sparrow through the heart
Told you I was working on this! Now we get the sparrow's point of view.
Part One
Flit woke up slowly and blinked bleary eyes. His head hurt and hello, his arm really hurt. Really, really hurt. Now that the fogginess was fading the throbbing in his arm intensified as if to say, Hi! I’m so glad you’re awake! Pay attention to me now!
He winced and used his good hand to rub the crusty sleep from his eyes. He didn’t know where he was and he turned his head slowly to take in his surroundings. He wasn’t inside the belly of an irate griffin: that was probably good, since it had been a distinct possibility from what he last remembered. But he was naked and in pain in a strange bed. That was probably bad.
The room was furnished simply, almost spartanly: a single oak dresser stood under a plain, unadorned window; beside the bed, a small utilitarian nightstand painted drab olive held a pitcher and a glass of water; the bed he was laying in - he turned to see the headboard - was the same boring oak as the dresser. The walls were beige. The interior designer in Flit’s soul shuddered: he was in the ugliest hospital room ever.
He looked at the glass of water and decided that whoever had put it there was either cruel or stupid. The glass and dresser were on his left side; his left arm was wrapped and holstered in a rather snug sling. He tried to curl over and use his right arm to reach for the water but a burst of bright pain through his injured arm stopped him.
He gritted his teeth and stared at the glass of water. The glass of water stared back, mocking him.
Finally, he gave up trying to levitate the glass with his mind and sunk back into the pillow, sighing heavily as he gazed blankly at the ceiling. He tried to puzzle out how to get up from the bed without jostling his arm or moving at all, actually, and wondered what had happened to the horrible griffin from yesterday.
As though summoned, the door opened and the griffin walked in. He looked startled to see Flit awake.
“So you didn’t die,” the griffin said flatly, sounding disappointed. He’d changed out of the dusty flying clothes he’d worn yesterday into what looked like slightly less dusty flying clothes: a leather wind jacket with griffin sigils etched on the sleeves, a heavy cotton shirt, and worn leather trousers. He had a large, dark bruise around his eye.
Flit bristled. “I would’ve made sure to shit on the sheets before I did.”
The griffin’s lip curled. Flit didn’t like to admit it, but it was a very attractive lip; something about its slightly cruel shape went well with the griffin’s heavy, winged eyebrows. “Want another broken arm?”
“Not particularly,” Flit said, settling down. For the moment, the pain in his arm made him rethink which battles were worthwhile. Taking on two hundred pounds of enraged griffin while injured and half-immobilized was likely not one.
The griffin scowled. “Fine. Since you didn’t die from shock or blood loss, get out of my house.”
Flit’s eyes widened. He was in the griffin’s house? Bright Feathery Mother, this sort of room didn’t look like it belonged in a home; it was suited to a prison cell or a hospital ward. No wonder the griffin was such a crow’s ass: if this was his idea of home décor, he obviously had no poetry or beauty in his soul.
Once more, Flit took in the state of the room and its stony-faced occupant and decided it was probably his job to save the stupid griffin from himself. The Feathery Mother worked in mysterious ways.
“I’ll need a glass of water first,” he announced. “I still feel very faint.”
“There’s water right next to you,” the griffin snarled, hunching his shoulders.
“Yes,” Flit said. “There is. And it looks very nice sitting there in that glass just out of reach of my broken arm. Why didn’t I think of that?” He didn’t think the griffin would slaughter him and risk soiling his horrid, boring sheets, so it was probably safe to mock him from the bed.
Something briefly like shame crossed the griffin’s face and he went red, stalking over to the bed and shoving the glass of water into Flit’s uninjured right hand.
Flit was surprised. So the griffin hadn’t been cruel - just thoughtless. He took a sip of water, grateful for the cool slide down his parched throat, and thought about yesterday as he watched the griffin move across the room and glare out the window, his back to Flit.
The griffin had been angry at something more than him and already sporting a black eye when they met. Flit was dying to know what the story was. He was a sparrow, after all, and sparrows were notorious gossips. They were even worse than nightingales.
He came to a decision. It was probably a bad decision.
