Some Things Never Change
Created on 1/11/14, 6:23PM
They had three rules.
The lion's paw swiped the air a scant hand's breadth away from the feathers of his tail, deadly claws outstretched to tear him from the air, breath that reeked with malice gusting out to roll like oil over his wings, weighing him down with the fear and pain he knew would never leave. He'd seen this coming. Of course he had. Nothing ever changed, did it? Always, people would find out about them, realize what a horrible mistake they'd made in befriending them, and then they'd attack, lashing out at the infection that bit at the wound. It wasn't their fault. It wasn't their fault. They were just protecting themselves. He and his human were the problem.
He climbed through the air, effortlessly evading the lion's angry swipes, practiced in such dances of attack and evade as his young wings had no right to be. As no one had any right to be. But, of course, he had to know how to fly faster than a speeding hawk, didn't he? Had to know how to dodge and dive and spiral through the air faster than the blink of an eye, didn't he?
The same way his human had to know how to stand strong even after her bones mended and the bruises faded, after the physical abuse she hadn't been able to shield herself from had gone, she still had to present herself to the world, strong, righteous, angry and proud, with not a mark on her to attest to the danger they posed to those around them.
Rule number one: Never show pain.
They were the cancer, they were what was wrong with the world. They'd been told it often enough, and seen the evidence with their own eyes, that there was no denying the truth anymore.
But, still, with the click of teeth almost as big as he was snapping shut behind him, and the wounded rage he didn't even need to turn to see in the lion's eyes, and the harsh silence that had fallen over the room after the vicious words that had just been spoken by her human… it hurt.
It hurt knowing that they'd never belong, he and his human, that they'd always mess everything up, that they'd always be outcasts whose only worth was their ability to outstrip death at every turn. He knew that they probably should have died as children. A too-rough shove to the floor that resulted in a cracked skull. Starvation. Dehydration. Uncaring claws like needles tearing past his newly settled feathers and into his heart. Oh, how they hated cats.
Hated their claws, their eyes, their teeth, the way that, even now, even as the hulking mass of the lioness behind him bunched up into a shape of pure muscle, pure fury and malace, preparing to leap after him into the sky, all he could see, all he could hear, and remember was that cat, and his silken whispers and glowing eyes that sparkled with danger and deceit. Even as his wings cut through the air as though in slow motion, racing to the sheltering arms of his human who stood so close and yet so far-stupid, stupid stupid to have gone so far from her!-all he could remember was the way that his attempts to struggle had been futile, no matter how many shapes he took on, no matter how quickly he changed from dog to wolf to cat to mouse to bug to horse to eagle, and their world had turned to one of terror and confusion in the blink of an eye.
His heart speeding in his chest too fast to count, and knowing that his human's had to be as well at the remembered fear and pain, the jolt to reality that they both felt when his small talons accidentally gripped her shoulder tight enough to draw blood even through the fabric of her shirt went completely ignored in the wake of the past rushing toward them again.
Forcing himself to hold himself as straight and up right as possible even as his mind quaked, just as he knew his human would do, because no matter what happened, they couldn't let anyone see their pain, because to show the world how it hurt you would bring nothing but weakness and shame, they turned their gazes hard and glared with vicious hatred back at their attackers.
Why did it always come to this?
The lion's human always lashed out with his cutting words, slicing into his human's mind and tearing it to shreds every time. How quickly his voice could turn from happiness to anger, from love to hate. Time and time again, his human showed him that they weren't to be trusted. Tried to scare him away. But every time, he always came back, and every time he abandoned them again tore a new whole through their hearts.
But he never realized just how much he hurt her, because never, ever, would they let him. They couldn't afford to. Because if he saw how much hatred and fear hid just beneath the surface of their love for him, he'd never come back again.
And they needed him to. They needed the love and kindness he offered just before his words turned scathing and hurtful, his gaze hard with rage. They needed his words of love before they turned to hatred.
His lion went on a physical assault, snarling and bristling and snapping her teeth in a deadly display of her emotions that was the opposite and yet completely the same as her human's. But she never caught him, never managed to get her jaws around him or her claws in his wings, and never realized just how much her fruitless attacks damaged him all the same, as though she had wounded him physically. It almost would have been better if she had managed to land a blow. Just once. Because then they wouldn't see it as just an empty threat without repercussions.
Because, then, maybe, when real blood had been spilled, maybe then, they'd back off, and see just exactly what it was they had done. Maybe then the lion and her human would stop destroying them every time their pendulum of a relationship swung back toward hatred and anger.
But until that day came—if it ever came, because he was too agile for that lion to ever catch, and he knew that her human would never stoop so low as to strike out at a human who was under his command—they would take the abuse the way they always did, after all retaliation was over, words of their own sharpened into blades to return the favor their tormentors so freely gave.
In bristling silence and steely eyed glares.
Eventually, with a few last—spitted out like something foul—parting words, the lion and her human stalked away, like they always did. They had no other choice. His human wasn't going to be the first to move, and neither was he.
Rule number two: Never turn your back on the enemy.
The hatch to the compartment slammed shut, ancient hinges screeching in a way that was only allowed because it was the end of the world, and they couldn't afford luxuries like oiled hinges. Silence fell over the room. Without a word, his human strode forward and pushed the door fully shut, and locked it with shaking hands. She pressed her back to it.
They waited a few seconds, like they always did, just to make sure that the threat was really gone, for the time being, at least. The only sound was the beating of their hearts. Their gazes raked over every surface in the room, searching out the shadows where danger might have hidden itself, making sure that they were well and truly alone. When those few seconds were over, when they'd assured themselves that no one would be able to see them, they shattered.
Lifted from her shoulder and clutched to his human's chest in an instant, his head pushing into the skin over her heart as he curled himself into her even as her hands moved to shield him from the world, they sank to the ground, tears streaming down her face and both their bodies trembling as they gave in to the ragged wounds that had been carved into their souls.
This wasn't the first time they'd been betrayed, and it wouldn't be the last. It was like their mother and her eagle had always said. They were special. No one would ever ignore them, no matter how hard they tried to blend in. They would always be noticed, they'd always be found out. People would realize that they'd made a mistake in getting to know the strange sparrow and his human the moment they uncovered the rottenness lurking just underneath the surface.
The scars that littered his human's back from the beatings she'd suffered as a child, almost faded entirely, so that no one noticed them at all if she manged to dress quickly enough, or waved her hands, or spoke, to draw attention elsewhere. None of their nameless partners ever noticed, or if they did, they were shoved out the door before anything could be said. The way he only ever left her side when he had to, and refused to interact with other daemons unless duty demanded it of him. And even then, he did so in silence. No one ever saw him speak. Not even to whisper in her ear. His silence went far beyond simple shyness, and everyone knew it. If he moved even a few feet away from her, or she from him, the pain would start deep inside his chest, next to his heart, growing stronger with every wingbeat he took and making his entire body tremble with weakness. Her hands could never remain still, clenching and unclenching unceasingly, her face pale and vision blurring as remembered terror and pain rose up to strangle the both of them.
Pressed against her bare skin and beating heart, her trembling hands encasing him in a warm protective shell against her chest, he closed his eyes, tears of his own springing forward, and nestled closer, his wings opening a bit to brush the hands she shielded him with in silent gratitude.
Sometimes, he wished they were the same person. Sometimes, he wished that his human didn't have a daemon like him, because he was the weak one, the frail one. The one who needed defending. The reason she never fought back. She could take a hit. A beating. She could take it and return it again with a vicious readiness born from years of abuse and suppressed rage. But him? Him? One bat of a paw and he'd be out of the air. A pounce to pin him in place. Descending talons or beak or hoof or claw or fangs to end his life, and hers along with it.
