Metal Birds

Chapter 25: Choking (on Your Own Words)

Unknown, France (Behind German Lines) May, 1940

Arthur woke up blearily, his eyes blinking open to be met with the low light of morning. His head pounded, throbbed, and he forced his eyes shut again in order to quell the ache. He attempted to remember what had happened. He groaned lightly, attempting to shift over out of instinct, before feeling himself become stock still in surprise.

He couldn't move his wings. His arms, his legs.

He jolted up quickly, the previous night's events flooding back to him quickly. He had been about to shoot someone... two men, who were much too close to the camp... he had fallen, and... Ludwig.

His mouth became dry as he blinked, his vision blurry and extremely hard to make out. His head still ached, somewhere on his temple. His head also felt hot, as if he was getting sick. He fell back again. 

The fear in his stomach was also evident. He didn't know where he was, and he didn't know where Ludwig was, and he couldn't tell the true extent of his injuries. It made the whole situation terrifying.

He blinked once more, aware of a soft murmur about him. He lay there, staring at what he assumed were his boots for a moment before his vision finally cleared. He could hear someone speaking softly in French. Worriedly, confusedly. It sounded like a man. He shifted slightly, glancing up.

Much to his surprise, he found three other men sitting across from him. The four of them were all crammed in a narrow tent, and Arthur had been left to lay haphazardly on one side, while the other men sat a little ways away, staring indignantly. One of them must have seen his movement, because he spoke in a hushed a tone in Arthur's direction.

"Est-ce que tu vas bien?"

He blinked slightly, shaking his head to quietly send the message that he didn't understand.

The man across from him seemed to purse his lips in disappointment.

Arthur sat there for a moment, keeping his eyes on the ground. He could feel the gazes of those nearby on him like a hawks.

"English?" Someone asked quietly.

Arthur glanced up in surprise, feeling his feathers bristling still. He turned to face a man seated near the door. He looked worn, dirtied, cold and scared, no different from Arthur himself. He swallowed and nodded.

"Yes."

The man let his shoulders slump, running a bound hand through his wild, dark hair.

"I hate to be the one to ask... but, what are you?"

Arthur paused, glancing down at the ground as he thought. It was dirt and grass.

"I can't explain it." He said simply, shaking his head to indicate he didn't care about the question. "I just need to get out of here."

The Frenchman near the back wall of the tent seemed to chuckle. "That is going to be difficult. There's a guard outside at all times, sometimes two."

Arthur just nodded tiredly, allowing his head to shift to his chest in exhaustion as his temple throbbed. He gingerly raised his hands to probe it, recoiling with a wince as he stared down at his bloodied fingers. It wasn't a lot of blood, but he found himself worried that the wound hadn't been cared for. He qualified as a prisoner now... the thought alone made him sick. But he was also even more worried. Captors in war were supposed to care for their prisoners, at least, to a fault.

He let out a low hiss, clenching his jaw as he glanced around, still holding his hands limply in front of him. The Frenchman across from him seemed to sit back indignantly, while the other two glanced at each other.