Chapter Text
They call for his name like the leaves,
For the talons that weave the trees and the branches anew.
Under Bachtyr themself we weep and grieve,
For He will never return to restore our hollows as we then knew.
—Sister Beileag, Forty-Three cycles after the rise of Rosalind Straux, mother of Tarolyn Straux
Asalyn’s vision wavered. He felt only the blunt texture of a stretcher brushing against his spine, the air coursing through tattered plumage and broken limbs. It was a short flight from wherever he had fallen towards the unknown; with each wing flap of the owls carrying him, he closed his eyes more, unable to handle the glauxian lights that grew in size and obfuscated everything else.
He could only wonder what was occurring far, far away. What were the creatures that had snatched Enright and Mirna away? Who was the pale vulture, who had taken so much joy in his suffering, and who was its accomplice?
And Suevic… where was she? With his eyes already shut and the feeling of a thousand stitches beginning to pierce through fragile skin, he gave away.
It had been three days since Asalyn Straux, heir to the Ambalan post of Colonel, had arrived in the Lynian Retreat. He lay motionless in the coziest nest they had, his back supported by the softest moss and down that Landor could manage. He was a mess of stitches and patches comparable only to an owlipoppen that had been torn apart and sloppily sewn back together.
Landor himself perched only a little further away from the fallen owl. The few nurses they had at their disposal had truly done all they could and the last of them had exited the infirmary after once again inspecting the sewn up wing of the heir. Something about his survival was… unowlish. Any other owl would have certainly perished long before help arrived, yet he had been breathing and even wheezing for what he could only assume was a long time before their arrival. Did Glaux have other plans for him, or is he indeed one of a kind?
“Father Landor?” A voice called from behind. A large Great Gray owl slowly scooted to his port side.
“Ah,” he jolted. “Hello, Brother Cathal. I’m truly sorry the mood has been so terrible.”
“It’s no issue,” Cathal shook his head. He was the only other devoted brother in the retreat. “How is he?”
“I don’t know. It frightens me to think we are holding together a yeepstricken owl… And his friend is not faring much better, I presume.”
“Oh, that is why I am here. He is still slumbering, of course, but I have never seen such a strong pulse on a young’un as scarred as we found them. I reckon he may wake up soon.”
Landor peered in closer to Asalyn, sighing. His gizzard lurched left and right. “That is great news. You keep watching him and I’ll keep my post here.”
“Are you sure? The owls from the Strlyn Castle might need you now more than ever. Whatever will they do, having to explain to the populace that their heir is missing?”
He shivered. “I’ve stalled for time before. I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t manage, Brother Cathal.”
“I hope you are right,” Brother Cathal replied. With a pat to the priest’s back, he turned around and once again made his way out of the infirmary.
The Lynian Retreat was by no means a place to exhibit wealth or might like the large trees of the past and the castles of the present day. Many of its largest chambers were underground, buried in an enormous set of roots that only the most devoted owls felt the need to memorize; Even Landor himself would get lost at times!
All he could do now, perched and unmoving, was wait for the heir’s awakening. Even with all the work they had done, he had never felt so confused. He still possessed no answers as to what had happened and it seemed to be unlikely that he would receive any. This cruelty, it can only be compared to a hagsfiend’s glee in murder! He stressed. And what will I do if he wakes up? Can I consider him a Lynian Brother by then? By Glaux, will he go yoicks one way or the other with that gash? Father Landor had too many questions and, in response, there were no answers.
Karle’s awakening was sudden and he anguished greatly. None of the herbs he had been given could soothe the pain of his charred, infected skin and his bent leg, and even with the support of a matron under his port wing he could barely stand up without buckling with a screech. “Brother Cathal, come here! Help me walk him to another nest!”
The Great Gray owl burst into the infirmary, slowed only by the tightly fastened botkins in his back that carried only medicine instead of weaponry. With hurried steps he firmly positioned himself under Karle’s starboard wing. Glaux, he woke up sooner than I expected!
On the count of three they slowly carried the battered Striped owl from one nest to the other, one not as uncomfortable as the one they had used to support him during surgery. Karle’s back flopped down into the soft moss of the second nest much like an owlet unable to slumber upright.
Brother Cathal placed a talon under his head, supporting it whilst the other matron did her part. The matron herself, a Short eared owl with many leaves hooked around one side of her head, looked closely into the charred skin and feathers that mingled together on one side in contrast to the muddy ones of the other, fighting to keep the weakly writhing owl in place. “Please stay still, we’re not going to hurt you.”