You could only dodge so long, and he had no way of fighting back. His talons couldn't cut through the fur or scales or feathers that protected other daemons. His beak was nothing more than the sting of a mosquito that did nothing but to infuriate the enemy further.
He was a liability, and he knew it.
Without him to slow her down, his human would be able to take on the lion's human without a second thought. She could finally be allowed release the storm of emotions that her cool exterior masked, the anger and the hate and the resentment and the disgust and the betrayal, all of it. She could punch and kick and scream and swear and curse and claw her way to victory if she wanted to. She could finally make the world realize what they had done to her.
And even as their hearts slowed as the mental pain the lion and her human's actions had caused ebbed and slowly faded, dread grew in his chest and ran with arms of pain outstretched through his veins, keeping his half-stretched wings still shaking even after long minutes had passed.
His voice crept up his throat, his mind begging him to speak the words he so desperately wanted to say, but was so, deathly afraid to.
He pulled his wings back to his sides, signaling to her that he wanted her to open her hands. She did so, slowly, exhaustion brought on by despair tugging on both their bodies, until he sat perched on her knee—her weak knee, which quivered slightly under even his feather-light weight—level with her tear-reddened eyes.
"K-Kara." Her name. The first word he'd spoken in days. Weeks. His heart broke in shame for the stutter that he could never manage to shake. Even though he knew that, here, he was safe. This was his human, his Kara. He was allowed to talk. Nothing bad would happen if he spoke. The cat and his human were gone, and they were never coming back. They'd never be able to hurt him—hurt them—again.
But, still, no matter how many times he told himself this, he couldn't shake the panic that inevitably rose up.
Just the thought of speaking…
The trembling began anew, and tears streamed from his eyes and down the feathers of his face, "I-I-I-I think we should-I mean, y-you should-you should-you…" He couldn't breathe. He was shaking so hard, he couldn't breathe, he knew it was safe to talk now, he knew nothing bad would happen, he knew the cat was gone now, would never be able to hurt him again, but he couldn't breathe and he just wanted to die of shame and fear and heartbreak and his eyes had been blinded by tears, and he couldn't even see his human's face when he finally managed to get the words out of his throat, "D-do you think we should s-s-s-separate?"
Gods, why couldn't he stop shaking? Why couldn't he stop stuttering? Why couldn't he breathe? Why couldn't he explain that, without him, she'd be better off? That, without a pitiful disgrace for a daemon like him around, she'd finally be able to stop hiding? She wouldn't need to worry about him in a fight, or have to dodge awkward questions about why he refused to speak, or why they had gotten some of the worst scores in distance training the academy had ever seen.
That conversation had branded itself onto his mind, the soft but reproachful way the man had spoken to his human, as though she were an idiot, the way his otter daemon kept trying to get him to move away from her, both of them explaining that unless he and his human learned to be more outgoing, the odds were they wouldn't be accepted to the academy. They needed soldiers who would be able to handle the stress of battle, and sometimes, in battle, it was not only impractical, but deadly to keep your daemon so close to you. Especially one so frail as he. One misplaced step, one hasty tumble to the floor to avoid flying bullets, and he'd be crushed, killing them both. The otter had looked at him then, straight in the eye, and though she said nothing, he knew that she was condemning his cowardice.
I would do anything for my human, she'd seemed to say, so why won't you?
How could he explain to his human, his Kara, that he loved her dearly, with his entire being, and he didn't want to leave her, but that he just knew she would be better off without him? Separation wasn't unheard of. Especially not now, not when it was the end of the world, not when ships were falling into disrepair left and right, and sometimes, there just wasn't enough time to stay those extra few seconds it would take to get a human or daemon through the hatch before the jump was called. They were facing the edge of extinction. Sacrifices had to be made. People had been left behind. Daemons had been left behind. Ships jumped. Connections were severed. Accidents happened.
If they were separated, people wouldn't look at her like she was a freak anymore. At first, they would pity her, as anyone who had been forced to undergo separation was pitied, but soon they'd forget all about that, they'd forget about him, the stupid sparrow daemon who couldn't even talk right and was worth less than nothing, and all that would be left was her, his beautiful human, finally able to stand strong against the world.
Silence more devastating than any physical or mental attack fell over the room.
Finally, he managed to find the courage to speak, and somehow, managed to keep the stutter at bay, as he spoke the words that had been gnawing at his heart for what seemed like forever.
"I miss him." He whispered brokenly, his voice pitifully weak with tears. It felt like a weight had been lifted from him that, up until that moment, had been doing its best to crush the life from him.
But as soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Because in those three words hid a world of pain and grief, and the secret that they'd both been avoiding ever since they'd gotten back from Caprica with the Arrow of Apollo so many uncountable days ago.
The first chance they'd had, they'd met with the Admiral and President, giddy with the excitement of being able to tell them that they weren't the last of the human race, because there were still people alive back on the planet's they'd left behind, and they could rescue them!
He remembered the look that had passed over the Admiral's daemon when his human had finished speaking. First shock, then wonder, then sorrow, and finally, a grim resignation that froze his heart solid inside his chest. Because he knew in that moment, before the President even spoke, her ring-tailed mongoose watching him with a careful gaze from where he hung across her shoulders, that their plan of a rescue was never going to happen.
And as his human's skin began to heat up with desperation and fear beneath his feet as their proposal was denied, he'd wanted nothing more than to tear off her shoulder and into the air and scream at Galeria that she tell her human to change his mind, because they couldn't just leave those people behind, and they had no right to abandon them like this and it was their duty as soldiers to protect them—
And then the Admiral had snapped at his human, because she'd dared to show the anger that had bled to her through him, and he couldn't tolerate insubordination on his ship, and Galeria had raised her long arctic tern wings from his shoulder, letting loose a high, rapid clicking screech to show her displeasure.
His human had flinched beneath him like it was a physical blow, and he couldn't help the twitch of his wings that showed how much he wanted to lift into the air and flee in sudden terror.
Because for one terrible moment, he'd imagined Galeria launching herself at him, her sharp beak aiming for his head and chest, huge white wings buffeting his tiny body into submission like Kormoran had always done, his razor talons tearing feathers loose until his entire body was pressed into the floor, wings splayed uselessly at his sides and unable to fold, as their mother loomed over his human's huddled form, her mouth spewing poison even as her foot connected with an unprotected stomach.
In the tense silence of the room, he hadn't quite been able to hold back the quiet squeak of fear that had forced its way up his throat. But his human had moved into a stance of attention, her heel clicking against the floor with perfect timing to hide his horrifying moment of lost control, and he'd prayed in his heart that no one had heard.
But Castor—the President's daemon—had seemed like he could sense their fear, and his black eyes had zeroed in on him sharper than before, his expression softening from its earlier stern gaze into something that was almost like concern. Because they hadn't learned yet how wrong he and his human were, and they still thought they were normal, and deserving of compassion.
Galeria had shifted her wings against her back, and ran her beak through them, as though nothing had happened. Her human's fists had tightened at his sides when confronted with the cool military facade his human had adopted in the face of his refusal and rebuke. Hurt flickered through his ancient blue eyes for the pain he'd unintentionally caused them. He had seen all this, even as his heart pounded within his chest with terror. It wasn't anything knew. They were usually given apologies after the pain ended. Their mother used to take them out to dinner, his human dressed in long-sleeved shirts and pants to hide the bruises, and Kormoran would perch next to him on the table, and while they were waiting for food, he would preen the feathers or fur or scales of whatever shape he was in so gently that he could almost forget the way that same beak felt when it tore viciously into his skin.
