*************
High above Lake Rythimia, in the most eastern room of the moonstone palace, Schaolr’en blinked slowly and continued his observation of the strange creature that perched on the window ledge. He had noticed it a while ago, catching its unfamiliar movements out of the corner of his eye and shifting his gaze so he could focus clearly on it. That had been several hours ago. Or was it days? He had long since ceased to keep track of time. It had arrived with a sunrise, though. That much he remembered.
He shut his eyes and tried to ignore the pain in his neck as he turned his head so he could look straight at the curious creature. He sighed as he finished moving and once again allowed himself to relax back against the smooth stone behind him. Then, opening his eyes, he resumed his watching, vaguely pleased to note that the calming chord he’d used to keep it from leaving had not yet worn off.
It was a bird. Its form was strange, and it possessed only two of the customary six legs, but the feathers, beak, and beady eyes were unmistakable. He sent a low level tuning sequence through it and listened to the comforting resonances that thrummed back to him from its soul. Yes, it was a bird. The harmonies were altered, simpler, but the basic melody of its spirit was the same. It was most definitely a bird.
Schaolr’en shut his eyes again, wearied by the unexpected exertion of movement. Something was bothering him. Something… about the bird. It was nagging at the back of his mind, simple and obvious, yet he couldn’t grasp it… He opened his eyes again. It was still there. There. Something about its presence. It was there. The fact that it was there meant something. Something important…
It was no use. He couldn’t remember. With a vague sense of detached disappointment he felt himself start to slip back into the hazy fog that dominated his existence. He watched with blank eyes as the play of sunlight on yellow feathers reflected a small patch of golden light onto the wall by his face.
The fog stopped. Something was bothering him again.
It was a different something. Schaolr’en blinked in puzzlement as the small bird ruffled its feathers and started preening. Vague, poorly focused images of forgotten memories swirled past his mind’s eye. Images of other feathers, larger feathers, and fingers running through them, accompanied by smiling faces and laughter.
He frowned and they were gone. They left behind an aching emptiness that he couldn’t identify, and the something that was bothering him was back, and it was much stronger than before. He focused on the preening bird again and wondered whether it would feel the same as a normal bird.
That was it! His eyes widened as the dizzying realization of what he was feeling hit. He wanted. He wanted to touch the bird. He wanted to run his fingers through its feathers. How long had it been since he last wanted to do something? How many centuries and millennia had passed since he felt a real desire to do anything at all?
He had to touch it!
Suddenly frantic, Schaolr’en pulled himself to his feet and staggered into the support of the nearest pillar, gasping for breath as his faded body protested the sudden movement. Muscles, atrophied from centuries of disuse, screamed with pain and almost sent him lurching back to the floor. He bit back a cry as he braced himself against the column. How long had he been sitting there?
It didn’t matter. As long as the strange bird was still there, it didn’t matter.
Slowly, painfully aware of the effort every movement cost him, he looked at the bird again. It was watching him, and it still showed no signs of leaving. That was good, because he wasn’t sure he could walk, and the window ledge it was perching on was all the way on the opposite side of the room.
…This shouldn’t be a problem. Not for him.
Schaolr’en almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. The solution was simple. Why hadn’t he thought of it before he stood up? Certainly it would have saved him quite a bit of pain.
He closed his eyes and sang, sighing in relief as the restorative chords resonated through his physical body, returning strength and health to his limbs. Then, suspecting his appearance had suffered a similar degradation, he changed keys and gave voice to a different set of harmonies. A set designed to clean and replenish his clothes and hair.
Then, turning back to the window ledge where the bird was watching him curiously, he carefully released the column and crossed the room with easy, graceful, and, most importantly, pain-free strides.
He stood over it for a moment, watching the way it tilted its head and flicked its wings as it looked up at him. It was a bold fellow. And so small. Any of the other birds in his gardens would have dwarfed it easily. He coaxed it onto his hand and lifted it to his chest, blocking out the noise of their surroundings so that he could listen to the music of its lifeforce. So fragile. Even its song was small. Faint as a star’s voice and an eternity more delicate. The slightest dissonance would tear it apart in an instant.
