Fowl of Tyrant Wing

Fowl of Tyrant Wing

The sun had set long ago in Gyr Abania. 

A cool, gentle breeze was making its way through the plains, moonlight reflecting off of a small stream beneath a tower of fallen earth. The still of the night came to a brief halt, as a Hyurian man half ran, half stumbled through the stream, kicking up dirt and water as he went. His unsteady feet made him trip on the rubble that lay there, causing him to fall onto his hands and knees. He gave a cry of surprise, then stilled, the only sound his desperate lungfuls of air. 

Milo forgot how long he’d been running for, all of the events of the day coming back to him in frightful spurts. His numb fingers gripped the wet dirt and sand beneath them, his face screwed up in pain, trying to will away the images that flittered into the forefront of his mind. In horrendous accuracy, as if it had been burned into his very retinas, he watched as his father was cleft in two by the Garlean soldiers.

That was when he’d vomited, involuntarily and painfully, a squeeze in the pit of his stomach. His tears mixed with his sick, his chest heaving. The only thought echoing in his head was the simple fact that he was alone.

Utterly alone. 

The sound of wings, fluttering, pulled him from his more negative thoughts.

Mayhap not completely alone.

He lifted his head, eyes red and burning, to look into the dark depths of another's. A hawk, it seemed, sat perched on a nearby fallen tree. It was large, peering at him with some interest, head cocked to the side. Milo wiped his mouth on his sleeve, ignoring the bird, and instead fixing his view on the water beneath his palms.

His own reflection met him there, the moonlight creating a near-perfect mirror. He looked so much like and unlike his father. His skin was pale, almost deathly so, and his hair a perfect mixture of black and white. His eyes were the only thing that really signified he could be related to him in any way, a pale yellow tinge, almost translucent. 

Well, that, and the third eye perched between his brows. 

The sight of it glinting in the moonlight sent a jolt through his system, a sinking feeling in his gut. He remembered the Garleans, early that day, rushing into their humble abode in occupied Ala Mhigo. They’d accused his father of treason, of fraternizing with the resistance. Milo had been so sure that his father would be quick to deny these claims, but he’d done the exact opposite. He’d told them he was with the resistance and Milo had done nothing but stare in shock.

He’d assumed that they’d simply take him into custody, await a trial, but these things never happened. Instead, they’d simply drawn their weapons, his father followed in kind. Milo hadn’t ever been one for the sword, much preferring the small comfort his modest bookshelf had provided him. In this circumstance, he found himself severely out of depth.

And that's when it happened.

“Milo, you need to go! Run!”

His fathers words had hit his ears like a ton of bricks, but in his own cowardice, he’d found his feet following the command on their own. He’d paused only to watch his father turn to him with a smile, the Garlean soldier's sword coming down on him.

And that’s when he’d ran. 

And ran.

And ran. 

Now, the sight of his third eye made him sick. He couldn’t stand to see it, couldn’t stand it to be a part of him any longer.

Violently and suddenly, he sat up a bit, the sound of flapping wings and angry squawking greeting his ears as he did. He pulled the knife he’d kept in his boot out, and directed it at himself. He hesitated only for a moment, and with shaking hands, drove it into his own forehead. 

A scream tore itself unwillingly from his throat, his body doubling over in pain, sinking back to his knees in the stream. His eyes were squeezed shut as he worked his own flesh out of his face, a warm stream of blood trickling down like a shower. 

The physical pain was immense, but the pain of having to see it on his own face was far worse, he’d decided. 

After a while, he felt it loosen, and fall pitifully into his hands, wet with his own blood. With the deed done, he opened his eyes, peering at his own anatomy with some degree of numbness. 

Without a second thought, Milo chucked it as fast and as far away from him as he could, the effort exhausting him fully. He sank back down, sitting decidedly on his bottom at the edge of the stream, staring blankly in front of him.

What would he do now? Where would he go? 

These thoughts plagued him, but the most immediate problem was the dropping temperature and the pangs of hunger that had begun since he’d come back to his senses. He hauled himself up after allowing himself a few minutes of respite and collected firewood, using nearby scrap metal from forgotten Magitek wreckage and a rock to help him cultivate a small fire.

As Milo worked, the hawk watched with keen eyes. It must’ve been used to the comings and goings of people, because it came closer, resting gently on the ground opposite from him. Milo looked up at it after a few moments of silence, prodding the fire to entice it to grow with a long stick. He appraised the bird, as it, in turn, appraised him, before speaking.

“I’ve oft dreamed of being a bird.”

The hawk regarded him, then, eyes sliding from the fire to him. He felt no small bit foolish speaking to a bird, however, he could’ve had worse company, he mused. Not that it much mattered who was on the receiving end of this conversation, it would’ve been one-sided regardless. Milo had just felt the urge to speak his mind.

“I longed for that sort of freedom, to be able to go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted to. Yet, here you stand with that self-same ability, and here you stay.”

Silence. He pressed on.

“This land, Gyr Abania, so wartorn and turbulent. Why is it that you stay when the entirety of the land is yours to roam at will?”

As expected, the hawk simply titled its head, as if it were trying desperately to consider what he was saying. If it could answer, Milo supposed he’d already know the answer. This place was its home, the same as it was for him. One didn’t simply abandon their home,  his father had put it, when he’d explained why they had forsaken Garlemald proper to live with his late mother, in occupied Ala Mhigo. 

His stomach began to growl after his quiet contemplation, and he decided it was time to make use of the stream. Even equipped with naught but a humble knife, it didn’t take Milo long to procure a small fish. He came back to his modest fire and, with no small amount of surprise, found the bird yet remained. 

He took his seat across from it again, it didn’t stir. 

“Pray tell, do you have a family?”

He said, as he began to skin and cut the fish, laying it flat and sliding his knife along its underbelly. There was no answer and no movement from the bird.

“I thought not. You and I are alike in that way.”

After his work was finished, he cut the head off of the fish and fixed the bird with a long stare.

“If naught ties you and me to this place, mayhap we could leave it behind, together.”

The question hung in the air, poignant yet pointless, as he rested the fish head on the sand next to him, watching the hawk consider his movements. After a few tense moments of seeming contemplation, the bird hopped over, tearing into the flesh of the fish. As it did, it eyed him, yellow meeting yellow. 

An understanding, an acknowledgement.

Moments passed like this, until Milo dared to reach out a steady and gentle hand, resting it against the smooth feathers on the top of the hawk’s great wings. His hand moved rhythmically against them, finding the coolness and softness calming him. 

The hawk, in turn, allowed him that small comfort, as it happily ate his offering of food and friendship.