Archive of Our Own

“With the Battle of Ulstead are numbers are gravely depleted,” the Council’s spokeswoman voice rings out across the council tavern filled with each tribe of dark fey’s representative. The room is filled to the brim, fey having been summoned from beyond the island to attend. Borra is sure he even spotted a few geese fey from up north and he feels a stab of pity for whichever representative had been sent to invite them, they were notoriously isolationists and even the Council struggled to keep them in line.

The Council’s spokeswoman, Turina, is meant to be a neutral party but Borra frowns at both the pointed bite of her words and the bitter glare aimed in his direction. Her father had been one of the fallen fey in the battle and she held Borra responsible for his death. She wasn’t the only one that felt that having rallied their people into an attack that had taken so many of their lives, Borra bore a responsibility toward the flock. It weighs heavily on his shoulders, though all warriors are aware that each battle they may not return from. Several of the relatives of the fallen were keen to extract a price from him in recompense, having already forgotten that his message had been a rallying cry to fight as a last stand against humans. With their dwindling numbers, Conall had been correct - - they never could have defeated them all but to go down without a fight was unconscionable. Those that had agreed had fought.

Ulstead is well known across the lands for their warring ways, for all their recent talk of giving up war they’d been all too ready to fight the fey’s invasion. If the fey had stood back and done nothing, he knows she would have found another way to destroy them. If not her then one of the other warring kingdoms trying to make a name for themselves.

They all know this but it hasn’t changed that expecting death and having a harrowing weapon that turned one into dust wasn’t considered to be a possibility. That a traitor would twist their tomb blooms— a sacred memorial for their dead, by manipulating the magic inherent in the flowers, to twist it to such a purpose required such a foul soul that they had never considered it. When the weapon had been described to their more well versed magic users they’d shuddered and been sick.

Zek, an elderly desert fey, stood up and moved toward the center of the tavern. He took over the speaking area from the younger council member. “Our numbers were not enough to sustain us before the Battle but it certainly didn’t help.”

The gathered fey mutter amongst themselves. It’s true. They’d spread as far as they could across the Phoenix’s nest, but the island was never meant to support the entirety of the dark fey population - - it’s why their ancestors had migrated elsewhere. That humans had become such a powerful force against fey that most had ended up migrating back to their lands of origin. It was often a sore point, especially as it had always been a temporary, limited solution. Though their numbers had been lacking, the island had struggled to support them in the last several years.

Now that the Phoenix’s heir was with them and had commanded a fragile peace between humans and fey, the Council deemed that they still could face extinction from their limited numbers.

The irony was devastating.

Turina shuffled forward, bracketing her colorful wings to garner attention. “That is why the council has come to the condition that Flights will be held in a fortnight.”

A wave of protests rang out.

“You can’t just throw a Flight out as a response!”
“Two weeks?! That’s not enough time to prepare!”
“Are you trying to court the extinction of us?”
“How can we even manage such a thing? What is the Council trying to accomplish?”
“This is a travesty— a throwback to ancient practices that were outlawed for good reason!”

Hizak, a deeply traditional forest fey that was well known for brownnosing the Council, jostled himself to the center of the tavern to speak out. “Good people, we must listen to the Council’s verdict! This is merely one step in helping our flock recover from the Battle of Ulstead.” He flared his wings out, quieting the crowd with the space eating display. Though obnoxious, his wingspan was impressive enough to garner the silence of the gathered fey. “I hardly think a series of Flights is anything to worry over.”

Borra’s wings rattled as he watched Zek step in front of the poncy forest fey to explain further “The Flights will take place but it will only be for those that volunteer to join in the tradition. The council believes this is our best hope at encouraging eligible and interested fey into finding suitable matches.”

The crowd’s dismay seemed to subside, a wave receding back into the ocean. He had a thrumming feeling in his gut that it wouldn’t be as cut and dry as Turina, Hizak or Zek were making it out to be— the forest fey was never very good at hiding his ambitions to join the Council so his sycophant support wasn’t surprising. Zek was the elder of the oldest desert tribe within the flock, so his campaign to return to such an old tradition wasn’t a shock either. Turina was a bit of a surprise, her tribe was notoriously opposed to the old way.

Flights were a tradition from the earliest days of the dark fey. Eligible parties would take to the skies and dance a dizzying routine to physically overwhelm their intended, to the point of grounding them. It was meant to be a way of proving one’s skill and abilities at flying and physical prowess. The kicker was that at the time any fey that was without a mate and of age was mandated to join the Flight. It had turned into a way for more powerful fey to induce those with subpar skills into their flocks or for grudges to be carried out when ‘unintended’ injuries occurred. It had finally been put to rest when a series of extremely unhappy pairings that came of it, the traditions had fallen out of favor. The last set of Flights hadn’t happened for a few decades, most current tribes stuck with more romantic courting rituals.

Pairing flights happened seasonally— a lesser version of the classic Flight, meant as a temporary mating between fey that were interested in one another but not in committing to a lifelong bond with one another. Since they weren’t meant to be long lasting, only a fleeting bond between the parties involved, it had become a way to appease both the traditional and modern fey tribes.

A handful of the strictest traditional tribes sometimes ran a bastardized version of a Flight, with tribe members gathering around the intended couple midair, circling and diving at them to challenge their ability to maintain their flight path together. Borra had witnessed a few over the years but only by the more long-established tribes, like Zek’s. A handful of couples had lost their intended to another interested party within the tribe that had a better skill at flying.

Modern couples tended toward Displays. They varied by individual but typically included showing off a skill set or talent to interest your intended or their family into agreeing to a Bond. For some it was displaying their physical beauty through an alluring dance routine; for others it was a skill in magic to manipulate nature to create a habitat or nest that could accommodate a new family. Borra could recall a display of weaponry back in his desert tribe; the woman had showcased her skill with a spear that had been so compelling her intended had fallen to his knees in tears at her display. It had been one of the last matings of his tribe before humans wiped them out.

Borra couldn’t imagine a series of Flights would accomplish couples enthusiastic about repopulating their numbers. Though if it was only required for volunteers to join in, perhaps it would not be the disaster he feared. Given his own standing within the flock and lack of interested parties, he couldn’t imagine there would be a demand for his participation.

He should have waited for the other egg to drop.

“Of course, given our depletion is mostly within our warrior ranks due to the Battle with the humans, the council expects that the warriors’ will volunteer unless they’ve already found a mate.””

Borra’s wings rattled with displeasure as inert fury raged through his veins. So that was the game the council was playing. Their belated punishment doled out in a manner that would appease the gentle fey by only encouraging them to join but forcing the participation of those that had fought in the Battle.

He overheard a few fey nearby speaking amongst themselves. “Well I suppose that’s only fair, they did fail to protect the battle fallen fey, so it’s only right they help boost our numbers.”

Borra saw red. His calves tensed as he crouched to launch himself at the speaker when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, holding him back. Looking over his shoulder he saw it was Conall who was restraining him from beating a lesson into the mouthy fey. “Peace, Borra, no need to fight.”

Borra reigned in his knee jerk response, which was that there was always a reason to fight, scraping a thin layer of patience to see what his friend would do in response to the comments flying around. He knew his own strength lay in rallying the troops, not in soothing the gentle fey or demanding the council change their mind. Conall on the other hand was a skilled negotiator that was able to weave words and win the hearts of their people.

Conall splayed his wings in a high, eye-catching display. His impressive wings caught the attention of the flock, and the crowd settled, their roar of conversations settling to a whisper. A petty corner of Borra’s mind could help but note that Conall was much more graceful and tactful than Hizuk at garnering the crowd’s attention.

“Have we found a hard earned peace with humanity, only to lose our sights on what it was we were defending in our battles over the years?”

Zek bracketed his wings in challenge, the rustic browns shivering and shaking. “What would you have us do, Riser?”