“Thank you,” he said, calmly sipping at his water. “Now I’d also like one of your flight feathers.”
The griffin whirled around; his reaction didn’t disappoint. “What?” he growled, low and deadly, as he flexed his fingers. Flit eyed the clawed tips nervously.
“Well,” he said reasonably. “I get to request some sort of recompense. You attacked a shifter and caused them grievous bodily harm. Lasting grievous bodily harm, I might add - I shall probably scar, I have very delicate skin. Anyway, that’s a violation of article two of the Flight Covenant and you can be stripped of your wings.” Flit almost winced as he mentioned it - it was quite a literal punishment.
The griffin blanched. The thickheaded hulk had obviously never considered this. Flit would have felt sorry for him if his arm weren’t broken. Instead, he felt quietly gleeful.
“I didn’t - I didn’t know you were a shifter,” the griffin defended, his eyes darting around the room like he was pleading with an invisible jury.
Flit shrugged. “I’m sure the Council would take that into consideration when deciding your punishment. If they find out about this,” he added, examining the fingernails on his right hand.
The griffin paled further, making his gray-green eyes look wide and luminous. Then his expression quickly darkened: his face flushed dull red as his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows crashed together. It was fascinating to watch, like a sudden thunderstorm, beautiful but dangerous and time to step away from the windows and seek shelter.
“You’re blackmailing me?” the griffin asked.
“What’s a little blackmail between friends?” Flit grinned cheerfully.
“For how long?” The griffin’s voice was flat, like the calm before a storm.
“How long will it take my arm to heal?”
“Weeks. Or months,” the griffin replied hollowly.
“Well, then,” Flit said. “Until I’m well, I know I’ll need ever so much help functioning with a broken arm. I’m Flit, by the way. A flight feather, if you please.”
The griffin’s expression twisted into something terrible; frustration and rage and perhaps even a touch of fear all warred across his handsome face. He snarled and shifted into his full form, his tail lashing back and forth. His huge shape nearly filled the room.
Flit had only seen griffins from a distance before; he wished he could have lived on in ignorance. The griffin was enormous. Muscles rippled under his pale gold fur - the color might almost be called white-blond - but his mane, the long ruff of fur and feathers down his back, his wings, and his tail were all a darker, honeyed hue. Flit could see scars all over the griffin’s body: most of the scars looked fairly shallow but a handful were ugly, painful things, some like deep gouges and others mottled and raised above the fur in knots.
The griffin prowled closer and snapped out his wing. The rush of air hit Flit in the face, and the griffin’s expression dared him to yank out a flight feather. Flit could never resist a dare.
The griffin roared and shifted back to human form, nearly crashing against the bed. He cradled his hand; the nail on the pinky finger was gone and the raw, oozing wound bled sluggishly.
Flit gaped. He didn’t know it hurt to lose a flight feather. His stomach felt a little queasy as he looked at the blood on the griffin's fingers.
“Happy?” the griffin hissed. “You have the damn feather so you have my servitude until your arm is healed.”
“Why do I suddenly feel like you’re going to break it again as soon as it’s better?” Flit mused.
The griffin bared his teeth; they were white and even and slightly pointed.
“So,” Flit said brightly, grasping at anything he could think of. “What’s your name?”
The griffin glared at him, still cradling his hand, and turned and stalked from the room.
----
Two weeks. Flit blew out a breath that ruffled the hair falling into his eyes and stepped back to survey his work. It’d been hard going with only one hand, but he’d worked all through the night and finished before the griffin arrived.
The griffin wasn’t talking to him anymore. He still didn’t know the stupid man’s name; he just brought food three times a day and let Flit roam the small house (it was as utterly boring and uninviting as the bedroom) and refused to engage Flit in conversation of any sort.
Well. Flit was a resourceful sparrow. He’d thought of a plan. It wasn’t elaborate, as far as plans went, but it was attention-getting.
He squinted one eye and studied the walls. It’d do.
The door opened, right on cue for breakfast, and Flit didn’t have to turn around to see the expression on the griffin’s face. The way the footsteps abruptly stopped and a tray crashed to the ground behind him told him all he needed to know.
