Chapter Text
A bird shrieked and an irritated flock scattered. The flurry of tiny bodies marred the sky like smoke. Paw prints and hoof prints melted into muddy, indistinguishable puddles.
There were thorns hidden under the leaf loam. Each step was like willingly walking into a mouse trap. Yellowing, dying and dead trees creaked at the slightest touch. Climbing on their precarious branches wasn’t an option. Stomping around in broad daylight isn't a smart move.
Getting pricked by thorns was a necessary sacrifice. Deer, and other antlered, edible things react to shadows. They were fast, nimble and bigger than her. Flying over an open field would end in failure.
A white tail bumped back and forth when a lone buck ambled downhill.
He left the sky behind and joined her in the woods.
Having the high ground is a great advantage. She could see movement in the bushes, but not too much. This group was small enough to split and conquer. She used a ton of willpower, and stepped into the next pile of barbs. Flapping recklessly created too much noise. Enduring the pain was easier when she imagined having a new deer hide.
The blankets in her den were falling apart. Living in a hole kept her away from the elements, but she needed to be warm to survive.
The buck idled and made her wait. His wet nose dampened when he sniffed the ground. He was looking for her, but the woods were too murky. Her smell was lost underneath the stench of rotting wood.
Countless thorns were leaving pink marks on her toes. Buying shoes was the logical solution, but she didn’t like them. She couldn’t feel the ground with a pair on, which felt wrong. It was a waste of money. Frankly, she thought shoes were a scam. A fashion trend for humans that was peddled as a nessessity. She was a shrewd buyer. The shop in the village didn’t sell high quality wares. The wispy fabric sacks fell apart after a week on her feet. The hard bottoms made landing harder too.
Her logic wasn’t exactly correct, but she was right. Regular shoes can’t keep up with a harpy. She would need expensive leather boots, or steel toed working shoes. Or a full set of lightweight armor.
The cobbler had sold her shoes for girls, not hunting gear. The harmless man didn’t know that he had lost a customer.
Unfortunately, Rachel didn’t know what a boot was. With her limited vocabulary shopping in town was a lengthy process.
She didn’t leave the mountains unless she had to. Buying clothes was important, because she wasn’t a great hunter. All of her hides were part of her bed. Wearing a trophy pelt was a luxury that she couldn't afford. Most of her meals were old, small or patchy. Showing off was pointless in the first place. She didn't have anyone to preen with.
Her grey top had a ragged, oval hole in the back. For obvious reasons.
The buck nosed a patch of grass, and relaxed. Two does joined him and they grazed obliviously.
She took a risk, and unfurled her wings early. The knotted blockade of branches around her forced her to aim carefully.
Gliding was painful when she held her breath, but she had to do it. The feathered, living gauntlets on her arms stretched out at the elbow. Using them to steer made her quieter than a bat. She tucked her arms in and let her body fall slowly.
Her dusty gold eyes zeroed in on the bushes behind the buck. Lone hunters have to look for easy prey. If there was a fawn, she wanted it. The sharp tusks on the buck made her uneasy.
She was shocked and delighted when her plan went perfectly. There was a second left to get ready. Her unimpressive claws flashed out, and the ruff of downy feathers under her collar flared. She landed like an ungainly child on the does back.
The buck didn’t hesitate, and she worked quickly. His tusks missed her by a hair.
Her serrated nails swiped at the does exposed throat. A gush of blood dyed a white birch tree red. Red hail fell from her fingertips. Her wings flapped twice and she fled up the tree.
She waited for it. That satisfying thump. The wailing of the deer before they abandoned their bleating comrade.
The doe dropped to one knee, and wobbled. She wanted it to fall so badly. The hill was perfect, and deadly. If she fell rolling, the bumpy rocks and roots would kill her.
It was a crafty plan.
Half a day of tracking had brought her to this moment.
The buck licked the wounded does ear, and they fled together.
She collapsed on her branch, and looked at her reddened hands.
Her short claws were pathetic, and she knew it. Licking her dirtied nails didn’t ignite her violent passions.
Real harpies work in packs, and they have huge leg claws. Halfs don’t usually make it to adulthood.
I’m going to starve before I grow up.
The muddy face in the puddles below was devastated.
She forlornly touched her useless hands.
The growing pinfeathers on the back extended up to her knuckles, but they were too human. Her hands were stuck in time.
Babies have better claws than me.
Should I try to move into the village? They said no last time, because I’m not human. If I tell them I might starve, will they care? They know who I am and I can talk really well. Their language is easy for me. If I cry, will they listen? When the little kids in the village cry, people come to help them.
I want that.
An ungodly shriek raised the feathers on her forearms.
She tucked her body in next to the tree trunk and hid.
I know them.
A ferocious pack of harpies whizzed by, and attacked a horde of elks directly. A victorious shriek told the empty valley someone was eating tonight.
