{"@attributes":{"version":"2.0"},"channel":{"title":"It was a dark and stormy night","link":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/","description":"It was a dark and stormy night - LiveJournal.com","lastBuildDate":"Wed, 09 Jun 2010 08:00:31 GMT","generator":"LiveJournal \/ LiveJournal.com","copyright":"NOINDEX","image":{"url":"https:\/\/l-userpic.livejournal.com\/101387265\/17578525","title":"It was a dark and stormy night","link":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/","width":"100","height":"100"},"item":[{"guid":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5994.html","pubDate":"Wed, 09 Jun 2010 08:00:31 GMT","title":"WFTS Media","author":"oxyidiot","link":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5994.html","description":"

In all honesty I cannot fully express how incredible these two pieces of art are, and how grateful I am that they were applied to Waiting For The Sun.

<\/a>ficjournal<\/b><\/a><\/span> did a mix for me which I love love love for it's gorgeously acoustic feel and how it relates and accentuates my story so well!

One Little Star (All Alone In The Sky)<\/a><\/b> (download)<\/em>

Tracklist:<\/u>
1.  Patrick Stump - Lullaby (Honey Is For Bees)
2.  Sir Paul McCartney - Blackbird
3.  Damian Rice - When Doves Cry
4.  Air Traffic - Shooting Star
5.  Duran Duran - What Happens Tomorrow
6.  Velveteen - Firework Special
7.  Coldplay - 42
8.  Foo Fighters - Walking After You
9.  Death Cab For Cutie - Grapevine Fires
10.  The Format - On Your Porch
11.  Iron & Wine - The Trapeze Swinger
12.  Steel Train - Firecracker
13.  Jimmy Eat World  Firefight
14.  Steel Train - Turnpike Ghost
15.  The Moody Blues - The Story In Your Eyes  
  
 
Fanart by \"[info]\"<\/a>brille<\/b><\/a> <\/span>who did an amazing job - seriously, it's like she took what was in my head and made it so much better; grandiose, intricate, with an Olympia-esque air. 

 The Storm<\/a><\/b> (fullsize)<\/em>

\"\" 

 <\/p>
Master Post<\/a><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5994.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5638.html","pubDate":"Tue, 08 Jun 2010 08:04:54 GMT","title":"Epilogue","author":"oxyidiot","link":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5638.html","description":"
It starts when he hears Victoria and Gabe in hushed conversation in the kitchen. They think he’s asleep. Evidently, he’s not.
 
“Now he can walk again, we need to think about moving,” Victoria argues softly. “This was never a permanent thing. We only built this shack for him. We need to get to the coast. We need to know–if it’s possible–” Her voice snags roughly.
 
“What about him, though?” Gabe asks in a low voice. “Can’t we wait? Just a little longer. Just to see... maybe, his feathers will grow back. Fuck, Vic, we can’t–I don’t know if he could take it.”
 
“Seriously, Gabe, you’re worried that he can’t take <\/i>it? Bill’s tough. To make it through all of this... he can deal.”
 
“The fog–”
 
“The fog effect is long purged, Gabe. It’s been three months<\/i>.” She takes a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this, Gabe, it hurts so much. Being here, doing nothing, all I can see at night is–is him <\/i>and screaming through nightmares where he burns in front of my eyes, crushed by flaming trees or trapped in our house and suffocating, or, even worse, he gives up waiting for me, and I never... I never see him a–again.”
 
Gabe sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Victoria. I’ll talk to the others in the morning. I promise, we will leave as soon as we can.” She makes little sobbing sounds and he murmurs to her soothingly.
 
William’s heard enough. He clamps down his jaw tightly, and the bitter taste in his mouth spreads through his body. He goes back to bed, but can’t sleep. He watches the stars outside his window, and tries not to blur them.
 
When it’s light enough, William decides that it’s morning. Pulling on a thick coat Nate and Ryland made for him, he climbs out of the window, stepping lightly in the snow, though sinking up to his knees in some places. He walks until he is panting with exertion, his breath like misted crystal around him, the heat from his unusually warm blood keeping him from freezing. Reaching a rock that looms jagged out of the snow-laden ground, he hauls himself up onto it and looks down at the frosted home that has been so dear to him in the last few months, all the people he loves like his family, like his flock; Nate, sweet and optimistic; Ryland, constantly cheerful and witty; Alex, intelligent but down-to-earth; Victoria, sassy yet always honest; Gabe...
 
William’s never felt anything like what he feels for Gabe. Every day, when he hurt all over, lying in bed and wanting to die, Gabe would make him laugh. Feeling caged and irritated, stuck inside all the time, Gabe would bring him small tokens from the outside world to amuse him – even bringing in animals, many of which he had never seen before. William has no idea how he got them in, but he seems to have a way with them. They would debate while blizzards raged outside; about the world, philosophy, the merits of eating meat versus being an herbivore... then, preening his wings in the firelight, Gabe’s long fingers carefully shaking loose the dander and smoothing each tattered feather reverently.
 
Even in the fog-dreams – the face, always hidden, that stayed by him, had felt so comforting and familiar that William had thought it was Ryan. But he’s beginning to realise that it was Gabe; holding his hand as his lungs burned and tore, keeping his hair out of his face with gentle hands when the virulence in his veins sickened him to the point of retching, remaining by his side when the monsters in the shadows drove away the phantom members of his flock and left him vulnerable and scared. He remembers reaching out for the face as though reaching for the sun, tearing through his delusional membrane, and the then-unknown man consoling him, and feeling... safe.
 
But, like Icarus, he’s been burnt. Just like he can’t hope to fly to the sun or fly at all<\/s>, nor can he reach Gabe. Gabe doesn’t want him. William remembers lying in bed after that night he felt the first synapse in his legs spark, humiliated and ashamed, even through his drunken haze. It tears him apart to see that bright smile that’s building crow’s feet in the corners of his dark eyes, that beautiful body that holds him so softly, and that wonderful, complex, unique mind every day and know <\/i>that the soul in that vessel is destined for another. One not flawed to the core, as he is. In that way, he’s glad, because he doesn’t deserve Gabe after what he’s done. What he must have caused.
 
And now, they’re leaving. He doesn’t blame them. Their lives have revolved around him for so long; he knows how frustrating that must have been. How much of a burden he is. But he can’t return to his flock, because, as far as he knows, they could be dead. And, well... he can’t fly.
 
But... can’t he? William stands up, frowning. They say I can’t fly, but I’ve never tried to prove them wrong!<\/i>
 
Taking a deep breath, he unfurls his wings to their full length, feeling the familiar stretch across his backbone give him a little shiver of delight. He beats his wings, slowly at first, and then with an increased tempo, until he feels powdery snow whirl around him. Then he crouches, and leaps into the air, elongating his body, reaching... for the sun.
 
He plunges headfirst into the snow, rolling and tumbling in a blinding melee of white, twisting his limbs and knocking them on hidden rocks and roots until he comes to a stop. He coughs out snow and feels tears squeezing out of his eyes, but he shakes them off angrily.
 
“What happened to you?” Ryland asks with an amused look when he trudges back into the warmth of the little house.
 
“Fell over,” William replies, forcing a smile.
 
“Hey, Bill, you’re back,” Nate says. “Wow, you’re practically a snowman. Listen, we were having a discussion this morning, and–”
 
“I know,” William cuts in. “You’re leaving. Let me... let me help you pack.”
 
“We don’t have much to take,” Victoria says, carrying in a box of smooth, rounded objects. “But you’re welcome to help. Catch.” She tosses him one of the objects, and his hand snaps up to catch it, confused. “You can go pack the bed.”
 
William looks at the dull grey ball in his hand with bewilderment. “Oh...kay?”
 
Alex chuckles from where he’s dismantling a wicked-looking laser gun – he had explained to William, previously, that the mammoth metallic monster worked by harnessing and amplifying electro-nuclear energy sourced from the surrounding air. “You guys are treating him like he’s one of us. His kind’s technology is pretty medieval, as far as I’ve gathered – they won’t use laser capsules.”
 
Victoria blushes. “Oh, I’m sorry, William... I forgot.” She beckons him into his room. “Come, I’ll show you how they work.”
 
“Where’s Gabe?” William asks, biting his lip involuntarily as Victoria puts her fingers in various positions around the sphere and carefully applies pressure.
 
“Convincing some squirrels to give up their nut caches so he and Alex can eat,” Victoria says, rolling her eyes, and is she being serious?<\/i> “Vegetarians, right? So, watch this. This is how we travel.” She holds out the ball and it emits a low whine, rising in pitch until even William can no longer hear it. The bed shakes, contorting, and explodes into a flurry of particles that are sucked into the capsule.
 
“You can pick your jaw up off the floor, now,” she says wryly as William looks at the bare patch of ground where the bed had been.
 
“Holy shit<\/i>,” he says, his melancholy briefly replaced by awe. “Is... is everything here from those capsule things?”
 
“Most of it. We did <\/i>build the house, though,” she says with a toothy grin. “The first few nights, Gabe kept you warm underneath the hovercar. It was touch and go. But you’re tough, Bill. You bounced right back.”
 
“Yeah,” William mumbles, feeling his heart clench miserably. “Tough.”
 
“It’s kind of weird to leave this place, though,” she muses, bouncing the capsule in her hand. “It feels... well, it felt kind of like home.” She laughs, but there’s a wistful tinge to it. “But I guess none of us are going home, again.”
 
William thinks about the Falcon winter roost with his family, and all the caves and crags he’s spent with his flock – two homes, as far removed from him as the incinerated home of the self-proclaimed ‘Cobras’. But they have each other, and he has...
 
“We’ve got everything sorted in here, Vic,” Nate yells. “Ryland’s done rolling down the QuikGlass into the tubes, so we’re going to start loading the hovercar, kay?”
 
“Be right there!” Victoria replies, and turns to William. “Hey, so, would you mind getting Gabe for me? You can probably follow his footsteps. He won’t be too far.”
 
“Sure,” William acquiesces, feeling heavy. Melting snow drips down his hair, and he takes in everything as he walks through the little house. His room, bare. The lounge-cum-sleeping room for the others, empty. The small kitchen, stripped of everything but the bench. Nothing but a few smouldering coals in the fireplace. The now-glassless window panes let in eddies of icy air, but William can’t really muster up any more surprise. He just feels cold.
 
Following Gabe is easy. He’s not subtle, because he isn’t hunting, but then again Gabe never hunts. He screws up his nose when they’re cooking meat, and when Ryland walks in with a giant sabre-toothed rabbit slung over his shoulder, he bites his lip and looks upset, though the moment usually passes quickly.
 
He finds Gabe in a glade, on a rock surrounded by trees adorned with glittering icicles. William thinks he sees a water droplet dangling on one of them. But then the sun breaks through the brooding layer of clouds and lights up the clearing, casting William’s shadow across the snow in front of him. Gabe turns, squinting, and his expression changes. For a moment, a mixture of amazement and happiness flickers across his face, and then he shakes his head and grins.
 
“Hey, Bilvy. What’s cracking?” he asks, swinging a sack over his back and walking towards him. Gabe’s special nickname for him jerks at his heart and it lowers his guard momentarily.
 
“What did you see? When you saw me, just then?” William blurts out, and then shakes himself mentally. What the fuck are you doing?<\/i>
 
Gabe looks surprised, but then slowly breaks into a smile that suffuses through his entire face. “With the light behind you... I saw an angel,” he says softly.
 
It’s too much for William to take. He tries to hold it in, but in moments he’s sobbing, balling his fists so tightly that his knuckles are white-edged. Then, he’s enfolded, loosely, and he can smell Gabe’s spicy, yet subtle scent, hear the concerned stammering of his heart, hoping Gabe can’t hear his.
 
“What’s the matter, William?” he asks, quietly.
 
William pushes him away. “You–you don’t get it,” he stutters angrily. “I’m not an angel. I’m a broken bird. I’m a f–failure. I’m not goo–no. No, you know what? You’re l–leaving. I may as well say it, since you’ll ne–never see me again.
 
“Gabriel Eduardo Saporta, I love you. I love you so fucking much that it tears me apart that you don’t feel the same way. So–so, go to the hovercar. They’re all waiting for you. I’ll just–”
 
Gabe laughs. He laughs<\/i>. It’s pure, unrestrained, joyful laughter. “William Beckett, you truly are a featherbrain.”
 
William nods, dully. It’s as much as he deserves.
 
Gabe lifts a caramel finger. “One. I can’t believe you didn’t get that there is no way we would leave without you. William, you are family. I’m pretty sure most of us would rather lose a limb than lose you. There’s not a lot of room in the ‘car, but I’m sure we can snuggle.
 
“And, two...” he says, tipping up William’s chin with two fingers, and brushing a hand across his tear-stained cheeks. “Two. William Eugene Beckett Jr., my glorious, muddled, beautiful angel, I love you so fucking much that it tears me apart that we aren’t making out right now.”
 
