Word Count: 1341

The talk with his mother had been lengthy and draining. She had confirmed what he had suspected for months, and now Gabriel was left to put the future of the clan in the hands of a volatile young woman. He did not doubt Halo was loyal to Inferni, but she was still rash in her ways. Such cruelty would not benefit them in many ways, especially when so few were capable of fighting. Kesho and Hybrid were both aging warriors long-gone mad, and Razekiel’s daughters were all flighty things with their heads in the clouds. His son was kept busy with Marlowe’s children, and his daughter…well, who knew what she was thinking.

He sought to clear his head. It was a familiar path from the Mansion, through the dark forests that formed the northern part of their territory and up the mountainside. Gabriel had warned the clan about taking uncertain routes after the snowstorm, but the last of that had melted several days ago. The earth was damp, but no longer frigid. As he walked a familiar and welcomed shadow rose from the evening sky, swooping low to land on a large bolder near the Aquila.

Gabriel greeted his old friend warmly, and listened to Marlowe’s report on their territory. He asked the raven about the cats that had killed so many birds and learned only that they were spotted. The fiends had fled when Marlowe had raised hell and drawn Ezekiel’s horse with the commotion. This drew a laugh from the Aquila. “I think we might be getting to old for this, my friend.”

“Hah, you’re getting old. That gray on your face wasn’t there when I first met you,” the raven teased. Gabriel pulled his lips back to display his teeth, but only in jest. He had never desired to harm the raven despite his incessant teasing. “I should start calling you Methuselah then,” the coy-wolf mocked, and laughed at Marlowe’s indignant shake of feathers.

What happened next occurred in only a few seconds.

The earth under Gabriel’s feet suddenly split and gave way. He was aware of the sensation of falling through air, then of a sharp and blinding pain shooting up through his body. A more horrible noise came from Marlowe. Sod and stone roared down the mountain, bringing with it the devastation left from the snowstorm. Gabriel didn’t have time to scream before a tree, caught in the landslide, struck him and knocked him breathless. For eons the Aquila was dragged through cold earth and unforgiving stone, and then there was only silence.

He woke to his son’s voice, screaming his name. Gabriel could barely open his eyes, and the world was filled with white noise. Something heavy was crushing him and the world was dark. Panic filled him and he began to struggle against immeasurable pressure. The last thing he remembered was feeling claws scratch his neck and realizing he was buried in the earth.

This time, it was water that woke him. Gabriel felt it roll down his face and started, yelping as the motion cause an immense wave of pain to rip through his body. “Don’t move,” Enkiel’s voice came coldly, as it always did. The jackal had a wet cloth in his hand, and his red eyes were dark. “If you need something for the pain I can give it to you now.” Cautiously, Gabriel nodded. He winced. Every part of his body felt as if it had been ripped to shreds.

The jackal grabbed one of his small jars and pulled a few small seeds out of it. He held these under Gabriel’s nose and the Aquila licked them from his palm gingerly, taking the water that was offered next with much greater need. It was cool, and settled his throat—which he now realized felt as if it was full of sand. Swallowing, he spoke in a voice that sounded so much unlike his own. “What happened?”

“From what your son said, it looked like a landslide. I do not know much about your mountains,” Enkiel went on, resuming his task with the wet cloth. “But I know that sand will often make traps and pull the unwitting down with it. That seems to be what happened with you.”

Everything came back in a flash. Gabriel closed his eyes and felt the poppy seeds begin to take hold. Though he could feel everything, it was dulled enough to keep him competent. “Where’s Ezekiel?” He asked, having not spotted or smelt his son. “Outside. I can get him if you would like.” There was no compassion in the boy’s voice, which was deep despite his size and oddly accented because of the language barrier. “How bad do I look?”

“You have a lot of scrapes. I am more concerned about this,” Enkiel went on, touching the Aquila’s bad shoulder. “It feels strange. Can you move it?”

An attempt to do so was met with poor results. Gabriel growled, frustrated. “It’s not broken,” he added miserably. “No,” Enkiel confirmed, moving his hand from where it had lingered to feel the muscles. “But the muscles are badly swollen. I do not want you traveling for the next few weeks. Not even from here.” This drew a much louder growl of frustration, which drew his son’s voice from outside of the entranceway. “Well he sounds fine,” Ezekiel’s voice sounded light-hearted, but when he entered his face was dark and his eyes full of terrible pain. He smelt of marijuana.

Gabriel sighed and laid his head back onto the pillow nearby. A makeshift bed on the floor had served Enkiel’s wound-cleaning purposes. The jackal was threading a needle with his small fingers and remarkable precision. “Your father will recover, but until he does, he is to rest. I will need you to hunt for him.” It was not a request. Enkiel was skilled in his healing, but knew his limitations elsewhere. As he began to stitch up the worst of the wounds, the gaping mass of scar tissue on Gabriel’s bad shoulder, Ezekiel nodded. “That’s fine.” There was a pause—an eternity—before he went on. “Marlowe’s dead,” the Hydra said suddenly.

Gabriel looked up and saw that his son was cradling the dead bird. Ezekiel’s eyes were blurry, and his ears had fallen low. “I don’t want to bury him,” he said quietly, as a child might. “He doesn’t belong to the earth.”

“Go gather firewood. We’ll send him home that way.”

The pyre had been built quickly, with Gabriel instructing Ezekiel on how to best position the wood. Enkiel had allowed him to go outside for this, but not far, and lingered behind the pair. They were only a few yards from the guest house of the mansion, but far enough that prying eyes would be few. Marlowe’s body, cleaned and still limp, was cradled in Ezekiel’s arms while his chicks, now old enough to look like ravens and know how to speak low-tongue, listened to the Hydra tell them about their father’s death. Gabriel did not understand much of it. It wasn’t until Ezekiel moved towards the unlit pyre that he began to recite a prayer in Latin, believing it was the language of God the Father as he had been taught.

“Réquiem æternam dona ei, Dómine.” Ezekiel sparked flame with flint and soon the bonfire was burning, spiraling up towards heaven itself. “ Et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Anima ejus, et ánimæ ómnium fidélium defunctórum, per misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace. Amen.”

He barely recognized that Ezekiel was speaking with him, but in a way that the birds would understand. They watched the fire burn until there was nothing left but embers, and by then, it was dawn. Gabriel felt exhaustion sinking into his bones and with Enkiel’s instance, returned to the guest house. His son lingered near the remains of the fire and spoke to his young wards quietly long into the morning before they too retreated to sleep off the terrible things that had come to pass.