The Legacy of Dirty Birds

Heaven is Soon to Die and The Legacy that Comes with Such Endings

Calum was given a white shawl to wear around his shoulders.

One of the High Council, a lady on the younger side, explained to him in a half-hearted mumble it represented his innocence. Calum didn't care, it kept him warm. It made him imagine Edwin, wherever he was now, shivering and scared. It's just fear, Calum reminded himself. His-yes it felt appropriate-his delikiae was a strong young welf, he'd figure out how to be free. He had already done it once.

Edwin would be safe now, because of Calum's choice.

It was strange to think of the times before it all happened. It had been a strange feeling when the lawyer's words sparked Calum's memory, if I do so in such a way that defames my character, let the Council know I submit to Hostia Law. It came to him then, the memory of Edwin burning through all the reading material they had at Calum's request. He'd been bored by it then, but the bit about Hostia Law had stuck. What a fascinating rule, he'd thought, strange to think anyone in the welven culture of self-idolatry would throw it to the ground for another. As he was paraded through the streets decorated in his white robe of innocence, Calum understood it now.

He saw wing-less parents point to him and whisper to their children, who in turn watched him with wide eyes. He saw elders nod theirs head as he walked by. Some of them told him things in welvish he didn't understand, but didn't need to when it was always followed by a bow.

This was the fast-path to renown at the highest price.

A little girl ran out of her mother's arms, crashing through the snow on the ground, and caused the guards to stop. She reached up and tugged on the edge of his shirt, apparently requesting something in welvish.

"She is asking for your name." One of the guards supplied in rough English.

"Calum," he told her.

The little girl's face lit up and she ran back to her embarrassed mother, chanting the same phrase over and over again. He understood his name, Caelum, but not the other words, moxut moriatur. Her mother repeated it solemnly, staring at him with mixed expression. Her child's hand was clutched in her own. The girl's fingers were so small in comparison.

He'd held Tarif's hands like that once.

Word of the white-shawled deadwing spread like wildfire. At one-point flower petals were thrown at his feet, thrown by a young welven man with golden hair. He kissed his knuckles as Calum walked by. He had no idea what it meant, but it was appreciated. A crowd gathered in front of the prison, all hoping to catch an eyeful of the feathered creature that burned like fire in winter sunlight. All that approached him made obvious effort to stay away from his wings. He considered asking one of his chaperones what the full story of the curse was. He didn't care, but he was already going to die.

A young welf in a black robe and a plain red chasuble pushed through the crowed and whispered something quick and quiet in welvish to one of his guards. They argued for a moment, the one who approached seemed at a loss to give any more information. A path started to form in the crowd, the air buzzed with whispers and late morning insects. Calum realized he wasn't to be put back in the prison, they were taking him somewhere else.

They group led him towards a massive tower looming over them and casting a shadow across the colony. At its base were white wooden structures resembling a blooming flower. Calum felt chills run down his spine, the architecture struck a distant, uncomfortable, nostalgia in him. He didn't want to go to that place.

"Where are you taking me?"

No one answered.

There were two large, slice-shaped wooden doors at the base of the tower. It was situated in a pavilion filled with sweet smelling flowers that somehow still bloomed in the frost. Calum found the scent overwhelming, even more so when he realized there was another smell hanging over the area. Something rancid and decayed. He didn't doubt for a second that it came from the tower.