The day had risen without him. Perched by the window, Thalen hadn't moved all night. His talons still gripped the wood, tense, as if letting go would mean falling for good. His plumage, usually smooth and silent, was ruffled, slightly bristled by a tension he could no longer control. The morning light fell into the room like a cold blade. It slipped through the curtains, cutting Thalen's disheveled feathers into white and gold strips. His talons clenched the sill, his wings slightly spread, trembling, each breath seeming to cost him immense effort. His eyes, large and round, were dulled by endless nights, empty, yet burning with silent pain.
Tharion stared at him for a long moment, motionless, his dark eyes shining with a strange intensity. A cross seemed to glimmer in his gaze, sharp, conscious, as if it weighed on Thalen's very soul. Every movement Thalen made, every breath, seemed recorded, judged. Then, in a low, slow, cutting voice: — Listen… it's no use trying. I already told you. Accept your form.
Thalen blinked, unable to understand. His voice trembled, fragile: — …What?
— You've lost your transformation, and we've already discussed it, Tharion continued, his gaze still fixed on him, that invisible cross almost piercing him. No matter how much you struggle, how hard you push… you will never be human again. This isn't a block—it's worse.
The words fell over him like an icy, relentless wind. His wings shivered, his talons tightened on the sill. Every fiber of his body vibrated with visceral frustration, with despair that gnawed from within. His brown eyes drowned in fear and exhaustion, meeting that cross-like gaze that seemed to know his fate better than he did himself. — Never… he whispered, broken, barely audible, as if saying the word tore a piece of his heart.
Silence fell again, heavy and oppressive. Thalen's breathing was short, irregular, each heartbeat echoing in his chest like a cruel reminder: the silent judgment of Tharion, that cross in his eyes, would never disappear. — Yes. Never, said Tharion calmly. — But you know what? It doesn't matter. You're still you. Even in this form. You still have your soul. Your emotions.
Thalen turned his gaze away, eyes lost in the distance. His breath grew uneven, his wings trembled, feathers bristling. — Doesn't matter…? he murmured, throat tight, feathers slightly raised. — Doesn't matter that I'm stuck like this… a… a… owl? — No, it doesn't matter, Tharion repeated, his voice gentle, almost a whisper slipping through the shadows of the room. — Even if your body is no longer human, you are still yourself. And that's enough.
Thalen let his head fall heavily, eyes shining with deep fatigue and quiet frustration. He wanted to scream, cry, fight… but no sound escaped his lips. His wings trembled, his talons loosened, then clenched on the wood again, echoing his internal struggle. A long silence stretched, heavy, and Tharion finally spoke, almost whispering, his words gliding between Thalen's heartbeats: — But tell me… do you know why you were reincarnated as an owl?
A shiver ran through Thalen's body. His feathers bristled, talons gripping the wood even tighter. His large round eyes fixed on a vague point beyond the window, as if seeking answers in the night that weren't there. His breath caught, then resumed unevenly. — …I… I don't know… he whispered, almost inaudible.
Silence grew even denser, almost tangible. Thalen blinked slowly, and a subtle gesture—head slightly tilted, a flicker of defiance in his gaze—betrayed a quiet calculation. He was probing Tharion, testing his limits, as if every tiny reaction could reveal a secret. A faint, imperceptible smile brushed his lips. — …Is that it, said Tharion, lower, mysterious. — Even you don't know. And maybe you never will. But maybe… it's for your freedom. Perhaps some pieces are still missing.
A cold current ran through Thalen. A wave of anxiety, of doubt, made him shiver… but behind his eyes burned a spark, a glint of subtle, almost imperceptible manipulation. He wanted Tharion to feel the weight of his words, to question himself, to doubt. — Why… me? he murmured, voice broken but trembling with calculated control. — Why an owl?
Silence thickened around them, and in the room's shadows, every feather's beat, every breath, every glance carried a secret. And no one knew—perhaps not even Thalen himself—where the answer truly lay.
Tharion didn't respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Thalen, intense, calm, but almost unbearable. Every silence seemed to weigh a ton. — I can't answer that, Tharion finally admitted. — Maybe no one can. Maybe it's a mystery… one that only you are meant to carry.
Thalen's heart raced, his breath uneven. His wings trembled against his body, feathers quivering under the tension. Fatigue, pain, and fear mingled into a heavy, suffocating mix. — I… I can't answer… he whispered to himself, voice choked with emotion. — And that's okay, said Tharion softly. — You don't need to know now. You don't need to understand everything immediately. You just… have to be. To exist. Even like this.
