Blood.
That’s all he could taste as his cloudy senses began to return to him. Trying to clear his foggy vision, he made a vain attempt to move.
Pain.
It seared through his body like a lightning bolt, causing him to clench his eyes close and scream out in agony. Never in all his days had he felt this kind of anguish.
After several seconds of tears that forced their way out of his strained eyes, he attempted to compose enough to focus. The first thing he noticed was that he was lying face down in the dirt. Mustering up the courage to fight what he knew would be an onset of incredible pain, he drew in a sharp breath, preparing to try and roll over. Another shout of despair pierced the air as the seemingly lifeless mass flipped itself over. Gazing into the sky, he realized that night was just beginning to set, with Luna’s crescent moon decorating the starry landscape. A roll of thunder emanated from the distance.
“What happened?”
Slowly tilting his head to each side, he discovered he was alone. Upon further inspection, he realized he was on the first part of the descent of a large, rather barren hill. As the weight of the situation hit his gut like the boulders dotted along the hillside, everything began to click into place.
The war.
He had been left there, probably presumed dead by the opposite forces. He vaguely tried to recall how he had been injured, but nothing came to mind. He tried to dig deeper, but his mind kept repeating the same thing:
“You have to go back. You have to know.”
With an agonizing grunt, he pulled himself into a sitting position. For the first time, he glanced over his body. Blood was oozing out of his side and legs. His wings were indefinitely broken, and his ribs ached with an insatiable tightness.
“You have to go back. You have to know. You can’t give in yet.”
The thought was driving him at this point. Getting onto all fours, he began to claw his way up the hill. As the slope evened off to a flat plateau, a view of what lay on the other side began to take place. The dryness in his throat increased as he glanced at the scene before him.
The night was darted with a burning glow of red, emanating from the fires that danced from the buildings of the city below. The reflected fire in his eyes died as they were doused by watery tears. The gruesome sight told him all he needed to know, as memories before he passed out began to flood back. The war was over, the battle was lost, and the city was ablaze in the fiery aftermath. Not any city, his city. The site of the final stand.
“You have to go back. There’s not much time. You have to know.”
Cautiously trudging forward, he began his descent. Moving much more rapidly, he silently hoped the way down would prove much easier. The slope proved to be more than he could handle, as he lost his footing and tumbled down the unforgiving rugged hillside. He lay, curled in agony at the foothold of the hill, weeping aloud. The wounds had made themselves known, bleeding much more profusely now.
“It’s not much further. There’s not much time. You have to know.”
Picking himself up again, he bitterly began to trudge through the razed city. The fires were slowly being put out, as others raced around help where they could. He paid no mind to the shouting and wailing that seemed to echo from every way. In turn, no one stopped to help him, racing on by to tend to their own problems. The physical strain of moving alone was enough to keep the blood dripping from the open wounds. The mental haze grew as he began to grow dizzy.
“You’re almost there. You’re almost done. You have to know.”
His breathing had become very labored as he thinly drew into focus the house before him. It was on a lot of its own, slightly separated from the urban city. A thin smile crept onto his face. The whole lot was intact, spared from the blaze. It seemed to stand alone, set aside, special. Forcing the last of his strength, he dragged his beaten body up to the doorstep. He was shaking intensely as he fumbled with the doorknob. Pushing the door open in victory, he dragged himself over the threshold and inside. Blood was starting to pool in his mouth again as he hazily found his finish line. At the end of the hall way, a door was slightly parted open. Each breath became a sharp gasp as he clawed his way closer and closer to the room.
“You have to know.”
With a final push, he thrust himself into the room. Moonlight beamed through a window and into the room onto him, as he lay there with a red pool forming around his body. With deep rugged breaths, he forced his eyes open. His were met with another, gazing back.
Those eyes couldn’t understand. The figure across from him was trapped in a playpen, staring blankly; innocently.
“Now you know.” he thought to himself. “How will he be raised without a mother or father?” He quickly dispelled the thought. “No, none of that matters now. He is safe.” One final smile found its way to his lips. “Your son is safe.”
Coming to terms, he forced the last bit of energy his body would allow. Reaching to his crippled wing, he gingerly plucked a large feather. Two little eyes gazed at the phenomena, not yet old enough to understand the traditional act taking place.
The act was older than his time. In the passing of a parent, the offspring would receive a feather from the wing, as a symbol of guidance and remembrance.
He was a warrior, a leader and head of the rebellion. His career was put into the protecting the young life across from him. With one final breath, he extended his hand and opened his talon. The feather lay there in the open claw, the last semblance of his soul, waiting to be given.
It was, of course, griffon tradition.