The Striped owl continued to squirm around to no purpose. “Where am I? Please, where am I?”
“You’re in the Lynian Retreat,” Cathal whispered.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Brother Cathal, and that over there is Gitte, the matron overseeing your wounds.”
Karle remained stationary for a moment, and the impression was to Cathal and Gitte that he had finally recognized that he was in a safe area—but without warning, he once again tried to lift himself up once more only to miserably fall back onto the infirmary nest. “Where are they?”
“Your friend is recovering in another root,” Gitte nodded. She was clearly frustrated with how much he was moving.
“No—the others, they were snatched! They were taken away!”
“Taken away by Ambalan patrols?”
“No!” He repeated. His calls grew raspier by the minute. “There was this terribly pale vulture, and its eyes were the color of blood. And there was another one, rotting and falling apart! There were no patrols—the night was devoid of them...”
Brother Cathal and Gitte shared a worrying glance. Cathal began to undo the botkin strapped to his back. “You should rest, young’un. You’re in good talons now. Whatever was out there can’t catch you now.”
“They snatched them,” Karle whined. “They snatched my friends…”
Gitte’s plumicorns had flattened against the rest of the feathers. “Do you have any more medicine to relieve the pain, Brother Cathal? He can’t sleep with such stinging from these burns. I’ve already used all the mixtures I could to alleviate the wounds and his leg is all wrapped up.”
“I only have what we used for our other young owl,” Brother Cathal said as he emptied the botkin by the side of the nest. “Will that work?”
“Yes. Anything by this point. And we must speak to Father Landor at once!”
Under the warm light of the roots and soft down of his nest, close to the start of the fourth day since his escape, Asalyn calmly awoke. He rose up, his legs utterly beaten and unable to stand. He swiveled his neck to one side then the other, then finally up and down. Looking down, he could see various stitches spilling out of many tight bandages on his nearly severed wing. Where am I?
He had made such little noise that the snowy owl standing near his port side, slumped over a desk made of the same roots of the retreat, had not noticed him awake for a good few moments—and when it did, it had turned into an immediate flurry of feathers heading his way. Asalyn recognized him from his very own special ceremony: it could be none other than Father Landor. “Oh, thank Glaux! You are awake!”
He remained silent. He felt no pain, but his talons were devoid of any sense of touch they previously carried.
“How are you feeling?” Landor peered in. “You are in the Lynian Retreat. I’ve been watching over you since your arrival.”
“I feel nothing.”
“Nothing… no pain as well?”
Asalyn paused. Then, he replied with a voice more subdued than before. “I feel terribly numb.”
“I’m incredibly sorry about that. I can assure you, we tried our best to patch your wounds.” Father Landor reached for a tightly bundled botkin by the side of the nest—it was, upon opening, clearly the same botkin that Asalyn’s caretaker had prepared for his voyage to the retreat.
“Suevic,” He blurted out. Asalyn’s good right eye had lurched wide open and he panicked for a small moment. “The botkin! Please, give me the botkin.”
Landor blinked. Then, doing as he was told, he unlatched its flap and gently set down its contents by the side of the nest—at the very front only a single Marigold flower rested. Landor himself was disconcerted with the botkin but, distressed as he already was, he chose not to interfere. “Here you go, young’un.”
With his weak talons Asalyn embraced the flower the best he could; he stared blankly forwards for a moment and then, falling back into the nest, he glanced at Father Landor one more time. “Do you know where my friend is?”
“The Striped owl?” The Snowy owl tilted his head. “Ah, he is resting as well. In fact, I could really give you no other advice other than to do the same—I would like you two to at least be well rested if you can only seldom fly and walk for now.”
Asalyn lightly nodded. There was a great bandage that stretched diagonally over his entire head and covered his left eye, which he was not even sure if he could even clearly see anything from it after his attack; his only remaining eye was, fortunately, enough to express at least some gratitude for Landor. He was barely recognizable as the heir and it was no surprise that everyone had taken his arrival as that of a normal, lowly owl.
Taking a rapid glance at the interior of the botkin one last time, Father Landor hoisted it by hanging its straps from his shoulder. Disguising his worry, he nodded to Asalyn with the warmest smile he could muster. “Don’t worry about anything else for now. Keep your head down, your eyes shut and your mind soothed.”
“Thank you,” Asalyn whispered. He stared upwards.
Jumping to the edge of the entrance of their infirmary quarters, Landor exited.
