The Winged Ones 2.5
This is the more updated version of the Winged Ones. I cut things out of the beginning and tweaked things throughout the text. I'm just debating on whether I want to add a scene or whether it'd break the mood. That and I'm still itching to tweak it more. I don't have much practice seriously editing my own stuff (like if I'm making it worse) so I'm just taking a break here for now, until the mood hits again I guess.
The Winged Ones
The Winged Ones lived a long time ago in a place called Altus Terra where houses rose above the lolling hills like lofty lords, arrogantly stretching upwards in an attempt to catch the stars. Topping the mightiest of the houses were spires, with bright banners embroidered with family crests billowing out like giant flags, snaring people’s attention almost immediately. The scent of fine food filled the air, exotic spices that made one’s head spin, fresh bread soothed it, and new meals that the chefs of Corte invented on a regular basis made many stomachs rumble for attention. Tales and song filled the air in a harmony achieved nowhere else for the Winged Ones took pride in everything from the traditional hymns to an unconventional jig.
To the North were seven mountains, each bearing the name of a god. Of these, Triumphus was the youngest, its great cliffs sharp and devastating to the unwary. In front of it was the Winged Ones’ favorite, Lux. In addition to being a source of the Great River, the gently sloped mountain contained a significant amount of the beautiful white stone that composed their houses. A long time ago, Nex was its identical twin; but now it was stunted and dark, as if its formerly beautiful landscape had been twisted in a great disaster. It also sported a river mouth, one that joined the Great River further down, making a large ‘Y’ between the mountains.
To the East was the Great Cliff, owner of many souls. It dropped from the average elevation of the Lower Lands to sea level, forming a devastating, near ninety-degree angle. In the historical documents of Altus Terra, there was mention of a large hill that fell into the sea. The prospect of such devastation made some of the Winged Ones worry that it may happen again, but they were usually ignored.
To the south were into the Lower Lands, a place where Those With Fur muddled about their mundane lives. The Winged Ones ignored Those With Fur for the most part, their attention wholly on the finer aspects of living. The idea of using primitive weapons to hunt and living in squalor made the average Winged One queasy.
Nobody spoke of the West without making a sign against evil. It was a hot and barren place, devoid of the riches of Altus Terra and its surroundings. The dunes of red sand seemed to change all the time and the Winged Ones could never see anything green in the vastness that was the Western Desert. All they knew was that when the West seemed to become a red haze, it was time to retrieve their valuables from outside and wait out the storm.
It was on such a day the High Defender’s son was born. He and his mate had been waiting for a long time for the birth of their son, Addo Verum, and they were relieved when the baby’s first cry pierced the crisp morning air. The Deliverer seemed to be stunned as she beheld the baby’s black hair something unseen in the Winged One’s population. The Deliverer felt something rub against her soul, a pressure that remained unexplained for years afterwards, and delivered the cleaned baby to his parents.
The mother was the fairest Winged One in the capital, her long hair framing haughty facial features. Even in the standard white hospital robes she looked like a queen. Her soft, sky blue wings wrapped around her and her mate as her arms wrapped around her child. Sapphire blue eyes grew a little warmer as she looked at her offspring, and a small smile hovered on the edge of existence. She started to sing a short little welcoming hymn, her velvety voice embracing the child like another blanket. It was not the first or the last time the Deliverer heard her sing; but it would always be the one she remembered. The populace called her the High Singer, bringer of good times and joy. Of course, a priestess of Professio held the official title but Aurel held the hearts of the people.
The father had strong facial features, and sharp gray-blue eyes. He sat next to his mate, forgetting to adjust the folds of his formal indigo robe to prevent wrinkles. His pure white wings almost glowed in the sun’s light, making the Deliverer see spots. Most Winged Ones had tints at the ends of their feathers, an undesired trait that started with the mating of One With Fur and a Winged One. His wings were actually the convincing factor in his elevation to High Defender (second only to the High Priest in terms of power) by the population.
The Deliverer watched the two powerful beings take inventory of the child: counting fingers, toes, looking into his eyes, examining the area between his shoulder blades where his wings would grow when he matured. These actions made them seem more real to the Deliverer, less aloof and more like herself. She walked over to the window to give them some privacy.
