Present

When the night wind swirls round from the east, and the grease of the Nyn fills our snouts, we free ourselves from the hooks on the stalagmites and leave the cave, and I go hunting once more for the one that got away.

Some leave the cave by wing, and some by hoof. Some exit by claw, and some by teeth biting into the dirt and towing their hides behind them. They all lap at the scent and push forward with that age-old hunger, the likes of which I am all too familiar. Many of them will die tonight, but their urgency keeps them confident. My wings, still aching from a Nyn's hatchet, struggle against the wind, so I glide with the flow as it lifts me out of the cave and above the canopy of the forest outside. I peel off in a direction unusual to the scores of my kind intoxicated by another chance at Nyn blood.

For as much as I crave to pierce the crisp shell of a wretched Nyn and sip its innards until this bag of skin hanging loose on my bones balloons into form, I am willing to postpone doing so in favor of this other task. There must be more to existence than this ancient war with the Nyn. It's gone on for so long that my kind has bastardized noble patriotism with dull-eyed blood lust. They don't remember the reasons our two kinds started killing and eating each other in the first place, but they don't need reasons any longer when the euphoria of death and a full stomach will suffice. They've forgotten the grace in missing a meal. In meaning. In purpose.

But on nights like this one, I remember. Because I remember her.

She's a human, and the wind will carry me the way to her, off to where she sleeps and where I visit. I know the destination well, just as I can recall how it felt to meet her for the first time, even if she didn't know it. For humans cannot see the likes of me, nor of the Nyn, and thank God for that, for the terror would surely burst their little hearts.

It's that sweet ignorance that I so adored in her when we first crossed paths all those years ago. How unusual to see a human so small, a baby, so utterly helpless yet completely full of joy despite her circumstance.

And what a circumstance it happened to be at that time.

Thirty Years Ago

I'd just finished setting my broken leg with the stiff corpse of a young Nyn when I heard her. She'd been left outside in the cold night of winter - giggling! - on the doorstep of a church, with a cardboard box and a blanket for a crib. Now, it is not customary for my kind to approach a human, but in my exhausted state I let my guard down and let my natural curiosity out. Naturally, I'd had plenty of children of my kind by that point - hundreds upon hundreds of broods, in fact. They lacked the...the...oh, how should I say this? I'll put it this way. The moment my children emerged from their yolk sacks, they demonstrated an astronomical preoccupation with killing, especially each other.

Now contrast that with this human baby. She possessed an effervescence unlike any I'd ever experienced, because that word is usually reserved for Nyn sweetbreads. But this, from this human, was an invisible sweetness, and when I felt it, I wasn't sure which of my senses communicated the experience.

I floated to the church doorstep and stood over her, invisible to her eyes. I remained as such for some time, basking in this incredible feeling. Was she trying to tell me something? Is it dangerous for me to experience this? Or was this simply the natural radiation of a human baby, and I happened upon one of its wayward atoms?

I did know one thing: that moment marked the only time a human ignited this feeling in me. My kind considered humans nuisances at best, as this planet belonged to us for much longer than the delusions of overconfident apes would suggest. In any other circumstance, I'd have left that baby in the cold with all the lingering guilt of a lightning strike. This time, though, I couldn't bear the thought of it. What was this feeling?

And so it was that I rang the doorbell on the church. When no one came to the door, I scooped up the box and swooped to the house across the street. I made the mistake of standing on the welcome mat with the box in my arms as I rang the doorbell. At least the box couldn't be overlooked when the old man answering the door saw it floating in the air.

Present

I pause my flight to scratch my symbol in the forest dirt. Tall blue flames rise from where the lines in the symbol meet, and I use them to boil out the cave parasites living just beneath my skin. I kick dirt over the symbol and try to catch the wind again, but something stops me. It's the sort of feeling that only springs up when the six eyes of a Nyn fix upon me.

My heel spins and I see the creature savoring me from beside a dead tree, curled fangs sloppy with hunger. The Nyn wears thick scabs that form a sort of coat, a signal that it's successfully battled many of my kind before.

As much as I'd rather be on my way, I'm left with no choice. I jerk a long bone loose from the socket in my wing, and I close the distance between us.

This sense of obligation brings to mind another memory of her, this time a bit more recent.

Twenty Years Ago

The agony of money must be a terrible burden to bear. Thank goodness I was born with other passions, because the human preoccupation with "making money" is both tedious and usually unsuccessful. There's never enough money, it seems.

So it was when I visited her on a summer evening breeze by a backyard fire. She'd progressed into "school" and "friends," which sounded nice enough on human terms, but her human caretakers had taken just as many steps backward. This marked the fourth round of such caretakers, but she remained in good spirits. Perhaps the little conveniences that followed her from home to home brought a smile to her face.

