The Tale of the Hippogriff

by OleGrayMane

ⅩⅠⅠ - To the Sea

Brilliant, westerly sunlight streamed through the windowpanes of Lady Lodema’s bower until the room seemed to brim with it. Celia could never had imagined it so, for that afternoon even the gloomiest corners came aglow. Darkness remained in only a single spot, a sharp-edged silhouette upon the far wall delineating a strange form. The shadow hovering large over the Lady belonged to Celia, for she stood upon Lodema’s narrow wooden table, a stiff-posed subject.

As for the Lodema herself, she sat tableside in her accustomed spot, quite silent and, so far that day, uncharacteristically patient. Adjacent to her, at the end opposite Celia, sat a young griffon, a scrivener immersed in the labor of drawing. Every second or two he paused and glanced at his subject, Celia, although at that moment he stared at her with eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat.

“What is the delay now?” barked Lodema.

“Well, if perhaps Mistress could…”

“This has taken far too long as it is. Have you forgotten time is of the essence?”

“No, M’Lady, but the Mistress’ pose, it is no longer—”

“Celia, dear,” said Lodema, and she groped until making contact with Celia’s foreleg.

After twisting her weary neck to and fro, Celia looked down and sighed a plaintive “Yes?”

“Do as he requests,” Lodema stated and returned to her previous state, prim, with interlaced talons resting upon the tabletop. “Should’ve been finished before you left,” she mumbled.

“His Highness’ map,” began the scrivener, “required an inordinate amount of labor from us all, myself in particular.”

“I don’t care,” she snipped. And with head held high, she said nothing more. Neither did the scrivener.

“Proceed,” Lodema commanded eventually.

“Thank you, Madam.” His head dipped, offering a perfunctory bow. “Now, would the Mistress oblige and raise her left talon higher, to its agreed upon position?”

“Like this?” Celia made an adjustment, closer to the initial pose, here talon high with claws open, menacing the empty air. The contrived manner in which she had been arranged her left her feeling like a hissing cat, ready to scratch. And she had said so. Neither griffon found the observation amusing.

“A bit higher, if you would.”

“Higher makes my shoulder hurt.” There was honesty in the statement, but duplicity as to the cause. The wound on her shoulder hurt, for the abrasion was both long and wide, although not deep, and even though those skilled in the healing arts had tended it well, she suffered from some stiffness there. She did in all parts of her body, yet, any genuine pain she felt came not from injury, but from remaining motionless while the scrivener worked. And the way in which he had positioned her, with talons raised, wings open—some but not much, he insisted—and her tail held high and head pitched back, was as uncomfortable as it was unnatural. Hours had passed and everything ached. At least the request that she maintain an open beak had been rejected. That, however, took a bit of a tiff.

“Please, Mistress. Shan’t be much longer.”

Celia complied while voicing her protest. “You said the same thing a while ago.”

“Yes,” interjected Lodema, “you did.” She huffed. “Is there no way we can accelerate the process?”

“M’lady, please. Understand that there is much cross-hatching to complete, so I might achieve the desired shading, the subtlety, and there are many delicate lines still to add, to record details of the plumage and tail.”

“You mean to say all else is complete?”

He shook his head, saying, “No,” the tone one of harsh denial, derisive. “I’ve the form, the lines, yes, but much remains unfinished. Intricate and precise work is required to render a subject with so many unique—”

“Celia.” Lodema cut him off, speaking unnecessarily loud. “Celia, off the table. Now.”

She obliged without delay and, once down, stretched her legs and arched her back. Celia then seated herself beside Lodema, adopting the Lady’s formal posture.

The scrivener sat, beak agape.

“This unfinished and intricate work of yours,” said Lodema, “it will be completed later—from memory. Can we assume your vaunted talents will not be taxed?”