Rachel wasn’t the only hidden predator that felt jealous.
The misty, rainy weather was making her feathers stick together.
She moped in the rain like an abandoned dog.
Getting rejected by a pack is embarrassing. Experiencing that trauma six times over had made her brittle on the inside.
An alliance of leathery hags long past their glory days had kicked her around for sport. One of them could barely fly, and she thought little Rachel was funny too.
All of her “sisters” cut her deeply with their words. The chattering of harpies always sounds like laughter, which is fitting. Cruelty is naturally woven into their way of life.
A broken Harpy is better than a mule. You stink. Ugh. I hate human meat. Don’t die in my territory.
You failed, and we don’t want you.
You’re not going to make it. Let me kill you. You’ll thank me when the ground turns you into dirt. Dirt has more dignity.
Rachel sniffed the gobs of blood under her nails and her stomach growled.
Maybe tomorrow.
There has to be something that I can cut.
“Biiik!”
She slipped and hit the forest floor like a dead branch.
“Wh-? What?”
A tiny fawn tumbled out from behind a bush. It was experiencing the kind of fear that only comes for prey.
She hunched down in front of it and it flailed wildly. The body danced in midair like a puppet. She grabbed the warm fawn and hugged it.
If I let it fall down the hill, the meat will get crushed to pulp.
Calm down, little baby, it’s over for you.
I’m going to turn your spine into a knife.
She smacked the fawns head with an open hand, and its long neck warped.
Shock killed it before she could.
I did it.
I scared the parents away.
I’m going to survive.
A trail of blood leaked from the fawns ear. She held it in her arms like a child.
The small meal was actually convenient in many ways. She didn’t have to hide the meat in the ground. The body was small enough to carry home.
Rain fell from the sky. She turned her head up and opened her mouth.
I like water more than blood.
Her dark gold, wet wings folded and she shuffled into her cave. The hole in the side of the mountain was deep. A sheer cliff protected her from every threat, except her sisters. They were so certain of her demise that they let her roam freely. She had not been attacked after her failed initiation attempts. Those shameful beatings had granted her the only form of clemency she knew.
Being ignored and left for dead was almost like mercy.
Nature rights it’s wrongs.
Goodnight, Rachel.
Take your human name, and your blunt claws, and go.
Think about what I said when you sleep.
“I’m not a wrong.”
A clap of thunder illuminated the cave.
Her small, whittled blade cut into the fawn. She chucked the useless organs off the cliff. Despite her situation, her stomach couldn’t ingest some meats. When she was truly desperate, she gathered fruits. Eating intestines and kidneys made her sick. Forcing the stuff down was a waste of energy.
She took out a piece of fruit jerky to have with her meal. The fawn broke into five pieces and she guessed he was enough for two days. Her makeshift cooking station, and storage of spices, made him taste good.
Dark puffs of smoke made her choke. She scratched at her throat and rubbed her eyes. Soot gathered and clumped in her hair. The rain outside wasn’t letting the smoke out.
Her mixed heritage left her with odd habits and no alliances. Thinking made her more confused. Focusing on survival alone was impossible, because there were so many questions in her head.
Stories about heroes, princesses and cities kept her up at night. Listening to fireside tall tales from the shadows was one of her hobbies. Knowing stories made her feel whole, but hunger cannot be beaten.
She tracked prey through the wilderness, like any other animal, until the stories were only memories. Her hungry body punished her for having dreams. It loved her when the world did not. When she grew frail and lethargic only hunger came for her. To tell her to stop crying and get up. To get stronger. To eat more until she got bigger.
Do I want strong back legs?
She didn’t understand why her arms were shaking. When she doused the fire with dirt her frenzied muscles didn't stop.
Do I want to learn how to read?
Half of the meat was left raw. Pure annoyance radiated from her and she made a sharp turn. A more haunting flurry of emotions wrenched her mouth open.
Her feral scream didn't scare the rain away.
What should I be dreaming about?
I don't know.
Flying into a storm alone is suicide.
Her body whirled like a moth that has reached its final flame. The unforgiving forces of nature ate the stars in the sky. She suffered in silence, and watched the lights die out. Both of her arms snapped back when she tried to maneuver. Flapping her wings brought forth new rains, when water spilled from her feathers. The fiery winds filled her legs, then her stomach, until she dropped like a stone.
Her stained, white cloth shorts flapped loudly. The sound interrupted the gorgeous stormy song.
She woke up.
The stars were shining under her, like she was on top of the world.
One of her wings skimmed over a lake. It broke through the surface and dragged her in. She righted herself just in time and fell face first into the waves. Finger sized fish weaved through her hair. She waited for the water to seize her lungs, but an undercurrent tossed her up.
Her clumsy feet landed on a sandy shoreline. She was waist deep in a calm pool. The sun reached into the sky and banished the terrible storm.
Fish.
She looked down, wiggled her toes, and stabbed a fat fish.