What better reason for my procuring the items she needed for her? The ways I acquired these items are irrelevant. What's important is that I'd become the wishes she said at night, sometimes to herself, sometimes through tears. When those wishes became true, they sustained her "from inside out," as humans say. As strange as it seems, although I missed many meals of Nyn to bring those wishes to life, I also felt relieved of my burden.

This particular summer night felt different, though. She sat alone by the fire, her gaze lost in the flames, stewing in the stress of what her caretakers told her and what I had overheard. One of the caretakers lost a "job," which is apparently the human mechanism for "making money." Something called "rent" for the house was long overdue, and they'd need to "move somewhere cheaper" soon. This presented as an odd concept for someone like me, who lives in a cave, to understand at first.

More importantly, it meant this 10-year-old human girl would need to "change school districts." I didn't know what that meant, but I knew it would devastate her entire world to "leave her friends behind." The world must be awfully small at that age, but I am not one to judge. My own children never went to "school," mostly because they'd eaten each other as nature's way of preparing the strongest to war with the Nyn.

I took care to place the bag with the money in a spot not too close to the fire to become damaged yet not too far away to be missed. She knew how to ask for it, too. It's a little thing we both figured out, even if we've never properly interacted. She closed her eyes, hummed to herself, waited 10 seconds, and opened her eyes.

I waited to see her reaction. It's always my favorite part.

Present

The Nyn is good, I'll give it that. Its jaws catch my side, but I've been hit too many times in that spot before. A thick scar means I barely feel the Nyn latch on. This is a favored trick of the Nyn, as they hope to bleed out someone like me, for the biology of the Nyn's jaws is hydraulic.

A younger version of myself might've panicked at this parasitic maneuver. That version faded away centuries ago. One simply breaks the jaws of the Nyn. It's rather convenient that the Nyn should present the opportunity to do so.

I cram my bone crosswise into the Nyn's mouth and pry with all the weight I can muster. The force from the jaws is so great that the sudden release of pressure redirects into the abomination's skull, splitting the thick dome in two. After the Nyn hits the ground, I paw what the fracture exposes into my mouth.

The burst of energy this unexpected snack provides propels me to the wind, and once again I am off to find the one that got away.

Ten Years Ago

She stopped believing her fulfilled wishes were anything more than coincidences, but I never stopped visiting. Rather than take offense, I felt a sort of gratitude toward her skepticism, because it meant her mind grew sharper and more aware. I admired that development of mental powers, and the premium humans placed on the exercise thereof. This all coalesced at a place they called "college," where debt is traded for the opportunity to pay off said debt using a "career."

Again, the labors the human imagination endures "making money" disturbed me, because this money exists chiefly in theory and is therefore invisible. Then again, I, too, am invisible to humans, and yet I exist.

On a particularly dark and rainy evening, I clung to the window outside the living room in her "apartment," observing her scribing words on a "keyboard" attached to an electrical device called a "computer." From what I gathered, this collection of words was to be judged by an instructor of sorts.

I watched her masterful progress with these words slow to a few taps on the keyboard before her head slumped against her shoulder. Clearly, given the importance of these words, I could not cling idly by while her chance to be judged by this instructor slipped away.

A couple thumps on the window revived her, and she resumed her work on the keyboard, unaware that my noise was the culprit.

After a few minutes, her "roommate," a platonic acquaintance who'd agreed to share the expense of renting the apartment, arrived home from work. This roommate offered to open the window to "let the sound of the rain in, because it's so nice." I floated away in time for the window to open, lest I stumble into the apartment.

As if by second nature, my wings brought me to a gathering of three injured Nyn huddled by a riverbank. I normally wouldn't confront three Nyn, even if they were injured, but the enthusiasm coursing through my veins provided me with the zest to slay the trio in record time. Even as my body consumed the vile Nyns' innards, my thoughts remained on her word project on the "computer." I couldn't wait to return in a couple nights to hear the result of her judgement, for I knew how much joy success would bring to her. She'd prepared well and worked hard, and in a way I saw my efforts reflected in hers.

I knew then why it was humans latched themselves to struggle, constantly inventing problems to toil over while nature's brutal simplicity laid an inch away. It was for the glory of persevering at all, of creating order, of conquest, of triumph in ways small and large, of crafting a world in their own images even if that world only measured the size of a keyboard.

My mind pondered this as I killed two more Nyn unfortunate enough to cross my path. My belly full, I flew the carcasses back to the cave, where five of my kind died in a stampede to be the first to eat.

Present

The wind is smoother now that I've left the forest for humanity's domain. The trees do a better job at scrambling the breeze than the tall structures this curious species erects for itself. Some may call the artificial scenes beneath me "sterile," but I find peace in how quiet so many humans can be in such a small space. The screeches in the cave, by contrast, never cease, for there is always - always! - something in the throes of death.