“What did you do?” the griffin said, his voice balanced somewhere between an anguished howl and numb disbelief.
“I painted,” Flit said, turning to bestow a perky smile on the griffin. “It looked dreadful in here.”
“It’s - it’s - it’s -” The griffin stuttered like a broken record, unable to finish his words. He turned in a slow, horrified circle and took in the changes around the room.
“Cozy? Charming?” Flit offered.
The griffin fixed furious eyes on him. “Pink.”
“It’s not pink,” Flit said. “It’s rose with accents of biscotti crème, misty forest meadow, and midnight umber for a touch of masculinity. I had to have the paint specially delivered.”
“It’s pink. It’s awful. Paint it back.”
“No,” Flit said. He took the flight feather out of his pocket and twirled it around his fingers, watching the griffin’s eyes as they followed the feather’s movements. “I rather like it. I might even redo the whole house.”
“You’re not touching my house,” the griffin said with a terrible growl. Flit wondered if they were more territorial about their nest spaces than other birds. Oh well. He was calling the shots right now.
“Really?” he asked. He ran his fingers pointedly down the flight feather and brought it up to brush lightly over his lips, giving the griffin a small, haughty smile.
The griffin flushed from his thick neck to his honey-colored hair. He knew Flit had won and he looked pissed as hell. It was wonderful to see. Flit decided to test how far he could go.
“I wonder if your nest could use a few new twigs,” he said thoughtfully.
“No.” The griffin’s expression was thunderous.
“Do you really have a choice?”
That was clearly the feather that broke the griffin’s back. The griffin launched himself across the room with a roar and tackled Flit to the ground. Flit let out a pained oof as his back hit the floor and the movement jostled his injured arm, sending waves of pain radiating up to his jaw.
The griffin perched on his chest, grabbed a handful of Flit’s hair, and slammed his head to the floor. “Don’t. Touch. My. Nest.” He punctuated each word with a head slam.
Flit saw stars and tiny birds swim across his vision in dizzying circles and he felt like he was going to be sick. If the griffin gave him a concussion he was going to redecorate his stupid room next and paint it neon orange.
“All right, all right, I'll leave it alone!” he exclaimed. “Now get off of me, you crazed, barbaric beast!”
The griffin rolled off and sat next to Flit, breathing heavily. Flit stayed flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t care what the griffin thought - the new colors were very soothing.
“You said you’d give my feather back when your arm was healed,” the griffin said after several silent minutes.
“Yes,” Flit replied slowly. He tried to keep his tone low and non-threatening so the crazy wild animal would not attack him.
“You could have other injuries that heal before your arm does. Bruises fade pretty fast. And a broken nose would heal about the same time as your arm.”
Flint sat up. “Is that your ham-handed way of threatening me?” he asked. “I have to tell you, it lacks elegance. Physical violence is the tool of the witless and the unimaginative.”
“I hate to break it to you,” the griffin said, “but physical violence has won a lot of fights. And wars.”
“Is this a war?” Flit asked, amused.
The griffin looked away, his lips tightening into a thin line that said yes. “No,” he bit out. “That would be stupid. I just want to get my feather back so I can fly. That’s kind of important to me. It’s what I do.”
Flint rubbed the back of his head, frowning. “I can assure you, smacking my head against the floor will not get your feather back any sooner.”
“No, but it’s fun.”
“I’m sure it is,” Flit snorted. Now it was obvious why every other bird he knew stayed away from griffins. It was because they were violent and insane and had no fashion sense. “Don’t you have any other hobbies besides brutalizing innocent birds?”
The griffin smiled fiercely, his gray-green eyes icy and hot at the same time. “No. It’s my job.”
Something about his tone sparked Flit’s curiosity. This was the first time the griffin had exchanged more than a few words with him in weeks and Flit wanted to keep him talking.
“Oh?” he said. “What is your job, exactly? I haven’t seen you head out to the office since I’ve been here.”
“I’m a Beakbreaker,” the griffin said. “So I can’t go to work until I can fly.”
