Kestrel

calm, soft-spoken, and even-tempered.
like many visitors of clan ikkuma, kestrel came to the clan's cave system in search of shelter from one of the frequent sudden onset snow storms common in the tundra, and (like many of it's other permanent residents) had intended to stay only briefly. when the storm developed into a full squall and it became clear that kestrel's visit would be longer than he'd intended, he decided to be proactive and search for work to pay for his unexpectedly extended stay. having no real marketable trade skills, he joined the clan's frostguard, already made up of a mishmash of mercenaries and hedgeknights, to help protect ikkuma's booming trade conglomerate from the frequent attacks it suffered from rogue dragons. kestrel had surprised the frostguard with his skill in combat, repelling thieves and bandits with a ferocity that belied his quiet nature while "off the clock."

despite his gentle temperament, kestrel was a bit of a loner by nature, and found it difficult to make friends. he was liked by the residents of the clan, but rarely had interactions deeper than a surface level, and spent most of his time alone. still, despite his lack of emotional ties, he fought fiercely and bravely, and when he was offered a permanent position in the guard in exchange for room and board, perhaps no one was more surprised than he himself when he accepted.

as time passed, he grew even quieter and more withdrawn, though no one would call him unfriendly. merely that he simply didn't seem to care much to be friendly, gently and kindly rebuffing any attempts by ikkuma's residents to integrate him more into their society. meanwhile he fought harder, and more viciously, often chasing down bandits who tried to flee when routed instead of letting them go. he often pushed himself past reasonable limits-- almost as if in punishment, though whether it was punishment for the clan's foes or punishment for himself none could say. but it almost seemed as if kestrel were looking for a fight he could not win.

after one of these fights, one that left kestrel bleeding and scarred, another member of the clan's guard, a fellow imperial named song, accosted him. "if you're trying to get yourself killed, then just do it," song had snapped at him, teeth bared. "but stop making us all worry about you until then!"

the confrontation had taken kestrel aback; he had not realized the subconscious implications of his own behavior. nor had he realized that the other guardsmen cared enough about him to worry at all. after that, kestrel made it a point to try to be more personable, though it did not come easy to him. he'd spent too much time before on his own. despite his clumsy attempts and the occasional foot in his mouth, the other clan members knew that he was a good-natured soul, and happily welcomed him now that he finally seemed receptive to it.

song, the imperial who'd chastised him, was initially still quite peeved and didn't seem to care much for kestrel's hesitant overture of friendship, so long as kestrel wasn't actively seeking danger. but over time the two of them grew closer and once song warmed up to kestrel completely, they became inseparable. for a while their relationship was merely platonic, but so intensely so that when it did become romantic, it seemed to happen between one breath and the next, the transition so seamless that it seemed to have always been so.

and one morning, kestrel woke up; and realized that, despite himself, he was happy.

---

mother, he starts, and then pauses. his eyes unfocus in thought. the quill stays poised in his claws; the ink blots, dark. "blast it all," he murmurs when he notices a moment later, blinking out of his stupor. when he lifts the quill the ink flecks and smears, a wound against the parchment inflicted by his hesitance. oddly fitting, he thinks, and then thinks that it was a stupid idea anyway, and sets the quill down. he leaves.

---

mother, he starts, later, when he has put more thought into it. it is no less a fool's errand than it was before, but one that he cannot put from his mind. i am not sorry that i left, but i am sorry if my leaving hurt you. his teeth bare even as he writes it. she will not appreciate this. "what am i even doing," he sighs to himself. the silent room has no answer; he is alone in the barracks. normally he prefers the quiet but now it is only oppressive. outside, he knows, the sun will be shining. it will still be cold despite that. it is always cold here. he is constantly shivering in his scales. he leaves anyway.

---

mother, he starts again. his breath is quick and short. i did not watch over my siblings the way i should have. the penmanship is scratchy; his claws tremble. then they were gone, and i was the last. i could not stay. i am sorry. i am sorry. i am sorry. i know how you hate to lose.

"kes?" a voice echoes in the quiet. melodious, questioning. curious. song's. "we've got shift soon. you good?"

"i'm coming," he calls back. his own voice is stronger than he'd expected. stronger than he feels. he has always been good at pretending he's not as weak as he is on the inside. he wonders if he has ever, truly, been brave. the parchment tears easily beneath his claws. there are only ghosts in the words, anyway. he leaves.

---

mother, he starts, do you miss me? do you blame me? could you ever forgive me for leaving? for missing you? he snarls and throws down the quill. the questions haunt him but the answers, he does not think, would please him. he does not send the letter.

---

mother, he starts, and swears it will be the last time. and then stops. what is there to gain from this? what closure will this bring him? her? anyone? does he care enough to send this? would she care enough to read it? would it matter if she did?

pressure against his side, a gust fluttering the feathers of his wing; song twitches in his sleep and heaves a great rumbling sigh. their scales shift together. he holds his breath to see if song will wake. he doesn't.

the light is too dim to see if the ink has blot. to see if the words skitter across the page, ugly with his nerves. it is better, he thinks, that he cannot see his mistakes. if he cannot see them then he can pretend he did not make them.

slowly, he lifts the quill once more. song is warm at his back. slowly, he writes.

mother,
it is cold where i am now. but i have a purpose, and i am happy. i can only hope that knowing that would make you happy, too.

---

the morning wind blows bitter and cold. it snaps through his feathers and lashes against his scales. the letter is not sealed. not signed. not addressed. if it reaches a recipient, it will surely not be the intended one. he lets it go anyway and watches it whip away into the snow. within seconds it is gone. he could not take it back even if he tried. it does not matter, he thinks. he said what he needed to say. he shakes the frost from his armor, spreads his wings and launches into the sky; the tundra is merciless, and unrepentant, and home. there is work to be done.