Alaric

Cold. Endlessly, utterly cold. The quiet chattering of teeth, probably his own, piercing through the silence of night. Wind, stirring the snow at his feet. The clearcut tones of a jackdaw shattered the calm, a single note cutting through the bleak like a knife through flesh.
“Mother…where are we going?”

He can barely hear his voice, a plaintive, quavering sound, muffled by the snow that rests around him. The hatchling looks up; the imperial barely pauses before continuing her trudging pace.

“You will know soon, my love.”

He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand why they had left his sisters to slumber in the peaceful hollow, while he was here, trekking through the snow, to what his young mind screamed was surely his doom. Yet still, he followed. She was his mother, wasn’t she? Her eyes were narrowed against the gloom, twin slits of holly-red that illuminated the night.

He stumbled, falling face first into the powder. She didn’t slow down, and he raced to catch back up. The hatchling squinted to catch a glimpse of her ghostly figure, a blur against the dark.

He could not keep up for much longer. Exhausted, the hatchling crumpled, a wail cut short by snow flooding into his mouth. The imperial stopped in her tracks. An exasperated sigh, and he was hoisted on her shoulders, face buried in her warm mane.

The pace was set. The monotonous patter of feet, the brush of wind against his face. The imperial shivers, leaning even further into her to block out the sting. Alas, he grew colder, the needles slicing through flesh and seeping bone. He had been born here, but in all of his short moons of life, had never felt so utterly chilled. They went on for hours. No longer could he see the vast cavern of his home, no longer could he decipher the grey-black bird’s shrill from the break of dawn. Blood spilled through the clouds, staining the unblemished snow with a pinkish tone. His mother stopped in her tracks. To the hatchling’s eyes, this place was like all others. Bleak, cold, an unceasing valley of white. She reared up, her sleeping son sliding unceremoniously into the snow. He sighed in his fitful sleep, breath billowing out in short-lived clouds. A tuft of fur was sticking from his forehead, and she struggled against the urge to smooth it back down.
She smiles sadly, crinkling the edges of her crimson eyes. The imperial traces crude letters into the snow, only to last until the young one would be found.

He is Alaric, and he is our son.

Goodbye, my dearest. I will never forget you.

She turns, breath hitching in her throat. And walks away.