Falling.
The falcon has wings, but he cannot spread them. There is nothing to check his fall; he tumbles, through a black void that never ends
How far can I fall? he thinks, and then all thought is gone.
A wave crashes over him, thick and viscuous, black with hatred and anger. It swallows him whole, drenching him, filling him, flattening him beneath its weight.
But not without a struggle.
The falcon fights to surface, thrashing, clawing, pecking. He breaks from the blackness, dizzy and lightheaded, feeling drained and diminished.
Then another wave thunders down upon him.
The cycle repeats, over and over again: each wave hits him like a sledgehammer, and each time it recedes and the falcon surfaces, he is diminished by it.
But still, he does surface.
The falcon circles over a storm-swept beach at low tide. The sea is calm now, held back as if constrained by some force even greater. Hundreds of things lie scattered across the beach: bright shiny baubles that glitter, small animals the wriggle and dart across the sands, small dark pools that the eye glides away from.
Even in this bleak and dangerous setting the falcon feels compelled to investigate the shiny. In a way they are comforting; bits and pieces that are pleasant and inviting when so much here feels hostile. The ocean, restrained by an unknown power, feels like a perched tiger ready to pounce to the bird. he decides to avoid it as he spirals from the sky to investigate the nearest sparkle.
The bauble twinkles invitingly, beckoning. It sparks an instinct inside the falcon to possess it, to make the glittering object his.
His: a part oh him, a piece of reality no longer sepperate from that which is not him. Taken, perhaps, from the hungry ocean which once threatened to possess him too or, no, simply destroy him utterly. The bird landson the sand and hops over to the trinket. It is eager to explore the shiny and, indeed, to keep it from the sea.
The bauble glitters, and the falcon bends down to snatch it in his beak. For a moment, he simply holds it, uncertain what to do next. Then -- he swallows it whole. It feels curiously ... right. He looks across the flotsam-drenched beach, and knows that he wants them all.
Without a second thought the falcon hops towards the next interesting bit of flotsam. He feels a burning need to posses combined with a desperate rush. If he does not take them all he is sure the ocean will -- and he is starting to seriously dislike the ocean.
He snatches at one, and then another, and another, hopping and diving and pecking as he tries to collect them all. But there are so many of them, and soon he feels heavy, worn out by the struggle to gather and consume them. Is the sea rising again? Will it sweep the ones he leaves behind away?
Horus rouses to find himself on the perch in Girard's townhouse. Girard is standing not far away, looking at the falcon with a worried expression on his face. A woman stands much closer to the peregrine, bending towards him and making soothing noises. As Horus raises his head from sleep, he hears Girard say something to the woman, but the man's words make no more sense than the woman's.
I am broken, is the first though to register in Horus's mind when he awakens fully from sleep. It is a concept he did not recognize before. He did not know who or what he was, not really. The important facts were lost. Now he knows, and knowing is a light on him that casts a colossal shadow. He makes some disgruntled bird noises and tucks his head back under his wing.
"Horus?" Girard says. That word the falcon recognizes. But the next several out of Girard's mouth are as nonsensical as the words he woke to, or the ones the man used the night before.
The woman is speaking as well. She seems to be studying him with her eyes, not touching, but whatever she's saying is as incoherent as Girard's words.
Unfortunately for Horus he can't quite seem to go back to sleep and make the unpleasant realization he's a broken tool go away. That leaves him firmly in the waking world. An ineffectual, slightly disheartened and grumpy, tool. A tool who is being stared at -- who is she anyway? Horus stares back at the strange woman.
Girard is watching them somewhat anxiously, his eyes glancing between woman and falcon. His demeanor suggests that, whoever the woman is, he trusts her. Or at least, he's not worried about anything she might do. He seems in a much better mood than he was earlier, with the man Horus chased away from the door.
While staring at the woman, Horus realizes what's wrong with her appearance: he can't see her aura. He can't see Girard's, either, now that he's thinking about it.
