Chapter Text
A young man with snowy white hair is reading, illuminated by the soft lights of the library.
His mind recalls back to the time where he shared a space with the young Italian lady, whose hair is long with the colour of a sweet tangerine, and her black and white chequered headband is tied around her head. He recalls how her soft voice broke off their mutual agreement of silence, and how he hid away from her the moment she turned around towards the bookshelf in search of references regarding her question.
Despite the fact that he responded to Sonetto a few days later, her presence still unnerved him because of the unexpected.
At least, Sonetto is someone who understood the concepts of boundaries and manners.
Thus, the following several encounters were simply sitting in silence in the library, where they maintained a mutual accord of silence, a comfortable concord.
As of now, the only sound in this library is the friction of the quill gently pressed onto the parchment paper.
“.....”
Then, a knock on the door disturbs the silence.
The chickadee on his shoulder turns its body towards the door, chirping in curiosity. It then flaps its wings up and down, uneasy.
“It’s okay.” Зима gently pats the chickadee’s head, calming them. “Probably… just her…”
The door opens, revealing a young man with a pair of energetic purple eyes. His hair long and brown with a side braid on his head, and a puffy leather jacket that Зима knows all too well.
Instead of Sonetto, it is Leonid who enters the room, who is the young arcane investigator that found Зима in a solitary island, a place where the animals were his only companions.
Where his poetry was inseparable from the animals on the island.
Зима couldn’t help but let out a sigh in response to Leonid’s sudden appearance.
“Hello, poet!” Leonid gives him a cheeky smile, his lips almost calling him an arcanist. “Hope I’m not bothering you much.”
“It’s… okay…” Зима’s Russian accent leaks out from his peach hue lips. “Why… are you… here, Mr Leonid?”
“About that,” Leonid takes a step forward, pushing the door even further to let another individual into the room. “I’ve recently recruited a new arcanist! He reminds me of you so much, and I recall that you need more companions by your side. I have a feeling you two will get along very well.”
“When have I–”
What instantly made Зима stand up from his seat is when the other visitor walks into the room, and his eyes are instantly drawn to the visitor’s feet– or rather, powerful legs ending in claw-like feet that can grip the rocky surface with ease.
The talons are sharp and formidable, a stark contrast to his more human upper half. Each step he takes isn’t as precise and stable, as his claws struggle to dig into the marble floor, making a clicking noise, like a pair of heels.
What’s in front of him is a pure-blooded Miemeng bird, where the half-man, half-bird individual exudes an air of otherworldly majesty.
His human features, including his head, face, and upper body, are strikingly handsome yet slightly wild and tousled, with piercing silver-black eyes that seem to gleam with an avian sharpness.
His light brown hair is wavy and tousled, half-covered by what looked to be a long white cloak.
His arms, transformed into powerful bird wings, are covered in glossy, iridescent feathers that shimmer under the soft lights of the library, with a mix of green and brown.
Just then, what appears to be a wand, carved from the bone of a bird, floats in a circle around the birdman, and it slowly floats towards Зима.
“A moment, please.” The birdman speaks, his voice revealing a hint of his origin, where the reversed river leads the travellers to the ancient city gates. “I would like to observe your social etiquette by shaking your hand with this bone wand.”
Although the language the bird man speaks is completely unfamiliar to him, the young poet seems to be able to understand the meaning of each word. Hesitantly, Зима reaches his hand out, and touches the tip of the bone wand, where the tip of it looked like the skull of a bird.
That wand alone made the chickadee chirp out loud in response.
The young poet ignores the cries of the chickadee, and gives a firm clutch on the tip of the wand, like a handshake.
“Your hands are less callous,” The birdman says. “The grip, it is not too firm nor too soft.”
It dawns of Leonid, the young arcane investigator, that Getian had used his continuing powers to keep the conversation between him and Зима smooth and clear.
“I… thank you…” Зима meekly replies, his eyes averting down to the bone wand. “My name… is… Зима.”
“Xiiiii…. ma?” The birdman slightly tilts his head to the left, confusion painting his face. The feathers rustle softly with each of his movements, like a whisper of the wind.
Зима shakes his head in reply, and repeats his name slowly.
“Zi… ma…”
“Zima, I understand now.” The birdman nods his head. “I have just cast an incantation on you. It allows us to communicate and exchange our names as the code of etiquette requires. I’m Getian.”
