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[Of the Flight of Birds - Crimes Against Nature Part Five]
Not Plot Related
The steady flow of the little brook filled the air with a quiet babble. The banks had once been steep, but the slope had evened somewhat in recent years. Another guest had speculated that the brook must be spring-fed on account of the clean clarity of the water, but that evolving bank told a very different story. A story of Spring melts in the highlands to the north. Of the low faint sun of the Northern winter, and the annual return of longer sun-filled Spring days that seared away snow and sent lowland streams bursting their banks. An annual return of warmth that had been on hold since the calamity; replaced by the bitterness of endless winter and the dearth of hope that every Spring had once held forth.
Nearby, beneath the shade of picturesque trees rested a comfortable-looking lounge chair. It was of just the sort one would imagine in Gridania: dark wood and reed detailed with such intricacy that it would seem to have been crafted by nature itself. It was a comfortable chair—dangerously comfortable. Aya's eyes had long since closed, locking away the visible world, allowing her to embrace the world of sound. To open her mind to the delicate, pleasant sound of a forest brook. To the wind rustled leaves, drying already but still clinging to summer green with the desperation of early Autumn. And to the boisterous and energetic songs of dozens of birds that flitted about the branches.Â
A familiar song caught her attention; eyes lazily opened, casting about in the direction of the chirpy-little voice. She scanned the branches of a nearby bush, hearing again that lilting little song. A voice she knew from childhood. A song that had meant hope, and the essence of nature to a girl trapped within the stone cage of the Tower City. A hardy little breed of sparrow that liked to roost along the walls of the city in those better times long since gone by. He sang once more, a drab colored little ball of downy feathers that finally caught her sight. She watched as he turned his head about, dark little eyes scanning her and their surroundings.
How many years had it been? She thought back, remembering the smiles of yesteryear. In migration already?  She thought: he lives to the north, there food must already be growing scarce with the arrival of cool winds.
She canted her head slightly, in unconscious mimicry of the little bird. Dangling earrings jingled with the slightest movement of her head. Could he have toughed it out in Coerthas? It seemed so unlikely. Where had he been? Had he too escaped that land? Had he flown from home to find succor? To escape the endless life-and-hope-swallowing snow? A slight smile pulled upon plush, carmined lips. Â
She wondered: could he have found a new home? Gyr Abania perhaps? She smiled somewhat more broadly, the thought of this little bird having reversed her own course in life brought an excited glimmer her eyes.Â
"If I were as free as a bird..." she voicelessly mouthed. Wondering still.
He was gone. The quick little rustle of tiny wings and he was out of sight into the denser foliage just beyond the edge of the landscaped clearing that was the boarding house's garden.Â
The more terrestrial bird closed her eyes. Her wings were limited to her imagination, which briefly flew to the hillsides and open spaces of her birthplace. To the Highland forests of Gyr Abania of which she could only dream.Â
The dream could not long last, though, and soon she rose from the comfort of the forest chair. She drew a pocket mirror to check that her hair was still all in place, that her makeup was still perfect. She was worried about the show that evening, but, on her way back inside she turned back to take one long look back to where she had been lounging. To the bushes where the birds sang. To the spot the little sparrow had perched. She closed her eyes and heard his song. She closed her eyes and imagined his flight. She closed her eyes and saw her home as she'd have seen them as a bird free flying amidst the clouds. She saw both of her homes; no, there had been so many more in her own long migration: all of them. Unfolding beneath her as she soared upon the winds of memory, through the breadths of time and distance
She opened her eyes slowly. And with a soft, genuine, smile she tuned about once more. Her eyes were upon the evening that awaited her. But her mind still thought of home, of memory, and of the little bird who reminded her of it all.
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