Excerpt: The Sky is Falling

It was raining. Puffs of dust rose as the first heavy drops fell, barely marking the thirsty ground. Then the sky opened up with a vengeance and the water came down in a rush, washing away the last vestiges of Autumn.

The weather was befitting to his mood.

Crow threw his head back and let the raindrops mimic the tears he could not shed. Not yet. He stood on the cliff face, his talons wrapped around the jagged edge of his little world. His world… was crumbling.

Behind him a pyre still smoked and sputtered, it’s heat struggling to finish the job it had started; to return his sister to the Goddess. It made him sick to think of the mess the rain would make. Her ashes would not be carried into the sky by the gentle whispers of Aura. Instead, the downpour would render the simplicity of the funeral pyre into a muddy travesty.

A raw sound caught in his throat, choking. Aa a single, charred, white feather spun past, carried by the rivulets of water plunging over the brink. He closed his eyes and pushed, allowing the pull of gravity to send him tumbling after it. A shriek of pain ripped from his gaping beak, torn away by the wind as he plummeted towards the ground far below.

“Dove…”

Surrender was a peaceful alternative. The lure of the inevitable release of just letting nature take it’s course was strong. Instinct was stronger. Huge black wings snapped open and sent him careening upwards. Where he was going, only Aura knew for sure.

The two pyre guards watched him leave and shared a grim moment between themselves. “He is not taking this well…”

The other shook his head, “This bodes poorly for all of us.”

They slumped against each other, two indistinct mottled brown shapes, sharing what comfort they could, The warning rumbles of thunder overhead signaled the intensity of the coming storm.

“Two souls from a single egg. Two hearts made as one. Night and Day!”

The harsh proclamation of the priest rang out, provoking startled chirps and trills of surprise from those assembled to witness the hatching; both from the obvious words of prophesy and the picture laid out before them.

Two tiny chicks stumbled drunkenly against each other, their wide eyes still filmy and unseeing. The shards of their shared egg littered the birthing nest and clung to their wet feathers. One was as black and pitch and the other as white as snow.

“This signifies the future to come. Together these children will bring the balance we seek: As the white is peace and the black is war. If these two live together, hand in hand, all will be well.”

The black is war.

Lightning crackled overhead.

Crow could not see where he was flying. He did not know if was the rain, or those damned tears he so despised. His eyes burned and his vision blurred.

The black is war.

What could it all mean? His thoughts raced and always settled on one image: His beautiful, pure, lovely sister, broken. Everything is broken. He wanted to flee. He wanted to scream his pain into the uncaring storm. He wanted someone to pay.

His shoulders echoed the burning, ripping sensation of her death. He knew he was flying himself into oblivion. He wondered how far away it was. He knew the storm was his own doing. He could feel his control slipping. The raw magic of his calling was shaping itself to embody his own pathetic desire for self-destruction.

He decided he did not care.