Long after the books were burned, I watched the birds. They’d often keep me company through the longest days.
I once saw a crow, black in colour. Crows are considered the messengers of the bird world, trading notes about death with others it meets. Just like Deathnote, who uses his abilities to threaten people of their impending doom, the crow symbolises the darkness within. But the crow soon flew back to its nest and I never saw it again.
Next, I saw a gannet, robust in size. Gannets are known for being greedy, often stealing the food of other birds. Just like Ether, who’s life revolves around her meals, and her snacks, the bird is distracted easily by such matters, and symbolises the gluttony in society. But the gannet soon flew back to its nest and I never saw it again.
The third bird I saw was a raven. The raven is a creature of duality, which was meant to live alongside the pure dove. Just like Sir Renault, the raven is capable of great good, but cannot live up to it’s expectation and turns to the side of evil as a way to distance itself from it’s white-winged rival. The raven represents the idea of misguided intent. Like the other birds, the raven soon flew back to its nest and I never saw it again.
Not long after, I saw a peacock, proud and colourful, but not like the rest of it’s peers. Just like Chronoa, who also walks to her own beat amongst a room full of pigeons. The peacock represents eternity and the passage of time. And soon after the peacock also flew back to its nest and I never saw it again.
Finally, I was shocked to see the visage of a phoenix before me. I’d only heard of these in whispered tales in secret away from Them, but a phoenix is born from fire and dies in fire. Just like Pyre whose sparky nature is both her greatest asset and her biggest downfall. The phoenix represents the cycle of life and death by fire. The phoenix, too, flew to its nest, never seen again.
Those birds all returned to their nests to find their younglings missing or dead, and that is down to the resourceful nature of the cuckoo which had invaded their nests with eggs of its own long ago. The young cuckoos, on hatching, often push the unhatched eggs of the host over the side of the nest to splat on the floor below. Just like with me, the real invasion happened long before the host even realised. By the time we reach the ring I’ll already have settled my eggs in the nests inside the minds of each of my five opponents. Though they tried to create the perfect environment to hatch their own winning plans, the truth is those plans were all dead on arrival, booted out by the invasion they never saw coming. And just like the younglings the cuckoo picks off, one by one they’ll all go splat as I knock them from their laddered perches.
Bye bye, birdies.