...I'm bored. Here's a revised oneshot and a part II. When I was barely old enough to walk, Mother kept me in the crook of her wings. She carried me around to make sure I didn’t sneak off since I took after my odd father. She was a soldier, large and beautiful. Even when we were wandering, my father often came to pester her. Solitary as we are, the most we generally meet is one month every three years. Only parents with young are the normal exception. During that gathering, I watched the others. Fascinated by the new environment and the sounds made, I could hardly close my eyes. Families danced and rang, glad to be back together. Bells attached to wings and horns bounced merrily in the sun. New adults chased each other to find a partner, children that could run played on the ground, while the ones who could fly dashed between or above the trees. Signing slowly, she gestured to a few adults. Their movements flowing from their hands to their tails mesmerized me, though I didn’t understand them. They would point to an older child who was alone. He was missing a horn and was tightly wrapped in his wings. From that day on, I couldn’t help but look for him. The next cycle, I found myself in front of him. The confusion and rejection in his eyes were easily ignored by a child like myself. My knees had grown strong enough to run, so I dragged him off to play. Though he was older, he was a scholar child. I easily carried him off. He plopped himself down and scrunched all of his eyes in anger. Not wanting to be left out, I followed suit. His eyes blinked, his left brow rose as the right and middle narrowed. Since I had found a game to play, I did the same. His center eye closed as he narrowed the lower pair in a glare, apparently realizing my new game. I annoyed him as only a child could, mirroring his moves. Every time we gathered, a similar situation would occur, he’d refuse to play, then I’d find a way to play on my own without leaving his side. Gradually, he stopped getting angry and I stopped trying to force him. We learned to get along. It was just little things, I’d slept next to him and he’d still be there in the morning or patting my hand when I did a cool trick. He always had a grumpy look, but I’d see him soften when he though I couldn’t see him. He was always there before my mother and I. Following his around, I realized he was very familiar with the glade for someone who should only be there one month of three years. He knew exactly where to escape. Eventually I followed him back to the elders’ quarters in in the roots of the Tree. A small little alcove with shiny and fun objects and a bed that fit him perfectly revealed the truth. He never left. My friend was an orphan in the care of the elders, meaning he had no father or relatives who would take him. On a small branch, I saw the personal bands of three, one adult and two children. Of course, that meant I knew where to find him now no matter how he tried to run. His horn completed its first curl two cycles before mine, showing he was older than I originally thought. He was a new adult and should've looked for a partner. As a scholar, he was small and clever while I was tall even among the soldiers. He got this look that was both affronted and resigned when I compared our heights. When I became an adult, he still didn't have a partner. Walking to him, his eyes fixed on my horns with confusion. Blinking slowly, he felt his own horns as if verifying something, then glanced at the others. Either he couldn't believe I was already that old, or he hadn't noticed I was female. The curl of the horns is the easiest way to judge gender after all. For once, I couldn't see what hid behind his eyes. Expressionless, not even his body language conveyed what he was feeling. Then, he just turned and left. I felt a little wilted. His clear rejection hurt more than I would admit. Had I misread him? Was I not the one he was waiting for? He had no family. He had removed his inheritance bands from his remaining horn showing either their deaths or a cutting of ties while the other horn for his descendants and partner bands had broken off. Did he feel that he couldn’t have a family with his missing horn? I envy humans, able to ask. To put the grief into words, to cry, to scream, to be able to say, ‘it’s not your fault’ and know he could hear it. All he had to do was close his eyes, and I would never be able to reach him. We can gesture to communicate ideas, but we have no language of our own and no vocal cords to even call for help. And yet, we are a patient people. Born of the trees. He has over 200 years to learn trust, 200 years to learn he could not escape me so easily. I take after an odd father after all. Ours is a solitary existence. Preferring the quiet, we keep to ourselves and wander the world. Swimming, flying, running, we can reach even the depth of the ocean or the edges of lava. There is nowhere in this world we dare not venture, no creature we dare not fight, and no sight unseen by one or more of our kind. Yet... No matter how far, or beautiful, or peaceful a place may be, we only have one home. We never fail to return so long as we live for our final rest. One month of three years, we gather. If we miss one, we attend the next. When we are old and can no longer guarantee we would be able to return on our own, we stay until we die. We do everything possible to make sure we are buried beneath our home. So why? Why are there fewer of us each year? Why do our numbers dwindle before my eyes? Why are the gathers becoming a time for morning instead of reunions? Why are we being hunted? In order to catch my partner, I stopped wandering and stayed home with him. Thanks to that, I knew that the lost had not returned to be buried. They were killed and their bodies collected by another race. Though we cannot make sound, our bodies release a special smell that we can use to find our dead. No race could ever hope to keep one of us captive. No race besides the humans would even try. The sounds of bells that once rang of merriment were gone. Only silent worry as family counted up the absences and asked, pointing to the personal bands of missing loved ones that adorned their horns, to try and find who was still missing. My partner, whether he wanted to be or not, stood next to me and cradled the stump of his horn. Deep in his eyes, I was reminded of the time my mother took me deep within the sea where lava flowed and boiled the water. So cold, and yet they would boil you alive if you got too close. I knelt to the ground and drew the outline of a human, the most likely candidates. He slammed his tail on the drawing, confirming my guess. Giving the approximation of a human sigh, I patted his head. When he tried to knock my hand off as he was still moping, we broke into a small scuffle. My mother approached with my father in tow, as always. I pulled on my partner’s horn and pointed at my father, trying to tell him to learn. As he was currently pinned beneath me, his respond was limited, but he managed to tilt his head completely in the grass showing his refusal. My parents lightly shook their wings, laughing at us both. They patted my head, then his, and moved on to greet my other siblings. I was left to my thoughts as I ignored his efforts to wiggle out from under me. We did not have a society as the other races, we rule ourselves and are subject to no laws. No one would rise to change the situation... no one would notice other than the elders if the bodies were not brought home and the elders were not always…sound. I was strong, large, and abnormally friendly. I met many individuals among the other races from when I would run away from my mother to make friends. Many were kind, even among the humans, but they were the only ones Mother had to hurt or kill in order to protect me. I envy and like the humans, but it seems that we need to teach them a lesson. A lesson of why we keep a history etched in a tree, and why most humans still do not dare enter our forest uninvited to this day. Standing up, I strode to the largest, and oldest of the exposed roots of our Tree. Picking up a large bell, I rang and brought attention to myself. With my wing, I pointed to the time that depicted a human carrying off one of our own, trying to show them what was happening now. Looking out, I saw gazes change, but most seemed to already know. We were angry. I pointed to the burial place and made a shaking motion. The grass was undisturbed, as many had already noticed. I looked over at my partner, and before their eyes he held his horn and nodded. They all turned back to me. So, I pointed to the next engraving, smaller and stained black with old, old blood. Small as it was, it was not a part of our history we liked to remember. Humans were scattered in pieces across a field or strewn on lines between trees. Of our ancestors, only three were shown clearly, towering over the carnage with legs straight. Their eyes formed perfect triangles on their otherwise featureless faces that radiate hatred to this day. Ours is a solitary existence, and they have regret that they drove us to forget it.