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The sky is awash with light, a thousand flickers of color cascading from the stars. It ebbs and flows like a pulsing tide, a thrumming heartbeat. It’s coming from beyond the mountain. We’ve seen it time and time again these last few weeks. Always at night, always accompanied by that same deep thrum, always those deep shades of ultraviolet with streaks of indigo where the waves crackled against the clouds.
We want to know where it comes from, this massive pulse of energy that shakes the nest and makes our wings shiver in fear. It is beautiful, yes, and we will remember the way it washes the forest in ethereal light. We have decided that some of us, those deep inside the nest with soft carapace and frail wings, will start work on a great mosaic to commemorate the beauty. Those of us expanding the nest’s tunnels are watchful for any stones or gems we deem worthy of the Great Work.
Still, the thrum of energy is scaring away the deer and elk, and those of us outside will soon be forced to travel farther in search of food. This is why we have decided to go in search of the source of the colors.
Part of us wants to send many scouts, as there is safety in numbers, and we don’t know what lies in wait beyond the mountain. Another part disagrees; we will be sending scouts, of course, and there is also safety in speed. Too many of us at once, and we would lose much of that speed, as well as any stealth.
We debate with ourselves, especially the parts of us that wave between the two sides. We don’t want to lose any of us. We have gone many years without losing any of us, aside from a few from age alone. Once, when the nest was very new, we lost many of us to a harsh winter; we shiver at the memory of carapace cracking and freezing.
We are still debating. A compromise must be made, as there is no clear solution. We will send thirty of us, but only five of us will approach the source itself. The rest of us will wait in case we need help escaping.
+++
We can see the source of the colors. Many of us at the nest settle down, pausing what we are doing so that those of us scouting have our full attention.
There are structures, shining and oddly shaped, in a clearing in the forest. The doors- for that is what we assume them to be- in the structures are a strange rectangular shape, instead of elegant hexagons. And what kind of creature would build their nests out in the open like this? Where anything could stumble upon them at any moment? This was definitely the source of the light, however. We could see it streaming out from the largest cuboid structure, almost blinding to look at from this close.
The five of us that approached the clearing hover, almost silently, in the air above the forest. One of us darts out from the tree line to get a better look, keeping low and to the shadows.
There are figures, silhouettes between the gaps in the structures. The one of us sent sneaks in closer, landing on the soft grass. Those figures, are they bipedal? Not like a bird, though, at least not like any we’ve ever seen. What are they? Where did they come from?
We debate with ourselves, but we don’t know. We need more information, so the one of us already there sneaks in even closer.
The figures chitter at each other, complex sounds almost like the nest’s songs we make up for winter. The light makes it impossible to make out details, even this close. The bright ultraviolet drowns out everything else, especially now that one of us is so close.
We can almost make out the true source, the building where the light comes from, when there is a loud sound, a yell. One of the figures has seen us, somehow, despite the blinding light. Those of us waiting behind get ready to swoop in to cause a distraction, if we need. The one of us on the ground launches into the air, panic swelling through our wings. There is a terrifying crack in the air, like flying too close to lightning. We surge forward, four of us racing to meet the one of us trying to escape. We reach each other in the air and dart higher into the sky, hoping to disappear into the shadows above the treetops.
We make it, the five of us meeting up with the twenty-five of us that stayed behind, about a mile away from the clearing. Once together, the small swarm of us makes for the mountain. It took three days to reach the clearing, but we hope to return to the nest in two.
+++
One of us is dead. It was the one that went closer to the source, we think. We don’t know why, or how. We simply fell from the sky on a hunt, wings suddenly flimsy and weak. We hit the ground, cracking our carapace against a stony outcropping. The rest of us on that hunt landed around the crashed one of us, but it was too late. Our carapace, the broken one, was impossibly brittle. It shattered into pale green pieces as we watched.
We left it there, worried that whatever killed that one of us would spread to kill the rest of us. It’s still there, bleaching dead-white under the sun. It isn’t us anymore.
One of us is dead, and we don’t know why.
+++
The lights still pulse every night, hiding the stars. We watch it from many angles and try to get the hue just right for the mosaic. It almost seems to be getting brighter, the colors reaching farther into the night. We worry we won’t be able to find the right materials for the mosaic, it seems like nothing could be that vivid, but we try.
We worry about the one of us we lost. It’s been a very long time since we lost one of us, and never like that before. We avoid that ground, and we try to avoid that topic.
+++
More of us are dying. We noticed it in the night when most of us were sheltering from the rain. Some of us seemed to be losing our color. Then one of us fell off a ledge and cracked our carapace. Impossibly brittle. First the remaining four that went closer to the source, then the twenty-five that waited behind. We hope those of us with pale carapace and weak wings will survive if we don’t leave the nest.