“Dick,” is all William manages to say before Gabe is kissing him. It’s real this time; warm and vivid, and this moment seems suspended, crystalline, in the air. They melt into each other, two intertwined hearts in a cold, harsh world, alone but together, haloed by the distant sun.
 
“So... did you really get all those nuts from squirrels?” William asks, half-jokingly, as they walk back down, hand in hand.
 
“Not all of them. That would’ve been rude. Squirrels are sticklers for common courtesy.”
 
“Finally!” Ryland shouts when they arrive, and William suspects it has a double meaning.
 
“Good things take time,” Gabe replies sagely. He climbs into the hovercar, where the rest of the gang are waiting patiently, and pulls William onto his lap. William curls into Gabe’s chest, takes one last look at the hut by the mountain that he never reached, and he feels blissfully happy. Like he’s been waiting his whole life for the sun, and the clouds have finally cleared.
 
Gabe nods at Nate. “Let’s ride.”
 

FIN.



 <\/p>

Master Post<\/a><\/center><\/a>
","comments":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5638.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5390.html","pubDate":"Tue, 08 Jun 2010 07:24:04 GMT","title":"6\/6","author":"oxyidiot","link":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5390.html","description":"Jon\u2019s got a lot of weight on his shoulders right now.

Firstly, and foremost, is Spencer. Jon\u2019s consumed by worry, haunted by visions of interrogation and torture, of him sitting in a squalid cell, weeping, or... well. Best not to dwell on them. The second thing is the weight of what he\u2019s done to the flock; he\u2019s left them in their time of need, disobeyed direct orders from his leader... followed his heart rather than his head. No matter that Pete is a friend \u2013 it could still get him cast out for endangering his people, and Jon really, really, does not want that to happen.

The largest weight, though, is probably Brendon. Jon\u2019s never carried anybody for a distance like this before, and in such unpredictable surroundings. He knows there\u2019s only one place to go, now that he\u2019s so far away from home. Not that he wasn\u2019t going there, anyway, but now... now, he\u2019ll have to get help from the same people he previously planned to destroy. Fate, he decides, definitely has a cruel sense of irony.

Brendon shifts, and moans against his chest. At the moment, he\u2019s cold. Barely breathing, clammy, pallid, his unconscious face seems to stare up at him. Staring into his soul. Reminding him that, if he hadn\u2019t been so selfish, focussing only on his problems, that maybe he could\u2019ve seen through Brendon\u2019s eyes. Seen how he chafed, watching each flier take off into the unknown with a wistful expression, always asking millions of questions when they came back, his face lighting up when he looked out at the open sky. Seen how he always strived to be useful to the flock, always tried to prove himself. Brendon\u2019s like an open book, and Jon hadn\u2019t even bothered to turn the pages.

Panting, Jon tightens his grip on Brendon and pumps his wings harder, trying to gain altitude. The sun is slipping down into the sea in the west, tinting the cerulean sky, and Jon has been flying south, carrying Brendon, his pack, and Dylan, for three days. Jon is a wreck<\/i>.

Dylan, poking his head through the pack, mews as though in agreement, pressing his furry little head against the stubble on Jon\u2019s jawline.

\u201cYou\u2019re right, of course,\u201d Jon says to him, quiet in the cool slick of the wind. \u201cBut, stick your head back in there. I know you\u2019re used to flying with me, but I still get nervous that you\u2019ll fall, little one.\u201d He barks a laugh. \u201cLook at me. I\u2019ve been talking to a groundling more in the past week than I\u2019ve talked to anyone for more than a month.\u201d

It\u2019s dark once Jon finally sees the cracked plateau looming into his vision; an ominous monolith in the desert highlands, the base wreathed in twisted tendrils of fog. His suspicions are confirmed when he sees six specks flying over it in V formation, circling twice before swooping down through a rift of deeper shadow and disappearing. This is the Falcon roost.

Straining, he alights on one of the dry rock pillars that tower up above the scorched earth, and settles down to wait. Lying Brendon on his lap, he slowly drips water into his mouth, coaxing Brendon to swallow with niggling anxiety. Is his breathing shallower? Jon can\u2019t be sure. But he knows<\/i> that his pulse is slower. He almost doesn\u2019t want to press his fingers to Brendon\u2019s neck for fear of blocking the feeble blood flow.

Jon waits with Brendon while the moon makes its leisurely ascent. It\u2019s a full moon, which is both an advantage and a hindrance; it gives Jon a clear view of the landscape, but it also gives the patrolling Falcons a clear view of Jon. He stays low, counting.

When the moon has neared the apex of the sky, he knows that there\u2019s a gap between patrols. Quickly, he scoops up Brendon, disregarding the screaming complaint that his muscles voice at their overburdening, and glides swiftly to the midnight-black rift.

Landing softly on the dusty floor, he flattens himself to the wall, hardly daring to breathe. And then he allows himself a little time to gawk.

What looked to Jon from a distance as just a small crevasse is a veritable canyon, hundreds of meters wide, splitting the massive rock formation through and continuing to drop into an inky black abyss to Jon\u2019s immediate left. And built into the sheer walls, in dark grandeur, are hundreds of Falcon homes \u2013 balustrades, turrets and balconies, spacious arches for easy flight access, all chiselled into the red-brown rock in dizzying array. Far up ahead, he sees people flitting across the gap \u2013 ghostly flickers of silhouettes against the slit of dull ambient sky. The more he sees the scale of the Falcon roost, the more Jon feels that this is a stupid plan.

There\u2019s a large, rough-hewn entrance to his right. He ducks into it. There\u2019s light ahead \u2013 torches, set in brackets set in regular intervals along the wall. Inching his way along, he tries to make each movement blend in with the shifting shadows along the irregular, rocky wall of the vast cavern. That\u2019s when he hears voices, coming his way.

\u201c\u2013got to find Bill, Sisky,\u201d one argues in a low voice. \u201cWe need to prepare for the possibility that we\u2019ll have Eagles on our ass any day now unless I know that he made it, and delivered the message to their leader.\u201d

\u201cNo, Ryan, you can\u2019t do this,\u201d the other, who Jon guesses is Sisky, pleads. \u201cBill is fine. He\u2019s always fine, you know him. He\u2019s probably just... but, I mean, for you \u2013 when you come back, he\u2019ll kill you!\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s a risk I\u2019ll have to ta\u2013...\u201d The footsteps pause, their echoes fading a split second after. They\u2019re near enough now for Jon to see them in the flickering half-light; tall, skinny to the point of emaciation, and exactly how Jon had imagined them. Their wings are sheathed, but Jon knows they show the characteristic sharp, streamlined look of their kind. This is the closest he has ever seen Falcons. One of them, in fact, seems injured, his delicate-looking frame peppered with abrasions.

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter, Ry?\u201d Sisky asks. Jon freezes against the wall, trying to melt into it. Nothing is wrong. All is calm<\/i>, he projects at them. But, with perfect timing, Brendon lets out a long moan that causes Jon\u2019s heart to stop in its tracks.

The Falcons freeze, and slip into a defensive stance, crouching slightly with wings partially raised from their backs. The taller one cocks his head and calls out, \u201cWe know you\u2019re there. Show yourself!\u201d

Reluctantly, Jon steps into the centre of the passageway. The shorter man\u2019s eyes widen in shock as he takes in his appearance, and that of the man he is carrying, and he hisses Eagle<\/i> under his breath to the taller one. Odd; his eyes remain closed the entire time, and he simply nods.

Jon figures, since they haven\u2019t attacked him on sight, that it\u2019s time to state his case.

\u201cI won\u2019t lie to you,\u201d he says coldly, through gritted teeth. \u201cI hate you people. You\u2019ve taken someone very close to me, that I\u2013\u201d he swallows, and feels tears threatening in the corner of his eyes. He wills them away angrily. \u201cWhat I\u2019m trying to say is that you\u2019re the last people I would come to for help, but Brendon... he\u2019s near death, and I can\u2019t revive him, I can\u2019t... if you help him, I\u2019m willing to trade myself in to you. I can tell you all about Eagle defence and strategy. Just... please tell me where you\u2019re keeping Spencer, so I can see him one last time.\u201d He takes a deep breath, committing himself. \u201cDo we have a deal?\u201d

\u201cSpencer? You know Spencer?\u201d The dark haired Falcon, whom Sisky called Ryan, blurts out involuntarily.

\u201cDuh, of course he knows Spencer,\u201d Sisky says, his posture already relaxing from threatened to casual. \u201cEagles are very into family and stuff, everyone knows each other.\u201d He pauses, and continues, more hesitant. \u201cBut \u2013 did you come with anyone else? How did you \u2013\u201d

\u201cLook, I don\u2019t have time for you to wonder how I found you,\u201d Jon hisses, hefting Brendon up in his arms. \u201cPlease.\u201d

Sisky whispers something into Ryan\u2019s ear and Jon prepares to drop Brendon and fight if necessary. He\u2019s taking a huge risk, but the main flock shouldn\u2019t be too far behind. Just have to keep Brendon alive until they rescue us. Just have to focus. Don\u2019t think abo\u2013focus<\/i>. Then Ryan nods to Sisky, and they talk emphatically, in hushed tones. However, Jon can still make out enough of their conversation to tell that they are very much unnerved by his presence, and he feels kind of smug about it.

Reaching a decision, they turn to face him again. \u201cFollow us. Quickly,\u201d Ryan says, shifting uneasily. \u201cIt\u2019s not safe for you to be here. He might\u2013\u201d

\u201cMay as well put them in the same place,\u201d Sisky murmurs. \u201cYou take them there, I\u2019ll get Maja, tell her it\u2019s an emergency.\u201d He flits off purposefully into the gloom.

\u201cDon\u2019t just stand there,\u201d Ryan snaps at Jon, absently fingering a lurid bruise on his cheek. Jon jumps a little, because this guy\u2019s eyes are still closed<\/i>. How did he...? \u201cCome on.\u201d

\u201cIf this is a trap, I swear, I\u2019ll\u2013\u201d Jon begins, gripping Brendon tighter to his body. The unconscious man twitches and moans, and Jon immediately reloosens his grip.

\u201cJust\u2013just trust me, okay?\u201d he sighs, and places a firm hand on Jon\u2019s back. Jon tries not to flinch. \u201cYou\u2019re lucky you found us. Any other Falcon would\u2019ve taken your ridiculous deal. Look, I know it\u2019s hard, but if you want your friend to live, you\u2019ll have to trust me.\u201d

The tall, dark winged man takes them through a labyrinth of dimly-lit passageways and staircases, each opening into an arched atrium with four identical passageways leading away from it every couple of minutes. Jon soon gives up trying to remember the way back for escape, and starts feeling a sense of uneasy awe at how huge the place is. These caves must honeycomb the entire mountain.<\/i>

\u201cWait here,\u201d Ryan instructs him, and before Jon can say anything, he\u2019s gone. Jon looks around at the room he\u2019s been left in.

It\u2019s full of beds, but strange beds, rounded and indented. Jon sets Brendon down in one of them, carefully smoothing his lank, sweaty hair out of his face and wincing at how hot he feels under his touch. Strange, glittering objects are suspended above them, whirling slowly on strings so each facet sparkles dully in the light from the flickering torches. The light plays over the water rippling gently at the ringed stone sides of a large, shallow pool in the centre of the room. Something else moves in the darkness, and Jon spins around, adrenaline pumping through him.

\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d he growls softly. \u201cIf you think you can attack me while my back is turned, you are sadly mistaken, you fucking\u2013\u201d

\u201cJon?\u201d a small, yet familiar voice utters disbelievingly.

Jon stops. He hardly dares to breathe. It can\u2019t be. This isn\u2019t...<\/i> \u201cSp\u2013Spence?\u201d he squeaks.

Spencer slowly stands up from behind one of the beds, and raises his chin to meet Jon\u2019s eyes. Jon drinks him in \u2013 he\u2019s thinner, but he\u2019s gained more muscle where he\u2019s lost weight. His clothes, torn and faded, seem to hang beautifully on him \u2013 even his hair, splayed across his head messily, and his tired, unshaven face, look vibrant; alive. Jon lets his joy suffuse him, spark right through to his fingertips, because... Spencer<\/i>.

\u201cSorry I didn\u2019t send you anything personal,\u201d Spencer shrugs, smiling ruefully. \u201cI\u2019ve been... busy.\u201d

Jon closes the gap and pulls Spencer to him, kissing him fiercely, wrapping his wings around his body and clutching his smaller frame to him. \u201cMissed you... so much,\u201d he murmurs, breathing into his neck. \u201cI was so\u2013so scared. I thought they\u2019d hurt you; tortured you, or...or...\u201d

\u201cWell, I had to eat rats,\u201d Spencer replies, and Jon can feel his smile pressed against his cheek. \u201cOtherwise... I\u2019ve been doing okay here, but you were always the missing piece, Jon, I\u2019m so glad you... what are<\/i> you doing here?\u201d

\u201cOnce I got back to the roost and heard you\u2019d been abducted, I went looking for you,\u201d Jon replies. \u201cBut don\u2019t worry, Spence, I\u2019m going to get you out of here. We\u2019re going to\u2013\u201d

Spencer chuckles, his breath caressing the shell of Jon\u2019s ear. \u201cAbducted? That\u2019s an interesting way of saying it. Did William put you up to that? In fact, when\u2019s he coming back? His family\u2019s getting kind of worried.\u201d

\u201cWilliam?\u201d Jon asks, frowning. \u201cWho\u2019s William?\u201d

\u201cYou mean you haven\u2019t...\u201d Jon feels Spencer stiffen in his arms, and he leans back slightly, appraising him. Spencer\u2019s eyes have gone very wide.

