Wishing Pond - Kiwi

A small wax candle sits in the center of a wide, curling leaf. Kiwi gently pokes at the base of it while triple checking to make sure it’s just as firmly attached now as it had been before his journey. Despite carrying it as delicately as possible, cradled between his wings, he was worried about somehow breaking the offering of fortune before his arrival.

But no. The candle wax is solid and unyielding under his claws, stuck resolutely to the leaf that will serve as its boat. He checks to make sure the wick is still standing, that the frayed end is clean and dry. Everything seems perfect. All that’s left is Kiwi himself.

He gingerly peels off his vest, making sure the pockets are snapped closed before folding it gently over a low branch. He takes a moment to listen and to breathe. There is no indication that anyone else is here—only the murmur of moving water and the whisper of the trees in the wind. He almost wishes there were other pilgrims just so he could double check that everything is alright.

But today, Kiwi is alone.

You don’t light the candle when you come to make an offering. The candle will light itself. He isn’t sure whether it’s superstition or truth, but he decides to leave it unlit. Just in case.

He picks it up as carefully as he can manage with his teeth, clicking in the back of his throat to find the calmest spot of water to set it down in. There isn’t much of a current, or at least, not one he can actually notice. The wishing pond ripples in the wind but is otherwise peaceful.

Elyxians of all faiths are welcome to reflect here, he knows. Even so, it feels like he’s trespassing or maybe just doing it wrong. Kiwi isn’t a Skyfarer or a Child of the Celestials. He’s just Kiwi. And right now, he’s entirely alone, left to blunder his way through a ritual he’s only vaguely familiar with.

No pressure.

Even as he relaxes his jaw, Kiwi is clicking to make sure the leaf boat won’t capsize, ready to scoop it up and try to find a better place for it. It wobbles to one side. He freezes. Against all odds, it manages to right itself.

Okay. Alright. Wonderful. Now it’s his turn.

Hesitantly, Kiwi dips one paw into the water and wrinkles his snout at how cold it is. It takes a moment of steeling his nerves to actually set his front feet into the water. It isn’t as deep as he thought it might be, but he’s also not expecting something solid and silky to graze his foreleg. The dephx almost leaps out of his skin until he realizes it’s just a fish.

“Pardon me,” he tells it, shuffling forwards so he can get all four legs in the pond. It’s much shallower than he expected—it doesn’t even touch his rib cage despite how low to the ground he is.

Another fish grazes along his ankle and he flinches, clicking reproachfully until he can see the ghostly blur it leaves behind. He wasn’t expecting the pond to have fish in it. Granted, that’s where fish usually are, but this specific pond in particular? A little odd. It’s hard to track them in the first place because they don’t make any sound, harder still because the surface of the pond collects most of the sound. He’s mostly relying on the weird eddies they stir up when they swim against the surface.

They’re bigger than he thought. Someone must take care of them. Does anyone maintain the pond? Or does the pond maintain itself? It’s a sacred place, of course, but still…

Another fish nudges his leg and Kiwi frowns, gently trying to push it away with his paw. Another fish comes from the opposite direction and nudges his foreleg. They’re not acting like he’s food, which is a tiny relief, but they’re certainly insistent. Maybe they think he’s here to feed them?

“I don’t have any food,” he explains, gently trying to brush them away from his legs without moving too suddenly. He doesn’t want to flip his candle over nor does he want to step on one of the fish. Aside from being bad manners, it seems like it would be especially egregious at the wishing pond of all places. They would move, right? They probably have eyes.

He shuffles forwards very slowly, tapping at the ground to gauge the depth while using his snout to keep the candle nearby. The pond is shallow at the edges, but soon the water is lapping at his chest; oh dear. Kiwi didn’t think about the fact he might have to swim. And all the while, the silky-solid fish brush along his sides and his paws, brushing their mouths over his skin and flicking their fins.

“Pardon me, I can’t really see you—oh!”

