The Stolen Name

History is written by the victors. Alcyone scratches the leathery skin that peeks through the breaks in their chromatic chitin plating, their thoughts lingering too long on the topic. A sharp snap fills the cabin as their jaw opens and closes; a bad habit from their youth. Their masseter muscles ache from the repetition. Idly, they rub and prod at them, careful to keep their claws retracted and away. Instead, they manage to divert their energy into rubbing their beak's mandibles together. It's a small improvement.

Alcy clicks in boredom, in sorrow, in something like defeat. If history really is that way, what will be told of the Carnyx? For a race that knows nothing of its own but the Stolen, what future is there, when the story unravels its final thread? They will be known by many names before that final day, but it will come all the same, as it comes for all.

They glance towards Xenthyr, the featherless Carnyx handling nav at their side; a sign of the Mate-taker, were the honor bestowed upon them. Thankfully, it was not.

For the Carnyx, the blood of the freshly fallen is said to be the sweetest of ichors; the Stolen Names thus must be earned. Xenthyr has always envied their name: being Chosen at birth was a rare sight, and a doom for all their hatchmates. None would ever amount to a status comparable, none would ever be worthy of their shared genetics. When they were of age, Alcy felt that doom within themselves. They mourned for Xenthyr and the others. Why the Grand Theurgist and all their servitors had seen fit to Choose them was still beyond their ken. They resented the supposed blessing if it meant the embitterment of their hatchmates.

Yet even had they not been Chosen at Birth, they'd have been chosen all the same: they knew the last of the Earthbound. A warrior called Thrace, of great renown amongst the Carnyx, if not his own people. Who could say? Too few remained for knowledge of the rest. In his companionship, honor upon honor were granted them; knowledge of his people and their wondrous before. Had they slain him like a proper Carnyx, they'd have earned his name besides the rest: Grand Servitor Alcyone Alexys Thrace. But they do not desire names or honor. By that, they are a stranger to their kind.

---

History is written by the victors. Thrace had told them this, his eyes low, had asked through a quavering breath how he would be remembered. How his people would be known.

"As great warriors worthy of their lives and deaths. As names that bear remembering," they answered, nodding, both grave and sincere. But he did not seem placated.

"How will you remember me, Alcy?"

"We…" they stumbled in their words, breath shaking in kind, "we do not know the answer to such a, a personal question, Thrace of the Earthbound. We are not accustomed to such bindings beyond our mates and kin. That is, True Kin, who are born of a single name. I have none. I was cursed, kithless by virtue of my name."

"Am I not kith to you?"

They are stunned by the question, so easily offered. "Would you… would you will it so? As the nearest of your destroyers?"

"If not the dearest," he said, and choked out a laugh.

"You are a strange creature," they answered, an irrepressible rumbling echoing through their subvocals. Thankfully, his kind were not aware of such… personal information. Even amongst the Carnyx, it was considered rude to acknowledge outside of mated pairs and True Kin.

A moment passed between them, strange and delicate, fleeting as the starlight woven through time at the bare instant of a hyperjump. "Yes," he said, voice deep.

Alcy shook their crest, dazed. "What?"

"I will it so," he murmured, passing the shiny chain of an unrecognized trinket over his head. He held it in his outstretched palm.

"What is this," she queried, worry beneath her tone, "what shape does it bear, and what is its meaning?"

He looked away. "It's a heart."

"Like the organ we target for destruction?" They regretted their words, how easily they were breathed into the void.

But he only laughed. "Yes, like that, but stylized. It means loyalty, friendship, and… love." He would not meet their eyes, though they were trained on his own. "I was given this by my mother, long ago," he hurried along, "one to me and each of my, uh, my hatchmates. I was to give it to my mate, if I ever found one."

Alcyone blinked each of her four eyes in unison. The heart felt strange in her claws. "Yet you give this to us? Why? We do not understand. You will die, Thrace, before the moons have passed the cycle, and it will be the Carnyces' fault."

"That's why. I want you to have it, okay? You're the only one who should wear it. The only one who can."

They clicked in sorrow, but bore the burden and honor upon their neck, gladly. "You found no mate?"

He hesitated. "I don't know."

Their head swayed, their claws digging aimlessly into the warm tropical soil. "We…" they paused, a grimace on their eyes, "we like it here. We like it here with you, Thrace."

"I feel the same, Alcy. I really wish it could last." He scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, it's Connor, by the way. Thrace is my call sign."

"We understand. Con-nor," they enunciated. It felt sweet on their tongue. They held it there like a secret.

He smiled widely, and they liked the way it made his small, blue eyes crinkle at the corners. They never expected such a fleshy creature to be so emotive. "Hey, I want to show you something."

They quirked their head to the side, wondering. What could such a warrior hold in esteem? He had slain many of the Carnyces, they knew. But not them-- and for this curiosity they still had no answer. He hadn't even tried; when they charged at him, royal regalia on full display, the teeth of their trophies adorning their armor, he had simply waved. The action-- then unknown, but clearly not hostile --had stopped them in their tracks.

It wasn't what they expected, his surprise. He led them to a twilit cove, the ocean rippling gently over black sand, the sun setting in brilliant hues at the horizon. Parrots and Macaws of so many colors flitted between the branches of towering palms, warbling in voices just shy of recognizable. The location was tactically sound-- all areas of ingress and egress clearly visible and easily tracked with the scope from the hideaway near its center --but more than that, it felt somehow like home, a concept once foreign to them, now gentle, frail, and so, so dear.

He stood at the edge, where sand met surf. They stood by his side. When his hand raised to their claws, they jumped. He pressed gentle circles at the point where talon met flesh, and they steadied as he continued. He moved to rub his fingers past their digits, down to their pads. They clicked gently, almost a hum. The contentment washed over them, lapping like the waves at their feet. They ruffled their wings softly in confusion, but did not stop him.

At the motion, his hand roamed upward, past the crook in their wing and up to the feathers. They could not help the sharp intake of breath when his skin brushed against the sensitive flesh at the base of their pinions. He could not know what he did, but it jarred them all the same.

"You have beautiful feathers, Alcyone," he whispered, easy for to hear, but likely not so for others of his kind.

They spread them a little, pride and embarrassment wild in their quick-beating heart. "They mark me as one to be mated," they said, cursing the words as soon as they were voiced. What purpose did they, could they serve?

"Oh," he said, and it felt like it meant so much more. He grabbed the downy feathers at the back of their head-- an extremely dominant courtship gesture unbefitting one of their stature, but they allowed it --and brought their head level to his own. Together, they leant forward-- head to head --and all the world stood still.

---

"Grand Servitor," Xenthyr nearly hisses, "we've arrived."

Alcyone wakes, shaking, from their remembrance. "Understood," they say, voice steady even as their wings sway.

"Welcome home," Xen says, probably snarking in the subs, but Alcy can't be bothered to care. Home. This place, their homeland, is not where they belong. They were born on Earth, and raised by conquest. They will never belong again, because home is back there, in a blackened cove, stolen from them so easily.

---

Alcyone seats themselves on the dais opposite Xen, curses flooding the back of their mind. They have never enjoyed speeches, and for this one they hold a special contempt.

The crowd stands in unison, chittering softly and all aflutter. The last figure enters, wings outstretched and dripping with gilt regalia, and approaches the podium. A voice far behind announces with pomp, "The Conqueror of the Earth, Soulbound of Amaranthia the Bright, Founder of the Brood of the Grand Servitor: Grand Commander Sylvanus Marius Thrace.

At that, Alcyone's subvocals go wild in rage and grief, drowned out by the crowd's cacophony.