Somewhere along the way, a change was set in motion. It started one lazy afternoon when he noticed the way the light shifted in the meadow, slow and subtle, as the sun inched across the sky. There was no word for this that he knew of, for the slow changing of the light, for the passage of time made visible. It seems an obvious thing now but that day he realized for the very first time that there are some things in this world that do not have names.
It was a disturbing realization.
Eventually, it turned into a game for him, noticing all the things there were no words for. In time he made up his own words-- or, more and more often, sounds. He would even write little songs, if a thing was nuanced enough. It was a private and tireless game, one he rarely shared with others. There was something very personal about it, something that made him feel it needed to be worked on alone... These feelings confused him, being as outgoing and extroverted as he was, and to avoid inner conflict he tried his best to not play the game. He had learned early on in life that conflicts often resolved themselves if you simply ignored them.
So, naturally, he is not thinking about the game at all as he walks through the outdoor gardens. The morning is bright and beautiful and heedless of whatever war may be mounting to the East and whatever mystery may be unraveling to the South. Mateo feels the sun soak into his feathers and wills himself to be as bright and beautiful and heedless as the morning.
"You're a cheeky one, aren't you," he murmurs to a particularly large white rose that has eagerly bloomed long before its peers. He is about to say something else to the flower (there was no one else around to listen to him) when a soft splashing sound catches his attention. He turns the neatly planted row of roses and laughs to himself as he sees its source.
The finches are bathing in a small puddle, the gift of spring's first rain.
There are too many of them to fit at the same time, so one by one the birds hop forward and splash around while the others chitter and fuss to themselves about who's next and whether there's another puddle to be found nearby and, by the gods, how long Charles has been in there, get out Charles, why don't you give someone else a go!
The massive, four-legged black bird watches them for a long moment with silver-green eyes that are full of laughter-- what's so funny anyway?-- and he begins to whistle softly, half mimicking the chatter of the finches and half... something else, something different. The little birds are entirely captivated. They stop and tilt their heads left and right, unsure what exactly is so alluring about the song. Strange colors begin to glow and swirl in the air around them, but they only last a few seconds before fading away. The man's song stops soon after, and the birds return to their bath.
For a moment the air has the charged tang of magic, but it fades quickly and succinctly. "What was that..." he wonders with a small frown, oblivious to any company other than his tiny, boisterous friends.
@Messalina this is SO long overdue, forgive me! I hope this works, I'm super excited to thread these two!!
