote's rational thinking exploded into fine dust. He was dangling by his left foot from a tightly bound rope!