\u201cSpence?\u201d

\u201cOh, shit<\/i>,\u201d Spencer swears, backing away from Jon. \u201cOh, this is bad, this is so bad, this is... this is really going to happen... Jon. Jon, did Pete say anything else? About, trying to get me back?\u201d

\u201cWait, what\u2019s going on?\u201d Jon asks, an edgy feeling replacing his joy at seeing Spencer again. \u201cOf course he did, we were all worried about you! I mean, these guys kidnapped<\/i> you! Fuck, I\u2019m just glad you\u2019re safe, and...\u201d he lowers his voice, \u201cPete\u2019s bringing a whole bunch of guys to rescue you. They should be here within the next day, if my calculations are correct, and we\u2019re going to bust you out of here.\u201d

\u201cFuck, this is not good, Jon.\u201d Spencer begins to pace, agitated. \u201cI haven\u2019t been kidnapped! Ryan\u2013he and his flock saved my life<\/i>, and in return I agreed to help him back here. I came here of my own free will!\u201d

\u201cOh\u201d is all Jon can say. And then, \u201cshit.\u201d

\u201cRyan had a v\u2013Ryan figured that you guys would think something was up,\u201d Spencer says, gripping a fistful of shirt nervously. \u201cHe sent one of our\u2013well, his flockmates to tell you guys that I\u2019m alright, to be a peace missive to your people. Oh, fuck, William... he\u2019s the fastest flyer I\u2019ve ever seen. If he never made it to you, he must be...\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ve got to stop them,\u201d Jon says, realisation flooding sickeningly through him. \u201cPeople are going to get killed over a misunderstanding<\/i>.\u201d

\u201cNo! No, Jon, you can\u2019t leave, not now,\u201d Spencer pleads, gripping Jon\u2019s hands in his clammy ones. \u201cIf you get caught, Master Ross \u2013 he\u2019ll hurt you. He hates Eagles.\u201d

\u201cBut... you\u2019re...\u201d Jon says, confused.

\u201cIt\u2019s complicated,\u201d Spencer sighs, burying his head in his hands and sinking to the floor. \u201cWhat a fucking mess<\/i>.\u201d

Jon joins him, and Spencer leans on his shoulder. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be okay,\u201d he says, even if he doesn\u2019t believe it.

\u201cI got Maja!\u201d an earnest voice pipes up, and Sisky pops his head through the door. \u201cOh, hey Spe\u2013\u201d

\u201cWhere\u2019s your friend?\u201d a lithe blonde lady says in a thick accent, businesslike, as she barges past him. \u201cI came as soon as I could.\u201d

\u201cOh, shit, Brendon!\u201d Jon exclaims with horror. Fuck, Jon, you were so busy making out with Spencer that you forgot about Brendon! What if he\u2019s\u2013if, because of your idiocy, he\u2019s\u2013<\/i>

\u201cBrendon?\u201d Spencer asks incredulously. \u201cHe\u2019s here? They allowed Brendon<\/i> out of the coop?\u201d

\u201cNot exactly,\u201d Jon says, running to the bed he had left Brendon lying, comatose, and so still, so fucking still<\/i>...

\u201cOh my god,\u201d Spencer breathes behind him. \u201cBrendon.<\/i>\u201d

\u201cMove! Out of the way,\u201d the lady, whom Jon guesses is Maja, says sternly. She takes his pulse, careful fingers tracing the angles of his chest, and presses her head to his heart. \u201cAdvanced pneumonia. He\u2019s close. I don\u2019t know if...\u201d She shakes her head, and gestures to the other Falcon, who\u2019s been watching from a distance with interest. \u201cSisky, get the antibio\u2013get the bottle with the red cap that\u2019s filled with colourless liquid. Quickly.\u201d

\u201cHere, Maja,\u201d Sisky says, quickly locating the bottle and handing it to her. \u201cWhat happened to him? And... what are you doing here?\u201d he asks Jon. \u201cI asked you earlier, but you never... it\u2019s just because, there was someone... we...\u201d He trails off, biting his lip and twirling a strand of his shirt around his fingers.

\u201cSisk...\u201d Spencer says in a husky voice. \u201cSisk, William never made it to my flock. I think... I think he might\u2013\u201d

\u201cNo!\u201d Sisky shouts, stumbling back from the group with wide, scared eyes. \u201cIt\u2019s n\u2013not true. You\u2019re lying! I\u2013Bill would never...\u201d Tears spring out of his eyes, and his words seem to die in his mouth. \u201cHe\u2019s\u2013he\u2019s ...\u201d Shaking off Spencer\u2019s hand, he runs from the room.

Jon realises that Maja is fixing him with a piercing gaze. \u201cIf it\u2019s true,\u201d she says softly, turning to Spencer, \u201cif you\u2019re right, bad things are coming. William...\u201d She swallows, seemingly unable to finish, and her harsh expression slips for a second to reveal deep sorrow. Narrowing her eyes, she mutters something like not the time for this<\/i> and turns to regard Brendon. \u201cTell me about how you managed to bring him here,\u201d she murmurs, stirring her hands that were paused above him. \u201cIt will help me work, stop me from thinking... please.\u201d

\u201cThere was a storm...\u201d Jon begins, watching Maja treat Brendon with rapt attention. \u201cSomehow, he flew out in it, knowing that we wouldn\u2019t be able to follow him for a few days. He was going to find you, Spence. He was going to rescue you.\u201d

\u201cBrave, brave Brendon,\u201d Spencer murmurs. \u201cBrendon with the broken wings, never flown outside of the mountains, and he flies through a storm and a desert to face hundreds of Falcons, just for me.\u201d

\u201cYou mean a lot to him, Spence, and to us,\u201d Jon says, with a small smile, and squeezes Spencer\u2019s hand reassuringly. \u201cWell, I went after him as soon as I could. I found him purely by chance, when a freak windstorm blew up and I had to shelter in the same cave that he was lying in... holding one of your feathers,\u201d he says softly, stroking Spencer\u2019s grey-black wings. \u201cHe found you. He just couldn\u2019t go on.\u201d

\u201cOh, Bren<\/i>,\u201d Spencer\u2019s voice snags, and Jon\u2019s never heard him sound so vulnerable and scared. \u201cPlease, don\u2019t die.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m working on it,\u201d Maja growls. She tucks a swath of blonde hair behind her ears and unbuttons Brendon\u2019s filthy shirt, placing a heat compress on his chest. \u201cThis is the best I can do. I\u2019m not sure he\u2019ll make it through the night, but if he does... he\u2019s got a chance\u2013 wait.\u201d She frowns, looking a little unsure. \u201cThere\u2019s something... my mother taught me. I\u2019ve never put it into practise before, but I think... maybe... Spencer \u2013 get as many blankets as you can. You know where they are kept. We need to keep him warm so he can concentrate his energy on fighting the sickness inside him.\u201d

Spencer runs to a cupboard in the far side of the room, yanking it open and piling blanket upon blanket into a staggering tower in his arms. Jon goes over to him and helps him take some of the load, dumping them by the bed. Spencer grips Jon\u2019s hand tightly.

\u201cIt\u2019s all my fault,\u201d he whispers to Jon. \u201cIf I had ignored Ryan and gone on a quick detour back to our roost instead of heading south at all speed, none of this would have happened.\u201d He bows his head, shoulders trembling, and continues hoarsely, \u201cFuck, if I\u2019d only had been smart enough to sleep in a cave that wasn\u2019t a fucking wolf lair<\/i> in N\u201313, I\u2019d have gotten home and we\u2019d all be safe. I caused this.\u201d

A wolf lair? What <\/i>happened in N\u201313?<\/i> Jon thinks, perplexed, but pulls Spencer into his arms, gently encircling him. \u201cNo one can see the future, Spence.\u201d Spencer\u2019s muffled laugh vibrates on his chest. He frowns, but disregards it. \u201cWhatever happened, happened through no fault of your own, because it was not a singular action, but a whole series of actions that had unforeseen consequences. And now, whatever happens, will happen, but we can see clearer now what we can do to sway the outcome. We can fix this, Spence, and then one day you, me and Brendon will sit by the fireplace and laugh about it, and tell the younglings about our big adventure.\u201d

Maja, meanwhile, is humming as she places blankets around Brendon. She presses her hands gently to various parts of his body, dragging a finger upwards or sometimes in a circular motion. Maja then places them firmly on his chest and closes her eyes, concentrating. Jon is itching to ask what she\u2019s doing, but...

\u201cI realigned his aura, first,\u201d Maja says, her eyes still closed. \u201cI\u2019m trying to use my life force to help heal his.\u201d She seems to sense Jon\u2019s unasked question and smiles. \u201cIt\u2019s nothing like Ryan. Anyone can do it, if they\u2019re taught properly.\u201d Nothing like Ryan?<\/i> Jon decides not to pursue it. There\u2019s too much going on here for him to get to grips with.

Spencer stirs and looks up at her, his eyes bleary. \u201cPsh,\u201d he mutters quietly. \u201cFalcons make us Eagles look nine primaries short of a pinion.\u201d Maja doesn\u2019t seem to hear, or if she does, she ignores it.

\u201cAlright, this is as good as you\u2019re going to get,\u201d Maja says, brushing off her hands on her black dress, and stretching her black-and-honey banded wings. \u201cStay with him. Well, that\u2019s a given. But, under no circumstances should you leave this room,\u201d she addresses Jon. \u201cI can\u2019t stress this enough. Sisky, Ryan and I, along with a most of the others, are friendly enough towards your kind, but there are some who will want you dead for being here.\u201d With a nod, she hefts up her bag and swings it onto her shoulder, the hidden bottles making a subdued clinking sound, and strides out of the room.

Spencer, his head now resting on Jon\u2019s shoulder again, watches Maja leave with narrowed eyes. \u201cJon, I would like you to stay with Brendon,\u201d he murmurs in an oddly purposeful tone. \u201cKeep him safe.\u201d

\u201cWell, I\u2013... what are you doing, Spence?\u201d

\u201cI have to stop this from happening,\u201d he says slowly. He gets up, walking across the room. \u201cFuck, I can\u2019t believe I\u2019m saying this, but if I\u2019m... if I really am<\/i> this blip of free will in this veritable morass of destiny or whatever the fuck Ryan thinks, I can still change it.\u201d

\u201cNo, what? You\u2013...!\u201d Jon begins, and then stops. He\u2019s right, damn him. He knows this place better, and he isn\u2019t exhausted, or comatose, or a Falcon that Pete will shoot on sight. He\u2019s the perfect candidate. He\u2019s the... the only candidate. Spencer is strong, and you have to let him go.<\/i>

Spencer watches him process these thoughts, and his mouth curves up into a smile. \u201cThank you, Jon.\u201d

\u201cI love you, Spence,\u201d Jon says quietly, looking up at Spencer through his lashes. \u201cTry not to get yourself killed.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ll do my best,\u201d Spencer replies.

Jon waits for an hour before following after him, whispering to Brendon that he\u2019ll be back as soon as he can.

Hang in there, Bren.<\/i>


*


\u201cYou guys aren\u2019t like me, though,\u201d Brendon muses. His parents shrug, and smile. \u201cAm I... adopted?\u201d

Brendon\u2019s father snorts. \u201cSeriously?\u201d

\u201cYeah. Silly question,\u201d Brendon replies, smiling. He scuffs his shoe on the edge of the cloud.

\u201cI don\u2019t know why you are what... you are,\u201d Brendon\u2019s mother says, running a finger over his wingtip. \u201cWhen we talked to Butch after you were born, he said something about genetic throwbacks... I don\u2019t know. It was a bit over my head.\u201d

Sitting down with them on the edge of the cloud, Brendon stares out at the soft mountains and valleys made of the white, fluffy stuff, glowing in the sunlight. \u201cHey, so, am I dead?\u201d he asks. \u201cOr are you guys just figments of my imagination, and I\u2019m really just talking to myself?\u201d

His mother winks. \u201cThat\u2019s for you to decide, honey.\u201d

\u201cBut, you<\/i> guys are dead,\u201d he says. \u201cYou never came back. Zack and Greta moved in and everything. But it\u2019s not... it\u2019s not quite the same. I was so scared, sometimes, that I\u2019d forget what you looked like, I\u2019d have dreams \u2013 memories \u2013 but they weren\u2019t... and, when I didn\u2019t recognise you, I thought\u2013\u201d

\u201cThe past is the past,\u201d Brendon\u2019s mother replies. \u201cNothing can change that. Memories fade, and are replaced, but connections last forever.\u201d

\u201cWe share\u2013\u201d Brendon\u2019s father begins, but then trails off, frowning. \u201cSomething\u2019s happening. I don\u2019t know...\u201d

Brendon feels the cloud dissipating beneath them, and whirls around, snapping his wings open. His parents, their own wings still folded against their backs, laugh softly. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t work like that here, Bren,\u201d his father says.