Flit rolled his eyes heavenward. A beakbreaker. No wonder the griffin was such an awful featherfuck - he was a legal bully. Beakbreakers: the nasty, vicious, and very effective Sky Patrol special forces.
“Won’t they wonder where you are?” he asked.
The griffin shrugged. “No. I told them I was taking a holiday.”
“You had enough vacation time to take a two month holiday?”
The griffin scowled. “I don’t usually take holidays, so yeah.”
“No, you probably like your job too much to go home,” Flit muttered.
The griffin shoved his shoulder, hard, and Flit went sideways with a squawk. “Would you stop that?!” He righted himself and rubbed at the elbow on his uninjured right arm. His formerly uninjured right arm.
“Is that why you won’t tell me your name? Air security purposes?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” the griffin said.
“Well, in a way, that’s part of my job,” Flit replied.
The griffin raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know it was a big deal. It’s Talon. My name,” he clarified. “Why, what do you do?”
“Talon?” Flit said. “Your name is Talon? As in, an object used to clutch prey and rend open their soft underbellies? Of course your name is Talon - what am I thinking? But why not Ripper or Shredder or I-eat-small-hatchlings-for-breakfast?”
“That last one takes too long to sign,” Talon replied evenly. There might have been a hint of dark amusement lingering around his mouth, hiding just at the corners.
Flit coughed to cover his laugh. “Careful, I might think you had a personality hidden somewhere in there.” He waved his hand in a wide gesture that sketched the edges of Talon’s broad shoulders.
Talon cuffed him casually on the back of the head. “Shut up, sparrow.”
Flit rubbed the crown of his head. Stupid, violent griffin.
“What do you do?” Talon asked again. “Aren’t you worried about missing work, too?”
“Oh, no,” Flit said. “I work for the newspaper. I do most of my work from home. I just sent a messenger pigeon to the office and had my things brought here.” He indicated the large pile of papers scattered across the new cherry wood desk he’d installed in the room.
“You’re a reporter?” Talon asked. He didn’t sound impressed.
“Not exactly,” Flit replied. “I write the advice column.”
Talon looked abruptly, and worryingly, furious. “What?” His voice was a thick, distorted growl.
----
Part Three
Part One
Flit woke up slowly and blinked bleary eyes. His head hurt and hello, his arm really hurt. Really, really hurt. Now that the fogginess was fading the throbbing in his arm intensified as if to say, Hi! I’m so glad you’re awake! Pay attention to me now!
He winced and used his good hand to rub the crusty sleep from his eyes. He didn’t know where he was and he turned his head slowly to take in his surroundings. He wasn’t inside the belly of an irate griffin: that was probably good, since it had been a distinct possibility from what he last remembered. But he was naked and in pain in a strange bed. That was probably bad.
The room was furnished simply, almost spartanly: a single oak dresser stood under a plain, unadorned window; beside the bed, a small utilitarian nightstand painted drab olive held a pitcher and a glass of water; the bed he was laying in - he turned to see the headboard - was the same boring oak as the dresser. The walls were beige. The interior designer in Flit’s soul shuddered: he was in the ugliest hospital room ever.
He looked at the glass of water and decided that whoever had put it there was either cruel or stupid. The glass and dresser were on his left side; his left arm was wrapped and holstered in a rather snug sling. He tried to curl over and use his right arm to reach for the water but a burst of bright pain through his injured arm stopped him.
He gritted his teeth and stared at the glass of water. The glass of water stared back, mocking him.
Finally, he gave up trying to levitate the glass with his mind and sunk back into the pillow, sighing heavily as he gazed blankly at the ceiling. He tried to puzzle out how to get up from the bed without jostling his arm or moving at all, actually, and wondered what had happened to the horrible griffin from yesterday.
As though summoned, the door opened and the griffin walked in. He looked startled to see Flit awake.
“So you didn’t die,” the griffin said flatly, sounding disappointed. He’d changed out of the dusty flying clothes he’d worn yesterday into what looked like slightly less dusty flying clothes: a leather wind jacket with griffin sigils etched on the sleeves, a heavy cotton shirt, and worn leather trousers. He had a large, dark bruise around his eye.
Flit bristled. “I would’ve made sure to shit on the sheets before I did.”