As the child started to suckle at his mother’s breast, the Deliverer saw a large wave of sand spiral up from the Western Desert. It climbed through the air like a possessed thing, clawing through to reach the sun. For the first time in two thousand years it managed, making all sunlight take on a reddish tinge. In that supernatural light, the High Protector’s pure wings took on the colour of blood, and his son’s dark eyes reflected nothing.
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The child became an idol among the youth, possessing striking black hair, sharp black eyes and a laugh that cheered one’s heart. He was the greatest athlete among his peers, able to run and jump as if he already possessed wings at five years of age. His singing abilities soon surpassed even his mother’s, something she took great pride in.
His father decided to train him in the art of fighting and was not disappointed. Like everything else, the child seemed to have an inborn talent for swordplay, archery, and hand-to-hand combat. It was during one of the more formal training sessions that Addo Verum grew his wings, five years before any other Winged One. He had been sent to Triumphus like every other boy his age, with instructions to bring back one of the obsidian cores that were planted by the elders on the other side of the mountain. His father flew him past Lux, pointing out various mines as he did so, and set the boy down at Triumphus’ base. Leaving his son with only a packsack containing some food, a map, and a sling, the High Defender returned to Altus Terra.
All was going well until he reached an unmapped pass a day into his journey. The prospect of finding undiscovered land appealed to his ego so he decided to follow it. He did not see the fault line as he walked along the edge of the mountain, a portion of rock that was simply waiting for something small to come along and upset its precarious balance. Addo Verum panicked as he felt the world shift under his feet, throwing him over the side. The wind tore through his hair, deafening him to everything but his own screams. Through a haze of tears, he could see a shallow river below him, sharp rocks sticking out from its bed. These were shards of Triumphus that had fallen in the recent past, waiting to be carried away in the next flood.
It was then that he felt the Change take over him, a hot surge of energy in the core of his being. The area between shoulder blades started to itch, as if the bones were elongating, rubbing insistently against skin and tissue in the process. His screaming intensified when something broke through his skin, sending a spray of blood into the air.
Instinctively, he spread his half-grown wings, angling away from the cliff-face and the still-falling rocks. At first, the small wet wings were inefficient. The air smashed against the hard feathers, sending reverberating shocks through his system. As wet feathers fell away and his wings continued to grow, he thought he was going to pass out.
He didn’t and soon he had a wingspan equivalent to twice his height. He was still falling but not very fast; his light bones and his wings were resisting gravity’s pull with increasing efficiency.
Dry feathers finally took the wet ones’ place, and the boy called Addo Verum really started to fly. Instead of screaming in pain and terror, he screamed in exhilaration, finally understanding all the songs of his people. The powerful beats of his new wings were bringing him to safety, banishing the terror. When he sang, it was without proper words but his voice ranged from the earth to the heavens. Birds joined his chorus, and laughter went into his song. Had another Winged One been present, he or she would have fallen in love with the dark haired youth immediately.
Eventually, the adrenaline wore off and he grew tired. He spotted a grassy plateau nearby and tried to land gracefully. He failed miserably, almost smashing into a nearby boulder; but the scrapes on his arms and legs from his crash weren’t serious enough to break his spirit or even merit medical attention. Collapsing onto the soft grass, the young adult soon fell asleep to the sounds of grass whispering in the breeze and gurgling water.
When he woke up, the sun was rising. Blearily rubbing his face with his half-torn cotton shirt, he took a closer look at his surroundings. There was a small stream at his feet, explaining why they were wet, and a wall of gray stone on the left side of his body. His surroundings were all but forgotten when the child saw what first appeared to be a clump of rocks. Then, he recognized the obsidian cores and knew that all was right again.
He took one of the shiny black rocks from the pile, an orb about the size of his head, and almost dropped it. It must have been between fifteen and eighteen pounds! Cursing, he placed it in the packsack, feeling the straps grow taut. He stood there for a moment, just staring into a part of the earth’s heart, utterly mesmerized. Grinning madly, he ran off the edge of the cliff, wings already poised for flight. The exhilaration was as potent as the first two times, and he worked his wings furiously to accommodate the extra weight.
