Little Bird

   Evan stood in front of the mirror, staring at himself with disgust. In the adjacent room, Max had already fallen asleep. He didn’t want to bother his friend, who was no doubt exhausted from their trek here. He removed his shirt, holding it in his hands and examining it. It had been a shirt that his father had given him. Gently, Evan ran his hands over the holes on the back, picking away the loose strings. They had been meant for his wings.

   Being the son of Phillip, Evan had wings. However, with his father's absence for most of his childhood, out adventuring or helping the town out, Evan had never learned to properly use their wings. Sure, he could kind-of fly, but that was about it. Still, Phillip took to his shirts with a sharp pair of shears, insisting that the clothes have wing holes for emergencies or whenever he wanted them out.

   Truth be told, Evan never kept his wings out. Occasionally, before his father slowly withdrew from home, the two would go for a quick flight, just the two of them. Obviously, now, there was no dad here, and Evan hadn’t had his wings out since. That was probably quite unhealthy, but he didn’t need the reminders of his absent father.

   A few tears had come to Evan’s eyes as he examined the shirt. He quickly wiped them away and threw the shirt onto the bed. Stretching his back, Evan turned back to the mirror. Closing his eyes, he focused all his energy on his wings, commanding and practically begging for them to come out.

   Evan could hear a light poof, and then an excruciating pain hit him. He fell to his knees. It took him a lot of effort to stop him from screaming out. Evan just sat on the ground, head swirling with pain as his wings came back for the first time in what felt like forever. Like an old wound reopening, the feathers unfurled from his back, hovering over the rough wood floor. His nails dug in, the splinters burying themselves under his nails.

   Eventually, the pain subsided into a dull ache, and Evan turned his eyes up towards the mirror. He could see that his wings had fully formed over the years. They were a beautiful, shimmering white, angelic in nature. However, they weren’t a perfect white. The wings were littered with skewed feathers, blood, and dirt. He ran a hesitant hand over the top, feeling where a patch had been ripped out by a particularly nasty fall. It was alright, though, as the wings wouldn’t be around long.

   Evan had decided on cutting off his wings not long after his father had run off under the pretense of work. He knew he hated him, but he just couldn’t share the sentiment. Evan just needed support. He may have realized he was wrong now, a terrible son even, but he had done what he thought was best. That was one lesson from his father he had clung onto throughout the years.  

   Evan had been planning to have his wings cut off properly, but there was never a good opportunity. On the first attempt, the nice neighbor next door interrupted, inviting the boy over to meet her new dog. He loved dogs, so he hesitantly agreed. The other time was driven solely by tears and frantic emotions, resulting in Max wrestling a butcher knife out of his shaking grasp.

   Turning away from the mirror, he grabbed the freshly sharpened sword lying on the bed. The sword had been an old gift from Mac when he had first arrived in Fiske. Looking at the weapon and back at his wings, Evan wasn’t sure what they would think of him cutting off his wings. Possibly proud? Maybe a little disappointed?

   It was a tough stretch, but Evan positioned the sword so it would slice at the junction where his wings met his back. A shuddering breath ripped through his lungs. 

Did he really want to do this? 

He did. 

His wings were the only thing that made him uniquely Phillip’s child. Take them away, and he was his own man. Evan Pates would be gone, and Evan would be reborn.

   That was a nice thought to hold onto as he shifted in the towels surrounding him. He would become just Evan, or perhaps he would take Max’s last name; The young wizard had offered. He smiled as he imagined the two of them as brothers, similar to what they always compared their relationship to. He would be a new man, his own man.

   Taking a deep breath, the boy prepared to slice. He counted down, settling the sword against his fluffy wings. As he hit zero, he began to dig the blade down. The pain was unbearable. He dropped the sword and screamed.

   Max shot up in bed as he heard someone scream. He knew exactly who it was. Max could recognize Evan’s scream from miles away. He quickly grabbed his sword and ran up to Evan’s room. He expected an intruder, possibly a demon, maybe even Phillip.

   What he didn’t expect to see was Evan, with his wings out, sobbing into the ground. There was a blade tossed to the side, and upon further inspection, Max could see red spreading across his expanse of white wings.

   “Evan?” Max stammered, approaching the boy as if he was a scared animal. The younger boy’s head whipped around, and Evan’s eyes were swollen and red. Tears trickled out from the edges. Carefully crouching down, Max approached Evan.

   “I just want them off, Max,” Evan whispered, locking his eyes with Max. “I don’t want my wings. Help me take them off.” Max stopped to take in what his best friend had just said. Sure, Evan didn’t like having his wings out, but he had thought the other gave up on his desire to rid himself of them. Then again, Max had known how much the wings connected Evan to his father. Gently, he pulled Evan into a hug, whispering reassuring words to his pseudo brother.

   Evan had calmed down, and Max had manhandled them both over to the bed. He helped Evan lay down on his belly to get a better look at the wings.

   “Do you really want them gone?” Max asked, wearily. He was met with a nod, and a muttered yes from Evan’s, whose face was lying in the pillow. Max would do anything for Evan, and he needed Evan on his A-game for anything that would come. If that meant cutting the younger boy’s wings off, he would do it.

   The two of them worked in sync, getting everything they would need for the procedure. Max wasn’t a doctor, but he had more than enough medical training to get by. Plus, after seeing the desperation in Evan’s eyes, he couldn’t say no to helping him. Evan would probably hurt himself without the help anyway.

