CHAPTER THREE
The Bird

Our morning practice was meant to be Destruction magic, but Faralda probably decided it was best to put that off until the doors were repaired. Many of the students (myself included) were shaken by Treoy's display, so there was not much protest when Collette Marence, our Restoration teacher, stormed up to the lectern a full four hours before her scheduled lesson, her ever-harried march leaving behind a veritable bread-crumb trail of torn parchment. A tall and slender woman with skin a little too dark to be a pure Breton, her perpetual grimace and bleary eyes clearly expressed just how little she wished to be awake and teaching this early in the morning. As she surveyed the robed ranks of the student body, she issued a heavy sigh and dropped a large blanket-covered basket to the ground beside her, shuffled a stack of wrinkled papers atop the lectern and began to read with all the enthusiasm and vigor of a hibernating bear, her voice competing with its own weary echo to be heard throughout the Hall of Elements.

"I would just like to remind everyone, once again, that Restoration is indeed a valid school of magic. It is absolutely worthy of research, despite many of the notes I've had left in my bed. And my desk. And on occasion, my meals. Anyone suggesting that Restoration is better left to the priests of the Temples, I think, is forgetting a few things..."

I glanced over to Treoy, whose countenance held nothing but disgusted boredom. His eyes darted back long enough to show me I had his attention - not that my droning competition was all that compelling.

"Unbelieveable," he mumbled. "She's reciting yesterday's lecture."

"Thanks to you, she didn't have any time to prepare," I hissed pointedly in return, keeping my own face towards the lectern to avoid arousing Collette's suspicion.

I'd hoped to end the exchange there, but Treoy was never one to take a hint. He snorted, his voice rising. "She's a master Restorer, Eve. She could have improvised."

I winced at the nickname. Or my forehead. Or Treoy's inability to percieve subtext. Take your pick. "Please don't call me that."

Treoy's eyebrow perked up. "Why?"

"...I don't want to talk about it." I turned my gaze from his, refocusing on Collette's tired despotic routine. Somehow, its content had progressed by a margin of zero during our conversation. The odds of my making it through this lesson without dying of boredom sank like a stone in the water.

"Firstly, the ability to repel the undead cannot be ignored. Skyrim is well known to be full of Draugr - ancient Nord warriors who cannot find peace. I submit that everyone in this College has, at one time or another, relied on one of the many Restoration spells that can keep them at bay..."

Collette's ability to pontificate pointlessly on common knowledge has always staggered me. It must have taken years of dedicated practice. Just as I was thinking Treoy would have probably preferred a lesson beneath Faralda's evil eye over this, he proved me right, shuffling nearer and nudging my arm with his bony elbow. The corners of my lips contracted irritatedly as I rumbled through my teeth. "Shut up. You'll get us in trouble."

He didn't listen. If anything, he was louder than before. "Look, all I'm saying is, if she wants to be taken seriously she could start by being professional instead of wasting our time telling us what a bloody martyr she is to the research of Restoration."

"Well, what is she supposed to do?" I asked, incensed by the endless complaining. "Capture a live Draugr for us to cleanse? Have us all stab ourselves in the legs and close each other's wounds? Wards aside, we can't exactly practice healing spells without anything to practice them on -"

"Turil! Chaser!"

Collette's voice rang out, suddenly as crisp and clear as a whip cracking against the gray tiled floor. "If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is being ignored, especially by the two of you," she snarled. I opened my mouth to explain, but she cut me off with a raised hand and a tutting noise. As far as she is concerned, where either Treoy or I are at fault, we both must be. There is no middle ground.

She began to descend from the lectern, scooping up the covered basket. It shook a little in her arms; I couldn't tell if that was because it was too heavy for her, or if something was moving inside. "I know that neither of you have any respect for the work I do here, but that does not give you leave to interrupt me in the middle of my lecture." She moved towards us, tan-robed figures parting before her like a cowardly tide. As she approached, I shot a look at Treoy that said 'shut up and let me do the talking.' The day had barely begun and I'd already been concussed and burned on his account; I was not eager to take the blame because he couldn't keep his impatience to himself.

"Master Marence," I began appealingly. She likes her title. "I meant no offense. My friend was growing restless, and I was merely explaining to him that we are lucky to have you here so early after this morning's upset, and on such short notice. Please forgive me."

