Andi [ Original Short Story ]

[Gemini]

Just in case anybody even comes to this forum and browses. Probably not, but hey, I gave it a shot, right? =3

Anyways, this was a short story I wrote one day about some horse characters of mine. It took me about 6-8 hours.

Read and review.

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Fresh, cold air; sparse trees; long, green grass. This was the home he knew.

He flew across the plains like they were nothing—puny, insignificant. Meaningless meters swallowed up by pounding hooves. His legs churned, roiling thick with sweat as they rolled back and forth, stretching, breaching, reaching for more to cover. His heart pounded. Exhilaration, as hot in his face as the long-gone summer sun, sent a chill creeping down his spine as he raced towards the river, whose pleasant path crept lazily across the earth.

The colt’s lungs yearned for the yawning wind, rolling by in thick droves that pulled back his mane, tousled his soft, white pelt with icy, outstretched fingers. It seem to clutch him in its frozen grasp, to embrace him like a brother. Which was appropriate, in a way, as it was to him. His true brother; his loving brother. Not like the other one, for it was this place that was his true family.

His lithe body remained a warm, diminutive dot on the meadow, so thick with green foliage, so layered with the cold dew that displayed itself as sparkling diamonds amongst the crisp, crunching soil. Little gems in the sunlight. Alas, he was the one living being here, and it was as though the weather were trying to whisk him away. But he paid the howling air no heed. In fact, he rather enjoyed the soft touch of it against his supple skin, as it broke his hot, steamy pelt.

He threw back his head wildly, with spirit, dark eyes rolled back and nostrils distended in a snort. He knew it would slow him down some, but to hell with it. There was no sign of his brother anywhere, at least as far as he could see.

And Skeidbrimir liked to believe that he was observant.

The quick little colt rounded the corner, where an outcrop stood coldly to his right. The ground sloped downhill here, allowing his legs to splay out and gather more of the terrain under him. His hard hooves clack-clacked dissonantly against the rocky, packed earth, feet feeling the ground beneath his tread. It hurt, somewhat; here the land was no longer soft and pillow-like, as it had been in the meadow, and the shards of rock jabbed the foal’s soles painfully. His teeth gritted as he navigated the patch dexterously, avoiding the most jagged areas. In moments the ground mostly leveled off, with the pile of boulders nearby gradually receding.

The home stretch. He could see the river.

Ecstatic, he stretched out his neck so that it was straight, allowing his lungs to have their drink of the air ever easier, to slake their burning, constant thirst for the wild wind. His nostrils stretched out as far as they could, rivulets of saliva forming at the corners of his mouth, lips taut around white teeth exposed in a sick grimace. He pushed himself: harder… faster… harder… faster! There was no limit, as far as he was concerned.

By the time he’d approached the last grove of trees on his left, a small clump of low birches mostly stripped of leaves, he was out of control. The world spun around him in wild swirls of cool, earthen tones, blurry and out of focus as he sped ever faster. His own hot, pounding self was a microcosm, breaking through space, seemingly defying the laws of nature as it stopped around him. He felt his heart pound intensely, struggling to pump the blood which spiraled through his veins with sheer emotion. His muscles complained sourly, aching with smarting, searing pain that was left crawling up his limbs. He couldn’t catch his breath… yet he couldn’t be happier.

Until he saw the flash of gold, the figure he knew all too well, break through the surrounding trees, moving just as fast as he through the undergrowth.

Skeidbrimir tried to push himself, to breech another barrier of speed, but there would be none of that. He was moving at his utmost capacity. His throat croaked and stung, chest expanding and contracting like a bellows, body screaming at him in open protest for being a fool. An idiot. For celebrating too early.

This is how Bekter always plays, it said. This is how he always plays, and he knows it, and you know it, and why didn’t you listen just once? One single, solitary, damn time, you could have rubbed it in his face, you could have destroyed him, you could’ve snubbed his insolent self! See how much Father loves him now! See how much.

Why didn’t you, Skeid, why didn’t you?

