A/N My motivation has mutinied against me. As such, I have turned to a prompt challenge to get me back into the zone, so to speak. So here I will post – hopefully – 100 CassianJizabel drabbles. Of course, you all know me. Nothing will be under 600 words, I predict some will be much longer. Anyway, I am using the table from the fanfic100 LJ challenge comm. I shall be posting a link to my table in my profile, for anyone interested. Onwards!

Prompt: #50 Spade (Taken here as the tool)

Title: Feathers

Rating: K+

Words: 973

-x-

One of the doves had died.

Not through mistreatment or malnourishment and certainly not through violence. The fragile bird had simply grown old, its snow white feathers fading to a dirty, smeared grey and its eyes dulled and scabbed. Being raised by loving hands in captivity, this particular dove had been seventeen years old.

Jizabel couldn't remember purchasing the egg or meeting the little hatchling for the first time. Nor could he remember the first flight, the loss of the downy feathers, the small things that had marked the passing of its existence. But he could remember that it had been beautiful, once. Its feathers had been pure, its song soft.

It had been beautiful.

And now it was a twisted lump of sodden grey feathers that clung to the fragile bones, a mess of organic matter that lay at Jizabel's feet and waited to be cleared away. The rain had been falling since the morning and the earth of the courtyard was saturated, sinking beneath each footfall and smothering what little grass there was with mud. Jizabel hadn't noticed the rain until he had decided to check on the birds, having been inside and working on some new experiment. Coming out here at sundown was the only way to seal off the rest of the day, the only way he could sleep soundly. He had missed the sunset tonight. The sky was now a dirty grey, the clouds low and dark. The courtyard seemed almost alien. Silent. The rest of the doves had gone to shelter and had not even cooed in welcome.

There had been a shovel resting by the wall. After seeing the fallen bird, Jizabel had crossed to it on instinct, seeing the corpse first as a mess and second as a loss. Once he had trudged back across the yard, boots caked in mud already and silver hair dark with the rain, it had hit him. The loss. He stood over the corpse and stared, stared as if he had no idea what had happened, as if he hadn't been up to his elbows in a stomach cavity earlier that day.

He didn't have much in the world. His work. His quarters. His crucifix. And his doves.

It was no longer beautiful.

One boot on the shovel, he pressed down until he tore the earth apart. He almost slipped as he pulled the tool back out, foot sliding back across the drowning grass behind him. But he didn't stop. Mud now flicking upwards and starting to dirty his trousers and jacket as well as his shoes, Jizabel dug until the hole seemed deep enough, a dark chasm in the drenched earth with shifting walls that ran with rivulets of mud.

He stared down into the unfilled grave. Which smiled and called his name.

A quick scoop and flick with the shovel sent the dove tumbling into the ground, one wing catching on the lip of the pit as it fell. The bones gave way with a wet snap and a long, dishevelled feather was left on the surface. As Jizabel began refilling the hole, the feather was swallowed by the liquid mud. It was better that way.

By the time the corpse was covered, Jizabel was breathing heavily, even his spectacles streaked with mud. The last of the light faded from the sky and the courtyard was cast in dark blue and grey hues, the dovecote and the walls just deeper shadows against a wall of darkness. After a long moment, he let the shovel fall to the ground with a soft thud. The rain continued to fall, freezing droplets clinging to his pale eyelashes and his trembling lower lip.

He turned to leave and had soon swept out of the courtyard. Once even the echo of his footsteps had faded away, a small shadow detached itself from the wall where the shovel had originally been standing. It crossed to where the tool had fallen and raised it up from the ground, sighing as its hands grew slick with mud. Once the shovel had been balanced back against the wall, the shadow turned and gazed in the direction Jizabel had left.

Cassian cursed under his breath. He had wanted to bury the corpse before Jizabel could see. But he had been too late. He was always too late, these days. But that didn't mean he understood any less. He knew exactly what Jizabel would be thinking, shut away in his quarters and staring blankly into the candlelight.

Nothing was beautiful in this world.

Nothing. And he had nothing. The dove had grown with him, taken grain from his hand while his back bled openly, flown to greet him when he stank of death, perched on his shoulder while he purged his memory of hideous experiments. And now it was nothing but a mangled heap of sinew shrouded in dirt.

That was all that awaited the rest of the doves. That was all that awaited him. It wasn't surprising. After all, he didn't have much in the world. His work. His quarters. His crucifix. And his doves.

And his shadow.

Cassian waited until he had counted a full two minutes under his breath and then left the courtyard, heading back to his own quarters. Which was a fruitless activity. He wouldn't be able to sleep. He would lay still and be unable to stop seeing that image, Jizabel standing over the crumpled dove who had once been so beautiful. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, exhaustion would take its toll and he would fall into a confused web of dreams.

While Jizabel sat and thought only of oblivion, Cassian would dream of white feathers in a blue sky.

Because he had been beautiful. And it was going to take more than rain to wash the dirt away.

-x-

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