“Nice… to meet… you too…” Despite his broad literary knowledge, Зима swallows his saliva due to his struggle of forming a cohesive sentence. “ Getian. ”
Зима finally looks up at Getian, taking notice of his upper body that retains human musculature. Although well-defined and strong, it is covered with his white clothes and a light layer of feathers.
Leonid, who is an observer of this conversation, only smiles and lets out a soft, rhythmic hum in response. Without much to say, Leonid takes a few steps away from the two and slowly walks out of the library.
“Well then, I hope you two can get along~”
Before Зима and Getian could even say anything to him, the young arcane investigator had already left the room, leaving the two of them alone.
“.....”
“.....”
The only sound in the room was the chickadee’s chirp, one that sounded like a question of confusion.
Зима trails off, looking to his avian companion as if for guidance. Yet, the chickadee says nothing, only giving a trill in response.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
It is fortunate that the pure-blooded Mieming bird also shares a tacit understanding of mutual silence. One writing a verse with a quill; the other reading a book.
“.....”
“.....”
While he continues to write a verse in his parchment, Зима couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was, but whenever his eyes gazes upward at the birdman, there was a strange feeling, travelling up from his stomach to his own chest.
“Зима?”
Зима and little Зима snap out of their trances from hearing his voice.
“Y– Yes…?”
“Forgive me,” Getian averts his gaze for a second, then looks back up at Зима again. “I accidentally took a peek at your parchment, and I noticed that you are very well versed in poetry.”
Зима mumbles something, presumably in Russian, before turning back towards Getian with something that looks like resignation.
“Oh… it’s alright…”
Зима looks down on his parchment, where the verses were written:
Look back not on the path you did not take,
Iron wings, a warning to the hunter makes,
Yet in his greed, he disregards it still.
“Your poem,” Getian blinks his eyes as he analyses the verses, covering his mouth with one of his wings. “Brings a message of choices, consequences, and warnings ignored.”
Зима clenches onto the end of his parchment, his mind in a race, thinking about escaping away from here.
But Getian’s next sentence made him decide to stay.
“It… reminds me a little bit of my story.”
“Your story?” Зима looks back at Getian, noticing how the Mieming bird’s chest rises and falls rhythmically with each breath, his feathers gently fluttering. “I… see. May I ask… why… is that?”
Getian ruffled his feathers on his wing, summoning his bone wand, and it slowly pointed at the verses.
“This first line reminds me of the time when my people left the mountains.” Getian explains, his voice soft and gentle. “They went away because of missed opportunities and decisions not being made, a futility of regret. In the end, they were forgotten, and would be suspected for having evil intentions towards humans. As for myself, I often ask the question of ‘what might have been’ when I chose to stay in the mountains by myself.”
He… once lived in solitude, too?
By himself?
Alone, like I once did?
Зима doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t leave from his seat either. Even the chickadee, who once rest and nestle in Зима’s neck, flies down onto the table, and stares at Getian with its little beady eyes.
“While the lives of mortals scarcely intrigued me, the life in the mountains had grown dull in equal measures. Until a thought dawned on me, though humans cannot read bones, they have their own ways to pass on memories. They write, or draw; they compose music, they shape mud and earth or carve solid stone…”
The last sentence instantly brings Зима mentally back to the time during his solitude, where he quietly set foot in the land of darkness, a place of tragedy which would linger in history for a long time to come. When Зима never had the habit of preserving his work, the vast, pale snow became his paper. He would carve verses onto the solid stones, where the birds would land on the ground to read his work.
The animals on the island were his only companions.
“I have mastered all of these skills, and I have made an attempt at it.”
“Do… tell…” Зима does not reject his words. Getian’s sentences are like riddles and proses, making Зима’s bones practically shine brighter.
Just then, Getian takes notice of how the neck bones of Зима shines brighter whenever he mentions poetry.
“It started with one, then slowly I took their stories home, to write it down in scrolls.” A room of lifeless objects came to Getian’s mind. Some things are hung in the air, while others appear casually tossed aside. Barely visible in the dark clutter; bones and carving, losing their dull lustre to age.
“Who can tell the difference between the bones of the great and bones of the ordinary? One should seek the pleasure of life, not the future after death.”
“Whatever… we do… when we’re alive…” Зима understands the birdman’s words. “We will become… a pile of… bones… eventually…”
“Life beyond the mountain is indeed chaotic.” Getian states, and Зима could feel that it was concluding sentence for Getian.
