ORIGIN

even as their father leaned to stride over them — all of him heavy with the obvious weight of love and concern — the child's world threatened to daub and smear once again, motes of red dancing before them like salt on paint. the stranger's scream, the rip of flesh, and worst of all that crack! of absolute finality ... their ears were jerking every which way, scouring the room for something louder, but the tinnitus remained. a scrabble of claws found only a stone floor no different from the one that had ended them moments earlier, and the dry taste of blood stung in their mouth. they realized with a start that they'd bitten their tongue, likely in the fall from conscious to not. working their jaw, they winced at the scrapes and bruises along its side, and the meager, wing-walking step that they took was enough to prompt a thumping reminder of their older, larger contusions. this was to say nothing of the searing ache in their chest, which felt far too small to house the clamor of heart, lung, and stone inside.

their grandfather had wanted to be leveled into nothing but bone, had done (or at least believed that he'd done) something so terrible as to vindicate his fate. how could such a twisted form of justice have come to pass? and the spotted figure with thunderbolt claws ... he had been another son of aza'zel's, which made him at least a partial brother of their father, and therefore their own kin. all of this was important information. they would be happy they had excavated it alone. yes? even if they weren't just now.

all their senses told them it had been a mistake, and so, too did a primal force deep within, the same voice that had railed against doing it at all; but as they blinked away mist and swallowed back the knot in their throat, they contended: was it, though — a mistake? or were they simply not strong enough to handle it? and is that a problem i can correct?

their father's body eclipsed that of his. facing him, they drew a slow swell of breath in and then out. steady.

"i'm sorry. we can go." his whisper touched them in its sheer breathless sincerity; it gave them ground to stand on, put the here in here and now. they couldn't quite bring themself to return the nuzzle, but they did accept it. then came a warning. "this whole cave is full of bones like these, darling, that you can see into with magic."

the feathers at their nape flared erect. there was that word again, darling, but the ones around it were much more pressing. they hadn't prepared for this. a whole cave full of them? that was ... fine. it's fine. they compelled their crest to lie flat. what they had seen would not leave a mark. they would lean into the pull, not the push, and in time their fear would disappear. the bones would become familiar fixtures of home and heart; their stories would be lessons and lullabies, their spirits friends and wise advisors — just as aza'zel was to giggle.

after a silence that ran for either too long or too short but certainly not neither, they conceded him a nod. the gesture was small and not entirely convincing, almost numb, as though moving through water. surmising some ambiguity, the chick spread their wings and stretched them towards him, grasping at the air in their claws. it was the very picture of a toddler, soundlessly asking to be taken home.

they hadn't exactly figured the method by which they would be carried — whether he would take them by mouth, grasp them in his talons, or help them up and onto his back — and therefore, foolishly, had prepared for none of them. as such, the hook of his beak came as a surprise when it swooped in their direction. the hatchling flinched and dodged away, only to realize what was happening and subsequently capitulate to it, huffing softly in embarrassment. (come on, kid, keep up.) tense, shaky muscles softened and stilled as their father felt for purchase, then caught it at a loose fold of skin just above their shoulders. he swung them into midair and found a place for them at his chest; likewise, they fumbled for a grip on either side of his neck, clinging to his mane as an infant might to a favorite blanket.

oriented as they were, their view was limited to what they could see beneath them and over their chauffeur's shoulders, but even so, their eyes widened at once to take in the rapid sequence of vistas that greeted them: wings outspread at their fullest span, vaster than they ever could have imagined, surely broad enough to shade the world; aza'zel's remains (and their own chrysalis) in retreat, followed by the open monument that contained them; and an impossible expanse of air, stone, and bone spiraling around them. suddenly neither their father nor their birthplace felt all so large at all, and they knew themself nothing more than an atom in the eye of the universe, finite, insignificant. the vertigo lasted mere seconds. them and the wind, they'd get along well, and they savored the gentle wash of air through their feathers. but the enormity of it all left them dizzy with awe.

and this wasn't it. so much more was waiting for them. i'll see it all.