\u201cIt\u2019s a little early, but there\u2019s something you have to do,\u201d his mother says. \u201cWe\u2019ve helped you the best we can, but you\u2019ll have to go on without us from now on. Take it easy, there\u2019s only so much we can amplify the healing process. But remember. Bringing you from the brink of death so quickly doesn\u2019t come without a price, which you shall pay in due time.\u201d

\u201cThat Falcon girl is extraordinary,\u201d his father murmurs to her. \u201cWhat talent in one so young.\u201d

\u201cDon\u2019t go,\u201d Brendon says suddenly, shifting from foot to foot. His voice cracks a little with emotion. \u201cI\u2013I need you.\u201d

\u201cTake my hand,\u201d his mother says quietly. His father also reaches out an arm. \u201cWe won\u2019t let go.\u201d

When Brendon falls, they\u2019re still holding his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut as the ground lurches sickeningly nearer, gripping tightly to\u2013

Sitting up, he gasps, sucking in deep lungfuls of cool air until his lungs ache and he coughs in a quick, painful spasm. Wiping sweat off of his forehead with shaky hands, he looks around desperately for his parents, but this room seems to be empty. Just a dream, then. Never a reality. Never again.<\/i>

Tossing off blankets that seem to be smothering him in heat, he lowers himself onto the smooth stone floor carefully so his wobbly legs won\u2019t collapse beneath him. His body feels so weak, disjointed, but... clean. Clean, like it\u2019s been scoured from the inside. It\u2019s an oddly nice feeling, considering. The muscles above his backbone ache something fierce, though, and stretching his wings out is like fire tearing through each strand. There\u2019s something funny on his chest, and he peels off a mass of cloth and herbs soaked in his own sweat. He stares at it curiously. Where did I get that from?<\/i>

Setting it aside, he hears a scuffling sound, and freezes. For the first time, it occurs to him that he doesn\u2019t know where he is.<\/i> The last thing he remembers... falling asleep. For a long time. Somewhere... there was something important he had to do. Placing his feet warily, he walks slowly towards the noise, finding a disregarded pack on the floor. A furry head pops out of it, and mews.

\u201cDylan!\u201d he exclaims croakily, falling to his knees and opening the pack to let the little creature out. \u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d The furry animal purrs happily under Brendon\u2019s petting. Brendon looks around at the room again. \u201cThis definitely isn\u2019t Jon and Spencer\u2019s pla\u2013\u201d

Spencer!<\/i> he thinks abruptly, eyes widening, memories flooding back. Got to get to the Falcon roost. Got to find Spencer.<\/i> Then, another thought hits him, and he frowns, confused. But, Dylan is here. So Jon is here, somewhere. Wherever \u2018here\u2019 is. But, why? How?<\/i>

He sets his jaw, determined. No matter. I\u2019ll... I\u2019ll get out of here, and keep on going. If Jon\u2019s here to help me, I don\u2019t need it.<\/i> Surveying the strange room once more, he spies his pack stashed in the corner and retrieves it. He\u2019s weak, sore, dirty, almost out of supplies \u2013 and, he realises, somewhat shirtless \u2013 but he still strides falteringly towards the exit, because he made a promise to himself, to Spencer, that he was going to\u2013 his eyes ahead, he doesn\u2019t see the edge of the pool before he\u2019s in it.

Spitting out water, he levers himself up and laughs, adding wet to his mental list. Shaking his wings to dry them and ignoring the resulting jab of pain, he freezes.

\u201cGraceful as ever, Urie,\u201d Jon says, silhouetted in the doorway. He\u2019s being gripped on both sides by tall, intimidating men with prominent cheekbones, and ohshitFalcons<\/i>. \u201cGood to know nothing has changed since you\u2019ve been gone.\u201d

\u201cThree<\/i> of them?\u201d the one on his left says incredulously. \u201cHow the fuck did they all get in here?\u201d

\u201cIt is of no consequence,\u201d the other snaps, shoving Jon into the room, onto his knees. \u201cMaster Ross will be here soon to deal with them. Wherever the third is, the others will find him, and we will end this. You, there,\u201d he says to Brendon, \u201cCome here, and...\u201d He trails off, staring at Brendon, who\u2019s still frozen in the same pose. Then, without warning, he drops to his knees, bowing his head.

\u201cFirst One,\u201d he murmurs reverently. The other Falcon copies him, leaving Brendon more confused than he\u2019s ever been in his life, probably.

\u201cI... umm...\u201d he stammers, and then steps slowly out of the pool, sharing a look of disbelief with Jon. Then, something clicks. Hey. What if...<\/i> \u201cI... umm, I need a shirt.\u201d

The first Falcon gets up and pulls off his shirt, offering it to Brendon. Brendon takes it hesitantly, pulling it onto his damp skin and pushing his wings out of the slits in the back. \u201cUh, thank you.\u201d It actually worked! This is... fuck, this is weird.<\/i>

\u201cBrendon,\u201d Jon urges. He stands up, eyeing the Falcons, and walks over to Brendon. \u201cSpencer.\u201d

\u201cHe\u2019s\u2013he\u2019s here? Oh!\u201d Brendon says in understanding. \u201cYou, umm, Falcons, need to take me to Spencer,\u201d he commands awkwardly.

They both nod humbly, getting up and motioning for Brendon to follow. \u201cWe have reason to believe that he is trying to escape,\u201d the shirtless Falcon says. \u201cWe can take you to the take-off point and try to intercept him, if it is your wish.\u201d

Brendon starts towards them waveringly, then feels a strong arm wrap around his waist, supporting him. He grins at Jon. \u201cThanks, man.\u201d He pauses, thinking of how he had arrived here at what he can now guess must be the Falcon roost, and realises that Jon must have had a hand \u2013 no, more like an armful \u2013 in it. \u201cFor everything,\u201d he asserts emphatically.

\u201cNo sweat,\u201d Jon replies affably. \u201cThank you, for... this.\u201d He\u2019s smiling wide as they walk through corridors and vestibules, passing clusters of Falcons peeking out of their chambers, gawking openly at them.

\u201cWhat... is<\/i> this?\u201d Brendon asks, feeling uncomfortable at all the attention. \u201cWhy are they letting me order them around \u2013 when they were about to enslave<\/i> me \u2013 and calling me \u2018First One\u2019? I mean, I\u2019ve never come first in anything<\/i>.\u201d

\u201cDon\u2019t question it,\u201d Jon answers. \u201cJust... I don\u2019t know. Go with it.\u201d

\u201cOnly if you tell me what you know,\u201d Brendon says. \u201cWhy you\u2019re here, how the crap you got me<\/i> here, and... is Spencer okay?\u201d

\u201cWell, it all started with a storm,\u201d Jon begins, smiling. As he tells Brendon the incredible story of his journey, Brendon gains about a zillion times more respect and awe for the remarkable Eagle that is Jon Walker. They should be bowing to you, and not me,<\/i> he thinks, amazed.

\u201cSo that guy, Patrick, has special wings too?\u201d Brendon asks after he thinks Jon has finished, trying to keep the little spark of hope out of his voice.

\u201cWell not exactly,\u201d Jon replies. \u201cAll of his people have wings like that; huge and greyish. They call themselves Albatrosses... it\u2019s a kind of seabird, apparently. But I\u2019m not done, Bren,\u201d he scolds gently. \u201cThis is the most important part \u2013 Spencer wasn\u2019t kidnapped. Some Falcons saved his life, and in return he agreed to return with them to their roost.\u201d

\u201cOh,\u201d Brendon says. And that pretty much sums up his emotional state. \u201cWell, then. That\u2019s kind of lame.\u201d

\u201cYeah, pretty lame,\u201d Jon agrees. \u201cAnd Pete\u2019s sending a bunch of the flock to come down here and battle over Spencer, which might complicate things.\u201d

\u201cI can see how that wouldn\u2019t go down too well,\u201d Brendon says. \u201cBut I guess I can stop hating Falcons now that they aren\u2019t hurting Spence.\u201d

\u201cI admire that you can\u2019t hold a grudge,\u201d Jon says, nudging him with a smile. He frowns at their escorts, and rubs his hip absently. \u201cI can\u2019t say I\u2019m ready to revoke my own animosity towards them just yet.\u201d

Brendon reflects on how a Falcon saved Spencer\u2019s life, and how, according to Jon, another Falcon saved his own. I guess I should repay the favour, somehow,<\/i> he thinks, and starts to formulate a plan.


*


If there\u2019s one thing Spencer is mildly okay at, it\u2019s navigation.

Sure, he\u2019s lost. Hopelessly lost. But, on the plus side, he kind of knows where he\u2019s going. Direction-wise. There\u2019s a pattern to the passageways, and now Spencer just has to head through each door in a consecutive clockwise formation, and he\u2019ll probably<\/i> get to the main cavern and so exit without risking being seen and chased by a Falcon mob. Probably. A definite maybe.

He\u2019s been creeping through tunnels and hiding in niches from any approaching Falcons for at least three hours. It\u2019s infuriatingly slow going. If only he could use the flight passages he would be out of here in a shot...no, too dangerous. To make matters a little worse, Jon will have come after him by now. Spencer knows Jon all too well, and one of his faults is his damn loyalty to Spencer. But, you know, in sickness and in health.

He chews his lip and considers. He passed the Beckett place not too long ago, sneaking around the rounded entrance with its pool of yellow light around it, and Courtney\u2019s subdued sobbing coming from inside. Sisky must have been there and broken the news to them, and it took all of Spencer\u2019s willpower not to go in and comfort them, because he really feels like this is his fault. No, wait, you know what? it\u2019s <\/i>Ryan\u2019s, he thinks spitefully. William would still be alive if Ryan had let me get the fuck home.<\/i>

Lost in thought, he doesn\u2019t notice the shifting shadows on the wall until he hears a voice coming from his left. A dark-haired Falcon flying patrol spots him through the arch leading out of the passageways and into the rift, and swoops in to intercept him. \u201cHey, friend! What are you doing out here so late?\u201d

\u201cI, umm, needed some air,\u201d Spencer replies shakily. Why<\/i> did he leave Mr Beckett\u2019s jacket back in the nursery? He sucks in his cheeks and makes sure his wings are facing the wall. Sure, he\u2019s a bunch skinnier now than he was when he set off from the Eagle roost all those weeks ago, but is he thin enough to pass off as a Falcon? \u201cI was going to...\u201d He waves his arm vaguely in the direction of the archway. \u201cGets kind of stuffy, constricting, being in here, you know. I miss flying around, and stuff.\u201d

There\u2019s a long, nerve-wracking (on Spencer\u2019s part) pause, while the Falcon examines him under a careful gaze. Then he breaks into a rueful grin. \u201cI know, right? It\u2019s ridiculous that we\u2019ve gotta be cooped up here for months on end.\u201d

\u201cDamn winter,\u201d Spencer agrees.

\u201cBut, you know, curfew and all,\u201d the Falcon says regretfully, peering off down a dark tunnel. \u201cMaster Ross is antsy for some reason. Something about an Eagle... I can tell this is going to be a long winter,\u201d he laughs. \u201cSo, I\u2019m going to have to escort you back to your room... what did you say your name was again?\u201d

\u201cJon,\u201d Spencer blurts out immediately. \u201cJon, umm, Smith.\u201d

\u201cNick, Scimeca. Haven\u2019t seen you around here before,\u201d he muses, scrubbing a hand through his short brown hair. \u201cAnd, as a guard, I gotta know everyone.\u201d

\u201cI left a long time ago,\u201d Spencer lies, thinking quickly. \u201cWhen I was younger. That\u2019s why you don\u2019t remember me, I guess \u2013 I looked pretty different back then. I spent a few years in the mountains before Ryan found me about a month ago, and convinced me to come back to the winter roost,\u201d he says, feeling more confident in his story. \u201cYou know. To visit, catch up with people, yadda yadda.\u201d

\u201cOf course,\u201d Nick replies, a small smile framing his face. \u201cWell, I\u2019m sure you may be unfamiliar with the layout, being away from here for so long and all, so I\u2019ll guide you back to Ryan\u2019s place. That\u2019s where you\u2019re staying, right? Until you get assigned a room.\u201d

\u201cYeah,\u201d Spencer says, masking his relief under a quick nod.

