Blood of the Sea, Chapter Twelve

On the Continent

Chapter 12: Snuff

Gwilym

The hues of dawn streak pink and orange across the canvas while the rising sunlight shimmers over the tops of Flykra’s great white wings. The sky spreads open before rider and Thralkin as it has many times before. The female Thralkin shakes her head, her giddy sense of joy flooding through Gwilym as though it were his own. Flykra roars, the sound at once a shriek of defiance and a cry of glee as she drops her head, diving toward the verdant plains below. Gwilym remains nestled between her shoulders, working his jaw to relieve the pressure in his ears as Flykra’s wings snap open once more and they glide on the draft born of her momentum.

Flykra’s head begins swiveling as the sunlight brings Kildangan into view. Between Gwilym’s legs, her chest rumbles with a chirrup-y purr reserved for her mate. But, as has been their lot, Dyrros’s steel hide isn’t to be found lounging amongst the docks, nor cleaving through the sparse clouds overhead. In the distance, a rumble seems to be gathering out at sea, but alas it is not the sound the pair longs for.

Gwilym places his palm against Flykra’s neck, their link sharing his reassurance along with the words, [We will keep looking.]

Flykra’s head turns his way, her white-blue gaze meeting his. Her third eyelid rolls across her eye and Gwilym feels her sigh press against his thighs, but the Thralkin nods. Gwilym scans the horizon, knowing as well as Flykra that his Thralkin’s mate tended to wander the stretch of the great sea. Often he would turn up with chunks of flesh torn from a whale to share, and his scales more often than not smelled of brine; his horns crusted with salt.

A mild sense of bemusement reaches Gwilym and he spots what could be an overturned hull further out in the water, past where the other smaller fishing boats are pushing free of the docks. Yet, as the sunlight glitters across the water, turning what should be blue to silver, his heart stutters in his chest, the breath stolen from his lungs. Flykra’s wings pump more furiously, a sort of frantic dread taking hold and chilling Gwilym down to the bone.

Her foreclaws pierce the surface of the water as they draw nearer. Those on boats stand, craning their necks to see what their guardian has seen, but don’t row closer just yet. The water ripples under Flykra’s wings as she masters the current which draws her and her rider ever closer. Gwilym has to swallow past a surge of nausea which rises, clawing at his throat as he sees what is not an overturned hull, but rather an all too familiar steely hide with the horror of flesh-stripped ribs poking through.

Dyrros’s chest is split along his sternum, down into his belly where fish are nibbling at pieces of waterlogged flesh. His organs are missing, and in their stead, jagged pieces of what appear to be stone are pierced through bone and flesh alike. Some are small, like the length of Gwilym’s hand. Others, the size of his thigh. He chokes, clawing at his chest – for under the armor he wears fashioned from Flykra’s shed scales, it feels as though his heart were being ripped in half, and he is left struggling for air. Flykra sinks into the water, the pain ricocheting between rider and beast overwhelming, and instead, she treads water, pressing her snout into her deceased mate’s shoulder. Even with her maw closed, Gwilym shuts his eyes tightly against the agonized scream she lets loose; the sound shaking the water closest to her and echoing across the surface of the sea.

Distantly, a storm breaks across the horizon; lightning flashing as it strikes the waves. The thunder - its faithful companion - is inaudible.

Gwilym blinks through the tears spilling down his cheeks, his breathing ragged and shallow. Behind them, he sees the fishermen bowing their heads, their boats bobbing in the water, sails reefed. They don’t have to feel her pain in their chests to know what that awful sound means.

The Kahu has lost her mate. The fire to her ice.

And all those she shelters mourn with her.