It was as he passed over Nex that he saw something glowing in the crevices of the mountain, near the mouth of the river. The area was invisible by any other angle, explaining why he had never seen it on any map. Shifting the angle of his wings, he targeted the mysterious object. He managed to land on a nearby boulder without loosing his balance this time. It was almost as if he had always had wings. The glowing object was a crystalline orb mounted proudly on a pedestal of purple quartz. It pulsed with a regular beat, its light bouncing off the water.
A forgotten instinct told him to leave it alone, a feeling in the back of his mind that spoke of red sands and blazing heat, of screams and high winds. However, the orb seemed to call to him, its light banishing whatever hesitation he might have had. He thought of how his luck seemed to always bring him to safety and his pride grew, overpowering his sense of caution.
The world seemed to darken as he picked it up but he didn’t notice. He was completely enchanted by now. The light extended from the orb into his body, making him glow like something from another world. Reluctantly, he put the orb into the packsack next to the obsidian core, knowing that he needed to leave this place. Energized like never before, he started to fly, not noticing the shadowed sun.
He headed for the tower of the Defenders, his father’s place of power. It was the tallest building in Altus Terra, with a giant balcony six stories above street-level. Great windows adorned its turrets, open to the sky. Indigo banners flapped in the wind, the symbol of a diving hawk embroidered in gold. He landed on the balcony and walked into the Inner Sanctum.
The shocked faces of the Winged Ones in the tower of the Defenders appealed to him, and he started to strut, wings fully extended to catch even more stares. The blue-robed Winged Ones stared at his new wings, a white even purer than his fathers with specks of dried blood. He ran up to his father and gave the man an enthusiastic hug. When he felt his father’s arms around his shoulders, he looked up, beaming.
“I have brought my stone of passage.” He intoned the ritualistic words with a smile, removing the obsidian core from his packsack. Kneeling on one knee, he presented it to his father, the High Defender. “By the seven gods whose names have been given to the almighty mountains, I present the core of Triumphus to you.”
“I, the High Defender of Altus Terra, the capital of the Green Lands, accept this core in the name of the seven gods who protect us all. Rise, son of Altus Terra, and tell us of your journey.”
And so the child called Addo Verum, the first fifteen-year old to grow wings in the history of the Winged Ones, spoke of his journey, leaving nothing out. His elders seemed impressed until he spoke of the orb; then their faces spoke only of horror. It was only when he removed it from his pouch that he noticed their expressions. “What’s wrong?” He asked, the pride he felt at his elders’ surprise being overtaken by dread.
“That is the orb of Anima, the soul of this land. It is what makes the plants grow and the water run into our wells without spoiling.” The High Defender’s voice was that of a man whose life has just been destroyed. “You have taken the life of the land from its place.”
The boy backed away from the High Defender, fear destroying his self-confidence making his face look years younger, vulnerable to everything. His wings wrapped around his body, making an isolating cocoon. “I’ll put it back.” He said fearfully, his usual melodious voice breaking into shards of dissonance. “I’ll go right now!”
Death used his sire’s face to look at him.
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Addo Verum did not know what happened after his father sent for the High Priest, but he woke up on a lumpy cot. Groaning, he opened his eyes. The image fuzzed for a moment as nausea hit him, and he closed them again. The scent of musty air penetrated the fog in his head, confusing him. Every building in Altus Terra had great air circulation and the only place that he could think of was-
“…the dungeon.” His throat was so dry that it hurt to speak. He opened his eyes again, confirming the theory. He was in a room with bare gray walls on three sides and a door made of widely spaced iron bars on the other. There were no windows in sight, only a series of flickering torches every six feet.
The High Defender was on the other side of the door, looking more downtrodden than Addo Verum had ever seen. His wings seemed to droop, the longer feathers almost brushing the floor as he paced, and there were wrinkles in his usually pristine robes. The man’s eyes seemed more gray than blue in the torchlight. “You’re awake.”
