Work Text:
The gardens are pristine.
Every seed was planted by hand all those years ago, when the very first elves set foot in what would be Aberavon. They had fled the Old Kingdom with seeds in their pockets and clasped in their hands, those first Ilphekiirs, trees and flowers yet-to-be close to their breasts and kept warm through the winter there. This place is the promise of their ancestors: we will make this a home.
Only the hardiest survived the journey, Arywin knows, and most of the gardens now are plants of this plane. Flowers taller than they are reach for the sunbeams; vines weave between the branches of their home, fortresses against the wind; their favourites, the golden lilies, float contentedly in the rainwater pond.
Make it a home they did. The trees their grandparents planted, the branches they shaped when they were green, have grown into a palace. Arywin has spent endless hours of lessons here, whether with a sword or a book or a lute in hand. They have played with their siblings here; they have learned to shape the branches. Near the pond is what will be a bench. One day.
The dead-eyed stare of the splayed-out bird does not belong here.
How it died, Arywin could not guess. It only sits, now, its wings outstretched as though in flight and bent as though in convulsion. It has fallen right into the berry bushes Lysanthir planted when they were small, and it has taken unripe buds with it.
It has to have been here for several days at least. Its deep iridescent feathers have disconnected from its wings - wings that are only exposed bone and meat. Something has eaten at it. Now - now, right before their eyes - six-legged creatures crawl through what had been its stomach. And still, its one eye, pointed towards the canopy above, stares.
It reeks.
They retch.
Then, they keen.
A terrible, high-pitched wail comes from airless lungs. Their hands come over their eyes too quickly - something will bruise - and they stumble, fall back. The ankle-high clover their ancestors carried catches them, softens the fall, but it is their soul that aches. Tears well; their breaths come shallowly.
Somebody must have been watching. Their governor (they have not yet outgrown this, Aerith more than had by their age, but their parents are so reluctant to let their last baby grow) rushes to their side. They are saying something - are you all right, Your Highness?
“I.” Their voice is high and wet. They swallow; weeping will not convince anyone of their independence. “I am. …There is - “ (here, they point towards the bushes), “ - something to be cleaned.”
They do not spare another glance to the bushes or the bird within as they are helped to their feet. They choke back their tears, chin jutted, until they are alone in their room.
The night is spent with their lute, playing scales and arpeggios to perfection. Each note is crisp; each chord is pristine. They do not attend dinner.
In the morning, the bird is gone.