Anuhea was sitting on the floor, drunk, in darkness, when a fluttering through the room roused him from his half-slumber. He pushed back the knotted tangles of black hair falling across his sharp features and slid his hand around until he found the earthen jug full of sour spirits. He took another drink and blinked thickly. His eyes settled on the open window where frigid winter air whistled in with faint ghosts of snow. He couldn’t remember leaving it open. He felt hot and sweaty despite the cold, and pushed away some of the destitute rags and moldy blankets he’d piled about himself.
A nightingale flitted down and landed on the toe of his boot. Anuhea squinted for a moment, then turned his foot, expecting the bird to take flight again. But it remained motionless and stared at him with one beady eye. Anuhea shrugged and started to lift the jug again.
“Are you Anuhea the Many-Handed?” the nightingale asked.
After a pause, Anuhea murmured, “Now this is a first.” His voice was thick and hoarse, both from the drink and from atrophy. He sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat. “A talking bird? And one that speaks perfect Elvish?” He let the jug thunk against the floorboards and contemplated it. “I must have swiped a bad batch.”
The bird sat preternaturally motionless on his boot, its head turned so one depthless black eye trained on his face. The gaze was piercing, and it made Anuhea shift under its scrutiny. The bird didn’t flutter as his boot moved across the floor; only its head adjusted to continue staring at him.
“Could it be that a legend is in such a state, so deep in his cups?” the bird asked.
Anuhea looked to each side and smirked. “I’m not sure where you’re looking,” he said, “but there aren’t any cups to be found here.” He lifted the jug, tilted it toward the nightingale for emphasis, and tipped it back. The last few drops trickled out, and Anuhea wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He set the jug down, rolled it away, and started to stand with a groan. The nightingale fluttered off his boot and perched on the windowsill, a black shadow against blacker sky.
Anuhea wavered, watching the bird. He looked about the small room, an old, abandoned woodcutter’s cabin with a leaking roof and drafty walls. Outside a wet wind howled, creaking the ancient timber and making the door shudder in its frame. The wind whistled through the imperfect boards and finally Anuhea shivered. He dug through his rag pile until he found his cloak, dusty and frayed but still thick enough to bring some warmth back to his shoulders.
He tripped over some of the blankets, stumbled, managed to stay upright, and went to the shelf above a small stove. “Well, whatever it was that loosed your tongue,” he said, looking up at three more jugs, “one of these will put it back in order.” Even with his back turned, he could feel the bird’s scrutinizing eye taking in every movement as he blew into his hands, rubbed them together, and brought another jug down. He bit the cork and pulled it out. The feeling of the gaze at his back, though, made him waver and just stand there holding the jug.
“This world has changed so much,” the nightingale said. “But I had not realized it had changed enough to leave a legend so disgraced.”
Anuhea pressed a palm against the side of his head. “There’s that word again. ‘Legend.’ Such a heavy word. Too heavy. Can’t carry something so heavy around. It’ll tire you out.” He stretched his jaw. “An old word. An old word in an older tongue.” He turned. “I thought birds were supposed to sing?”
“Will you not answer me plainly?”
“That cadence. That inflection.” His eyes narrowed and he looked down at the jug in his hand as if it had answers to questions he couldn’t quite formulate. “You’re part of the old world for certain. One of the royal court, perhaps? Though I don’t recall any birds fluttering around the throne.” He shrugged and smirked again. “Though perhaps,” he said, lifting the jug, “strange things happened at night in the castle.”
He drank, and, fortified, looked at the sill where the bird slowly collected a dusting of snow. “Come closer, then. Let me see this bird that speaks with such formality and regalness.”
The nightingale fluttered to the floor and stood there, looking up at Anuhea. It remained there with a statuesque solidity unnatural in a bird.
“A ghost, perhaps?” Anuhea crouched down and rested his forearms languidly on his knees. His body was bony, all sharp angles. The jug hung limply in his fingers. The wind outside whistled through the walls and the hut’s creaking grew so loud for a moment it made the room feel like it was tilting, about to tumble down the mountain.