And then they were dismissed, and even as his claws clutched at the fabric of his human's dress blues as they fled the room, both daemons' gazes had burned into his back, and he knew that it didn't matter how hard they tried to hide, because sooner or later, someone would notice.
His human had kept her pace to a brisk walk only until they were far enough away not to be heard, and then she started to run. Not wanting to distance himself from her when they were both so full of pain and grief, he'd nestled inside the high collar of her shirt, and sheltered himself from the wind behind her neck, instead of flying next to her like he usually did. With every step she took, pain from the still-healing wound in her side from where a Centurion's bullet had torn through her had flared through both of them in agony, and, not wanting to think about it, or the one that lay just a few inches lower, she'd gritted her teeth, and he'd bowed his head, and they withstood the pain.
Because their heads were clear, not fuzzy with the nauseating mixture of drugs the Cylons had pumped through her veins, and they remembered the shame of the terror they'd let everyone see when, body rebelling against the frantic screams of her mind, his human's legs and tangled beneath her, and she'd crashed to the ground, his wings desperately fighting the suddenly heavy air to twist around and struggle back to her side, his chest flaring in pain at the horror of the few feet he'd gone ahead of her.
Karl had rushed to their side, Hathor not far behind, and he'd grabbed his human's arms and pulled her to her feet—because she couldn't even bring herself to move, everything was so loud and it hurt so badly to breathe, and oh gods, what had they done? Sue-Shaun and Krynen and all those other women and their daemons, all of them burned into their hearts in excruciating detail—a wolf with grey and silver fur, with hints of red along the edges, one of his ears almost torn completely off, a small beagle with a broad splash of white fur across his shoulders, a snake so small they almost didn't see him, and thought at first that he was a worm wrapped around his human's limp fingers, a rabbit with the bluest eyes they'd ever seen, who stared at them glassily, a sparrow, like him, only with bits of yellow on its wings, and a white stripe going back from his eye, that lay still on the bed next to his dying human, so still that he almost thought he was dead already, and a Wray's deer, with its unmistakable purple and yellow pelt, and square bone-plates along the top of his head and the middle of his back, who stood trembling and still at the foot of his human's bed, his sideways pupiled amber eyes locked into the distance in horror—were dead, and it was all their fault—and Hathor had scooped him up—apologizing the entire time in a desperately afraid voice, because she knew how much he hated to be touched, knew how afraid he was of other daemons—in her front claws as gently as she could, and launched herself back into the air after her human as the roar of a heavy raider's engines filled the air to aid their retreat.
They'd passed out again somewhere between the deafening sound of gunfire and finding themselves back at the resistance's headquarters, lying on a beaten up sofa in one of their mismatched rooms.
Hathor had been perched on the back of a wooden chair a few feet away, her wings folded and her head bowed with worry, her human deeply asleep on a mat on the floor.
He'd woken up before his human, and hardly even a moment had passed before Hathor noticed, and leapt over to the arm of the sofa near his human's feet, where she balanced with half-stretched wings and twitching tail, the her entire body screaming with nervous tension.
And, huddled beside his sleeping human's neck, he'd watched her, the golden eagle griffon who'd been the first person they ever met who didn't seem to care that they were different, and he'd shaken his head and curled back up next to the warmth of his human's shoulder before she could even speak to beg his forgiveness, because he knew that if she'd had any other choice, she would have taken it. There was nothing to forgive.
And though he had no way of telling her, she knew him well enough to understand him even when he didn't speak. She'd relaxed immediately, some of her feathers still ruffled from anxiety, and, still exhausted from what they'd gone through, it hadn't taken long before he was asleep once more, twitching every now and then as he relived the newest horror in their lives, but deep in his mind, he was glad that such a formidable, compassionate daemon was watching over them, protecting them, as they slept.
For once in their life, they'd been the ones being protected, and he hadn't been able to shake how safe it had made him feel.
But they couldn't afford to let others see them that weak again.
They'd run all the way back to the empty quarters they shared with the other pilots, where they shed the dress blues in favor of grey tanks, the still-healing stitches in her side causing them both a stab of pain when she bent over to loosen the strings of her boots before ripping them off and shoving them into her locker.
And then, like the cowards they were, they hid, crawling into the bunk they'd claimed as theirs, and pulling the privacy curtain firmly shut.
And, silently, without even words, they promised each other that they would never speak of the man they'd met down on Caprica ever again. Because the Admiral had made up his mind, and they were never going to go back and rescue the people they'd left behind on their ashwasten planets.
Four months had passed since that day. A hundred and thirty eight days. It felt like a lifetime.
But now he'd broken that promise, and all the sorrow and pain they'd been struggling to hold back for four months came crashing forward, sweeping them both off their feet as he trembled on her knee, because how could he possible tell her that she should just leave him behind, the next time they had to help evacuate a ship? How could he tell her that, maybe it wasn't as hopeless as they thought?
Because the people who were separated from their daemons, and the daemons whose humans had been left behind…they didn't die. Their bond was torn, but it wasn't destroyed entirely, even across the vastness of space that separated them from their other half. They felt terrible agony at first, the ones who had made it into the shuttles just before the jump, and most of them lost consciousness. Sometimes it lasted for days. Sometimes weeks. When they awoke, they were still in horrible pain, and had to be kept in the infirmary, but they weren't dead. Growing up, they'd heard stories about people falling-off of buildings, off cliffs-and their bond snapping like a rubber band as they were ripped away from thier daemon too quickly, both of them dying before the person even hit the ground.
But that wasn't what was happening now. Somehow, it was different.
The first person to be separated had lost her daemon right after the Exodus, when the ship they'd been on broke down in those thrice damned five days where the Cylons had appeared like ghosts from the cursed fog every thirty three minutes on the dot. In the chaos and exhaustion-induced panic and confusion, her frog daemon had been left behind.
She was little more than a child, and her daemon had only settled the month before.
When they realized what had happened—what they had done—the pilots that had been flying the Raptor were almost out of their minds with horror, struggling against the marines that held them back as they tried to get back into their ship so they could jump back and save him.
He'd been a leopard frog named Baritan. If his human hadn't already been unconscious from a cracked skull from a fall down the stairs—the reason why no one had noticed him missing in the first place, in their anxiety to get her to safety, they'd just assuming that he was in her pocket—she would have needed to be sedated.
The two pilots had to be, eventually. Their dog daemons sending howls of agonizing sorrow into the air before succumbing against their will to the tranquilizer.
The girl had suffered serious brain damage from her fall, and had trouble speaking and concentrating, but even now, almost half a year later, she was alive, and relatively well. Which meant that her daemon was still alive.
Which meant that the Cylons weren't just destroying the ships the fleet was forced to leave behind. They were capturing them, and they were keeping their prisoners alive.
He knew that if he told his human all of this, she would understand. She would know why he'd asked her if she wanted to separate.
And he tried, gods, he tried to tell her, he wanted to so badly, but his voice had fled once more, and all that came out was the quiet, pitiful whisper of a squeak that was his voice breaking.
Because as much as he almost wanted her to let him, to let him purposefully leave himself behind the next time a ship started to fall out from beneath its people, he…
…He didn't want to leave her.
He wasn't strong enough to leave her. He was too afraid to leave her. He wouldn't survive without her.
But…but if it was what she wanted, then he would do it. He would master his fear, and he'd force himself to talk, when the Cylons came and captured the ship, and he'd make them listen, and he'd make them take him back to Caprica with them, and, somehow, he'd find his way back to the man who had entranced his human, and the beautiful daemon that stood at his side, and he'd tell them, he'd speak to them, even if it killed him, and he'd tell them that they hadn't been able to bring back a rescue, and that he was there to prove their failure, and beg their forgiveness.
