The Art of Morbidity pv Robin

The wind whistled through the skies in tune to the humming between Archer Duncan’s lips. Hands stuffed deep into his pockets, his fingers curled around the frays of his gloves, barely any use against the chill as red dipped beneath his nails. His cheeks, however, were spared from the same treatment, a tight wool scarf wound around his neck and covering half his face. The only features left visible were his eyes, a sunken, contemplative brown that swept across the open landscape of the Highlands, snagging on snow-topped branches, bare and desolate as a lifeless desert. He walked with listless carelessness, gait swift yet indecisive, as a familiar tune spilt out of parted lips, Archer found himself absentmindedly kicking an insignificant rock at his foot.

It was a pointless activity, a mindless one at that, and Archer, for once, managed to find some appreciation for that.

This afternoon was a dull one, which was an unnecessarily negative way to say Archer appreciated it too. Mundanity was no tedious chore for the boy thrown into a storm as unforgiving as his own, but a blessing in disguise. Chaos was rife in Archer’s years, an impressionist’s modern artwork, a splash of darkened, rotten pigments. Once the overwhelming layers of paint eat through the flimsy paper it would inevitably rip, and it would be yet another eternity until he could piece the unsalvageable memories back together. And no matter the amount of tape used, no matter the amount of glue smeared, it would never return to the artwork before. So for the lack of this emotional overload he was grateful for these strokes of pastel colours across his raging painting.

And for normality — or the twisted normality that his life had become — he was grateful.

Kicking along the rock half-heartedly Archer did not stop for matters as trivial as watching his way. Instead, his eyes were kept locked on the horizon line, where the lowering sun bled into the merciless mountains, drawing a golden veil over the rocky cliffs of Scotland. The snow-capped mounts glinted in the late afternoon-early evening light, stubbornly holding on before darkness threatened to swallow them whole. Even the lake was a glorious aurum, a mask of honourable tranquility smothered over the churning question depths below. Not so different from the stilled surface of his own heart, a small, barely visible smile spread across Archer’s lips, and the gold in his eyes seemed to have been even brighter as they blended into the same colour of the setting sun.

This was peaceful, he decided, gaze drifting upwards towards the brushstroke sky. Swatches of pink drifted into dying blue, the clouds of night slipping in and covering the final edges of the sun. A few scattered birds flapped their wings into formation, and Archer was surprised they had not migrated south for the year. The caws of crows could be vaguely heard over the swoosh of the wind, and their returning calls distinguished amongst the rustles of the Highland’s wilderness.

And then he saw her. A silhouette, barely a flicker of light against the backdrop of darkened clouds, swept low through the branches, bright yellow claws grazing snow as it passed, sharp black talons dragging scars across its soft white. Archer squinted his eyes, their usual almond shape narrowing into slits as he tracked the bird of prey's movements. As it wove between between the fog of Scotland Archer could only see the blindingly orange pupils of its piercing eyes, seemingly staring at him as it prowled for prey. He took a few instinctive steps back, not out of fear, but awe and disbelief. Yet another, somehow more primal, part of his body urged to step forward, to step closer, to touch it, and to become it. He was unsatisfactory with mere observation.

She swooped out of the clouds, and she soared, leaving the plumage of her belly exposed. As distinctive as an aged tree amongst saplings, her markings reminded Archer of the cracking bark of an old conifer, untidy and untamed. Each were a ring of experience, a necklace of honour, clothes fit only for a queen. Upon her head was a crown of white flecks, hit by the last rays of the sun as her body tensed into a nose dive.

A Northern goshawk. Recognition had long hit him, and it had left him eyes wide and mouth agape. Ne'er before had Archer laid his eyes on such a majestic creature, and he felt as if he could swoon if he stared at it any longer. His familiarity was instantaneous, yet it had only stemmed from the mountains of books he had poured over, their graphics wholly eclipsed by the glory of her actual form. As it manoeuvred through the sky with the grace of a knight on her steed, Archer suddenly did not feel so cold anymore, nor so empty. His fingers tightened into his palm, drawing crescents where his nails dug into skin, feeling the heartbeat through his flesh, uncontainable, gloriously fast. In that moment, neck craned as his eyes trailed the goshawk, Archer Duncan felt alive.

This was all he ever wanted, and someday, he could have it.

She spiralled.

She spiralled, falling.

A gasp escaped Archer despite himself, cool composure shattering into a million shards on the ground. The bird of prey had lurched violently in the sky, back arcing as her wings spread dramatically. Archer rushed forward, lurching himself with the same uncontrollable urge. He would not dare to allow such a beautiful creature to fall, to hit the ground as if it were nothing, smudged in the post-rain dirt that plagued their corner of the British Isles. His steps forward were brisk, almost enough to tip himself over, and in his eyes were nothing but pure panic as he heard her call out into the unforgiving skies. She was helpless, and Archer too, was helpless. As he rushed to her side, mere moments too late, he found, only, a corpse.

Archer slid to a kneel before her, then blinked, and closed his eyes. He knew what would come, had seen glitches in his vision just when he had seen the majestic bird of prey. But not like this... not so fast, not so hard. Flashes of remembrance crept into the back of his eyelids as smoke filled his nose. Smoke, inevitable, unbearable smoke. His breaths hastened, and despite every effort to keep them steady and paced, the fast in and outs were no longer contained as the unmistakable scent of a fire slid up his nostrils. It burnt like hell too against his skin, and it burnt like hell against his heart.

He could see her again, just almost. He was blind to the world around him yet his mind blazed as bright as ever. A figure, in the sky, half humanoid, still half bird, falling. Falling, when only ever before had Archer seen her fly; falling, when her only place belonged up in the skies. He could see her again, just almost. Someone he ought to knew yet never before so strange. She wasn't like this, she shouldn't have been like this.

She was his mother and....

And she was invincible.

She was dead.

Without restraint, a hand slipped out of the protection of its pocket to grace the feathers of the fallen bird. The cold, dead feathers were hard against his touch, his words even harder as they split out from between his lips, solemnity tainting every syllable: “Je promets¹.”

@Robin Marie | 1: I promise