Les Petites - A Short Story Collection

Eagle

Limp rabbits thud on my back as I try to find my footing on the slick rocks. We don't usually take this path, but the Southern Pass is jagged and unforgiving, making it more difficult to follow us. The mist is especially thick today, bleeding moisture onto everything it can grasp. My eyes dart behind me, attempting to find anything out of place, but they're again greeted with nothing but a white expanse of fog.

"Calm down, Tuya. They wouldn't dare enter the Shrouded Hills. They don't know the way," Kachi calls down from the plateau where he sits, his dark eyes showing no concern about our pursuers.

"If it weren't for me not being calm, you wouldn't have made it out today, brother," I respond. The lichen is warm and slick underneath my fingers, mushing under the pressure of my grip as I scramble up the rock face. A disgusting sensation.

I hate this place. I ache to go home, back to the grasslands. To feel my eagle on my arm again, my horse between my legs. To feel cool, dry air and hear the music of the wind gods.

Here, the ground is naked, wet rock, with no blanket of sweet earth to cradle it. The air is thick, hot, heavy, silent, with permanent clouds. I feel trapped. Suffocated by it always pressing on me.

But we can never go back. We can never leave these mountains except to set traps and collect the unfortunate creatures who find them.

My brother helps me onto the small plateau with a childish grin. His climbing skill is obviously superior to mine, as his tanned skin is unbroken, free of the scrapes and gouges that are scattered across my own arms and legs. I don't have time to make a snide remark before something whizzes past my ear.

Kachi yelps and stumbles, falling onto his back with a thud. A small line of scarlet instantly begins to trickle down his shoulder, dripping down onto the damp grey rock. In a moment of numbness, I almost appreciate the splash of color in this dismal landscape, but my fear for his life quickly takes over.

"No! Brother!" I scream, searching for what wounded him. It sounded like an arrow, but where was it? I examine his bare shoulders to find three deep scratches, uniformly laid out, almost like....

Bird talons.

My eyes slowly lift until they meet the two golden ones staring back at me. One of the rabbits from my back is gone, now in the claws of the bird mere feet from us.

My eagle. Cotota is alive.

This was first written in early 2019 (back before I'd even finished the first draft of Bearheart!) and originally shared on the Wattpad forums (RIP) as part of a flash fiction challenge. I saw a photo of a foggy, humid landscape and started writing. As I did, a connection popped up between my limited knowledge of Irish folklore and Mongolian folklore, and I couldn't shake the idea. I've been doing casual research and brainstorming ever since. Someday, after the Rogaverse has finally been tied up with a bow, I'm going to be writing an Adult Fantasy series in this universe

Of course, as ideas do, that plot sprout has evolved greatly (arranged marriage! false accusations of murder! shadow magic! political machinations! ah!) and will keep doing so. But I'm always going to look back on this little short fondly for being my springboard 

And fear not, Cotota will return xD