Engraved Thoughts - Browbird Quest

Engraving into your horns was a permanent act, a sign of vulnerability and willingness to tell one’s story to all who lay eyes on you, Ace knew that very clearly. It was taught to every browbird at a young age after all. He was never planning to carve into his horns, to expose his weakness and sentimentality to all, but he could not help but think about what he would carve if he did. That is why he was sitting in his study, at the middle of the night, fiddling with a chisel. Mindlessly watching the smooth, silver metal reflecting the candlelight and colours of the dusty room, listening to the faint jazz music on play through the nearby radio. Ace thought about this practically every year, and despite this he never came with an answer. The thoughts always twisted and de-railed over and over, unable to settle on one event. It frustrated him, how he simply couldn’t decide. Was he really that fickle that he couldn’t pick a single memory to hold high, to shout to the world?

It always started with the ideas of carving aspects of his early childhood, of his mother and warm sunny days. After all, to Ace that was bliss. Carving memories of beaches and childhood stories read to him should be easy enough, and he held his mother in very high regard. She was Ace’s role model along with his mother, his only parent. But at the same time, it didn’t feel worthy enough. Perhaps it was due to Ace not clearly remembering his early childhood or due to how cliché it felt, Ace just couldn’t see the idea working.

There was always Ace’s teenage years, the beginning of thievery and vengeance. Thinking about the smug and morally corrupt people he met during those years sends his blood boiling, invoking passionate imagery of engravings in his mind. Usually this is what temporarily screams out to him, something that would be truly set into his mind. An angry cry into the void of the celestial seas. However, the thought of having his lowest moments in such public display terrified him, and long after the heat and flavour of rage began, the bitter aftertaste of fear and disgust washed over. To put the most turbulent and fragile version of himself into the present felt wrong, oh so wrong. And as quickly as that idea would solidify, it would crumble into nothingness once more.

Ace leaned back into his chair, sighing softly to himself. It always took him a while to fight off the aftertaste of those memories, and it was always just as bitter. Steadying himself was not the easiest task, and he decided to take note of his study as a distraction. Tall bookshelves filled with novels Ace barely touched, a drab rug that came with the house, his homemade desk that he broke and had to fix again, an assortment of pens and journals purchased from kitbull run markets, and the large maroon chair he has become accustomed to. Familiarity was calming, and Ace was able to steadily draw a breath and think once more.

Another thought crossed his mind, his marriage. One of the most splendid moments of his life, it would make sense to carve it into his horns. Imagery of silk and fields swirled through hazy thoughts of flower bouquets and dancing. He often found himself lost in that memory, wishing to be whisked away into one more dance before being tugged away to reality. It was the most vibrant thing he could recall, and by far the strongest candidate for craving. But regardless, he found that he could never put anything to paper, let alone to horns. His home and family were the evidence of that chapter of his life, to him there was no need to carve it into his horns when he can involve himself with the people from the memory instead after all.

One more memory stood out to him, Camellia. She was his daughter, so it didn't surprise Ace that she came to mind so clearly, but the ideas that formed surprised him. Floral imagery, gentle lines, and even softened sounds swam through his mind. Memories of finding Camellia's egg, small and alone within the woodlands of his home, to her early years replayed over and over as he lamented. Days of chasing her around the family farm and teaching her about the world filled Ace with nostalgia, the most bittersweet feeling he had felt in a long while.

Ever since Camellia grew up and started travelling, he hadn't seen his daughter in person as much as he'd like. She was making memories and friends, sending postcard after postcard detailing how incredible she felt and what she found. He was proud of her, but couldn't help but be envious of all the people who got to experience these moments with her while Ace stayed home and just waited for these letters. Frostfall had especially been hard that year. Every year there was a traditional for Ace, where he would make a homemade present for Camellia. The pain of cutting his fingers or burning his hands from being too hasty was made worth it with Camellia's reaction to the gifts, but this year a letter came in place of Camellia. She had been travelling and ending up celebrating Frostfall with a big celebration far off from the planet she came from, and had attached numerous small gifts for her parents. Ace appreciated every trinket, and loved that she was experiencing something that sounded once in a million, but Ace couldn't help feeling forlorn that day. He felt so small compared to Camellia's life and friends, o the point where he just wanted to cry. But that's why Ace would finally settle on those memories when this question popped into his mind, he wanted a way to feel connected to Camellia regardless of distance.

Ace focused returned to the chisel again, bringing it closer to view. Even with his feelings, Ace still wouldn't carve his horns. The question worked perfectly for contemplation and self reflection however, and that's probably why he was so drawn to asking himself the question over and over. Every time he asked he would feel a little different, he'd feel more whole in a sense. Placing the silver tool down, Ace turned his attention to a book on his desk.

The small ,leatherbound book that sat at the right hand corner of the desk tempted him, and with a few swift motions Ace opened the book and opened it to a blank page. Grabbing a nearby pencil, Ace began to plan out a design. It was a mindless task for him, scrawling swirls and leaves into the page, allowing himself to wallow in the bittersweet flavour of the past once more. Time seemed to slow as he fleshed out the concept, watching it dance to life before his very eyes.

Snapping back out of his intense focus, Ace noticed the golden sunlight of dawn peaking into the room, and mumbled to himself. He had spent longer than he had liked in this small, dusty nook. Taking a deep breath, Ace stood up and headed out to breakfast. The horns refused to leave his mind, stabbed through his thoughts like thorns. Stepping down stairs, Ace rubbed his eyes and groaned to himself. He was starting to feel the consequences of staying up so late, leaving tiny seeds of regret as he stepped into the kitchen. Absentmindedly making breakfast, Ace found his attention slinking back to the book. He'd think about it more once his breakfast was made.

The ding of a toaster woke Ace from his thoughts, and he promptly set up breakfast for himself. Eating it, however, wasn't really on his mind. All he could think about was his engraving design, of the memories woven into it. It wasn't going to do any good sitting in this book and rotting away in his study, surely there was something Ace could do to have it seen by someone, to show this vulnerability to the world in a way that still remains private. A metaphorical engraving of his horns before he decides whether to actually go through with it. Mumbling to himself, Ace began to actually eat his breakfast.

And then it hit him.

Ace could write a letter to Camellia, and put the drawing in the envelope. After all the carvings were to be based off of memories of her, and it'd be a great way to initiate a conversation with his daughter without waiting for her letters. Grinning to himself, Ace slid out of his chair and jogged back to the study to fetch a card. Digging through boxes, cupboards, and shelves he was able to find something fitting. A simple, yellow postcard. Practically bolting back downstairs, Ace couldn't help but write to his hearts content. Words spilled from his mind onto the paper ranging from topics. Discussions of the farm, how Ace and his wife were going, to how proud he was of Camellia all lined themselves against the back of the card. Gently tearing the sketch from the book, Ace attached it to the postcard and sealed it in an envelope. Ace carefully addressed the letter to Camellia, making sure to list everything from where she was staying to her full name upmost perfectly.

Upon finishing, Ace walked out of the house to his mailbox. It was a long walk, with the path going through woodland that was apparently almost untouched when the house was originally built. With each step Ace grew more and more certain. He was going to deliver the letter.

And at this point, Ace was certain he was going to carve his horns.