Because from the moment they'd met them through the crosshairs of guns aimed to kill, there had been something different about the dark haired man with the strange grey eyes that watched them with a grin on his face, even as he pointed a weapon at his human's heart, and the huge jaguar that stood crouched and ready to spring by his feet, her fur as black as midnight, and shining almost golden with hidden spots when she moved.
Something about the way she stood there, her gleaming teeth bared at them in a silent snarl of warning, sent fear unlike anything he'd known before striking against his heart, and adrenaline poured through his veins, and he'd puffed himself up to his fullest size, and shrieked at her, because she was standing there, defending her man, and not just sitting uselessly on his shoulder like he was, and for the first time in his life since he'd settled, since he'd lost the ability to change his shape, he wanted to fight. He wanted to test himself against her claws, to see if she could catch him, because he wanted to prove—to himself, to his human, to Karl and Hathor and the grey-eyed man with the snarling panther at his feet—that he was worth something, that he wasn't just some stupid, useless sparrow who couldn't even talk right. The urge had come from seemingly nowhere, but he felt his human's warm pride drifting through their bond before either of them even realized what had happened.
And then the guns were lowered, and a wary peace was called, and the man was leading them away to where he and his group had holed up, and Hathor was staring at him from Karl's shoulder as they went past, and he could see her human glancing back at them over his shoulder in curiosity too.
It was the first time they'd ever heard him make so much noise.
The jaguar had hung back slightly, so that she was walking next to his human, but still in range of her man. She looked up at him even as she kept pace next to them, apparently used enough to the path that they were taking that she had it memorized and no longer needed to look to know where she was going. That, or she was following the pull of her bond.
"I'm Kayuna," She'd said, her tail swishing softly from side to side before laughing suddenly, the sound so completely different from the snarl he'd heard earlier that he almost twitched at the shock of it. If she noticed how nervous he and his human were at having her so close, she didn't say anything, and instead continued, her amber eyes locked with his own, "You know," she said, "You may be small," She bared her teeth, and he was prepared to burst into flight at the slightest sign of threat, sure that she was going to say something along the lines of 'but you'd make a great snack', before he realized with confusion that it was a smile, and not a snarl, before she added, "But I don't want to face you in a fight. That sound you made earlier was downright terrifying."
He blinked down at her from his vantage on his human's shoulder, completely dumbfounded, his confusion momentarily overwhelming his fear. Was she joking?
His human's mind echoed the thought, and he felt her tense slightly under his feet.
"Terrifying?" She'd asked doubtfully, raising one eyebrow as she glanced down at the strange daemon, "We've been called a lot of things, but that definitely hasn't been one of them."
The jaguar—Kayuna—tilted her head to the side as she looked up at them, and if she'd been human, her brow would have been furrowed in confusion. "When most people see me," She said, explaining, "their daemons get all scared. They're nervous around me because I'm so…" She hesitated, her words faltering for a moment, with something almost like shame in her voice, "I'm so dangerous looking. But you didn't look scared. You didn't even try to fly away. You stuck with your human—" She looked at her in apology, correcting herself for his human's sake, "You stuck with Kara, and you did your best to defend her. You didn't try to escape, or try to hide yourself. That's why you're scary," She said, "Because you're not afraid of me."
And he'd pressed against his human's neck in abject shame, because the jaguar had gotten it so wrong that he almost wanted to cry. He was afraid of her. He was so afraid of her that he almost couldn't stand to look at her, or listen to her voice. If it weren't for his being around the lion so much, he would have been terrified out of his mind, and he knew his human felt the same way.
"You're wrong," She said softly, for the both of them, lifting her hand to gently brush along his feathers soothingly, lessening the fear in both their hearts at the contact, and he pressed against it gratefully, a slight shiver rolling through his frame, "We are afraid of you. But that doesn't mean we can just run away." She shrugged, allowing him to inconspicuously shift closer to her neck for comfort as she continued to speak for the both of them, "If you run away from something, the problem's still there, and it won't go away until you deal with it. We stand our ground unless we have no other choice."
What she didn't say was that the choice to stand their ground was born from nothing more than fear, because they knew that if you tried to run, when it finally caught up, the punishment would only be tenfold. It was better to just stand and take it, rather than expend more energy trying to escape when they knew escape was impossible.
And sometimes, if you held your ground, the enemy backed off. Sometimes. And neither did they mention that sometimes the enemy was the one you least suspected. For a moment, the pain of huge white wings edged with black seemed beat against him, and his human internally cringed away from the vision of a merciless fist.
And behind those phantoms hid a deeper fear neither of them wanted to think about.
They'd said nothing more to the jaguar as they increased their pace, anxious to get away from the memories she provoked, anxious to catch up with Helo and his daemon, anxious for the comfort of familiar faces while stranded in a sea of strangers, anxious for the fear that seemed to follow them everywhere they went to just leave them in peace.
And even when they were safely in-step with Hathor and her human, their shoulders almost touching and one of the griffon's golden wings fanned out a few inches away from his feathers to shield him from the harsh light of the sun, which was so bright it blinded him and made his eyes water, and his heart quell within his chest with memories he'd rather forget, he sensed the curious amber eyes of the jaguar on him, and shivered despite the heat.
But Kayuna didn't continue watching them, and instead bounded forward and past them to rejoin her human, nuzzling her head against his hand and purring audibly when he stroked her ears.
He'd watched them for a moment, amazed at how different the daemon before him now seemed from the terrifying—terrifying indeed—beast that had invoked in him such protectiveness that he broke the rule and raised his voice in an attempt to intimidate her. Never in his life had he imagined doing such a thing, not to another daemon, and most certainly not to a cat.
Just thinking back on it even now, perched, trembling still on her knee in the empty room, sent his heart pounding with remembered fear and horror at what he'd done. Because in the moment when he shrieked at her, he hadn't cared if it was against the rules or not, he hadn't cared if she was a cat or not. He just wanted to prove to someone that he wasn't worthless, that he would stand his ground against his greatest fear, and if push came to shove, by gods he'd fight, even if it proved to be ineffectual.
But then the moment had passed, and the crushing weight of what he'd done had slammed into him as though the planet's gravity had increased a thousand times, and was trying to drag him down into the molten core. Almost faint with sudden dizziness, he'd pressed himself into his human's neck, his claws desperately clutching at the fabric of her shirt so he wouldn't fall, Hathor's feathers brushing along his back when he swayed, so that she drew her wing back in to her side sharply, not wanting to upset him by accident.
I'm sorry, he'd thought weakly, his heart pounding and shivering so badly he felt like he was going to fall apart into pieces, his eyes closed to fight off tears of utter despair, his face hidden in her neck so that Karl and Hathor wouldn't see, Kara I'm so sorry…
Her thoughts had flowed into his then, warm and strong and safe, and she pictured the day the sky had rang with the wail of police sirens, and the moment of all-consuming relief when the door was finally opened to let the sunlight pour in over them and the only crime in their lives that they didn't regret committing.
They still weren't sure exactly how their rescuers had found them. He knew that they'd asked at some point, but he could never remember the answer they'd received. She hadn't been tall enough to reach the window, and they both adamantly refused to be separated the short distance it would have taken him to reach it. And even if he'd been able to pull himself away from her for even a moment, it wouldn't have done any good. The window was bolted shut, and the wire mesh was so thick that anyone looking in wouldn't have been able to see anything anyways.
So she'd started to scream. She'd screamed at the top of her small lungs, high and shrill and raw and deafeningly loud, her fists beating against the door, the walls, the floor, the table, trying to make as much noise as she possibly could for hours straight until her voice was raw and her throat was literally bleeding, and she was rendered just as mute as he was.