   He had Evan laid down on the bed, shirt off. They rearranged the towels spread out on the floor so Max would have a somewhat sterile field. As he prepared his tools and blade, he gave Evan a small potion. It was powerful pain medicine.

   Max, being gentle, cleaned Evan’s wings. He wasn’t sure if the boy would want to keep them afterward; A twisted trinket, perhaps a testament to his past? After a while, the pain medicine seemed to have kicked in, and Evan went limp on the bed, mumbling out incoherent phrases. Max decided this was as good a time as ever and started to work away.

   He slid a clean cloth into Evan’s mouth so he wouldn’t bite through his tongue, sharp canines flashing in the low candlelight. Finally, he brought his sterilized blade to his cutting point on the left-wing. Taking a deep breath in, he pressed down. In what felt like whole lifetimes, he pressed on, watching as each inch of progress yielded a new cascade of pink and red feathers. It was hard to get through the entire thick and fluffy wing, but eventually, it was off. He heard Evan breathe a sigh of relief.

   Quickly, as he watched the blood pool around the newly created wound, he stitched up Evan’s back. He had taken off all of Evan’s left-wing, and now there would be a nice big scar. Although, with the right medicine, it would heal perfectly. No one would even know the boy had wings. Picking up the massive wings, Max gently set them aside.

   Evan muttered a few thank you’s, and Max quickly got to work on the right-wing. It went as smoothly as the first, and after a few minutes, the left side of Evan’s back had a long line of stitches in it as well. He then put the newly cut wing beside the other one. He admired them for a moment. They were truly stunning. He wondered why Evan didn’t keep them out more often. Then again, he wasn’t in Evan’s shoes.

   Returning to his patient, he applied some cream to the wounds before bandaging them up. Max sternly ordered a few days of bed rest, and Evan agreed hastily, just thankful that any reminders of his father were gone.

 ___________

   Evan had been in bed for the past few days. Max had been ensuring he was healing up nicely. Honestly, Evan didn’t mind the resting. He was just happy that he no longer had wings on his back. (Thankfully, they hadn’t grown back either with a sick vengeance).

   He had developed a fun hobby, sewing. He had gone through all his clothes and sewn the wings holes, so they looked like a clothing piece an average person would wear. It made him feel better. Maybe the next time Phillip saw him, his father would realize you can’t just get a new kid and expect your actual son not to be hurt by that.

   He had gotten through all of his clothes, and now he sat in bed with his final piece of clothing—his coat, which he bought off a friendly trader a while back. Handling the item with the utmost care, he gently stitched it up. As he continued to examine it, he noted the small patch on the arm of the jacket. It was a beautiful set of wings, the golden thread shimmering with new hope.   

The patch had been a gift from Phillip to Evan when his apologies no longer healed the pain of separation. He rubbed his thumb over the patch a few times as if deciding what to do with it.

   After a bit of thinking, he got to work on removing the final memory of his father’s absence. Evan worked quickly, and eventually, the jacket was as good as new. He bundled it up and brought it to his chest. Holding it as if it were family.

 He was his own person, and his brother was going to come back soon. Everything would be okay.

_________

   Despite Max ordering seven days of bed rest, and Evan only being about three days in, he still got up. He needed to be useful, return to the land of the living Evan winced as he moved around. Gently shuffling through his chest, he grabbed a fresh pair of clothes.

   Being cautious of his injuries, Evan changed into the clothes. They were warm and clean. Max must have done the laundry. He tied his boots and put on some gloves. Checking the time, he headed towards the door.

   On his way out, he grabbed his coat off a hook, throwing it over his shoulders. He smiled. The new path, a bright red star, matched his eyes. 

   He headed towards the remains of his childhood home, keen on recovering some of the manuscripts Phillip kept locked up in their basement. While the place held few good memories, Evan recognized the importance of those books and figured Max would want to read them.

   Eventually, he arrived. With practiced ease, the boy skirted down the rocks, landing close to the shrine the group had built. He settled on a nearby rock. His back was killing him.

   Phillip watched from afar as Evan scavenged around the house. He could see the paleness in the boy’s skin, but also the renewed light in his eyes. That wasn’t there the last time he had talked with his son. With an outward grimace, Phillip made a mental note to stop calling Evan his son. He betrayed him, hurt him. Of course, what Phillip failed to recognize was how much he hurt Evan, as well.

   Phillip also noticed that Evan had on his ratty jacket. As the boy turned to grab something, he could see the stitches on the back. When had Evan taken up stitching? Oh. His jacket had wing holes in it. Millions of questions raced through Phillip’s head; Evan still had his wings. Why would he stitch the holes? He stared down from the trees, pale eyes boring holes into the back of the boy’s head.

    Max had arrived at some point, too, pulling Evan around between the attempts to scold him for getting out of bed. Evan just told Max that he needed to do some light reading with a giggle, before running off into the woods. Phillip could hear the other’s playful annoyance from here.

Like an angel falling down to earth, the avian quickly swooped down onto him, clawed hands gripping the young wizard’s arm in desperation. He needed answers to the growing dread in his chest.

   “Why did he stitch the wing holes on the jacket?” Phillip demanded. Max just smirked at him, wrenching his arm away from his iron hold.

   “Simple. He doesn’t need them anymore.”