Nyere

Nyérë is a writer and poet, plunged into despair after the death of his mate. The clan's wandering leech dealer, Asarta, found him badly injured at the bottom of a ravine and brought Nyérë into his care. Nyérë isn't too happy about being the Guardian's charge, but there isn't much he can do about his new giant protector. For now, he mostly confines himself to some dark corner of the clan's library, whittling his days away by reading and writing. When he cannot be found at the library, he has likely been dragged on a leeching quest by Asarta.

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The gentle scratch of his quill on paper was a comforting sound, but after spending all day writing, Nyérë was keen for the fresh air. And, with their usual impeccable timing, his mate entered the chamber with a happy tune on their tongue.
___"Nyérë! You've been writing all day!" Quellë exclaimed, with mock horror. "Come, its time to stretch out that noodle-ish body of yours."
___Nyérë let out a bark of laughter, but made no move to get up. Instead, he just gave Quellë a mischievous look, before flopping from the desk. "Ahhh, Quel, my love, as much as I would love to join you, I cannot possibly move."
___Quellë gave their mate a long, unimpressed stare. Then, with a sigh, scooped him up, to delighted giggles. "You won't get me next time!" They vowed.
___"Now, that would imply I am up to some form trickery, would it not? Which I am not, of course."
___"Of course," Quellë responded, with yet enough sigh, though this one could barely disguise their amusement. "Let's get some food into you, then maybe you'll feel strong enough for trickery."

Nyérë and Quellë had made themselves a cave in the lair. The nesting grounds would have been lovely but alas they didn't- couldn't- produce a nest of their own. But Nyérë felt that not even a five-egg clutch could make him happier than this quiet little cave of theirs.
___It was warm, almost too warm, but Quellë liked it hot, to remind them of home. Most Coatls seemed to be this way, Nyérë had observed. The heat, Nyérë could live with, but no molten lava or rocks could be found here. Instead, there were grasses and feathers, all woven into one big nest. Some of the feathers were ones that Nyérë had gathered from outside of the lair, but most were ones that he collected from his mate. These ones had a rich brown stem, branching into a gorgeous turquiose. They were often flecked with gold or vivid orange, and glimmered in the sun. Quellë was initially embarrassed by the Spiral's fascination with their feathers, but had grown to enjoy his praise and preening.
___The cavern was lit by large lanterns, which Quellë tended to, constantly topping up the oil and cleaning the glass until it cast vivid colours across the walls. They weren't all that practical to read by, so Nyérë had one candle of his own, unadorned and a little wonky, that his mate loved all the same.
___The winding entrance of the cave meant that little sound from the outside world reached them here, but Quellë loved to fill the silence with gentle humming, or sometimes just chattering away in their native tongue. The Spiral couldn't understand a word, but there was no greater sound to him.

Quellë's feathers were losing their colour, starting at their crest. They stopped leaving the cave.
___"It will be embarrassing if anyone sees me like this," they murmured from the nest, eyes closed. "I'll go out when the colour returns."
___Nyérë wasn't surprised when the colour continued to fade, and Quellë continued to weaken. He had had a sick feeling in his stomach since the pair noticed the first whitening of one downy budding feather after weeks of lethargy.
___When the Coatl refused to leave to see a healer, Nyérë brought one to them. And when that healer could do nothing, Nyérë found another. And another. One more. No, this will be the one.
___Please, just one more.

The towering Guardian seemed reluctant to leave him on his own. He'd brought Nyérë to this strange lair, likely far from where the pair had first met. Nyérë hadn't been attached to the ravine where the Guardian had found him; it was just somewhere his grief had taken him to. And yet it was rather disconcerting to have been taken across the map without any say in the matter.
___"If you prefer it there, we can return," the Guardian had assured him, whilst tending to its many leeches. "I don't care where we are, as long as we're together."
___The old Nyérë would have found it hilarious to hear such a romantic proclamation said by an impassive stranger. Now, it just irritated him.
___"Leave me alone," he said, looping around himself a few extra times.
___"When you're feeling better, we-"
___"There is no 'we'! Go pick another Charge! I'm not your responsibility!"
___The Guardian had a sour look on his face when he responded, "A Guardian does not choose their Charge."

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MistJam poetry entry

The Parts We Loved

You loved the way the light
catches on the leaves,
the Sun illuminating them overhead
lighting them up, vibrant green.

I liked the dark spots,
closer to the middle
where the leaves overlap
again and again and again
until there is no light there at all.

You pointed out the breeze
that scattered the dark spots
so light poked through like stars.
I came to love that the most.

Its different,
watching on my own.
All the colours look the same.
They blend together,
murky green
and there's no part I like at all.