The griffin’s lip curled. Flit didn’t like to admit it, but it was a very attractive lip; something about its slightly cruel shape went well with the griffin’s heavy, winged eyebrows. “Want another broken arm?”
“Not particularly,” Flit said, settling down. For the moment, the pain in his arm made him rethink which battles were worthwhile. Taking on two hundred pounds of enraged griffin while injured and half-immobilized was likely not one.
The griffin scowled. “Fine. Since you didn’t die from shock or blood loss, get out of my house.”
Flit’s eyes widened. He was in the griffin’s house? Bright Feathery Mother, this sort of room didn’t look like it belonged in a home; it was suited to a prison cell or a hospital ward. No wonder the griffin was such a crow’s ass: if this was his idea of home décor, he obviously had no poetry or beauty in his soul.
Once more, Flit took in the state of the room and its stony-faced occupant and decided it was probably his job to save the stupid griffin from himself. The Feathery Mother worked in mysterious ways.
“I’ll need a glass of water first,” he announced. “I still feel very faint.”
“There’s water right next to you,” the griffin snarled, hunching his shoulders.
“Yes,” Flit said. “There is. And it looks very nice sitting there in that glass just out of reach of my broken arm. Why didn’t I think of that?” He didn’t think the griffin would slaughter him and risk soiling his horrid, boring sheets, so it was probably safe to mock him from the bed.
Something briefly like shame crossed the griffin’s face and he went red, stalking over to the bed and shoving the glass of water into Flit’s uninjured right hand.
Flit was surprised. So the griffin hadn’t been cruel - just thoughtless. He took a sip of water, grateful for the cool slide down his parched throat, and thought about yesterday as he watched the griffin move across the room and glare out the window, his back to Flit.
The griffin had been angry at something more than him and already sporting a black eye when they met. Flit was dying to know what the story was. He was a sparrow, after all, and sparrows were notorious gossips. They were even worse than nightingales.
He came to a decision. It was probably a bad decision.
“Thank you,” he said, calmly sipping at his water. “Now I’d also like one of your flight feathers.”
The griffin whirled around; his reaction didn’t disappoint. “What?” he growled, low and deadly, as he flexed his fingers. Flit eyed the clawed tips nervously.
“Well,” he said reasonably. “I get to request some sort of recompense. You attacked a shifter and caused them grievous bodily harm. Lasting grievous bodily harm, I might add - I shall probably scar, I have very delicate skin. Anyway, that’s a violation of article two of the Flight Covenant and you can be stripped of your wings.” Flit almost winced as he mentioned it - it was quite a literal punishment.
The griffin blanched. The thickheaded hulk had obviously never considered this. Flit would have felt sorry for him if his arm weren’t broken. Instead, he felt quietly gleeful.
“I didn’t - I didn’t know you were a shifter,” the griffin defended, his eyes darting around the room like he was pleading with an invisible jury.
Flit shrugged. “I’m sure the Council would take that into consideration when deciding your punishment. If they find out about this,” he added, examining the fingernails on his right hand.
The griffin paled further, making his gray-green eyes look wide and luminous. Then his expression quickly darkened: his face flushed dull red as his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows crashed together. It was fascinating to watch, like a sudden thunderstorm, beautiful but dangerous and time to step away from the windows and seek shelter.
“You’re blackmailing me?” the griffin asked.
“What’s a little blackmail between friends?” Flit grinned cheerfully.
“For how long?” The griffin’s voice was flat, like the calm before a storm.
“How long will it take my arm to heal?”
“Weeks. Or months,” the griffin replied hollowly.
“Well, then,” Flit said. “Until I’m well, I know I’ll need ever so much help functioning with a broken arm. I’m Flit, by the way. A flight feather, if you please.”
The griffin’s expression twisted into something terrible; frustration and rage and perhaps even a touch of fear all warred across his handsome face. He snarled and shifted into his full form, his tail lashing back and forth. His huge shape nearly filled the room.