Nine years old and locked in a house of horrors with a newly settled sparrow daemon, neither of them able or willing to speak, they'd curled up on the floor nearest to the door, as far away from them as they could get, and cried themselves to sleep over the sickening hollow feelling in their stomachs, and the fear of what lurked in the darkness of the closet across the room, feeling completely and hopelessly alone in the wide, broken world that they lived in.
He wasn't sure how long they'd slept—if sleeping was even the word for it—but it had been the unmistakable sound of an animal sniffing that broke them out of their exhausted, starved, terrified state.
Voices muffled by the thick wood of the door had penetrated the fog in their brain just enough so that they could understand that someone was shouting for the door to be opened.
Not even strong enough to get to her feet, she'd almost toppled over completely in her desperation to reach the door, her bruised fists hitting its unyielding surface weakly, struggling to ignore the pain so that she could tell the person outside that they was in there.
She tried to speak, but nothing came out but a harsh whisper that had her choking on the air, clutching at her neck as she struggled to breath past her abused throat. There'd been no other choice, and, hearts pounding so hard they almost passed out again, he'd shrieked at the very top of his lungs with all the volume he could dredge up from his torn and battered heart, his voice ringing in his own ears as it shattered the silence like it was a mirror of fragile glass, "HELP US!"
And as soon as the words had left his throat, their terror rose to unbearable heights, and, still struggling just to remain conscious, she'd crushed him to her chest even as he pressed himself into her, her entire body curling to shield him as they collapsed back to the floor, their eyes clenched so tightly shut that explosions of color burst behind them with dizzying lightheadedness, her mouth open in a ragged, broken scream even that refused to rise above a breath as he clenched his beak shut and swore that he would never, ever again speak.
They could both feel the agonizing fire that tore through their chests and ripped at their hearts with merciless force, squeezing and twisting until they could do nothing but sob their horror and fear to the world. They could feel the horrific alien limbs that crawled over her skin, her clothes, her hair, her face, trying to get to him where he was shielded with her body, the giant spiders that were kept in the closet.
Because if he dared to speak, or make a single sound, that cat would launch itself at him and the man would grab her arm, and he'd pull her so quickly across the house, and the cat would pull him to the opposite side, that their bond was twisted and shredded, and if he made any noise, if he cried, they'd only pull farther, and farther, because he couldn't act like a daemon, he had to act like a normal, dumb stupid animal, and they'd keep pulling and pulling until they had passed out from the agony, and when they woke up, the man and cat would just drag them to the closet, and they'd shove them inside, because they'd warned them not to make a sound, but had they listened? And now they had to pay the price. If you spoke, the Cylons would hear you, and they'd find you, and they'd take you, and no one would ever see you again, and they didn't have daemons of their own, so they'd try to take yours.
All of this was whispered to them through the door of the closet in a honey-sweet voice that was broken and scarred and stuttering with manic fear, insisting that this was for their own good, because they needed to know how to survive, because they needed to know what had happened to them, and they needed to know that it was all their mother's fault, because she hadn't even tried to help, and she'd left them out there, alone and unable to do anything but pretend to be dead under the poison green ferns and choking vines even as the Centurions marched closer, and night turned to day, and the spiders descended from the trees to wander the ground…
And then he'd pause in his speech to pull a string outside the door, and the roof of the closet would fall down, and the spiders, bigger than her hand and horrifying beyond belief in the pitch darkness would come tumbling out, and they'd fall on them, and they'd start to crawl across then, and they wanted to eat him and she curled up to try to protect him, and if they cried or banged on the door he'd only keep them in there longer, because the Cylons hadn't cared when he'd begged them to stop, when they finally found him, paralyzed and bleeding on the jungle floor. They hadn't cared when he begged and begged for them to not hurt his daemon, his Aremora, whose claws were useless against their armour, but they didn't care, because they wanted nothing more than daemons for themselves, even if they had to tear them away from other people to get them, and the pain had been so bad and he'd been so sick that he hadn't even been able to scream as they dragged his daemon away, leaving him there on the jungle floor for the spiders to play with, half-alive and wishing he were dead.
They didn't hear when the door was broken down, or see the sunlight that spilled in like water from a burst dam, or the police that swarmed the room and immediately started shouting for paramedics when they saw the little girl curled shaking and twitching around her sparrow daemon on the floor, her mouth open but nothing coming out except for a trickle of blood and ragged, panicked gasps frantic for air.
They didn't remember being sedated and loaded as gently as possible onto gurneys, the paramedics lifting her skeletal body from the floor and onto the white cushion, one of their lemur daemons carefully cupping him in its hands before laying him on the smaller of the two stretchers, before lifting them both out, nor did they see the other two gurneys that were called in even as the police secured the area.
They didn't see or remember anything that had happened after he'd called out for help, but one of their doctors, a red-haired woman who stood so tall his human had to almost crane her neck to look up at her, told them what had happened later, when they'd woken up in the hospital. Her voice was gentle when she spoke to them, and her daemon, she told them when they asked by using the sign language that they were taught at school—because she'd hurt her throat, and wasn't allowed to talk for a while so it could get better—because, despite their nervousness around the stranger woman, they were unable to contain their curiosity, because they'd never seen anything like him before, was an elephant-mouse.
He didn't want to go near the other daemon, or anywhere away from his human, for that matter, but Lochir—the elephant-mouse—was strange looking, and they'd never been able to reign in their curiosity. So he hopped to the edge of his human's shoulder, and looked down at the daemon perched on the railing of the hospital bed.
His thick fur was a light, powder blue, with lighter spots of white along his back legs, and darker on his belly. His pink ears were large, like an elephant's, and he even had two, curved tusks that came from under his little trunk of a nose. A naked tail of pink skin was wrapped around the railing for balance.
He'd tilted his head to the side, because the daemon was just so strange looking, and Lochir had smiled at him. For the first time in a month, he'd felt the icy hand of fear that had gripped his heart loosen slightly.
The woman's name was Dr. Ariane Setter, and she stayed with them that entire day, as his human sat with curled knees on the white hospital bed, and he shivered against the warmth of her neck, she assured them that if they ever wanted to talk—just the thought of it made him dizzy and cringing with fear, and Dr. Setter saw this, and directed her words at his human, while her daemon watched him in silent concern—they would be there to listen, whatever it was they wanted to say.
A thought had passed between the two of them, and they knew that Dr. Setter and the police and the other doctors wanted to know what had happened to them. But their eyes had met, filled with terror and a sudden, horrible understanding, and they knew that they would never be able to tell them. They couldn't. Because they could feel the weak strings of their bond, frayed and torn stretching golden between them, and they knew that it wouldn't take much to snap them entirely.
They wouldn't tell anyone. They couldn't. But fortunately, for the moment, the both of them were mute, and exhausted, and hungry—oh gods, so hungry—and it was painful for her to move her hands to sign, because they were covered with bruises from banging them against the door, and that gave them an excuse to avoid Dr. Setter's unspoken questions, and she let them, and simply talked about other things, like the weather, and Pyramid, and her favorite TV shows, and Holoband games.
That had gotten their attention. His human had risked her voice to painfully beg to be able to play on one, because kids at school were always talking about them, but they'd never even really seen one themselves, but Lochir just shook his head from his perch on the railing, and told them that their doctors didn't want her doing anything strenuous until they said it was okay.
They had no idea how playing a game could be stressful, but then a man with dark hair and an orange cat daemon walked past their open door in the hallway beyond.
