Zèklè
Dad!
"MAUNA!" you holler back, your voice cracking as you peer toward the source of his voice, of Iskra's, hurrying forward, the need to see them, to touch them, all the propulsion you need. The light is so unnatural here, but it is not the weirdest thing. You balk and blink as your amulets explode, a surge of energy engulfing you, making your eyes water. Not important now. Iskra and Mauna are steps two and three, they're important, they're the goal, even though your wing hurts like a bitch and your side feels all dead and you're seeing little spots in front of your eyes because of the weird flashy lights. You need to find your family, your boys, to make sure they're okay - and they are, they're there, surrounded by Ampere's things (don't think about it don't think about it don'tthinkaboutit), Sparky accompanied by his remarkably cheery little whale, and Mauna...
Mauna is lying flush on the ground, and it doesn't matter that he's breathing, that he's moving, that he speaking and the neurons in his head are firing and he is so very obviously not dead. You're on your knees beside him in a minute, your wings spreading wide to sweep him up, to wrap him and Iskra and the whale into a bubble of safety, of isolation, of home, to shield them from the outside horrors. Your nose runs quickly over the newborn's hide, pressing and peering, investigating all the last little corners for secrets, or pain. When you find no obvious blemish you breathe a heavy sigh of relief. "Good," you breathe, "You're okay. It's gonna be okay." Your sunbeam gaze turns to appraise Sparky, resting fondly on the whale that seems blissfully unaware of how the world has gone to hell in a hand basket. "We're all okay."
And though you're still in mourning, though your heart hurts so much you don't know if it even exists, you feel a soft fluttering of hope, a little light of happiness in this dark, miserable hell. They're okay, and as long as you keep telling them so, maybe they'll believe it. Maybe it will be true. You let the whisper of a smile curl at your lips, let the slightest sparkle return to your dead eyes - and as though it's nothing, as though it doesn't matter and nothing matters and everything is okay, you press your face against Mauna's belly and blow, your breath forming loud raspberries, a callback to a simpler time.
It's a brief respite - all your respites are brief, these days. From behind you a bright voice rings out, and your body stiffens tangibly in response, muscles clenching into rigidity. Somehow you manage to both spin and splay, your wings still spread to protect the boys, your tailfeathers raised, your ears pinned back. Are you guys new here? - and with this the long-eared stranger seals her fate, sets herself apart, marks herself as part of this miserable place, the child of a miserable god, slayer of mothers and sisters and lovers. Your voice lowers to a rumbling growl, the hurt in your heart swelling and rising until it is a beast, the weight of your pain propelling your anger, filling you with something blinding, something reckless, something that resembles your parents in the height of their heat, the inferno of their rage. "Yes," you snap, every inch of you bristling. "And you are...?" It's not normal for you to hate, but then, what even is normal anymore? You hate her for being part of this place, hate her for taking from you the instant of happiness.
And in the sea that's painted black,
Creatures lurk below the deck
But you're a queen and I'm a lionheart
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The Portal
