Your Secret Santa has revealed themselves to be... Wolfiethewriter! She has written a fic based on your request: Arranged Marriage, and has posted it here to ffnet! Enjoy!
Oh, my dear @wolfiethewriter, I had a lot of fun writing this!
It’s funny how ideas and connections will hit suddenly. And then you wonder where they’ve been hiding for you to not have noticed before!
I hope you enjoy this short story about Toto, and his life before the Bureau (and a brief snippet of his life with them!)
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
-E
There was a tapping at his window.
The two things in question- his window and tapping sounds- weren’t typically a cause for concern. But the two coming together, at the dead of night, on a second story window, was reason enough to be concerned. Maybe a touch frightened.
It was storming terribly outside. Snow buffeting against the walls and windows, the old home creaking slightly under the stress. Perhaps a tree branch, or a stone? Yes, surely he could reason away the tapping that had awoken him from his dreamless sleep.
Except there were no trees and stones near his window, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it… There was the shape of a raven pecking at his window. Was the creature seeking sanctuary? He’d seen them be clever creatures, in odd ways. Never often enough to prove a thinking mind behind the eyes, but enough to be curious.
He arose from his warm bed, crept to the window, and threw back the latch. Within a moment, the window roared open, grasping fingers of wind and cold caressing his cheek. The bird flew in, racing to the shelf above his bed, and he shut the window soon after, locking the panes back into place.
“An unfortunate time to be compassionate,” he muttered, eyeing the wet floor and strewn about (thankfully blank) papers. He glanced at the bird, who sat preening at the moment, nudging wayward feathers back into place. He shook his head, stepping around the mess to the chair and fire, tossing another log.
With the bird in his room, he’d rather hold off on sleep, so neither were trapped with the other. His leg bounced, hands clasped in his lap. It was fascinating to see such a creature up close, some sort of haunting feeling lingering in the air. Like the bird was all too aware of everything around it.
“I don’t suppose,” he asked lightly of the bird, “you could spare an apology for waking me from sleep? Or for the mess left upon my floor?”
It stopped its preening, turning instead to focus remarkably intelligent, black eyes upon him. He felt exposed for a moment, like staring down at the dizzying height of his home, the ground unreachable.
The bird gave a smile.
“One is due, in any circumstance. Along with my thanks,” a deep voice spilled from the beak.
He scrambled, limbs frantically working to get him up and away. He crammed himself into the corner behind the chair, never breaking eye contact with the bird. He grabbed the fire poker, held it up with shaking hands. As intimidating as a mouse to a lion.
The bird watched him. Waited. Cocked its head as the two stood there together, opposite corners of the room and battling for the space. At least, he felt he was in battle. An outright war between his logical, insistent mind that none of this was real, and the morbidly curious side of his mind. The one that watched crows peck at the leftover corpse of a squirrel.
“Surely,”- he licked his lips-“surely those words were not spoken by you, bird? Otherwise, I may have to admit that I’ve gone completely mad.”
“But I did speak. Specifically to apologize and to thank you. I thought I might frighten you, but you’re taking this all really well,” the crow laughed, slightly. The sound, though disagreeing with his understanding of the world, was warm, kind. He didn’t quite know what he had to be afraid of. It’s a crow.
A talking crow.
“If I may, sir,” the crow began, flapping wings and jerking his head towards the fire, “might I take a perch by the fire? I’ve flown all day and night in this snow, and I’d like to get warmth back into my bones.”
He used the fire poker to loosely gesture over towards the fireplace, dropping it when the bird took flight and landed near the flames. He slowly worked his way around his chair, dropping into it without breaking contact with the bird. Surely, there must be some reasoning or idea behind this madness.
“You’re just a dream, yes?” he asked hopefully, pressing his clasped hands against his mouth.
“That’s a question with an answer only we can decide for ourselves,” the bird answered, simply, “but I like to think of myself as quite real.”
“Right, of course.”
They lapsed into silence, the wind’s howls and the fire’s crackles more than eager to fill the space. The bird seemed as content as could be just to watch the flames, quiet company and all that. He felt like a bomb ready to go off, examining ever feather and piece of skin he could find.
