Another blast of icy wind sent her into a rough, tumbling spiral. Even as her wings buffeted with a renewed fruitlessness, she would have been hard-pressed to say in which direction she was falling; the gales and sheets of rain made it impossible to determine her orientation. But, like the last time and the uncountable times before that, she fought to climb into the relative safety of open sky as soon as the gust let up. The storm, however, seemed to have other ideas. Those furious clouds extended up far too high, and the gusts beat her down far too incessantly, for her to rise above it all.

The bat aberrant was practically wading through the air, so thick with rain it was. Her clothes had long since been drenched through, and despite the rumbling violence of the storm, she could feel her own shivering. She believed that were it not for the painful burning in her muscles, she would’ve frozen solid and plummeted down to whatever lay below. And half of her would not have minded.

Great Mother, protect thy unworthy child…

She repeated the mantra over and over in her mind, though it was a hollow habit; she held out no hope for divine aid. A long history of misfortune waged against what she had been taught at the cirice. Instead, she longed for others of her kind, at least in name—those few who might comfort her to sleep in her dark hours, despite her oddities. But there would be no bats out tonight, except for her. They would be at home in their caves, cuddled up together, sharing food, and grooming each other.

The sudden stinging flare of lightning and deafening crash of thunder tore that line of thought from her mind, and she began to sink in the sky-sea once more. Whipped this way and that by the waves of wind, she could not distinguish falling a hundred feet from a thousand. The air ripped away her free-flowing tears, greedily stealing them to join the rain. Another strike of lightning lit up the sky, nearly blinding her with its intensity.

But in that flash, by sheer serendipity, the bat caught a glimpse of a far-off silhouette: a vague form, clearly too angular to be a natural structure. Thoughts muddled again by the corresponding thunder that rolled over her, all she could think to do was to make that shape her destination. And so, she redoubled her efforts, beating her wings angrily against the air and regaining her bearings as best she could.

Why bother?

Her jaw clenched at the familiar intrusion to her mind. She tried to shake the foreign acidic thoughts, but they only grew stronger as they sapped the already meagre vigour from her limbs. The aberrant still battled to find that enticing profile on the horizon again, even with her swiftly tiring wings and corroding psyche.

The Mother sent this storm to claim you, Chikh.

Defying that voice, the dying embers of her hope were fanned by another flash. There it was again: that structure, which was revealed to be a castle standing tall and proud upon a bluff. She was close enough that the lighting had seared some of the fortress’s details into her mind, but it soon disappeared behind the black curtains of the storm. Despite this, the anticipation of a reprieve from the cruel gales and icy rain spurred her onwards. Again, she shook her head, a grimace of determination etched into her features. She would not let that insidious, intruding mind get to her, not when she was so close to some semblance of safety. But it wouldn’t let up, seeming just as determined.

What do you expect will happen? That you will land in someone’s lap and be doted on for the rest of your days? You are a fool. Have some dignity and—

A sudden impact silenced the voice. As the howling winds picked up again, Chikh felt herself tumble across an angled surface. Her claws scrabbled and scraped against the cold slope with her struggle to keep herself from being swept up and back into the storm. She yelped in pain and fear, and it was only the realisation that the ground was slate that kept her from submitting herself to the crushing abyss around her. Even this close to the structure, the sheets of rain made it near-impossible to see anything, yet she managed to make out her immediate surroundings. She found herself on what must have been the roof of a wide tower, the slopes all converging at the top to, as was revealed by another distant bloom of lightning, a bare flagpole upon a small platform.

She felt herself impelled by the promise of, at the very least, something sturdy on which to hold. The bat kept her wings tightly tucked to herself in an effort to deny the wind any more purchase on her light form, and dug her claws between the tiles as best she could. Good upward progress was swiftly made, her wingclaws soon reaching to grasp onto the pawrail of that platform. Just as another blast threatened to tear her from the stalwart structure, she found her grip.

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But it proved to be too little, too late. Ripped harshly from her hold, Chikh was cast back into the air, but not for long. Yet again, stars filled her vision when she slammed into that flagpole. Painfully fortunate, however, her wing had hooked around the massive pole, and soon, so had her arms. Her tears were indistinguishable from the torrents of water that washed over her as she pulled her way down to its base, herself a half-mast flag in the gales.

