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02-23-2014, 09:20 AM
Mauja Frosthjärta
Snowy owls don't nest in trees.
If he had never been bonded to Irma, he never would've known that; didn't all birds nest in trees, or hedges? Apparently not. He'd never paid attention to the owls back in his homeland, either. Maybe he should've.
Anyway. He'd been doing what he mostly did since coming to the sanctuary: sleeping, legs folded up beneath him under the tree Irma had chosen for them. For once he'd been deep in dreamless sleep, not tossing and turning at the whim of his fever, when she had simply entered his dream and, out of the blue, informed him of that fact: snowy owls don't nest in trees. Not normally, anyway. Necessity had forced her to flee with the egg, high up where no hooves could trample them, and no dragon could steal it and eat it. And with that wisdom, sort of anxiously, edgily imparted, she'd left again, though in the waking world she had taken the egg in one taloned foot, and descended to the ground. She had abandoned the nest for another, made in the nook of Mauja's warm back and ample white hair. She knew he would lie still in sleep.
The day began as any other day did down there—which is to say, not at all. The light in the glowing room was a constant, fluorescent blue, all at once sharp and soft. The aquamarine lights greeted him as his eyes cracked open, the soft moss on "his" patch of land ground down by his teeth, rough against his body. He blinked. There was never any way to tell if it ought to be day or night, nothing but him and his internal clock, which nearly always seemed to tell him to be sensible for once, and sleep the curse away. He was fairly sure one day he would wake up, and find everyone gone, back up to the surface, the sunlight.
Damn, he missed the sun.
Grunting, Mauja shifted his stiff neck to peer behind him, at the owl and the egg. Right; because snowy owls don't nest in trees. Where had that revelation come from? Why was it suddenly so important that she wasn't in the tree? Did she expect him to stay put here for another week or so? He frowned, prepared to turn away and do something else (go back to sleep, maybe), when Irma suddenly moved. She scooted to the side, and hunched down, wings tight to her sides and blue eyes eager, alert. Something was definitely happening.
He'd been through this before. He'd seen it before, heard it before. The pitter-patter of a beak picking against a soft shell, and the sound of it breaking open. Irma had briefly disappeared to their precious hoard of food. At the moment, it consisted of a poor, unfortunate hare she'd found on a trip to the outside, and some kind of lizard Mauja had found in the tunnels. She returned with the lizard, but touched down a few steps from the owlet, head canted to the side in a most owlish gesture. The young bird was tangled up in Mauja's hair, feebly moving in the wreckage of its shell. He could feel its mind casting about even as he heard its cries for food, for comfort and love, but Irma remained motionless a moment longer. Finally, she hedged a query through their bond, the words tentative: was I that ugly when I hatched, too?
A warm, gentle laugh spilled from his sleep-dry mouth. Indeed, owl chicks weren't pretty; they were formless bundles of off-white down, with dark beaks and beady eyes. Yes, he told her fondly, waiting for her to come around and feed the thing before its cries grew louder; she was the one who had wanted this, so why did she hesitate now?
I don't believe you, she finally said, not angrily but with some kind of polite conviction he couldn't quite define. Whatever memories he might show her wouldn't sway her: she'd simply made up her mind about it. A smile tugged at his dark lips.
But it seemed that it had been the conclusion she'd needed to reach, for with a few graceless hops she approached the newly hatched bird. One well-padded foot pinned the lizard against the ground, and with her sharp beak she tore pieces out of its stringy flesh and offered to the owlet. He—for suddenly Mauja just knew, that it was a he—accepted it greedily, his hungry cries silenced by the food. Brace yourself, he whispered across the bond to Irma; he'd done this before. She hadn't.
As the young male owl ate what she offered, they were, with all the abrupt lack of grace of a child, suddenly bombarded with the chaos and tempest of the young creature's mind, heart, and soul.
Mauja smiled grimly. It'd be a small miracle if Irma didn't kill the latest addition to their mind-family before he had the chance to grow up.