The air left both their lungs as though kicked out, and her voice rose in a sudden breathless cry of fear, and the next thing he knew, he was clutched in her hands, shaking like a leaf, and she'd curled into a ball around him, and they'd fallen off the bed somehow—no, no, not fallen, jumped, because she'd tried to get as far away from the man and the cat as possible before they could try to take him away, but she'd fallen over her own legs before they could reach the wall where she would have been able to shield him—and their hearts were pounding as one, terror surging through their veins until they both felt dizzy with adrenaline, and all he could think of was that cat's claws in his wing, its teeth around his neck, the spindly, searching limbs of the spiders that wanted to eat him, the roaring fire laced pain as they were pulled impossibly far from each other, and she was screaming again, silently, because her voice still wasn't working, but the sound rang in his head, just as he knew his did in hers, and, then there was a hand on her arm, and their fear knocked them off an edge in their mind, and they tumbled into the darkness.
It had been a couple of days after that that her voice started to work again, and she was finally able to tell the doctors her name. "Kara Thrace," She'd whispered, her voice raspy and hardly audible over the steady beeping of the heart monitor they insisted on keeping her hooked up to. They were worried about her heart, because it had shown signs of dangerous swelling. Her doctor—Dr. Aegis Perry, who had a dalmatian daemon named Serith— had nodded gently, and adjusted the IV drip that fed clear liquid into a needle taped into her hand.
They liked Dr. Perry. She was nice, and she didn't ask them as many questions as Dr. Setter did. But that day, it seemed, she had changed her style of approach. He knew that people were worried about them, and that the doctors needed to know what had happened, but he didn't dare speak, and just the thought of saying what had happened was almost as bad as everything happening all over again.
Because if they told someone what had happened, then they'd have to remember what had happened, and they were trying their hardest to forget.
But Dr. Perry sat down on a plastic chair she drew up to the side of their bed, and her daemon lay himself down sphinx like at her feet, and she spoke, her voice soft, but firm, reaching one gentle hand out to hold onto his human's, forcing them to meet her gaze, though he shied away and hid himself behind his human's hair as she spoke, "Kara, I need you to tell me what happened to you."
But he'd heard some of the nurses talking the night before, when they were supposed to be asleep, but couldn't, outside their door, whispering to each other in hushed voices he wasn't supposed to hear, about the man whose name no one knew, about how he had a cracked skull, and hadn't woken up yet, and the nurses didn't know what was going to happen to him. Could they charge him? one off the them had whispered, I mean, he might not even remember what he did when he wakes up. Did you see the scan of his brain? And the other had whispered back as they moved off down the hallway, Like a cracked egg...
Beneath his feet, a shiver had passed over his human. He'd huddled against her neck behind the curtain of her hair, wishing the woman would just go away. His human shook her head, lifting a hand to rub at her throat, tears trying to sting at her eyes before she forced them away. Pressing his face into her skin, hidden from prying eyes, his tears fell without any attempt to stop them. Dr. Perry was talking to them again, her voice soft, but he couldn't hear her over the fear that clouded their hearts and blurred the world around the edges.
Serith had sat up, and rested his head on the matress, just a few inches away from his human's knee. He felt the proximity spark through his heart like electricity, and, feeling inexplicably brave, hopped out from his hiding spot, his wings beating at the air as he flew to her breast, clutching at the fabric of her shirt with his claws and hanging there, sideways, his head tilted to the side. He'd searched the dalmation's blue and brown gaze for any sign that the other daemon was hiding secrets from them. But Serith's eyes had shone with nothing but compassion and concern, and he had crept back up to his human's shoulder to hide again, afraid of the bare-faced honesty they were being offered.
They refused to speak. No matter how many times Dr. Perry assured them that they were safe—after she'd figured out that they knew the man was still alive, and just a few floors away—no matter how many times Serith promised that he would protect them if anything happened, though, he kept repeating, his voice patient and soft, nothing would happen.
They didn't speak, because they knew it was true. What the man had said.
It had been just after he'd taken them. Stolen them from their front lawn without anyone even noticing. How could they have? Like the rest of the houses in their area of the city, their house was separated from their neighbor's by tall concrete walls for privacy. Anyone looking up at the walkway that made up the 'road' in front of their house would only be able to see the stained-glass that had been fitted between the railing bars after someone's toddler had almost fallen off. He remembered that day especially well. He had spotted the child wandering without anyone's knowing, and had alerted his human just in time for them to see it step closer to the edge of the balcony and the bars it could so easily fit between.
He couldn't remember either of them ever moving so fast. The child's daemon was a puppy, sniffing at the ground in interest, even as its human wandered ever closer to the edge of the balcony. One tiny foot found its way to open air, the child started to tip forward—
—And then his human had grabbed it around the waist the pulled it backward, even as he, in the form of a doberman, grabbed the younger daemon by the scruff of the neck, pulling the both of them to safety just in time for the child's father to come running over in a panic, his pigeon daemon flapping her wings and unable to hold still, having seen everything with his own eyes. The story of what had happened spread fast—to the mortification of both of them, sure that their mother would be furious when she found out—and just few days after that, the whole neighborhood had gotten together, and constructed a wall of stained-glass between the wide bars of the balcony's railing, making it both safer for children to play on, and adding a touch of beauty to their area of the city. When the sun was setting at just the right angle, it would hit the glass, and paint abstract shapes and colors and stars and the words kakos lykos on the street below.
They'd been painting on the sidewalk with the watercolors their mother had gotten them a few days before, his human crouched down and carefully drawing thin lines of black between each of the others colors of the target-pattern she'd made, and he, in the form of a wolverine, circling around her with yellow paint on his feet to continue the pattern. The man had walked up to them calmly from the street, and paused at the gate to their house. For a minute or two, they hadn't even noticed him, too caught up in their painting to think about anything else.
But then his daemon—the cat—then, so innocent and friendly looking jumped up onto the short pillar to the side of the wooden gate, and a shadow fell across where he'd been carefully pressing his paint-covered feet into the ground. He'd turned into a rabbit for the next layer of color, and looked up in surprise when he noticed the shadow on the ground infront of him.
"Hello," He'd greeted the other daemon politely, as their mother had taught them to, his rabbit's ears twitching for a moment as he wondered if she had invited any of her friends over that day, "Who are you?" He'd tried to reign in his curiosity, but the question came out sounding rude nonetheless. Kara turned her head to glance back at the house, obviously wondering the same thing he had. Did their mother know this person?
"A friend," The cat answered simply, flicking his tail lazily, his eyes half closing as though he were basking in the sunlight, "What's your name?" The question was spoken without weight, as though he were asking their opinion on the weather.
Kara had stood, and was wiping the paint on her hands off on her arms, giving them random streaks of blue and red and yellow, before she'd looked up at the cat daemon perched above them. "I'm Kara," She'd said, only hesitating a moment. They lived in a small neighborhood, and even though they never really talked to the neighbors or their kids, everyone knew everyone's name. There was no danger in telling someone your name. "And this is Altair." She'd gestured to him, and he'd turned into a small macawnivore—one of his favorite forms, if for nothing more than the colors—to sit at her feet and smile up toothily at the cat.
Then his human stepped forward, and laid his arms across the top of the gate, and set his head over them as though he intended to stand there and rest. His eyes were shadowed by his brow, and when he smiled at them, it was to show teeth that seemed almost sharp, almost as though they were a mirror of his daemon's, but when he spoke, his voice was soft and curious. "Does Socrata Farren live here?" He asked, tilting his head to the side slightly as he looked at them, "Did we find the right house?"