The scrivener cast a cold stare; it left no impression on Lodema, of course, but to Celia, it brought mixed feelings. Not being the recipient of Lodema’s stern demands, for a change, gave rise to a strange delight, but in spite of that, she sympathized with him. And so, pleasure came to her accompanied by a pang of guilt, albeit a small one.

“Yes. Later, M’Lady,” answered the scrivener. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. A moment later, his look no longer quite so anguished, he released a breath, low and long.

“As to the text, what is it you desire beneath the illustration?”

“Do you plan on doing an illumination while we wait?”

“No, I do not,” he droned. “I will only note the words, completing the work later. But the text?”

Lodema swept a talon through the air before her. “Beneath the figure, the title shall read ‘The Hippogriff’,” she decreed. “Large script. Very decorative.”

A muffled moan escaped the scrivener. “I shall match the style of the bestiary’s other entries,” he intoned.

“Yes, yes, fine,” said Lodema. “As to the text itself…” She paused, head cocked, while the scrivener sat his pen at the ready.

“Sired by griffon, borne of mare, this impossible—” Lodema shook her head. “Nay—improbable creature epitomizes the noble attributes of both. Courage, integrity, patience, love—” There was a long pause. “Et cetera. Enumerate appropriately.”

“I shall.” Both he and Celia waited, for Lodema became silent, dwelling in thought, remaining very still.

“Conclude noting sole example, Mistress Celia of Waldren.”

With his scratching ended, the scrivener looked up. “No more?”

“Elaborate, as you say, to match the other entries.” Following a pause, which Celia though inordinately long, Lodema added, “That is all.”

Standing, the scrivener reassembled the tools of his trade, placing them with meticulous care in a wooden box, and when at last the lid was closed and latched, and the unfinished drawing of Celia in his possession, he proceeded to the door.

“I take my leave now, Lady.” And waved off without a word, he departed. The door latch produced a soft click behind him.

“I’m told he is exceptionally skilled,” said Lodema. “Still he frustrates me so. This desire of his for perfection beyond reason hampers the ability to perform his duties in a timely fashion.”

Not knowing the scrivener, nor his work, Celia offered nothing more than a sensible “Hmm” for a response. Not dismissed herself, she remained, expecting Lodema to converse with her on some matter or other. Instead, the old griffon remained seated, quite stiff, her talons crossed and tightly grasped. Her eyes were directed at the shelving of the opposing wall as if taking an inventory of the invisible.

Canting her head so she might see, Celia looked into those expressionless eyes. She found nothing of note. The interminable silence accompanying the Lady’s rigid posture produced an awkward feeling, a queasiness, and with the scrivener no longer present, and not a sound in the tiny room, Celia had only the company of her thoughts, something rare in the preceding days.

Many things she had put aside in these three hectic days in the city, but now the penultimate day had arrived. On the morrow, the griffon city and all its inhabitants would be behind her, perhaps forever. While known, the notion came upon her with little warning, provoking peculiar sentiments regarding Lodema.

In preparation for her departure, Celia had found words for many and said them. Some came easy, others difficult. What she might say to the Lady before leaving proved the knottiest of problems, and as a result, she had put off thinking about it several times. Perhaps Lodema’s distant attitude signaled some expectation, as if she waited for Celia to speak.

Without notice, Lodema tilted her head to remove a kink, and then resumed the fixedness of carven stone. The quickness of the motion jarred Celia’s thoughts, and so, instead of composing a farewell speech, she found herself asking a question.

“Lady, are you… unhappy?”

Still looking forward, Lodema replied, “And why do you say that, child?”

“You are so, well, quiet, and things… Events have not turned out as you wished.”

“Oh,” she said, her tone rising. “Now you presuppose to know not only my sensibilities, but my wants and desires.”

“Well…” Celia had second thoughts and hesitated. Only with great anxiety did she broach the subject, for she feared the Lady held her responsible. “He won’t be here… with you.”

Lodema’s head drooped, lowered so one might think she could see the folded talons resting before her. She released a long, exasperated sigh.