The crowd burst out in buzzing whispers at the nickname that Conall had been anointed with after Maleficent had been able to use her Phoenix gifts to raise Conall from the burial mound— wounds healed and life returned. It had been what had unlocked her gifts as the Phoenix’s Heir before she’d taken flight to fight in the Battle of Ulstead and reclaim her own heir.

Borra was close enough to see the way Conall stiffened in displeasure at the name but how he pushed passed it.

“Extend the Flights participation so that only those interested will take flight.”

The council tavern reverberated with voices, some fey hooting their agreement.

Hizak, despite not speaking for the council, strutted back into the speaking circle again as if he had a right to interrupt. “Perhaps you misheard – only those warriors that wish to help keep our people alive are joining in, those that choose to selfishly stay to the sidelines are free to do so, what other type of compromise do these so called protectors want?”

“Can it truly be called a compromise if it would remove the free will of a fey to decide their own fate?”

Borra fell a little bit more in love with Conall.

Turina shoved the forest fey out of the circle, reclaiming her rightful place as the spokesperson for the council. “A compromise could be achieved, allowing for only the ranked warriors to participate— surely they wouldn’t need to be required but would step up to participate in the Flights for the greater good of the flock?”

It wasn’t often that someone was able to shut Conall down in a speech, but the spokeswoman had managed it.

Any further pushback from Conall would only solidify the warriors as the party at fault for the fey's lack of numbers and denying their participation in flights would paint an even larger target on their backs. It was dirty work. The ranked warriors led their squads into battle, the heavy weight of loss was felt most keenly by them, and the guilt of leaving their people vulnerable would induce those that would otherwise abstain from the Flights into participating.

The meeting devolved into tribe representatives shooting into the tunnel to return to their territories to share the news with their respective factions. As the only member of his tribe, Borra launched himself into the sky, but not before being boxed in the shoulder by another passing fey’s extended wings. Ostensibly an accident but since the return from the Battle, these little accidents had become commonplace whenever Borra was in a crowded area.

“Borra!”

He flicked his wing back to peer over his shoulder to see who was calling out for him. Seeing Conall working his wings to catch up, Borra beat his wings to slow his speed and stay aloft, catching a thermal and allowing the forest fey to meet him midair. Borra’s longer wingspan meant it took his friend several wingbeats to even come close to covering the distance.

“Borra, may we speak?”

He considered the question but knew that this was not a request he would deny. “Your nest?” He asked, knowing the other fey still struggled at longer flights since his recovery. The forest biome was closer to the Council tavern than Borra’s own further out desert bound nest.

Conall agreed and they set off toward his territory.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

 

“It’s unquestionably a punishment by the Council for the Battle, how they managed to sway the entire board to agree to this plan isn’t the issue but - -“ Borra stopped mid sentence, frozen in place from where he’d been pacing passed Conall as they discussed Council’s proposal for mandatory ranked warriors to join the Flights.

The only part of Borra that moved was his head, face jerked so that he was looking at Conall. More specifically, his eyes were zeroed in on Conall’s hand. It’s only after he’s already started to move his hand away from the waxy feathers along the top of Borra’s inner wing that Conall even realizes the implicit imposition of his action.

In the moment he’d been so caught up in listening to his friend that when he’d seen a few stray feathers that needed tucked back into their correct formation, he’d just done it.

Something he’d thought of doing a thousand times. A small act, something a parent or lover might fix as second nature, maybe even a particularly close friend. Though Conall acknowledges that for a friend it was a stretch, as for dark fey fixing another’s wing feathers was often considered a close or even intimate act of service. Perhaps all the talk of Flights had made him take leave of his senses.

He’d never preened Borra in all the years of their friendship , after all the other fey took a certain delight in his disheveled appearance during the war, determined that if he fell he wouldn’t be another trophy for the humans. Though Conall was fastidious about his own looks he had found that Borra’s feral appearance had its own alluring charms.

For the length of a staggered heartbeat Conall dwelled in a crippling dread that he’s just destroyed the trust he’d built over the years with Borra. Even as the tingle of fleeting warmth zips across his fingertips from grazing Borra’s marginal covert feathers, he can’t overcome the gut churning worry. As quickly as it had begun to build in Conall’s gut it’s immediately shuttered as Borra’s left wing flared out to engulf Conall’s hand; from his claws to his wrist are suddenly buried in downy, warm feathers. Welcoming Conall’s touch.

“Oh,” he gasps, as blood warmed feathers resettle around Conall’s wrist with a rustling shiver, the heat that was previously ghosting tempestuously along his fingertips is a molten fire along the palm of his hand and between the webs of his fingers now. His mouth floods with saliva and he swallows instinctively, tongue flickering across his top fangs — itching for him to sink them into a binding bond bite.

“Better?” The question is out before Conall can stall it behind his teeth. It feels like he’s holding a bundle of tinder near a spark as the question hangs between them.

Rearranging another fey’s feathers was not something one did for just anyone, let alone a notoriously brazen, churlish warrior who had made it abundantly clear since he’d come to the Phoenix’s nest that he didn’t wish for anyone to court him.

Beneath his breast plates, Conall’s heart stuttered erratically as his reflexive question hangs unanswered between them. Conall isn’t sure how his friend will react, other than not in any expected way. He relishes the warm, downy texture against his palm all the same.

“Much better,” Borra admits at last, tipping his head to the side as he catches Conall’s gaze with his own heavy lidded one.

Given that Conall’s hand is still buried in Borra’s wing, it’s impossible miss the way Borra’s pleased smirk is tucked into the corner of his lush mouth, and the sign that is much clearer and easier to understand is this -- Conall hasn’t been gored by the other fey’s horns, so though intimate, the gesture doesn’t seem to have upset Borra. If anything Borra seems deeply pleased. Conall’s worry fades though his heart rate remains slightly elevated.

Their conversation resumes and the unintentional grooming isn’t spoken of again. Though Borra’s wing doesn’t shift away to dislodge Conall’s hand until he prepares to depart for the night.

 

-00–00–00–00-

 

It’s only been a handful of days but Conall has yet to manage to get his mind off of how it felt to fill his palm with the warmth of Borra’s wing. The few times he’s spotted the other fey am he’d been mid-drill with the warrior factions or too far away in the sky to catch his attention.

Since the night the council had dropped their decree and he’d spent an hour wrist deep in Borra’s plumage, Borra hadn’t approached him once. Whether to ask for further grooming – a daydream Conall has often caught himself in, or even less desirable for him to demand that his friend not do something so personal again. Truly such a request would devastate Conall’s romantic interest in his friend, to be so close to courting Borra and be denied developing their friendship into a different type of bond but he’s determined to respect Borra’s decision — if he ever makes it.

The dark fey has seldom been spotted by Conall since their last encounter so it remains a burning unanswered question in Conall’s mind. And a worrying one, though Conall is caught up in the idea of courting, no solution for avoiding the Flights has been found yet.

 

-0-0-0-0-

 

As a representative of his tribe, Conall has many duties that should be occupying his thoughts. He should not be caught up once more reminiscing on how content he’d been to stand close with Borra, just talking, able to preen a few feathers of his friend’s, even just the once three days ago.

Usually Borra flitted about as he spoke, but that evening once he’d engulfed Conall’s hand, the other dark fey had remained in place, not fidgeting at all. As if he too hadn’t wanted to lose the connection between them. A spark of warmth sizzles along Conall’s veins. It had to be a sign.

Now stuck in a meeting to discuss the work to be done to set up the first Flight, Conall ignored his own urge to pace along the meeting room as the council gathered slowly together. He hardly has time to wonder what it would be like to be given proper permission to check over Borra’s wings, perhaps even his inner tertiary feathers, before one of the other fey begins to speak, starting the meeting.

