Chapter Text
Grian stood at the edge of Tango’s base, the small, shoddy wooden bird gripped tightly in his fist. It was the only thing he had with him. The only thing he owned, really. Even the clothes on his back didn’t technically belong to him.
He stared at nothing and everything, limbs heavy, replaying that conversation over and over, trying to figure out what he could’ve done to avoid that outcome.
Should he have helped more? Taken up less space? Spent less time with him? Spent more time with him?
But in the end, he kept coming back to the same answer, over and over again; the only solution that could’ve avoided these events was the one he physically couldn’t do.
He needed to quit thinking about it. Because if he thought about it too much, he would just send himself spiraling, and he was supposed to be waiting for his new “roommate” to come and pick him up.
(Tango had offered to wait with him, but Grian had declined. He didn’t think he could bear to say goodbye a second time.)
So instead, he watched the moon sink below the horizon with a grief he couldn’t fully grasp— a sorrow he couldn’t quite comprehend. One different, unrelated to the hurt of leaving Tango. One that was older, deeper; a kind of dull ache that’s always there, but became sharp and stabbing when lingered on for too long.
He missed her. He missed them. He didn’t know who they were, or where they were, but he knew that he loved them. He’s pretty certain they loved him.
And isn’t that a nice thought? To know that somewhere out there, there’s someone who loved you, without condition or hesitation? To know that you loved them back? It’s a thought he holds onto with all his strength, the only thing that keeps him going some days.
How can you miss someone you don’t remember?
He didn’t know.
The soft footsteps of someone approaching jolted him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see a man with untidy brown hair and mischievous eyes approaching him, leaning heavily on a cane. He had a scar stretched along the right side of his face, like something had burned him, and seemed rather surprised that Grian had sensed him before he had said anything—but nonetheless, he began amicably.
“Well, hello there. You’re the new hermit, right?”
Grian furrowed his brow. “Hermit?”
The man brightened when he spoke. “Yep! That’s what we’re called, the Hermits, because this is Hermitcraft. Didn’t anyone tell you that?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, now you know—I’m Scar, by the way, Scar Goodtimes.”
He stuck out a hand, which had the same kind of scar stretched along it, with more up his arm. Grian hesitantly shook it. They both waited for Grian to introduce himself. He tried, but words still weren’t working—the question had simply been a repeat of Scar’s first sentence.
Scar didn’t seem to mind, however, and moved on without calling attention to it. “Xisuma asked me to put you up for a while. You can move out later if you want, but he figured since Tango didn’t work out I’d be good second option, seeing as I was close by, and we don’t want you to have to start from scratch this late in the season. Not after—well, you know.”
Grian nodded. Again, there was silence as they both waited for Grian to say something. Again, his voice refused to work.
“Well, we better get going then, before we start losing daylight.” Scar turned and strode off at a surprisingly fast pace, and Grian stumbled after him to keep up. They walked in silence for a while, the sun continuing its slow ascent across the sky.
Then Scar began talking. He spoke about all sorts of things, from his base to his pet cat to the chicken he had for dinner last week. It was nice, to once again allow someone else to fill the silence he couldn’t.
He hated silence.
Scar didn’t seem to like it much either, if the constant rambling was anything to go off of. Yet despite the reasoning for the chatter, it wasn’t nervous; it was amiable. Comfortable. And every so often, he would pause, just in case Grian would want to chime in.
He didn’t, obviously, he couldn’t. But he appreciated the gesture.
He thought he might be able to like Scar.
But not too much. He couldn’t afford to like him too much. Stars above, he had only spent ten minutes with the man and already he was beginning to bond with him. What was he thinking?
No matter how friendly Scar was, how comfortable his presence felt, how kindly he treated him; he needed to stay away, place boundaries, and not grow attached.
It would be fine. Easy, even. He could do this.
Probably.
The new hermit was a rather unusual fellow. He had been with Scar for three days now, and had barely spoken at all. Which, Scar could do enough talking for the both of them (he had a strong suspicion that was one of the reasons Xisuma had asked him to take in the avian), but somehow he felt like he wasn’t staying quiet on purpose.