Celia looked away, glancing back only upon hearing Lodema’s voice.

“When you first left home, what of your mother?”

“Father’s absence upset her. It is why I came here.”

“Yes, of course. That’s not—” Lodema waved away her response. “No. I meant about you leaving.”

Much had happened since then, and although not yet a full year had passed since she had left her mother, everything felt farther away in time than it did in distance. As such, Celia could not recall the events of that morning with exactness, yet, the look upon Mother’s face remain in her mind.

“She did no say it, but I think seeing me leave made her even sadder than she was.”

“Yet she let you go,” said Lodema. “She let you fly away, a ward of fickle winds, not for a moment knowing what would happen to you, where you would be, what might become of you on your journey.” Turing towards Celia, she asked, “Does your mother not love you?”

“She does!” Lodema’s soft chuckle did little to assuage her anger.

“Yes, Celia, I am convinced your mother does, perhaps more than you comprehend. This was not my point, though. So, your mother loves you and yet she let you go; she allowed you to depart for a place, a future, unknown. Hmm?”

A question which was not a question: how it reminded Celia of Warrik. How alike those two with their crafty manner of speech and their artful thought, and although she had grown to expect it from them, it still rankled. But, since what the Lady had said was not a true question, Celia decided not to answer. And the Lady must not have sought one, for she continued, unanswered.

“When childhood ends, a parent must come to terms with the moment, for at that juncture, they may be called upon to prove their love in ways that can only bring them sorrow.”

Thinking she had the answer to her initial question, yet unsure, Celia sought confirmation. “Then you are sad.”

“My heart is gladdened by the outcome, yet I find myself, ultimately, neither happy nor sad. I am content, Celia, no more and no less, and I am resigned to remain so.” Lodema shook her head, a nervous laugh accompanying the shaking. “There were times, numerous times, when so great my ordeal, I feared I could not go on. Since you and Warrik left, I reflected upon my state on those darkest of days, and only then did I discover your father’s absence was not the crux of my despair. It was not knowing.”

“Knowing what happened to Father?”

“To some extent, yes,” said Lodema, and although her voice bore anguish, it remained absent from her face.

“Obviously ’twas a great mystery, but Ahren was not alone, as you know. Others sought answers for their loved ones as much as I. Yes, knowing what became of your father mattered to myself and scores of others, however, a greater need of knowing belonged to me alone. In my heart, I was desperate to know I bore no fault in his disappearance, that it was not I who sent him to a destiny unknown. Thus, this outcome befits my selfishness, does it not? What I needed, I have received; what I wanted, through thoughtlessness, I have lost. Hence, I acquiesce to my fate.”

On many an occasion Celia had thought the worst of Lodema, sometimes outright hated her. Even so, looking upon her now, she feared for the old griffon’s future. In her imagination, Celia saw winter making its return to the mountains, the winds howling outside, and Lodema sitting in this exact spot, alone in her personal, unending darkness. And even if Lodema professed otherwise, she would shed tears, if only hidden way inside her heart. This Celia knew, and the realization stung. As a consequence, a wave of over-earnest sentiments overcame her, and she blurted out, “We’ll come back someday.”

“My!” Lodema laughed, an almost unheard of moment of lightheartedness. “That is the unlikeliest of all events. No, perhaps not. Still, should it somehow come to pass, fate would deny me the moment. Of that I am convinced.” Then, without hesitation or error, Lodema reached out and laid her talons upon Celia’s crest.

“Gentle forewinds speed you homeward.” Quivering, Lodema’s touch rested upon Celia’s head for a moment, then she proceeded to stroke her ruff.

“My dearest Celia… Take care of my child.”

—❦—

“You’re sure?” asked Warrik as he rotated the glass by it stem. He brought it into the light beams pouring through the distant windows; patterns cut in the glass filled the amber wine with multi-colored sparkles.

“Yes,” replied Ahren without a moment of hesitation. “I am quite sure.”

