Metal Birds

Chapter 5: Flying

From London to somewhere near Liverpool, England, August 1934

Arthur hadn't realized how much he had missed flying.

Not just gliding place to place and hovering, but actual flying. Going forward at great speeds to who knew where. He felt a smile come to his face as the chilly air began to run its icy fingers through ragged his hair, doing his best to ignore the small sinking of his stomach that came with leaving. He looked down on the city in the dark light, seeing the moon cast its light with open spread arms across the rooftops of the early autumn city.

He resisted the urge to roll over in the open skies, aware that if he did then everything he had packed would most likely fall out. He gripped onto his coat, pushing the small bible and book into the pockets by his chest, before looking down at the city.

It had changed. Somewhat. New buildings, new architecture rose here and there, and the streets were far busier than he had anticipated. He had expected nothingness, perhaps a straggler or two, or someone lighting lamp posts; but instead larger streets were lit and filled with a now slowing movement of people and momentary celebration. For what, he knew not, and he assumed it was merely the people taking the chance to enjoy themselves. Some final automobiles rumbled around corners to stall and stop at curbs, before the occupants came out and dragged themselves into their homes after a long day of work.

The palace and other things were mostly the same. The clock tower as well, and some other castles that still rose mere stories above the smaller, cramped living spaces like ancient behemoths. He wondered to himself if he would end up in the palace again. He also wondered if the current king would believe him of his self acclaimed duties.
He was aware that his government had changed some, now including a parliament. He found it strange how the royal family was fading into a mere concept of history and values in the eyes of the standard people. They still did things though, and he was most definitely aware.

He directed his gaze upward, aware that there was a light sprinkling of moisture along his back and wings. He might have to go higher to avoid it. He sighed inwardly to himself, slowing down slightly in order to keep the wind from raking it's pinprick claws across his features. He hated flying while cold, it did no good, and it always ended up slowing him down anyway.

He, instead, went lower. By now he had reached the outskirts of the city, and had locked his eyes on a road that led where he needed to go. Ireland. He inwardly hoped that his brothers wouldn't be sore with him. He hadn't seen them, attempted to talk to them, or even sent a letter in almost a century. He hadn't received any letters either, which probably wasn't a good sign, but he at least had to try to get his brothers to come. They were important; just as everyone else was in every meeting.

The meetings were usually held in Egypt. Occasionally they did it in Greece, once in Russia, once in Italy and once all the way over in Australia; but everyone had come to the conclusion that Australia was too far away, Russia was too cold, and Italy wasn't private enough. Greece hadn't liked their meeting there, so they all decided that Egypt was best.
Egypt -the representation- hadn't minded. Then again, there wasn't much he could do about it, but he seemed to enjoy getting to hold large gatherings in his home.
"It was like my mother. She always had big gatherings. Now it is my turn."

The meetings did not take place in Cairo. They took place on the far Eastern shores of the Nile River, where Imhotep -Egypt- lived alone. Kafr Saad was the name of the city he lived by, and it was rather quiet. It was small, and given some information in letters he had received far earlier, about less urgent meetings, the city was only just now starting to grow.

He blinked, suddenly aware that it was only getting colder. He was going too fast. As Arthur slowed again, he let out a sigh, beating his wings at a more gradual pace. After what felt like hours of small farm houses and fields passing below him, he began to pick up a whiff of salt in the air. He was close to the ocean.
With that, he became aware that he was tired. There was no way he was going to try the cross winds between Ireland and the main isle. He hadn't flown this steadily for so long in ages; and he was aware that his back and wings were sore. He was getting old.

With that thought he inwardly laughed to himself, knowing that Francis would definitely rebuke that.

He let out a breath, before finally turning, stiffening one of his wings whilst the others mobility allowed him a large sweeping view of the ground below. He caught sight of a barn, and instantly made his way to it. He could see the top window was open. The large one that people brought hay in and out of. He hadn't seen one of those in ages. Those had been new when he had gone to the cathedral.

He barely managed his way inside the entrance, before he pulled the brown mossy wood door over the entrance. Arthur let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his arms in an attempt to warm up. He glanced around. He was in a loft, which was stuffed from edge to edge with loose hay. A few chickens meandered about, and he could make out a cat slinking about in the rafters from the corner of his eye.

He smiled a bit, realizing he hadn't seen live chickens, much less a cat, in almost a century as well. He sighed, allowing himself to yawn before he retreated into one of the far corners of the barn. He could hear the light tapping of the drizzle turn into a thrumming, pounding of hard rain. It was a good thing he had sought shelter, or his wings would have been weighed down considerably.

He flopped into some hay, too tired to even get off his coat and throw it over himself before he fell asleep.
He didn't even turn on the radio.