Beyond My Wings

Variables

Variables

Senkū stares at the ceiling in a daze for the seventh early morning in a row into the new year, face cold and slightly numb even when his body is pleasantly warm and comfortable beneath the pile of furs. The lion pelt spread around his body hugs him like Taiju does when he's overly affectionate, chasing after a faint dream that's too fuzzy to make out.

His eyes roll sideways to glance at Taiju, the teen quietly dreaming with a trail of saliva running across his cheek to dampen the wolf pelt beneath his head. His scalp now sports a good inch of hair after a solid month of growth since his revenge in December and the thought brings a dull feeling of amusement to briefly spark in his chest but it ultimately extinguishes when his eyes roll back to the ceiling, an inaudible sigh leaving his lips. He absently trails hesitant fingers over the clean hickory feathers covering him to pick at the few pieces of dry grass and dirt he can find stuck in the afterfeathers.

Strangely, the feeling of a solid block sitting in his chest manifests whenever he's awake. He's somewhat positive it may be depression but with how muddled his senses are he isn't sure on the accuracy of the symptoms. He's already identified a few of them with how unenthusiastic he's been throughout the process of distilling their alcohol, lugging his body around like it's accumulated a few more kilograms than usual and wishing to sleep into oblivion. The resounding silence that follows every morning after awakening makes his skin itch with the urge to get up and get rid of the strange sensation that floods his spine. It drives him up the wall. The incessant crawling of spiders gliding over his arms or the flutter of phantom fingers creeping along the back of his neck leaves him shivering, fighting the urge to pick at the sensations just to make them stop makes him question whether he's screwed in the mental department.

He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, wanting to sleep yet is unable to do so. Slumber evades him. The increasing difficulty in entering REM sleep and appropriately maintaining a stable restful state is currently an endeavor he can't pursue. Senkū can effectively conclude that something is amiss but he can't accurately pin the source as to why. It's as if his mind is a dog constantly chasing a trail when it's only its tail—a meaningless turnaround of mindless thoughts mixed together with mental exhaustion bogging it all down to the speed of an old 1915 Sugimoto typewriter.

His fingers lightly grip Taiju's feathers and he breathes out harshly, carefully lifting the wing and folding it into Taiju's side to remove his pelts so he can stand. He walks to the entryway of the hut, bare feet gliding over the chilly floorboards. He stops at the doorway to part the tarp, gazing at the gray-blue cumulus clouds streaking the sky and the snow coloring the land white. Checking the area, he finds no predators lingering around the perimeter of the camp's fence. It brings a sense of assurance to know that it holds strong.

A cold gust of wind brushes his face and he shivers. He debates whether to remain inside and sleep some more or check on the distilling pot and correct possible mistakes. It would be productive and reassuring if he can check on it as soon as he's able to see how much longer it'll take for them to make nital. The string of failures to free the sparrows from their stone prison digs into his inner tirade of self-loathing even as a few brief sparks of excitement over a project flare.

Glancing at a fur cloak hanging by the door—a recent addition to his wintery wardrobe to keep him warm—he tugs it off the wooden hook to thumb the leather. Taiju mother-henned him to the point of making one for him when he almost came down with a cold the week before wearing only his fur-trimmed leathers. According to Taiju, the garment with fuzz sewn into the collar and sleeves barely qualifies for appropriate winter clothes. He studies the light color of the cloak, the shade similar to that of limestone with silver fur sewn on the inside. He remembers the annoying process of cleaning out the furs he needed for the damn thing in the river, muttering how unclean and coarse the fur was from lack of care, however his efforts makes up for his displeasure when the end product is as soft as silk once it dried off.