“You’re missing a unique pleasure. Finest vintage in perhaps a decade. Perfect weather throughout that summer I’m informed, and it’s yielded such a delightful, crisp and—” His brother’s lean and thoughtful face halted his praise for the vintners art, its strangeness striking him again. While remaining an unmistakable countenance after the passing years, it reflected changes not accounted for by the passage of time alone. As Warrik found himself incapable of placing those changes, yet alone comprehending them, he reconsidered what he was to say, concluding at last that he must speak with greater forethought.

“You needn’t worry about its strength.”

“Strength isn’t the issue. It’s just, I… No. No, thank you.”

Disappointment gripped Warrik. Throughout the long, arduous day, his mind had dwelt on this little pleasure. Whenever the negotiations with the querulous Council irritated, his imagination whisked him to this exact moment: a glass before him, the wine’s golden color, its subtle, almost floral-like bouquet. When the talk grew repetitive, too tedious, he would gaze out the window and watch the sun, thinking it dawdled as if it too were one of the decrepit Council members. Was it so much to ask for time to hurry along? And now that it had…

So, with dispirited steps, Warrik took his glass and rested it upon the silver tray at the table where Ahren sat.

“Then I’ll have none either.” With a gesture high above his head, he announced “Water” rather loud, sounding overbearing, he realized, out of habit.

No sooner had he given the order, than a servant sprang from the concealed entrance high upon the dining chamber’s wall. The servant brought another tray to the table, one bearing a squat pitcher along with a pair of matching cups decorated with carven oak leaves, all in silver. Swift and with eyes trained upon her task, the servant filled the cups, and once complete, took up the tray with the wine and glasses. She swung about to fly off, but froze, for Warrik blocked her path.

Patient and silent, Warrik waited for the longest time as the young server stood stock still, her gaze averted. When he could wait no longer, he said, “Thank you.”

Although her head remained pointed at the floor, the servant’s eyes lifted, and he could at last see something of her face.

How young she looked, thought Warrik. Five or six years older than his niece, mayhap more, but still so young. He examined her, taking note of the shade of her eyes, a blue neither too dark nor too pale, and of their pleasing almond shape. At that instant, they brimmed with unfathomable confusion, perhaps even fright. Then he wondered how long she had been a member of the household, but could not answer. While he thought to ask her, and to ask her name, he decided against it.

“Thank you,” he reiterated and slid aside, permitting ample space for her to leave. She escaped in an instant, and while always swift, Warrik could not recall an occasion where any of the staff had moved with such rapidity.

The door above snapped closed behind the servant, and Ahren chuckled. “I salute your efforts, but take greater care.” He took up a cup and drank. “Make sure they understand, otherwise, you’ll frighten them to death with this newfound self of yours.”

“Not newfound but rediscovered, and they will adjust to it.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then I’ll—” Warrik detected an impish look spreading over his brother’s face. Bristling, he snatched the remaining cup and contemplated the contents sloshing back and forth; he gave it a moment to settle before taking a sip. “Then I will adjust until they understand, and they will. I remain certain.”

“Forgive me,” began Ahren. “My intent was not to discourage, but you’ve taken on an enormous challenge. Now, in the mines, we benefited from the unique luxury of having nothing. Changing one’s mindset was, therefore, easy. Lacking wealth, we instead found value. Without families, we created fellowship, and when striped of our pride, we discovered our underlying virtues. What you strive for with your rediscovered self is not so different, but remains antithetical to many who worship prestige and gold. They’ve much to loose, and the fear of loss will blind them to what they will in turn gain.”

“For not seeking to discourage, you do it rather well.”

“Well,” Ahren continued, “Consider this: your future enemies are the same as those from your past. But you’ve new allies, not many but hard-forged ones, who will understand you better than the most enlightened on the Elder Council. Place your trust in them, brother, and they’ll not fail you.”

