Turkey just laughs when he sees the mess of wax and feathers lying on the floor like vomit (if so, thinks Greece, whatever you call it it's the vomit of the gods) and he's reminded of what he's learned about this man- don't they say hatred chills the bones and freezes the blood?

Not working, he muses, he's sweating and it runs down his face like tears or- sea salt, is he underwater or suspended or both, either way, it's the same.

He wonders if he's missed something but it's okay, he's still young and he has beautiful golden wings even the sun wouldn't dare to-

(I'm flying, he thinks)

No you're falling says Turkey and I'm not gonna catch you - right.

He twists and turns and there's some smell, something that is more than a smell permeates his air and snares, invades, he thinks-

of whitewashed houses, summer, wordless songs. Just noise, just- knowing that- This heat is not his heat (which must be why he shivers despite it and smoulders like coals under his skin, because Turkey spawned in fire and everything he touches burns).