by Lettie
Market stalls sold traditional nut pasties and warm kompot to the revelers. And the children’s mother brought one for each of them.
When the bells struck three times, the Hawks would sweep over the valley. Everything would fall silent except for the animals, the sky and bunting flapping in the breeze.
The Maypole creaked to a halt as the dancing slowed, as Kes and Dove watched as the bell towers to the East and West began to ring. Their mother handed them their drinks which they sipped carefully. The bubbly sweet fruit clinging to their mouths.
The bells tolled twice. Three times. Nothing… But then everything happened too fast. The hawks shot overhead, indeed, like sunlight but instead of following their natural path, they scattered. Some careened into walls. One lay collapsed with an arrow through it’s back.
Thudding arrows. Arrows too fast to be seen by the human eye until they hit their mark. Broken cups. Villagers scattering. A hawk screaming with an arrow sticking out of its back.
The Hawk flew for Dove. Kestrel. Mama. The sacred birds of Hawk Valley cried and the flock of thirteen doves circled proactively around the crowds, like they were taught. Edelweiss flapped his wings and shot towards the larger bird. It scratched at the dove as it sailed nearly into the family. The dove fell, ruby blood soaking pure feathers.
Fae, Mama thought. With those arrows. The war must be worsening, to target small valley festivities. They were only a pinprick on the continent of Emery’s map.
She held her children close. The bronze dagger beneath her dress felt heavy as she knelt to kiss her sweet bird on the brow.
A goodbye.
Dove, still clinging to her mother knelt to lift a fruit from someone’s dropped glass, and lay it on the little creature. He wasn’t bleeding, merely soaking red from spilt kompot.
A gift.
Kes longed to touch one of Edelweiss’ silken feathers. But not this Edelweiss.
© Abi Mouncer 2023-05-28