“Daddy?” The boy croaked. “What’s going on? Did they bring the orb of Anima back?”
“They tried.” The High Defender’s wings seemed to droop even more as he spoke. He paused for a moment before continuing, trying to find the right words and knowing that there were none. “But its resting place no longer exists. The second mouth of the Great River collapsed seconds after they arrived. To be precise, the whole side of the mountain collapsed. We lost five Defenders… and your mother will not be able to talk anymore. She and the High Singer were praying as the Defenders helped the High Priest walk. A piece of debris fell on her and it hit her larynx. She’s still alive and they’re treating her in the medical wing.”
“It’s my fault for not telling you about the orb.” His father continued, meeting his son’s eyes, trying to take the boy’s guilt away. He was only a child; he did not need to deal with the guilt of a grown man. “I was going to tell you in a few years when you grew your wings, when you could actually get there. I’m sorry.” The High Defender’s voice wavered, his façade crumbling despite his best effort.
“Torel.” A voice called from the right, someplace beyond Addo Verum’s line of sight. “It’s time to go.”
“I know.” The High Defender took one last look at his son and walked away. He held his back straight and kept his chin high. He had made his choice.
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Addo Verum must have fallen asleep because he found himself waking up from a nightmare. Tears were still running down his face when he heard someone walk up a few minutes later. It was a Defender he had never seen before. “Where’s my father?”
“Same place as your mother.” The Defender unlocked the door to the cell and started to lead the boy away, refusing to say anything else.
It was only when he saw his father’s second-in-command dressed in the robes of the High Defender that he understood what had happened. “Why?” He started to sob once again, barely able to stand. “Where are they?”
“She would not continue on without her voice and he wanted to spare you. It did not work.” Harsh gray eyes stared down at him. The boy flinched as he felt a wave of hate from the Defenders around him. “The people believe that the gods will be appeased only by the blood of he who brought this on us.” The man continued, extending his grayish-black wings to their full width. “You made me sacrifice Torel to save your stupid hide. I did not want to go against his wish but the people leave me no choice. They want your blood or they’ll kill us all, and themselves too most likely.”
Before the boy could think of anything to say in his defense, two guards grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back as another bound his wings together. Two other defenders secured his ankles, rendering him helpless. The High Defender led the procession to the balcony, wings fully extended and gleaming in the sun. They flew towards Nex, ignoring the boy’s pleas and his tears. People looked out the window, unaccustomed to hearing a young child screaming for mercy. When they saw the High Defender in full uniform, an indigo robe made of the finest wool found in the Green Lands, they closed their windows and their hearts.
Soon, Addo Verum found himself kneeling on a boulder, staring at the remaining mouth of the Great River. The water flowing from Lux seemed to have lost something, looking flat and sickly somehow. The High Defender then started to chant a prayer of forgiveness, unsheathing the ceremonial dagger that they used to slay lesser beasts.
And then he slit the child’s throat with it.
The pure water absorbed the child’s lifeblood, sweeping the blood down the stream. The red stain remained visible through the High Defender’s prayer, a testament to his sacrifice. As he sheathed the blade, a drop of innocent blood dropped onto the orb of Anima.
In the desert, the winds started to blow.
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Truthfully, the five Defenders, Addo Verum and his parents were the lucky ones.
Those With Fur huddled in the homes as devastating winds from the West blew through Altus Terra. Banners were ripped from their anchors, sometimes shredded within minutes. They saw the small group of Defenders returning from the North, saw the red winds ensnare the beautiful creatures, tearing their wings from their bodies. Blood, feathers, severed wings, and bodies fell from the red sky. The singing in the capital became screams of terror and pain as the western winds tore through the city, blowing through the towers, using windows to gain access to the space within. Most of the houses in Altus Terra fell that day, either blown down by the powerful winds or knocked down by other towers. Many Winged Ones were crushed under the stone; other’s wings were ripped away before their lives ended with sand the colour of blood in their lungs.
Either way, the shinning population Fell on that day. Their soaring songs were lost to the winds, their poems and other stories being destroyed as the people able to read them were killed. The name Altus Terra was lost along with the true name of its population.