The white colt struggled to keep up, though the palomino had taken a different route and wound up ahead of him. He couldn’t gain back the extra lengths he held in front. Still, he tried. He fought, bitterly. He even forced his jaws open, trying in vain to suck down any air that he could, though of course that was no help. Barely could he steel himself against the urge to slow down—how in hell could he move any faster?
His ears flattened against his bunched neck, though whether it was in despair or anger, he couldn’t tell. The emotion simply writhed, serpent-like, inside of him, watching with an indignant stare as the golden horse seemed to have a grand old time, letting out an exuberant buck that nearly found his hooves in Skeidbrimir’s heaving chest.

That was too much. The little colt showed his teeth, attempting to nip back—for that was what it would be, even if in secret he wished he could tear his half-brother’s flesh like a ravenous wolf. But he was too far away, and all he could see was Bekter’s muscular hindquarters, his beefy limbs in rear view.

Curse you, Bekter, he said to himself. Spirits curse you.

Suddenly, however, he was shocked out of his thoughts by the cacophonous smacking of hooves against water. It flew up, wild and rearing, around his limbs. Several of the ice cold drops stroked his sensitive belly, entire body tensing before he reached the opposite shore in but a handful of strides.

The race was over.

The challenger disappeared from view; Skeidbrimir, in his acrid frustration, almost wanted to keep running. But alas, he was tired, and he knew Bekter well enough to know that he would find him one way or the other. May as well face the whirlwind. So he tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to slow himself from the gallop he’d place himself in, to retake control of his flailing limbs and rein them into a more comfortable gait. To gather his energies in and cool off. He eased gradually into a slow lope, then broke to a trot—progressing to a walk took several more moments, and by then, his limbs were buckling, now just feeling the strain he’d placed them under.

Finding his breath was harder than finding Bekter. He simply had to whirl around, and there he was, like a plague. Something he didn’t ask for, but which haunted him like a shadow nonetheless. He stared with sharp derision at the coat so golden that it could have been woven by the Master of the Sky himself from idle rays of sunlight. The smug countenance, stern and still amongst relatively soft, gentle breathing: he knew it all too well.

“You cheated.” Skeidbrimir was surprised at how acerbic and accusatory he himself sounded. “You cheated, I saw you. You cheated.”

It was the best he could think of. Such condemning evidence.

“I didn’t cheat.” Bekter’s voice was low and calm. There was no reason for him to show emotion, and Skeidbrimir knew it. He was having threats tossed at him by a colt, a pathetic yearling.

“Yes, you did. You went through the trees, the trees were off-limits.” His voice rasped slightly. He tried his best to sound big, but everything still came off as clumsy. Haphazard. Immature.

Skeidbrimir hated that.

“You said we would race to the river. And ho, I made it to the river.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what? I didn’t play by the rules, Skeid? Your rules?” His gaze was contemptuous.

Skeidbrimir didn’t give him a reply. A part of him didn’t want to. Instead he turned his neck away, ears pinned back against the wispy, windblown mane there.

Just ignore him, he told himself. Bekter can go where the sun doesn’t shine and stay there for all I care. He can shove his soliloquy up his—

“I won’t just go away, Skeid,” he broke into his thoughts, his tone snarky. “I know you want me to, but the truth is the world doesn’t just go away.”

“Leave me alone. You won.” His voice was resigned, yet tainted with a tinge of fear. He couldn’t suppress it in time. Bekter picked up on his inadvertent signal instantly, like a raptor, a vulture, circling.

“I already realized. And you lost. Why, do you think? Why do I always win?”

Skeidbrimir loathed the calmness in his voice. But he knew he had no choice. His meek tone was automatic, monotonous. Weary with their repetition, as though the words themselves were unhappy to be so often abused.

“I lost because I’m weak, and you won because you’re strong, Bekter.”

He lowered his head, ashamed. Bekter tried to keep his emotions in check, but the white colt could have sworn that he saw that cavernous golden chest puff out superciliously.

