"Pour everything out for the blood you have shed, you're wasting your time in appeasing the dead."
- Aeschylus
Hate begets hate, violence begets violence; it's as sure as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Uther Pendragon sowed the...
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Dawn rose over the Mountains of Isgaard with a sigh and a stretch, slowly stirring all that resided in the stony summits of the barren land with an indolent hand.
A lone rider snaked through the vast mountains, exhaustion weighing him and his steed down, though his journey was far from over. A life depended on the success of his mission, which could only be completed within the depths of the Forest of Balor. What awaited him, the traveler did not know, but whatever it was mattered little. A man lay on his deathbed, and his fate was only endangered because of his willingness to risk it all for the scarlet-cloaked man.
Against the wishes of his father, Arthur Pendragon would save a life.
It did not matter that it was his servant or that he was alone, without his trusted knights. Arthur had set his mind to a goal, he had set his mind to save a life, and that which stood in his way be damned.
But he was not truly alone.
From his perch in the sky, an amber-eyed hawk stalked the Prince of Camelot with a heart for malice beating behind his rib cage.
His wings, the color of freshly worked earth, pierced through the morning sky like a steel blade. They cut through clouds and mist, carrying him high above the peaks of Isgaard. There was power as he glided, a strength and deadliness that birds of prey all boasted. To mistake the creature for anything other than a predator would be dreadful folly.
For behind the feathered limbs and sharp talons, a man existed.
Osian Rhyl was born blessed with a power few possessed: the power of transformation. It came not from a potion or a spell but from a deep and innate gift. Like his mother before him, Osian could transform at will, and his chosen body was that of a hawk. The form came naturally to him, and flight followed as easily as walking.
By the age of seven, he was soaring through the sky above Beladur, his mother at his back. Her own wings carried her through the wind and to the heavens above. It was with Elin that Osian took his first steps and his first flight, and Osian recalled that every time he took to the sky.
It was what kept him going through the night as Arthur Pendragon raced to cure his traitorous servant; vengeance sustained Osian more than any food or drink could. Each flap of his wings was a reminder of all that was lost: his mother, his father, his people, his birthright.
His glowing eyes twitched in awareness as the Prince turned a corner, the easily identifiable cloak fluttering behind him as rocks and stone made way for acres of dark woods. The Forest of Balor stood before him, and the Prince showed no signs of stopping, though Osian cared not if he turned back or continued on. Either way, the prat would die either by his hand or his aunt's.
Arthur Pendragon's death was foretold; it was simply a matter of time.