By the time that Those With Fur learned the art of writing, the tales of what had happened had been forgotten, replaced by the deeds of the living.
Now, there were two sets of ancient ruins and no explanation for either of them.
The Winged Ones
The Winged Ones lived a long time ago in a place called Altus Terra where houses rose above the lolling hills like lofty lords, arrogantly stretching upwards in an attempt to catch the stars. Topping the mightiest of the houses were spires, with bright banners embroidered with family crests billowing out like giant flags, snaring people’s attention almost immediately. The scent of fine food filled the air, exotic spices that made one’s head spin, fresh bread soothed it, and new meals that the chefs of Corte invented on a regular basis made many stomachs rumble for attention. Tales and song filled the air in a harmony achieved nowhere else for the Winged Ones took pride in everything from the traditional hymns to an unconventional jig.
To the North were seven mountains, each bearing the name of a god. Of these, Triumphus was the youngest, its great cliffs sharp and devastating to the unwary. In front of it was the Winged Ones’ favorite, Lux. In addition to being a source of the Great River, the gently sloped mountain contained a significant amount of the beautiful white stone that composed their houses. A long time ago, Nex was its identical twin; but now it was stunted and dark, as if its formerly beautiful landscape had been twisted in a great disaster. It also sported a river mouth, one that joined the Great River further down, making a large ‘Y’ between the mountains.
To the East was the Great Cliff, owner of many souls. It dropped from the average elevation of the Lower Lands to sea level, forming a devastating, near ninety-degree angle. In the historical documents of Altus Terra, there was mention of a large hill that fell into the sea. The prospect of such devastation made some of the Winged Ones worry that it may happen again, but they were usually ignored.
To the south were into the Lower Lands, a place where Those With Fur muddled about their mundane lives. The Winged Ones ignored Those With Fur for the most part, their attention wholly on the finer aspects of living. The idea of using primitive weapons to hunt and living in squalor made the average Winged One queasy.
Nobody spoke of the West without making a sign against evil. It was a hot and barren place, devoid of the riches of Altus Terra and its surroundings. The dunes of red sand seemed to change all the time and the Winged Ones could never see anything green in the vastness that was the Western Desert. All they knew was that when the West seemed to become a red haze, it was time to retrieve their valuables from outside and wait out the storm.
It was on such a day the High Defender’s son was born. He and his mate had been waiting for a long time for the birth of their son, Addo Verum, and they were relieved when the baby’s first cry pierced the crisp morning air. The Deliverer seemed to be stunned as she beheld the baby’s black hair something unseen in the Winged One’s population. The Deliverer felt something rub against her soul, a pressure that remained unexplained for years afterwards, and delivered the cleaned baby to his parents.
The mother was the fairest Winged One in the capital, her long hair framing haughty facial features. Even in the standard white hospital robes she looked like a queen. Her soft, sky blue wings wrapped around her and her mate as her arms wrapped around her child. Sapphire blue eyes grew a little warmer as she looked at her offspring, and a small smile hovered on the edge of existence. She started to sing a short little welcoming hymn, her velvety voice embracing the child like another blanket. It was not the first or the last time the Deliverer heard her sing; but it would always be the one she remembered. The populace called her the High Singer, bringer of good times and joy. Of course, a priestess of Professio held the official title but Aurel held the hearts of the people.
The father had strong facial features, and sharp gray-blue eyes. He sat next to his mate, forgetting to adjust the folds of his formal indigo robe to prevent wrinkles. His pure white wings almost glowed in the sun’s light, making the Deliverer see spots. Most Winged Ones had tints at the ends of their feathers, an undesired trait that started with the mating of One With Fur and a Winged One. His wings were actually the convincing factor in his elevation to High Defender (second only to the High Priest in terms of power) by the population.
The Deliverer watched the two powerful beings take inventory of the child: counting fingers, toes, looking into his eyes, examining the area between his shoulder blades where his wings would grow when he matured. These actions made them seem more real to the Deliverer, less aloof and more like herself. She walked over to the window to give them some privacy.