+++
The light is even brighter. We can see it during the day, now. We despair of ever finding the correct stones to complete its likeness, so now we are thinking about using flower dyes. Maybe then we can capture those swirls and spirals of color, or the way they shimmer across the evening clouds. There are flowers with some of those ultraviolet colors, some of us saw them on a hunt. Maybe we can use those? It won’t be the same, we don’t think. It won’t hold the same power, the same thrum and pulse of energy.
It’s still scaring the animals, but we don’t know where the herds are fleeing to. It’s like they’re disappearing, vanishing wraith-like into the forest. We try to watch, sending out scouts, but it is a long flight down the mountain.
We avoid the source, with its strange structures and unnatural figures. We lost the thirty of us that investigated it. We tried not to, tried to eat more bones to rebuild our carapace, but we couldn’t stop it. We got weak and brittle and wasted away. We avoid the source, and its strange figures.
+++
Winter is coming, the frost creeping into the nest and the snowline seeping lower and lower every day. Our eggs have all hatched for this year, the youngest of us still flightless and soft. We wander about, bumping into the edges of the central chamber as we try to figure out how these new bodies work.
Outside, the deer are almost gone. Not because they have moved down the mountain to escape the cold, no. They left long before that, along with all the elk and moose and birds. We don’t know where they went, and we worry we won’t have enough food to last the winter.
Moreover, we worry there won’t be enough of us to worry about the food. Three of us, chasing a straggling moose, ranged too close to the source, we think. Almost a day away from the nest, further from the source than the first thirty, but we can already feel our carapaces weakening.
+++
We have lost more of us.
The snow has forced us deeper into our nest, taking shelter in the warmth of its heart. We sing our winter songs, and work on our mosaic. Part of us wonders why we continue to work on it, this beautiful creation, with our suspicions. We have lost fifteen more of us, each time closer to the nest, each time feeling our carapace turn brittle and crack under its own pressure. It didn’t happen before the lights came, before some of us went to investigate.
We keep working on the mosaic. It feels wrong to leave it unfinished. Besides, with all of us confined to the nest, we can’t lose any more from going too close to the source. Maybe, come spring, it will be gone.
+++
It is not. It is stronger than before. It burns in the sky. We can feel its heat now. It is blinding. We cower and hide, trying to keep to the cover of the trees, but we are weak from a harsh winter and weeks of fasting. The animals have not returned.
Half of us are turning pale and brittle.
+++
We want to leave. There are fifty left of us. We have lost so many. Our memories are fading without minds to hold them. It is getting hard to think. Hard to plan. We want to leave. We don’t know how. We want the light to stop. We don’t know how.
Two of us, already turning brittle. No point now. Too late for those two of us. We fly deeper into the source. Maybe there will be answers. Maybe we can stop it. The light burns.
The two of us are frail and weak when we see the source. It is blinding, it is burning. We land, carapace cracking at the joints. It is day now. There are more figures. One of them sees us. Points. Yells to the others. They scatter like startled rabbits.
We crawl closer to the source. Maybe we can break it, stop it. It is so bright. We can hear the yelps and calls from the figures, even over the thrum of energy that pulses through the ground.
One of us collapses, our own weight too much for our carapace to hold. The second one of us falls over and can’t get back up. We scrabble uselessly at the ground. Then we give up. We can hear the sounds of the figures gathering around. We can’t see anything beyond the burning light.
The forty-eight of us remaining gather closer in the heart of our nest. Behind us, almost buried in the depths of now-empty tunnels, the mosaic sits. Forgotten. There aren’t enough of us left for songs, now. Not that we want to sing.
+++
There are thirty of us. We are starving. All the animals have left. Some of us are above ground to hunt for the rest of us. We can’t find any deer. But we do find a figure, alone in the forest. Far from the source. We are starving.
+++
There are five of us. We decide to leave. We know we won’t survive long, above ground. We know little else. We know we can’t stay.
We leave. It is still spring. The snow has melted. We see the figures. Thirty, we think. We are afraid. We can’t think clearly. There are too few of us. We turn and try to escape. There are shouts, sounds behind us. Scabbling on rocks. Climbing back down into the nest. Into safety. Into a dead-end.
Three of us escape. Two of us are lost, carapace still hard and wings still strong. A burst of sound. A crack like lightning. Many cracks. Holes in our perfect, emerald-green carapace.
Three of us escape. Two of us are lost. Thousands of us are lost. We were many. We are three.
+++
Two of us, now. We had a plan. Not now. Too few. We hide in the nest. It is safe here, we think. The figures hunt us now. Found the tunnels. There are many figures. There are two of us. We hide in the nest.
There are figures in the nest. We are in the nest. They see us. They yell. We fly. A wall. Nowhere left to go. We are cornered. A crack like lightning and-
I am alone. I am afraid. I am one. I am afraid. I am trapped. I hurt.
I fight. I bite. I-
There are two of us again. This new one is different. This new us won’t crack our carapace in the light. We want more.
We want to be us again.