Flit had only seen griffins from a distance before; he wished he could have lived on in ignorance. The griffin was enormous. Muscles rippled under his pale gold fur - the color might almost be called white-blond - but his mane, the long ruff of fur and feathers down his back, his wings, and his tail were all a darker, honeyed hue. Flit could see scars all over the griffin’s body: most of the scars looked fairly shallow but a handful were ugly, painful things, some like deep gouges and others mottled and raised above the fur in knots.
The griffin prowled closer and snapped out his wing. The rush of air hit Flit in the face, and the griffin’s expression dared him to yank out a flight feather. Flit could never resist a dare.
The griffin roared and shifted back to human form, nearly crashing against the bed. He cradled his hand; the nail on the pinky finger was gone and the raw, oozing wound bled sluggishly.
Flit gaped. He didn’t know it hurt to lose a flight feather. His stomach felt a little queasy as he looked at the blood on the griffin's fingers.
“Happy?” the griffin hissed. “You have the damn feather so you have my servitude until your arm is healed.”
“Why do I suddenly feel like you’re going to break it again as soon as it’s better?” Flit mused.
The griffin bared his teeth; they were white and even and slightly pointed.
“So,” Flit said brightly, grasping at anything he could think of. “What’s your name?”
The griffin glared at him, still cradling his hand, and turned and stalked from the room.
----
Two weeks. Flit blew out a breath that ruffled the hair falling into his eyes and stepped back to survey his work. It’d been hard going with only one hand, but he’d worked all through the night and finished before the griffin arrived.
The griffin wasn’t talking to him anymore. He still didn’t know the stupid man’s name; he just brought food three times a day and let Flit roam the small house (it was as utterly boring and uninviting as the bedroom) and refused to engage Flit in conversation of any sort.
Well. Flit was a resourceful sparrow. He’d thought of a plan. It wasn’t elaborate, as far as plans went, but it was attention-getting.
He squinted one eye and studied the walls. It’d do.
The door opened, right on cue for breakfast, and Flit didn’t have to turn around to see the expression on the griffin’s face. The way the footsteps abruptly stopped and a tray crashed to the ground behind him told him all he needed to know.
“What did you do?” the griffin said, his voice balanced somewhere between an anguished howl and numb disbelief.
“I painted,” Flit said, turning to bestow a perky smile on the griffin. “It looked dreadful in here.”
“It’s - it’s - it’s -” The griffin stuttered like a broken record, unable to finish his words. He turned in a slow, horrified circle and took in the changes around the room.
“Cozy? Charming?” Flit offered.
The griffin fixed furious eyes on him. “Pink.”
“It’s not pink,” Flit said. “It’s rose with accents of biscotti crème, misty forest meadow, and midnight umber for a touch of masculinity. I had to have the paint specially delivered.”
“It’s pink. It’s awful. Paint it back.”
“No,” Flit said. He took the flight feather out of his pocket and twirled it around his fingers, watching the griffin’s eyes as they followed the feather’s movements. “I rather like it. I might even redo the whole house.”
“You’re not touching my house,” the griffin said with a terrible growl. Flit wondered if they were more territorial about their nest spaces than other birds. Oh well. He was calling the shots right now.
“Really?” he asked. He ran his fingers pointedly down the flight feather and brought it up to brush lightly over his lips, giving the griffin a small, haughty smile.
The griffin flushed from his thick neck to his honey-colored hair. He knew Flit had won and he looked pissed as hell. It was wonderful to see. Flit decided to test how far he could go.
“I wonder if your nest could use a few new twigs,” he said thoughtfully.
“No.” The griffin’s expression was thunderous.
“Do you really have a choice?”
That was clearly the feather that broke the griffin’s back. The griffin launched himself across the room with a roar and tackled Flit to the ground. Flit let out a pained oof as his back hit the floor and the movement jostled his injured arm, sending waves of pain radiating up to his jaw.
The griffin perched on his chest, grabbed a handful of Flit’s hair, and slammed his head to the floor. “Don’t. Touch. My. Nest.” He punctuated each word with a head slam.
Flit saw stars and tiny birds swim across his vision in dizzying circles and he felt like he was going to be sick. If the griffin gave him a concussion he was going to redecorate his stupid room next and paint it neon orange.