As the child started to suckle at his mother’s breast, the Deliverer saw a large wave of sand spiral up from the Western Desert. It climbed through the air like a possessed thing, clawing through to reach the sun. For the first time in two thousand years it managed, making all sunlight take on a reddish tinge. In that supernatural light, the High Protector’s pure wings took on the colour of blood, and his son’s dark eyes reflected nothing.
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The child became an idol among the youth, possessing striking black hair, sharp black eyes and a laugh that cheered one’s heart. He was the greatest athlete among his peers, able to run and jump as if he already possessed wings at five years of age. His singing abilities soon surpassed even his mother’s, something she took great pride in.
His father decided to train him in the art of fighting and was not disappointed. Like everything else, the child seemed to have an inborn talent for swordplay, archery, and hand-to-hand combat. It was during one of the more formal training sessions that Addo Verum grew his wings, five years before any other Winged One. He had been sent to Triumphus like every other boy his age, with instructions to bring back one of the obsidian cores that were planted by the elders on the other side of the mountain. His father flew him past Lux, pointing out various mines as he did so, and set the boy down at Triumphus’ base. Leaving his son with only a packsack containing some food, a map, and a sling, the High Defender returned to Altus Terra.
All was going well until he reached an unmapped pass a day into his journey. The prospect of finding undiscovered land appealed to his ego so he decided to follow it. He did not see the fault line as he walked along the edge of the mountain, a portion of rock that was simply waiting for something small to come along and upset its precarious balance. Addo Verum panicked as he felt the world shift under his feet, throwing him over the side. The wind tore through his hair, deafening him to everything but his own screams. Through a haze of tears, he could see a shallow river below him, sharp rocks sticking out from its bed. These were shards of Triumphus that had fallen in the recent past, waiting to be carried away in the next flood.
It was then that he felt the Change take over him, a hot surge of energy in the core of his being. The area between shoulder blades started to itch, as if the bones were elongating, rubbing insistently against skin and tissue in the process. His screaming intensified when something broke through his skin, sending a spray of blood into the air.
Instinctively, he spread his half-grown wings, angling away from the cliff-face and the still-falling rocks. At first, the small wet wings were inefficient. The air smashed against the hard feathers, sending reverberating shocks through his system. As wet feathers fell away and his wings continued to grow, he thought he was going to pass out.
He didn’t and soon he had a wingspan equivalent to twice his height. He was still falling but not very fast; his light bones and his wings were resisting gravity’s pull with increasing efficiency.
Dry feathers finally took the wet ones’ place, and the boy called Addo Verum really started to fly. Instead of screaming in pain and terror, he screamed in exhilaration, finally understanding all the songs of his people. The powerful beats of his new wings were bringing him to safety, banishing the terror. When he sang, it was without proper words but his voice ranged from the earth to the heavens. Birds joined his chorus, and laughter went into his song. Had another Winged One been present, he or she would have fallen in love with the dark haired youth immediately.
Eventually, the adrenaline wore off and he grew tired. He spotted a grassy plateau nearby and tried to land gracefully. He failed miserably, almost smashing into a nearby boulder; but the scrapes on his arms and legs from his crash weren’t serious enough to break his spirit or even merit medical attention. Collapsing onto the soft grass, the young adult soon fell asleep to the sounds of grass whispering in the breeze and gurgling water.
When he woke up, the sun was rising. Blearily rubbing his face with his half-torn cotton shirt, he took a closer look at his surroundings. There was a small stream at his feet, explaining why they were wet, and a wall of gray stone on the left side of his body. His surroundings were all but forgotten when the child saw what first appeared to be a clump of rocks. Then, he recognized the obsidian cores and knew that all was right again.
He took one of the shiny black rocks from the pile, an orb about the size of his head, and almost dropped it. It must have been between fifteen and eighteen pounds! Cursing, he placed it in the packsack, feeling the straps grow taut. He stood there for a moment, just staring into a part of the earth’s heart, utterly mesmerized. Grinning madly, he ran off the edge of the cliff, wings already poised for flight. The exhilaration was as potent as the first two times, and he worked his wings furiously to accommodate the extra weight.