If Girard is fine with her, Horus thinks, so am I. Lucky for the woman this decision grants her the boon of not being pecked. If he can't peck her, and if he doesn't know what she's about, Horus isn't very sure what to do with her. He does feel it's more about what she's trying to do with him, and he suspects she -- and in that moment of realization decides Girard must also be aware -- knows that he is broken.
The woman and Girard exchange more incomprehensible words, the woman biting her lip and looking between Horus and the Frenchman. Girard says Horus's name again, and that one word that makes sense in a sea of gibberish keeps standing out like a beacon, difficult to ignore, reminding the falcon of who he is.
The woman stares into Horus's eyes as she speaks, as if trying to read his mind.
Horus, the bird repeats in his head. Horus Horus Horus Horus. Like a mantra, he repeats it for its soothing and centering effect. The bird tries very hard to not pay attention to the nagging voice in his mind that tells him he's forgotten a lot of mantras, because that voice isn't terribly soothing and he'd peck it if he could.
At the same time as he repeats his mantra Horus stares right back at the woman. Without their auras Horus thinks, and this thinking repeatedly derails his mantra, they're a little perplexing. All this crunching of face and frowning of lip requires much more guesswork. He assumes she has a similiar problem with him, what with the lack of any facial expression, and figures that if she can read minds that would be very useful -- and that he'd be a bit jealous.
As an after thought, Horus attempts to read the woman's mind back.
Horus finds the woman's mind as difficult to read as she seems to find his. She twirls one lock of her hair around a finger, still talking to Girard. The Frenchman answers, making a face, and says another word that Horus catches: Hill. The syllable ruffles Horus's feathers.
Horus shakes his feathers out. Now, where has heard "Hill" before? A hill is a ... raised ... something ... in ... somewhere. It's definately a something, somewhere, ... somehow. Remembering isn't any easier than mind reading, Horus decides.
Just as he's thinking the memory has escaped, it rises up inside him: a black tidal wave of hatred, a mound of smothering earth, an endless sea of rage that battered and tried to break him ... and perhaps ... succeeded.
Involuntarily Horus arches his wings as if to protect himself from yet another deluge of crushing hate. The water of his dreams and the earth of the Hill merge in to one symbolic whole of the Hill's hate, and Horus finally places his night time hazards firmly at the feet of that malevolent being.
In thinking of hate Horus has another flash of memory -- the origin of the knowledge of hate itself. It seems tied to the Hill somehow. His memories, which suggest the loss of much, never mention emotions such as hate on conjunction with himself. Hate seems new.
After the bird mantles his wings, Girard steps forward. He reaches out to stroke Horus's head, gently, as if to soothe him, and murmurs "Horus," again, in a spate of other words.
At least Girard is comforting, thinks Horus. The bird disengages his wings and lowers his head for the stroking content to be comforted. The more the man goes on the more Horus realizes he needs that comfor, that has been desperate for it and yet hadn't yet come to realize it.
Girard continues to stroke the falcon, running his fingers down Horus's back and murmuring soothing noises. But he still looks worried.
The woman says something, too -- clearly addressed to the falcon this time, as she says "Horus", too. Like Girard, she looks worried.
Horus feels better. That's another emotion that feels odd -- feeling better. He certainly recalls states of approval or disapproval at actions; it's the feeling better that seems new. He also feels loyalty, appreciation, and affection for Girard. It's a slew of newness, and newness itself stands out in his swiss cheese of a memory. When you're as old as hew is new doesn't tend to crop up all that often.
The woman's address gets Horus's attention and breaks his reverie. He cocks his head to the side to peer at her with one eye as he wonders what she wants from him. Just to show he is paying attention and can hear her he makes a noise right back at her.
The woman looks perplexed by Horus's noise, as if somehow he could be more confusing than all her babble. She says some more words to Girard, but then address the falcon again, ending her sentence with, "Horus."
Girard transfers Horus from the perch to his arm, still stroking the falcon's head and back. He shakes his head at the woman, and says something else to her.