He still didn’t know his name.
In addition to his silence, he was closed off at all times, seemingly wary of Scar; a complete contrast to Tango’s description of refusing to leave his side and following wherever he went. Scar would offer to take him when he went to the shopping district or resource gathering, even just going out to work on his skyscrapers; but he very rarely accepted, preferring to stay in the apartment. Scar imagined that probably wasn’t healthy, but he also didn’t want to force himself onto the new hermit—wanted him to be comfortable enough to make those decisions himself without Scar needing to insist.
He did wonder if he was afraid of making connections, afraid that they would once again break ties and he would be kicked out.
A valid fear, of course, but Scar had no plans on doing any such thing. He enjoyed the new hermit’s company, even if he didn’t talk much; not to mention he was a very good house guest. He’d warm up to Scar eventually. Everyone did. It was part of his irresistible charm.
When he did speak, his voice seemed to change depending on who he was speaking to. Scar would say something like “I was thinking fish for dinner; unless you’d prefer porkchops?” and the new hermit would respond “Fish for dinner” in an accent nearly identical to his own. Then Xisuma would stop by a few hours later and ask “Are you settling in alright?” and new hermit would respond “Alright,” in the lower, English tones that belonged to the admin.
It wasn’t until Scar was in the jungle gathering wood and had the living daylights scared out of him by a parrot imitating a creeper that he began to put two and two together. The avian had been there for nearly six days, but it wasn’t at all enough time to grow accustomed to the way Scar tended to carelessly crash through open windows when on a mission.
As Scar pulled his cane out of his inventory, he looked up to see the avian standing on the couch, eyes wide with shock and wings flared out as he attempted to catch his breath.
“Sorry about that, got a little overexcited.” Scar pulled himself up and dusted himself off. “You don’t happen to be a parrot hybrid, do you?”
The hermit’s wings lowered and he nodded, looking curiously at the man. “Parrot hybrid,” he confirmed, voice once again nearly indistinguishable from Scar’s.
“So this whole time, you weren’t speaking, really; you were copying us. Mimicking? Is that right?”
“Mimicking,” the avian repeated excitedly, eyes shining.
“Of course. So then, when I asked you your name, you couldn’t tell me because I hadn’t said it,” Scar spoke as he moved through the apartment, reaching his desk and rifling through the drawers.
“Couldn’t tell,” he agreed.
“Aha!” He held up a pen victoriously and grabbed a piece of scrap paper. The avian had lowered himself to the ground and was watching him with curiosity. Scar joined him on the floor in front of the couch, placing both pen and paper on the coffee table.
“Can you write?”
The avian shrugged, shaking his hand back and forth in a so-so manner.
“A little?”
“Little.”
“Can you write your name?”
“Name...” the avian looked at the pen hesitantly.
“Do you have a name?”
“Have,” he confirmed. “Write?” He shrugged.
“Could you try?”
He hesitated another moment, then picked up the pen. His movements were jerky, those of a child’s. But eventually he laid down the tool, pride written on his face. “Name.”
Scar picked up the paper, and immediately remembered he was probably one of the least qualified people for this job. The avian did not have neat handwriting in the least; it was even worse than his own. But he could do this. He had to do this.
“G... grrr...” he glanced at the avian, who nodded excitedly. “Gruim? No. Gruin? Or is it like a j sound? J-ruin?”
The avian gave him a less than amused look and uncapped the pen, taking the paper from Scar and closing off the top of the u before handing it back.
“Right. So then... Grain?”
A heavy sigh.
“Sorry, I know. Stupid dyslexia. Come on, Scar, get it right.” He squinted. It wasn’t grain, so some letters were being mixed up somewhere. Where... it was a G, then an R, then an A—no, wait, the I came before the A.
