A city of birds

1- The stranger

Golden feathers ruffled as the wind gently caressed their soft tips. They shone a vibrant platinum when caught by the sun, not far from glowing as rays illuminated their strands. These wings were beautiful, unimaginably so. Where they met their owner's back, downy blonde plumage insulated their joints while longer flight feathers poked out from further down the large wings, finally ending in a black then a white stripe on the outermost flight feathers, adding a final touch to their look. Outstretched, these wings dove and fluttered, playfully flinging a small figure around, a forked tail made of the same beautiful feathers working as a rudder to guide their direction. The small boy that the wings found themselves attached to dove down, down, down... He pulled up, mere inches from the forest floor. Still going quite a speed, the winged boy positioned himself just so his wings caught the wind, slowing himself down considerably. His small body hadn't much force behind it as he finally slowed to a stop, flopping down on the grassy clearing he had dove towards. Taking a moment to calm his heaving chest, the boy stared towards the glassy blue sky. He felt at home, diving within its azure expanse. Never had he felt like he belonged on the ground, no, that part of the world was only for trees and land creatures, such as deer or hedgehogs. It wasn't meant for anyone like him. But then again, there was nobody like him. He had never seen another creature that even somewhat resembled him, the closest thing he had fount to himself were the birds.

For the longest time, he had lived with the birds, despite being much larger and seemingly more mammalian than his fully feathered companions. The birds had taught him their language, they had taught him how to live, survive and eventually fly. Flight was the thing that the boy held closest to his heart, for it was something only he and the birds could do, and for that, he cherished the gift of flight, which was what he had been practicing only moments prior. The boy brought his small hand up to his forehead, gently wiping away the sweat. Flying was good and all, though it took a lot out of him. Various birds had told him that he looked too heavy to fly before he amazed them with his skills, they mentioned something about the density of his young bones. The kid flopped his hand back down on the soft grass and let out a huff through puffed up cheeks. Through the canopy overhanging the small glade, the little blonde could see the sun. It would be his 10th solstice soon (5th year for the humans reading this), he registered. A long time ago, the birds had taught him to read nature, to gauge when it was from the position of the sun and its various angles. They had taught him to work in solstices, which he had later found out happened twice every rotation of seasons. The birds had told him his age, 9 solstices and approximately four moons old, he had managed to outlive many a bird that passed, eventually finding himself counting his own days, his own solstices and moons and the birds moved on. He always disliked when they migrated. It left him feeling alone, more alone than when he was without them but knew they were nearby. Despite the loneliness, it forced the boy to be independent. Oh, and that's why he was out here, the boy remembered, picking himself up and dusting off the loose clothing he had found back in his mountainous home. The blonde spun himself around. He had to find his lunch.

Waddling over to a bush, oversized wings in tow, the boy examined it closely for berries. The leaves of this particular bush were reminiscent of one that the birds had taught him about many a moon ago, the bilberry bush. He scoured the bush, gently lifting the branches as to not hurt the poor shrub. All life was of value in the forest, the last thing this young boy would've wanted to do was hurt any part of it. The birds had told him that the bushes and trees didn't mind their fruit being picked, which is how the boy had sustained himself. With the tips of his fingers, he gently picked a bilberry from the bush, throwing it upwards and catching it in his wide open mouth. He smirked. The birds would've been proud of him for catching it so well, his beak-claw coordination hadn't been the beast. Well, the birds called it beak-claw coordination but the boy knew he wasn't the same as those who had taught him such words, yet it was easier to just go with what he knew than try to be creative. His spider-like appendages didn't hold much similarity to the talons of his friend's. The boy picked multiple other juicy bilberries, this bush had been the perfect one to pick from. He gently placed the berries in his shirt, lifting up the base to form a sort of hammock shape that the berries nestled themselves in. With one hand, the boy held the bundle of berries, with the other, he snacked on the occasional fruit, flicking it directly in to his open gob.