It was as he passed over Nex that he saw something glowing in the crevices of the mountain, near the mouth of the river. The area was invisible by any other angle, explaining why he had never seen it on any map. Shifting the angle of his wings, he targeted the mysterious object. He managed to land on a nearby boulder without loosing his balance this time. It was almost as if he had always had wings. The glowing object was a crystalline orb mounted proudly on a pedestal of purple quartz. It pulsed with a regular beat, its light bouncing off the water.
A forgotten instinct told him to leave it alone, a feeling in the back of his mind that spoke of red sands and blazing heat, of screams and high winds. However, the orb seemed to call to him, its light banishing whatever hesitation he might have had. He thought of how his luck seemed to always bring him to safety and his pride grew, overpowering his sense of caution.
The world seemed to darken as he picked it up but he didn’t notice. He was completely enchanted by now. The light extended from the orb into his body, making him glow like something from another world. Reluctantly, he put the orb into the packsack next to the obsidian core, knowing that he needed to leave this place. Energized like never before, he started to fly, not noticing the shadowed sun.
He headed for the tower of the Defenders, his father’s place of power. It was the tallest building in Altus Terra, with a giant balcony six stories above street-level. Great windows adorned its turrets, open to the sky. Indigo banners flapped in the wind, the symbol of a diving hawk embroidered in gold. He landed on the balcony and walked into the Inner Sanctum.
The shocked faces of the Winged Ones in the tower of the Defenders appealed to him, and he started to strut, wings fully extended to catch even more stares. The blue-robed Winged Ones stared at his new wings, a white even purer than his fathers with specks of dried blood. He ran up to his father and gave the man an enthusiastic hug. When he felt his father’s arms around his shoulders, he looked up, beaming.
“I have brought my stone of passage.” He intoned the ritualistic words with a smile, removing the obsidian core from his packsack. Kneeling on one knee, he presented it to his father, the High Defender. “By the seven gods whose names have been given to the almighty mountains, I present the core of Triumphus to you.”
“I, the High Defender of Altus Terra, the capital of the Green Lands, accept this core in the name of the seven gods who protect us all. Rise, son of Altus Terra, and tell us of your journey.”
And so the child called Addo Verum, the first fifteen-year old to grow wings in the history of the Winged Ones, spoke of his journey, leaving nothing out. His elders seemed impressed until he spoke of the orb; then their faces spoke only of horror. It was only when he removed it from his pouch that he noticed their expressions. “What’s wrong?” He asked, the pride he felt at his elders’ surprise being overtaken by dread.
“That is the orb of Anima, the soul of this land. It is what makes the plants grow and the water run into our wells without spoiling.” The High Defender’s voice was that of a man whose life has just been destroyed. “You have taken the life of the land from its place.”
The boy backed away from the High Defender, fear destroying his self-confidence making his face look years younger, vulnerable to everything. His wings wrapped around his body, making an isolating cocoon. “I’ll put it back.” He said fearfully, his usual melodious voice breaking into shards of dissonance. “I’ll go right now!”
Death used his sire’s face to look at him.
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Addo Verum did not know what happened after his father sent for the High Priest, but he woke up on a lumpy cot. Groaning, he opened his eyes. The image fuzzed for a moment as nausea hit him, and he closed them again. The scent of musty air penetrated the fog in his head, confusing him. Every building in Altus Terra had great air circulation and the only place that he could think of was-
“…the dungeon.” His throat was so dry that it hurt to speak. He opened his eyes again, confirming the theory. He was in a room with bare gray walls on three sides and a door made of widely spaced iron bars on the other. There were no windows in sight, only a series of flickering torches every six feet.
The High Defender was on the other side of the door, looking more downtrodden than Addo Verum had ever seen. His wings seemed to droop, the longer feathers almost brushing the floor as he paced, and there were wrinkles in his usually pristine robes. The man’s eyes seemed more gray than blue in the torchlight. “You’re awake.”
“Daddy?” The boy croaked. “What’s going on? Did they bring the orb of Anima back?”