“Glad to see you’ve learned something.” He paused, and Skeidbrimir knew that his half-brother’s eagle eyes could see his dejection, his drooping ears and his shaken countenance. After all this time, he should have known better than to show even an ounce of weakness around Bekter! Spirits forbid that he should have feelings, or thoughts, or anything but bad memories and determined suffering!

He sighed in defeat. This was what Father wanted. It was also what Bekter wanted, for as always, they were of one like mind. But it was not what Skeidbrimir wanted.

“Pick your head up.” Bekter barked. “If your enemy sees weakness, he won’t hesitate to use it against you. To hurt you.”

“You already hurt me, Bekter.”

His short, stout tone was biting, caustic. His older faux-sibling saw through it.

“I’m not the enemy,” Bekter corrected sharply. “I’m doing this for your own good.”

That’s fresh manure, Skeidbrimir thought in his inner mind. You’re doing it to show that you’re powerful. To be the leader. To dominate your siblings. It’s what Father would expect of you. Of Bekter, the perfect one.

He pawed at the ground, wallowing in the secret resentment that burned, two soft embers, within his deep brown eyes. They were flames, flames that lay in the depths of those soft mounds of earth, gazing stolidly back at their oppressors. A part of Skeidbrimir wanted to announce his brother’s injustice, to cry out, to rage against him, but the golden horse continued, pacing in apparent agitation and lathering himself, and the white colt knew that there was no point in trying to stop him.

“You need me to protect you and you know it. Out there, in the real world, they kill the weak. They don’t let them fester, like an infection.”

“Who says they need to kill us?” His eyes narrowed, angered at his hypocrisy.

“Only so many can live, Skeid.” His intonation was flat, mouth contorted in a wrought expression. He didn’t appear angry—impatient, bored, perhaps, but not provoked. It was as though he were instructing a mere suckling, a runt. “When the war comes—and believe me, there will be a war—it will be so. The horses of the Borjigid grow stronger by the day. They take our land, our mares, our lives. You will not be spared.”

Skeidbrimir could only wonder how much of that was true.

“Maybe I’ll live far away.”

Skeidbrimir mostly muttered it to be contrarian, to oppose Bekter, but a part of him was afraid, for he knew there was no escaping it. No escaping his homeland, his herd. He didn’t see why he should be merely what they wanted him to be, a tool for those who had never treated him much better than dirt. He didn’t see why he owed them the skin off his back, the pound of flesh off his body, his years in servitude. But that was how their world worked.

And to oppose that made Bekter—big, faultless Bekter—livid.

“You’re such a little ass, Skeid. Why don’t you show it? Why don’t you grow long ears and bray?” He spat on the ground in contempt. “You’re not what we want.”

No, Bekter, you’re wrong. You’re wrong about me.

“I suppose you’re right,” he spoke softly, in perfect antithesis to what he thought. Inwardly, his mind reeled. You’re wrong, and I know you’re wrong, but I’ll let you feel you’ve won. I’ll tell you you’re right. But I’ll know the truth.

His brother saw through it, and Skeidbrimir saw that he saw through it. The white colt’s attempted deception, his false acquiescence, was obvious, even if he tried to conceal the fact that that wasn’t how he truly felt. He was lying, something the golden horse himself would have done. He wasn’t sure if telling such a mistruth, if doing to Bekter what Bekter had so often done to him, would provoke him by mere principle, but if it did, he didn’t show it.

He was as ostentatiously calm and sure as always.

“Of course I’m right. Who are we, Skeid?”

“We are the strong.” He recited mechanically.

“Now tell me, what do the strong do?”

“The strong shall conqu—”

“No! As our fathers would have said it!” Bekter insisted forcefully.

Skeidbrimir relented.

“Sterka…” the white colt fumbled with his words, trying to remember the mantra their warriors always chanted in the Old Tongue, “s-s-skalt…”

Curses. He was never any good at this. But he tried to finish anyway.

“Si-sigri?”

“Forget it.” Bekter snapped, flattening his ears back, displaying his teeth for the first time. The younger brother knew that face, and he understood his aggression, his sudden emotion. Suddenly he was frightened. Apathetic Bekter was cruel enough. Wrathful Bekter was a nightmare. “You obviously haven’t learned anything. I’ll show you what happens to the vanquished, so that you may one day wish to be the vanquisher!”

