The Legacy of Dirty Birds

Tomorrow Breeds Change and Treason

The sun poured in through a dirty window when Calum opened his eyes. He brought a hand up to his face and wiped away the crust from the corners of his eyes. There were three other beds in this empty room and a cabinet that was filled with bandages and medicine. A pair of crutches leaned against the side of his bed. It was warm and dry here, and a feeling of safeness he wasn't used to. He felt like a newborn bird, and peeked around wearily for the mother. Then he realized he'd slept in.

Calum shot up, and hissed when a sharp pain whipped through his abdomen. There were bandages underneath his shirt, and a splint on his foot. Calum realized his back was moist, like salve on an open wound. It felt partially numb, hot, and painful creating a horrible soup of discomfort. He remembered the adrenaline that pulled his muscles taught yesterday, and frantically dragging himself across the rough ground for a weapon, for anything within reach. The deadwing's unblinking stare as Calum waited for its teeth to sink into his flesh.

The deadwing.

Calum swung his legs over the lip of the cot, wincing slightly. It was less painful than the shame that pooled in his stomach. The way his joints locked up, the way he froze, his body was already tense, waiting for the slap. His one purpose, the event he'd been training for his entire life, and he'd failed first try. No, not fail. He'd have to try before he could fail. What he did was break apart at the first straw. He couldn't let that happen again. Even if he had to talk to and stare into his bright blue eyes again—his eyes?

Calum ran his hand through his hair, his fingers curled into hooks and stayed there, the pressure was comforting, "What is wrong with me?" 

The realization made his head swim, and he didn't let go of the bed frame in case he passed out. What was that thing? A young deadwing? He—It was barely bigger than himself, did they get more monstrous and beastly as they aged? He racked his brain, there were tapestries in the Hall of warriors with their swords plunging into beasts with small sharp horns, covered in oily hairs, its unholy wings fanned out behind it. Calum's stomach was wrapping around itself, this room was not a nest, it was a box of steel and wood. All of a sudden it was very small, and the chill caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand. He couldn't stop his hand when he yanked on his hair—

"Nothing's wrong with you." A voice broke through his panicked train of thought.

Calum looked up, Holly was leaning against the doorframe.

"What... are you a nurse too?" He smiled.

She shrugged. "I have a wide range of talents. I have to talk to you about something. There'll be no prying ears here."

She sat down across from him, setting down a first aid kit and gestured for him to give her his foot. He obliged. Holly's hands were like soft Spring leaves as she checked how he was healing. Calum realized this...situation... was unfamiliar to him and yet his heart ached from setting down a heavy weight. He missed this.

"I heard about deadwing." She said, "You two met."

Calum frowned. "You... you said that like that was its name. His name?"

She hesitated; lips parted but tongue still. "Yes. There's a lot for you to learn, but I don't have time for that now. I have to ask you a very important question, but I need to make sure I can trust you. Promise me you won't tell anyone about this, especially the Patrons."

Calum felt sick. His scalp buzzed. Over and over in his brain Tarif's—no—it wasn't even his voice. He was reliving Patron Tarif picking him out in a crowded room. The way his face wrinkled when he was brimming with silent anger. These reminders came at him like chains, cold, heavy, and suffocating.