Against the Wind

5.2 || Corvin

Corvin's nose had never been skilled at scenting any depth of emotion, yet he was sure the air gained a sour tang that even he could detect. Its murky aroma spattered the back of his throat and sang in tune with the writhing in his gut. He froze, caught in the indigo shimmer of the human's eyes.

Violet claimed the long pool of her skirt, modest and ornately woven, the way humans liked, save the low-hung oval cut into the dress's upper section that provided a slitted view of her chest. Purple hoops dangled from her round ears, clinking like bells. Shadows painted the rest of her. They played in dark streaks through her skin and knotted in her hair, dying it a coal-like shade that stretched in a thick ribbon down nearly the entire length of her back.

She lacked their telltale sun-shade covering, but he knew what she was, what she did. It still sprinkled her fingers in sequined glints of colour and cloyed the air in greater clouds than fear. He could hardly breathe through its haze.

A low whine built at the back of his throat. He inched backward, sheets wrinkling, until the bind that wrapped his left wrist went painfully taut.

"You're awake," she said—or he was fairly sure she said. Her voice lilted, light and airy as if it dangled the words above his head where he could barely catch them, and the human dialect was littered with nuance it was impossible to learn in full. Kyril called that nuance pretentious and annoying.

Corvin swallowed, head a miasma of competing thought. He waded through it in search of words for far too long. The silence stretched.

Her mouth wavered, teetering between expressions to the point of unreadable. She glanced back at the mess her dropped glass had left and made a noise he didn't recognise, then muttered something else, too quiet for him to snatch more than the shaky, curved edge of the sentence. She straightened and took a step forward.

She was close enough to touch now. He flinched, heart whirring too fast and too loud. Fear waited for her to kill him, but the rest of him couldn't quite add it all up.

She drew in a breath, and he strained to listen. "I don't mean any harm to you."

A frown scrunched his nose. He didn't trust that. He tugged on his binds again, ignoring the way the rope burned the more he struggled. His scratched arms already harboured strings of fire.

She lifted a hand, and he ducked his head, pale bangs toppling into his face as he jerked, but her palm faced him without attack. Placatingly? The way it shook conveyed little calm. "I apologise. They're for your protection. Please, I promise it's okay."

His voice came haltingly, stumbling over nicks of confusion. "Let me go."

Sorrow lurked beyond her gaze. "I can't."

Why would that sadden her? Humans took pleasure in the suffering of his kind. That was what everyone said. It was what Kyril said, and Kyril—

No, Kyril wasn't here. Corvin's chest squeezed, twisting until it felt dry and solid, energy wrung out of it. His next squirm was feeble, though panic's scream gained a fiercer, more chaotic edge. He couldn't heave in enough air.

His back throbbed. He curled his lip back, trying to paw his way to a steadier shore of thought, though his mind's fog was endless. "Let me go," he repeated between clenched teeth.

The human blinked, hand still outstretched and shadowy face flitting between shades of indecision. "Can you understand what I'm saying?"

There were two answers to that question and he didn't know which to give. His knees pulled closer to him.

She sighed, slow and shaky, and the hand lowered a little. Her stare was both tremulous and piercing. "Listen, I... I want you to trust me. Maybe if I..."

She reached forward, and his splayed tension was too slow to spread. Her fingers brushed his arm. They were warm.

Fire stained his vision. There were claws in his skin, sharp rods of pain lancing upwards from his waist, cutting his arm, driving so deep his blood chilled. A cry wrestled out of his jaw. Its sound cracked his lungs, and suddenly he was gasping, over and over. He was falling. He couldn't fall. He kicked and thrashed, thin fabric tangling under his feet, wrists alight as he pulled at his trap.

It all hurt. It screamed, but he was out of breath to do the same. He could only flounder amongst the inferno, trails of hot lightning skittering over his skin like swift, gentle touches that only brought agony.

It took several smothering seconds before he realised the human's touch—the real touch, the tether of reality that'd snapped every other—had retracted. She was halfway across the room now. Her palm pointed his way again. She spoke, but the whispered words only lapped at his ears, swallowed by the tide of thick, pounding blood that swept aside his ability to translate. He saw panic in her eyes too. It battled his own in a disorientating flurry, a team of winged beasts flapping until they blurred together in one seething mass.

His wounds stung, hissing in crescendo. He lunged at her. His teeth snapped and his antlers tipped forward, though he could barely sit, restrained by the ropes. He didn't care. He wanted out.

He couldn't get anywhere near her, and she was gone before he could register her exit. A thud sounded, flattening the opposing wall into the cage wall it was once more. His feet scrabbled. He'd flung the sheets away sometime during his wrestle with them, but his robe still clung to him, crimson as fresh blood. He clutched at it, a sudden chill sweeping over him.

Dizziness roiled in its wake. Panting, he fell back against the cold bed, sucking in air that tasted like swampwater.

A low bang sounded, then rippled through him in dull, shuddering waves, starting at the tips of his antlers. They'd hit the wooden slab behind him. Tears sprang to his eyes, and the drowning stopped.

Eerie silence sank over him. His breathing rasped.

Brittle tremors wracking his bones, he stared wildly at the furthermost wall, at the sparkling ribbons that swayed and tinkled in their curtain covering over the room's exit, until they slowly, steadily stilled. He felt his heart's rhythm slow, though it still flopped this way and that, erratic enough to stab at his chest. His face was flushed and freezing.

Loneliness drenched him. Like a drip into a pond, it spread slowly, but closed over him with the vice grip of ice. He shivered.

Maybe he was dead after all. Maybe that was why nothing made sense.

Maybe he wasn't.

Maybe it didn't matter.

His vision blurred. Still clammy and hot and shaking, he folded into himself, curling his legs in as he tucked into the tightest ball he could muster with his hands bound above his head. Sharp pain shot up from his elbows as they bent at odd angles. He whimpered, squeezing his stinging eyes shut, though he couldn't prevent the sob that clambered free.

"Please." That had been one of the storm of words the human said before she left. The only one he'd managed to interpret, though he didn't speak it in echo. His please flowed out in his mother tongue, thick with familiarity and far rougher in texture, and it pushed out more tears.

He sniffled. "Kyril, please."

But Kyril wasn't coming. Kyril had abandoned him. That was the one thing he knew for certain, though he wished he could scrub his mind clean and forget. He was almost grateful to the ropes for continuing to dig in and jolt him into staying awake.

You're nothing to me.

If only his mind could be as quiet as the emptiness he tasted in this bitter, human-tainted place.

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