“Grian?” He asked, pronouncing it “gr-eye-an.” The avian sighed and Scar handed him the paper again. Carefully, with great concentration, he made his adjustments before handing it back. There was now an arrow above the I, pointing to an E.
“I is E? I says E?”
“I says E!”
“Gr... Grian?”
“GRIAN!” The avian shouted, leaping up. His voice sounded less like Scar’s, a different accent, a different cadence poking out around the edges. He danced around the room, singing, “Grian, Grian, Grian, Grian.”
He stopped and grinned, pointing at the man. “Scar.” He pointed at himself. “Grian.”
Scar laughed. “Nice to meet you, Grian.”
His smile grew. “Nice to meet you.”
Grian’s plan was not working.
Every time he tried to put distance between them, Scar closed it without any hesitation. Sometimes Grian wasn’t even sure he was aware he was doing it.
It was so confusing. On the one hand, he was frustrated at Scar for making it so difficult to keep the man at an arms length; but on the other, it was incredibly nice to have someone who cared enough to make the effort.
To learn his name.
And that—well, that was a whole other issue. It was fine in and of itself, great, even. But Grian’s instincts had been harder to suppress since he had arrived onto Hermitcraft, and Scar making the effort to learn his name had caused them to nearly shoot through the roof. They begged him to make Scar flock, to build a nest to keep him safe in. To keep himself safe in.
This constant, desperate, clawing in his head and soul was called frayed flock bonds. Someone had explained this to him, once, as something that happened to avians when they went without flock for too long. Whether they had lost it, or simply hadn’t had contact in a while, their instincts would become more frantic as time passed, searching for other friends to fill the void—or, in desperate cases, latching onto anyone who showed any kind of affection.
(He couldn’t remember who had told him about this. When he tried, all that came to mind was teasing, a good-natured laugh, and bright yellow feathers. No name. No face. Just a pit in his heart that continued to grow.)
Grian knew he hadn’t had a proper flock in a long time, but he had thought that his instincts had been suppressed long enough he wouldn’t have to worry about it. That was, at least, one good side to that whole affair.
It wasn’t working very well, though, if he was being honest. Who knew changing your environment so drastically could completely undo behaviors that have been ingrained into you? But—he would figure it out. He would get through this. He had to. He wasn’t his instincts, and they didn’t control him.
(At least, he hoped they didn’t.)
“They said I showed a lot of promise for my age!” Grian and another man strolled through the streets of their server, the younger of the two practically bursting with pride as he spoke. “That the fact that I only went through two years of admin school before creating a server, much less a complex one like E̵̜̙̯̹̱̱͆̃́̀̈̆v̶̧̟͕̼̫͗̅̌̚͝o̵̡͇͋̈͒, was really impressive!”
“Who are these people, again?”
He shrugged. “They called themselves Watchers, or something like that. I guess it’s cause they’re scouts? Anyway, they said that they had some really big opportunities for me if I wanted to accept them.”
“And?”
“I told them I’d think about it.”
M̷̠̹̊̄̂͆͝͝ä̶͈͚͓̪́̓̎͐r̸̖̭͓̙̊̀̽́ţ̴̖̗̙̳͖̈́͊͐ÿ̷͓̬̙͖́̚͜ǹ̴̮ hummed, and Grian bristled. “What? You don’t think I could do it? You think I’m too young?”
“No, no. They’re right about all that, coding such a complex server at 16 and actually having it be stable, especially with so many people, is quite a feat. I just—that name, Watcher, sounds kind of familiar.” He twisted one of his backpack straps thoughtfully. “Have you looked into them at all? Like, what exactly they do, what kind of ‘special opportunities’ they’d be offering?”
“Not really. I’ve been too busy preparing for the End update to do anything else.”
“Well, I’d look into it more before you talk to them again. That name rang a bell in my mind, and it wasn’t a good one.”
He shrugged. “If you say so, M̷̠̹̊̄̂͆͝͝ä̶͈͚͓̪́̓̎͐r̸̖̭͓̙̊̀̽́ţ̴̖̗̙̳͖̈́͊͐ÿ̷͓̬̙͖́̚͜ǹ̴̨̮̞̪̭̳͙̗͔̙.”