After taking a casual sip, Warrik wandered off, the cup still in his possession. He thought in silence until, after some time, he found himself at the distant end of the room, standing before the grand tapestry. He felt different when looking at it now, although not a thread had changed. With his head tilted, he stared at the contrived form of their father atop it, reconsidering what, if any, meaning it held.

“What do you expect he’d make of all this?”

“Father?” asked Ahren after a brief delay. “How could I say? I knew him as a child would, and a rather young one at that. And so long ago…” He paused. ”The events befallen us both are beyond a child’s comprehension, so nothing I recall from those days might I compare them to. It’s all rather complex, isn’t it?” He wavered, glancing down and then back to Warrik. “And from the account you’ve relayed, he—he and Mother lived lives of complication greater than we even knew, may ever know.”

“Yes, but… Don’t you think they’d at least feel frustrated by this outcome? Disappointed?”

“Well, from what you’ve told me,” began Ahren, “I… I suppose he and Mother would understand.” Ahren took a sip of water. “No, I amend my remarks. I’m sure they’d find this all quite amusing.”

“Amusing?” huffed Warrik, and he strode back to the table where his brother sat. “Amused to know their plans for us, for their city, undone?”

Ahren emptied his cup and pushed it away just as Warrik rejoined him. “Their plans undone, yes that is true, but their objectives, no, not at all. I think the Arimaspi unlikely to return and menace the city. This, without a doubt, would please them, do you not agree? And their city possesses both a wise king and a strong defender. In failing to foresee those two being one and the same, I sense they might find amusement.”

“Such flattery.”

“As our parents continued the work of their ancestors, you’ve completed a task time did not permit either Mother or Father to finish. Does that not prove you suited for the role?”

From the opposite side of the table Warrik watched his brother with caution, not letting his gaze wander as he refilled their cups. Done, he put the pitcher down, yet griped tight its handle long afterwards. He narrowed his eyes.

“You realize your decision is irrevocable.”

“Yes, I do, and why must you continue to question it?”

“Rather hasty, is it not? Giving yourself but three days…”

“Brother—” Ahren leaned forward, his face close to Warrik’s. “I made my choice long, long before the Arimaspi forced me to labor in their mine. Nigh eighteen years ago, correct? Time enough, I should think.” He gestured wide with both forelegs. “Eighteen years to think, so how is it you imagine, almost insist, another moon of living here, in a now alien world, one which brought me misery for so long, how do you imagine it could sway me otherwise?”

Nervous laugher, brief and light, escaped Warrik as he looked away. “You know, when Celia arrived, and I came to believe first that you might live, and then that you might in fact return… along with your freedom, I supposed freedom would come to me too. I assumed you’d return to rule, that you’d wrestle with the council from then on, endure the houses and their ceaseless squabbles, while I’d return to my life as a soldier and be free of… madness. But only you are free; I remain imprisoned.”

“For that, I am sorry,” said Ahren. “Well, at least you are free of me.”

This time, Warrik’s laugher sounded genuine. “You were but the smallest of the burdens.” Again he searched his brother’s face, seeking the nature of it changes. So lean and serious, like a traveller who had undergone a long journey, one as of yet unfinished. Warrik stared and stared, until a question leapt forth, one he had promised himself he would resist asking.

“What magic does she possess that compels you to forego your birthright?”

Ahren leaned back and took a long, uneasy breath. “Her kind, their life, is… everything is so very different from ours. I think— Do you not see this in the Celia?”

“I cannot say I do,” replied Warrik. “Do not misunderstand me. I’ve nothing against the girl—I’m sorry, your daughter—but I suspect she’s as representative of them as she is of us.”

“I suppose that’s true. But you see, what little time I spent with Meadow, she gave me glimpses of a different way of living, one impossible here. Now, don’t think me a simpleton who extolls the rustic, or some starry-eyed fool spouting nonsense about the benefits derived from breathing country air. No, the ponies’s lives are primitive, impoverished by our standards, but despite, not because of, their hardships, they’ve a wholesomeness of spirit. Do you not agree that’s rare amongst us? Perhaps it was unique to her, for as Celia told us, they’re capable of intolerance and cruelty too, but there was something to the life Meadow described, the life she lived, that I just—” Ahren shook his head. “You see, for all the differences in our origins, Meadow and I shared much in thought. More than that; we shared dreams, Warrik.”

