Cold Fledging
28th of Cylus, 718
28th of Cylus, 718
Ivanthe should have been afraid. That was the general impression he’d gotten from the old dockworker couple, who had been quietly insistent that he stay longer than the coin had paid for. They had the same look as old Jaxen before his caravan pulled on to Etzos proper: the look of worry every time Ivanthe refused help.
It felt logical for them to worry, and he supposed, then, that he should have been worried for himself. But he wasn’t. At first he’d rationalized it as shock; Yaren had described the effects often enough. Then as he healed in the old couple’s home, he’d thought perhaps he was in denial over Yaren’s death––but the fact he could even contemplate the question proved it to be false.
He’d been on his own for almost a Cycle now now, and was still waiting patiently for anxiety to appear. In the meantime, though, money didn’t make itself.
An outskirt farmer family had been in the midst of thinning their chicken flock for Cylus, and had happily sold him one of their unwanted young cockerels for his supper. The thing was lean and a bit ornery, but it was also quite loud and not especially bright.
Said cockrel was currently half a mile out of Etzos, tethered by both feet to a bush in the center of a large clearing. Ivanthe himself was perched in the branches of a low, knotted tree, peering through the winter skeleton branches with bow in hand and one arrow nocked loosely against the string. He was just close enough to comfortably shoot the cockerel if he wanted, but was so far content to simply watch and wait.
It would have been noon in any cycle other than Cylus. Perhaps it still was by technicality, but there was no light or heat to mark it by. The stars glittered coldly against a purple velvet sky, and if he squinted he could almost make out shifting colors in the grains of light.
The chicken appreciated none of it, ruffling his feathers fearfully at every stray whistle of the wind. He might have known, in some vague way, that he was destined to die either this night or the next––not that there was much difference in Cylus, apart from the slow path of the constellations above.
It didn’t take all that long for the cockerel to catch attention, all things considered; it took a half hour to set it up, then another hour for the forest to settle around Ivanthe’s disturbances. The birds and deer had little to desire, but the coyotes had been pacing almost imperceptibly for awhile. The smarter of them probably remembered the human in the tree and kept their distance, because the first one who dared the clearing did so alone.
Ivanthe stayed still, barely even turning his head to watch the coyote slink curiously forward. His fingers tensed on the string, but did not pull; he didn’t want to risk attention until he was certain he could make the shot.
This one was bolder than the others, and Ivanthe thought perhaps it was a younger member of the pack. Perhaps a yearling, plus a few cycles. That was what he hoped, at least; yearling pelts were the softest.
The coyote didn’t make a straight go for the chicken, instead circling around experimentally and sniffing for other predators. It must have picked up the scent of human, because it looked around for a moment––but it didn’t look up.
Ivanthe waited.
The coyote was joined by a second, this one a bit smaller, but Ivanthe remained trained on the first. As the circling became tighter, he readied his grip on the boy; he knew better than to even hope for two, and all he wanted was a pelt and a whole cockerel for dinner.
He waited until the coyote halted, witnessing the precise moment it decided the bird was sage to kill. The chicken’s terrified fussing covered up the soft rustle of a drawing bow; Ivanthe had all the leeway he needed to level the arrow and sight along the shaft. He let out one slow, meditative exhale.
With a slip of the fingers, Ivanthe set his arrow free.
It felt logical for them to worry, and he supposed, then, that he should have been worried for himself. But he wasn’t. At first he’d rationalized it as shock; Yaren had described the effects often enough. Then as he healed in the old couple’s home, he’d thought perhaps he was in denial over Yaren’s death––but the fact he could even contemplate the question proved it to be false.
He’d been on his own for almost a Cycle now now, and was still waiting patiently for anxiety to appear. In the meantime, though, money didn’t make itself.
An outskirt farmer family had been in the midst of thinning their chicken flock for Cylus, and had happily sold him one of their unwanted young cockerels for his supper. The thing was lean and a bit ornery, but it was also quite loud and not especially bright.
Said cockrel was currently half a mile out of Etzos, tethered by both feet to a bush in the center of a large clearing. Ivanthe himself was perched in the branches of a low, knotted tree, peering through the winter skeleton branches with bow in hand and one arrow nocked loosely against the string. He was just close enough to comfortably shoot the cockerel if he wanted, but was so far content to simply watch and wait.
It would have been noon in any cycle other than Cylus. Perhaps it still was by technicality, but there was no light or heat to mark it by. The stars glittered coldly against a purple velvet sky, and if he squinted he could almost make out shifting colors in the grains of light.
The chicken appreciated none of it, ruffling his feathers fearfully at every stray whistle of the wind. He might have known, in some vague way, that he was destined to die either this night or the next––not that there was much difference in Cylus, apart from the slow path of the constellations above.
It didn’t take all that long for the cockerel to catch attention, all things considered; it took a half hour to set it up, then another hour for the forest to settle around Ivanthe’s disturbances. The birds and deer had little to desire, but the coyotes had been pacing almost imperceptibly for awhile. The smarter of them probably remembered the human in the tree and kept their distance, because the first one who dared the clearing did so alone.
Ivanthe stayed still, barely even turning his head to watch the coyote slink curiously forward. His fingers tensed on the string, but did not pull; he didn’t want to risk attention until he was certain he could make the shot.
This one was bolder than the others, and Ivanthe thought perhaps it was a younger member of the pack. Perhaps a yearling, plus a few cycles. That was what he hoped, at least; yearling pelts were the softest.
The coyote didn’t make a straight go for the chicken, instead circling around experimentally and sniffing for other predators. It must have picked up the scent of human, because it looked around for a moment––but it didn’t look up.
Ivanthe waited.
The coyote was joined by a second, this one a bit smaller, but Ivanthe remained trained on the first. As the circling became tighter, he readied his grip on the boy; he knew better than to even hope for two, and all he wanted was a pelt and a whole cockerel for dinner.
He waited until the coyote halted, witnessing the precise moment it decided the bird was sage to kill. The chicken’s terrified fussing covered up the soft rustle of a drawing bow; Ivanthe had all the leeway he needed to level the arrow and sight along the shaft. He let out one slow, meditative exhale.
With a slip of the fingers, Ivanthe set his arrow free.
