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Title: Paper Sparrows
’Verse/characters: : Wild Roses, Sebastien du Lac d’Sabaey
Prompt: 024: "Family"
Word Count: 585
Rating: G
Notes: Some amount of context for the paper-bird carriers may be found in Hero (prompt 096), and here.
He probably would have spun water down on the bird perched on his windowsill if it had not turned at precisely the moment needed for him to see the name written down the spine of the neatly folded paper.
Fortunately for the bird, the handwriting wasn’t familiar, even in the back-of-the-head sense that disguised hands might give, and it was addressed to ‘S. du Lac’, not ‘Sebastien’ or ‘Student’.
He opened the window with a neat flick of the latch, trying not to let old betrayals and new decisions pour themselves down on the bird, most likely drowning any message it might bring as sure as a magic-called rain.
As it hopped onto the desk, settling briefly facing him. “May one beg your name?” it inquired in a clear, high voice.
He blinked. This was the first time a message sparrow had ever spoken, in his presence. “ . . Sebastien du Lac d’S--"
“Thank you!” The bird exploded in a brief flurry of paper, which resolved itself into a neat--if much folded--sheet of good quality writing paper on his desk.
In the same hand that had addressed the bird’s spine, the letter apologised for intruding, and for the presumption of the writer in speaking so soon after such a rather momentous occasion--Sebastien’s mouth twisted at this incredibly diplomatic method of referring to his spectacular sundering of the teacher-student relationship with his uncle [name] two weeks before--but would Sebastien mind exceptionally looking at the spell-proof on the back of the sheet? The theory, so far as the writer knew, was solid, but the results hadn’t lived up to the theory.
The letter concluded with a sprawling glyph in a language Sebastian didn’t speak, presumably either the writer’s name or title.
Thoughtfully, he flipped the paper over.
---
It took him two days to track down the minute error in the restrictions on the scope of the spell, and enough of his plain paper that he’d been starting to consider breaking into his supply of good drawing paper or just writing equations on the walls of the room with chalk.
Shuffling through the small drift of sheets on his desk until he found the former sparrow, he added the plain-folded square of his replying proof to the center of the page, then spoke the mage-court ritual words to return a messenger to its walking form, instead of its reading form.
After the reassembled sparrow had settled itself, he asked it to hold still, took a paintbrush dipped in the ink of burned holly leaves, and gave it small, black beady eyes before sending it back to its originator. He’d never again paint a full bird, but this was simple enough, and the activating magic of the bird seemed well pleased by the attention.
---
Three days went by before the same sparrow appeared on his windowsill again, bearing dryly delighted thanks in a equally plain note inside the body for the catching of the error, and a new problem.
---
It took him more than a year to start adding personal touches to his replies, and several more before he risked asking why his still untranslated correspondent had chosen him to ask regarding the problems (which grew ever more complex. He’d suspected for some time that this might be one of the most subtle teaching styles he’d ever even heard of, let alone seen).
Accompanying the next problem came a sheet of stark white paper, which said only
I was a friend of your grandmother’s.
’Verse/characters: : Wild Roses, Sebastien du Lac d’Sabaey
Prompt: 024: "Family"
Word Count: 585
Rating: G
Notes: Some amount of context for the paper-bird carriers may be found in Hero (prompt 096), and here.
He probably would have spun water down on the bird perched on his windowsill if it had not turned at precisely the moment needed for him to see the name written down the spine of the neatly folded paper.
Fortunately for the bird, the handwriting wasn’t familiar, even in the back-of-the-head sense that disguised hands might give, and it was addressed to ‘S. du Lac’, not ‘Sebastien’ or ‘Student’.
He opened the window with a neat flick of the latch, trying not to let old betrayals and new decisions pour themselves down on the bird, most likely drowning any message it might bring as sure as a magic-called rain.
As it hopped onto the desk, settling briefly facing him. “May one beg your name?” it inquired in a clear, high voice.
He blinked. This was the first time a message sparrow had ever spoken, in his presence. “ . . Sebastien du Lac d’S--"
“Thank you!” The bird exploded in a brief flurry of paper, which resolved itself into a neat--if much folded--sheet of good quality writing paper on his desk.
In the same hand that had addressed the bird’s spine, the letter apologised for intruding, and for the presumption of the writer in speaking so soon after such a rather momentous occasion--Sebastien’s mouth twisted at this incredibly diplomatic method of referring to his spectacular sundering of the teacher-student relationship with his uncle [name] two weeks before--but would Sebastien mind exceptionally looking at the spell-proof on the back of the sheet? The theory, so far as the writer knew, was solid, but the results hadn’t lived up to the theory.
The letter concluded with a sprawling glyph in a language Sebastian didn’t speak, presumably either the writer’s name or title.
Thoughtfully, he flipped the paper over.
---
It took him two days to track down the minute error in the restrictions on the scope of the spell, and enough of his plain paper that he’d been starting to consider breaking into his supply of good drawing paper or just writing equations on the walls of the room with chalk.
Shuffling through the small drift of sheets on his desk until he found the former sparrow, he added the plain-folded square of his replying proof to the center of the page, then spoke the mage-court ritual words to return a messenger to its walking form, instead of its reading form.
After the reassembled sparrow had settled itself, he asked it to hold still, took a paintbrush dipped in the ink of burned holly leaves, and gave it small, black beady eyes before sending it back to its originator. He’d never again paint a full bird, but this was simple enough, and the activating magic of the bird seemed well pleased by the attention.
---
Three days went by before the same sparrow appeared on his windowsill again, bearing dryly delighted thanks in a equally plain note inside the body for the catching of the error, and a new problem.
---
It took him more than a year to start adding personal touches to his replies, and several more before he risked asking why his still untranslated correspondent had chosen him to ask regarding the problems (which grew ever more complex. He’d suspected for some time that this might be one of the most subtle teaching styles he’d ever even heard of, let alone seen).
Accompanying the next problem came a sheet of stark white paper, which said only
I was a friend of your grandmother’s.
