The Same Cloth

Polaris watched with a painful feeling of longing as the silhouettes of approaching tropeognathus rushed overhead, barely visible against the approaching night as they returned with reports of what they had found, stories of what interactions and encounters they had with the islanders, and with bundles and beakfuls of things. She had not left the safety of the ship since Matriarch had retrieved her from her nest - “strained” her, as she had learned that it was called. Most things were strained from the sea around the ship, though. She had been plucked from a cliffside somewhere that she had seen only once, and then never again.

It felt like it wasjust … another thing that made her an oddity.

She walked slowly down along the angled deck from the bow of the ship towards the open cargo hold, her long and gangly juvenile limbs giving her an awkward appearance that did nothing to help her feel like she fit in with the flock. She gazed down into the metal cavern, its walkways and paths reinforced with materials pulled from the sea and islands, and watched as her flockmates swooped around in the manmade cave. She felt the same pull that every other flyer did, instinct urging her to spring into the air and take flight, but instead she pulled back from the edge and continued wandering around the ship’s deck.

It was easier for her, wandering around at night like this, and Matriarch encouraged it. The absence of the sun was more kind on her blindingly pale hide, and she could actually see properly at night without developing the incredible headaches that came with daylight. There were also fewer flock members that tended to be awake at this hour, which made her feel a little more comfortable as well. All that remained were the night owls, and that was plenty of company for her.

Though there were fewer flock members to observe at this hour of the night, she had begun to grow interested in the various tasks that her flock mates performed. Everyone was a deckhand, even those that bore other titles. She, herself, was a deckhand who had no task yet. The stewards looked after the flock, tending to the poor, and sick, and hungry. They told stories, kept the flock healthy (mentally and physically); they knew everyone, and seemed more often than not to know everything as well. It made her head spin to even consider trying to keep up with it all.

And if stewards took care of the health of the flock, it could be said that weavers took care of the health of the ship. Materials gathered were implemented into the slowly deteriorating framework of the relic of mankind that they called home. Their creativity knew no bounds, even if sometimes it was a sort of “trust the process” situation when they decided something old needed to be completely torn apart before it could be rebuilt. Polaris had decided a long time ago that she did not have the mind for doing such things.

Bulwarks… Polaris mindlessly wandered the deck, looking up at the stars. She did not have the strength of body, mind, or heart to be a bulwark. Other young tropeos looked at her with snide comments about how she squinted in the light, and she did not even have the mental fortitude to stand up for herself. She would never be a defender of the flock like bulwarks were meant to be.

She certainly had not been around the flock long enough to be a bosun, even if she was confident enough to be any sort of leader or mediator. If she was ever going to be able to contribute to the flock, that only left…

“Oh, Matriarch!” Polaris stumbled back, abruptly pulled from her thoughts when she bumped into Steelwater’s leader. “I’m sorry, I -” 

“Out for a stroll?” Matriarch asked, tilting her head and peering at the young, pale tropeo with the trident on her face. Her radiant hide almost glowed in the dark, under the light of the moon. Polaris was a star walking over the deck of the ship. The name suited her. Matriarch clacked her beak, not giving Polaris a chance to explain herself in circles. “Have you been stretching your wings as well?”

Polaris shut her jaws and shifted her weight. “I… have,” she replied quietly. Perhaps not as much as she should, but it was… difficult. There was plenty of space on the shipwreck for her to stretch and strengthen her wings, that was not the problem. She just felt awkward about it. Her wings, as well as her legs and neck, were abnormally long for a tropeo her age.

“Good,” the old female replied, her voice a dry, almost crackling laugh. “Then you will accompany me on a patrol along the shoreline.”

Polaris immediately protested, shuffling her wings uncertainly. She knew fundamentally how it was supposed to work, but unlike others of her age, she had not flown yet even once.  “I - but I haven’t, I’ve never -”

Matriarch’s eyes are warm as she nibbles the air above the top of Polaris’s head. “I know. Which is why you’re coming with me. Tonight, not tomorrow. There’s a storm blowing in tomorrow, and I doubt that you would enjoy the scuppers, swillage, and baggywrinkles for your first flight.”

Baggywrinkles, Polaris thought to herself in mild confusion. It was better to not question it, though. Matriarch… said some odd things, sometimes. Knew some odd things, like when there was going to be a storm. The whole reason the flock lived on this shipwreck was because she believed something apocalyptic would one day come to the islands, though no one was really sure about the truth of what she said.

“Come on, I’ll be right beside you. Your wings will know what to do, so don’t overthink it.” Matriarch started walking towards an open area of the deck that was clear enough for them both to take off. “Go on then,” she encouraged. “Give it a good hop and we’ll be off.”

Matriarch made it sound so simple - and made it look simple, as well, when she leapt off the deck with a grunt and a few, somewhat strained beats of her wings. Matriarch did not fly much anymore. It was hard on her joints. Polaris realised very quickly that Matriarch was doing this just for her sake.

Matriarch’s form was easy enough to follow, the patches of white catching just enough moonlight to make her stand out against the deep blue-green tones of nautical twilight. Polaris crouched, then stood again, then crouched once more as she braced to try to follow Matriarch in the air. Matriarch glided peacefully and patiently through the night sky, briefly obscuring the stars that were visible at this hour as she passed in front of them. She knew Polaris would join her, or she wouldn’t. There was no use getting in a fuss about it.

It took a few more moments before Polaris made her first - and final - leap into the air, beating her wings furiously to gain height and momentum where none but Matriarch were around to see.

“This way, now,” Matriarch summoned her as she angled her body towards the shoreline of Isla Pera. “You’ll have an easier time once you start gliding.” Polaris’s wings were perfect for soaring, made to hold her aloft over the waves where the ocean winds could keep her in the air for hours on end. She would be an incredible strainer. All she needed was a little push, a little confidence, and maybe a little more time.

It took Polaris a moment to get used to, but as Matriarch promised, flying became infinitely easier when she had a little forward momentum. Getting in the air was hard, at least from a standing position with nothing to jump off of, but staying in the air… it was so peaceful up here. Just her, the soft sound of the wind and waves, the moon hanging overhead with starlight glittering off the water, and Matriarch. She glanced towards the old female, tracking Matriarch’s movement as she glided over the water.

Matriarch had been with her for as long as she could remember. The old female did not sit with her at every waking hour, anymore, because Polaris was old enough to take care of herself and Matriarch had an entire flock of dinosaurs - tropeognathus and others - to oversee and maintain. But there were still these moments, these precious moments, that they were able to spend together. Just the two of them.

They spent some time gliding over the fortunately calm water, Matriarch occasionally calling out what sorts of things they might encounter and what other sorts of things they should be looking for. Building materials for weavers, healing items for stewards, soft things that could be used for nesting for the young, the old, and the expecting. Polaris took it all in stride, listening attentively as Matriarch raised her voice to be heard above the rush of wind and gentle crash of waves as they flew parallel to the island’s shoreline.

This… she could do this, she thought. Be a strainer. She could be by herself when she wanted, and flying was truly freeing. Though maybe she was not ready to be a strainer just yet. The flight had been good, but tiring. It was not long before Matriarch noticed a waver in Polaris's wings and angled them further into the island. They would find refuge among the trees while they rested for as long as Polaris wanted, if she did not want to go back to the ship just yet.