by Dawn Vogel
I was only gone for an hour. My beautiful daughter was newborn-hatched, and she was hungry. What mother would not immediately go on the hunt?
I brought her back a rabbit, still living, just dazed from being carried in my maw, flown across the skies to my windswept peak and my craggy nest. She must learn to kill her prey first, and then, when she can fly with me, to hunt on her own.
But she is gone from the nest when I return. I rend the rabbit in my talons to cease its screams. Its blood suffuses my nostrils and covers the scent of the man who was here. Almost.
My daughter is lovely, her gleaming hair already past her waist, her body already like that of an adult human woman, save for the fangs in our maws, the talons at our hands, and the wings that sprout from our backs, that let us soar. Did he take her for a bride, believing she was my captive and not my child? How could he miss the wings?
He can't have gotten far. Even if he lured her with food, she can only walk. Her wings are not strong enough for her to fly with prey snatched up in her talons.
I circle my lonely peak (which would be less lonely with my daughter beside me). So focused am I on spotting two, that I nearly do not see my daughter. She hardly looks herself, lying on the cold rock, shorn of her hair and her wings slashed off.
She still breathes, and she looks up at my landing. "Mother," says she.
"Daughter," say I. "Who has done this to you?"
"A human," says she. "Stay with me until I go."
So I stay, and I sing to her, the same lullabies I sang when she was still warmly encased within her egg. Her murderer cannot have gone far, especially not with the trophies he now carries. I have time to sing.
And when my daughter stills for the last time, my song changes. No longer lullabies, now I sing of the vengeance I will wreak.
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He hasn't gone far. My daughter's wings, still dripping blood while strapped to his back, are the same weight as a human child. I do not miss the irony in that.
Emotions war across his face when I land before him. He knows what he's done, now that he sees a full-grown harpy before him.
And yet there is still the lust in his eyes, the yearning to have a second set of harpy wings, a second rope of lustrous hair. He knows what these things sell for. It is enough to tempt him to try a second time.
He has his swords, but I have my fangs and my talons and my anger. I take the offensive, leap at him, harry him from on high.
It would hardly be a fight, if I were not filled with rage. I could avoid his blows, wait until he tires, and then strike. But I want him to suffer, to feel pain as I have.
I rake my talons across his back. He smashes the pommel of his sword against my hip but does not cut me.
I kick his shoulder, striking him with my heel. He catches my leg. He drives a sword into my thigh, but I barely feel it.
I grip his arm with both of my hands, digging my talons into his flesh. He does not have room to counterstrike.
I beat my wings, once, twice, thrice, and we are far above my lonely mountain.
I pull the sword from my leg, drop it, and it falls to the rocks beneath us. I wait until I see it shattered below.
And then I drop him atop it.
He will hunt no longer.