They'd never heard their mother referred to by that last name before, but he'd nodded anyways. "She's our mother," He'd replied, turning into a vorrin and jumping into his human's arms, suddenly shy. His shoulders still had cuts of them from where Kormoran's claws had dug into them just a few days before, and the small animal's long fur helped to hide them from prying eyes. Their mother had told them what would happen if anyone ever found out about them. They'd be taken away from her, and thrown into an orphanage where they'd be forgotten about until the day they died.
Wrapping his pale brown fox's tail forward and around his feet, he'd set his chin on his human's arm, and watched in curiosity as the cat daemon stretched his claws out along the wall. They'd never met someone with a daemon the same gender as themselves before, even though they'd learned about them at school.
His human finally asked the question they'd been waiting for the man to address since he'd asked them, "What's your name?" She stepped closer to the gate, lifting one arm away from him to shield her eyes from the sun that was suddenly in her eyes.
With a suddenness that denied all reaction, the man had leapt over the wooden gate, and his daemon was launching himself through the air towards them.
Claws were in his fur—his shoulders—before either of them had a chance to react, and one of the man's hands was clamped over his human's mouth, and he opened his to scream, but the cat—he was touching Kara, the other daemon was on his human's shoulders, and had its claws in his fur and his back and it's teeth were around his throat—and—
He twisted around to grab the cat's fur in his mouth and yanked, leaping out of Kara's arm and dragging the other daemon with him, and shifting in mid-air into a macawnivore again, as big as he could make himself, until he was the size of a mastiff, but the cat was still on his back, and it had its claws burried in his shoulders, right where Kormoran had done the same, and he changed shapes faster than he ever had before, horse, eagle, griffon, tiger, and he tried to shout, tried to roar and screech and cry out, for help, so that their mother, their neighbors, someone would help them, but the cat was choking him, its teeth at his throat, and pulling on the scruff of his neck, suffocating him—
—And then something was pressed to Kara's mouth, and—
...And the next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes, and it was dark, and he was draped across his human's stomach in the shape of a lion, and it was so dark, and then there was a blinding light shining at them, and the man was speaking from somewhere—somewhere, where was he? Where was he? He couldn't see him—and he was telling them that if they ever wanted to see their mother again, then they had to do exactly as he said.
He'd explained to them, his voice calm and collected, that this wasn't their fault, what was going to happen to them. Their mother had caused it. It was her fault this had to happen. He'd planned for it to be her that he took, that he taught the lesson, but then he'd seen them, and the pattern they had painted on the ground, and he knew that the gods were telling him that they were special.
He told them that they were going to kill him.
But that it wasn't going to be enough.
And now they'd found out that he was still alive. His brain was like a cracked egg, but it hadn't been enough to kill him.
They'd been held inside a basement and almost starved to death for exactly thirty three days before they were finally rescued. Thirty three days of being ripped away from each other until their bond was ragged and bleeding, until her hearts were constantly pounding in her chest with the strain of it, until his entire body constantly shook with pain. Thirty three days of nothing but darkness and the smell of mold and spiders crawling over her skin and trying to find him.
He'd stopped changing on the tenth day. He couldn't. He'd changed into a sparrow to escape the cat's reaching claws, terrified of what would happen if it caught him again, his exhausted wings beating at the air as he struggled to get back to his human, because they'd been trying to pull them apart again, but he'd managed to escape this time, and the cat had leapt for him, its claws outstretched, and he'd turned into a sparrow to escape—
—And when he tried to change back, to change into a basilisk like he'd done once at school when one of the other kids tried to hurt the mouse they'd found in the back of the classroom, so that he could kill the man and his daemon, because he didn't care anymore, he just wanted it all to end, and all it would take was one single glance of his snow-white eyes, just a single second, and then the man and his cat would be dead, and they'd be able to escape, and they'd be able to get help, and they'd be able to go back home, and they'd be able to find their mother, and she would hug them and tell them that it was alright, and Kormoran would preen him like he always did when he was happy, and he'd let him snuggle up to his side and they would all watch a holovid together, and, and—
And then he realized that he hadn't changed. He was still a sparrow, still flying, still fleeing, instead of shifting into something else, a predator, a monster, so that he could lash out, attack, and kill the cat that terrified him, the cat that had made him afraid to speak, the cat that filled his heart with terror and sent his mind spiraling into panic.
But nothing happened. And in his shock, the cat managed to leap at him, and he was crushed to the floor once more, suffocating in his new, tiny form, his mind screaming though he refused to let his voice work, the cat's weight almost crushing the life out of him, and for one single, agonizing second, he wished that it would.
But then the cat realized that he wasn't fighting back anymore—and how could he have? The forms he usually took were so different from what he was now. He didn't think he'd ever changed into a sparrow before, how could he fight when he didn't even know how to think?—and grabbed one of his wings in its mouth, and continued dragging him across the floor, forcing him to flap his free wing in a frantic, panicked attempt to stop the feeling that he was being torn in half.
But the pain wasn't from his wing. It was from his heart. It was from the part of him that reached out across the distance between them to his human, and it was being torn to shreds with every bounding step the cat ran from his human.
The cat didn't flinch at the distance between him and his own human. He never even showed a single sign that he even felt any pain at all. And so he'd been forced to suffer through the torturous pain and despair of their bond being ripped apart strand by strand by strand, and if he ever dared to make a single noise of pain, or spoke at any time, even a mere whisper, then the man would grab his human's arm so roughly that it was mottled with bruises both new and old, and the cat would bite down on his wing so hard that it felt like it was going to break, and the man would sigh in resignation as he dragged his human—kicking and screaming and thrashing and fighting, because there was no rule against her speaking—toward the closet at the back of the room, and he would throw her in first, and then the cat would toss him in so violently that he wasn't sure which way was up and which way was down, and then Kara would grab him in her hands—because now he couldn't change shape to defend himself or her, now he was small, now he was vulnerable, now the spiders would be able to kill him, and they only had a few seconds to brace themselves before the spiders were released, and they would come crawling and swarming down, and they would be left in there for hours and hours on end until the man decided that they had had enough, and he would drag them back out by her bruised arm, and he would lure the spiders back into their cage with food that he made a show of not sharing with them, and they would finally be able to fall into a terrified, exhausted state.
Dr. Perry was about to speak again, but a knock on the room's door stopped her before she could even open her mouth. Almost simultaneously, all four occupants of the room looked up, he and his human with sudden anxiety, sure that the man would be standing there, his cat daemon in his arms and a toothy grin on his face.
But it was another man entirely that met their gaze when they turned to look at the doorway. He wore the same white coat as Dr. Perry, and a large raven with a splash of white across its shoulders sat perched upon his shoulder, taking in the entire room at a glance, and ruffling her wings in what seemed to him to be displeasure.
Dr. Perry was one her feet in an instant, Serith at her side in less than a moment, his hackles rising in agitation as he placed himself between his human and the man standing in the door.
His human automatically pulling him to her chest in fear over the way the woman who'd promised she would protect them from harm was acting, his heart began to pound, his thoughts flying a million miles an hour. Who was the man, and why was Dr. Perry acting like she was afraid of him?
"Dr. Cottle," The woman ground out, striding forward to take his arm in hers, as though to pull him into the hallway, Serith remaining where he was, still holding a protective stance infront of their bed, "You are not supposed to be in here! I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"
The man's raven ruffled her wings, as though she were going to lift herself into the air, and the man frowned, his thick brown eyebrows furrowing like caterpillars. "Aegis," He said, his voice low and rumbling, "I think this young lady is more afraid of the way you're reacting than she is of me." His gaze darted up to look at them, his eyes locking onto his human's face, his expression focused and thoughtful. "Isn't that right?" He called loudly, directing his words at them.