“No, Bekter, please don’t,” Skeidbrimir pled softly. There was no force behind his words: it was useless to try to reason with his brash, stubborn side, and to try to force him into timorousness was asinine. He would accept his dogmas, and the dogmas of the herd, one way or the other—whether by his own choice, which it had never been, or shoved down his throat.

That was what Bekter was there for.

“No, I will!” He countered. “You need this, Skeid.”

The palomino was easily a couple hands taller at his withers. His frame stood hulking and proud, powerful as it towered over him, and his angered face blocked out the sun. There was only the deep silhouette of his head, his menacing eyes with their exposed whites and his flat yellow teeth with their exposed edges. His wide nostrils as he snorted at him, fearless, remained prominent.

Skeidbrimir backed away, and saw the derision in his brother’s eyes. He felt like he was cowering—though who wouldn’t have? A fight between a strong, monstrous hunk of sentient adolescent muscle and a pitiful, growing colt was hardly fair. Alas, a part of him wanted to lash out anyways, to attack Bekter. But even if he dominated his older sibling, would that make him better? Or would he end up just as cruel as he who shadowed his every moment?

Suddenly the older horse reared, strong haunches bearing his weight as his muscled front limbs kicked out powerfully. The last sight Skeidbrimir was able to glimpse before he was sent tumbling was his brother, with his immaculate golden pelt slicked with sweat and foam gathering at his muzzle as his large tan hooves struck with formidable force. One of them crashed squarely into the white colt’s chest, knocking him backwards. His nostrils quickly flared for breath, as his shock left him without it, though his ribs seemed to stab into his lungs as he whirled about, the sky dancing around his spherical dark eyes as he spun and kissed the surface of the water he didn’t know was there, as he became one with the river.

The crystalline liquid reached up to meet him, to grab him and pull him to its sonorous depths. He heard the pounding in his ears, the crashing splash, followed by its burble as it tried to pull him under, tried to lull him, tried to lullaby him into its world.

It wasn’t a deep brook. But all water was the same in that way. It called for him to stay, forever. It teased, it taunted. And all the while, the rushing flew past his ears, the bubbles swam their little mercurial paths, little dots of air and prickles of breath running fast, running to escape the clutches of the vicious underwater world. The merciless world underneath.

He tried to rise, naturally, to return to the world of earth and sky. But Bekter’s hooves held him down, under the water, so that he had no choice but to temporarily surrender to the clutches of the deep blue. To let it do what it pleased with its new prisoner.

It gurgled and made noise, like a voice. And he heard it.

Bekter, Bekter, Bekter, it said. You should have listened to Bekter, you should have been like Bekter. Then Bekter would not have had to do this to you. Why aren’t you like Bekter?

When he closed his eyes, it was worse, but to open them meant that he saw the figure of the horse he most despised, most hated, and yet… most envied.

The water was playing tricks on him. It was trying to drown him, to capture him. To take his body and taint his soul before it left the aquatic realm. Its frigid chill soaked his waterlogged white pelt and settled down to his marrow, as though trying to penetrate his heart. Soon the ultramarine of his vision would fade to black, while his hollow lungs would shrivel and burn to a crisp—they already felt as though they would—and then suck in water to put out the fires. And then the water would reach his innermost core and suffocate him, snuffing out his life. And then there would be nothing. There would be death, and he would be in the sky, with the others, with his mother; he would be happy, free, as he already wished to be—

He gasped suddenly, reflexively. The needs for life and thus for air were both instinctive.

Instantly he clambered to his feet, catching his breath, sputtering and spitting out water as his foggy vision attempted to clear. And by the time that that had happened, Bekter was already on the shore, standing lazily with his hind foot cocked and resting, eyes half-shaded by drooping lids. It was as though nothing had happened. Only Skeidbrimir’s soaked, clingy coat served as evidence to the brutality, as it drooped and dripped with clear lines of water droplets, little refugees forming loose tendrils and escaping into the moist soil, fleeing with their brethren towards their river homeworld.

