He came back to meet her as planned,
and they met several times after that, Skaffwory using each moment to scrutinize and gauge him ruthlessly, buffeting back his kindnesses as appropriate, trying to goad out his true character with all she could muster. He brought her other gifts, which she accepted flatly — they were simple things, jeweled anklets and polishers and expensively spiced food which she made great show of putting for sale in her rental space the next day. She kept the initial basket of antimony, but shoved his next offering of it out of his hands with her beak, scoffing: "What, this again? Old news!"
This took him aback and she could see a flicker of infuriation, which he hid with a huff and bulge of his throat. "Very well," he said, merely, and was rather quiet for a while, and she wondered if finally he would reveal his frustration and true intentions, and leave accordingly.
He did not. He continued to sit beside her on the loftree branch, looking down at the world below with great thought, the wind brushing the feathers of his long crest. Shadows fell across the two of them, of the other passerine crowding the air, and finally she felt a great annoyance with him and decided to end this ridiculousness.
"Be gone," Skaffwory told him, wearily. "You bore me. I am too old for your chickling games."
"I won't go," he said. "I love you, Sk-kaffwory."
She ground her beak with irritation and sighed. She opened her beak, her breast growing more prominent as she took breaths of the air, and she exhaled a low note, stirring yet slightly cracked and airy. Immediately the branch began to heat; the buzzard didn't notice at first, but soon did when fires began to manifest as if from the core of the branch, easing up in little tendrils between the slivers of bark, between the scales of their toes.
Now the buzzard noticed, and he started in alarm. Passerine feared fire like no other creature — what other creature was more akin to living tinder? — and so Skaffwory fully expected him now to flee with angry squawks, but instead he closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the branch.
Skaffwory was surprised. She let the fire grow, up so that it began to lick against her stomach and at his hunched, stooped shoulders, and he cried out but remained.
"Abate," she sang to the salamander now, and the fire quelled down to a smoulder beneath their heels. Trembling, the buzzard looked up at her, and then at himself in wonder. Skaffwory did too — he was not completely unhurt, but he wasn't close to dead. And his feathers were mostly intact as well, only crisp around edges, which actually served to complement his taupe-tawny plumage rather well.
The buzzard examined his wings, which were both also intact. These were singed as well, but still usable, with effort. He looked at her, and said, with the most sincerity she had ever heard from any passerine male still in his prime:
"You are amazing."
"I threaten you with death by flame and you c-call me amazing," Skaffwory cawed at him, but her feathers fluffed in embarrassment.
This took him aback and she could see a flicker of infuriation, which he hid with a huff and bulge of his throat. "Very well," he said, merely, and was rather quiet for a while, and she wondered if finally he would reveal his frustration and true intentions, and leave accordingly.
He did not. He continued to sit beside her on the loftree branch, looking down at the world below with great thought, the wind brushing the feathers of his long crest. Shadows fell across the two of them, of the other passerine crowding the air, and finally she felt a great annoyance with him and decided to end this ridiculousness.
"Be gone," Skaffwory told him, wearily. "You bore me. I am too old for your chickling games."
"I won't go," he said. "I love you, Sk-kaffwory."
She ground her beak with irritation and sighed. She opened her beak, her breast growing more prominent as she took breaths of the air, and she exhaled a low note, stirring yet slightly cracked and airy. Immediately the branch began to heat; the buzzard didn't notice at first, but soon did when fires began to manifest as if from the core of the branch, easing up in little tendrils between the slivers of bark, between the scales of their toes.
Now the buzzard noticed, and he started in alarm. Passerine feared fire like no other creature — what other creature was more akin to living tinder? — and so Skaffwory fully expected him now to flee with angry squawks, but instead he closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the branch.
Skaffwory was surprised. She let the fire grow, up so that it began to lick against her stomach and at his hunched, stooped shoulders, and he cried out but remained.
"Abate," she sang to the salamander now, and the fire quelled down to a smoulder beneath their heels. Trembling, the buzzard looked up at her, and then at himself in wonder. Skaffwory did too — he was not completely unhurt, but he wasn't close to dead. And his feathers were mostly intact as well, only crisp around edges, which actually served to complement his taupe-tawny plumage rather well.
The buzzard examined his wings, which were both also intact. These were singed as well, but still usable, with effort. He looked at her, and said, with the most sincerity she had ever heard from any passerine male still in his prime:
"You are amazing."
"I threaten you with death by flame and you c-call me amazing," Skaffwory cawed at him, but her feathers fluffed in embarrassment.
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