“Grian, don’t talk to them again.”
“What?”
M̷̠̹̊̄̂͆͝͝ä̶͈͚͓̪́̓̎͐r̸̖̭͓̙̊̀̽́ţ̴̖̗̙̳͖̈́͊͐ÿ̷͓̬̙͖́̚͜ǹ̴̨̮̞̪̭̳͙̗͔̙ was frozen in place, eyes tinted purple. “Grian, please, don’t talk to them again. Don’t go into the End portal.”
“But—we’ve been planning this for months! Everyone’s so excited to get to the End, and the code for the update is almost finished—“
“Grian, you can’t, you can’t go.” He was moving now, shaking him, gripping his arms in a tight desperation. “You can’t go, if you go we’ll never see you again. Griba, you’ll never see me again.”
It was her. She was shaking him, begging him not to leave. But why would he leave her? “I wouldn’t, I won’t leave you, P̵̼̪̬̈̋̇́́̚͝e̶̦͇̮͋͝͝a̷͓̪̫͂̊̊͝r̵̡̳̪͙̠͉̒͜ľ̶̢͍͙̖̫͇̏͠.”
She had let go, and was staring at him, eyes uncharacteristically cold under that purple sheen. “It’s too late. You already have.”
Grian gasped awake, chest heaving, fists clenching the sheets. What was his name, what was her name? He had thought it, had spoken it. He tried desperately to bring the faces back to his mind, to recall the names—but the dream had already begun to slip away.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body moving without input. He needed—he needed to see the sky. Needed to fly, to soar in the open air. But flying wasn’t an option, so standing on the balcony would have to do.
At least he was high up.
He breathed in deep, and let it out again slowly, allowing the night air to wash over him. His wings stretched out behind him, and he brought one close, running his fingers through it and shuddering with the relief and pleasure that always accompanied preeninv. He did it again, and again, muscle memory taking over as he worked his way through.
It wasn’t perfect. There were too many places he couldn’t reach, and others he had already gotten that still itched, but at least it was something.
He wished she were here to help. At this point, he wished anyone were here to help.
His instincts crooned at that thought: of Scar preening his wings, of being in his nest and—
No, no. He knocked on his head in an attempt to physically remove the thoughts from his mind. Stupid bird brain, getting attached to Scar. That notion was out of the question completely, no matter how kind or concerned or warm or safe Scar felt. He couldn’t get attached, not again. He had latched onto Tango like a leech, begging him to be the flock he had lost—and Tango had ripped him off, like the parasite he was.
He couldn’t go through that again. Not again. He would keep his distance from Scar, and that would be that.
“Can’t sleep?”
The voice startled Grian—he had already been leaning dangerously far over the railing, and the unexpected noise nearly sent him over the edge.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you alright?” Speak of the devil. Of course it was Scar; who else would it be?
Grian shrugged, and turned again to gaze out over the moonlit city. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Scar took a hesitant step forward, relax when he didn’t protest or turn away, and then close the distance between them. “Any reason in particular you couldn’t sleep? Insomnia? Nightmare? Midnight snack?”
He hesitated, then shrugged again. He wasn’t sure he could explain why he was awake, even if he did have the words; couldn’t explain the deep, visceral longing inside him to say their names, say her name, call out for her, knowing well there would be no response. But her name, like so many other things, had been swept off a cliff and into a dark, deep canyon of which he couldn’t see the bottom; of which he didn’t dare lean too far over the edge, lest he should tumble in too.
Of all things, her laugh persisted. It rung in his ears, teasing him. Taunting him.
Why can’t you remember me? it inquired. I’m right here, after all. All you have to do is look up.
And so he did; but all he saw was the moon. That, in itself, was a comfort, although he wasn’t completely sure why. He let out a soft call, a questioning chirp: Where? Where did you take her?
Scar followed his gaze. “Came out to look at the moon?”
