Beneath the cliff, a hidden conversation quietly unfolds.
... Provided that "conversation" is understood in the loosest sense of the word.
Investigator I: We know you're trying to dispel the influx of people coming here.
Investigator I: Otherwise, you wouldn't have risked exposing yourself by coming out and disparaging your own work.
Зима: …
Investigator II: Even if you criticize your own writing as worthless ...
Investigator II: ... the people who are already here will not leave easily.
Investigator II: Alright. We'll register you as a slightly extreme, reclusive arcanist.
Investigator I: He's a poet.
Зима: ... sigh.
The chickadee flaps up and down uneasily.
Зима: It's alright ...
Investigator II: ... Sorry, what did you say?
Investigator I: I think he was talking to his bird.
Investigator II: Oh, I've heard about that—that some people can communicate with animals. Like chatting with a pike while ice fishing ...
Investigator II: A well-meaning fisherman is likely to master that skill. Or, have you heard the fairytale—
Investigator I: He's an arcanist.
Зима: I ...
Investigator I: Therefore, I must remind you that your previous actions violated the Public Security Law.
Investigator I: You may not have meant any harm, but they were dangerous nonetheless.
Зима: …
The chickadee chirps fiercely, trying to argue with them.
The poet remains silent.
Investigator II: There's no need to be so serious; nothing bad happened, did it?
Investigator I: It's part of our job to handle these things before they become a problem.
Investigator II: Alright, alright.
Investigator II: I think I mentioned when I introduced myself earlier that we are investigators from the St. Pavlov Foundation. This is a routine investigation to locate arcanists ...
Зима: …
Investigator I: When we docked, we detected a large-scale fluctuation in arcane skills.
Investigator II: Those carvings in the bizarre spots on the cliffs—you wrote those, right? But I didn't quite understand them, haha.
Investigator I: …
Investigator I: Don't pay any attention to him ...
Зима: …
Зима: Y-Yes.
A small gap opens in the stone wall that is his silence, letting a sliver of light shine through.
Зима: Those ... poems ...
Investigator I: ... You wrote them, right? They're beautiful. Even though their location is a little strange—
It is best to talk about poetry with a poet. It gives them some distance between themselves and their words, allowing them to speak more freely.
Standing before the gap in the stone, a happy expression at last appears on the poet's exhausted face.
Зима: They're ... allegorical poems.
Зима: ... I wrote them ... for ... passing birds to read.
"The investigators from the St. Pavlov Foundation gave the poet another choice."
"A choice he had never imagined he would be presented with and was genuinely shaken by."
Sonetto: Then, Mr. Зима ... joined the Foundation?
Sonetto: So—
Investigator II: ... In summary, the St. Pavlov Foundation can provide you with a quiet, safe, creative environment, perhaps even an arcanist companion for you to talk to, and so on and so forth. If you have any special requirements, the specific terms can be negotiated further.
Investigator I: Registration does not affect an arcanist's freedom of movement. We simply need to know your whereabouts.
Investigator II: Indeed. In fact, many arcanists like yourself, who prefer to be alone, agree to be registered. After all, there's no harm in it. Why not think it over?
Investigator II: Ah, yes, I almost forgot to ask. What's your name?
Зима: …
The chickadee flies from one shoulder to the other.
It happily chirps a word. A name.
Зима: ... "зима."
Investigator II: зима, right? Okay.
Investigator II: I understand that this place might be more familiar to you than your motherland. The idea of a motherland is symbolic, after all. I'm sure you are more aware of that than most, given your literary leanings.
Investigator II: Oh, listen to me. Whether you make a living with your pen or your hands, it's all the same ... Anyway, you don't have to make a decision right away; we'll be staying on the island for some time.
Investigator I: Yes. This area is yet to be explored by the Foundation.
Investigator I: There may be other arcanists.
Зима: …
Зима knows there are no other arcanists here.
He has touched every rock that the sea strikes along the shore, has spent countless nights under the moonlight wandering through dark pines, and has sat by many campfires reading poetry.
In the six-month-long winter, amidst the fierce gusts of the westerly wind and the brief warmth of a clearing sky—
There is no one else. No other arcanists. Just him and his friends.
He knows, and he knows it well.
Зима: …
Зима: I don't ...
Зима: …
Зима: I don't know.
From the forest to the cliffs to the coast.
Thoughts and hesitations draw out time to infinity.
Зима looks out at the rising sun from the end of the long, empty dock.
A distant, semi-circle; a fire held in the hands of the night, splitting sea from sky.
It is bright enough to scorch the eyes, or at least enough to make them sting.
Everything feels small before this vast horizon.