It was easy to hate blue. He had to early memories connected to that color. It was a promise he couldn't really touch and had long forgotten who had spoken it to him anyway.
There was his father, who enjoyed every shade of blue. Early memories had the gentle mage 'teasing' him with blue feathered hair pieces, or playing an odd sort of peek-a-boo with transparent, blue silk sleeves. And the warm security that blue covered arms brought while hugging him as welcome laughter from both parents filled his ears. Blue was all he needed to see to know he was loved back then. At least until he started walking, and the hushed conversations by distressed adults scared him.
"He isn't a late bloomer, Bluefeather," a scowling adult softly spoke: not soft enough for a curious fledging pausing in play. His mother continued trying to distract him with the block, which he let her think worked.
"I checked and he has no Gift. No gift! He can talk by Wind Trail, but he'll never walk it!"
He could later recall how his blue dressed father stilled with an unhappy expression. That night he'd asked mother how he could bloomer like a flower when he was an elf. And, oh, where was the Wind Trail? Was that where father and mother did their work? The rest of the memory was lost with age.
Soon he was allowed to follow his mother out of the eleke and see all the tribe. Mother sternly made him wear a halter when playing, but he didn't care after he first caught sight of the Edge. The wide blue sky was perfect that day. Warm wind and sunlight soaked into his skin as he stood at a cliff's edge in total awe. It felt so right to be there that he barely noticed more then one voice close by. Instead his attention riveted to his tribemates moving in the open air beyond the cliff's ground. They glided with trailing sleeves and hair clothes of many colors and lengths. Some dove like birds, a few hovering to talk to each other and one was returning from somewhere below. He yearned to join them. Blue sky beaconed as surely as his father's robes ready to embrace him.
That day he never noticed the looks of pity while he stood in frozen delight for many hours. Too young to understand why his parents exchanged glances while he rambled about how wonderful it looked on the way back to their eleke. Unable to remain still when father had gathered the rope to his halter, or picked him up as they floated to their door.
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It was well that he could be entranced by watching the world at the Edges. At first he had been allowed in the magic classes, as though they hoped he merely need exposure to gain a Gift; never mind his father was a powerful mage that did feats at the eleke. They taught him briefly to focus his thoughts. Told him he only needed to picture it in his mind. Gave him hope that he only had to learn how to join everyone beyond the Edges. That was killed when one of the gentle mages finally took him aside and explained he never would wield magic, with soft tones and saddened eyes that made him run out of the cliff carved dwelling.
He learned to hate the blue sky denied only to him. Began to blame his father, the great and powerful Bluefeather, for not giving him even the basic ability to fly. And no matter how 'understanding' his parents were he grew angry as he learned how crippled he was. No Gift banned him from the classes all elf fledglings went through; they made him dependent on others to take him from any of the cliff carved elekes; it taught him how hurtful difference was; and it would shape his whole life.
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All elf fledglings were sooner or later gifted pets to play with. The adults used the birds to teach responsibility and work in knowledge of nature without making it obvious. It was a status among the fledglings to train their birds hunting skills for sport, or as messengers among friends out of Sending range. Prized were the hawks and falcons among the young for those were what warriors or hunters might use among the adults who retained a bird.
So it was a terrible surprise that when he was old enough to gain a bird he was given a fledging owl. Confusion and disappointment must have been in his eyes because the giver, only a few decades older then he, gave a strange smile. "Trust me. Thunderhawk picked this little guy himself for you."
It would take his owl's loyalty and a few bruises from arms-master Thunderhawk to make him stop hating the nameless owl. Years passed before he started understanding the choice of a silent predator who knew the night. Because caring for the nocturnal bird allowed him an excuse to become nocturnal himself and further from the eyes of those less then friendly.
There was no blue in the sky then. It was black, grey, white lined and more comforting then the beckoning blue.
He injured himself many times in the dark over time. Pure stubbornness and pointing out how cruel it was to see what he couldn't do himself gained him reluctant permission to do this on the condition that the Night Watch kept a loose eye on him. And it was perfect to all but his parents: he would be out of sight of the tribe, and he was ignored in his peaceful nights.
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No tribe should support a worthless cripple. It was unfair to all if they indulged Bluefeather's son too much. Feeding one who retained his fledging birds when the rest had out-grown them gained the suggestion that he be a hunter. There was no need for a crippled among the rarely needed warriors.