But he didn't even know what was going on, and wouldn't have been able to speak if he'd wanted to. His human was likewise as silent, her heart still pounding in fear beneath his feet, goosebumps running up and down her arms.
Serith was still standing tensely at their side, his body posed as though he wanted to leap out with a snarl.
Dr. Perry, still looking distressed, turned to them, her eyes searching both their faces for something he couldn't name. What was she looking for?
Whatever it was, she didn't find it. Because, just as suddenly as it had rise, the fur on Serith's back lowered, and both the dalmation daemon and his human relaxed almost immediately.
"Altair..."
His human's voice was soft, calling his name, drawing him back into the present that he had always been to apt to fade from. The air drew itself into his lungs in a sudden breath, and he blinked at the surprise of seeing the metal walls of the bunkroom surrounding him.
He could have sworn that just a moment before he'd been perched upon her young shoulder...
Tears filled his eyes again as he realized just how out of touch with reality he really was. He shook his head in frustration at his wandering thoughts, never able to hold still, "I'm sorry," He whispered, finding the strength to speak from some reservoir he'd never known he'd had inside him, "I'm sorry, I—"
His words cut off suddenly as he flinched, unable to go on. He shivered against the loneliness of the air around him, and wanted nothing more than to fly to her breast and perch against her neck, but the pain in her eyes kept him at bay. He'd started this downward spiral, and he had if he didn't find some way to tell her what he wanted to say, they'd both crash to the ground. The tears he couldn't hold back rolled down his face, and he steeled himself to speak.
"I—" But she cut him off before he could even begin.
"Don't." She whispered, her face twisting with sorrow, her eyes sparkling with pain and despair, "Don't. Just—" Her body shook with a sob, and in an instant, she had reached out to him and pulled him close, her forehead pressing into his. "I would never," she cried, tears sliding down her face in her desperation, "I would never ask you to do that. I couldn't—" her voice caught on another sob, and she lowered her hands so that he could hop onto her shoulder and press himself into the warmth of her neck, her words almost as stammered as his, "Altair, no, no, I wouldn't, I wouldn't ever ask you to do that, please, just—"
The sound of something colliding with the metal door at their back was so sudden that Kara instinctively leapt forward and away from it in her fear, clutching him to her chest in between one moment and the next, pressing him against her bare skin above her heart, which pounded so fast and frantically that he could feel it against his own, slamming up against her ribs and skin as though it wanted to break free into the open air, his entire body shaking again with the shock and adrenaline that poured through both their veins, and the horror and shame that someone was out there and they wanted inside and they had no right to keep them out and his human's eyes were red with tears she wouldn't be able to hide and he'd just spoken, and just the reminder sent his head dizzy with terror, and someone was pounding against the door again, and calling out in an aggravated voice half-slurred with drink, "Hey! Open up! I don't care who's frakkin' who, just someone open the gods damn door so I can go to sleep!" He recognized the voice—and the low throated growl of tired irritation that rolled through the door—as Racetrack and her badger daemon, Charis.
The air left his lungs in a shaky sigh of relief that it wasn't Kat, and he knew his human was thinking the same thing. Louanne had had a bone to pick with them from the moment they first set eyes on each other, and she and her daemon never ceased trying to make them snap.
Kara got to her feet quickly as he hooked his claws into the front of her shirt to steady himself so he wouldn't fall, allowing her free use of her hands so that she could wipe the tears from her eyes and push her hair into some semblance of order. Perched sideways on her shirt above her heart, he pressed his face into the dark fabric to rid his face of tears, and forced his feathers to lay flat so that neither human or daemon would notice his agitation, before he flapped up to her shoulder, and shook himself once to ready himself to play at being normal.
His human's face was still visibly red from crying when she slapped her palm against the metal of the door to signal to Racetrack to be patient, but they couldn't do anything about that. The best they could hope for was that the Raptor pilot was going to be either too drunk or tired to notice, or would at least have the courtesy not to prey.
As presentable as they could manage, his human released the locking mechanism, and spun the hatch open with the creak and roll of screeching hinges that didn't want to swing, and stepped back as quickly as she could, already heading toward her bunk on the far side of the room before the door could open the whole way.
"About time," came the annoyed grumble behind them, from Charis as he and his human pulled the door shut behind them and stumbled over to their bunk, the smell of alcohol hanging off them like a second skin. Peering back at them out of the corner of his eye, he saw the exact moment that both of them realized with confusion that they were the only ones in the room, but quickly turned his back again when Margaret looked up, her brow furrowed. "Why'd you have the door locked, Starbuck?" She asked, one eyebrow raised with her voice alone, "I mean, if you weren't frakking anyone..." She trailed off, obviously waiting for an answer, her earlier tiredness apparently forgotten.
Beneath his feet, his human tensed slightly. "Felt like it." His human replied, her words short and dismissive as she pulled aside the privacy curtain and held one hand up for him to step onto, so that she could lift him onto the small perch they'd glued onto the wall for him, before climbing in after him, "Go to sleep," She added, trying to add some of her 'Starbuck' arrogance, "I can smell that ambrosia from over here." She turned her face just far enough to the side that the other pilot could catch her smirk, before she drew the dark curtain back across the small space that was their own, shrouding them in its comforting shadow.
As though a warm blanket had been thrown over their shoulders, a sense of calm enveloped them in the quiet solitude of the only shred of privacy they had in their lives. It was just a thin piece of fabric to block the light, but it gave them so much more than darkness. It gave them anonymity. It gave them secrecy. It hid them from prying eyes and poking questions. Behind the dark blue curtain, they became invisible to the world outside. Its shelter could hide both moving bodies and tear-stained faces, and, safely hidden once more, he allowed himself to tremble in renewed sorrow.
But Racetrack had fallen silent, her questions dying on her tongue. There was one thing everyone on the Battlstar knew, and it was that the privacy curtain was respected at all times. Every other aspect of their lives was put on view for everyone to see, and this one small oasis of peace was all they had to themselves.
His human's shoulder slumped in exhaustion, and she let the air leave her lungs in a breathy whoosh. Her arms wrapped around her knees as she leaned against the back wall of the bunk, and her green eyes—glittering even in the dim light—turned up to meet his in silence.
And, in equal silence, he nodded.
Not here, they agreed, Not now. Later.
Later, they would talk.
But now...
Now they were going to sleep. He couldn't stop the trembling in his wings as he waited for her to lie back against the foam mattress before he fluttered down to land in the hollow between her shoulder and neck, or the chill that had swept over his feathers as though a breath from Hades himself had washed over him. His eyes itched with exhaustion, and his legs almost refused to keep him upright before he curled up against her skin.
She rolled over onto her side so that she was facing him, and threw one arm out over top of him so that he was between her elbow as well as she pillowed the hand under her head, her other curling limply across her stomach.
For a few moments, green eyes stared into brown as drowsiness brought on by despair wafted over them like a gentle fog, and they listened with half an ear to the sounds of Racetrack and her daemon undressing and changing her clothes for bed.
Then his eyes fell shut of their own weight, suddenly too heavy to keep open, and he settled deeper against the mattress and his human's comforting warmth, feeling as though every bone in his body were sinking into pure relaxation.
His human's breath gently gusting out reassuringly against his feathers, he allowed himself a moment of peace, before his mind drifted into the world of dreams, where he knew that all the heartbreak and sorrow he had caused would be waiting for him in the form of a beautiful black jaguar who was afraid of a sparrow, and laughed at her own insignificance.
Because they had one final rule, and as long as they were alive, they both knew that the man they'd met on Caprica would haunt them forever.
Because they'd broken it, and there was nothing they could do that would make it right again.
Rule number three: Never leave anyone behind.
Finished on 4/28/14m 2:13AM
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