“The moon.” Something like that, anyway.
They stood in silence for a little while, but Grian could feel a sort of nervousness coming from Scar, something like anticipation—as if he wanted to say something, or maybe ask a question, but wasn’t sure he should. Scar shifted, turned towards Grian, then turned back. Grian looked as Scar, raising an eyebrow in expectation, and Scar flushed.
“Sorry. I was just wondering…” Grian raised his other eyebrow, waiting. “Are your wings—are they supposed to look like that? I’ve just never seen an avian with that color of wings before. I don’t know that I’ve even seen a bird with that color of wings before.
Grian looked away, shaking his head. No, his wings weren’t supposed to look like this. They were supposed to be blue and black and red with dancing spots that matched hers. But instead, they were an ugly, neon purple, no spots in sight.
“Oh,” Scar said. They were silent for another few minutes before he spoke again. “How… do you remember how they changed color?”
Of course he did. He remembered, vividly, the way they had touched his wings without asking—the first sign that something was terribly wrong. He remembered the way they had bent the feathers and clipped his primaries when he fought back—right before they had poured that awful smelling mixture on them. He remembered sitting in that white room, staring in horror at the ugly mess they had become.
(He remembered the flood of tears that had fallen when he realized that his spots would be gone. He remembered crying out her name over and over, for hours, until he finally passed out.)
“Grian?” He snapped his head up. Scar was watching him, concerned. “Are you ok? You don’t have to answer the question, I was just curi—”
“Ok,” he mimicked, interrupting Scar as he searched for the vocabulary to respond. “I… remember how they changed color.”
Scar perked up. “You do? I mean, you don’t have to tell me obviously, but—”
“Scar.” The name fell from his lips easily, despite having not been spoken a single time in the conversation, and he followed it with a shushing sound. “I… let me sp—speak.”
The man went quiet, waiting patiently as Grian searched for the words. “Th... they touched them. Changed.”
“Changed them?”
He mimed pouring something.
“What did they put on them?”
Grian shrugged. “Smelled.” He scrunched his nose in demonstration.
Scar’s mouth quirked up in a smile, but he didn’t respond, deep in thought. “Hey, Grian?” He said slowly, and the avian turned his head to look at him in question. “How would you feel about going to see my friend False?”
Here it was. He couldn’t believe he had been foolish enough to think that Scar would let him stay, desperate enough to believe that he actually wanted him here. He had known this was coming, and yet he had allowed himself to believe for a moment that it wouldn’t. That he was safe.
What had been the trigger this time? He was talking a lot more than he had been—and that first week of near silence hadn’t been enough to dissuade Scar. Had he overshared? Scar had asked, and he had answered—was that not what he had wanted to hear? That didn’t make sense, none of this made sense. why—
“She’s an avian, too. I was thinking she might know what to do about your wings. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, it was just an idea; but if you’re up for it...”
Oh.
Grian had to take a few moments to get past the panic before he could actually process Scar’s suggestion. It... wasn’t a bad one. He wasn’t too keen on putting his wings on display, but if there was any chance they could fix them—well. It would be worth it, wouldn’t it?
Scar’s friend turned out to be the eagle-hybrid with the stunning wings he had seen at the camp where they had rescued him from the Watchers. Her wings were just as majestic has they had been that day; maybe even more so, now that the soot had been cleaned. Goggles rested on her straw-colored hair, electrical gloves on the hands placed on her hips.
Grian once again drew his wings close to his back, as if they weren’t here specifically to have her look at them. As if by hiding them, she might forget about them.
Fat chance.
“Would you rather do this inside, or outside…” she trailed off, looking at him expectantly.
“Grian,” Scar supplied, and the parrot flashed him a grateful glance.
“Grian, then. Which would you prefer?”
He hesitated. Inside would be more secluded, more private—but inside meant walls and a roof. Inside meant that there wouldn’t be anywhere to go. Inside meant he would be trapped.
“Outside.”