…And off he was, darting rapidly across the roots in search of the only other members of the retreat that he could share anything with for the time period. It took no time for him to locate Gitte and Cathal, both already locked in a discussion of their own.
“Gitte! Brother Cathal!” Landor yelled. “I have something to tell you. I am terribly sorry for not making it here sooner. The young Short Eared owl woke up, but—”
It was Gitte who, perched on top of a series of books, swiveled her head first. “Father Landor! We have something as well—”
They remained locked in an awkward fight of overlapping voices until Cathal grabbed a rogue branch and tapped loudly against the wooden roots. “One at a time!”
The two other owls nodded. Landor was the first to speak, given his role. “Well, as I said before, the other battered young’un, the Short Eared owl, has awoken. And I believe I have never seen an owl have such unreal behavior for what he went through.”
“What do you mean?” Gitte inquired.
“He is utterly out of it to a worrying degree. You spoke to me that the Striped owl’s awakening had been very sudden and chaotic, while his…” He shook his head. “It seems to be the complete opposite. His eyes carried this unowlish fog and none of the pain you said would strike due to your exhausted supply of relievers happened. Glaux, we took him in thinking he was a dead owl and he awakened only a little while later!”
Cathal jumped out of his perch. “Did he at least tell you anything about how he and his other friend were left that battered? It was unbelievable.”
“No, not at all. But I’m worried the large gash on his face was enough to sear through at least a part of his brain.”
“The other matrons told me there was no extensive damage that truly passed through the skull. It is nothing to worry about.” Gitte asserted.
“Well, enough of my rambling now!” Landor raised a wing. “You two, tell me more about his friend. You told me that there was something urgent that he had muttered out when he awakened.”
“Oh, yes, there was…” Cathal’s voice nearly cracked. “It was regarding what they were attacked by. It was why I asked you if the other young’un had spoken of it. Gitte can tell you better than I can.”
Gitte straightened herself, then immediately she slouched over once again in exhaustion. “We thought a handful of patrol squadrons had identified them as enemies and pursued them to near death, but the Striped owl’s story is much more confusing. I reckon his mind may be in a terrible spot right now, but he told us a large pale vulture and something like a rotting sister vulture of that same bird had brutally followed them to Hagsmire and back. There were no patrols at all... And it seems there were more owls with them that were snatched away. If anything, they are lucky to be here.”
Landor and Cathal solemnly nodded, with the former only growing even more perturbed. Cathal glanced at the pathway to the infirmary once again. “Perhaps we should ask the other, since they have awakened?”
“No, not yet!” Landor objected. “Let us wait until they have at least grown out of this terrible phase they are in. Neither of their minds must be in the right place.”
Gitte was the most bothered of the group. She was pacing left and right, in circles and whatever other trails naturally came to her. “The only thing that matches such a description is either a hagsfiend or a transporter eagle.”
A long time ago, the Glauxian Brothers of the Northern Kingdoms had spoken that the existence of these terrible, long since extinct hagsfiends was because their faith in Glaux had diminished enough for cracks to seep through the very foundations of the owl kingdoms. Gitte was not one to believe in such stories, but Cathal and Landor had heard many more tales about them than her.
“A transporter eagle can’t go yoicks, Gitte!” Cathal complained. “They have almost no brain of their own, don’t they? All they do is fly with either cargo or a talonful of generals.”
“Then it’s either that, or hagsfiends have magically come back once again!” She rebuked.
While they once again restarted their argument, Father Landor undid the botkin hanging loosely from his wing and again he unclasped the flap. Reaching deep into it, he felt a soft texture that could be nothing else but firm parchment folded up in a letter; he pulled it out with great care and stared at its front for many seconds, hiding it from the view of his fellow owls. “I need to leave something in my hollow,” he said.
There was only a quick nod from both Gitte and Brother Cathal before they returned to their chirping. He exited the chamber once again through flight and, heading to his own hollow within the underground roots, he glanced again at the letter bundled up in his foot.
Asalyn Straux, Landor thought. No one in the roots knows who you are but me, and there is only one exception. In no time he was at the large hole that led to his own nest within the retreat. He glanced upwards, to the glowing pathway that led to the upper tree, then forward once more. It was as if Glaux themself had directed Father Landor away from everything he had become used to in his short life. What are you even doing here, so far away from the Strlyn castle? And what can I even do with you, weak and dissociated?
Suddenly, yet another name had come to his mind. He remembered yet another recent arrival as he looked at the name peering through the very end of the letter. And what will the nurse dove think?