Collette's eyes narrowed, but her perpetually pursed lips didn't frown. She didn't seem to know what to make of my sudden humility. She was indubitably considering writing the both of us up; not for the first time, either. I kept as straight a face as I could manage, awaiting her decision and hoping that my appeal to her vanity would be enough to avoid more public embarassment.

At last, she spoke. "Chaser, I am not pleased. But I am tired and I can appreciate a well-worded apology when I hear one." Her sleep-deprived grimace gave way to a somewhat sly and bitter smile as she turned to address the other students around her. "In the interest of the lesson at hand, would mister Evening-Chaser care to repeat the words he was sharing with his friend?"

Just like that, all eyes were on me. I froze up just as if I had been standing outside all night; there is a definite reason I am never going to become a teacher at this college, and that reason is public speaking. I've never liked being put on the spot; everything just goes blank and I can't for the life of me articulate the simplest things. Swallowing my fear in an attempt to lubricate my rapidly drying throat, I began to weakly relate a diluted version of my original thoughts.

"I was just saying that... that it's hard to get... things to practice healing spells on."

Collette turned back to me, her smile leaving her face yet remaining in her eyes. "Yes, mister Chaser," she said, as if praising a child for speaking his first words. "Though I should thank you for volunteering yourself so generously." Before my confused gape could give form to the question in my mind, Collette's free hand extended toward the red seam the doors had opened between my scales; she slowly and firmly traced a single slender finger down the gap and my ridges shifted back together, knitting themselves into place at her mere touch. It wasn't even painful - all I felt was a distant itch, like a mote of dust had landed on my forehead. My cut had been healed, none the worse for wear. Satisfied with her work, Collette removed her finger from my brow and wiped a small scarlet streak on my robes with a barely-supressed grin.

"Though I applaud anyone who sacrifices for their art, I would never ask my students to harm themselves in the interest of research. That would run counter to everything the School of Restoration represents. That is why I prepared these yesterday." She gave the still-quaking basket under her arm a gentle pat before holding it out to me at arms length. "Would you be a dear?" She said with a knowing smile. It was not a request.

I could hear some kind of muffled wheedling struggling out from under the white blanket. It sounded painful, desperate. Lacking any recourse, I reached out gingerly and tugged the shroud off the basket, peering inside. All I could think of after that was covering it up again. Collette turned to the rest of the class once again, making sure that each student got a good look at the contents of the container before she spoke.

"Everybody take a bird."

There were indeed birds in the basket - crows, in fact, stacked neatly like fresh-caught fowl in a butcher's shop. The smell of blood was anything but faint. The birds had been mostly quiet when the blanket kept their enclosure dark, but the return of their vision brought with it a cacophony of cries that compounded as it echoed off the gray stone walls. They were drawn out, pathetic sounds; I briefly wondered why the birds didn't fly away when the sheet's confinement had been lifted from them. To my horror, the question was answered when the basket swivelled back to me once again. A closer look revealed the reason for their shrill panic; each crow had had one wing neatly snapped - by hand, it appeared, leaving them to writhe and wriggle against one another like worms trapped in a jar of dirt. Collette looked me in the eyes again, eyebrows perched high on her face as though she'd just made some irrefutable point that I had stupidly missed.

"I was planning to hand these out this afternoon," she said, not bothering to hide her irritation. "But, as you were telling your friend mister Turil, I've had to adjust my plans." I winced at the word friend. Of course we were, but merely standing next to Treoy could be a trial in itself sometimes - an immutable truth he was clearly eager to demonstrate, swaggering up to Collette with his arms crossed smartly as if he were standing at her lectern.

"Been eavesdropping on us, have you?" He asked with an exaggerated scowl.

Collette didn't miss a beat. "From the moment you two opened your mouths."

"That's impressive," said Treoy. "You must have ears like a fox if you could pick us out over the sound of your own voice."

The only answer he recieved was a spasming lump of black feathers shrieking into his chest. He barely caught the poor thing before it tumbled down his robes to the tiles beneath them. I shuddered, trying not to picture what could have been. Collette, apparently not so disturbed at the thought of animal cruelty, shoved a second twitching bird toward me. Sickened though I was I took it without question, not eager to further incur the wrath of a woman who thought nothing of snapping the wings of two dozen helpless little creatures. I tried to be gentle and soothing with the crow, but of course it was in terrible pain. Its wing hung limply from its side like a dead petal drooping from a dried flower. I continued to fight down my bile as Collette drawled faintly away, moving back across to her lectern.