“Fellow fey, thanks for gathering today to discuss our future. Our tribe of course supports the Council’s decision, after all if we mean to continue. . . “

Conall means to listen to Driea speak the tundra fry oddly impassioned by the topic given his mated status, only Conall finds himself finally noticing that Borra, standing a few wingspans away, is also in attendance.

Conall has been so distracted by his daydreams, he hadn’t considered that the desert fey was his own representative and thus to be in attendance. From that point on, the speakers are merely a buzz in the background, Conall’s attention is only on the desert fey.

At first he thinks it’s a trick of the light but a few minutes into Driea’s speech, he’s confirmed that Borra has a few notable feathers missing from his wings. He subtly attempts to move closer but the room is crowded. As Driea passes the speaker’s position to a Shrike, a jungle fey, Conall manages to squeeze close enough to see that even Borra’s flight feathers had areas that were patchy and even more dull than usual. Borra was renowned for fighting both in air and on the ground, dust or sand coating his feathers wasn’t unusual. The dull sheen to his feathers was odd, and Conall realized they were in more of a disarray than usual as well.

Over the years it was hard to not notice how Borra would often drag his feathers against the ground, the barbules and hooklets forced to separate on several of the primaries from the rough treatment. Even Borra’s rachis had a permanent bend in them from being pressed against the ground instead of being held aloft when the fey wasn’t in the air. It led to more than one fey muttering amongst themselves scandalous remarks about feral appearances and horrid wing maintenance, about how no wonder no one would bond such a ruffian.

Conall had always scoffed at such shortsightedness but the current condition was worrying to Conall, fey didn’t display missing feathers so blatantly unless it was from a battle or injury. What could have caused such a drastic change in his friend’s physical state in such a short period of time? Surely this wasn’t Borra’s strategy for getting out of the Flights?

But the only other reasonable explanation was that Conall had overstepped with the preening? Ice sunk into his gut at the idea that he’d stressed Borra to over plucking.

Only Borra was forthright and blunt - - if he hadn’t wanted Conall’s hand on his wing he would have done something other than burying Conall’s hand further into his wing.

If the condition couldn’t be from Borra spiralling over the broken boundary and then overplucking due to stress, was Borra that concerned over the Flights? He was one of their top flyers, the idea that another would be able to get the drop on him was unthinkable.

Despite his reassurances to himself that there was a credible reason for Borra’s wings being in such dishevelment, the reasoning weakened each time he repeated them and Conalls spent the rest of the meeting dwelling on the condition of the other feathers.

The self doubt and recrimination piled up and clouded Conall’s focus further because as disheveled as Borra kept himself, the other always maintained his wings so that they were functional. These patchy wings were not fully functional, flight would be difficult and laborious. The precision and speed that Borra was known for would be impossible to achieve currently.

Conall knew his own bias towards wing and hair maintenance were more on the fastidious end of the range. As he often acted as a representative of his tribe, he kept to a strict schedule when it came to maintaining his grooming habits, that way his appearance was as immaculate as possible at all times. To do otherwise would be shirking his responsibilities to the other dark fey in his tribe. Borra had more than once likened him to a peacock.

It did often make him and Borra look like quite the odd pair when together. But even given his own bias, he didn’t struggle to gauge the level of maintenance Borra or any fey would require to maintain their flight abilities.

As another fey droned on about courting practices that went into Flights, Conall’s attention remained caught up in the disrepair of Borra’s wings. His desire to act, preen and groom his friend and to set forth a proper courting was stymied as to how to approach the wild fey, the nagging worry that he was the reason for Borra’s wings current condition.

 

-0-0-

 

As the meeting came to a close, Conall made his decision.

Subterfuge wouldn’t serve him with Borra, the only way to get to the bottom of this was to speak with Borra directly. He wouldn’t stop until he spoke with his friend.

 

–00–00–00–

 

With the forest fey biome being closer to where the council met, Conall decided to detour to groom his own feathers before seeking out Borra. It would soothe his nerves before the stressful conversation and give him a moment to think of how to best prepare what he wanted to say so there were no misunderstandings between them.

He’d been held up by a few tribe members that wanted to speak with him about the meeting but before too long he managed to finally slip away.

The wind through his feathers felt wonderful after being held up inside for so long, the cooling effect helping center his thoughts as he drifted through the air toward his own nest.

As he circles into descent toward it, there is another fey pacing around his nest on the ground. As he glides closer, his eyes catch the telling details that reveal it to be no one other than Borra. Of course. Leave it to Borra to circumvent Conall’s plan to self soothe before discussing their courting.

Conall ruffles his feathers, slowing his speed and flapping his wings a few extra times to give him a few more seconds to figure out the best course of action in approaching him. He’d been hoping to refocus before having this conversation but now that it’s been prematurely sprung on him, he’s determined to make the best of the situation. He hasn’t been alone with Borra since he’d allowed him to touch his wing, and now his wings were looking rough.

Conall’s nest wasn’t too far off from other fey but most were still caught up in the post-discussion of the council meeting or elsewhere, so Borra wouldn’t feel the need to unduly posture, and if it went poorly there wouldn’t be witnesses around to gawk or offer stunted condolences if Conall had misunderstood Borra’s potential signs of being interested in courting with him.

With a last flare of his feathers and a change in the carriage of his wings, Conall redirects his landing to a few feet from the pacing fey. He feels a pang of disappointment that he hadn’t had the chance to refresh his appearance before having this discussion but assuages his concerns with the thought that Borra has seen him in worse conditions than this, and never teased him about looking less than his best.

At his landing, Borra glances over toward him but continues to pace.

Tucking his wings close, in case Borra reacted suddenly to the intrusive question, Conall closes the distance to his friend. He could ponder the condition of Borra’s wings all he wanted but there was only one way to get his answers.

“Borra, is there a reason you’ve left your feathers in such decline? Surely this isn’t to avoid the Flights?”

Instead of goring Conall on his horns for such a blunt comment about his feathers, the younger fey flares his wings in a display that showcases their powerful size, lifting the primaries from the ground and splaying them wide. It’s an inspiring sight, Conall’s throat feels tight just looking at the canvas before him. He wishes for the skill to draw or paint, to capture the image forever in a medium other than his memory. Two large wings held aloft, feathers stretched out to show off the muscular build and tapestry of colors in the feathers that do remain. They are gloriously disheveled though; despite the disarray of the larger flight feathers and patchy gaps where smaller downy feathers are still coming in, Conall is dazzled by the range of colors and pigmentations.

Even the chance to take in the normally hidden barring on Borra’s secondaries, the wings normally held in close to the body and not aloft in a blatant configuration as they were right now. It takes Conall longer than usual to realize he’d been asked a question in return.

“Is there a reason you’ve concerned yourself with the condition of my feathers?”

If it were any other fey, Conall would take the question as a flirtation. Without lowering his wings, Borra closes the distance between them with three powerful strides, and with that last closed distance Conall finds that he can hardly breathe. It’s a feeling not unlike being kicked in the chest or plummeting from the sky unexpectedly. The lack of personal space was an oft used weapon in Borra’s arsenal. Given their species’ experiences and power, when approaching another dark fey there was a certain amount of distance that was expected to be kept. Their wings were responsive and flexible but an unthinking flare of a wing could unintentionally knock another off their feet, out of the sky and cause grave injury.

Borra often disregarded this social necessity.

The recollection of Borra’s meeting with Maleficent is still fresh in Conall’s mind. He can still feel the terrible way his lungs had clutched in his chest when Borra had used this tactic on Maleficent, despite being aware that she clearly had power beyond imagining. The impulsive younger fey had intruded into her personal space and poked at her until he managed to harass a show of her phoenix abilities, which included him being thrown across the tavern into the wall.