Schaolr’en shuddered at the thought of how easy it would be to disrupt its melody. A simple, careless mistake, or a stray note slipping unnoticed past a protective barrier could be disastrous. He reached up with his free hand and stroked it feathers. Something so fragile and removed from the melodies of his home shouldn’t be in his garden. It could be dangerous for it.
He froze with his fingers on its back. Something about that thought had roused the nagging sensation that he was missing something. The same something that had bothered him before. It was here. It was in his garden. Its presence was important. The fact that it was present in his garden was important.
He shook his head, trying to clear the lethargic haze from his mind. Why was it so hard for him to think clearly? Had it really been so long since he had needed to pay more than a passing thought to his surroundings?
His fingers resumed their gentle movement as he eased himself onto the window ledge, frowning in determination. He was Ri’eslah! Renowned for his brilliance and quick thinking, and none save the Choir Master could match his skill in unraveling and weaving the subtleties of the universe’s harmonies! He would not be defeated by something so simple as a faded memory.
He ran his fingers over the feathers of its tiny breast. They were soft. Hypnotically soft, and delicate. And they were almost as fine as the inky strands of down that grew intermingled with his own hair. So different from the coarser feathers of the other birds in his garden.
He froze again, eliciting a disappointed chirp.
The bird was different, even from the other birds. Its melody was incompatible with almost every resonance structure in his garden. It was dangerous for it to be here. It shouldn’t be here. It was different. The presence of something different shouldn’t be in his garden. Nothing different was ever in his garden. Nothing different could be in his garden. The strange bird nestled against his chest COULD NOT BE in his garden.
But it was. And in that simple contradiction was the key to his dilemma.
He stared down at the paradox cradled in his suddenly trembling hands. It was not from his garden! It was from somewhere else! It was from somewhere outside his garden! It was impossible! Unless…!
Schaolr’en ruthlessly derailed that line of thinking. He couldn’t breath. Allowing such thoughts to flourish would only drive him into despair when the inevitable reality was once more thrust upon him. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t! He would not let himself think such things!
But it was too late. The impossible bird was in his hands and the impossible thought was in his head. Already he could feel his heart leaping and plummeting by turns as his mind churned with the mere idea of the thought. Where moments ago he had not been able to think at all, now he could not stop. The haze was lifting from him, and suddenly he was inexplicably afraid.
He forced himself to take a long, shuddering breath and set the bird back on the window ledge. He was afraid he might harm it, and the trembling of his hands was starting to frighten it. He didn’t want it to be frightened of h
im.
Sliding off the window ledge, he crumpled to the floor and buried his face in his shaking hands. He would not look. There was no point in looking. There was no bird and there would be no change in his existence. He was just torturing himself. How many times in the past had he foolishly rushed from his home with hope in his heart only to be proven wrong? He would not look! This time was no different!
But it was different. This time there was a bird.
And he was going to look. He always looked. He would look with hope and despair riding on his shoulders, and if the latter was once again to tear him apart, then so be it. For all that he fought it, for all that he feared it, and for all that he raged against it, there was one thing that he knew to be true with the entirety of his heart and soul.
The day he did not look was the day Schaolr’en would truly be dead.
And Schaolr’en did not want to die just yet.
He pulled himself to his feet once more and slowly made his way out of the room and towards the stairway that spilled from the hallway onto the nearest of the paths.
Images of smiling faces and the echoes of laughter and song once more flickered through his mind, bolstering his fading courage. They wouldn’t want him to give up. They had promised to wait for him. One day they would be standing there on his doorstep, ready to welcome him back with open arms. He would not break before that happened. He would see them again. He must see them again.
He stopped at the top of the stairs and stared blankly out over the familiar landscape. It looked the same, as did the golden dome of light surrounding it. His courage wavered. Shuddering, he clung to the archway as the dissonance of fear once more rolled over him.
A tiny breeze against his cheek and a glimpse of yellow feathers pressed against black hair brought him back to reality. Appearances could be deceiving. The tiny bird was certainly weaker than him, yet it possessed infinitely more courage. Who then was truly the frailer of the two?
He reached up and gently stroked its breast, drawing strength from its tiny presence and the familiar feel of feathers under his fingertips. Squaring his shoulders, Schaolr’en purposefully let go of the archway and stepped onto the staircase.
He would not die today. He would see his brethren again.