Chasing Thunder

A faint pitter-patter, the ringing of mice paws against piping. He knew it was coming, he could taste it in sparks of metal. Low gusts filtered between paneling, a seeping cascade between untended edges. It didn't reach the nest, not even a gale threatened his preen. And yet the walls sung; a whistling background against drizzle.

Gentle, gentle. Don't wake them up. Red feathers, green feathers, each move was calculated to halt their quivering. Untangling extremities, nudging the warmth away, letting blankets and pillows slide. One sudden inhale. Limbs frozen, eyes wide, enough to feel the stinging air. The larger figure of the nest sighed, content. Legs stretched, shivering, a fanged yawn—then the body stilled. The boy didn't dare to move, one, two seconds. His better judgement urged to get draped back below kind wings. A burst of sound, the crack of the sky prodded his appetite. A predator had to hunt.

His only cloak was the sound. Feathers won't rustle, eyes won't stir, breaths will still. The prayer accompanied him, step by step. Through the corridor. Eyes won't stir. Long shadows at his heels and wrists, the meager turned mighty against the dim walls. Endless doors, south and north. Endless tiles, freezing against hands. Not a soul to be found, not even a heartbeat. Nothing for his ears to catch but the growing torrent. His hunger grew, rivalled only by the distant grumble that tempted him. Let us meet, let our hunger fester.

A crossroads. The labyrinthic dwelling continued to foil his moves. The heavens split, and he wished it cracked the compound open. Leave the roof agape. He longed for tremendous claws, nothing like the nubs that barely caused a dent in pelt. Something enough to carve a path, make away with the meaningless blueprints of grounded beings. Eyeing the corridor ... what was it his sister said? Left side. Go left, you'll never get lost.

The wind picked up, forcing short legs into a flurry. A puddle, a ladder, rain seeping in from above. Was the restless beating of drums part of the sky, or his own? Nimble, quiet, the rusted steps paid no mind to the puny weight imposed. The trapdoor. A hand against it, enough to feel the dribbling of water. Air and water sneaked through the vents, inching around the rivets. It held his hand, a cold touch that forced a shudder through black plumage, drops sliding down his arm.

Pushing it open should have been easy. It was always easy. His sister made work of it like wet cardboard, why wouldn't the boulder move now?

All sounds were drowned in the deluge. A legion could have been awaiting at the bottom, and he would be no wiser. The pouring came and went, waves lapping against the shore. A voice, far, far. The promised retaliation, he knew he was doomed the second he stepped out. Yet, the hatch wouldn't move. So close, so close. His own heart overtook the sky's, straining to power runty arms. Another call—his time was running out.

It budged, just enough to slither out. Frail limbs forced a final, shaky push towards the slice of outdoors.

The cold came first, consuming all. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, only the cold. Drops pelted him in an avalanche, reaching through his plumage, through clothing, frigid water soaking into his body like melting mud.

Then came the noise. Incessant; an angry mass of rumbling and shrieks, wind rattling every panel and nail that hadn't been fastened enough. The drumming was furious, vibrating against his body, the afterimage on the roof rattling his bones. The air was charged with the scent of wet earth, each inhale coming with the sputtering of water.

This wasn't an spectacle for the eyes, the fat droplets blurred the world beyond recognition. But he didn't need to see, not when it made its presence known. The metallic tang of electricity. The pull at the base of his whiskers. The light came, devouring the sky in white-hot brilliance, a sword ruthlessly slicing through the firmament. It left as soon as it came, coating the world in stillness. One, two, three, four. Then came the cracking of the whip. The explosion sent a jolt through the boy, forcing his chest against the unforgiving reverberation of the roof. A sound was yanked out of his throat then, deafened by the ferocity that surrounded him.

The storm was alive—he was alive. Breathing and growling, each howl a convulsion. I am here, and I am mighty!

Among the wind that threatened to rip out his limbs, noise drilling through his ears, every last inch of his body sodden, the boy felt complete. Here, he was. Here, he was part of the world. Here, he was the force of nature.