When she’d blown him back with her magic, Conall had felt a glut of paralyzing terror sizzle down his spine until Borra had cackled about it like it was Festive Yule coming early for him, encouraging the rest of the gathered flock leaders to hoot and holler before dismissing the meeting to spread the word of the Phoenix’s heir.

So disrespecting personal bubbles was a tactic Borra utilized in his arsenal.

But not with Conall.

Being this close now meant that the reason behind the decline in Borra’s feathers became offensively obvious to the forest fey. Conall felt like an idiot for not figuring it out before now.

“You’re . . . molting?”

Though a common process, Conall has to wrack his brain to recall if he’d even seen Borra molting before - - he hadn’t. Ever. Borra was never the type to be caught fixing his plumage for best impact to impress a mate, in fact Conall had once seen him roll in sand and stand up to shake the entire desert out of his wings. It had sent a younger warrior fleeing back to his tribe’s practice circle and far away from Borra, much to the feral fey’s delight.

Most desert fey were tight-lipped about their traditions, and instead of the festivities that the jungle or forest fey made out of the molting period, they scurried back to their home territories for a week and only returned once their new feathers had come in. They didn’t always make it back.

Now that Conall realized what was happening, he couldn’t remember ever seeing one of the desert fey molting. Borra’s wings rattle at Conoll’s question, a few loose small marginal coverts and scapulars near the top of his wings wriggling loose from the action, only to gently float down near the edges of Conall’s nest.

His point made, Borra pulled his wings back in so they fold up against his back, only the outer feathers visible again.

Puzzle solved, Conall’s focus was drawn to the small mound of loose feathers that twitched in the slight breeze on the ground, having landed around the perimeter of his own nest. His eyes greedily catalog the small collection, spanning arrays of browns, tans and creams that Borra had apparently shed, his fingers itching to weave them into his own nest.

A deep smile pulling at his lips, he catches Borra’s gaze. A sizzle of excitement zings through his veins. While molting was a natural process, where one molted was an entirely different subject.

As far as he knew, desert fey collected a few to add to their braids or nest but ritually burned the rest to keep them out of human hands. It was forest fey like Conall that added the bulk of their shed feathers to their nests, or offered some to close family members to maintain their bonds.

They also had a tradition of sharing fallen feathers between courting fey.

Conall wasn’t sure how well versed Borra was in any fey courting culture. As an orphan from his tribe at such a young age there had been limited transfer of knowledge but it was hard to tell due to how closely all desert fey guarded the information.

If another had asked Conall before today, he wouldn’t have said Borra had any interest in taking a mate. As far as Conall could recall the other fey never even shared a pairing flight with another.

For once the bold fey seemed caught out by Conall’s intense stare.

“I . . . I’ve been trying to speak with you since our last conversation. Do forgive the . . . “ Borra gestured at all the feathers spilt across the ground surrounding Conall’s nest, seemingly at a loss for words despite trying to have this conversation for the past week.

A flush of blood rushes through his horns as Conall tilts his head forward, bringing them so close to Borra’s he almost knocks them together as he tucks his chin down to hide the amusement shimming across his features, well aware how sensitive a topic molting could be, even for one as brash as Borra.

The idea of scraping horns together . . . Conall’s wings flutter behind him. Eager to reassure Borra that he isn’t offended by him molting around Conall’s nest, Conall throws a hand out in a gesture of dismissal.

“Think nothing of it,” Connal smiles widely, fangs on prominent display, “I do not mind some extra insulation for my nest.”

He looks down at the border branches on said nest and realizes that Borra must have been stopping by over the course of the week, not just today, given the amount of earthy colored feathers were caught up in the outer branches. He’d need to tuck them into place in response to the courting gesture.

Perhaps Borra knew more than he suspected about forest fey courting.

Emboldened by this, Conall reaches out to rest a hand on Borra’s shoulder, “Especially not when it is given by such a close, dear friend.”

At his reassurance Borra muscles stiffen under his hand, his entire person seems to hum with discomfort. Borra cocks his head to the side and whips his face around with raptor-like grace, no longer meeting Conall’s gaze but staring downward and off to the side.

“Of course, the gesture was meant as— well yes of course, as you say as a friend — that is to say, I understand it is acceptable for you, as only a friend.” The word dripped with an unusual emphasis from his tongue.

Conall feels like he’s lost a step in the conversation, his brows quirk up, he tilts his chin toward Borra, opening his mouth to ask what he meant, the torrent of words he’s just spewed so tangled as to have lost any meaning. From the shuttered stance and quick deluge of words, Borra’s seeming agreement was so uncomfortable and embarrassed that Conall knew he’d missed something. He doesn’t understand what he has managed to do within a handful of seconds to cause Borra to go from being preoccupied and nervous to laser focused, deeply unhappy and tongue tied within the span of a sentence?

Before he can pin it down, Borra steps back out of reach, mantling his wings with the most agonized look on his face. Conall’s heart stutters, Without a chance to find the words to hold him in place and repair the damage, Borra makes a thin excuse of having forgotten another meeting and launches himself into the sky before Conall could figure out what had just happened.

 

-0-

 

Even after spending the rest of the evening going over the interaction, Conall still couldn’t figure out what had upset his friend. Given the go ahead to touch Borra’s wing as they spoke previously, and then the other dropping his tradition of molting in the desert - - on top of leaving his feathers at Conall’s nest, well Conall had been sure they would have been talking about courting earlier that evening. Perhaps even setting up a pairing flight once Borra’s wings were in better condition. It would excuse both their participation in the council’s Flight, if nothing else.

Now instead of being on the cusps of announcing a long awaited courtship, Borra had disappeared like dust in the wind.

Unable to locate the other fey, the only solution Conall could come up with was that he needed to speak to another fey that was more familiar with the traditions of the desert fey. The resources were limited, desert fey tended to only pair up with one another but he was friendly with Bia and Terra, a mated pair of forest and desert origins.

Determined to speak with them first thing tomorrow, he fell into an unsatisfactory sleep.

 

-0-0-0-0-

 

Conall has barely landed at Bia’s healing nests before a question bursts out of his mouth. “Have you ever seen Borra molting before?”

It’s out before Conall realizes he should have offered a greeting and gently segued into the conversation, in his defense it's been on his mind since yesterday and his disastrous interaction with the other fey.

If Bia, an ancient forest fey and head healer for their flock is shocked by his sudden appearance or question, she hides it well.

She hums to show she’s heard him but takes a few minutes to continue sorting her herbs to consider her answer before responding.

“I don’t know that anyone has seen the desert fey spring molts. They return to their homelands since they consider it a deeply private process, according to my Terra. To lose so many feathers at once leaves any dark fey vulnerable. The pride of the desert fey is high, they do not care to be so vulnerable around others. The lesser molt in the fall, some desert fey stay on the island while they undergo it but only when their extended absence would cause a great disturbance to the flock or they can’t physically make the journey.” She laid out a scattering of a bitter scented herb, and began tying them along a stick with a thin rope, no doubt to dry it out, as she continued to speak.

“A few decades back, Teeka and Reuzk of the Western tribe both remained throughout their spring molts due to an injury Teeka suffered shortly before their molts were due but I don’t believe they left their nesting territory for the duration, and the remaining fey kept any from disturbing them.”

Conall felt his eyebrows shoot up. He hadn’t realized just how rare a display he’d seen when Borra had shown him his feathers the other day or left the scattering of them around his nest.

“Borra has stayed behind for his fall molt this year,” he admits haltingly, biting at his bottom lip to keep more words from tumbling out.

Bia jerks slightly at his words, turning away from her sorting to look straight at Conall. “My Terra only ever shared her molts once we began courting, and even then we both traveled back to her home nest.” She pauses, thinking for a moment before she holds up her pointer finger to gesture at him. “During the great migration when she couldn’t be spared to leave, she took great pains to burn her spent feathers. The desert flocks don’t allow for any but themselves or their bonded to retain their discarded ones.”