For a brief moment Horus wishes he could talk. He realizes, as he settles on his new perch and gets petted, that he'd just be speaking random gibberish anyway. Well, he could say "Hill," "Horus," and "Girard," but he assumes that would make him sound rediculous. More rediculous than he feels now, anyway.
Horus suddenly remembers that while he's never been able to speak ... he does know how to write. As he reflects on this, he realizes he can see the forms of words in his mind's eye, although he can't remember what the words sound like, only how they look.
Well! thinks Horus, now I'm getting somewhere. The bird's head suddenly shoots up as he straightens, a move that jars Girard's hand. Quickly he looks around the room for a pen and inkwell and, remembering he is a pen factory, simply dislodges one of his longer feathers with his beak while he looks for some ink.
"Horus?" Girard says, perplexed. In a moment, the falcon has spotted an inkwell on the desk nearby.
The woman follows Horus's gaze to the desk, and she strides to it as well. She uncaps the inkwell, and fishes a fresh sheet of paper from a shelf on the desk, laying it on the blotter. She then stands aside.
Horus hasn't any time to exchange nonsense with Girard now that he can exchange meaningful words! With the help of the woman he has access to ink! Using a flap of his wings followed by a short glide the falcon is on the desk and poised with his makeshift pen in his mouth. A moment later his quill is retaining ink and Horus begins to write. He starts with, "Thank you," followed by, "I don't understand what you are saying." A brief pause later and he adds, "Mostly."
Girard claps one hand over his mouth, exclaiming something. He hurries to the desk, then glances at the woman and says something, then starts to continue with words to Horus. Instead, he stops himself, a puzzled frown on his face. He reaches for a pen of his own.
Horus watches Girard's reaction intently and begins write "I still can't understand you," but stops at about the t in still when the man catches on. Instead he writes, "I am feeling rather broken."
Girard writes in French, in flowing French script, Do you think you could try that again, in French?
At this point, Horus suddenly realizes his own writing has been in hieroglyphs. He remembers how to write in French, he just hadn't thought to do that.
Horus peers at Girard's writing. French, yes clearly he remembers French. He is, after all, reading French. He looks at his own work and recalls the heiroglyphs havn't been in style for some time -- a shame, he thinks, considering he feels his own rendering of them just now was rather smart. He repeats all he wrote in French.
Excitedly, Girard writes, You are much less broken than I thought! You've no idea how worried I've been! I feared you'd been replaced by some ordinary falcon.
I was feeling rather ordi- Horus pauses to flex his talons as he gets a small cramp -nary for a while. Rather dumb. I fear the Hill has assaulted me severely and that I have lost many memories. The bird pauses again to rest. How are you Girard?
I am fine, the Frenchman replies. Much better for seeing you writing. Except that, well, I don't seem to be able to do anything -- his writing trails off abruptly, as he glances over his shoulder at the woman. She's watching their writing with obvious curiosity. He says something to her.
Horus looks up at the woman too. Without watching his writing he jots down the question, Who is she?
Girard exchanges a few sentence with her. The woman straightens and stops looking at the page, while the Frenchman gives a good-natured chuckle. He writes, Horus, this is Miss Townes. She's a nurse. Reverend Hale asked her to look in on us.
Horus peers at the woman carefully for a moment more before writing. I assume then that she is used to this- the bird pauses to gesture a wing at itself, -sort of behavior, and the reverend as well? Or perhaps she is victim to some sort of mental malady?
As Horus writes "reverend" he suddenly thinks the word sounds familair. Or, more precisely, the word touches on a memory that should be familiar. Reverend, reverend -- where has Horus seen a holy man recently?
She seems quite sane; I think she must be used to it. Most striking, is it not? Girard pauses to give Miss Townes an admiring glance.
A flash of memory: Girard kneeling with Horus on his shoulder, before another kneeling man in a priest's garb. Girard reached out to touch the other's arms ....