“All right, all right, I'll leave it alone!” he exclaimed. “Now get off of me, you crazed, barbaric beast!”
The griffin rolled off and sat next to Flit, breathing heavily. Flit stayed flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t care what the griffin thought - the new colors were very soothing.
“You said you’d give my feather back when your arm was healed,” the griffin said after several silent minutes.
“Yes,” Flit replied slowly. He tried to keep his tone low and non-threatening so the crazy wild animal would not attack him.
“You could have other injuries that heal before your arm does. Bruises fade pretty fast. And a broken nose would heal about the same time as your arm.”
Flint sat up. “Is that your ham-handed way of threatening me?” he asked. “I have to tell you, it lacks elegance. Physical violence is the tool of the witless and the unimaginative.”
“I hate to break it to you,” the griffin said, “but physical violence has won a lot of fights. And wars.”
“Is this a war?” Flit asked, amused.
The griffin looked away, his lips tightening into a thin line that said yes. “No,” he bit out. “That would be stupid. I just want to get my feather back so I can fly. That’s kind of important to me. It’s what I do.”
Flint rubbed the back of his head, frowning. “I can assure you, smacking my head against the floor will not get your feather back any sooner.”
“No, but it’s fun.”
“I’m sure it is,” Flit snorted. Now it was obvious why every other bird he knew stayed away from griffins. It was because they were violent and insane and had no fashion sense. “Don’t you have any other hobbies besides brutalizing innocent birds?”
The griffin smiled fiercely, his gray-green eyes icy and hot at the same time. “No. It’s my job.”
Something about his tone sparked Flit’s curiosity. This was the first time the griffin had exchanged more than a few words with him in weeks and Flit wanted to keep him talking.
“Oh?” he said. “What is your job, exactly? I haven’t seen you head out to the office since I’ve been here.”
“I’m a Beakbreaker,” the griffin said. “So I can’t go to work until I can fly.”
Flit rolled his eyes heavenward. A beakbreaker. No wonder the griffin was such an awful featherfuck - he was a legal bully. Beakbreakers: the nasty, vicious, and very effective Sky Patrol special forces.
“Won’t they wonder where you are?” he asked.
The griffin shrugged. “No. I told them I was taking a holiday.”
“You had enough vacation time to take a two month holiday?”
The griffin scowled. “I don’t usually take holidays, so yeah.”
“No, you probably like your job too much to go home,” Flit muttered.
The griffin shoved his shoulder, hard, and Flit went sideways with a squawk. “Would you stop that?!” He righted himself and rubbed at the elbow on his uninjured right arm. His formerly uninjured right arm.
“Is that why you won’t tell me your name? Air security purposes?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” the griffin said.
“Well, in a way, that’s part of my job,” Flit replied.
The griffin raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know it was a big deal. It’s Talon. My name,” he clarified. “Why, what do you do?”
“Talon?” Flit said. “Your name is Talon? As in, an object used to clutch prey and rend open their soft underbellies? Of course your name is Talon - what am I thinking? But why not Ripper or Shredder or I-eat-small-hatchlings-for-breakfast?”
“That last one takes too long to sign,” Talon replied evenly. There might have been a hint of dark amusement lingering around his mouth, hiding just at the corners.
Flit coughed to cover his laugh. “Careful, I might think you had a personality hidden somewhere in there.” He waved his hand in a wide gesture that sketched the edges of Talon’s broad shoulders.
Talon cuffed him casually on the back of the head. “Shut up, sparrow.”
Flit rubbed the crown of his head. Stupid, violent griffin.
“What do you do?” Talon asked again. “Aren’t you worried about missing work, too?”
“Oh, no,” Flit said. “I work for the newspaper. I do most of my work from home. I just sent a messenger pigeon to the office and had my things brought here.” He indicated the large pile of papers scattered across the new cherry wood desk he’d installed in the room.
“You’re a reporter?” Talon asked. He didn’t sound impressed.
“Not exactly,” Flit replied. “I write the advice column.”
Talon looked abruptly, and worryingly, furious. “What?” His voice was a thick, distorted growl.
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Part Three