\u201cAwesome. It\u2019ll be nice to have some company on my patrol.\u201d Nick extends an arm. \u201cAfter you, Smith.\u201d

Spencer takes a step in the direction Nick indicates, feeling a mixture of relief and trepidation. Once we get to Ryan\u2019s, he can vouch for me, and I can get out of here.<\/i> Spencer really doesn\u2019t want to talk to Ryan right now, but it\u2019s his best hope. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Nick smile wider.

And suddenly, he\u2019s slammed face-first into the wall, Nick pressed against his back. \u201cNice try, Eagle<\/i>,\u201d he hisses. \u201cMaster Ross knew you came in with Ryan\u2019s group. Kudos to you for making an effort, though, it was pretty convincing.\u201d

\u201cFuck you,\u201d Spencer growls, struggling against his grip and attempting to ignore the growing panic gnawing at the edges of his mind.

\u201cIt\u2019s nothing personal, man,\u201d Nick continues, affixing some kind of rope around Spencer\u2019s wrists. \u201cJust following orders. Now, I\u2019m going to have to get you to relax.\u201d He brandishes a needle dipped in a dark substance in his free hand and positions it carefully pointing towards Spencer\u2019s neck. \u201cCan you do that, Jon?\u201d

Jon.<\/i> Spencer can\u2019t let him get captured or hurt, the same way Spencer is. Brendon.<\/i> Spencer can\u2019t let him be left, vulnerable to Master Ross\u2019 machinations. Ryan.<\/i> Spencer can\u2019t let Ryan be punished for his attempted escape and detainment, no matter how much of an asshole he\u2019s been. And in the face of that, Nick\u2019s lithe torso is nothing.<\/i>

Grunting, he flexes his back muscles and shoves backwards as hard as he can, using his superior strength to break Nick\u2019s hold. Unfolding his wings violently, he backhands Nick with feathered fury, sending him flying into the opposite wall with a muted thump<\/i>.

Fumbling to rip the rope off his wrists, and only succeeding for one hand, Spencer runs. He reaches the flight path on the other side of the atrium exit and dives out, flying hard and fast down the rift. No use for subtlety now, not with a furious Falcon hot on his tail. He risks a quick glance over his shoulder and nearly brains himself on a jutting balcony. Nick\u2019s wings snap and Spencer kicks his hand off his foot, powering himself around a turret and twisting, dropping straight down with a sickening lurch, his wings scraping stone. Nick copies him, his shadow chasing him down the wall in bursts of light from Falcon dwellings, and Spencer desperately kicks off the wall, spiralling downwards. How the fuck do I lose this guy?<\/i> Spencer wails internally. He\u2019s so fast!<\/i>

Suddenly, an idea occurs to him. He grabs the edge of a particularly regal balcony and uses his momentum to swing himself around, growling in pain as the skin on his palms tears. Nick is a blur as Spencer whirls around and kicks him solidly in the back of the head.

Nick drops like a stone. Spencer folds his wings to his body and dives after him, catching ahold of an arm and wrenching him upwards, working his powerful wings and alighting upon the balcony again. He leans Nick gently against the carved stone, feeling his vitals and feeling kind of guilty because the guy was just doing his job<\/i> before shaking himself and reminding his conscience that this guy had tried to drug him. A thin stream of blood trickles down Nick\u2019s face, but he\u2019s only unconscious. Except... for how long? Spencer quickly unwinds the rope off of his wrist and uses it to bind Nick\u2019s hands to the railing.

All his sneaking around for nothing. But at least one good thing came out of this. Spencer is out. Spencer is free. After a small amount of time has elapsed so that he\u2019ll stop wheezing from the breathless chase, he is going to blow<\/i> this joint and stop this w\u2013

The heavy red curtain concealing the flight arch of this home shifts slightly, and Spencer freezes, readying himself to escape. Then he hears raised voices, and some inner instinct tells him to stop. He inches closer, eyes fixed on the slight crack in the curtain, and carefully, not daring to make a sound, he peers in. He squints into the light, into the room, and...

It\u2019s Ryan<\/i> \u2013 porcelain-boned, elegantly cast, Ryan<\/i> \u2013 and he\u2019s lying, broken, in glittering shards on the floor. And there\u2019s a man, with wings the colour of the cracks that split Ryan through, and he\u2019s pounding him into the ground with unrestrained violence, and Ryan... Ryan isn\u2019t even resisting. Like, like it\u2019s normal.<\/i>

\u201cI know<\/i> he\u2019s still here, you insolent little fuck. You thought you could fool me?<\/i>\u201d he roars, his voice dripping with malice. \u201cTELL ME WHERE HE IS!\u201d

It seems to Spencer like something in him just... snaps. \u201cI\u2019m right here, you piece of shit,\u201d he growls, and with three decisive steps, he blows his cover and jumps onto the attacker\u2019s back.

Now, Falcons may be faster. They may be agile and graceful in the air. But Eagles are stronger. And Spencer, with the aid of surprise, overwhelms the man easily. Growling in blind rage, Spencer slams the man into the wall repeatedly as his hands scramble to pull his hair or clasp at his throat, and eventually the attempts get feebler, and feebler, until they cease altogether.

As if from a long way away, he becomes aware of a voice. \u201cSpencerrrrr!\u201d Ryan sobs, pulling at his jacket. \u201cSpencerrrr! Stop! Please, please, Spencer!<\/i>\u201d

\u201cOh, no,\u201d Spencer breathes, stepping away from the limp body lying in a crumpled heap by the wall, his all-consuming anger draining out of him and making him feel weak and sick and horrified.<\/i> \u201cOh no, ohnohnohno.\u201d

\u201cYou killed him!\u201d Ryan wails, pummelling his puny fists into Spencer\u2019s side. Spencer barely feels it. I\u2019ve killed someone. I\u2019ve... taken a life.<\/i> He stares at his hands, numb, and then at the motionless figure. This blood \u2013 I can never remove it. It\u2019s\u2013it\u2019s\u2013<\/i>

\u201c...my father,\u201d Ryan is saying. \u201cHe\u2013he was my f\u2013father\u2013...\u201d

\u201cFuck, no, Ryan!\u201d Spencer bursts out suddenly, whirling around to meet Ryan\u2019s eyes, clenched shut, as though he\u2019s trying to block out something he never wants to see. \u201cThat piece of shit wasn\u2019t your father. A father is a person who cares for you. A father helps you when you\u2019re sick; he holds you when you hurt your wing or get bullied by the other kids because you can\u2019t fly as well as they can. A father accepts you for who you are, and loves you unconditionally. A father doesn\u2019t hurt his son as horrifically as he has done to you.\u201d Spencer rips a piece of his shirt and uses it to wipe some of the tears and blood off Ryan\u2019s face. Then, though every fibre of his being rebels against it, he hefts up George\u2019s corpse in his arms and carries it into the gigantic fireplace.

\u201cI hated him,\u201d Ryan mumbles, staring unseeingly at the floor as Spencer\u2019s pouring alcohol over George\u2019s body before setting it alight. \u201cI hated him, but\u2013but, I loved him. He was the only family I had.\u201d

\u201cWe\u2019re your family now,\u201d Spencer says, enfolding Ryan into a gentle hug, and leading him out of the room and into the antechamber, feeling him shiver. Spencer himself wants to vomit until nothing is left in his body, and then scrub himself for days, but for Ryan, he has to stay strong. \u201cMe and the flock. Love binds stronger than blood.\u201d

Over Ryan\u2019s shoulder, he then spots a familiar face coming into the room from the inner passageway entrance. \u201cJon?\u201d Spencer says, loosening his embrace of Ryan a little guiltily. Ryan immediately steps aside, staring at the ground.

Jon smiles and gestures behind him. \u201cBrendon,\u201d he says in lieu of an explanation.

\u201cSpennnnnce!\u201d Brendon yells gleefully, coming into the room behind him. He runs across the room and grabs Spencer into a suffocating hug.

\u201cRyan,\u201d Spencer says softly over Brendon\u2019s shoulder. \u201cI would like you to meet my flock, my family.\u201d

Ryan turns his blank, reddened eyes towards the sound of Spencer\u2019s voice. \u201cHow did you get here?\u201d he asks dully. Brendon\u2019s smile fades a little at Ryan\u2019s expression, and he untangles himself from Spencer.

\u201cI flew here from our roost, up north. Well, most of the way,\u201d Brendon admits. \u201cI got really sick and then I don\u2019t remember anything but Jon\u2013...\u201d

\u201cNo, no,\u201d Ryan interrupts tiredly. \u201cHow did you bypass our security?\u201d

\u201cUm, your people lead me and Jon here,\u201d he replies hesitantly. \u201cThey kept calling me First One, and I guess...\u201d

Ryan\u2019s head snaps up. \u201cYou have white wings?\u201d he enquires sharply.

\u201cWell, yeah, I guess, but...\u201d

Ryan turns stiffly to Brendon and kneels, bending until his forehead touches the ground. Brendon and Jon seem to acknowledge this without any outward reaction, but Spencer crouches down by Ryan, frowning in concern. \u201cRy? Are you okay?\u201d

\u201cFirst One,\u201d Ryan mumbles, raising his head up to Brendon\u2019s, and Spencer sees him taking in Ryan\u2019s injuries put into harsh relief by the lamplight with distress. Jon, on the other hand, is staring at the blood smeared across Spencer\u2019s clothes with a similar apprehension. Spencer shoots him a look that says later.<\/i> \u201cI, on behalf of my people, pledge our allegiance to you and the Eagles.\u201d

\u201cFirst One?\u201d Spencer asks incredulously. Because... what?!<\/i> \u201cYou think Brendon\u2019s a\u2013... you can\u2019t be serious.<\/i>\u201d

\u201cDon\u2019t question it,\u201d Brendon says, sneaking a glance at Jon. \u201cJust... go with it.\u201d

\u201cWait... you know why he\u2019s doing this?\u201d Jon says, turning to eye Ryan prostrated on the ground. \u201cWhy they\u2019re all doing this?\u201d

\u201cHe thinks Brendon is one of the First Ones of the Falcons, who were all white-winged, apparently,\u201d Spencer replies. \u201cWho are the true leaders of the\u2013wait. Did you say they\u2019re all<\/i> doing this?\u201d

\u201cHow else do you think we found our way here?\u201d Brendon asks. \u201cThis place is a maze.<\/i> Oh, um, you don\u2019t have to keep doing that, really,\u201d he says to Ryan. \u201cAre you Master Ross?\u201d

\u201cI am now,\u201d Ryan says dully, unfolding himself upwards. \u201cBut my family line are not leaders any more. That dubious honour, I believe, is now yours. Enjoy it. With your permission, I would like to leave.\u201d

Spencer shoots a desperate look at Brendon over Ryan\u2019s head. Ryan can\u2019t<\/i> go. Ryan tricked him, Ryan hurt him, Ryan betrayed him, but Spencer... Spencer forgives him. They\u2019ve been through so much, and the thought of Ryan flying out into cold, empty sky alone is too much to bear. Brendon looks confused, but then his gaze travels over Spencer and Ryan, and comprehension flickers into his eyes.

\u201cNo.\u201d Brendon says. \u201cYou are the rightful leader of the Falcons. You\u2019ve lived your whole life amongst these people, I guess, and you probably know what\u2019s best for them. I\u2019m not cut out to be a leader. I\u2019m not strong, like an Eagle, and I\u2019m not fast, like a Falcon, and I\u2019m not really that smart.\u201d

\u201cNone of that matters,\u201d Ryan says, his expression quintessentially blank. \u201cYou have white wings.\u201d

Brendon shrugs. \u201cEasily fixed. Got some dye?\u201d

\u201cYou\u2019d... you\u2019d do that?\u201d Ryan says, and Spencer can hear the barest tinge of hope creeping into his voice. \u201cYou don\u2019t even know me. I could be a terrible leader.\u201d

\u201cMost likely better than me, right? And besides, Spencer\u2019s a pretty good judge of people,\u201d Brendon replies with a small smile. Spencer can\u2019t help feeling a rush of love for Brendon, because he\u2019s just so... honest, earnest, selfless.

\u201cBut I\u2019m blind,\u201d Ryan mumbles. \u201cI was never going to be given the position anyway, George never planned on it. He said he\u2019d rather have the clan without a leader than with one so impaired. I can\u2019t guide them in migrations, I can\u2019t steer them out of trouble, everything a leader is meant...\u201d

\u201cThat\u2019s why you have me, isn\u2019t it?\u201d Spencer says lightly. \u201cAfter all, that\u2019s why you kept me from becoming a wolf snack, right?\u201d Ryan smiles, small and tremulous, and Spencer knows that he\u2019s gotten the message. He can\u2019t really express his forgiveness in any better way. \u201cWe\u2019re all in this together.\u201d

\u201cCome on,\u201d Jon says, approaching Spencer and linking their arms. Brendon puts a welcoming arm around Ryan, who bumps Spencer\u2019s hand and clasps it. \u201cWe\u2019ve got a world to save. Well, our part of the world, at least.\u201d


*


The first rays of sunlight are touching the horizon when he, Jon, Spencer and Ryan burst out of the Falcon roost. It\u2019s really a very pretty sunrise, dressed in all autumnal colours. Brendon would\u2019ve appreciated it more if he wasn\u2019t distracted by the fact that their approaching Eagle flock has been spotted by three Falcon scouting units, and they\u2019re facing off in the sky, with more Falcons streaming out to join them.