She nodded and led them down the winding road of her town and into a small grassy spot, empty except for a few chairs were haphazardly placed next to a well. False motioned for them to sit, pulling a shulker out of her inventory and sorting through it.
Grian sat down somewhat hesitantly and Scar picked the chair opposite him, flashing an encouraging smile. He returned it as best he could, his stomach doing cartwheels.
“Alright.” False’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “I’m just gonna start by looking at your wings. No touching or anything of that sort. Is that ok, Grian?”
He breathed out, slowly allowing his wings to splay out so she could see them. “Ok,” he confirmed.
The eagle-hybrid tilted her head as she walked around him, studying Grian’s wings best she could without touching them or invading his space, just as she had promised.
“Grian, what kind of bird are you?”
Grian looked at Scar, who took the cue. “He’s a parrot.”
False spared him a glance, most of her attention on his primaries—probably the ones that had been clipped. “Has he talked to you at all, Scar?”
The man shrugged. “Yeah, but not a lot. He has a really hard time saying anything that isn’t mimicked, but we’re working on it. Tango said he barely spoke at all when he lived with him, but he talks a lot more since we figured out the mimicking. Right, Grian?”
“Yeah. Scar is—is—is helping. Scar is helpful.”
Scar beamed.
“Are your wings naturally purple, Grian?” She sounded like she already knew the answer, and was simply asking out of courtesy.
“No,” he said, and Scar practically fell out of his seat. (Seriously, the man was like a golden retriever.)
“Right.” He saw her step back out of the corner of his eye, hands on her hips as she surveyed him. “It’s very likely that your wings have been chemically altered, based on the inconsistency and runniness of the coloring.”
“Chemically altered?” Scar asked, sobering.
“Someone did something to dye them, and it definitely wasn’t cruelty free.”
“No,” Grian agreed.
“They very clearly haven’t been preened in a long time—not properly, anyway. Not to mention your primaries have been clipped.”
He heard the anger bubbling up, and although the logical part of him knew that it wasn’t towards him, the rest disagreed, shouting DANGER-PREDATOR-HIDE.
As he drew his wings close, arms curling around his legs. False seemed to realize what had happened, letting out a call of safe-calm-protect.
He responded with a cheep of scared-stuck-sorry, forcing his body to relax. You’re safe, he told himself sternly. It’s safe here. Don’t be an idiot.
“No, I’m sorry,” she apologized, anger gone and replaced by that calm, matter-of fact tone. “Should’ve kept my cool. A couple of good washes should be able to get rid of whatever dye they used, and a few weeks of thorough preening should get your wings back how they need to be.”
She crouched down in front of him, attempting to meet his eyes, which he quickly darted downwards. “I think that my biggest concern, Grian, besides the clipping, is how quiet you’ve been. From my knowledge, parrot-hybrids are normally very talkative. Most avians in general are, but parrots especially.”
“Oh,” Scar said.
“Talkative,” Grian whispered, resting his chin on his knees. He stared at the ground, the mix of stone—brick and smooth and cobble—and wondered how much longer he could live like this. Unable to speak save for copying others, and occasionally spitting out an original word or two. He hated it. He didn’t understand why he was so—so broken.
What would she think, seeing him like this? Tattered and worn down, wings unkempt and mind disheveled. Messy. Broken.
He didn’t know what she’d say. He didn’t even know who she was.
Flock, his mind supplied as an answer, but he brushed it away. He knew she was flock, but nothing besides that.
Flock, his thoughts insisted harder, and he mentally frowned, shoving it away again.
And a voice from far away, from the depths of that canyon of memories called out, Griba?
That wasn’t his name. His name was Grian. Despite all they did, everything they took, he never lost that. Throughout everything, he had always managed to hold onto his name.
And yet… Griba didn’t exactly feel wrong, either. It made him think of singing around bonfires in the dead of night; of shared, joyful laughter in the bright sun; of silly, whispered secrets under blankets. It felt warm.
It felt like home.
“Grian?”
