Pair Bond

Bolero handed the butchered deer to the chefs in the scullery room with a faint smile, and massaged his sore forearms. Small game was so much easier. This was the last time he would go for something as large as a deer.

“Quite the catch today, huh Bolero?” The head cook was a hardy woman, an eagle owl shifter with a penchant for making unnecessarily hearty stews. She glanced in the bag, her face breaking into a bright smile. Only the most choice cuts would do for the upcoming feast. There were few shifters Bolero would have bothered to chase a hind for. His close friend Maeby was one of them.

“I figured you could use some fresh Venison for the feast later.” The cook’s bright smile screwed into a not-so-subtle grimace at the mention of the pair-bonding feast.

I can see your face change, Bolero thought, but said nothing. Gossip was as central to Eyrie culture as their avian forms, much to his chagrin. The rumors being parroted around the cliffsides lately all involved him and Maeby. Not that it was anything new or unusual.

Now he felt uncertain gazes upon his back every time he walked the labyrinthine halls of the Eyrie. His bloodline- the Firehawks, who possessed potent fire magic, had always been different. The most powerful class of Flameweavers, firehawks had served as elite Eyrie warriors and temple guards for centuries. His parents had been some of their people’s most treasured warriors. Every moment of his upbringing had seen murmurs and subtle looks of pity or disapproval, for he was only an eyass, a child, when they had gone missing.

The scullery, where food was prepared for the entirety of the Eyrie, lay across from the training area, where magic adepts- those who had earned their second name due to their prowess in their craft- taught the younger generations the art of combat. Earning one’s second name was an accomplishment of honor, the ultimate way to prove the virility of one’s bloodline.

Bolero avoided sequestering himself in the training hall, although he was at a near-adept flameweaving level. He no longer desired to spend his free time in the confines of the Eyrie halls, swinging swords and arcs of flame.

No. He preferred the forest, the excitement of the hunt. The feeling of being in feather, stretching his wings, leaving trails of sparks in his wake as he flew. He knew, though, deep within that this freedom wouldn’t last forever.

Nothing lasted forever for Firehawks in the Eyrie. Eventually, the Haggards would probably summon him, and assign him to a warrior flight.

What his people needed a standing army for, he didn’t know. They were as silent about threats to the Eyrie as they were about his family’s fate. Bolero strode to the deck above the training area, watching as clouds blew overhead. Very soon- sooner than he would have liked - his life was about to change.

A gentle breeze blew his hair into his face, and a strange scent- an unusual thread of magic- drifted along with it.

Bolero…

It was that same voice from the forest, a voice at once both frightened-sounding and pleading. An eagle’s cry signalled that it was time to go and prepare for tonight’s festivities, for his friend’s pair-bonding ceremony.

The sun cast a gold halo onto the Nithra’s tall oaks below the cliffsides, gilding everything its rays touched as it lowered upon the horizon.

This was a sacred place- a place touched not by the magic of the old world, but by a heavenly power. The Eyrie, and its people, had been born of celestial magic. Ornate stone arches, embellished with carvings and long-colonized by bioluminescent worms, glowed in the lengthening shadows. In the center of the cliff-face roared the Eyrie Falls, its waters plunging to the misty depths below. Within the cliffs were carved the labyrinthine halls of the Eyrie dwelling.

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Leaning against an arch pillar, Bolero gazed at the red-lined sky, his mouth upturned in a crooked smile. His loose pants, a crimson red for formal occasions, blew in the waterfall’s mists. He reveled in the breeze that drifted from it, nice and cool. He wore a cream tunic, which emphasized the red and amber in his hair. His feathers, a smattering of copper and gold, blew in the breeze. His hair was up in a tight bun, although several feathers hung loosely from the nape of his neck.

Above him, an owl the color of the moon emerged from the scant cloud cover, followed closely by a smaller owl of a similar shade.

Maeby - the larger of the two - dove closely to him, nearly touching his hair with her talons. She chirped as she did, eliciting a wide grin from Bolero in response. A beautiful, haunting voice cut through the background noise and music, heating Bolero’s nape feathers and eliciting a sigh from the hawk. He knew that voice well - Altairi, the holy eagle.

Altairi was an imperial eagle of impossible beauty in feather and bare skin alike. Her hair hung past her midback, a cascade of gold and amber, interlaced with golden feathers. Beneath her strong dark eyebrows were eyes of jade, her hands clasped before her in a sign of prayer. Beside her, two other imperial eagles- Ughniya, and Sayad, accompanied her with drum and oud.

Bolero forced himself to pry his eyes from Altairi, flushing more than a mature hawk should.

What am I, a lovesick fledgling? The priestess was pair-bonded, he knew, to the tiercel who stood beside him. He couldn’t blame her. The golden eagle was frighteningly powerful, and like Altairi, a handsome specimen.

Altairi liked to fancy herself a direct descendant from the Sacred Bloodline, as all eagles did. Only an eagle could contain such power, maintain such a state of perfection, and wield holy mana. The Celestial Goddess had first appeared as an eagle, after all. Altairi’s song wove a thread of magic, drifting around Bolero as he closed his eyes. He saw starlight. The stars of creation.

These were sacred songs, an ancient magic from the time before his people had a name. From his people’s deity. The celestial eagle was composed of stardust and flame, one of the creatresses of the known universe. Each of her feathers was crowned with empyrean light made of stardust, each breath was said to create a new life-rich world. She was also believed to be the first avian shapeshifter, and the progenitor of Bolero’s people. When Eyrie-members chose to seal a pair-bond, the ceremony was dedicated to her.

The ceremony was a sign of eternal devotion, a centuries-long promise of love. And once it was completed, his good friend would likely be with child within several months. Bolero wasn’t certain how he felt about any of it.

Pair Bonding tended to shift priorities, to make maintaining close friendships difficult. The celestial magic of the ceremony pulled mated couples even closer together, making separation unbearable. Or that’s what Altairi taught in the cavernous temple where their people worshiped every evening.

Badru, Maeby’s mate - and by tomorrow morning, pair bond - was an intense owl. He possessed potent moon magic, and as a silk merchant his craftsmanship was impeccable. It was a comfort to know that Badru truly treasured Maeby. He had been using his magical affinity to make her wardrobe for years. Stitching and embroidery, laced with minor enchantments. Protections, mostly, from what Bolero was able to sense from his friend’s clothing when they were still able to spend time together.

Bolero’s unease was out of sheer selfishness, and perhaps the fear of loneliness. Maeby was a close friend, and had never been a mating prospect. Barn owls and hawk bloodlines didn’t mesh. It had never been an option, and thus had never even come to mind.

Badru and Maeby had been fated. They had been at least as close as Bolero and Maeby were as eyasses. Flying together once the sun dipped behind the horizon and their feathers could gleam in the darkness, the barn owls made a perfect pair.

He gazed at the star-dotted sky and sighed, resigned. If it wasn’t so dark out- if his shifted form was better-adapted to moonlight flight, he would have taken wing. Perhaps the glow of embers in the dark would have shed light on the secrets of his home. Maybe he would have lifted into a soar and left the region completely. Let his arms extend into wings tipped with feathers of flame, felt the sweet pain of scales as they enfolded his legs, the moment his talons unsheathed at the tips of his toes.

But it was late. It was dark.

And he was tired.