'No!' many objected. 'He can not use weapons, nor move swiftly. Make him a craftsman!'
As a teen he'd paled at the turn of the tribe debate. He couldn't imagine losing what little freedom he had gained over time to be holed up all day. A panicked, pleading stare at Thunderhawk meet a familiar scowl from the warrior. Over the decades the arms-master had instructed him with bow and spear until he had gained a slight grace with them. Thunderhawk rarely used his minor magic, instead striving for physical excellence among a tribe of mages and scholars. That trademark scowl, to him, was more truthfully protective then Bluefeather's.
'A craftsman?' the elder warrior asked in an angry contempt. 'The fledgling knows as much of the below forest as our centuries older hunters. And who among the crafters will apprentice him?' The question met a silence where adults non-verbally urged someone else to take him in. It was an expected betrayal that still cut into his heart as he was forced into waiting. He covered his hurt by gently scratching his ninth owl's crest feathers as the moment stretched.
'I will' finally a voice stated. He kept his green eyes somewhere on the ground to hide how he merely wished to dash out of there, grab his few belongings and disappear with his bird. And while he struggled with the impulse the tribe voted in support of weapon-maker Preyslayer, Thunderhawk continued to scowl and his parents beamed encouragement with hopeful eyes. It strangled his own heart until a breathless panic made him cry against their decision. They pinned him with their startled eyes and annoyed expressions. No words could explain his impulse, as they shot question after question until he felt a tug of tears misting up. Deciding it was the insolence of a spoiled, wild youth they went back to their own debates and left him sitting there: too proud to cry, too conflicted to protest, and too young to be himself.
In the end he was split between apprenticing to Preyslayer, watching Bendmoon since a magic accident left her child-like, and doing chores at the hunter's gathering eleke. This was his own Wind Trail it seemed.
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Over a century passed before he became an adult. In all his time apprenticing he gained skills in fletching and leatherwork, but he watched the various weapon types. A sort of half-moon blade atop a staff was his creation which served as both a weapon and a climbing aide. Watching addled Bendmoon let him continue keeping a bird-friend, as it also amused the elder mage. And he learned to observe, listen, learn, and practice things from the hunter's gathering eleke.
He taught himself not to react to his non-names. Those taunts that belittle him by calling him Skyfell, a cripple beyond repair; Broken Wing, a cripple; Snatch Feather, to remind him he was only a shadow of his father.
By his second century he was known to be both aloof and for his ability with birds. For a time he helped the young healer mage, Owlbind, tend to any injured feathered creature. Her light blue eyes constantly sought his despite blushing badly when they met his green. Briefly he considered drumming up the courage to ask her to be his lovemate. That stopped when he noticed her friends teasing her about it, and she denied anything going on. 'How can it with a cripple? He can't do a Court Dance,' she would stammer as her shy nature made her. If any were around she was careful to remain almost neutral and he simple withdrew into himself.
Her blue eyes nicked his heart, with every glance.
There was some small joy it giving Fledglings their first pet bird, but the Tribe had few births and he turned to other things. He hunted game that might take weeks to track. Most he solo-ed with his bird bond, for adults partnered to their winged friends were bonds, but he sometimes shared tracks with Windtrail. The calm rebel was one of his few friends. Windtrail, like his namesake, tended to do as he would without anyone's permission. When magic was needed it was to Windtrail that he turned to. The mage now and then suggested that his ability to see from his bond's eyes was a type of magic, but he recalled teachers past and dismissed the hope before it cut him twice.
His crippled nature had more then a few of the females in his eleke, either for pity or to compare how he was to the 'healthy' males. Two were male themselves. He was a novelty for them to dally with. And he took what small pleasure he could from this attention until loathing chased him back into the wild. Elves were not built to stay chaste all their long lives, after all. No fledglings ever came of it as the females rarely birthed and took herbs to insure none of his seed would stay. No Recognition occurred. Were it possible he would have chosen Windtrail, who offered friendship and held no interest in males. Sometimes he simply cried on the Gifted's shoulders when he needed elven comfort. Like his namesake the rebellious mage remained elusive and un-catch able.
Two centuries later, in the beginning of his fourth century, Windtrail was killed by a batch of humans. It was his first death of a friend, who counted only four to start with. Blue-eyed, black haired Windtrail had followed his impulse to the last and taken a spear through the chest. A hunter was also slain with the mage when attempting to rescue him.