with reluctance, their gaze fell to the pool beneath, which soon spun out of sight as the flight came to a close. rhythmic splashing and swaying momentum indicated that their father was wading in. they took the opening to pick their jaw off the floor, counting down to the moment he let go, and ... ah!

the shock of the water froze them in place, and for an instant, they stood straighter than an arrow, motionless save for a violent bout of shivering. it wasn't just the temperature — yes, it was a little cold when it came all at once, but it was more the surge of memory it brought them, the way it whisked them back to drifting, swimming, drowning. but then they recalled the soft mirages that had made this venture seem so appealing, and they relaxed into a more natural stance. this wasn't so bad. already the pain in their feet was numbing, as promised. they lifted a leg from the shallows, set it down, and repeated the motion once more, watching in rapt fascination as water spilled from their trousers.

"watch me, okay?"

their eyes flipped over to their father. the pool didn't even cover his toes, they noted; meanwhile, their own legs were halfway submerged. the demonstration that followed was curious, but simple enough. carefully, methodically, they leaned left to tip a wing underwater. without instruction, it snapped up, shuffled back and forth, and rustled through to flick away the excess. enthralling! having nipped at the feathers to straighten and clean them, they repeated the ritual with their other wing, then their undercarriage and tail, turning and marching in a semicircle every now and then, clearly enjoying themself quite a lot.

at length it dawned on them that only their head remained, and they dipped it easily into the pool, ears and crest ruffling thoroughly. some reprisals later, their muzzle lingered ajar in the water. they had a notion that they were meant to convey it into the back of their mouth and lower down from there, but were not entirely sure of how to make this happen. withdrawing, they lapped tentatively with their tongue. that felt wrong, somehow. it took another attempt or two, but ultimately they settled on a technique, filling their mouth and pitching their head back to swallow. the liquid flowed cool and glassy in their throat.

that felt better, didn't it? the child tossed a sidelong glance their father's way, smoothing their plumage and smiling softly. they’d been careful to contain their activities so as to avoid getting him any wetter than he might have liked. they looked back down to contemplate another drink, now that the water's surface had gone quiet — and found a face peering back at them.

what? zeroed in, they tilted their head to inspect from every angle. their features tightened and their brows pushed together; the reflection's did the same. they hopped back and bristled, staring all the harder. truth be told, they'd known what it was the instant they saw it, but that hardly made it any easier. the creature in the mirror was a downy mess of dripping feathers and rounded proportions. its snout was strange and leathery, its coat devoid of color, and worst of all, the eyes were just ... enormous. no amount of blinking or squinting made them smaller. their ghostly silver seemed to lose a little of its light. blood rose to their cheeks at the same moment that their heart sunk to their feet.

that's not very impressive at all.

drooping heavily, they turned away and trudged elsewhere to resume washing. further work was hardly necessary, but it had been an effective distraction the first time. why not see if it worked a second?

doting praise fostered a boost of enthusiasm in the child's washing, all fluffed-up feathers and flutters of delight; but it wasn't meant to last, and as they waded away, a low simmer kindled in their chest, very near to the still-biting jasper therein. the face they had seen was far from handsome, let alone intimidating. where were their father's proud colors and pleasing proportions, the inky bristles about his glossy bill? were they defective? they certainly felt that way. stop it, they snapped to themself, and halted where they stood. dark shoulders rose from their slump and stiffened upright over tightly folded wings.

a second, louder string of splashes had trailed after their own. they waited motionless for their father to catch up. at the intake of breath that indicated he was about to speak, their ears perked and twisted in a lone sign that he had their attention.

"you know what i think about the little one you saw in the mirror?"

they aimed their regards pointedly ahead to avoid the wavy reflection below — but their eyes did turn, followed shortly by their head, when droplets of water scattered their way. the trick set off a ripple of skin along their spine, like that of a cat touched by surprise. clever of him; under different circumstances, they might have returned it. they watched him precisely as he went on, half-afraid of what he would say, whether he'd lie ... but, of course, he wouldn't and wasn't.

