you can't take my past

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the thundering sound of footsteps echoed in the woman's ears. their drab gray uniforms a warning of what was to come, a sign that their world were comin' to an end. The sudden shouts echoed throughout the small square as people fled in every direction to escape the coming blows. meadow watched in horror as people were dragged away or beaten with batons, their cries shattering her heart. the girl waited before making her attempt to flee, narrowly escaping the guards that swarmed the small town. her family was waitin' out in the woods, and if she could just get past the fence. and meadowlark would have made her escape, if she had just waited another minute.

---

as she cracked open tightly shut eyes, the faint sunlight filtered through the branches of the tall trees. the soft chittering of critters traveled through the quiet until birdsong followed. her mama always did say the birds would sing when she woke, and it seemed it were true here too. the beauty of the place was almost distracting enough to forget the racing of her heart and the fear that coursed through her veins. meadow looked down, expecting to see a bleeding wound, instead she found brown fur. everything still felt real—the prickling of her skin, the racing heart, even the smell of coal lingered in her nose. but this? this was a cruel game.

a loud chirp pulled her from her thoughts. the woman looked down to see brown feathers on the ground beside her, then lifted her eyes to the trees to find its owner. finding a small sparrow, the girl allowed her lips to curve into a smile.“well, hello there.” lark cooed to the small bird that landed some paces away from her reclined form.“these yours, sweet thing?”

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Birdie weren't old, but he felt it. Felt like he'd lived a thousand years, a thousand lifetimes, all leading him precisely to this moment. If he could speak, he'd tell 'em to go fuck themselves with those damn batons they kept hitting his friends - his family - with, but they'd taken his tongue a long, long time ago to shut him up. 

It didn't work. He found other ways to make noise. 

Too much of it, probably. The world was splintered - his left eye swollen shut and blocking out his sight on that side. Damn soldiers had given him a concussion or somethin', because his vision was swimming fiercely and he felt unsteady on his feet, and not because the bastard behind him was shoving him down, bringing him to his knees on the cold pavement. 

 It was raining, heavy. Poetic, really. 

  Cold metal pressed to the back of his skull,

   a melody his father used to sing to him replayed in his mind,

     it was soothing, always made him sleepy. It did, even now,

              and then it all stopped.

---

There was no pain, save from the light ache in the back of his mind - a memory more than a physical sensation. Songbirds filled the air with a soft music, the first few tweets somehow reminiscent of that same lullaby from his dad, and Birdie felt his eyes sting something fierce. Instead of rain falling on his skin, it was filtered sunlight through tree branches above, catching on dust motes that danced through the air in tandem to the birds' natural tunes. 

When was the last time Birdie'd had the chance to listen to birdsong? 

For a moment, he basked in it, unwilling to disturb the harmony of the forest, and then pushed himself to his feet. Four of them - curious, but something he was more than okay puttin' up with, considering he'd just had a gun pressed to his head. This was miles better than where he'd been just moments ago. It must be some sort of dream.

He walked. There was nothin' better to do, after all, and Birdie'd never been good at sitting still. He walked, and walked - he wasn't sure how long, but eventually his feet took him to a clearing where a wolf rested. He'd only ever seen 'em in books, really, or owned by the elite, but he recognized 'em regardless. Woulda turned tail - which, he had one of those now! - and left, too, had the wolf not spoken in a painfully familiar voice. 

These yours, sweet thing?

Birdie didn't think before he moved forward, and his mouth was moving before he could stop it - his usual quip on the tip of the tongue that he was unaware he now possessed. "Who're ya talkin' to, sweet thing?" he drawled, and then paused, surprised by the sound of his own voice falling from an unfamiliar maw. 

It made more sense, now. This had to be a dream, didn't it?

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---

an unfamiliar voice broke the silence between meadow and the songbird. the girl turned to look at the stranger, her lips still quirked in a smile. his flirtatious question made her smile grow before meadow answered without hesitation.“well hey there! just talkin' to this here little bird.”

meadow turned to look down at the songbird that was working on putting a feather into the plush fur of her neck, her bright eyes looked to at her newfound friend with a fondness she reserved for these quiet moments. she always did love her colors, especially those on feathers and flowers. the girl began thinkin' about how her momma would braid grass, flowers, or feathers into her hair whenever they had a performance comin' up.

“now, i can't help but wonder if we knew each other before.” meadow looked at the man with a curious look in her eye, wondering just where she had met him before. the voice felt, familiar in a way she just couldn't put her finger on.

---

gonna be shortish while i come back to writing <3

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No doubt about it, that was a familiar voice. Birdie's mind musta conjured up somethin' funny in its last moments, he thought. Wolves and birds in a beautiful forest - it sounded like a sort of fairytale his dad woulda made up to send him off to sleep. Which was funny, 'cause Birdie's dad had been gone a while now, and Birdie weren't much of a storyteller. 

Her voice was unburdened by the weight of their world, though, and Birdie wanted that for all of his friends. Just hearing her sound so carefree had his throat tightening with an unnamable emotion. 

"What, y'don't remember this lil' bird?" he cooed, tail swishing as naturally as breathing. "S'pose you're used t' hearin' me without a tongue, after all." 

Or not hearing him, as it were. When was the last time he'd been able t' talk like this? Birdie couldn't remember the last time spoken word had left his lips. This was... freeing, in a way. Liberating, almost.

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