Finally, she made it. Although Chikh’s new situation was closer to the terror she had just escaped than it was to anything ideal, she huddled gratefully against the half-wall to shield herself from that evil storm. She was too exhausted and afraid to think, too hurt and cold to move; all she could manage was to pant weakly with her vision hazy. That haze, however, seemed to dissipate instantly to frame what could be her salvation. In her desperate state, she had not considered that such an isolated platform would have some means of access. So, the hatch, only a pace from where she was so gracelessly pressed against the wall, treated her to a surge of hope.

With the rain still beating down on her, Chikh forced herself to abandon the little wall and stretched out to the stout flagpole once more. Finding a firm grip, she took a deep breath then launched towards the hatch door. To her elation, when she desperately tugged on the handle, she found it unlocked. She almost fell inside in her eagerness to be out of the storm, just barely snagging a rung of the ladder before the wind slammed the hatch door shut.

It was no brighter inside, nor all that warm, but it felt like an infinite improvement to the bat. Too tired to flutter down to the floor below, she made use of the ladder, her will rising as she descended.

How nice, Lady Luck has seen fit to prolong your torment.

Chikh ignored the jeer, focusing on the rhythm of the climb and her breathing. One, two—inhale—three, four—exhale—one, two—inhale—

You don’t belong here.

Three, four—exhale—one, two—inhale—

You don’t belong anywhere.

Yet by the time she reached the bottom, her tears had ceased; she figured that there was no point in crying over facts, and her spent emotions agreed. Though the room was just as dark as the outdoors, perhaps even more, her vision was now unhampered by rain. She saw crates bestrewn throughout the area, some draped-over with tarp. A storage room of some kind, lucky her; she should be undisturbed.

A restrictive path had been left open through the miscellaneous boxes, starting at the foot of the ladder and leading to who knew where. Yet, with nothing else to do but find a halfway decent place to sleep, Chikh tentatively trudged along, nearly tripping once or twice before she came upon an appropriately narrow staircase. The chamber below seemed to be much the same as the one above, only larger and more neatly arranged, and as she ventured further, she found that it smelled faintly of mammal. She had not been foolish enough to expect this part of the castle to be as abandoned as she was, but her hopes were soured nevertheless.

For the time being, however, she was alone.

Chikh winced when a muted crash of thunder sent a rumble through the floorboards and the sloped slate walls, causing them to rattle slightly. With a shake of her head, she kept pushing on, only a shard of her formerly great curiosity driving her onwards.

Some of the crates were stencilled with what seemed to her an utter lack of sense. According to what she, in her starved and exhausted state, could understand, the room was primarily used as book storage—a completely baffling yet impressive collection of literature. The temptation to crack one open and pull out something with which to distract herself was strong, but she did not want to be any more of a burden to this kind castle than she already was. Instead, she turned back to the stairs, deciding rather to get her rest in the farthest reaches of her stolen home, out of sight of its rightful inhabitants.

Standing once more upon the top step, she flexed her wings, eliciting a quiet groan; the exertion and cold had rendered them stiff. “Great Mother…” she whispered quietly to herself before setting off to climb over the crates, looking for an out-of-the-way nook in which to conceal herself.

And soon enough, she found something: a box whose ajar lid teased her. Chikh approached the crate, which was hidden from the path by a small wall of its brethren, and lifted the lid. Her tears nearly renewed when she saw the stack of flags and banners inside—as near a bed as she could have hoped. Despite the tribulations of only minutes prior, she couldn’t help but appreciate the fortune of having found this place. She didn’t know where she was, exactly—whose home in which she was trespassing, but she silently sent out her gratitude to them, though she hoped never to run into them.

No notice was taken of what the rags displayed beyond their potential comfort and warmth. Chikh only had a vague curiosity of whether it was a big insult to sleep upon the symbol of a proud people. She reached in and rolled up a banner into a makeshift pillow, setting her bed before climbing inside and laying a few more over herself as a blanket. A long, stuttering sigh left her lips as the fabric wicked away the water and cold still clinging to her fur.

Then, she giggled hoarsely, reminded of the monsters from her copper-dreadfuls who would sleep in caskets, much like her and her box-bed. What she would’ve given to have those familiar books here with her now; to be transported into those worlds of intrigue, where the struggles of the characters meant something… …where the good guys win… …at the end… Naïve.