Simon

 ((An except alongside my novel, A Librarian . Here we have a look at Simon, A Blue.))


"I will do what I can to protect this Library, and until the Lamentors tell me otherwise, I will do it my way."

"You would kill your own kind?"

"If I seek their lives, it is precisely because they are not my kind."

While cold and dark and solitude might deter others, he merely accepted such discomfort. Their very nature, his nature, held fast to the bearing of such ills and countless more. Tireless eyes, all his, roamed the cityscape, their watch penetrating the otherwise dark and undisturbed nature of the night. Where are you? He knew. What are you doing? He knew. Why...? This was the great question asked, and never fully answered, for that answer, much like his faculties, existed as many instead of one- the 'whys' likely outnumbered all of his manifestations... And yet he watched, so that he might determine each and every why.

Somewhere in another age, far removed from the night, vultures had circled with his tidings. In fields beyond the sacred places, whys had been answered with no true value- no resolve.

He opened his eyes to the night again, followed his senses borne upon silent wings, ever vigilant, ever searching...

What are you doing? Why?  Weakness, disbelief, lies. A commitment to which there is no commitment.

They seem to enjoy the rain. When the world cries, there is commiseration. When the world cries feathers...

When whys are answered without true reason, he sends more than mere watchful eyes. Vultures descend from 'on high' to speak with the unworthy...His fingers pass through them, a caress, a more direct approach- One that always comes up empty, just as those he inquires.

He stood, and an owl settled upon his fist. Their eyes met, its pupils expanding, dark voids encroaching upon thin rings of iris, rotating opposite one another. Simon witnessed the truth then, upon his cold, dark and lonesome post. He nodded, slow.

"Go then," He whispered, casting his hand into the air. The owl tumbled away, its open wings tripling in length, petite claws warping into nearly serrated talons, midnight spilling across feathers once akin to snow as his vulture sought to extract the truth...