He watched the mourning as the tribe gathered the fallen, cleaned and dressed in their ceremony costumes. Each elf made their own when they came-of-age, added on through-out life for Recognitions/ deeds/ events and whim of their makers. Windtrail's was crookedly sewn, but they matched the mis-match of clashing, bright colored streams/beads/feathers and embroidery that faintly resembled an attempt of Fall leaves in the wind. An eye-sore that passively defied reason as its creator had done. It was almost a relief when the fire leapt to consume it. When the first flame touched his old friend he silently turned away and left the gathering, the tribal grounds, and then the cliffs to mourn in the wild forest.
The blue sky above held only swift moving clouds to mark that tragic day. He glared upwards, cursed it with bitter venom and was soon tracking the humans that had stolen a living treasure so violently. Hard bought patience had him careful stalking his prey for over a month. Even when he came back it was soon rare for him to stay in his eleke for more then five days. He would hunt game and drop it off with other hunters or at the hunter's gathering eleke. Intrigued lovemates could Send for his attention but he didn't remain long after the mating. Only with Thunderhawk, Owlbind, his mother and a mute Fledgling named Silentcloud did he continue to keep in contact with visits.
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Until the death of all he knew in his fifth century, he found his pleasure with the birds. They didn't demand much, they prized freedom and they could fly through the air to lend him their eyes. His one Gift was not only to Hear them, but to 'fly' behind closed eyes. It was no magic to the Wind Walkers.
No blue-eyed, black-haired friend. He had been spared the massacre at least by dying a century before. His father, Bluefeather, identified among the bodies and collapsed elekes by his trademark clothes. Owlbind slain by the giant hawks and her service to heal suffering birds gaining her nothing, which might have been why her dead blue eyes were bewildered in death. The blanket of fine design he used to wrap Thunderhawk's corpse was a sky blue until the flame turned it black and then ash. He would later find the bodies of his mother and three others in the small lake not far from the corner Edge of the cliff. The calm water made them float with bloated death that should have marred the blue waves with red blood, but failed to.
And that cursed sky, who had held all Wind Walkers but him, now mocked his losses with a beautiful blue. The storm had passed a day and half ago. Nature shined her colors in celebration and the Wind Trail brushed by him with fresh air that hide the scents of all but the fires he'd built and the bodies they burnt. The Wind Trail told him his place was elsewhere.
Let the dead become ash to rejoin Wind and Sky. He had only to murmur their names as fire touched them for the Wind to take them to peace. There was no need to seek survivors of the missing because their Wind Trail was taken care of. So he did as he needed to let their spirits rise and find a few supplies he would need. Snatching clothes, blanket, fletching gear and a few guilty souvenirs to remind him of those gone. He had been hunting when death took his Tribe. His pack held most of his needs anyway, including weapons and water. Tears mixed with smoke and ash when he finished. Almost all the elekes had a fire burning when he stepped to the Edge.
"East Wind, I give you the Fledglings and Healers." And he spoke many names, for there were many healers of different types. He included Soul Healers, who used word to heal and not magic. Windtrail's name was added although he was long past ash.
"West Wind, I give you Elders and Scholars."
"South Wind, I give you Mages and Crafters." Bluefeather's name was among them.
"North Wind, I give you Fighters and Hunters." Thankfully there were few fighters. Thunderhawk was a rare exception and had been joined by only eight. Hunters took longer as many pitched in to this. And he nearly chocked as he came to the last name: his own.
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Wanderer's Oasis Tribe, three years later:
"Are you okay, Ryel?"The tracker startled from his thoughts to face the curious, worry of his new tribemate. The young lady had settled to lean over at his face from where he sat. He blinked forest green eyes. The small cooking fire had burned down to embers not far behind where she now stood. Perhaps the flames had lulled him to sleepiness.
"Rain," he replied as he gathered himself to his feet. She backed enough to let him as she asked, "what about it?" He shook his head and looked upwards where goshawk Arrow, his bond, flew through slightly over-cast skies.
She too turned her attention up for a short time until a random comment drew her back. It was natural for their adopted tribemate to keep his own council. The feather jewelry in his loose, brown hair twisted to reflect the sunlight they touched before they dimmed to blend with the tree shadows he vanished into. His words seemed to hang in a moment of absent breeze.
"Just seeing Blue."