The myth of the bird-men begins with a death.
He lay there, lovely even in his final sleep, his lashes dark against pale cheeks. His curls trailed over the pillow, the sweet tendrils of chestnut hair making him seem already an angel. The mourners filled the room. He had been much-loved - more than he knew, for he had had no idea of what he was. The last of the innocents.
Meanwhile, far from the innocent's deathbed, another man wandered out in the world. He was desolate. Nothing held any colour or joy for him anymore. He kicked at a can, watched it skitter into a corner, then walked on with his hands in his pockets, crying. He had loved that boy. He had loved him more than life but never once told him. Now it was too late. He had fled when the boy fell out of the sky. Nothing left for him there but to torture himself by looking at his friend's face.
The man was so blind with sorrow that he didn't notice a great bird, vast as an airship, flying overhead. The bird's grim claws caught at his back, tangling into his clothes and scoring long red lines down his skin. It soared with him. His glasses slipped and fell from his face, God knows where. He breathed in the high, thin, rushing air and cried, 'Soon I'll be with you - '
- But he was not to die that day. Dropped, yes, an endless fall that should have killed him, but Fate had other ideas. He landed in a gorse bush that clawed and cut. Alive.
On his deathbed the innocent gasped and coughed, sat up and looked at the whispering mourners. He must have been dreaming, for they were beasts and half-beasts, angels, monsters and hazy ghosts. They stared at him, awed. He didn't want them. He called the name of his friend.
You may have been wondering what authority I have to tell you all this. Well, I do have a little. It was I, you see, who was enlisted to find the friend that the innocent had called for in his hour of resurrection. I found him standing on the pavement, looking dully at his feet as though trying to decide whether it was worthwhile to muster the effort to cross the road. I took his hand and he went with me, just as easy as that.
He saw the boy he had loved, alive and well among the otherworldly mourners. The boy saw him. I was forgotten, of course. They embraced and wept and wouldn't let go. 'I love you,' was whispered, and they left hand in hand.
The rest is all story, but I've heard tell that the instant the sun fell on them they turned, as though they had always been so, into birds. They flew away together into the sun, and nobody ever saw them again.
And if they haven't landed, they're flying still.
He lay there, lovely even in his final sleep, his lashes dark against pale cheeks. His curls trailed over the pillow, the sweet tendrils of chestnut hair making him seem already an angel. The mourners filled the room. He had been much-loved - more than he knew, for he had had no idea of what he was. The last of the innocents.
Meanwhile, far from the innocent's deathbed, another man wandered out in the world. He was desolate. Nothing held any colour or joy for him anymore. He kicked at a can, watched it skitter into a corner, then walked on with his hands in his pockets, crying. He had loved that boy. He had loved him more than life but never once told him. Now it was too late. He had fled when the boy fell out of the sky. Nothing left for him there but to torture himself by looking at his friend's face.
The man was so blind with sorrow that he didn't notice a great bird, vast as an airship, flying overhead. The bird's grim claws caught at his back, tangling into his clothes and scoring long red lines down his skin. It soared with him. His glasses slipped and fell from his face, God knows where. He breathed in the high, thin, rushing air and cried, 'Soon I'll be with you - '
- But he was not to die that day. Dropped, yes, an endless fall that should have killed him, but Fate had other ideas. He landed in a gorse bush that clawed and cut. Alive.
On his deathbed the innocent gasped and coughed, sat up and looked at the whispering mourners. He must have been dreaming, for they were beasts and half-beasts, angels, monsters and hazy ghosts. They stared at him, awed. He didn't want them. He called the name of his friend.
You may have been wondering what authority I have to tell you all this. Well, I do have a little. It was I, you see, who was enlisted to find the friend that the innocent had called for in his hour of resurrection. I found him standing on the pavement, looking dully at his feet as though trying to decide whether it was worthwhile to muster the effort to cross the road. I took his hand and he went with me, just as easy as that.
He saw the boy he had loved, alive and well among the otherworldly mourners. The boy saw him. I was forgotten, of course. They embraced and wept and wouldn't let go. 'I love you,' was whispered, and they left hand in hand.
The rest is all story, but I've heard tell that the instant the sun fell on them they turned, as though they had always been so, into birds. They flew away together into the sun, and nobody ever saw them again.
And if they haven't landed, they're flying still.
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