\u201cI\u2019m going to need help getting up there,\u201d Brendon says, watching the scene unfolding with trepidation. Please, Pete, don\u2019t start shooting. Please.<\/i> Then, a dark mass of arrows arcs lazily into the air from both sides, and the front lines surge forward in attack. Fuck.<\/i>

Ryan shakes out his wings with a grimace. \u201cSame here,\u201d he says, and Brendon glimpses dark, matted patches of blood, and he bites his tongue to stop from asking how he attained them because now is not<\/i> the time.

\u201cWell, that\u2019s what we\u2019re here for,\u201d Spencer jibes, and grins wickedly at Jon. \u201cUnless, of course, you\u2019re too tired...?\u201d

\u201cBring it,\u201d Jon challenges, and flexes a bicep. Ryan smiles, and unties a blindfold from around his neck, slipping it over his eyes.

Brendon locks arms with Ryan, and Spencer and Jon position themselves on either side of them, holding their other arms. Beating their wings hard, they manage to lift all four of them into the air. Slowly ascending at first, and then faster as Jon and Spencer pick up rhythm, they head straight for the Eagle side, where Brendon can faintly see Pete yelling orders. Closer, closer... Brendon grins. They\u2019re going to make it. They\u2019re going to stop\u2013

\u201cJON!\u201d<\/i> Spencer wails, as Jon is torn off of Brendon violently, twisting helplessly down in the air. Brendon\u2019s stomach drops sickeningly when he sees the arrow lodged in his wing spraying crimson. Spencer shoots Brendon a frantic look and mouths, I\u2019m sorry,<\/i> before letting go of Ryan and streaking down towards Jon.

Brendon feels the weight change immediately. Struggling to hold Ryan up, he feels them beginning to sink down through the air. He\u2019s barely avoiding arrows, and his inferior wings strain through their agony. \u201cRyan...\u201d he pants, \u201cI can\u2019t...\u201d

\u201cI know,\u201d Ryan replies softly, his own wings hardly beating, his face scrunched up in pain. \u201cI\u2019ll be fine. It\u2019s up to you, now.\u201d He feels Ryan slip his hand out from his, and Brendon whimpers, no, no...<\/i>

\u201cDon\u2019t worry about me,\u201d Ryan says, and he\u2019s gone.

Unencumbered, Brendon streaks through the arrows, the sound of his laboured gasping the only thing he can hear. Time slows down \u2013 the blur of faces, metal, feathers, swimming around him in twisted harmony. He\u2019s so tired. An arrow tears a feather off of his wing and he redoubles his efforts \u2013 he has to get to Pete. Nothing else in his sheltered life has mattered as much as this moment.

Then... a stir goes through the Falcon fighters, the phrase First One<\/i> flitting through the air on hundreds of disbelieving mouths, as their delayed reactions to him finally take hold. Uncertain, bows and knives are lowered. Brendon, hovering \u2013 well, more like treading air \u2013 in the centre of the melee, breathes easier, and smiles. They know that\u2013<\/i>

\u201cFUCK!\u201d he screams as an arrow thunks into his ass, arching over in the air in pain.

\u201cFuck, stop! STOP!\u201d Pete yells, gesturing frantically. \u201cIt\u2019s Brendon! Don\u2019t fucking shoot!\u201d

\u201cPete!\u201d Brendon shouts, trying his hardest to think coherently over HE SHOT ME IN THE ASS! HOLY FUCKING SHIT THIS HURTS I CAN\u2019T EVEN OH MY\u2013<\/i> \u201cYou\u2019ve got to stop this! Spencer\u2019s here! He\u2019s okay!\u201d Pete looks shocked for a second, and his bow drops to his side. He hastily signals the rest of his Eagles to lower their weapons.

\u201cEagles! Falcons! Listen up!\u201d Brendon says as loud as he can. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to do this. Fighting doesn\u2019t solve anything \u2013 it just creates more fighting; if not now, but in years, in generations to come. It\u2019s not the shape of our wings or the way we live that matters, because, deep down, we\u2019re birds of a feather.\u201d

He takes a deep breath. He can do this. He was born<\/i> for this. \u201cA Falcon saved the life of an Eagle, my good friend Spencer Smith. When he brought Spence back here, you guys misunderstood, thinking that he\u2019d been kidnapped, and automatically retaliated in revenge. I stupidly thought I could save him singlehandedly, even though I\u2019ve never flown for more than a day at a time, and as a result, I got really badly sick. If a Falcon hadn\u2019t worked to cure me back here, I\u2019d be dead.

\u201cWhat has happened here today was the result of a misunderstanding; a simple mistake. But can you imagine if every time something like this happened, we fought? How many people should be hurt, or even killed, over a dumb blunder, a lapse in judgement? I can\u2019t speak for the Falcons, but I know that simply surviving<\/i> the freak weather and long winters and the Lost and all the dangers of this world is hard enough without conflict between us two families.

\u201cAnd look, I know \u2013 we\u2019ve both hurt each other in the past. But that doesn\u2019t mean we should try and break even \u2013 take lives for lives, battles for previous grievances, because then the cycle will never end, and things will only get worse. For both of us. And why should we do that when things can get so much better? We can learn so much from each other, and, united, we\u2019d, well... we\u2019d rule the world. So, let\u2019s make<\/i> an end to this. Right here, right now.\u201d

\u201cI can vouch for Brendon, here,\u201d a voice asserts, and Brendon twists around (fuckshitpain<\/i>) to see Ryan behind him, supported by two Falcons \u2013 one with colourful tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves, and the other with a mass of frizzy hair \u2013 beating their wings furiously. \u201cSpencer recently returned the favour, and saved my own life. Every Eagle I have met has been selfless, determined and warm-hearted, and on behalf of the Falcon flock, as Master Ross recently passed on leadership to me, I\u2019ve pledged our allegiance and friendship towards them. Anyone who disagrees can leave, because segregation is no longer welcome here.\u201d A large contingent of Falcons turn and swoop back to the roost, but Ryan, unaware of this, doesn\u2019t seem worried. He turns towards Brendon through the whorls of dried blood on his face, darkening his blindfold, and smiles.

\u201cSo Pete, I ask you this,\u201d Brendon continues, \u201cdo you and the flock accept Ryan and the Falcons\u2019 offer?\u201d

Pete flits forward, emotions fighting for space on his face, the current winners seeming to be surprise and relief. Yanking out a precious flight feather, he addresses Ryan: \u201cOn behalf of the Eagles of Sky Peaks, I accept the bond of friendship offered by the Falcon leader.\u201d Ryan, plucking out a primary of his own, exchanges the two, and the deal is made.

There\u2019s a long, shocked silence. Both sides eye each other unsteadily, unsure of how to react. Brendon\u2019s heart hammers in his chest; will this work? Can they really make up after years of fighting?<\/i> Then, from behind him, he hears an exuberant whoop. A coppery-haired Falcon starts to clap, swooping forward and hugging Ryan. Then, as though something has snapped, all around them, Falcons and Eagles alike erupt into cheers. Casting aside weapons, the two sides merge together, each greeting Eagles or Falcons; some of whom they had previously met at one time or another, but were afraid of the consequences of accepting friendship, or meeting new people. Brendon even sees a few lovers embracing from either side. The tense constraints of the generations of separation between the two tribes seem to dissolve in their newfound freedom and ingrained sense of community that they all share.

\u201cHoly shit, Brendon, I shot you in the ass,\u201d Pete exclaims in horror, noticing the embarrassingly placed arrow. \u201cLucky you\u2019ve got a lot of padding otherwise that may have hit your spine and done some real damage.\u201d

\u201cHa, ha, ha,\u201d Brendon says sarcastically. \u201cJust because my posterior is a healthy size...\u201d And then Pete does something Brendon never thought he\u2019d ever do \u2013 he grabs Brendon into a tight hug.

\u201cDon\u2019t ever do something like that to me again,\u201d he growls in Brendon\u2019s ear, \u201cor, I swear to god, I will make your ass look like a pincushion.\u201d Nodding to himself, he snaps his wings around, sending a spurt of air into Brendon, before flying off towards where Ryan is discussing important matters with central Eagles and Falcons.

\u201cHe really missed you, but he\u2019ll never admit it,\u201d Greta\u2019s warm-honey voice says as she weaves her way through the crowd. Brendon feels a swell of joy as she and Zack approach him, dragging along a short man wearing a ha\u2013 holy shit his wings are<\/i> enormous! \u201cBut he is right about one thing,\u201d she continues, and as Brendon reaches out for a hug, she slaps him soundly across the face. \u201cDon\u2019t ever<\/i> scare me like that, ever again,\u201d she scolds. Brendon rubs his stinging skin in shock. She smiles, and lays a gentle peck on his cheek, before pulling him to her with a happy sigh.

\u201cAs soon as I arrived back from N\u20134, she dragged me and poor Trick here down to save your sorry butt,\u201d Zack drawls, scrubbing a meaty hand into Brendon\u2019s scalp affectionately. \u201cGuess you didn\u2019t need it, First One.<\/i>\u201d

The guy holding Greta\u2019s hand, whom Brendon recognises as Patrick from Jon\u2019s description, blushes and shifts his cap on his head. \u201cWell, I just wanted to fly, really,\u201d he stammers, \u201c\u2019cause my wings were getting pretty sore from spending time on the ground, and I figured, well, it\u2019s a good opportunity, and as long as we were...\u201d

\u201cOh, be quiet,\u201d Greta laughs, and yanks him into a long kiss. Brendon blinks. Umm. Well.<\/i> Zack shrugs and slings an arm around Brendon, bringing them away from the couple.

\u201cProud of you, Bren,\u201d he says with a grin. \u201cYou did good. Better than if\u2013\u201d He pauses, and breaks into a hearty guffaw. \u201cI don\u2019t know if you\u2019ve noticed, but you\u2019ve got a stick up your ass.\u201d

\u201cHold still,\u201d a thick accented voice says behind him, and without warning, the arrow is yanked out. A white hot flash of pain blinds him for a second, and he lets out a strangled moan. The blonde-haired Falcon tosses the arrow away casually, and turns back to attend an Eagle being heavily supported by\u2013

\u201cJon!\u201d Brendon cries. \u201cYou\u2019re alright!\u201d Zack loosens his hold and Brendon darts out towards them.

\u201cTakes a bit more than a piece of wood to take out Jon Walker,\u201d Spencer says fondly. Jon, pale from pain and blood loss, rolls his eyes and smiles.

Brendon frowns. \u201cYou should get back down to the roost. You shouldn\u2019t be putting weight on that wing.\u201d

\u201cI could say the same about you,\u201d Jon says wryly. \u201cYou look like you\u2019re about to drop out of the sky.\u201d

\u201cPsh, hardly,\u201d Brendon scoffs, even though it\u2019s very much true. \u201cCome on, let\u2019s go.\u201d

He spreads his wings and begins the gentle descent. He then hears a peculiar whirring, and looks back. Hundreds of wings angle to change direction and head towards him, and hundreds of wings beat in tandem along with his as he flies downwards.

\u201cWhat are they...?\u201d Brendon asks Spencer at his side, confused.

Spencer smiles. \u201cThey\u2019re following you,\u201d he replies, and he and Jon slip back to main group so they can ride their slipstream. And suddenly, Brendon is soaring at the head of the combined flocks, wind streaking through his hair, and a huge grin spreads across his face. He\u2019s four again, flying for the first time, daring to dream that one day he would make a difference. But not alone, as he once thought he would. Together.

Brendon Boyd Urie is seventeen years, six months and twenty-seven days old, and he is one of the worst fliers ever. But today, he, along with old friends and new, has changed the world... and, well, it\u2019s a start.

Epilogue<\/a><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5390.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5375.html","pubDate":"Tue, 08 Jun 2010 06:12:13 GMT","title":"5\/6","author":"oxyidiot","link":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/5375.html","description":"
Brendon’s... well. Brendon hasn’t thought this through.
 