She shrugged her narrow shoulders, her wings flicking out before tucking back in an easy slouch behind her. “Forest fey, we’re much more upfront with our own moltings. The spring festival to welcome it is always a wonderful way to reconnect with nature.” She turns back to her herbs, sorting them into categories from a massive pile one of her assistants had gathered earlier.

For as long as he’d been on the island he’d known Bia as one of the great healers of the flock, but he’d forgotten that Bia would have bonded with a desert fey before the great migration took place. Still, her answers flood his mind with more questions.

“Why burn them?” Surely the feathers could be of great use in lining their nests or shelters.

“Terra said that due to the rigors of their climate, they have an extreme molt in the spring and a lesser one in the fall but to avoid humans from discovering them they remove all traces of their presence and shift their base territory throughout the seasons.” She gestured toward the autumn weather outside before continuing, “Few chose to remain in their nest on the island, most return to their home territory until the process is complete. Though the only ones I’ve seen stay on the island are those that are unable to make the journey back to their original territory but even then the others shelter them from view.”

Conall nodded, that tracked with what he could recall as well. It didn’t explain why a healthy fey like Borra would decide to stay on the island to molt, when everything pointed toward him never having done so before, and there being no real inclination as to why he would do so now.

The older healer smirked at his puzzled expression, returning her focus once more on her herbs, side-eyeing Conall and doing nothing to hide her amusement at his expense.

“You know, you could just ask Borra why he’s been shedding around your nest, I think you’ll be quite receptive to his answer.”

Conall’s brow furrowed, his dreads dragging across his shoulders as he jerked his face in her direction “Receptive? He didn’t seem happy when I approached him the other day - – wait how many fey have seen him doing this? Does everyone know about this?”

Bia didn’t answer him, only raspily chuckling as she patted his arm and dismissed him from her healing nests. “Good day, Conall.”

Mind buzzing with more questions than ever, he flared his wings out to take off, determined to figure out what was going on. What Bia said seemed to indicate that Borra had been taking steps to court Conall, and it seemed the ball was now in his court to make the next move. Though he had no clue how to do that if he’d somehow already pissed the other off.

“Good day, Healer Bia.”

He’d need a new approach.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

 

Drills with the squad were extra trying mid-molt. Having undergone twice yearly molts since his majority, Borra was aware of this, especially as he’d migrated back to the homelands for his spring and fall molts since migrating to the island but still kept up with his practice drills even when back in the homeland.

Borra wasn’t one to rest if he could be pushing himself to become a better protector for his people. Yes he had to make more of an effort with his wings missing so many feathers but it also meant he would be better prepared to take on any threat of humans no matter what state he was in.

So what if exercises with his competitive flight group meant he had to push himself harder to maintain the same levels of lift and thrust to stay in formation. Without the key feathers he was regrowing, the maneuvers required more effort, more energy, faster wingbeats and more powerful strokes. It meant he had to concentrate exactly on what he was doing— and not dwelling on the soul wrenching rejection from Conall.

Having stayed on the island to pursue Conall, despite his fall molting, he hoped perhaps to kill two birds with one stone by sharing his falling feathers as an understanding of forest fey courtship and a way to find a bonded before the council’s retched Flight.

Oh how that had backfired.

Now Borra was in no condition to flee to the homeland of the desert fey to recover from being denied courting Conall — as Conall had explicitly stated he only viewed Borra as a close, dear friend. He could only hope his wings would recover from his molt swift enough that he’d be able to dodge any attacks in the Flight. Though his focus was more on the yawning pit of despair he found himself in ever since Conall had denounced his courting gesture as only acceptable as a friendly gesture.

The rejection scalded any self worth he felt.

It also led to him staying for both the first and second rounds of drills – - anything if it could drown out the memory of Conall’s gentle rejection of his courting gesture. He’d never felt like such a fool when he’d shared his shed feathers to line the other’s nest, only for Conall to reassure him that they were friends. Just close friends. That he would accept the feathers only as a friend.

The desert fey were very tight with sharing their culture, even with other dark fey, but the forest fey were more upfront and open with their traditions. Offering feathers to use in one’s nest was done in family groups or with potential mates, not with friends. Not even close friends, Borra’s mind spiraled again at the memory of that phrase. That Conall would try to humor him, now with no doubt that he wasn’t interested and probably only saw Borra as an orphan who didn’t know any better.

Borra had overstepped, misinterpreted Conall’s preening of his marginal feathers a week prior. He’d been flummoxed by the unexpected intimate gesture but had welcomed the courting by pressing Conall’s hand more firmly into his wing. The other hadn’t continued to groom him but even the presence of his hand amongst his innermost feathers had soothed a jagged part of Borra that he hadn’t realized had been a sore, yearning ache that had been part of him for so long.

He’d been so hopeful to discuss their future, haunting Conall’s nesting territory for hours over the course of a few days, shedding his feathers in an eager effort to showcase his devotion to Conall. He’d waited for another sign that Conall had wanted to continue their courting, visiting Conall’s nest several times and pacing around the territory, inadvertently spreading lesser feathers around the perimeter of Conall’s territory, warning off others. A handful of other forest fey had spotted both him and the growing piles of feathers he’d shed with wire amusement, though once he bared his fangs they’d backed off to mind their own business and stopped their teasing commentary on Borra finally settling down.

He had ignored that none of his feathers had migrated into the structure of Conall’s nest. That the other fey hadn’t moved to collect them or sort them, that they lay discarded across the ground where they’d fallen each day.

The realization that his courting was unwanted came during the brief conversation between Borra and Conall after the council meeting.

Conall had called him a close, dear friend— letting him down as gracefully as possible after he’d been making a turkey out of himself, in front of the other forest fey and more importantly in front of his friend all week.

Obviously Conall hadn’t been available all the times Borra had been waiting at his nest because he’d been trying to let Borra realize he hadn’t fixed his feathers because he was interested in bonding or even sharing a pairing flight. That he hadn’t collected his molted feathers because he was only a friend and not interested in Borra as a potential mate.

Conall had tried to be subtle and kind. The scattering of Borra’s feathers hadn’t been added to the Conall’s nest because he hadn’t wanted to accept the courtship, if Borra hadn’t been so nervous about furthering their relationship perhaps he would have picked up on the fact that Conall had left each layer of scattered feathers exactly where they’d fallen and that he had zero interest in a feral, tumbleweed as a mate. That he’d only accepted them as a gesture of friendship once Borra had pressed him too far.

Borra curses himself soundly, he should have just burned his feathers like always. Now Conall must think he was a twitterpated fool, as well as half the forest fey population that had spotted him pacing Conall’s nest and shedding feathers like a lovesick peacock all week. He’s sure they got a good laugh at him displaying his pitiful wings to such an uninterested party.

His turmoil swirls through his mind as the legion leader, Zekiel finally calls an end for drills for the day, sending a pointed look at Borra when he tells them all to cool down, stretch and utilize the nearby river. The younger fey isn’t considered a ranked warrior, as he’s currently only leading drills and not a squad but the pointed looks have started to grate. The other fey may not have realized Borra was molting but the legion leader had obviously picked up on him looking especially dreadful if the pointed look was anything to go by but between the molting and rejection, he hadn’t cared that he looked particularly disruptive today. After two rounds of grueling drills, he’s sure that it was only worse.

Before the rejection, Borra might have taken offense but today he was panting and exhausted, body sweltering and dripping sweat from the punishing exercises, and had zero interest in starting something with Zekiel, the desert fey’s legion leader.

When they’ve landed and gone through the cool down stretches, the uncomfortable feeling of moisture in his wings and damp hair clinging to his skull leaves Borra utterly miserable, without the drills to focus his mind away from Conall, all he can think to distract himself with now is bathing in the river.

