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fWhip came to the lake in the darkening day, wings catching the rising wind. He circled near the frozen waterfall for a while: caught his thin and misting breath, and landed on the ridge.
It was a short climb up to the Salmon Sanctuary. fWhip made good time up the familiar path, although snow had made it blind. His wings flared out for balance; the wind billowed coldly in them. Though they were a pain most days ( and literally, at times), he did appreciate their use. fWhip was not a man to spit upon the practical: it was not in his nature.
The chill snuck in beneath the collar of his fur-lined tabard. He buried his nose in his scarf, and cursed the cold. But then, he was almost there.
He turned the last corner: and there he was.
fWhip took it in: the frost, the fog, the lanterns, the lake all polished pewter, gleaming with frost-trails and sun. It got cold, in the mountains; Salmon Mountain was no different. It was a good place; a sheltered place. The cold reached it, all the same. Through the ice, he imagined he saw silver bodies flashing; though it was probably a trick of sun and snow. The salmon still sheltered here: spawned in the backwater streams, stayed in the lake sanctuary for a year, two, three, before the ocean called them far and wide away. But they'd make it back. They always did. Wasn't it funny, how they always made it home? Though it killed them, they fought to make it home. Then again, fWhip wouldn't sneer. He'd do the same. Knew it, to the bones of him. He'd die full willing if that was what it took to see his home again.
He huffed out mist and tented his wings beneath his heavy cloak. Souls and stones, but the cold made him ramble on. The wind had bitter teeth today.
fWhip blinked away the memory of fall waters floating red, and scraped the rime off the lakeside lanterns with a damp glove. It caught, sharper. He could feel the heat of the soulfire burning through glass and leather. He could almost hear it hum. It had been long enough after the slaughter for the souls to still, and longer. The new year's fry had made there way to safety here, before the ice took over; their numbers were still too thin. fWhip pressed his lips to a thin, cold line, and turned away from the ghosts.
It was not without purpose that he came here, after all.
He rarely came here by choice in winter: too quiet, too gray, too cold. And that was one thing, in the city walls, where quiet was a strange and passing wind, and gray was the color of sleet and stones, and cold was the frost on all the window-panes. But he loved this lake too well in summer: all rioting, rooted green. It was… strange. It was strange to see it so still.
The old fishwarden's hut was empty for winter, but serviceable: and with no retinue to slow him down, it would be just fine. Sure, he didn't have to stay up here; it was a cold, tiny shack, with cobwebs hanging down that clung willfully to his numbing wings. There was a city, down the slopes a way, if one could call it that. It was nothing compared to Eastvale. A pilgrimage town, where half the people within its walls lived half the valley over. His mother's family owned land there. He supposed he could stay with his cousins, or in her old country house. He'd rather not.
fWhip got the fire going slowly. He had a way with fire, with cunning sparks and flame; all the same, his hands were frozen through and numbed, and the kindling was all damp. But he got it burning, with a soul-soft curse and a prayer. The orange light bloomed like flowers here in summer. He rubbed his eyes for the smoke.
fWhip passed the night in the cold. Gloves were shucked off, and coat remained on; a meager meal of traveler's bread and jerky was scarfed down; the smoke stung and the wind pressed close. His throat ached horribly. He swished some cold water in his mouth until he could no longer feel his teeth. It was so bitterly cold. If his lungs ached, it was just from breathing in the soot and the chill, and from flying so far, so fast.
He pulled his blankets out from his bag, and shoved all the rest back in place. It had been a long day. It would be a long day. And he was tired, anyway. His back dipped down with a crack as he stretched out in his stomach; and he knew his neck would kill him by morning. The good pillow had been left at home: no room for it, flying. No need, for just one night. It took forever to fall asleep, mind whirring and nose freezing, and wings wrapped awkwardly around him. He missed sleeping on his back. It seemed the least of his worries. But still. All the better reason to hold it close. He was nothing if he was not stubborn.
He woke up, eventually, on the wrong side of dawn, with a face all oily and a crooked neck. His nose was freezing, just to spite him: he'd kept it cozy beneath the blanket pile, and this was how it repaid him?
fWhip shoved himself to standing; hunched beneath the low, low roof, and grimaced at the hearth-gleaming embers. Hell if he'd wash his face with the water out here—he wasn't freezing to death. He liked Salmon Mountain, sure, but he wasn't ready to rest there forever. His pack lay crooked and abandoned on the ground; straps wild, buckles loose, guts half-spilled across the floor. Three steps to reach it: one, two, three. He knelt to search through it with a groan. His own design: his back was somewhat occupied, of late. His shoulders ached.
Canvas wings and wooden frames were pulled out, as gently as he knew how. He'd modeled their shape on his own: tested them on a string, trailing behind him, some weeks ago. fWhip didn't have much faith in them: he had no need for that. If this was anything but a hopeless heresy, they would fly. And if it wasn't…
But who was he kidding with doubt? He untangled the gliders carefully; popped the sore, cold joints of his hands; unfolded the bodies and light canvas wings, and took them outside. He was blinded right away—it had snowed, overnight, and the dull ice now glowed with a forge's fire, sighing steam where the soul lanterns sat in blue. fWhip groaned, although it was pretty enough, and since it had seemingly stopped, it wouldn't mark ruin. Winter would not be his season of choice for this… but again, who did he think he was kidding?
The snow crunched, crushed beneath his boots. It stung like fire against the claws of his wings. He walked to the first soul, and knelt.
fWhip came here with purpose: he knelt with the same. He came here to test the first flight of the salmon gliders to carry their souls to the sea: he would see it done. This was home, sure, but the sea was too: the sea that killed them before they ever got a chance to see it. They needed to see it. He'd see it done—though surely such a massacre had not happened before, though he knew no one had ever made a machine quite like this before.
He hoped Lizzie saw them flying. He hoped they made her choke.
The sun rose higher. fWhip had never really been the type to pray, but he crossed his fingers with a sigh, and hoped that the weather held clear. The melt sank into his skin. He set down the gliders. He picked up the lantern. His breath froze in the sunrise air. He wasn't much of a priest. But if he knew anything it was this: stubbornness, spite, and the blood frozen into the ice. He knew how to twist the shapes of metals, and mixtures, wood and words. He knew what it took to fly.
fWhip closed off his heart with a rallying cry, and did what he came here to do.