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Arid skies marbled with dark weight. A pattern which swallowed the surface and summoned white horses. And then, like the ricochet of an oxygen-rich explosion, the wall of pressure flooded the barren dock, groped at the heavy fabric of his coats, his hair, knocked his hat into the sea too, although that wasn’t a terrible loss. An absolutely frigid gale, a welcome choir followed by a sprinkling of dainty crystals dancing from rolling clouds. A slow, intermittent flurry, a squall, a blizzard. Body heat warred with the unnatural temperatures, fogged up his goggles, left them speckled with condensed droplets.
His sleeves, not ideal for absorbing fluids, smeared the vapor around to create a smudged, translucent portal of reality. Although, as those talons clattered to the glossed wooden surface, claws carving into grain, Gladius wasn’t entirely sure reality was what stood before him.
It was certainly Monet. Monet beckoned tempests upon hearts everywhere she went. But the height, the triple-jointed legs, those massive feathered wings which ruffled about with her graceless dismount. A brief battle for balance before her bearings befell her. Along with flashy attire, she wore a flush when their eyes met. The only remainder of the woman he bid a shallow farewell to nearly two years ago.
With her full composure now intact, Monet rolled her neck, ruffling out her full, wind-tousled waves, far longer than the cut she had when they parted ways. Her talons clicked along the dock irregularly when she limped closer, and as he drew his gaze down to those rather unsightly feet, he found the bottle there, the scroll, sealed and plugged up safely within thick, frosted glass.
She drew to a pause before him. A deep flutter of feathers. Raised her leg. Without a word, still, she offered him the bottle, maintaining her uneasy balance with outstretched wings.
He hadn’t intended to pale, or to grimace, or to lean away in disgust. This just wasn’t right. This was, it was too much, it wasn’t Monet, where was Monet, what had happened to Monet? Where did these parts come from? Where were her parts? Was she hurt? Was she wounded in battle? Was this some sort of mad science experiment, from that mad clown, the mad clown who got her into this mess in the first place?
The marksman stood stone-frozen. Her offer went denied, though accidentally. Monet lowered her leg and glanced away. And that pretty, that gorgeous, bashful smile from earlier shifted to something somber, something tragic. With a flap and a hobbled hop, she left the bottle there, on the edge of the dock. Her blizzard carried on, and if the waves kept arguing with the unsettled temperatures, they’d roll up over the planks and swallow that confidential message whole.
“It was nice seeing you again, Gladius.”
With an impressive leap, Monet caught air. Gladius’s lungs lurched to his throat. There was no goodbye last time. Last time they stood in the sunflower fields with both her arms and legs and she gave him a bouquet, and she thanked him for his companionship. He fell speechless then, lost in the reflection of the flowers in her eyes.
Was he going to lose that chance again? Just because she didn’t look the same as some old, bitter memory?
His gut forced him to call out just at the ripest moment, just as her back was turned. She paused, maintaining her space midair with wintery bellows and strong arms. “It’s…it’s nice seeing you again, too.”
She smiled. It was something soft and gentle, sure, something she spared him with time and time again, but it wasn’t her brightest grin. It wasn’t that eye-crinkling, gum-revealing beam that always set his heart aflutter. Cold as ever, perhaps, Gladius had nothing more to add. Mind vacant as to what to do, what to say to bring her back, even if for a moment, just one moment.
She spared him twice when she turned around. And she landed on the dock again, and those feet, her feet, clicked past that bottle. This time, he didn’t back away, or look away, or stare on in bewilderment. The height difference between them wasn’t so drastic anymore, especially when she stretched those bizarre legs and folded those massive wings around him.
The softest embrace of his life, and he couldn’t feel a thing. Only the cold, and the haunting pressure of what was left, what was familiar. A soft brush of lips and humid breath printed there over one side of his mask.
Silently, feathers drew away. Warmth flooded his mind, his skeleton. And then, with a forgiving echo of the laugh he fell in love with, Monet bowed her head in shame. “I’ve left feathers in your hair.”
Warm enough to move, Gladius raked through his hair, tugging two of the downy contours from stiff gel. They really were a lovely shade of white, a glimmering lemon-lime iridescence towards the tip. “Where did…how…?”
When his head raised to address her, Monet’s expression settled to something distant. “A skilled doctor on Punk Hazard.” Stepping back, she nudged the bottle towards the officer, tipping it over with still-clumsy toes before it rolled his way, instead. Gladius caught it under the heel of his boot. “I think you two would get along. Perhaps one day soon, we’ll have a moment’s reprieve to…spend some time together.”
Paranoid the ice and snow would snag the bottle away before he could get to it, Gladius made haste to tuck it into his coat. Drop-off successful. The bottle was under the Family’s possession now and she turned to leave, seeing as her job was completed.
Once more, he called her name. She hadn’t taken flight yet. She looked over her shoulder and the question came easy enough, with how much his heart longed for that ghost of a smile. “Are you happy?”
The wind whipped up again. “Happy as ever, Gladius. I’ve always wanted to fly.” She launched herself from the dock and twirled around to face the land-bound marksman. “In case we never meet again, I’ll thank you again.”
“I—no, Monet, but I didn’t—”
“But I have faith that won’t be the case. Don’t you?”
“Y-Yes, of course, but if it isn’t…”
Expecting to be interrupted, he paused. Nothing came. Monet listened on with an eager heart and a flowery gaze.
“Thank you. I wanted to thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. My work isn’t finished.”
A whirl of frozen air rippled between them and then, she was soaring. The unstable currents provided her the perfect beat to stay aloft, carrying her into the towering clouds she casted. It was only a matter of seconds before she glided out of sight. Before the blizzard fell to a squall, to a flurry. Left the air warm and arid.
Distantly, civilians in Balsa celebrated the strange snowstorm. The feathers between Gladius’s fingers trembled so he tucked them away. Fixed his grasp around that confidential message in a bottle. His work wasn’t finished yet, either.
And it never will be. If only I had the heart to tell her it never will be.