Decision made he launches into the air rapidly, despite the angry pinch in his shoulder blades from the exertion, he’d overextended his wings today.

Determined to rid himself of this hateful feeling, he rides the thermals to a nearby secluded spot on the river, Borra can feel the sharp burn in his wings that’s acting as a final warning. Any more use will lead to an actual injury. The double practice was harsh in the best of conditions, but the missing feathers made for an absolute grueling day. The punishing maneuvers had kept him from focusing on the rejection, for a time but to maintain the mindspace now he wastes no time in stripping his gear on the shore, eager to splash the sweat from his wings and scalp in the freezing waters.

Borra knew better than most what his limits were when it came to what his wings could handle, but even he knew better than to press beyond them when his headspace was clouded with a failed courting. The looming Flights would demand he be on the top of his game. He doubted there would be any interested party looking to bond, but there would no doubt be several that would use the excuse to attack under the guise of accidents or the general rough nature of the mating tradition’s routine aerobatics.

The cold press of water dragging at his overtaxed wings felt like heaven, soothing the abused muscles and plucking the dirt and sand from his feathers. He was long overdue a good grooming.

After Conall had readjusted his feathers last week, he’d put off a full preening with the start of his fall molt. It was something he’d hoped to share with his newly courting mate.

At the time his heart had been in his throat, shocked that a fey he held in such high regard would consider him a potential mate. No one had attempted to preen Borra’s feathers, unless he’s specifically requested assistance of a difficult to reach feather. He’d never considered that Conall could return his feelings. After all, a mate wasn’t a role he’d ever considered fit to fill, given his mercurial nature and difficult personality. He’d been determined to do this right, and though not a keen student on courtship practices, he knew forest fey exchanged feathers to show their devotion to one another.

At the time, Borra had considered it fate, that Conall had instigated a courtship when Borra was on the cusp of a molt.

He’d been thrilled.

For most of the flock, Borra was a fey you wanted in your corner when it came to a fight or physical drills, perhaps even a task that would require a long-distance flight, as he was one of their more skilled flyers. As a diplomat or child minder, no. His abrupt, brutal and impulsive style of living didn’t fit with most feys’ ideals for a partner or parent.

Someone as respected as Conall had their pick of the flock for who they wanted to court and mate. That he’d choose Borra had seemed impossible. Borra snorts, shaking his head so vigorously that his hair whips into his face. It was impossible it seemed.

He grabs fistfuls of wet sand from the bottom of the river to scrub his shoulders, continually tossing his head at the thought that Conall would want a brute like him. Foolish. And Borra hated more than anything to feel foolish.

As the last of his tribe, his arrival at the Phoenix nest heralded him as an instant outsider, even amongst other desert dark fey. Over time he’d found his space within the flock but it had been a rough transition. Borra’s temperament, even for desert fey, hadn’t helped. It wasn’t until he was old enough to join in drills that his abilities had people speaking of him positively and not focusing on his almost feral nature. How fast he could fly or how sharply he could modify his flight at the drop of a pin, the fierceness he brought to battles were all spoken of as great assets to the flock. Still, he’d never been approached as a potential bond mate or heard a whisper of interest for even a quick paired flight from any other fey.

Borra learned how to inspire the other fey, to communicate in a way to gather them to his side. His speech for rallying the others to war with the humans hadn’t been the first time he’d managed to inspire the dark fey. Though it was perhaps his most disastrous move to date. He’d never learned the slick way of flirting or courting others, so his joy at Conall making the first move - - indicating his interest by preening Borra’s feathers, had been all consuming. It was all he could do to continue the conversation before finally having too much of a good thing and fleeing for the night. The warm, heavy presence of Conall’s hand still felt against the muscles and bones in his wing.

Despite the scorch of embarrassment burning him up at Conall’s rejection, he simmers his temper by forcing himself to remember the unwavering gratitude that Maleficent had managed to spark her own Phoenix heritage by returning Conall to them through her desire to heal him from the human’s harvested iron weapon.

No matter how much of a fool he’d made of himself, Conall was gracious, he wouldn’t hold it over Borra’s head that he’d overstepped in shedding his feathers all over his territory after Borra had assumed they were courting.

Conall was kind and accepting of all; though Borra had never witnessed other fey make as direct a courting gesture to Conall as he had, over the years he’d heard plenty of gossip about others falling for him.

Borra wasn’t the first fey foolish enough to develop feelings for Conall, and he didn’t doubt he’d be the last one to fall for the striking fey either. Just the latest in a long line of doomed courtships that Connal would reject. It wasn’t a club he was eager to join, and his chest burned at the idea of another being successful where he’d fallen short with Conall.

He slapped at the water surface in front of him. How could he expect to be successful when he couldn’t even maintain his wings in a normal manner or even braid his hair into a courting style.

Of course he’d fail to court a fey as meticulous as Conall. The fey that eventually gained Conall’s heart wouldn’t resemble a tumbleweed - - they’d maintain their appearance in a way to garner praise the same way Conall’s did and not harshly lowered whispers of hideous shock Borra’s own appearance garnered.

Borra slooshed through the water to grab his stripped shoulder guards, unwrapping the strips of fabric that helped maintain them in place during his flights. He dredged them through the swiftly moving water, using some of the sand still dotting his palms and fingers to scrub at the protective gear. He moved closer to the shore, grabbing another handful of grit to scrub the cloth straps of any body oils and dirt as well.

As the sandy shore hit his bare soles, Borra found a flat rock to set the shoulder guard down to dry on. He repeated the process with his arm guards next, scrubbing them both and dunking them in the swift current before adding them to the rock to dry. Piece by piece he cleaned until only wrap was left. It was the largest of his clothing, covering him from his lower leg to his high waist. He dunked it in the water before dragging it to a shallow part of the shore, laying it on the ground and taking a fistful of sand to scrub at it before dunking it back in the water, repeating the cycle over and over again until it was relatively clean. He laid it out on the rock to dry as well. It would still be damp but a flight around the area would help dry it out, even if he wasn’t looking forward to having to power through the extra drag the wet clothing would require.

He strode back into the frigid water, allowing it to wrap around him and press against his flesh unrelentingly. He dove under the surface and dragged his palms along the bottom, scooping up palmfuls of sandy grit to scrub his chest with, seeking out the spots that had bothered him the most during practice. He reached what he could on his back. Next were his legs, gripping tightly around his thigh and dragging the sand down against the skin to the point of pain. He repeated the process with his other thigh, before moving down to do the same to his calves. He buried his feet into the sands, leaning back into the current and sprawling his wings so that the water washed the grit from his body and nestled between his feathers in a slow drag. With slower movements he reached out to clean his rear and front. He’d come back later with cleaning oils to more thoroughly clean himself and his clothing but this would work as a stopgate to rid himself of the dirt and sweat from running drills. Perhaps if he’d been the type of fey to remember to bring his cleaning supplies to drills he would have been more successful in his courting.

He watched as a few especially loose feathers were pulled away by the current. It reminded him too much of his blatant shedding around Conall, he pulled his wings back in and around to his front to shield him from the memory. Borra’s impulsive nature had led to plenty of foolish missteps in his years but this would carry the burning sting of an overexposed nerve for a long time.

When Conall had called him a close friend he wished he could combust on the spot and take all his feathers with him. He hadn’t been back to Conall’s nest since, or the forest biome. The last thing he wanted was to see his feathers removed but just as certainly he couldn’t imagine the pain of seeing them actually used in Conall’s nest – as he only considered them friends. It was a boundary Borra hoped to steamroll through and which from Conall’s statement he clearly wished to maintain.