Yet despite his apparent laxity, the white colt knew that the palomino was watching—intently—and that he would not be caught off guard.

Unsurprisingly, he spoke first.

“Better dry off fast, before the blizzard comes, or you’ll die in a heartbeat.”

Just the thought of snow to the miserable, wet colt was enough to make him shudder further, and his brother had been more than aware of that. The thick hairs covering his warm little body were useless when they were soaked, and no matter how much he might have tried to shake himself dry, he still felt the cold grip of the droplets as a cloak against his skin.

“There’s no blizzard coming,” Skeidbrimir refuted, blinking slowly with exhaustion. It was too early in the season, the adults asserted. Rarely did it snow during autumn, no matter how short it may have been.

“Is that so?” Bekter’s voice perked.

“F-F-Father wo-would have told us.” He shivered. “Th-the mares would’ve. They want to keep us-s s-s-safe.”

“Really? You don’t think they want to thin the herd every now and again?”

The white colt’s ears fell softly. He was too tired to argue, especially not with Bekter. All he really wanted was to curl up somewhere warm and dry so that he could finally rest and be left alone.

“They’d miss me if you didn’t bring me back.” He spoke up rather lamely, with the best defense he could conjure. “They’d blame you.”

“Sure they would.”

Bekter spun around slowly, looking almost weary himself. His tone had held no sarcasm, no hidden amusement. There was no longer any fury, any frustration written into his features—he was done, for now, with his so-called instruction. There was no more active antagonism. Skeidbrimir could rest a little bit easier.

The tail of the golden horse flicked itself calmly, snow-white hairs flying about in chaos like little flurries of half-frozen ice droplets reflecting the late afternoon sun. Skeidbrimir understood it as a signal to follow him. Most likely, they were returning to the herd’s common grounds, which changed from season to season. But still the white colt inquired around their destination, a little prick of hope surfacing as he continued to shake and plod along, leaving thick trails of water slapping against the hard earth.

“Where are we going?”

“Where else?” Bekter seemed irritable. “Home.”

“I thought you’d take me to the forest.” The white colt piped up quietly, countenance falling amongst his pleading eyes. “You promised me. You promised me, Bekter.”

“Not everyone keeps their promises. Why don’t you go yourself?”

His voice was a harsh rasp, and he almost seemed to growl, as though he were a wolf rather than an equine. It was disturbing, in a way, and unnatural. But then, so much of what Bekter did was barbarous and strangely unnatural, anyways.

Still, it was an inane question, asked merely to be taunting. They both knew that the white colt was too young to go far from the herd without an elder with him. The dark and shadowy forests, especially, were verboten for all of the foals and the yearlings, and no member of the herd was allowed to sojourn to those locales at night. Dangerous creatures—true predators—made their homes there.

“Please, Bekter. You know I can’t. I want to see the eagles.”

“The eagles?” He scoffed. “You’re keeping on with that childish nonsense again?”

The younger of them looked quite taken aback. Childish nonsense? Skeidbrimir almost didn’t understand. Eagles were very rarely seen in their realm. Usually it was one lone adult, soaring high above the earth and disappearing into the clouds, never to be seen again. To spot one was good fortune, as eagles were seen to bring prosperity. Yet to see the same birds flying again and again over their fields, often in a pair, and then to stumble upon one of their nests deep in the forest… it was almost miraculous. Something that hadn’t happened in several generations. That couldn’t simply be discounted.

“Heyri told me the stories.” Skeidbrimir explained, referencing the wizened horse who guarded their shared histories, who told stories of the past. “The eagles are the souls of our ancestors watching over us. To have a nest is a sign of their pleasure in us, and a harbinger of great luck to come.”

“You listen to that crazy babble? To that crazy, old, insane—?”

“He’s not insane. He’s very wise.”

“Figures you would say that.” Bekter looked especially derisive, as though slighted for a reason Skeidbrimir didn’t understand. How could he not share in the wonder? Was he truly so blind?

