Only One

Your mother hates you the moment you are born.

Her eyes, framed with cold, are soulless, unforgiving. As soon you and your siblings break free of the Warmth, your mother stares with so much intensity. That stare isn't filled with happiness, joy, or even relief. That stare is calculating, sizing each of you up.

You stand at attention and do your best to ignore the Cold.

Your mother asks who will bring the best honor to her namesake. Voices, slathered with bitter-sweet, finesse, and envy, answer her. Fear grips your mind and will not let go. No. Not fear, you reason.

Apprehension.

…

You are not the weakling. You learn to shove aside both your siblings and your feelings, leaving behind the one path: being the special special. Your mother lectures on how special your species is. Above the warm, breathing birds. Above the ones that have emotions. She says that the ones that are cushioned are the ones that are weak.

No matter what, you do not want to be weak.

…

Reason, not emotion. You learn to be stoic.

…

At last the first hurdle is broken. The weakest one is far too weak and even begs for Warmth. You watch in satisfaction as he is picked from the neck by your mother and tossed cleanly out of the nest.

His cries don't tug your heart nor sway your emotions. As the cries grow faint far below, you watch the lingering competition. Nine. Nine more that you will have to conquer.

…

Feeding time. You are the strongest, so you push your starving brothers and sisters aside for the fattest wurmple. They beg for just one bite to fill their empty-for-a-month stomachs.

You smile and shake your head no.

…

Six more go. Their cries echo in terror. One of the six was already in Nowhere before your mother could throw him out. Frozen, the steel feet and wings laced with ice. You only calculate. Three.

…

You spend your time calculating, and you become obsessed with the Numerals. How many layers of steel will one have to un-shell before the heart is reached? You wonder if your special species even have hearts.

…

The only enemies are: the One and the Cold. The cold hadn't bothered you before the day when you were born. It returns, a mere prick to your claws. Like any other emotion, you ignore it.

…

Finally. You smile in triumph as the Cold seeps away and your sister starves. Your mother acknowledges you with the smallest of nods.

…

The seasons change. You leave your nest, showered with glory and your mother's best wishes. You meet others that have calculated right. Then you calculate which would be the best mate. Strength. Agility. Intelligence. One has it all.

…

Nine hundred have been born to your name. Only five made the cut. In a cool manner, you congratulate them, as only the special of the specials, the fit of the fittest can survive.

…

Even skarmories die. Your vision doesn't peacefully ebb away. Your vision is attacked in mid-flight one day, and the Cold takes over.

You don't mind. Everything has its place. It is time go to a new one.

You ride the wave to the earth alone.