He’s awoken by an icy wind tearing at his wings that he’s wrapped around himself to keep him warm on the exposed crag he was forced to spend the night huddled up on. The sun’s rising, a faint orange tint on the far horizon, and he’s torn between being grateful for the impending respite from the bitter cold, or dreading the scorching fireball it will become, accompanied by stinging sandy winds because this desert is just. Awful. <\/i>
 
Skirting the edge of it in order to keep to higher ground, his route has been erratic and circuitous, to the point where there’s a little doubt niggling at the back of his mind that taunts, you’re lost<\/i>. All he knows is that the Falcons were flying south, parallel to his home but three day’s flight east. Which is easy enough to say, but the three days of flight turned out to be flying through that night and through until the next night over flat, featureless desert until the lay of the land changed from dunes to crumbling ochre-coloured rock in pitted pillars, eroded by the extreme heat, cold and constant wind, and the only place Brendon could spend the night without being too close to the ground. Once, he awoke to the sound of howling, and clutched his wings about himself in paralytic fear as he heard unknown creatures skulking far below, but the next morning they and their tracks were gone with the wind. So far, apart from the Lost Ones and the occasional desert rat skittering back into the shade, he’s completely alone.
 
He sneezes, and rubs his nose, shivering. His throat is raw and burning <\/i>and he’s hungry and misses Greta and Zack and Jon and Alex and even Joe, a little, and his warm bed and why, why <\/i>did he go on this stupid mission? They were all right; he’s just not cut out for this. He can’t fly as well as the others, he isn’t as strong, he isn’t... Eagle <\/i>enough, and he’s never flown this far before... ever and he’s so tired<\/i>. He should’ve just stayed home and been the lookout, the only thing he’s remotely good at.
 
But... Spencer. Spencer needs him. Spencer could be being tortured <\/i>or eaten <\/i>or something, who knows what Falcons do with their victims – Brendon can’t let that happen, so he ignores his spinning head and his screaming muscles and squints out into the dim shapes of the landscape ahead of him. The sun cracks the horizon and he feels the heat tickle the nape of his neck; he leans into it and sighs, his breath swirling up in golden motes against the silver dusting of fading stars in the lightening sky. Then, swinging his pack onto his back in one fluid motion, he tenses and leaps out into the air, limping steadily southwards.
 
As promised, by mid-morning Brendon is sweating. In fact, he’s soaked, but he’s still cold, which worries him more than anything. He knows he’s sick, but he can’t afford to rest – according to Jon, Falcons fly much faster than any Eagle could dream<\/i> to go, meaning Brendon can’t even fathom achieving that speed – and they’ve had a huge head start.
 
And he kind of has no idea where they are.
 
Coughing and shivering, he crawls into a cave atop a jutting crag in the afternoon, too tired to fly on, and collapses.
 
When he awakes again, it is night. Tossing his pack off his back, he grits his teeth to stop the scream of pain that’s aching to burst through. Still, a whimper escapes, and Brendon feels tears leaking down his cheeks. Hugging his pack to him, he erupts into hacking sobs, digging his fingers into the rough fabric and crying until he feels drained. Leaning back against the cave wall with a deep breath that brings on a cluster of coughs, he tries to will himself to make a fire, or eat, or something<\/i>, but he’s reached the end of his endurance. Through blurry eyes, he notices his wings are dirty and their usual white is dulled into grey. He misses when Greta would preen them, softly, calling them beautiful.
 
With that memory, he drifts again into sleep.
 
Lights. The desert is full of lights. A pocket of lights, spread in a glowing flower, standing alone, miles from anywhere. Brendon floats above them, feeling the warmth on his feathers. He absently pats his pocket, making sure that his emissary is safe. Silly. Of course it’s safe. Soon, he’ll deliver it, and it’ll all be over. Easy as...<\/i>
 
And suddenly, the luminance is shut off, plunging everything into darkness, and Brendon hears screams...<\/i>
 
He jerks awake. It’s afternoon, judging by the angle of the sun. His head is pounding, and he retches, dry–heaving onto the rocky floor. He’s shaking uncontrollably, aching all over and he can’t swallow without letting out a gasp of pain. He wipes his nose on his sleeve with a trembling hand, and the action causes him to notice the grey feather lying next to him that he hadn’t discerned in the dark, the quill coated in the dark resin of dried blood. 
 
With a tremulous smile, he picks it up. “Sorry, Spence,” he grates, and in that moment he knows he is going to die. But, oddly, it doesn’t bother him. He feels kind of... well, not at peace, because he knows he’s failed Spencer. But he’s just, accepting. “I tried. But I guess you guys were just one step ahead.”
 
“It’s cool, Bren,” Spencer says, leaning against the opposite side of the cave. His hands are tied, and a dark bruise is blossoming across one eye as he speaks. “Take your time. I can hold on. I’ll be waiting...”
 
“He’s lying, of course,” Jon interjects, striding out of the gloom. He’s slicked in rainwater, rivulets pooling across the cave floor. “You know it, Brendon. You’re the only one who can help him. Me and the flock are too far away to be of any use. You’ve got to hold on.”
 
“But...” Brendon whispers, struggling to stay conscious. And then... what was he thinking? He can’t die. Not while Spencer’s still out there. He has a mission that must be completed, at any cost.
 
“What are you doing out here?” Pete accuses, pushing past Jon. “What made you think you could even attempt to do this? You’re much more useful back at the roost. You’re not strong enough to go through with this, Brendon.”
 
“Don’t listen to him, Bren,” Greta murmurs in his ear. “I believe in you. I believe you can do it.” Zack claps a hand to his shoulder and grins.
 
“And so do we,” a tall, dark-haired man says, crouching down in front of Brendon. A slender lady with laughing eyes joins him, brushing a gentle hand under Brendon’s chin. Brendon frowns, trying to push through the haze of fever in his brain, because he knows <\/i>these people... but from where? “But, you don’t need to do this alone. Trust your friends, Brendon. You’re not built for war, for vengeance.”
 
“Look at your wings, honey,” the lady says in a rich, musical voice, and Brendon turns his blurry eyes to the white feathers hanging at his side. “You’re a vessel of peace. Not an Eagle, but a Dove.”
 
“We love you, Bren,” the man says regretfully, pushing back his hair and turning his brown eyes to Brendon, a mirror of his own. The lady at his side nods, her plump lips parting in a sad smile. “We only wish we could’ve been there to see you grow up.”
 
“You–you’re...” Brendon begins in shock, before breaking into a long coughing fit that rips something deep inside. He whimpers in pain, and through the tears, the cave is empty.
 
The cave walls are starting to waver in and out of his vision, so he turns his head to watch the sun that seems to grow darker and darker with each second, until it seems a spark – the last remnant of the desert radiance.
 
Got to hold on. Got to hold... got to... got...<\/i>
 
 

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
The cavern is huge, and filled to the brim with feathered bodies.
 
“Wow,” Spencer says, pausing for a moment to take it all in. “There are... a lot <\/i>of you guys.”
 
“Yeah, we congregate here for a few months in winter and then go our separate ways once the ice starts melting,” Ryan says vaguely, and Spencer knows his mind is on something else, and he has a pretty good idea what. Ryanology is something Spencer is becoming kind of good at, if he says so himself.
 
“I’ll see y’all later, okay?” Ashlee says happily, and skips off into the crowd. Maja expresses similar sentiments and follows her.
 
“See you crazy kids in a while,” Butcher says, giving Spencer a friendly backslap that seems a little too hard. Spluttering, he frowns and turns to Ryan.
 
 “I’ve got to...” Ryan begins, his face slipping under the blank mask he wears to conceal his emotions. Spencer notes that Ryan is the only one not happy to be back; far from it, really, and he rethinks his theory of what is on Ryan’s mind. (That being said, Ryanology is not an easy <\/i>subject. Spencer can’t actually accurately deduce his thoughts all <\/i>the time.) “...you know. I might be some time. Don’t... don’t wait up.”
 
“What’s going on?” he asks Sisky, who is the only one left beside him.
 
“Visiting time,” Sisky replies with a cheerful smile, but he’s watching Ryan walk away with hunched steps and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re going to see their folks, catch up, you know.”
 
“Wait... I thought something had happened to your families, and...” Spencer looks at the groups of people filling the grotto with their chatter. “Do you mean to say that you spend the entire year away from them?”
 
“Yep,” Sisky confirms, as if this is no big deal, and grabs Spencer’s arm. “C’mon.”
 
“Don’t you miss them?” Spencer presses, trying to understand this ridiculous mentality as they weave their way through the gathered Falcons, and Spencer almost forgets to be inconspicuous. Never seeing your loved ones? Not knowing if they’re safe, or happy, until winter? <\/i>
 
“I guess they do,” Sisky shrugs. “But who wants to be with them all the time? The whole thing about being one of us is being able to be free, you know? We hang with who we want, and we fly off in different groups each year; our little flock is probably one of the few that have the same members each time. No commitments, no restrictions.” He grins. “Freedom.”
 
Spencer blinks, absorbing this, and then finally notices something that Sisky said. “What do you mean by ‘I guess they<\/i> do’?”
 
“Well, I don’t really have a family,” Sisky says nonchalantly, squinting at faces as they go past. “Ryan and William found me one day, flying in circles. I don’t remember a thing from before that day, so I think of it as my birthday.” He waves at someone and quickens his pace. “Although, if that was really <\/i>my birthday, I would be four,” he muses. “Anyway, I just hang out with Bill’s family mostly since they can deal with me. In the end, I have a lot of dads and moms, so I’m not missing much.” He laughs, sincere, and Spencer’s got to admit, whatever his misgivings about the man, Sisky is a really good <\/i>guy.
 
“But, if you don’t remember anything, how do you know your name?” Spencer asks.
 
Sisky grins and lifts up the chain that’s always around his neck with the two flat pieces of metal hanging upon it, showing it to him. “Siska, Adam Taylor,” Spencer reads. “Registration number three–oh–seven dash four circa one slash eight slash two–three–eight–four. Blood type, Aves<\/i>–O negative.” He blinks. “Whoa. What does all of that even mean?”
 
“Sure beats me,” he shrugs, tucking the chain back under his shirt.
 
“And wait, hold on... Adam?<\/i>” Spencer repeats.
 
Sisky rolls his eyes. “I know, right? But seriously, don’t call me that. ‘Sisky’ definitely has a better flow.” He then grabs Spencer’s hand and pulls him forward to where two middle-aged Falcons are standing, smiling at Sisky and directing curious looks at Spencer.
 
“Mister Beckett, Mrs Beckett, this is my friend Spencer,” Sisky states formally, and Spencer shakes their hands, already seeing aspects of William in each of them – his laidback smirk in his father, cheekbones on his mother. His father’s hair is cropped short and steely grey, his mother’s falling in waves of brown, so no surprises where William got that from. In all, Spencer concludes, William resembles his mother more than his father, which he’s sure would the others would tease him about if he was here. Except, well, he’s not.
 
“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, Adam<\/i>,” Mrs Beckett laughs, “Call me Mom.”
 
“Touché,” Sisky replies, “Mom.<\/i>”
 
“That’s more like it, sweetie,” she says, pinching Sisky’s cheek. “Now, Spencer, yes? I must confess, I haven’t seen you around here before, but there’s always a few that choose to stay out at wintertime rather than come back to roost. Are you a new addition to Ryan’s flock?”
 
“You could say that,” Spencer says wryly. “They’re a great bunch, but sometimes I just feel like I’m along for the ride.”
 
“And I suppose William is off with Courtney, hmm?” Mrs Beckett says. “I swear, that boy spends more time with his sister than with us.”
 
“Umm,” Sisky mumbles, “Well, Bill’s–”
 
“Off on an errand for Ryan,” Spencer cuts in quickly, because Sisky really is <\/i>a terrible liar, even when he’s telling the truth. Since, technically, William is <\/i>on an errand for Ryan. He’s just three days overdue, and that was if he flew at Spencer’s <\/i>speed. ‘No offense, Spence,’ Ryan had said, smiling as though he could see the way Spencer cocked his hips and narrowed his eyes.<\/i>
 
“Well, I hope he’s back soon,” William’s mother frowns. “He’s too reckless. The first snows aren’t too far away and I don’t want him to freeze.”
 
“Aww, Mrs Beck–... Mom, you worry too much,” Sisky grins, taking her arm.
 
“Sisky’s right, hon,” Mr Beckett says. “Besides, you’re chatting the ears off these poor boys. Oh, Spencer, your shoelace...”
 
“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” Spencer says, shrugging and reaching down to tie the dangling string.
 
“Oh, gosh,” William’s mother says suddenly with a tinkling laugh, “I’m forgetting my manners. You must have had a long flight, I’ll bet you’re hungry. I figured you’d arrive today so I’ve got the meals all cooked. I guess you can have William’s share, Spencer...”
 
She trails off once she sees Spencer’s wings folded on his back as he crouches on the ground, tying his laces. “Sisk, are you aware that he is an Eagle<\/i>?”
 
“Is that an issue?” Spencer says quickly with a slight edge to his voice, jerking upwards and pulling his wings a little closer to his back.
 
“No, no, it’s fine,” Sisky affirms hastily. “Ryan’s talking to him now.”
 
“He’ll cause a lot of problems,” William’s father says, ushering Spencer towards him. “Better hide those wings for now, son.” Pulling off his long jacket, he offers it to Spencer, who pulls it over his wings with a grudging nod of thanks. The tense moment evaporates and Spencer sees Sisky visibly relax. Mr Beckett slaps him on the back with a good to have you home<\/i>, and Mrs Beckett pulls him into a hug. Spencer feels pretty alienated but fuck, once all this shit is over he can hang out with his own family for as long as he likes, so.
 
