Companion drabble to another drabble entitled Write. I’m honestly more proud of this than I am of the other one ^^;

Disclaimer : I own everything in this drabble! Except Name and Fandom. Can’t forget Name and Fandom ._.

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It is raining today.

Raindrops drip from the sky in a steady rhythm of tip-tap-tap.

His hand itches for a pen. He wants to write today. Now.

He picks up a pencil.

The circular cylinder of wood with a blunt slab of carbon at its end is a poor excuse of a writing material, but it would suffice for now.

He tears a sheet of paper filled with scribbles off his writing pad, crumples it and tosses it at the waste basket on the other side of the study like a pro. It misses and clatters to a side, but he does not take notice of it.

‘There once was a little dove.’

He writes. The lack of grammar and flowery enounciation does not bother him. This is the first draft. First drafts are supposed to emphasize on plot. Not vocabulary and grammar.

‘This little dove was a mutant to its family. A literal black sheep amongst its own kind.’

This little bird is a little black dove with crooked wings and bald pink back. It is so monstrous to its flock that not only is it shunned, its wings have been beaten crooked and its back pecked bare.

‘The little dove yearned to fly, but his wings crippled him painfully.’

Alas it is simply because he is so deprived of freedom that he yearns for it all the more.

‘For each flight he took, he lost half a dozen more plume.’

His siblings would sneer at him spitefully. For what use is a bird who cannot fly?

‘So he was restricted to the ground where what held him captive was not what we came to call gravity, but by his own beaten wings.’

Worse than a chicken, his brothers thrill. Chickens stay in barns, not on trees with birds with real wings, his sisters taunt.

‘Outcasted by sharp unrelenting beaks, he stumbled into a farm.’

Bloody, shivering and downtrodden, he collapses on the middle of a stonepath and is almost eaten by a cat.

The pencil pauses. The spell half-broken. Emilio hesitates.

Who should play the role of the hero to a raven-born dove who cannot fly?

The silhouette of a well-built blonde with waist length hair flashes in his mind. This stranger has haunted his dreams both night and day.

The carbon tip press back down against smooth paper.

Sounds of paper scratching start up again. The magic continues.

He does not hear Rutee open the study door with a soft click.