Echoes of Forgotten Wings

Chapter 4: The Mark on His Arm

The mark surprised him.

Ivo was lying in bed one morning when he suddenly noticed strange prickling in his left arm. The slits in the wooden blinds allowed some sunrays to form a gentle glow around the room. His mind was still clouded by the terrible dreams that he experienced every night. They usually involved images of the wings beating against an otherwise black empty sky. Wandering in and out of sleep, he unconsciously scratched his arm, drowning in the remnants of his dreams. Yet, the desire to scratch continued, more persistent, and more disturbing, as if a siren was ringing inside his skin. He frowned and sat up straight, rolling down the sleeve of his shirt.

At first, he thought it was just a whisk, some illusion caused by the morning glow. However, as he adjusted to the light, he noticed the dark lines. They seemed to be drawn on skin, like ink on paper, razor cut into his skin as if they had never been missing. It wasn't an illusion.

Gnarled and disorderly in appearance, dark lines however gradually spread from the inner side of his forearm – adding branch like structures to the already existing leaf pattern. The image was that of wings brutish and polygonal that twisted and spread every which way folded within one another preparing to take flight from his skin.

The outside sounds—bird calls, the distant noise of villagers as they woke up and went about their business—became inconsequential in the loud rhythm of his galloping heart. He traced the shape with his fingers, surprised that it did not feel hot enough to sear his skin. But it was unreasonably cool and glossy, almost as if it belonged to him. The epidermis surrounding it was pristine as though the mark had been etched onto him a long time ago, and had simply been waiting for the opportunity to peak out.

The icy grip of a chill crept up his spine. There were always some odd stories across the village, such as woods, there were even legends like warnings of melodious winds, diseases that one can get simply by interacting with certain items or places, or some even went insane who took their fantasies too far. But strange signs were never a common spoke, let alone, signs in the flesh that looked like wings.

He swallowed, pulling his sleeve down hurriedly to cover up the mark. This was a secret he had to make sure was kept. No one, not even his mum and dad, not even the elders of the clan, was propelling forward this due time. There will be inquiries he would be unable to reply to, ones which he did not even wish to voice in his own head. His thoughts were clouded with Alma's tirade about the curse, about the risk that lay ahead off the beaten track.

Even when he tried to spend time with his friends throughout the day, his mind was in a haze, and he wandered around the village like a wraith, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, covering his sleeve down whenever he considered someone might turn to look at him. The mark underneath his skin ached and seethed as if it were sentient, an ever-present reminder that something had changed within him.

As dusk approached with the sun visibly lower in the sky, illuminating the village in soft golden light, Ivo's attention turned to the woods. The pouch around his neck seemed to grow heavier and compelled him towards the edge of the forest. It contained the black feather that he had so painstakingly avoided touching since the morning, lest he risk repercussions. However, this time, the tug was too much, as though the feather was beckoning to him.

He made his way out of the compound, straight ahead where the trees stood like wall to a soldier, he took a step into the woods not far from the village. Light began to fade around him, and the black mark on his arm mirrored the heartbeat throbbing in his chest. Hands trembling, he descended the pouch dangling from his neck and lifted it in the air.

The feather's black form was barely distinguishable from the dim light above. His palm exceeded the weight that the item rested against it. Pulsations came from the mark on his arm. As soon as the soft fuzz of the down feather was touched by his claws, the mark awakened.