Flight School: Hunter

Gone Away

Going against the almighty, omnipresent forces of a supposed creator—God, or whatever term it was that language had dubbed the material concept—was no easy task for the natural world, let alone the humans whose lives seemed to revolve around it; harbour it within, locked behind bars, inside.

Would there ever be a day we see lions choose deer over species of their own and together, take on the role of a creator, new? Would a snowy owl of pure blood end up with a singer of the night, outside his window and under a tree, bracing the wind?

The natural world was formidable in its beauty and thus frightening with its rules. Granted, the floating island was never one to share its workings with the land below and yet, the parallels of it all would seem, under keen eyes, evident despite the fog. Where evidence of superior physical and mental qualities in pure-bred Winged never surfaced, belief and faith filled the gaps in knowledge; as it seemed to do with the humans down below.

The mighty hand of faith was made of steel—invented by man and his desire to believe for the sake of his heart—and truth, the stone, the rock, the still and unmoving, stood no chance against something so oddly triumphant in its creation. Faith of the heart.

How the notion of love could come close to knocking down that steel tower of beliefs, built upon time, generations at its core foundation, well, such a story had yet to be written despite the attempts of a man in his youth, struggling to reconcile his feelings for another.

He wasn't ugly, per se. After all, what was beauty without the eyes of a beholder? Even with the strawberry red birthmarks over his eyes, circling the area above his lids or the pale, cracked thinness of his lips, he'd been fairly sought after.

Still, pining for the affections of a man twelve years older than he was felt, even for lions and deer, a dream waiting for an end and its owner to wake.

What a number it was. Three was the most he'd ever heard of being in an acceptable range and at it's extreme, five; and in the past, he'd heard of ten but understood that it was partly due to tradition but twelve? Twelve was a number he'd have to hide, and he was eighteen when he'd stowed it away, right inside his cage where the shy little creature lived.

The coach was a merlin falcon, respected and admired by the flightless community for the classes he'd give for their special needs, teaching them the necessary alternatives to escaping or closing any distance they so desire. The man himself was acquainted with greater heights, having resigned from his position as deputy headmaster before conducting the private classes that were so popular with both prey and predator that he'd pulled up a waiting list for those who wished to join his classes.

Yukihina Kisaku had been one of them. He'd known perfectly well back then, what it meant to be exercising a privilege he had that others had did not, and being one of the hearts meant that he was somewhat entitled to demand a spot in those private classes of the merlin's. Except that he did not.

He'd waited for the coach outside the training hall one sweltering, cicada-filled afternoon, seeking his advice on flight for secretary birds who were known for their leg power more than anything else.

"But I remember you," the merlin had said with a smile, gathering the mats he'd laid out across the floor and rolling them up. Kisaku had helped. "You're a good flier."

The last thing he'd expected was for the ex-deputy head to remember his form but that was all before the boy reminded himself of the two prominent splashes of red across his eyes that would, naturally, attract unwarranted attention. At once, he denied the claim and told the coach that he'd arrived at a plateau in his learning, and couldn't for the love of anything lift himself higher than eight feet off the ground.