There’s a lot of rippling happening relatively close to him; the sound of moving water is audible, along with the strange little clicks and pops of fins momentarily breaching the surface. Kiwi chitters anxiously, not sure what’s the matter, but the fish seem relatively unhappy. Did he do something wrong?

No. They’ve just lost interest instead. As a whole, the fish change their mind and decide to swarm around the offering of fortune.

“Oh no, wait—wait, I need that, come back!”

The fish are circling around it and gradually pulling it away, nibbling frantically at the leaf like this strange gift might be the food they’re waiting for. He’s not sure who it’s for, but certainly not them.

Kiwi steps forwards and almost goes under. Instead of soft mud, there’s an empty void beneath his paws. The water is suddenly ice cold. He staggers backwards with a yelp, splashing as he pinwheels his tail. His inner eye is silent, the echolocation indistinct as the noises ping off of everything and nothing at the same time. A dozen fish graze along his sides, nudging him forwards, towards the yawning center of the pond.

In front of him, drifting serenely despite the churning fish, the candle flickers to life. Even without eyes, Kiwi can feel the light on his face.

He takes a hesitant step. The ground is there and not there all at once; he feels something solid beneath his feet, even if it’s a little lower than the bottom of the pond was meant to be. The water has disappeared. He can still feel the icy waves lapping over his shoulders, but there is no sound, no resistance as he pushes ahead.

The candle is waiting for him. The fish are gone.

Kiwi clicks softly, able to discern the candle and the leaf in a bright silvery-white, his own forelegs outlined in a soft grey. Everything else fades to nothing. He stands in front of the offering of fortune, feeling the candle’s soft glow on his face.

“Hi,” he starts, a little uncertain and sheepish. How is he supposed to start this? Is he addressing a specific deity or just whoever feels like listening? Probably the latter.

He has a vague and fuzzy memory of his mother teaching him about Kihra and Azriah, the spirits of the sun and the moon that kept the balance of the land. He had only heard of the Skyweaver and the Beaked Devil within the last few years: they were more commonly honored by aphex, though to the best of his knowledge, there’s nothing preventing Kiwi from speaking to them either.

The wishing pond is for wishing and for reflection. That’s why he’s here, isn’t it? Kiwi sighs and starts over, trying to clear his head. He wants to find balance. So many things are left up to the whims of the universe; all Kiwi wants is to be at peace, to be healthy and comfortable and safe. He wants Alabaster’s business to thrive. He wants to protect his little family, even if they’re just as determined to protect him. He wants more nights with his face buried in soft fur, twined together with Alabaster to ward off the desert chill.

Even if he would never admit it out loud, he wants guidance. There’s a fluttering restlessness in his heart that comes and goes, a nameless longing that takes up space in his chest. He wants to know what it means.

But it seems he didn’t have to say anything aloud in the first place. Through either magic or divinity, the pond is listening. It understands. There’s a feeling of contentment that washes over his entire body and wraps around him like a blanket. With it comes a feeling of finality, but not necessarily a bad one.

The candle extinguishes, and suddenly, Kiwi is back where he started. He flails at the abrupt transition and splashes himself with his own tail. The fish dart away from him, startled by the sudden motion, and he stands there motionless with his wings spread for balance like a fool. Eventually, the feeling of vertigo passes. Kiwi folds his wings and walks slowly towards the edge of the pond, fighting the water that’s now slightly warm to the touch. Maybe he’s just acclimated to the temperature.

The air is cold on his wet skin and Kiwi hoists himself out of the pond with a shiver. He makes a beeline for the tree that holds his vest. It’s mostly used for the pockets—it doesn’t provide a lot of warmth, but it's better than nothing. And the trees block out the wind while he dries himself off.

As peaceful as it is on the banks, Kiwi doesn’t want to spend too long here in case he’s preventing someone else from wishing. He hesitates and looks back at the pond, clicking low and focused until he can find the offering again. It looks the same as when he set it adrift—although perhaps it’s a bit more melted now, the wick burnt a bit lower.

A part of him feels rested in a way he can’t put into words. An invisible weight has been lifted. There’s nothing left to do but go home and embrace the possibilities of the future.