“They tried.” The High Defender’s wings seemed to droop even more as he spoke. He paused for a moment before continuing, trying to find the right words and knowing that there were none. “But its resting place no longer exists. The second mouth of the Great River collapsed seconds after they arrived. To be precise, the whole side of the mountain collapsed. We lost five Defenders… and your mother will not be able to talk anymore. She and the High Singer were praying as the Defenders helped the High Priest walk. A piece of debris fell on her and it hit her larynx. She’s still alive and they’re treating her in the medical wing.”
“It’s my fault for not telling you about the orb.” His father continued, meeting his son’s eyes, trying to take the boy’s guilt away. He was only a child; he did not need to deal with the guilt of a grown man. “I was going to tell you in a few years when you grew your wings, when you could actually get there. I’m sorry.” The High Defender’s voice wavered, his façade crumbling despite his best effort.
“Torel.” A voice called from the right, someplace beyond Addo Verum’s line of sight. “It’s time to go.”
“I know.” The High Defender took one last look at his son and walked away. He held his back straight and kept his chin high. He had made his choice.
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Addo Verum must have fallen asleep because he found himself waking up from a nightmare. Tears were still running down his face when he heard someone walk up a few minutes later. It was a Defender he had never seen before. “Where’s my father?”
“Same place as your mother.” The Defender unlocked the door to the cell and started to lead the boy away, refusing to say anything else.
It was only when he saw his father’s second-in-command dressed in the robes of the High Defender that he understood what had happened. “Why?” He started to sob once again, barely able to stand. “Where are they?”
“She would not continue on without her voice and he wanted to spare you. It did not work.” Harsh gray eyes stared down at him. The boy flinched as he felt a wave of hate from the Defenders around him. “The people believe that the gods will be appeased only by the blood of he who brought this on us.” The man continued, extending his grayish-black wings to their full width. “You made me sacrifice Torel to save your stupid hide. I did not want to go against his wish but the people leave me no choice. They want your blood or they’ll kill us all, and themselves too most likely.”
Before the boy could think of anything to say in his defense, two guards grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back as another bound his wings together. Two other defenders secured his ankles, rendering him helpless. The High Defender led the procession to the balcony, wings fully extended and gleaming in the sun. They flew towards Nex, ignoring the boy’s pleas and his tears. People looked out the window, unaccustomed to hearing a young child screaming for mercy. When they saw the High Defender in full uniform, an indigo robe made of the finest wool found in the Green Lands, they closed their windows and their hearts.
Soon, Addo Verum found himself kneeling on a boulder, staring at the remaining mouth of the Great River. The water flowing from Lux seemed to have lost something, looking flat and sickly somehow. The High Defender then started to chant a prayer of forgiveness, unsheathing the ceremonial dagger that they used to slay lesser beasts.
And then he slit the child’s throat with it.
The pure water absorbed the child’s lifeblood, sweeping the blood down the stream. The red stain remained visible through the High Defender’s prayer, a testament to his sacrifice. As he sheathed the blade, a drop of innocent blood dropped onto the orb of Anima.
In the desert, the winds started to blow.
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Truthfully, the five Defenders, Addo Verum and his parents were the lucky ones.
Those With Fur huddled in the homes as devastating winds from the West blew through Altus Terra. Banners were ripped from their anchors, sometimes shredded within minutes. They saw the small group of Defenders returning from the North, saw the red winds ensnare the beautiful creatures, tearing their wings from their bodies. Blood, feathers, severed wings, and bodies fell from the red sky. The singing in the capital became screams of terror and pain as the western winds tore through the city, blowing through the towers, using windows to gain access to the space within. Most of the houses in Altus Terra fell that day, either blown down by the powerful winds or knocked down by other towers. Many Winged Ones were crushed under the stone; other’s wings were ripped away before their lives ended with sand the colour of blood in their lungs.
Either way, the shinning population Fell on that day. Their soaring songs were lost to the winds, their poems and other stories being destroyed as the people able to read them were killed. The name Altus Terra was lost along with the true name of its population.
By the time that Those With Fur learned the art of writing, the tales of what had happened had been forgotten, replaced by the deeds of the living.
Now, there were two sets of ancient ruins and no explanation for either of them.