April Flowers, Prompt #25, Nesting
Title: Nesting
Author: mrstater
Rating & Warnings: rated G
Characters/ Pairing: Cazaril
Prompt: #25, birds building a nest
Format & Word Count: drabble, 300 words
Summary: A break in his journey home reminds Caz of all he lacks.
In a copse some way off the road, Cazaril half-sits, half-collapses onto the fresh smelling, soft lichen covered ground. He takes a moment to catch his breath, moving not a limb as he allows the restful stillness to seep into muscles that burn and joints that ache from his weeks-long journey.
When even his eyelids begin to sag with the blessedly relaxed state, a movement in the thicket catches his attention. His eyes pop wide open, he darts as straight upright as if sitting in a high-backed chair.
There, on a branch about eight feet up, a flutter of red. Caz lets out the breath he was holding, shaking his head at his paranoia, and leans back on his elbows to watch the cardinal hop about the branch, starting construction on his nest.
If only he could build a home of twigs and bits of shiny things found discarded on the ground, Caz wouldn't have to continue his exhausting trek to Valenda. Of course, it rather wearies him just to watch the bird fly back and forth to fetch construction materials, and unlike Ser dy Cardinal, whose dowdy little wife Caz has just spotted rooting for supper among last autumn's fallen leaves , he'd have no one to share a snug little nest or a dinner of juicy worms with, nor any hope of finding even a plain, mousy wife, thanks to his decided lack of fetching red plumage and shiny bits.
Metaphorically speaking. Which means he's probably at the cusp of composing very bad poetry about his sorry lot, when he ought to be grateful just to be alive and free.
So he curls up on the lichen and is lulled to sleep by the flutter of wings.
He dreams he flies the rest of the way to Valenda.
Author: mrstater
Rating & Warnings: rated G
Characters/ Pairing: Cazaril
Prompt: #25, birds building a nest
Format & Word Count: drabble, 300 words
Summary: A break in his journey home reminds Caz of all he lacks.
In a copse some way off the road, Cazaril half-sits, half-collapses onto the fresh smelling, soft lichen covered ground. He takes a moment to catch his breath, moving not a limb as he allows the restful stillness to seep into muscles that burn and joints that ache from his weeks-long journey.
When even his eyelids begin to sag with the blessedly relaxed state, a movement in the thicket catches his attention. His eyes pop wide open, he darts as straight upright as if sitting in a high-backed chair.
There, on a branch about eight feet up, a flutter of red. Caz lets out the breath he was holding, shaking his head at his paranoia, and leans back on his elbows to watch the cardinal hop about the branch, starting construction on his nest.
If only he could build a home of twigs and bits of shiny things found discarded on the ground, Caz wouldn't have to continue his exhausting trek to Valenda. Of course, it rather wearies him just to watch the bird fly back and forth to fetch construction materials, and unlike Ser dy Cardinal, whose dowdy little wife Caz has just spotted rooting for supper among last autumn's fallen leaves , he'd have no one to share a snug little nest or a dinner of juicy worms with, nor any hope of finding even a plain, mousy wife, thanks to his decided lack of fetching red plumage and shiny bits.
Metaphorically speaking. Which means he's probably at the cusp of composing very bad poetry about his sorry lot, when he ought to be grateful just to be alive and free.
So he curls up on the lichen and is lulled to sleep by the flutter of wings.
He dreams he flies the rest of the way to Valenda.