This is my entry for Kestrad's raffle. This story has been fueled by my feelings of nostalgia and melancholy of these past few days. I am in the progress of writing more, and this chapter is really starting to look more like a prologue in comparison by now. Past tense might work better for this story, but turns out converting to it was more difficult for me than I thought, so it shall stay like it currently is. Hope you enjoy!
(Apologies for any spelling mistakes, improper grammar and such; English is not my first language and I have difficulty reading and writing in general. I reread my writings several times beforehand, though there is alwas a chance something slips through; I hope it won’t be too distracting if so. Critique and comments are welcome, I’m not really that experienced of a writer so advice how to improve would be helpful!)
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The fate of many things that I wanted to keep hold of, but didn’t explicitly need, were to end up stashed in my increasingly disorganized bookshelf and to be swiftly forgotten about. In the middle of my attempt to bring some form of order to it, I pull out a mysterious journal from underneath all the others that had a dozen notes sticking out of it, when from among them a stray piece of paper floats to the floor. I kneel to pick it up, feeling a twinge of pain in my knee. I look at the note and squint, then pull out a chair to sit on as I try to decipher what the haphazard doodle was supposed to represent. Is it a rabbit? Or a cat? Perhaps it could be a duck after all? I tried to remember when I scribbled this, but my mind drew a blank.
Opening the notebook from which it fell from, I find countless sketches and notes that I made back when I was still at the beginning of my journey to become a magi. Charts of species crossbreeding, marked down birthdays, name ideas with a dozen crossed out- all of them sounding familiar. On the edges of the pages I had doodled various critters, and I could tell what my mood had been at the time depending on the style of the drawings: for pleasant matters, there were pictures of jackalopes surrounded by flowers and mischievous winged cats adorning the edges, and if the subject had been more troublesome, my feelings of frustration were clear with all of the snarling direwolves ready to take a bite out of you and the furious dragons breathing fire all over the paper. Seeing the drawings brings forth old memories and resurfaces feelings of joy from long past, how simple things were back then.
I don’t know how much time had passed as I sat there, having become stuck on the chair reminiscing. I thought I had thrown out all of these remains ages ago, but looks like this one book managed to survive. Picking up the stray doodle again and placing it back where I thought it fell from, I close the book and glance toward my dresser, remembering something else that had remained. Rummaging through the drawer, I come upon it, just where I left it all those years ago: hidden underneath all of the clutter was a key, covered in flecks of rust all over. This is where I had put it to keep it safe, so I could return some day if I so desired. Today was going to be that day.
Closing the little cottage’s door behind me, walking stick in tow, I set on my journey. It doesn’t all that long for me to be able to see the towers of the castle already peek from behind the hills.
Holding the key in my hand, I stand in front of the familiar door. I hesitate for just a fleeting moment, a trace of uncertainty in my mind still, before fitting the key into the lock. The rusty door creaks open just as easily as ever despite the passing of time, the motion making dust long settled float back up into the air. I take a moment to just stand there in the doorway and observe the room. On the left wall is a window letting in the last rays of sunlight of the day through the clouded screens. Underneath it is a writing table, on top of it papers strewn about, a quill in a dried pot of ink along with some withered flowers in a vase. Against the right wall there is a wicker basket with a cushion covered in pet hair, a couple of makeshift toys scattered on the floor nearby. At the back there is a bed accompanied by a nightstand with an empty fish bowl. Everything looks to be just where I left them.
Looking down at my feet, I notice a couple of untouched letters. Picking them up, wincing from pain as I do so, I open one. It’s a letter from an old friend wishing me happy birthday, asking how I had been and was everything alright. The other is similar, also mentioning how I had been looking for a new direwolf companion and offering me a puppy from her upcoming litter. The twinge I feel in my chest far surpasses my physical pain. Sniffling, I go place the letters on the desk, deciding to look through the papers a bit later when my vision wouldn’t be so blurred.