"Broken bones are a very common injury because they may be acquired through a variety of mundane means, combat aside. If you've all been keeping up with your anatomical studies, healing a bird's wing should be fairly straightforward provided you adjust your proportions correctly. Everyone give it a go."

Gently cradling the shivering bird, I panned my vision around the Hall of Elements, picking out the confused and nauseated faces of my fellow students and friends. Treoy cursed aloud; the crow's beak lanced into the flesh of his palm as he tried to subdue the bird in a too-rough grip. A plump Bosmer spoke soothingly to his bird in low whistling tones, mimicking birdsong and lulling the struggling thing to sleep as he began to summon his Magicka into a healing spell. One tall Altmer had already succeeded, as his specimen's impressive wingspan testified. Yet none of these were the face I was looking for.

I found her in the front row as she always was, standing at the foot of the lectern. Her dark eyes were fixed upon the crow in her palms, its fear evident in its pathetic fidgeting and exhausted squeaks. She ran her hand gently down from the crown of its head to the feathers of its tail, cautiously avoiding the base of its wounded wing. Slowly it seemed to relax into her touch, taking comfort in her empathy.

I wished I were that bird.

I briefly entertained breaking my own arm for sympathy, but settled for imitating Katarina's calming gesture on my own specimen. I think it did more for me than the bird; he probably didn't like the texture of my scales. Still, I kept watching - her gentle strokes carried her hand slightly closer to the injury each time, her splayed palm slowly taking on a golden shimmer that washed through the feathers like molten ore. The bird started and cawed at the contact, but the spell had been performed by the time it reacted. Instinctively it stretched out its wings and took off from Katarina's hand, speeding away through the open doorway as if it had just caught fire. Others followed and a flock of flapping wings began to form outside, numbering at least a dozen and leaving a fluttering trail of black feathers to fall like the meandering snow from the sky.

My eyes met with the little black beads in my own crow's head. It had finally stopped thrashing about. Whether this meant it had entrusted itself to me or merely resigned itself to its fate was in my hands. Of the two of us, Katarina was always the best at Restoration magic. I've always had trouble healing anything other than a fresh wound - and these birds had been suffering with clean breaks for an entire night, if not longer. Still, there was nothing for it; If I took any longer, Collette might just decide that I couldn't do it and take the bird away. What would happen then, I did not want to know.

I took a deep breath and flexed my hand into a channeling sign, my two middle fingers curving inward to meet my palm as I breathed deeply, summoning from within some of the Magicka I had pulled from the well. Not too much - just enough to make my hand jitter against the bird's feathers. I shut my eyes, picturing the internal structure of the twisted wing, willing the muscle to uncoil, the snapped bone to mend and the tendons to fuse with it. Long and hard I focused, gently coaxing each strand of sinew into its place like a sculptor at his clay, guiding my Magicka by touch rather than sight. I poked and prodded and adjusted until I knew the job had been done - had to have been done, and perfectly. Eyes still closed, I twisted shut the tap on my Magicka well and cut the flow. I felt. I ruminated. I hoped.

"Hmm. Disappointing."

Opening my eyes to the sound of Collette's condescending contralto, I looked down at the plump black bird perched in my hand and cried out in shock. I knew my error as soon as I saw it; I'd maintained the spell for too long, expended too much magicka. In my self-indulgence, I'd generated far too much excess tissue. The crow's once-snapped wing was now swollen and tumorous, folded awkwardly up against its side like the crumpled pieces of parchment littering the lectern. Unbroken though it was, the wing looked stiff and unyielding - the bird choked out a caw as it tried to stretch out, succeeding only in looking like an abused, lopsided marionette. It would have been sickening if it weren't so sad to look at.

I had failed. The bird was crippled.

It would live, but never fly.

Collette held out an expectant hand; regretfully, I returned the bird to her. She left without a word, unceremoniously dropping the maimed bird into her hateful basket along with four others, each similarly malformed. I could not see if they were alive or dead. Collecting her papers from the lectern, Collette stormed out through the shattered doorway. Looking around, I found that the students of the Hall had turned to lesiurely discussions as they waited for the next lesson to begin; only Treoy remained by my side, clasping a hand upon my shoulder.

"Don't be upset. I didn't fix mine either."

I sighed. "That makes me feel better, Treoy. Thank you so very much."

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