"i think that she's a smart little darling that'll grow up to be just about the smartest creature to walk these caves."

myriad emotions crowded their face as they parsed his speech, as though converting it to binary and back. smart — little — dar-ling; the smartest creature to walk these caves. he couldn't know that, couldn't prove it, might only be hoping it out of blind fatherly love — but he truly did believe it. why did he feel such faith in them, that this was who they were? the whole of them shuddered in a fit that might have grown into a sob, had they allowed it to. he hadn't called them big or strong or cool, but he had called them smart, and maybe that was enough.

there was something else. processing this posed more of a challenge. she? the word slipped and slithered in the child's clutches, cryptically elliptical, a secret suddenly brought to life. in the manner of a scholar double-checking what they already knew to be true, a quick mental keystroke fetched its definition: a pronoun used to denote a female person, animal, or inanimate thing considered such. still it wriggled out of reach. is that me? he'd said it; it had to be. they — no, no, she ... ceased her grappling. the word softened now, suffused its way into the young soul that held it. she.

all those computations flew through her terminal in the time it took to exhale once. her father bent and ran a rasping tongue down her back; and before the gesture was complete, she pivoted on her feet, one wing outstretched to clasp him by the cheek and keep his head where it was. the other she pressed hard to her heart. with a single blink, her eyes clarified and fixed directly on his.

very slowly, very deliberately — forming each word out of study and mimicry, not giving voice to them, but doing their shapes the greatest justice she could with her lips and tongue alone — she mouthed, thank you. she let go of his face, and then came a question that had been nibbling at the back of her mind, ever since he had first invoked aza'zel and giggle. these were her grandparents, but they had identities entirely their own, beyond other titles or any relation to her. her father did, too. here her brows rose, her free wing swept out in invitation, and a hint of a breeze crept into her mouth. the whisper was faint, maybe too much so to hear over the pool's burbling, but it had her pulse racing all the same. your name?

all it took was the lightest touch, and his ears, his eyes, his heart were hers. the sheer sincerity of him humbled her as she watched her father gasp and smile, hanging onto her every move; and those words he wanted to let out of his beak, were they an objection, as though her thanks were lost on him? the child had been here for such small hours, done nothing to earn his devotion, never asked to bear that kind of power over him. she hoped someday she would earn it. he would do anything for you, you know, she read in the gooey, molten adoration in his eyes, and like a blast of wind: he depends on you.

but she held firm against that gust and made herself manifest. he seemed to struggle with her inquiry in a different way than he had with her gratitude, and when he hesitated, she cocked her head opposite to his. had she not formed the words well enough, gotten something wrong ... ? her lips slid apart to clarify, but there was no need. in the end, he understood.

"me?" (here, a nod of confirmation.) "my name is auré — but you can call me anything you want. father, dad — papa? you take your pick, darling."

the hatchling echoed him silently. auré. the slope of it — a ridge, and a foothill — was warm and soft in her mouth. she remembered now the linguistic spell that had threaded through the wall of her chrysalis, every syllable musical, miraculous. these two, in that order, belonged to him and him alone. all his existence, distilled to twin crystals. if she were lost and called his name, would it summon him up out of thin air? she thought it loaded enough, faultless enough, true enough that it just might.

and this she knew, not by instinct, but rationale too: darling was not that incantation for her.

he certainly hadn't meant to provoke the discomfort she felt, and it turned swiftly into guilt and doubt, all of which she concealed. the endearment itself was fine, buttery smooth, sweet as sugar, and he believed it with all he had. if she could call him whatever she liked, then the rule held both ways; she would not risk hurting him over something he had meant as a gift, no matter the misfire. and what had she given him in return? precious little, by comparison. no stories, no flights or lessons, certainly not his very life. and her eyes didn't soften the way his did.

sheepishly — as if nudged forward by a braver friend — the chick crept to her father and passed in a tight circle around his leg, brushing along the feathers. she pushed a sideways nuzzle into it, even purred a few beats. this done, she lingered between his legs to peer roundly up at his face. was that ... nice? for you? i hope that it was. auré deserved affection, more of it than she could show him, even with effort.