“High-sounding, but you explain nothing.” Warrik retrieved his cup. A drop or two clung to the inside, yet it went unfilled, for it served only as a prop to fend off his brother’s gaze. “Regardless, it wasn’t exactly what I sought. I… I need to know why you love her.”

“A valid question.”

Warrik looked up.

“Sometimes, I doubt I can say myself. I asked how and why, grasping at particulars, but the answer remains elusive, a bird seen from the corner of your eye, or a distance you cannot close. You catch a glimpse and it vanishes; you pursue and it retreats.”

“Pfft!” huffed Warrik. “You obfuscate like a sage who’s lived too long in solitude.”

With a sigh, Ahren said, “Perhaps I do, but I’d hesitate to call myself a scholar of the heart, or the mind for that matter. Be that as it may, you recall the scrolls our tutors made us suffer through? Abstruse words of those solitary sages? An apropos passage… Give me a moment to remember… The heart knows things the mind cannot put to words, and if—”

“And if it might, is not the magic lost?” said Warrik.

Ahren laughed. “Ah! my brother. Your memory always was excellent.”

Hearing such hearty laughter put Warrik at ease, but only somewhat. He remained cautious as well as curious. “Well then, if you cannot extract the words from your own heart, it appears the question must remain unanswered for us both. Therefore, I proposed another, a simpler one I hope. What is it you plan to do with your freedom?”

“Nothing more than to live.”

“Please! Be serious.”

“Quite serious. Another sage penned that one’s life is a purse of time. The Arimaspi cost me much, so my already short allotment will be shorter still, and knowing this, I appreciate the value of life in ways I could not before. What remains to me is precious, and I assure you, I will make the most of my life with Meadow and Celia.”

“But… You don’t propose to live amongst her kind, do you?”

“No.” Ahren shook his head. “Once I dreamed it, but I now know the impossibility is as great as her living here. In years to come, perhaps, but not soon enough for us three.”

“Then where is it you will go?”

Laughter filled the room, long and loud. “Oh! there’s a place that has long been in my mind.”

—❦—

On the prairie, the exquisite days of summer arrived, but Meadow knew then not, for by then, the orb had become her sole occupation. As if by name, it called to her day and night, luring and lulling with visions of events already passed. However, the solace it provided faded all to quick, emptying her. Thus, bit by bit, her misery had increased beyond bearing. How much Meadow yearned for those departed days to be hers again, to be with those she loved! But never could it be. Gone forever was Celia, lost forever was Ahren, and with them, her hope, her future.

So it was, on a cloudy evening as the winds protested their lot, Meadow rekindled the fire in her hut and sat before her rude table. In front of her lay the small wooden box, a solitary lit candle resting beside it. She opened the box, unwrapped the orb, and wished as she did every night, that tonight would be the final time, that before the morn she might be released. In an instance, the orb glowed, and once more its images poured forth, consuming her consciousness with faces from her past, smiling and loving, the times trivial and momentous she spent with them. They washed over her like warm waves lapping the sand, numbing Meadow’s pain for a while, but the effects of the orb’s deceit soon ebbed.

Sensing her anguish, the images untrue reached out that night and caressed Meadow’s long suffering heart, bidding her accompany them into the unending darkness. Deeper and deeper she willingly followed, until she found herself poised on rim of a void without end. She lingered, fearful, holding on to her heartache for one moment more.

Then, with considerable noise, the door to her hut flew open. Adrift in the unreal, Meadow struggled to look up, away from the orb, and harder still she struggled to make sense of the event. At first she supposed the wind the cause, but to her confusion, she spied a ghostly figure at the threshold of her home, standing in the doorway, peering at her. Its face faded in and out with the wavering firelight, revealing an appearance unfamiliar and yet not, one bearing a faint semblance to Celia.