I go pick up the toys on the floor so I wouldn’t step on them. I remember making these for my winged cat. She was always so playful, though she also enjoyed destroying things. But I didn’t mind replenishing these every so often, for me they were fun to craft, and as long as she had a stuffed mouse to practice hunting with or some feathers to bat at at the end of a string, she did not mind how they looked. But she was a good cat, did not bother the koi at all and just enjoyed watching the fish swim in their bowl before they had grown big enough to be placed in the pond outside. I really wish she was still here.
Once I had gathered the toys neatly next to the basket, I walk over to the bed and sit to examine the fish bowl. I remember trying to thoroughly scrub this clean so many times, but never got it looking as pristine as when I first got it. The calcification was especially stubborn to get rid of, and algae was always staining the glass green. I remember why I stopped using this, moving on to raise the koi all outside instead. But I have fond memories of this bowl nevertheless, how excited I was to get my very first egg and checking on it multiple times a day to see how close it was to hatching. Keeping koi was always a pleasure, so humble and easy to take care of. Full of personality too, despite what others often thought of fishes- I knew each one by name and learned their quirks. I wish people appreciated them more.
Sighing, I grab the edge of the nightstand for support and stand up, slowly walking over to the desk again. I grab a seat and sit down, looking through what I had written on the papers, blowing them clean of dust. Most of them were notes for my own little shop I set up long ago. Inventory, number of successful sales, a list of orders, some that I never managed to deliver. I had so many grand plans and high hopes, when I was still young and idealistic. In the end it was a failed business especially to be managed all on my own, and I shut it down. I swept the remains of my failure aside, uncovering a journal from beneath them. Curious, I picked it up and started flipping through it, finding anatomical studies and detailed descriptions of behavioral patterns. A series of images depicting the morphology of gryphons, a drawn sequence of a pegasus taking off, a small diary of my journey to the jungle of Raza to study creatures in their natural habitat. But the book is far from filled, I flip through the pages only to find them empty. There would have been so much room for more, how I could have improved. These animals never stopped fascinating me, but I wish I kept up my studies of them. Sighing in melancholy, I crack open the window to let in some fresh air.
Another sketchbook catches my eye, finding inside countless drawings of my own pets. I was always delighted to pick up the pencil to immortalize my companions on paper. Words were unnecessary to describe what each one of my animal friends was like when I could relay so much more about their personality and growth in pictures. The book is like a journal of the day to day life of living alongside each other. The day I got my direwolf pup is filled with depictions of its cute antics, and how he and my cat learned to get along. I have documented the growth of my old koi friend carefully, taking notes of the development of his markings, especially the prominent blue line on the back that was an easy way to tell him apart from the others. And of course there are drawings of my gryphon friend, the building of mutual trust culminating to the first time we took to the skies together. The memories feel so distant now... As I continue looking through, there is a noticeable growth in my skills, but also a change in the feeling of the drawings as I turn the pages. There is a portrait of my winged cat, eyes cloudy, muzzle greyed. The day I fell off the gryphon’s back, neither my leg nor our bond was ever the same again. And finally, I come upon a picture of a sleeping wolf. The day I drew this would turn out to be the last where I would have him by my side, before he’d leave on his final journey on his own, never to be seen again. My hope for his return waned as weeks turned to months, months to years. Slowly I came to the understanding that the reason for his departure was to find his final resting place out there. A tear falls and soaks into the paper. I wipe it away, not wanting to ruin the drawing.
My ears pick up a noise which I first assume to be just the wind. But the sound is repetitive, and growing in volume: I realize it is no breeze after all, it is the beating of wings that I hear. Looking out of the window, I briefly catch a glimpse of a floating form before it disappears from my line of sight. Its looks did not match anything I had ever seen before. My old inquisitive self raises its head, needing to get a closer look to identify it.
Past tense might work better for this story, but turns out converting to it was more difficult for me than I thought, so it shall stay like it currently is. Hope you enjoy!
12th of Jan
