Sorry it's so long. It's what this family does to me.
They had come across the small trickle together in the very early hours of the morning, worthy of note only because mother had admitted that she didn't remember it. Having quickly gotten used to the idea that she was more familiar with the mountain, and everything in and on it, than he was with his own paws, the revelation had been quite the novelty. In a moment of calm and contentment, they decided to follow it together, to see where the water took them as it picked an eons-carved passage down the mountain. Bella made her second confession to her youngest that day, that she had never really stepped foot on the ground to the east of the mountain, though she had spent many, many hours watching it from above. Duck took pleasure in knowing that it would be an adventure for both of them - and only them. Leaving the other two behind, to get up to whatever cruel people got up to, mother and son chatted idly as they followed the stream, laughing at each other's stubborn attempts to stick as closely to the water's edge as possible even when it was difficult.
The water grew wider as they moved, and the instant they ducked behind a rocky ledge and the ground was laid below them clearly, they both realised that what had been an easily missed trickle would turn into the winding creek that could be faintly seen from their high home. Such a notion filled Bella with an excitement that Duck recognised but did not understand, for why was it so fun that they stumble across some random creek's feeder stream? It was just water, who cared where it came from?
The idea of walking along the creek didn't put a smile on Duck's face because of the trickle, no - he was keen to see what kind of beasties swam in the waters down here.
Together they left the mountain behind in the west, and as his mother grew quiet as she absorbed the flora, the air, the earth she had never trod upon, Duck's attentions drew towards the creek's surface, to any sign of movement beneath it. It wasn't long before he caught glimpses of rainbow scales, and growled softly at the shimmering fish swimming obliviously past. Bella chuckled at him and told him that the steelheads wouldn't make it easy on him - they were strong animals, and would put up a fight. When Duckweed laughed and boldly declared that he was stronger than any fish, he didn't see the small, proud, hopeful smile on his mother's face.
Before long, Duck decided that he had found an ideal fishing spot, a bend in the creek which gave him excellent access to the water and plenty of solid ground to brace himself and throw a flailing fish. There was even a large stone with an upright point he could use to try and smack his catch against for a quick finish! While Bella sat and watched him for a time, Duck's game was one of patience, and when neither moved for many long moments she decided to give him privacy. Absorbed in his task, the boy acknowledged this with a grunt, and when she laughed and told him she loved him he grunted again, softer.
Soon he was alone. The ripples of creek and fluid bodies reflected in his wide eyes, as he watched and waited, studying their size, their routes, the way they moved. Sometimes none came past for minutes, and other times the creek seemed to be full of them, and he marveled at his fortune and their abundance. Why could they not live down here, in these bluish trees, rather than the grey rocks of the mountain? He'd lived high up his whole life, maybe change would be good...
After much contemplation, he struck. When the fish were at their most abundant, occasionally one would fly free of the water for a brief moment, and it was one of those moments of exposure that he tried to exploit. His mother hadn't been wrong, though; despite smacking one of the airborne fish right in its face, all it did was change the beast's trajectory a little, and it fell back into the water harmlessly. Huffing at his failure, but accepting that it was all a part of the learning process, Duck huddled down and waited for another opportunity. It came much quicker than the last one, though with as little apparent success; the fish slipped back under the stream, but Duck's understanding of their reactions and weight was growing.
An hour passed in similar fashion. Patient, for a wolf like Duck had no responsibility beyond his own goals - and his single, solitary goal was to catch one of these shining-bright fish - the boy sat and smacked fish, either from the air or from the water when he thought a chance presented itself. One fish was brought slamming onto dry ground, but when he tried to pounce on it, it thrashed wildly and smacked him right in the cheek. When he recoiled in pain, it found its way back to the creek, lost among the others as though nothing had happened. Though he grumbled at the loss, Duck also knew that was the closest he had gotten with these large fish - and if he could get that close, he could go the whole way.
A tired and wet but determined paw snagged one right under its mouth, and with a jerk lifted it into the air, bringing it slamming face-down onto the splashed and muddy earth - instantly he jumped upon it, the thing almost as long as one of his legs, but he bit down into it, desperate to weaken it, not to let it escape - when it convulsed, propelling itself into the air again, he leaped at it and shoved it towards the stone he had yet to use effectively, and by some miracle (or pure skill) the sharp edge drove through the shimmering scales, and blood spattered across the ground, but its thick body twisted again and he pushed on it, using all of his body weight to drive it down, to squeeze the fight out of it - its body slapped against his chest, his face, any part of him that the flailing fish happened to reach, but he had won.
Panting, the smell of blood thick in his nose, he pulled back once the trout had given up. Lifeless it lay on his stone, like some sacrifice, and for a moment he couldn't believe he had succeeded. The thing was huge, bigger than any fish he had caught before, and the reality of his overwhelming victory hit him. "I did it," he whispered, exhausted, nudging the fish from the rock onto the ground, watching how the blood seeped from its jagged wounds, how it mixed with the water which ran from its scales, how those scales still looked so alive.
He chose not to call for his mother. This was his personal victory, and he didn't need to gloat about it - he had won, he knew it, and that was enough. Settling down, he began to lick the blood from the fish, cleaning it ready for a hard-earned breakfast.