Borra dunked himself under the water, grabbing two last handfuls of gritty sand and scrubbing at his scalp and hair. He yanked his braids out, the stinging pull a sharp distraction from his circling thoughts on Conall. His finger tips hurt by the time he managed to undo the last braid, pruned and soggy from the cold river water but he dipped his head under the surface to help rid himself of the last of the grit in his hair. Once finished he floated back to the surface and sprawled out into a starfish shape to float with the current. To keep from floating too far down the river, into the more family friendly areas, Borra would lazily flap his wings to push him back upstream to where his clothes were drying.

It would take a while once he got out of the water for his feathers to shed enough of the water for him to be able to fly again, but for now he allowed the frigid waters to pass under him and take his worries with them.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

“He’s down drowning his sorrows in the river.”

Conall cocked an eyebrow, face scrunching up as he looked over to the dark fey that had softly landed next to him on the perch, he’d taken a break from hunting down Borra, gazing out at the forest. Ini was a short, compact desert warrior who only showed up for council meetings and flock celebrations. Otherwise she never left the desert biome, claiming the other territories were too cold or humid, though Conall knew from Borra that she just didn’t care for the chatter that was expected of her.

At the time, Conall had laughed at the idea of Borra commenting on his squad member’s social nature but now it drew his attention that Ini didn’t leave the desert biome, so her appearance now in the forest environment was most unusual.

Given her reclusive nature, he didn’t pretend to not know who she was speaking of, and instead got right to the point, just as eager for answers about Borra’s own reclusiveness lately. “What sorrows has Borra to drown?”

Ini snorted, flicking her head to the side, a gesture common among the desert fey, her long hair dragging over her shoulders as she side eyed Conall. She gestured at him with one hand before making a sweeping away gesture.

“The courtship rejection,” she sneered, her wings flared out and mantled partially before she tucked them back in close, encasing her entire body in a feathery hug.

Ini peered over the tops of her wings, eyes glaring. “It wasn’t particularly well done, to allow him to shed so many feathers before turning him down. Especially with the Council mandating ranked warriors participate in their Flight scheme, it’s a clear ploy to punish him for the losses from the Battle.” Her wings rattled around her, showcasing her agitation, puffing up to make her seem larger and more intimidating. She sniffed. “He’s the only eligible ranked warrior."

Flummoxed, Conall stepped back, his own wings mantling for a split second before he drew them back behind his shoulders and forced them to be still, to bury to distress that was creeping along his spine. He wasn’t a warrior, he hadn’t realized that all the other ranked warriors were mated. That Turina’s compromise had been a noose.

Conall felt doubly foolish as he hadn’t realized that other fey had seen Borra molting at his nest. Had been so distracted by the poor condition of his friend’s wings that he hadn’t taken the time to consider why he’d never seen them like this before – that Borra had always returned to his true homeland to molt. Apparently this change in behavior was noticed by the other desert fey, fast enough for them to clock what it meant for him to leave feathers with Conall, as well.

“I didn’t know that was what he was doing,” Conall admitted at last, tucking his chin down and avoiding her gaze.

Ini scoffed, her wings rattling loudly before throwing them out in a large mantling display. “The other biomes might not realize what a prize he is but there are those in the desert fey that would lose a horn and wing to claim him. Zekiel has made his intentions for the Flight well known.”

Conall’s wings erupted to their full extension and he shot up to his full height, his frame rigid and eyes flaring brightly, he took a step toward her at the implied threat to his mate. Instead of being intimidated, Ini seemed pleased by his reaction. She eyed his wingspan and horns before giving him a slight nod.

“Good, maybe you’re not as hopeless as we thought. Go fish him out of the river before he becomes the first fey icicle.” Piece said, Ini crouched on the perch before shooting up into the sky and diving into the air.

Conall grimaced, tucking his wings back in before looking down in the direction of the river near the drill grounds. The water was frigid but that wouldn’t stop Borra from utilizing them, given this time of the year he’d probably sought it out for the solitude it would give him over the temperature.

Leaning forward off of the perch until he fell into the air below, Conall flared out his wings, catching a thermal to drag him toward the river. From so high in the sky he couldn’t pinpoint anyone in the river yet, but he slowly glided down through the winds, flapping his wings only enough to stay afloat so that he could pinpoint Borra.

He spotted his clothes first, the other dark fey so deep in the water that only his face and chest were visible.

Conall landed softly onto the sands of the shore. He approached the water’s edge and watched as Borra continued to float, eyes closed and body submerged except for his chest and face.

Conall’s sharp gaze noticed he was cold enough that his nipples had pebbled into tight buds. He licked his lips, and took a step forward, splashing into the river fully clothed. The noise and movement were enough to finally alert Borra to another’s presence. He moved from floating on his back to standing, and upon seeing it was Conall he paused for a few heartbeats before he started to walk toward him. Conall swallowed his tongue. Clear water sheeted from Borra’s wings and hair as he stood. Conall couldn’t stop his eyes from watching as the water dripped down Borra’s naked chest, pebbled nipples and swiftly down his muscled waist, sloping down prominent muscles and settling into the vee of his hips. Conall’s eyes shot up to look at Borra’s horns once he realized he’s started to drift low enough to see a hint of hair arrowing downward toward Borra’s cock.

Borra stopped a few feet from Conall, water still rushing around his upper legs, seemingly unbothered by his lack of garb.

“Conall, what brings you to the river?”

“I thought it was time that we spoke.”

Borra’s gut dropped, his hard won calm fizzled. “Of course, on what did you wish to discuss?”

Conall shook his head, his dreads swaying with the motion. “We’ve been at crosspurposes, so I will speak bluntly.”

Borra swallowed thickly. This wouldn’t be good. If even Conall couldn’t garner the energy for flowery language and cushioned words, the next sentence would be brutal.

“I wish to court you, Borra.”

He’d been wrong, they were absolutely devastating.

Borra blink, his wings sagging slowly back into the frigid river. “Me?”

Conall smiled so widely his fangs glinted. “Yes, you.”

“But you said you would only accept my feathers as a token of friendship – - I’m to believe that now you’ve suddenly been swayed to courtship? If this is merely a tool to exorcize me from the Flights…”

Conall ducked his head but stepped closer, reaching out to lay his hands on Borra’s shoulders. “I was mistaken in how I worded that, but I would of course welcome your feathers into my nest — as a gesture of courtship between us.”

It seemed too good to be true. “You’re sure you mean me?”

The chuckle from the forest fey was hardy and full. “Yes, Borra, you. I apologize for my thoughtless words from before - - I only intended not to overstep, not to devalue your gesture. If you’re open to it, I’d gladly court you for the rest of our days.”

The honeyed words sparked a warmth in Borra’s chilled body. “Perhaps you would . . . perhaps you would help me with fixing my wings?”

Borra watched as Conaal froze in place. He swallowed roughly, perhaps he was being too forward? He stepped out of the water, flaring his wings to dispel as much of it as possible. It would take him a few minutes to be flight ready, intolerable with how the plans forming in his mind demanded flight now.

Before he could take back the words, Conall jolted forward, water dripping from his clothing and the bottom halves of his wings. “I would love nothing better, would you like to use your nesting ground or mine?”

The idea of going back to Conall’s nest after what had seemed like a rejection didn’t fill Borra with hope that this would go in a positive direction.

“Mine.”

Conall bobbed his head in agreement. “Of course, shall I wait or meet you there?”

Borra shook as much water as he could from his wings but it would still take a while before he could safely take to the air. “Perhaps, we should meet there, this will take a while.”

“I do not mind the wait.”

Borra bit back a smile.

 

-0-0-0-

 

It just so happened that Conall caught sight of a returning Derra the next day. He hadn’t planned to run into the short desert fey, but the rich cream and tan feathers along her primaries gave hint to her having completed her own molt recently. She was related to Terra, her sister’s fledgling so it made sense she would have undergone a fall molt like Borra.

“Do you have a moment?”