Thalen remained silent. His wings slowly fell, talons loosening. His bristled feathers betrayed the deep exhaustion weighing on him… yet his eyes stayed moist, filled with a mixture of fear and despair. He simply allowed himself to exist in that heavy silence, as if breathing alone was already an effort.
The morning light fell into the room, harsh and relentless. The white-and-gold strips on his plumage highlighted every tremor, every sign of weakness. He remained perched on the sill, immobile, body tense but fragile. He turned his gaze toward Tharion, almost pleading. — I… I don't know if I can do it, he murmured, voice trembling, fragile. — I… I'm afraid… of staying stuck… alone… like this…
His feathers shivered slightly, wings instinctively drawing closer to his body, as if to protect himself. His large, bright eyes sought more than just to display pain: they sought an anchor, a point of safety. A silent, fragile, almost heartbreaking question: "Will you stay near me?"
Tharion inhaled slowly, aware of the tension in the room, aware of the fragility of this moment. — You don't have to do this alone, he said, tone firm but full of compassion. — Yes… but… I… I can't… Thalen whispered, voice broken by emotion. Then, after an almost unbearable silence, he added in an almost inaudible breath: — If… if you left… I… I don't know what I'd do.
Silence stretched in the room, heavy and almost tangible. Thalen remained perched, wings fallen against his body, feathers quivering at the slightest breath. His golden eyes followed every movement of Tharion, but not to influence him: just a simple, almost childlike curiosity, to understand and feel the presence of the other. — You don't need to do anything, Tharion murmured softly, voice almost more to himself than to Thalen. — Just… be there.
Thalen tilted his head, eyes fixed on the floor for a moment, as if to cling to something tangible. His feathers ruffled slightly, betraying fatigue and built-up tension, but he let a small sigh of relief pass. There was no test, no calculation in his gesture. Just a silent need to feel that he wasn't alone.
He watched Tharion rise slowly and approach, his steps measured.
The owl felt the faint shift of air, the warm breath of the other, and an almost imperceptible shiver ran through his body. It wasn't fear, nor the urge to play: it was simply the presence of someone who did not reject him, who accepted his form, his fragility, his exhaustion.
— You're… still here, Thalen said, in a voice barely more than a whisper. — Always, replied Tharion, gently placing a hand on the sill near him. — You don't need to say anything for me to be here.
Thalen let his head fall against his chest, a small sigh escaping through his feathers. His wings relaxed further, his body feeling slightly lighter. For the first time in a long while, he felt allowed to simply exist—without pressure, without needing to be someone else.
— Even… even like this… he murmured, almost to himself, — I can… feel… a little alive.
Tharion sat silently beside him, letting calmness envelop them both. No words, no forced gestures. Just the warmth of a presence and the flutter of feathers in the light breeze coming through the open window.
The owl closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and the tension in his talons and wings slowly eased. His feathers, still slightly bristled from fatigue, seemed almost soothed by Tharion's mere constancy. No calculations, no manipulations. Just a fragile, silent, but real connection.
And in that suspended moment, Thalen felt, for the first time, out of solitude—without needing to ask or do anything. He simply existed.
The city slowly awakened around them. Market stalls were being set up, the smells of warm bread and coffee mingling with the damp scent of earth after the night's rain. Thalen walked beside Tharion, his talons lightly brushing the uneven cobblestones. Each small sound—the clatter of a bucket in the market, the rustling of leaves in the wind—made him shiver, yet he remained calm, anchored by Tharion's presence.
For Tharion, however, something seemed… off. At first, it was subtle. A crack in the sidewalk, where he knew he had walked without issue the day before. Then a normally smooth, straight road showed deep fissures, as if the ground had been poorly repaired or allowed to deteriorate. He frowned slightly, slowing his pace.
— Are you okay? Thalen asked, his voice soft, like a whisper carried on the wind.
Tharion shook his head slightly, not answering immediately. He examined the surroundings with unusual attention. It wasn't just fatigue or the morning light affecting his eyes: these imperfections hadn't been there before. Buildings bore cracks he had never seen, traffic signs were slightly bent, doors that were usually closed appeared ajar… and the silence was punctuated by oddly displaced sounds—a drip here, a crack there—that didn't match the usual rhythm of the city.