The Fisher of Souls: Smoked Salmon
A story in which a morally objectable otter dreams about what made him the way he is.
The forest was quiet, so quiet you could hear the burbling of a brook as water rushed over rocks. It was picturesque in its appearance and aura. It was every fisherman's dream to fish around a place like this, but it wasn't to be. It was the King's hunting grounds, his to do with as he saw fit, to ignore and ravage as he wished. Not many people agreed with it, but the King was the King, and anyone bold enough to hunt his grounds kept their mouth shut. Sylas was one such otter; in fact, he might have been the only being to dare encroach on the King's hunting grounds.
He thought himself clever for knowing that the King's guards only patrolled the area once in a season, twice if the King decided to grace the woodlands with his royal presence. Sylas also knew that the King's hunting grounds was the only place to find something no one else had ever dined upon before. Supposedly there was a fish in the lake that had eyes of gold, scales that shimmered a rainbow of colors and tasted of the wyld itself. The King wouldn't have missed it, he hadn't been to the lake in years, he had no right to such an empyrean catch as far as Sylas saw it. So he did what he did what any self-respecting otter did; he got to work. For three seasons he spent every night hunting the mythical fish. He had no children like his sister did, he had no wife like his brother did, he had no heroic legacy like his father did. All he had was this fish that was blessed by the wylds itself and it would be his if it was the last thing he ever did.
Tonight had been the night, it had to have been. He'd set the traps at the anabranches of the river and spent half the night flushing out and collapsing hidden pockets at the edge of the lake where catfish and other aquatic creatures hid. He even went so far as to bait the reeds with the guts of a carp he'd eaten earlier in the night. It had to work, it had to for his sake. He wasn't getting any younger and winter's icy breath was practically breathing down his neck. First snow would come within a few weeks and a whole year's worth of work would have been down the drain. Hell, he hadn't even caught a glimpse of the fish since the heron that used to roost in the willow tree tried to claim that glorious fish for itself. The sun started to rise in the east, barely bleeding in between the thicket of amber-leafed trees. Sylas reluctantly pulled himself ashore with an audible sigh. There was next year, well hopefully there'd be one.
The otter bowed his head in shame before pulling his wet gear from his body. He muttered curses, aimed at himself, the wylds, the King, and even that damned fish as he packed up his kit. It was only when he heard the rustling of the reeds did he dare to glance back at the lake's shore. Something glistened and shone in the weir trap he had neglected to knock down. He squinted, almost blinded by the reflection of what he saw. The damned fish, it finally revealed itself when it was sure it had bested the hunter. Whether it was hubris, a gift from the wylds or pure dumb luck was to be seen but it mattered not. Sylas's limbs wound taut as he sprung into action. The fish thrashed and floundered as it wrestled against its enemy, slapping fruitlessly as a boning knife pierced its innards. The thrashing grew weaker and weaker as the formerly crystal-clear water became tainted with the crimson lifeblood that fueled the fish. It was over, it was finally over.
Sylas silently hoisted the fish from the water, thrusting it into the air to show it to the nonexistent audience that watched him. Catharsis and viscera washed over the otter's body, mirroring the old paintings of his father standing over the corpses of rats that had dared to siege his town. The scales of the fish felt tender and almost plush between his webbed digits. He drank in its scent, huffing that victorious smell like it was burning wyld weed and he was dying. It smelt of heroics. It smelt of... Fire? Sylas snapped out of his catharsis and gazed upon sputtering flames that had not been there before. Before he even really had time to make sense of it all the flames jumped from patch to patch, fueling itself with shrubs and trees. In the short moment it took for him to realize what was happening the fish itself was on fire; no, it was made of fire. The crackling cries of burning wood grew louder by the moment, only to be drowned out by a sudden roar, one that sent a hurricane of air whirling around him. Sylas struggled to keep hold of his trophy that scorched his flesh so. He wanted to drop it, but he'd come so far, he couldn't, not now. A second gust of wind hit the otter in his gut, knocking him down as something else joined the cacophonous noises... Screams. The trees that once surrounded him were replaced with wooden slats and support beams, the bush became his kin, his siblings, their children. They shrieked in agony as flames licked at them. They pounded on the crumbling walls as if it'd do anything besides bring the whole hall down on them first. This was the price he paid for his trophy. For that fleeting moment of pride, he had doomed his entire clan to an inevitable and painful end.
"Was it worth it?"