(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

in the end they built the runework. washington had never seen anything like it. some of it was old-fashioned wizardry, straight out of a spellbook, as stuffy and boring as an essay. he’d seen plenty of diagrams just like this one, and disdained how organized they were. the magic of magic was the creativity of it - the imagination. but lafayette had books and books and books, and he would muttering about dispelling and old essays and history.

there was sorcery too it too, unique and twisting, unfamiliar and heartfelt. he could sense the chaos of it through his feathers. it was a good runework. he’d never seen anything like it. then again, he’d never been trapped as a bird before either.

“well, my dearest excellency, i sincerely hope you are ready to have fingers again,” lafayette said, looking up to where he was currently perched on a branch. he held up his hand, and washington fluttered into it. “well, no matter what occurs after, i must tell you it has been an absolute honor to have every moment of your company.” then he set his hand down, and washington fluttered into the center of the runework. lafayette covered him with bone powder and dripped enchanted wellwater onto his head. he resisted the urge to scratch it.

he knew the magic immediately when the man started casting. knew the feeling of fingers in his feathers and the sense of tendrils. he knew how it prickled all over. he knew the pull in his spirit. he had been cursed before this, and attacked in all sorts of ways - fought wars inside of him and fended off enemies who wanted to pull him apart - defeated those who wished to crush him - defended himself in every way. so everything about him resisted the fact that magic was being cast on him. he urged to fight it off and fought the urge. opened his spirit to him.

the magic was unkind. the magic pulled out his feathers and twisted his beak and bent his tail. the magic swelled his little bird heart. the magic stretched his talons and filed the down and squeezed them flat. the magic took hold of his eyes and made more colors. the magic took his fragile little bird bones and twisted and shook and stretched and added and made and made and made and made and layered it all with paint and sinew.

it was excruciating.

he felt the ground under his side. it was cold; he was soft. he was cold in a way he thought he might have never been cold before. when he tried to open his eyes they ached, and color and light streamed in, vicious.

“excellency!” a voice hissed, out of breath. hands - flesh, soft flesh, unfamiliar that he knew, that he could identify precisely what it was without seeing it - took him - his head - he had a head, he was so much, so tall - into folded legs.

he could hear his rattling gasps. air rushed between lips. he had lips.

“dearest!” the voice was different, felt different. vibrated into his ear and through the membranes and was translated by his brain. “say something.”

his tongue - tongue! - felt like a fish in his mouth. the muscle was to heavy for him to lift. he garbled out something. lafayette stroked his face.

“you need to rest!” lafayette said, despite that he was pale and wane and the sweat dripped down his face. “go nowhere. i shall get you a pillow.”

he made a strangled noise. it might have been a laugh. he could laugh. he could laugh! he could laugh.

lafayette was back and returned. lafayette put a pillow in his lap and put his head on top of it. soft. that he could feel soft, that it was comfort, that it was –

lafayette put a blanket on him. the blanket was warm, and he had not been warm, or been cold, really - and when he tried to speak it was only nonsense.

“shhh, general,” lafayette said, and stroked his cheek. “rest.”

he felt. clenched fingers. fingers! flexed toes! toes, that he had. he slept and it was the sleep of a human, blessedly oblivious to every inch of his flesh.