All Зима could do to reply was:
“Yes… back then… when I was in… the island…” It is Зима’s turn to tell a part of his story. “Life was… quiet… peaceful… there’s no noise…”
As Зима struggles to tell a small part of his life in the island, Getian listens intently to every single word and syllable of the young poet’s words. Зима couldn’t help but avert those focused, yet soft pair of eyes on him.
After Зима finishes his sentences, Getian remains silent, hoping for more input from the young poet. But when Зима didn’t say anything anymore, Getian understood that this was already it
“I realised why Leonid put us together.” Getian’s words were more direct this time. “He… believes that we were in similar environments, where we lived in solitude alone. That, or maybe he simply decided to put us together because of our shared desires of poetry and calligraphy.”
“What… do you think… of Leonid?” Зима asks.
“A contradiction, like any human.” Getian replies immediately, no hesitation. “The institution imposes restrictions, yet allows us arcanists to roam freely at the same time. You… however…”
Зима blinks slowly, about to take in Getian’s words.
“You… share a bit of contradiction. But in a good way.”
Зима’s heart skips a beat.
“How so… Getian?”
“I could tell that you are nervous to talk to me, yet you choose to stay in this room.” Getian’s voice hushes, a whisper of tenderness.
“You… once stayed in a place where you were the only human there, and decided to join this institution in order to chase that freedom once more. Yet, you were able to embrace the life you once had not thought of joining, just as I did.”
“...” Зима’s eyes widen for a second, but he immediately composes himself.
“You… are not wrong…” His eyes avert back to his parchment paper, unable to look at those pairs of heterochromia eyes.
Getian’s light brown hair that glistens even without sunlight gives off a rather mysterious air.
“There is a reason… why I stayed…”
“Oh?”
“Because… of you, your story and… appearance… intriguing…”
After Зима said that, Getian immediately puts his wings up to cover the lower half of his face.
Assuming that it was merely a bow– a custom from the far east, what Зима didn’t notice was that there’s a gentle sigh that does little justice to the vivid red dusting Getian’s cheeks.
“I thank you for your kind words, Зима.”
“.....”
“.....”
“I… hope to see more… of your scrolls…” Зима stands up from his seat, rolling the parchment paper in his hands.
The sound of an ink bottle screws shut.
He tidies up the table, and is about to walk out of the library, when a hidden thought strikes him.
“I’m… going on a walk.” Зима turns back to Getian, who looks back at him from his seat. “The moonlight is… beautiful… It’s good for writing…”
“...Oh, I see.”
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
Getian is observant, or so he hopes.
A skill that he had to hone for many decades, from the moment he was born, and from the moment where his heart beats with curiosity that he suppresses everyday.
It is a trait that much of his decisions led him to solitude and loneliness, whether he is content with it or not.
It is also the reason for which he accepted Leonid’s invitation for his registration as an official arcanist…
And that said reason is what led him to the young poet, one with tired green eyes, messy white hair, and a bird pressing itself onto the man’s neck, a way to protect him.
Getian recalls how the little chickadee would hop excitedly around Зима’s shoulder as Зима is writing verses, how the little bird would flutter above Зима’s head as it waited for his command.
This time though, the little bird just stares back at Getian, with no signs of hostility.
“Maybe… you should try to write a poem… with me .”
Зима meekly declares his words to Getian, noticing how his eyes always avert to anywhere else but his heterochromia ones.
Зима’s silver hair that glistens even without sunlight gives off a rather mysterious air. Why would an arcanist, who has obviously shown signs of being a solitary and withdrawn individual, invite someone else to join him?
Curiosity leads Getian to ask.
“Is this perhaps,” Getian contemplates his words. “What humans would call an invitation?”
“...As you can tell, I am not… human.” Зима replies, a hint of red invading his ears. “You… don’t have to accept… just… an offer…”
Without saying a word, Getian stands up from his seat and walks towards the door, his claws making noises amidst the friction between his talons and the marble floor.
“After you.”
“...thank you.”
Getian didn’t truly understand what being curious was like until he and his people found a race with minds more like their own: Humans. Short lived creatures that could communicate using words, that could invent and imagine new things.
From this special race, the birds learned how to use fire and how to write down their thoughts, and finally they learned to be curious.
Now the bird realised that he’s curious about another thing, this time being:
Зима.