This perfect wind reminds me of the time not long ago when my wings enjoyed a similar flight on my way for a visit. I stuff this memory away on most evenings, but the familiar air forces the thought to the surface.

One Year Ago

My visits became less regular after she "graduated" from that place called "college," due in large part to her courtship with a male suitor. A human male suitor, mind you.

This development left me conflicted, and it took me a long while to determine why. I loved her, you see. Or rather, I'd surmised that I loved her. That word "love" came up quite often now, and I had to shoehorn it into my vocabulary, repeating it to myself in muted conversation in the cave, until I figured out how to place it in a sentence.

Adding to the complexity, I discovered there to be different forms of "love," even if all shared the same name. What kind was mine?

It only took one visit to her to determine what kind it wasn't, for she kept repeating it during an exceptionally physical engagement with this particular suitor. I made a hasty exit as soon as I realized what was taking place. Privacy isn't something I enjoyed in the cave, with every bit of life's necessities performed in the open, but I came to understand its value to humans during certain moments. Even if she can't see me, I owed that much to her.

So what was this "love" if it wasn't that? Was it related to grief? For I felt a deep sadness that my usefulness in her life appeared to be coming to an end.

Yet I also experienced delight that she found such joy in this male's company. He seemed a fine and noble individual, in human terms, although he looked to me entirely incapable of slaughtering a Nyn. Not that he need be concerned with the Nyn anyway, but the point stuck with me.

How could this be? How could "love" be full of grief for me, excitement for her and infatuation for him?

I found answers soon enough. I glided with the two of them to a restaurant, where they took a seat by a window. As I watched from the other side of the glass, he waited for an opportune moment to present her with a ring. She smiled wide but she also cried, and so did he. Again I heard that "love" word.

In that moment, I finally placed that mysterious feeling. That was me, too. Happy and sad. Love.

I left them to enjoy the rest of their evening, sparing the Nyn I spotted sleeping beneath a rock on my way back to the cave.

Present

My flight ends as I approach where she sleeps. I land and walk the rest of the way in deliberate fashion. It's quiet here. Peaceful.

I scan my surroundings to make sure my visit won't be interrupted by the Nyn. I don't feel generous with any more of my time and patience tonight.

I pause for a long while at the stone tablet. Indecipherable human writing in the stone, the likes of which I assume spell out her name and date of expiration, marks where she sleeps eternal in the dirt below.

Once again, as I do during every visit, I try to conjure her spirit with a ritual. It's in vain, because these rituals only work on my kind, but I hold out for the chance. It's all I have now.

That, and memories.

One Month Ago

I floated above her vehicle while she drove the "car," a mechanical form of personal transportation, on the rural road. It's night, so bright lights guide her way. When the wind offered a strong hand to push me along, such as on nights like this one, I enjoyed accompanying her. Planning a "wedding" demands lots of time, I discovered, and yet time was always in short supply. Adding to the stress was how important everything became.

That explained her late-night drive to get somewhere important, to pick up something important and to get it back home before something else important took place.

What happened took place faster than I thought possible an event so significant could unfold. In less than a second, before I could've possibly reacted, another car headed in the opposite direction collided head on with hers. The sound from that awful moment hasn't left my ears since.

I didn't need to swoop down to know what had resulted of this collision, and so I didn't chance a view to confirm. I didn't want the last sight of her face to be the one I knew waited for me inside the car.

I fell to the ground as if my wings broke just then. The pain manifested physically, even if I'd not received so much as a scratch. It left me in such a stupor, paralyzed on the pavement, that I couldn't react to the sight of the offending driver stumbling out of his car, even as she remained still inside of hers. Empty cans followed the driver, a human male, out the open car door.

One of the cans rolled to a stop against my huddled frame. I remember picking it up, my nose inhaling the scent of the driver's lips on the opening, my eyes oscillating between the shiny design on the can and the image of the driver sprinting away from the scene.

The "funeral," a ceremony for deceased humans, occurred a week later. It took place during the day, when I'm normally sleeping, but I made the trip out. People said nice things about her life, but it didn't take away my pain. In fact, it didn't seem to help anyone in attendance. All they could do was cry.

I overheard her male suitor, delirious with grief, say to someone how he'd "like to find the person who did this before the police do" and "give them what they deserve."

Despite how justified their passions may be, humans do not allow themselves to do such things. They believe in process, in law and order. They're willing to wait for justice, even if it means allowing the guilty to run free.

I, however, am not a human.

Present

The wind encourages me to get going, and there is good light tonight given the full moon. Better hunting weather does not exist. I bid her goodbye as if she's standing next to me, as I always do, and take to the sky.

I will find him. I will reveal my presence to him even if he cannot see me. For I know his face, and I know his scent. He can't hide forever, because all I have is time and this pain. This will be the night my hunt ends for the one that got away. I can feel it.

Soon, he will, too.

The End