She winged down toward him, landing with a thud. Though her feathers were resplendent with new life, her skin had darkened and cracked with her stay in the desert territory, her light hair more dry and windswept.

“You’ve returned from your furlough early, Derra?”

The older warrior jerked her chin in a curt bob. “Didn’t need as long as I’d anticipated.” She shrugged, shifting her armor plating with the gesture; tossing her head as the wing swept her braids along her horns. “Did you need something, Guardian?” Her impatience shining through, something that seemed common in most warriors.

Not wanting to press his luck, he asked, “I don’t suppose you have any spare cactus blossoms from your recent trip?”

She squinted suspiciously at him. “I wasn’t aware you were a fan.”

Conall remained silent and with her head cocked to the side in a familiar gesture, she reached toward the pouch at her waist and retrieved a small sack about the size of her palm. “Did you have something to trade?”

Aware of the rareness of the delicacy, and the length she had to carry it, Conall contemplates just what he might have that she would be interested in bartering for in exchange. He considered how pleased Borra would be to have a treat from his homeland and without hesitation reached into a small pouch at his waist and retrieved a carving he’d been working on in the few spare minutes he’d had between council meetings lately, aware that Derra was fond of antler beads but often too impatient for the delicate detailed workmanship.

He tossed it her way and she snatched it out of the air faster than Conall could track. Even after all this time it still amazed him how the fey were one people and yet still so wonderfully different from one another.

“A trade?” He prompted, when she’d looked over the antler bead for several moments, going so far as to sniff and lick it, before trying to braid it into her hair. She gave him a cool look but another curt nod, tossing the pouch of blossoms his way.

“A trade.” And without a further word, she tugged at the secure bead in a new braid of her hair and when satisfied it wouldn’t fall out, winged off into the sky, no doubt headed toward her aunt to show off her new bead and reconnect with her tribe.

Clutching the treat tightly, Conall watched as she disappeared into the clouds before he followed suit, almost in the same path as her, splitting off once he reached the desert biome on the island. The drier air made his flight somewhat faster than the more humid air in the forest territory, he aimed for the more secluded of the nests in the territory.

A handful of fey were pacing around their nests, but Conall realized that there were less than a quarter of the desert fey present. Many must have returned home to undergo their molting. The process didn’t hit everyone at once, hence to slow rotation of those coming and going but Conall had been so caught up in Borra allowing him to preen his wing, that he hadn’t even noticed the shift in the desert fey population.

Once he neared the edge of the territory with a few slow flaps of his wings, Conall eased into a cautious landing on the ground next to Borra’s nest.

He’d been there the night before but not for some time as Borra’s nest was far away from the main desert territory, and the younger fey was a faster flyer between the two of them so they often met up near the forest biome.

Given the late hour of their preening, he hadn’t been able to properly see the nest. It seen it had expanded since the last time Conall had seen it, more discarded branches entwined with spare roots of nearby plants, all joined together and raised up into a prickly ball shape. It looked big enough for more than one fey now. Conall couldn’t recall if there was any significance to desert fey expanding their nests, though given how conservative the fey were as a whole when it came to utilizing their resources, Conall couldn’t help but hope it meant more. Perhaps even a step in the direction of a Display.

There were several large discarded chestnut primaries that had clearly been recently woven through the branches at the entrance. It was an easy way to block out some of the cool breezes from the desert area’s often frigid nights.

He took a few steps to peer inside the nest structure and Conall’s eyes took in the additional abundance of creamy down feathers that littered the inside floor of the nest- -to the point that it looked more like a downed cloud than a fey nest. A chuckle broke past his throat and a wide smile lit up in his face, stretching across his lips and sinking into his soul. Always so delightfully unpredictable.

With a reverence, he took the pouch with the cactus blossoms inside and gently dragged it across his wrist and the side of his neck near where a bonding bite would go, ensuring his scent would be noticeable on the bag. He leaned down to leave the pouch on the lip of the nest’s entrance, unwilling to venture further without direct invitation, but wanting to make sure it was noticed.

With a parting glance, fondness welling up in his chest for the other fey, Conall took into the sky to return to his duties.

 

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All thoughts of a refreshing flight to test out his new feathers were vanquished by a familiar scent lingering on the wind.

It caught his attention immediately, his eyes sparking as he evaluated what was touched or out of place, who could have been by his resting space while he was out.

Tense, he eventually caught sight of a small pouch resting on the lip of his nest, he reached out to pick it up, bringing the bag to his face to sniff delicately at the material. It smelled strongly of desert fey, the delicious cactus blossoms it must be carrying and lightly of a familiar earthy and floral scent, Conall.

Ever since Maleficent had resurrected him, the smell of the healing blooms had intertwined with Conall’s natural scent. Borra would recognize it in the middle of a hurricane.

Tension snapping like a twig, Borra’s wings perked up, showcasing his intrigue over the pouch. Though he had known Conall for years, they had never exchanged gifts before. It must be a courtship gift.

He cocked his head to the side and the thrill of having his wings preened by Conall was still singing through his blood. His demeanor didn’t invite community preening, though anything he couldn’t fix himself or ignore, his squad had swooped in to assist with in the past when requested. Even considering Borra’s own bold display of his molting wings, such a private condition, had shocked Conall.

Still, to return from drills to find a desert delicacy-- harvested right after a rainstorm had softened the blooms, peak selection-- left as a gift from the other fey convinced Conall that he wasn’t imagining things.

Conall was genuinely interested in actively courting him.

Borra wasn’t certain how to deal with that. His wings mantled, instinctively rising to protect him from attack, despite Borra being well aware that he needn’t fear an attack from Conall. He knew it, down to the marrow of his bones and the tips of his horns. The older fey wouldn’t harm him. He held the bag with the delicacy in his palm and shot into the air.

It didn’t explain why his chest felt . . . peculiar when he thought of Conall wanting him, Borra – before pulling his wings in as close to his body as they would come, causing him to drop like a stone in the sky. He flared his wings to cushion his rough landing.

Him, a mate. He was oddly flattered. The other was a well-respected member of their community, that he would consider Borra worthy, well it made blood rush to the tips of Borra’s horns and fill the arches of his cheeks.

Not comfortable with the rush of inexplicable surge of energy filling him, shunting down his limbs and ricocheting through his veins, Borra shook out his arms and wings, rustling his feathers and jumping to perch on his toes. He felt like a fledgling about to take their first jump into the air.

Expelling the nervous energy, he bent his knees and launched himself up into the sky again, not before first securing the blossoms on one of the many pouches in his pants. He rocketed into the air, powerful flaps of his wings shooting him higher above the desert fey territory, until the noise in his skull fell away. He hung in the air, taking in the view below for half a breath before pulling his wings in as close to his body as possible, the insulation from the cold air was a reprieve, until he fell like a stone once more.

Winds didn’t whistle through his wings, so much as shriek in his ears, his hair whipping madly, his feathers thrashing against his wings, until all his mind was full of was the pinprick pain from his feathers being yanked at fiercely due to the rock impression he was pulling off, the icy winds yanking and jabbing at him, freezing his face as if he’d taken a dip in the arctic fey’s territory, and the instincts yelling at him that if he didn’t slow his course, he’d be paste along the ground.

He waited several more inhales and exhales before doing anything.

On the cusp of crash landing, he flared his wings out, rocketed his body up and caught a cross thermal that buffered his descent, floating him in the air as if on a string. He allowed for the warm air to rest his wings, his muscles screaming out at his stunt.

Ignoring how close he’d come to crash landing, Borra tucked one wing in close and tumbled down into a spiral toward the forest fey’s land. A rush of air and wing beats next to him were the only warning before Conall rushed up to his side, flared a wing toward to knock Borra off course before he drove down in a tight spirals.

With a whoop, Borra flared his resplendent wings and dove after him.

 

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The End