If he had never been bonded to Irma, he never would've known that; didn't all birds nest in trees, or hedges? Apparently not. He'd never paid attention to the owls back in his homeland, either. Maybe he should've.
Anyway. He'd been doing what he mostly did since coming to the sanctuary: sleeping, legs folded up beneath him under the tree Irma had chosen for them. For once he'd been deep in dreamless sleep, not tossing and turning at the whim of his fever, when she had simply entered his dream and, out of the blue, informed him of that fact: snowy owls don't nest in trees. Not normally, anyway. Necessity had forced her to flee with the egg, high up where no hooves could trample them, and no dragon could steal it and eat it. And with that wisdom, sort of anxiously, edgily imparted, she'd left again, though in the waking world she had taken the egg in one taloned foot, and descended to the ground. She had abandoned the nest for another, made in the nook of Mauja's warm back and ample white hair. She knew he would lie still in sleep.
The day began as any other day did down there—which is to say, not at all. The light in the glowing room was a constant, fluorescent blue, all at once sharp and soft. The aquamarine lights greeted him as his eyes cracked open, the soft moss on "his" patch of land ground down by his teeth, rough against his body. He blinked. There was never any way to tell if it ought to be day or night, nothing but him and his internal clock, which nearly always seemed to tell him to be sensible for once, and sleep the curse away. He was fairly sure one day he would wake up, and find everyone gone, back up to the surface, the sunlight.
Damn, he missed the sun.
Grunting, Mauja shifted his stiff neck to peer behind him, at the owl and the egg. Right; because snowy owls don't nest in trees. Where had that revelation come from? Why was it suddenly so important that she wasn't in the tree? Did she expect him to stay put here for another week or so? He frowned, prepared to turn away and do something else (go back to sleep, maybe), when Irma suddenly moved. She scooted to the side, and hunched down, wings tight to her sides and blue eyes eager, alert. Something was definitely happening.
He'd been through this before. He'd seen it before, heard it before. The pitter-patter of a beak picking against a soft shell, and the sound of it breaking open. Irma had briefly disappeared to their precious hoard of food. At the moment, it consisted of a poor, unfortunate hare she'd found on a trip to the outside, and some kind of lizard Mauja had found in the tunnels. She returned with the lizard, but touched down a few steps from the owlet, head canted to the side in a most owlish gesture. The young bird was tangled up in Mauja's hair, feebly moving in the wreckage of its shell. He could feel its mind casting about even as he heard its cries for food, for comfort and love, but Irma remained motionless a moment longer. Finally, she hedged a query through their bond, the words tentative: was I that ugly when I hatched, too?
A warm, gentle laugh spilled from his sleep-dry mouth. Indeed, owl chicks weren't pretty; they were formless bundles of off-white down, with dark beaks and beady eyes. Yes, he told her fondly, waiting for her to come around and feed the thing before its cries grew louder; she was the one who had wanted this, so why did she hesitate now?
I don't believe you, she finally said, not angrily but with some kind of polite conviction he couldn't quite define. Whatever memories he might show her wouldn't sway her: she'd simply made up her mind about it. A smile tugged at his dark lips.
But it seemed that it had been the conclusion she'd needed to reach, for with a few graceless hops she approached the newly hatched bird. One well-padded foot pinned the lizard against the ground, and with her sharp beak she tore pieces out of its stringy flesh and offered to the owlet. He—for suddenly Mauja just knew, that it was a he—accepted it greedily, his hungry cries silenced by the food. Brace yourself, he whispered across the bond to Irma; he'd done this before. She hadn't.
As the young male owl ate what she offered, they were, with all the abrupt lack of grace of a child, suddenly bombarded with the chaos and tempest of the young creature's mind, heart, and soul.
Mauja smiled grimly. It'd be a small miracle if Irma didn't kill the latest addition to their mind-family before he had the chance to grow up.
If I told you what I was, Would you turn your back on me?