It is indeed striking, Horus writes. He peers at the woman again, feeling he may be missing something more, then decides he'd be better served by focusing on his memory and lets it go. Did we, by any chance, rescue this reverend?
Meanwhile, the young woman is laying her hands on the desk, regarding both the bird and the Frenchman with a serious look. Still, she fidgets a little, and it seems likely she's laid her hands out to keep from wringing her apron. She says something to Girard, who smiles again as he replies.
It would appear that we did, Horus. After all that, it would've been a great shame not to. Girard writes.
How is he? Horus inquires. I don't recall what happened.
Well enough to be worried about us, Girard writes. He glances at the woman again, who just stammered out a reply to him, and who is once again peering at their parchment. One moment, Horus.
Horus takes this time to put down his feather and relax his talon. All this writing makes his foot sore.
The falcon can tell, from Girard's inflection, that he's asking the woman questions. He looks unusually serious, while the woman shakes her head and seems uncertain.
Horus busies himself with watching the two, eyeing his feather/pen for the quality of his recent preening, and looking over his writing.
His feathers are in excellent condition, despite all that he's undergone recently. He remembers doing a good job of preening himself that morning.
The bird is comforted by his good preening. Even in a disaster he feels it's best to have perfect feathers. When he thinks of feathers he's suddenly reminded that Girard also likes to preen -- in his case for the women. This causes Horus to return his attention to Girard with an extra curious air.
Girard's somber expression seems even more at odds when contrasted with his usual manner with women. He does smile for the young lady at one point, making him look more normal. When he finishes speaking, he writes, "She's a Player. And she knows we are, too -- and don't scold me for that, Horus, it's not like I could pass for normal after she's seen this."
I rather suspected she was of some supernatural background and I would have been quite surprised if she wasn't involved in the Game, Horus writes. He gives the woman a good peering, then continues. What of the reverend?
I don't know for sure and neither does she, I daresay. But I suspect he Plays; why else would he have gone to the Hill? Girard writes, after nodding and responding to a speech from Miss. Townes.
Because the Hill is malevolent, Horus writes, simply.
So it is. But how many not Playing would know that? Girard sets his pen down as he says something to Townes, then he holds out his hand to her.
Horus thinks about that a moment before responding. The Hill is ancient. It is, after all, a hill, and it has been around a long time. Other investigators of the supernatural may have encountered outside of the Game. The bird looks up once he's done writing, curious to see what Girard is up to now.
Miss Townes looks at Girard's hand warily, and he lets it fall back to the table. They exchange a few more words, Girard looking sad and Miss Townes cautious and uncertain.
Suddenly getting an idea, Horus pulls free a clear slip of paper and writes, "He's a nice man, if he is rather fond of women -- you can hold his hand." Then Horus picks it up with his beak and shows it to Miss Townes.
The woman seems to consider whatever Girard's saying very carefulyy, then nods, a little jerkily. She speaks a whole bunch of words in a quick rush, and finally juts her hand out, offering to shake again. Girard smiles again at her, with genuine warmth, as he responds. He shakes her hand, firmly, as an equal. Then bows like the Frenchman that he is, turning her hand over to brushes a kiss over the air above her wrist.
Horus feels the whole exchange looked rather promissing. He isn't sure that his note helped -- and in hindsight isn't even sure she can read it -- but he at least feels like he's contributing again. If his contribution is jibberish, well, at least he's catching up in that department.
Miss Townes murmurs her reply, finally allowing herself a smile. She gives a nod to the bird -- it doesn't look like she missed his note. With that, the woman gathers up her doctor's bag, and shuffles to the door.
Horus drops his note so that he can scribble, "Good day," on it before picking it back up and showing the woman.
After showing her to the door, Girard looks down to see what Horus has been writing. All right, fair enough, Girard writes, in answer to the main parchment. I still think he's a Player, though. He's even -- He stops, finally spotting the paper that Horus had written the 'nice man' note on. Horus! I cannot believe you wrote that! he writes, staring in amazement.
Horus looks at his note again. He puts it down and adds, It was quite easy to write.