“It makes sense.” He muttered. “In Andi especially, he reminds me of my moth—”

“You named them?”

There was an intense frustration and seeming disappointment in his voice. Disappointment, undoubtedly, that Skeidbrimir remained so untaught and so apparently oblivious to the workings of the world. Yet it wouldn’t faze him.

“Yes. The older two are Huginn and Muninn. And the little one’s Andi.”

Bekter muttered to himself—unintelligible words that his younger brother couldn’t discern. He was still and silent for several moments, looking in the direction of the forests before guiding his hooves, without any seeming diffidence, in that direction. He was fulfilling his request. Yet at the same time, Skeidbrimir could see his face darken, and he wasn’t quite sure why that was.

“You’re going to regret that, Skeid. You’ll see.” His tone was firm, determined. “Only so many eagles can fly in this world.”

His tone was ominous, and it made the white colt wary. Yet he tagged along behind, pleased enough that Bekter was even paying heed to him. Surely he must have realized how much it meant to his younger brother to see the beautiful birds blossom, to watch a wonder of the world.

They followed a soft, packed-earth trail through the meadow—the plain which was voluminous, lying vast and stretching for many miles in some directions, but was broken by waterways and mountains and forests in others. Skeidbrimir watched as the deep green of the trees crawled closer with each shuffling step, noticing the gradual change in the landscape as they progressed towards their destination. The air was sweet and moist, yet frigid. It would be warmer under the trees, he knew, as the earth continued to cool. With that in mind, and with his wet pelt still clinging to his frozen limbs and stiff joints, he tried to quicken his pace as much as he could. At several points where the elevation changed, he eased himself into a trot, almost surpassing Bekter on a few occasions.

Not that the golden horse would let that happen, of course. He could never lose. Especially not to Skeidbrimir.

The white colt snorted in contempt, mocking his pride. Bekter suddenly looked over his shoulder and stopped, his expression fierce and conveying clearly that he was serious. His younger brother halted obediently alongside him.

“Let’s not be out too late—wolves come to this forest at night. You may be slim pickings, but don’t think they aren’t ravenous enough to try for you.”

It was clearly a warning, though his face was masked and unreadable. Distant. He looked almost sly, as though he were hiding something. Skeidbrimir didn’t want to ask, nor did he want to voice his suspicion, but he still spoke up anyways, rather acerbically.

“I thought you were my one defender, Bekter.”

“By the time I came to your aid, you’d be dead,” he opined cynically. “Make this quick.”

Skeidbrimir obeyed, knowing that they wouldn’t have long before sunset. Yet luckily for him, it wasn’t hard to find the tree. His hooves knew where it was almost from memory, from excursions given to him by older horses more willing and more generous than Bekter.

The tree itself was tall and wide in circumference. It lay there amongst its compatriots in the forest, old and weathered, having been beaten, yet not quite broken, by the ferocity of many storms. Tough, stony bark covered arms shrouded in greenery as their points crept skyward ever so slowly. The maze of twisting, knotted branches wove itself around the whole, and it was in one of these living tangles that the nest was precariously positioned.

It seemed delicate. Frail. As though it would fall apart. Yet it never did, because secretly, it was strong. Somewhere, within its construction, strength was interlaced, as though a master hand had built it.

He smiled. It awed him every time.

Somewhere inside he heard the raucous screeching of eagle chicks. Young birds, still not quite free… just like himself. The only difference was that, someday, they truly would be.

The white colt saw their heads and recognized them. As usual, it was Huninn, the biggest, who showed up first, his fluffy nape still coated in wispy strands of dull-colored down. His brother, Muninn, was not far behind, his head poking up above the lattice of sticks that lay between them and the curiosity-stricken horse standing below them. Muninn was still slightly smaller than Huginn, as Skeidbrimir remembered, though he was definitely a puffed-out, confident ball of energy nonetheless.

The two boisterous siblings squabbled over something trivial, perhaps a bite of leftover meat from a picked-clean bone, perhaps a scrap of marrow—he didn’t know. Yet he watched them, transfixed, for several moments.