with a rustle of wings, she took measure of the pool at large. there, just to the left, the edge was nearest. she inched in that direction and looked over her shoulder, both an illustration of her intentions and a request for her father to follow. then, she waded carefully away, keeping to the shallows where she could, flap-hopping through belly-high water where she could not. soon enough, the pool receded to a stony shore. she stopped a little ways up from its lapping tongue and, for a moment, stood — dripping, shifting pressure from foot to foot, feeling her bruises smart a little at the scree. at least the bleeding had stopped. a shiver fought and lost against her will in the cold.

a puddle had accrued. she stepped clear, shook herself, and sunk into a sitting position, tail wrapped around her. as she began to comb the frond-feathers dry in her teeth, she eyed her father at the furthermost corner of her peripheral vision. apprehension betrayed her in a hackling rise and fall of her crest.

the hatchling didn't need to look to know that her father was fussing behind her; she could hear it in the way his splashing changed with each psychic shift from watchful to frantic and back, and infer it besides. briefly she feared he would make some unnecessary endeavor to help her — scoop her away from higher waters, give her a boost to buoy her up, dive to catch her from a slip that wasn't coming. to her relief, he did not, and his stride seemed to even out. he was trying to have faith, she realized, against his wishes to coddle and fret over her. for that, she was grateful.

but a restless apprehension was beginning to stir, conjuring spectral pangs in the back of her head that waxed and waned in time with her pulse. she'd asked his name, and auré had given it to her, but there was more to it than that; this transaction was not complete. as she stood there soaking, a flutter came alive in her ribs. it was nothing like butterflies, nor anything at all — it was too profound for simile or metaphor, amorphous, untouchable — a feeling that she would have to give something away, something she could never take back. the chill of open air on wet feathers nibbled away at her nerves, as did the aching at her cheek, her feet, all over, and none of it compared to this. she dismissed it along with the shiver it sent, but she could not end it with willpower alone. it demanded to be satiated.

even as she seated herself some space away and busied herself preening dry, she was keenly aware of her father's presence, hovering at the edge of her perception. the child started at the sound of shuffling wings, and in that movement, she turned her head just enough to catch his eye. oh, oh — the fan at her tailtip flipped up in an instant to cover her face. seconds afterward, it amended its angle to let her peek owlishly over its fringes, and then ... (be strong, now) ... to retreat altogether and lie flat on the floor. a deep breath, and she met him with lucidity and intensity, as she had his father before him.

this was that crossroads, and the one that came before, when the walls around her grew too much to bear. act, or don't: the choice was hers. both outcomes had hurt, and maybe the next would, too, but she regretted neither.

he opened his mouth.

ask me.

"would you like to think of a name for yourself? or — i — i can give you one. or — we can work together on one. whatever you'd like."

he spoke, finished, and then there was silence. for a moment the child was utterly still, poised, unblinking. a clock inside her ticked, slower than that of the outside world, as she devoted everything she had to the task. a visceral part of her recoiled at the idea of collaborating or, worse, of having him decide. she was his in many ways — his dear, his darling, his ... daughter — but this would not be one of them. this she would choose for herself. she shook her head in response to his offer and hung it down in perfect perpendicularity. her brows tensed and tightened over eyes that flicked from side to side, as if they might find what they sought in the stone beneath. the tip of her tail twitched lightly; her wing-claws dug into the rock with a soft scrrr-itch. the minute hand turned.

how was one supposed to come up with a name? was it meant to simply happen, to materialize in neon lettering? she wasn't ready. she needed more time, time she didn't have. if i could just think — !

she cut the lights, and a reverie in red played out before her.

tattooed to her eyelids was the sculpted figure of her chrysalis, not as she'd seen it in afterbirth ruin, but fully intact. crystalline petals flowed and unfurled in a helical pattern around its axis, beautiful and mathematical. hard as she knew its surface to be, she felt she could crinkle and crush it at will. a sweet, soft bouquet wafted around her. roses. and deeper down, the flake of her shell she kept between lungs: a crimson dagger ready to kill.

in a single fluid motion, she swept to her feet and halved the distance to stand tall before her father. all her anxiety had gone up in smoke. she had her answer, and — swallowing the memory of that near-fatal scream — she would speak it.

"d-damask," the chick said, firmly, quietly, callow voice crackling under the weight of it. somehow it sounded much higher than she'd thought it would. she cleared her throat, then clarified: "my name is damask."