“You speak well,” he blurted out once the fuse lit the dynamite, “taught by your master? Did he give you a name?”
The bird blinked in surprise, if he had to guess. He felt foolish at the idea of asking for a name, expecting much of the creature that (he was beginning to reason to himself) could only speak what little its master had taught.
“I’ve had many names over the years,” the bird told him, staring into the flames, “none have really stayed. Call me what you like.”
He shifted, fraught with nerves. He glanced about the room, searching for a bolt of lightning to strike him. A small bust caught his eye briefly, the features sculpted delicately, the war helmet upright and sure.
“Would “Pallas” be a suitable name?” he asked after a moment of thought.
The bird gave a bark (caw?) of laughter, fluffing its feathers while it turned to catch his eye.
“After Pallas Athena, I see? I’d be honored to take her name,” he chortled out.
He gave a relieved smile, still flicking between the two, looking for some sort of riddle to be solved. Hardly noticing the final, mournful howls of winter’s snow. But the crow- Pallas- took off towards the window ledge, pausing to glance about what survived of his desk.
“I thank you for your kindness and warmth,” Pallas called out, reading his works that he’d tried and scrapped. “Could I have your name to thank you properly?”
He hesitated a moment, before responding, “Allan. You can call me Allan.”
“Sir Allan,” Pallas said, puffing their chest, “I thank you for the fire and the company.”
“Will I see you again?” he blurted, crossing halfway to the window with a hand raised. He had questions, needed answers, wanted to discover how far reality and dream came to be. How mad he really, truly was, to seek after a bird.
Pallas cocked his head, left then right, then read his papers one more time.
“Morning nears, and the storm has finally stopped. But perhaps I can stay in town a few more days, just to be sure the snow will leave us.”
Pallas grinned at him, jerking his head at the window, and he realized the crow lacked what was needed to get outside. Cold air burst against his cheek, the wind tugging stubbornly at the pane to fly open.
Pallas took off into the night, gone with the inky black sky, and he quickly closed the window after. He stumbled into his bed, pulled the covers up to his chin, then to his eyes, hiding under the blankets as he counted down from ten. Twas just a dream. A dream within a dream, and one so curious and frightful.
“Never again,” he whispered to his heart, “never again. Nevermore shall that crow visit me.”
***
“Baron, who’s this a bust of?” Haru called, standing before the stone torso of a Greek woman, dressed in robes but bearing a helmet upon her head.
The plaque saying her name was Greek (literally) to Haru, having travelled to said country for a Bureau investigation that she wasn’t entirely sure was going well. But hey, a day spent at public places that don’t care if you’re suddenly calling out for a person who’s not nearby was a day she could enjoy.
Toto flew in, landing a foot or two on the ground, trying to look as casual as a crow talking to a human girl could be.
“Baron’s over trying to stop Muta from attacking the gelato cart,” he told her when she gave a confused look, “which bust are you talking about?”
“This one,” Haru said, flapping a hand at the woman and nearly smacking her hand on the stone.
“Pallas Athena,” Toto replied, “or plain Athena for those who don’t know epithets. Famously known as the Greek Goddess of wisdom and strategy.”
“Huh,” was Haru’s response, tilting her head, “that explains a lot about that poem.”
“Poem?” Toto asked.
“Yeah, the one by Edgar Allan Poe. He mentioned a bust named “Pallas” and I was always really confused on who that was.”
Toto narrowed his eyes at the bust, echos of memories just barely coming through.
“Haru, what was this poem called?”
“Hmm? Oh, uh, “The Raven”, I think.”
Toto cawed out a laugh, catching Haru by surprised.
“I always thought he lied about his first name. Truly scared you, didn’t I, Sir Allan?”
Haru blinked, turned towards Toto, and ignored a surprised audience when she yelled-
A gift for @wolfiethewriter for finishing writing (albeit not typing) of her upcoming fic: Grand Fisher. I’m so proud of you! Also a thank you for the cover art you did for Clockwork Sheep, so have some cover art/fanart right back at you :D