There was no third bird, it seemed.

“Bekter?” He addressed suddenly over his shoulder, sight still focused on the nest. As though his brother would care. “I can’t find Andi.”

Silence, and a lot of it, ensued. There was only the screeching of the chicks above him.

“Bekter?”

His voice echoed throughout the empty forest, sounds reflecting off the stones that protruded, hump-like, from the abundant heaps of leaf litter that lay under the treading paths of the local fauna. A soft wind wavered though, whistling through the limbs of the trees and rustling the branches, perhaps stripping a few fiery leaves from their hosts in the process.

Suddenly he felt alone, in the quiet and darkening environ.

Yet just before he began to question Bekter’s absence, and perhaps seek a way home regardless, he noticed that the quick rustle of air seemed to be the carrier of something much greater.

The mother eagle suddenly arrived, with an awesome speed and quickness. Her adult plumage lay across her body, sleek and majestic in shades of black, of brown, of white. She drew up to the ledge of her nest, wings beating and fanning the air. They must have measured several hands, at least, from one splayed tip to the other.

He’d named her Hoelun.

The she-eagle perched her aquiline form there, on the rim of the cumbersome cup constructed of branches that she called home, holding a shimmering silver fish in her beak. It flopped and struggled, trying to escape from the air which was, to its little body, as the water was to the eagles’. Skeidbrimir almost felt sorry for the piscine, seeing it gape and writhe, utterly trapped and about to be devoured.
Secretly, he wondered at the bravery she must have had, to dive through the raging waters and the ferocious snowmelt to catch one of them. He knew the fish to be slippery and difficult to find. Doubtlessly, a huntress such as she must have had to work for her food, especially with growing, ravenous chicks like Huginn, Muninn, and—

Oh, there he was. Andi. Skeidbrimir hadn’t seen the small chick, his favorite, between the eagle brothers. The bird still looked scrawny and debilitated, almost emaciated. His head flopped feebly against his chest, as though his neck were not quite big or strong enough. It provoked a sense of pity in the white colt, a sense that was only heightened in its magnitude when the little eaglet began to supplicate weakly for a bite of fresh seafood.

Go on, little bird, Skeidbrimir inwardly urged him. Eat. You need strength.

The bird was audacious. He ignored the bigger chicks, climbing upwards and reaching for the prey his mother had brought. Hoelun looked at her son with something that almost appeared as a spark of regret, deep in her fixed raptor eyes. The horse below wondered how anyone could not help but feel for the poor little beggar, as he finally let his beak gape and reached in to tear off his own chunk—
He was stopped short when Huginn, the biggest, doled out a sharp peck on Andi’s side. The smaller bird let out a squawk, seemingly in pain; Skeidbrimir’s face lay suddenly taut with worry.

That was unkind of you, Huginn.

And alas, it was. But there was no arguing with nature. At first, the colt had thought it to be merely a brash eruption of temper, unleashed once before being forgotten, as was the case between the two perennially-squabbling brothers. But Andi had climbed far up the side of the nest in his pursuit of food, and the other two—the hungry two, the ravenous two, the ruthless two—could see that clearly. Huginn stabbed at Andi again with his beak, again and again, ignoring his calls of pain, his pleas to his mother to help him.
Hoelun only watched. This had to happen. There wasn’t enough food for each of them to have his fair share.

Muninn suddenly joined in the thrashing, grabbing the smallest of them and tearing into his flesh with his razor beak. Andi squeaked; he squirmed. However, there was no escaping. There was nothing he could do to elude his siblings, now his enemies, except to take another step backwards.

He did. And found himself at the ledge.

Skeidbrimir stood in shock, almost unbelieving that this would suddenly happen between the three little eaglets. It was as though the older two had suddenly turned bloodthirsty, through no thought of their own and with no regard for their youngest sibling. Their victim. It was like they had been engaged in the innocent play of the wolf cub, and now, without warning, it had turned into a bloodbath.
Suddenly he heard the thud of an object against the grassy, leafy forest floor. He took a step forward, his hoof nearly crushing Andi. The eagle lay there, limp and broken yet still alive. Barely. His body was opened, bleeding through the lips of many cuts, with eyes screwed shut in pain. He was breathing quickly through his gaped beak.