No, an impossibility. Her precious daughter existed only within the orb’s glow. Meadow, wan and worn, did not attempt to speak to the bewildering spirit, and neither did it address her. It only observed. Then, her ghostlike visitor stepped aside, and the winds delivered another specter to her home. Side by side the apparitions stood, watching. Neither spoke.

The new ghost, stranger still, Meadow perceived as an inaccessible shadow, obscure and ancient, impossibly shrouded by time. This one too, she knew, existed beyond the bounds of hope.

Meadow grew agitated, and with feeble thoughts sought significance from her visitation by the otherworldly. She had heard no owl cry. No bird pecked at her window. Not a single omen presaged her release, and thus, the presence of these two figments meant nothing. Why, they could no more exist than the illusions within the orb, and it was only those hollow visions Meadow desired. They were her reality. With a swift and sudden pull, the deadening comfort inside the glass summoned, its inexorable call drawing her in. She turned her eyes to it.

There was a crash, and stuporous Meadow again endeavored to pull away from the orb’s pleasant lies. When at last able to look up, she found the second specter had stepped forward. Before her he stood, golden wings flared, the reflected firelight illuminating the room. Without a word, the inexplicable visitor reached out, seized the orb, and hurled it upon the stones of the hearth. Its glass shattered, the orb’s treacherous images forever gone, drifting away, naught but vanishing smoke.

The ghost from long-ago thrust aside the table, so that nothing stood between them. Then, as it had been years ago inside that simple hut upon the windy prairie, Ahren reached out and embraced his beloved.

Through the mist of confusion, Meadow looked into the azure eyes of the one who held her. In a bygone memory, she recalled eyes filled with weariness, then restored, filled with love. Those which now looked upon her shone with joy, and soon their loving gaze dispelled the orb’s deadly affliction, driving off her torpor. It was if she had awoken, years of nightmares dismissed upon the glimpse of the light of day. The face she beheld, she knew it now, for although altered by time and fortune, it was one her heart could not fail to remember.

Managing a fragile smile, Meadow whispered, “Where?”

“In the mines of those called Arimaspi,” Ahren replied, his voice low, soothing. “Enslaved beneath the mountains far from my home. There, amongst others, they forced us to mine their gold. Barbarous captors they were, for avarice ruled their thoughts and cruelty filled their hearts. Yet, as strange as it seems, pitiable beasts too, for an act of kindness, one mattering little, compounded their miserable existence. And in turn, they strove to make our lives a misery.

“Hope, they told us, was dead, for it could not exist in the dark. Never again, they insisted, would we see the sky, the sun, and to think otherwise, futile. Only death would free us from their torments, and so it seemed. Through those bleak years, many I knew despaired and chose that escape, hoping to find peace. So it might have been for me, but unbeknownst to my captors, I possessed a single, simple hope, that one day I should see you again.” Ahren caressed her mane.

“And our daughter—one I never envisioned, nor could envision—she guided my brother’s army to where we were. A miracle, liberated at last, returned to daylight.”

“But your city?” asked Meadow.

“My affairs there are concluded. The city, if it was ever mine, it is no longer, and it is for the betterment of all. It is Warrik’s now, as it has been all these years, as it likely always should have been. Henceforth, neither am I prisoner nor prince. I am but my own—and yours.”

Sheltered amidst his feathers, Meadow wept.

“Hush, now,” Ahren murmured until she quieted, and when she had, he proclaimed, “Our hardships are over. We begin anew. Such things no longer matter. Thus, let us vow to never dwell upon out the past, lest it obscure our future.”

Nodding, Meadow raised her head and caught sight of a heartening gleam within his eyes.

“Now, my love,” said Ahren, “we must prepare, for tomorrow we leave for the sea.”