He snapped his head up. Scar was looking at him, concern etched into his face. “Did you go somewhere?”
Where had he gone?
He reached for the answer, right there in front of him; but it slipped through his fingers like sand, falling back into the chasm of memories.
“Somewhere,” he hummed noncommittally. He turned to False. “So, you’re going t’ wash... my wings?”
False nodded, tone softening. “That’s the plan. We don’t have to do it right now—whenever you’re ready, Grian.”
He drew in a breath. “Now.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I mean, I have what we need, but are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I want—want—” he turned desperately to Scar, who jumped in without hesitation.
“You want the purple gone? You miss your old wings? Or, it reminds you of them?”
“Reminds,” he confirmed. “And... and I miss them.”
Scar looked at False. “You said you have the stuff?”
“Yeah. That’s part of why we’re at the well, so I’d have easy access to water.” She turned to Grian, expression serious. “You are absolutely sure you are going to be ok with me touching your wings? Getting them wet, rubbing unfamiliar substances in them?” He nodded, but she wasn’t finished. “Because your instincts will definitely not be ok with that, so I’m going to need you to be able to stay above them while we’re doing this.”
He hesitated a moment, then bobbed his head again in agreement. He could do this.
(At least, he hoped he could.)
Scar was... nervous, to say the least.
Grian had seemed firm in his decision that he could do it, though, and so Scar was willing to trust him. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him, after all—it was just that Grian had told him that the Watchers had poured some sort of liquid over his wings, and that was pretty much exactly what was about to happen.
He just couldn’t help but wonder if it was all going to go horribly wrong.
Scar watched as False lifted the first bucket of water, talking through each action before she did it. Scar had always admired the way she could keep a cool head about her in every situation. Grian’s pupils were expanding and constricting, and when False poured the water on his wings they blew so wide Scar couldn’t see his irises anymore.
He managed to keep ahold of himself, though. There were a few mishaps—like aggressively flapping his wings, hitting False square in the nose, and releasing a screech so loud it nearly burst his eardrums—but in the end, it was worth it. Blue wings with black tips and undersides, that met in the middle in a vibrant red splattered with black spots. Beautiful, so much more beautiful than that purple had been.
Even more beautiful (in Scar’s opinion, anyway) was the look of pure joy on Grian’s face as he ran his hand lightly over the feathers.
They didn’t stay for too long; although Grian seemed to be less self-conscious now about his wings, Scar would imagine the whole ordeal had been rather tiring for him and didn’t hesitate to agree when he asked if they could go back to his base.
False, however, placed a hand on Scar’s shoulder to stop him, and he looked back at her in question. She nodded her head to the side, asking to speak with him. Scar nodded, waving on Grian, who had paused and was watching them confusedly.
“You go ahead, I’ll meet you at the portal in a sec,” he called. Grian hesitated a few more moments, but relented and continued walking. Scar turned towards his fellow hermit. “What’s up, Falsey?”
“How often does he chirp?”
Scar blinked. “Like, chirp specifically, or make bird noises?”
“Bird noises.”
“Um… I don’t know. Pretty often; sometimes I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.”
“Does he have a nest?”
He cocked his head. “No, he sleeps in a bed. I thought that was normal, though?”
“For some avians, sure, they prefer a bed over a nest. But it’s not healthy for avians deep in instincts.”
Scar’s brain halted to a stop. “Avians in… what?”
“Scar, I think he’s been halfway in his instincts since he got here. Maybe longer. Someone reaching out to him kindly after so much time alone; he was desperate for flock.”
“That’s why he latched onto Tango so quickly?”
“That would be my guess.”
“…right. Thanks again, False.”
“No problem.”
They exchanged farewells, and he hurried towards the portal. There was quite a lot to think about, and he wasn’t really sure how to digest it all. Although, he thought to himself, as both the obsidian and Grian came into view, the latter with a huge grin splitting his face as soon as he caught sight of Scar—all that thinking could probably wait until later. For now, he had a long walk back to his base to enjoy, alongside his friend.