Instantly Skeidbrimir was struck with several emotions. It paralyzed him, left him unable to think. Unable to see that the bird had been very clearly left for dead and would not last more than a few hours down here on the ground, alone and without food. Unable to see that there was no way to help him.
Alas, to nurture and assist the creature was his first instinct, but what could he do? Andi’s home was in the trees, in the air, while the colt was bound to earth. He couldn’t take the place of his mother, he couldn’t teach him how to be a bird, how to fly, how to hunt—he knew none of those things. He knew nothing about being an eagle.

He looked at the little creature, the pitiful would-have-been prince of the skies, and suddenly he discerned his sibling’s voice… so clearly and lucidly that it frightened him.

Of course you can’t save the bird, he heard it whisper. Of course you can’t. You can’t do anything. You’re a weakling, Skeid, always a weakling, just like the bird. And you’ll die, just like the bird, you’ll die, you’ll die.

The feeling persisted, even as the voice left. It echoed and bounced around between his ears, silently tormenting. He shook his head, he tried to deny it. But it was ever there, ever waiting, like a stalking, slinking wolf.

You’ll die, Skeid, you’ll die. Weakling, weakling, weakling…

“Bekter? Bekter!”

He cried out in the forest, conflicted and confused. Sobs choked his throat suddenly, and the feeling stung his eyes, though he wasn’t sure why. He couldn’t just let it die, because it was him. He was the bird. And he wanted to live. He wanted to live, to prove Bekter wrong, and yet Bekter was the only one he could think of to help him. Surely, if anyone knew what to do, it would be Bekter.

Bekter was the leader. Father believed in him. Yes. He did. And so should the rest of his sons, no matter how thrown aside, how lost, how forgotten.

Skeidbrimir felt as broken as the bird as he wandered, wondering where Bekter had gone. In his shock and confusion, he had left Andi behind without noticing. The bird couldn’t even let out a chirp for help. It knew that it was finished, its fate sealed within the forest. It would never leave this place. Just like the colt, he would never leave his homeland.

He wandered down the path, unable to see that Bekter had gone down some ways ahead. Now the golden horse lay in wait behind the tree with the eagle’s nest, watching as his sibling went. He would catch up to the little runt later.

A sickening crunch sounded under his hoof as he snapped it down, a sick grin coming to his face. He shifted his weight—the hoof moved. Under it was suddenly revealed the shriveled corpse of the eaglet. The creature’s bones had been crushed, neck somehow twisted as its body lay in an awkward position at the forest floor. A smear of blood lay stained outside the bird’s mouth, and his wings tilted inwards, broken.

He would only have suffered, Bekter thought. He only would have dragged on his insignificant life, stealing food from those who most deserved it. That was why he needed to die.

It was a strike of mercy for him, and a favor for the others. That was all.

“You may think me cruel now, Skeid. But I’m being more merciful than you’ll ever understand.” Bekter spoke only to himself, knowing his addressee to be outside of earshot; he chortled darkly. “And what can I say? Some life breaks, and others it makes. Hesturinn sterkur skal sigra. It’s the only rule.”

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Translations/explanations of terms and names (taken from Icelandic, Old Norse, and Mongolian):
Hesturinn sterkur skal sigra - "the strong horse shall conquer" (Modern Icelandic)
Andi - "spirit" (Modern Icelandic)
Huginn and Muninn - "thought" and "memory" (the name of Odin's two ravens in Old Norse mythos)
Skeidbrimir - the name of a horse in Old Norse mythology, derived from the word skeid, or "pace"
Heyri - "I hear" (Modern Icelandic)
Bekter - historically, the name of Genghis Khan's older half-brother
Hoelun - historically, the name of Genghis Khan's mother
Borjigid - "blue wolves" in Mongolian, and, historically, the name of Genghis Khan's tribe

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