notes: post-series
i own nothing.


Practice

He leans back in his chair, quill tip resting against paper and fingers absentmindedly picking apart a loaf of bread. A piece is broken off and tossed over the side of the dock, and he hears the sound of water being disturbed in tiny splashes. The air is quiet, save for the hum of town life that surrounded the small lake. Legs cross themselves and he studies the nest of robins off in the distance, his gaze intent.

The quill hovers over the browned parchment as he keeps his eyes on the bundle of twigs. The larger bird – presumably the mother – darts in and out between the branches as it twitters excitedly. Three little brown heads pop up over the edge of the nest, their eyes blinking and necks twisting. The quill gives a twitch as the mother bird swoops over to the nest, hopping over the edge and forcefully nudging the first chick. After a moment, it flips over the side – but instinct immediately settles in the bird as it begins to fall, and the air catches under its wings. It flies about awkwardly, keeping itself near the tree branches.

The mother moves on to the next chick. The young bird is hardly half the former's size, and it flaps its wings erratically, unwilling to take the jump. A flash of green drops down to the paper and he barely gets the chance to scribble down der Vogel before he gives another glance up – but the first little bird had now been joined with its sibling, both circling each other and chirping loudly. He scratches out the few words jotted down and tosses another bread crumb over the edge.

Eventually the mother robin hops its way over to the third and last chick. The little one obviously knows what's coming, and begins scurrying over to the other side of the nest. He readies the quill once more and watches closely, his eyebrows furrowed.

The little bird panics as the mother draws closer, flapping and twittering about fitfully. As the mother pushes its head against the young's back, he starts moving his pen; writing about a sudden burst of wind, the great motivation to fly and a vast beautiful sky above the rob–

His hand gives a violent jerk and the ink splatters on the paper, seeping through the words. He winces and grips over the small white scar in between his finger's ligaments – the remains of an old self-inflicted wound from years past. The wrist begins trembling as his other hand clenches it, and ignoring the dripping ink in his lap, he raises his gaze over to the faraway tree, keeping an eye out for the nest and waiting for a preemptive breeze to blow at his back. The seconds tick by, filled with the silence of a bated breath.

Nothing happens.

The bird is pushed out of its nest, wings still fluttering – but it does not take flight. Lacking the grace and strength of the first two, the bird takes the drop. The fall to the ground is long, and the chick lands amongst unpulled weeds and rain puddles, and minutes go by without a stir. Its siblings dart in and out through the branches above, the mother joining them a few seconds later. They begin to sing – their pitches are lighthearted and cheerful, as if they didn't notice that they just lost one of their numbers.

He looks back down to the ruined parchment in his lap and sighs. The words have become little more than spreading black ink and the quill's feather has dropped off, the barbs ruffled and split along the sides.

Picking off a piece of bread, he flicks it over to the side and listens for the familiar splash of water, this time accompanied by a muffled and contented quack.

He leans back in his chair.

end