“Well,” Mrs Beckett says. “Well. I’d very much like to know what you’re doing so far from home, but I won’t be prying without feeding you first!” She smiles at him earnestly. “I cooked rat roast, William’s favourite. Don’t want it to get cold. I hope you have a big appetite!”
 
Spencer pales.
 
“C’mon, Spence,” Sisky says, recognising Spencer’s expression, and letting his smile light up his face like the ‘little ball of sunshine’ that Butcher refers to him as with evil glee. “You know, it’s a lucky coincidence, Mom, but rat roast is Spence’s favourite too.”
 
You’re an ass, Adam<\/i>, Spencer thinks sourly. I’ll<\/i> never be able to look at a rat the same way again<\/i>.
 
 

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
“Hello,” Ryan says stiffly. The room smells disgusting, as usual, and it’s obvious from the heavy reek of alcohol that George has a hangover, which is also as per usual. It’s probably not a good time, but then again, when is it a good time for visiting him? When is it good <\/i>to visit him?
 
“Ryan.” George draws out the name slowly, tasting it, but doesn’t seem to move any closer. “Timely. I suppose you predicted your arrival?”
 
“I anticipated the weather patterns from past experience,” Ryan replies, knowing what George really means and refusing to play his game, “and factored in some... variables. All in all, it was uneventful.”
 
“Nothing is uneventful with you, Ryan,” George chuckles. There’s a sweet burst of oil and then a low hiss as he lights a lamp. “My lookouts saw you fly in. Good idea, to come at night, but your variable <\/i>gave you away.” He appraises Ryan, smiling. “Clumsy things, Eagles are. Useless fliers, their grasp of aerodynamics is... laughable.” His snigger echoes disjointedly around the chamber.
 
Ryan says nothing. He stands his ground with resolution, gritting his teeth. Have to do it. Say what you’re going to say, you bastard, so we can get this over with.<\/i>
 
Instead, George strides around Ryan, brushing past him in a swirl of unwashed skin and stale beer. “You know, I’ve missed you, Ryan.”
 
“You missed beating me,” Ryan chokes out, and sucks in a sharp breath. Fuck, Ross, you can’t let shit like this slip out. Control, control. Plot the grid of the room.<\/i>
 
“Don’t be like that, Ryan,” George snaps. “I want you to be a better man. A good leader, like your father.”
 
...Seven by twenty, eight by twenty, nine by twenty, ten...<\/i>
 
“And now you’ve made me angry,” he sighs, sounding almost regretful. “I was hoping our reunion would be on better terms.”
 
“Look, George, I just want to ask...” Ryan begins, trying to use the right mix of humility and fear. But George whirls around, and Ryan knows he’s said the wrong thing.
 
Grabbing Ryan’s shoulder in a meaty fist, he slams him against the wall, crushing his wings harshly into his back. At the last moment, Ryan moves his head, so George’s other fist smashes into Ryan’s cheekbone rather than breaking his nose. The pain rushes through him, icy and burning simultaneously, but he’s used to it.
 
“How many times,” he screams, punctuating each word with a blow that grinds Ryan further into the wall, “have I told you to call me Dad? I’m your father<\/i>, you ungrateful little brat. I raised you after your mother died when I could’ve just left you to join her. And look at you, all my hard work for nothing. A skinny wretch that never grew to be big or strong, the son I always wanted, but a sightless coward, a freak<\/i>!”
 
He lets Ryan go, and he drops immediately to the floor, panting, feeling his blood make wet pools around him. George is breathing hard, and Ryan dimly hears the rough swipe of his hand presumably cleaning off the blood on his pants. “Your Eagle friend is out of here by morning, or there will be consequences. Mark my words.”
 
Ryan struggles up, and spits out a wad of bloody phlegm at George’s feet. “I hate you,” he hisses.
 
“Welcome home, son,” George laughs gratingly as Ryan limps away with as much dignity as he can muster.
 
It’s a little hard to concentrate between the rage and the blood, but he manages to fumble his way back to his quarters, ignoring the sympathetic shoulder brushes he gets as he goes past. Fake, it’s all fake. Oh, just Master Ross’ boy again. Nothing to see here, literally! Better start behaving, kid, wouldn’t want to break any more of that pretty face of yours. <\/i>Fuck them. Fuck everything.
 
His room is dusty, cold. He never bothers to clean it, seeing as he never spends time in it. His home isn’t here – it’s just a shell, a storage facility for things that will weigh him down come spring. His flight arch remains uncovered, leaving the interior at the mercy of the elements. The bed remains stiff and unused, since he prefers to sleep on the floor. Finding the large stone basin carved into the corner of the room already filled by someone, he washes himself the best that he can, and winces as his abrasions begin to sting. Licking the side of his mouth, he grimaces at the bitter, salty taste of the water. Maja, <\/i>he thinks, dabbing gingerly at his face with a rough towel.
 
The lapping sound of the water is too calming. He doesn’t want <\/i>to be calm. With a growl, he punches the surface, splintering the echo into erratic ripples. Blood, chaos and Ryan Ross; three things that never seem to change, no matter how damn hard he tries to fix things.
 
A rush of air to his left, slight crunch underfoot. “Ryan? Are you there, hun?”
 
Ryan sighs. “Right here, Ash,” he says dully, not bothering to force any emotion into his voice. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”
 
He feels her hand rest on his shoulder, and he remains unmoving in his crouch before the subsiding splashes of the pool. “Look at me, Ry,” she urges, her low, sweet voice sounding sad. “You don’t have to be like this. I’ve known you since you were three, and I’ve seen you through all kinds of hell. Come on, get up.”
 
Ryan allows himself to be pulled onto his feet, and his face tipped up by Ashlee. She sucks in a sharp, sympathetic breath. “Oh, sweetie, you look a wreck.”
 
Despite himself, Ryan smiles. “Thanks,” he replies drily.
 
“Now, keep still,” she says. “Maja’s otherwise occupied, but I’m competent enough for this. Just, it may nip a little.” She applies some strong-smelling unguent to his face, chatting more cheerfully about how the family is and the latest gossip in the flock, and who could’ve guessed that Hayley and Josh are getting back together?
 
“There,” she says finally, and Ryan resists the urge to rub his tingling skin. The pain has faded to a dull, distant throbbing, but Ryan knows that even as the surface gashes heal, his face will soon bloom in colourful bruises. “Come dine with us tonight, Ry,” Ashlee offers, squeezing his hand. “We’ll be happy to have you round. Mama Simpson makes a great scorpion casserole.”
 
“I’ll think about it,” Ryan replies.
 
Ashlee gives him a pleased pat on the shoulder. “I’ll hold you to it.” She presses the small stone container into his hands. “If you need it. And if you need anything else, I’m here for you – we’re all here for you. Don’t you forget it, okay?” She waits a moment for his reply, but when Ryan says nothing, she turns to go, her sweet perfume swirling with her gait...
 
Ryan brushes a finger to his sticky cheek. Shutting his eyes, he calls out to Ashlee hesitantly. “Hey... Ash? Can you do something for me?”
 
Her footsteps stop. “Of course. What do you need?”
 
“Can you give Spencer a message from me?” he asks quietly. “He’s probably at the Beckett place with Sisky. I need to tell him something but I don’t... I don’t want him to s– I don’t want to see him right now.” He spreads a wing, gritting his teeth as his battered muscles complain, and yanks out an errant feather. He can hear Ashlee rustling around in the corner of his room, no doubt retrieving writing materials – she places an ink pot into one hand and a crumpled piece of paper into the other, surprisingly without comment.
 
Ripping off a corner, Ryan scrawls hastily across it with the makeshift quill, flicking through each letter and remembering faintly how painstaking it was to learn to write without really knowing what any of the symbols looked like. 
  

Spencer,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>

 <\/o:p><\/span><\/p>

Our leader has requested your immediate departure from the roost area. I disagree. We<\/span>’<\/span>re going to hide you. Go with Ashlee, and don<\/span>’<\/span>t tell anyone where you<\/span>’<\/span>re going <\/span>–<\/span> if anything, make it look as though you are prepared to leave for a long journey as per his request.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>

 <\/o:p><\/span><\/p>

I apologise for this. For everythi <\/o:p><\/span><\/s><\/p>

I owe you more than my life is worth<\/o:p><\/span><\/s><\/p>

If you couldn<\/span><\/s>’<\/span><\/s>t forgive me, I wouldn<\/span><\/s>’<\/span><\/s>t<\/span><\/s><\/o:p><\/span><\/p>

 <\/o:p><\/span><\/p>

Stay safe.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>

–<\/span>RR<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>
 
He folds it in half over the feather and hands it to Ashlee. “Feel free to read it after you give it to him, because I know you’re going to anyway,” he says.
 
Ashlee laughs. “Okay, I’ll send your message. But I expect to see you tonight. Deal?”
 
“Done,” Ryan replies ruefully, and she walks lightly away. May as well enjoy the time I have left. George is going to <\/i>kill me. Maybe literally, this time.<\/i> He drifts aimlessly over to his messy desk, thinking, and reshuffles some papers that Ashlee displaced before feeling something hard hidden behind the stack. Frowning, he retrieves it, tracing the boxlike shape before finding the seam and cracking it open, and slowly smiling as he feels the little pots of paint and the long dainty brushes.
 
Except for one. Counting the pots until he knows he has the right one, he removes the red bottle, and shoves it under a pile of clothes. He’s had enough of that colour for this lifetime, even if he can’t see it.
 <\/b>
 <\/b>

*<\/p> <\/b>
 <\/b>
Day one as the most wanted man in the homo falconidae<\/i> world is, well, uneventful. Actually, pretty fucking boring.
 
It’s not like the concept isn’t exciting. The thrill of hiding right under the nose of one of the most dangerous men in the sky certainly isn’t negligible. But Spencer Smith just kind of wishes he didn’t feel this anxious. Also, having a window wouldn’t be bad. And he misses Jon, kind of, a lot. Sisky is hardly a suitable replacement.
 
“Ooh, he’s pissed<\/i>,” Sisky says gleefully. “Oh, man, he is looking all over <\/i>for you. But he’s never going to find you, Spence. No one expects kids in the winter, really, so no one will think to look for a big baby in the nursery.”
 
“Great to know, Sisk,” Spencer replies dryly. He reads the message again, fingering the smooth feather, and adds another annoyance to the list: Ryan Ross, for sticking me in this place without coming to discuss this with me himself. I’m not a damn <\/i>toy.
 
“...And of course everyone knows not to tell. But, like they would anyway,” the younger man scoffs. “No one likes Master Ross. Personally, I hate him. He’s mean, and cruel, and worst of all, it’s no secret that he beats–...” Sisky stops abruptly and claps a hand over his mouth, reddening slightly. “Oh. Umm. I have to, umm. Yeah. Later.”
 
Butcher strides in just as Sisky stumbles out of the archway, watching him with a bemused glance before shrugging and coming over to Spencer, dumping a sack in front of him. “Here’s your breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next few days, Spence,” he says cheerfully. “Can’t use the fire without alerting someone to your presence, and we can’t keep bringing you fresh dishes without arousing suspicion. So, we did the best we could.”
 
Spencer opens up the bag and rummages inside, pulling out a handful of the skymoss they’d dried back at that one cave they’d rested in, and tough strips of dried bat. “Excellent,” he says wryly. “Lots of nutrients, I guess.”
 
Butcher laughs. “Ryan’s rubbing off on you,” he says. “Next thing, you’ll be predicting what food we’re gonna bring.”
 
“I hardly need clairvoyance for that,” Spencer replies sarcastically. “Hey, so, I was wondering something,” he adds, a thought resurfacing into his head. “If the general mentality of the flock is that George Ross is a total asshole, why is he your leader?”
 
Butcher sits down in front of him and crosses his legs. “For Falcons, a leader is born, not raised,” he says, examining the dirt under a fingernail. “So, basically, George is from a long line of Falcon nobility. I believe, actually, that his family can be traced back to the first Falcon leaders – the First Ones, the white-winged. Nowadays though, no one is born with white wings.”
 
Spencer thinks instinctively of Brendon, and wonders how he’s faring, hanging out back at the roost with J– not the time. Not the time. “So, even if George is a terrible leader, you have to follow him because somewhere on his family tree, a Falcon had white wings?”
 
“That’s the idea, yeah,” Butcher says.
 
“It’s stupid,” Spencer replies angrily. “Eagles, we elect our leaders based on the qualities they possess. Our current leader was only nineteen when he was given the position because our old leader died, but they weren’t related, and he was certainly qualified for it. We would never trust a leader we know is not born a leader<\/i>. The ineptitude of your boss could seriously endanger your flock!”
 
“Nah, he’s only got sway over us for a season,” Butcher says, unconcerned. “The system’s got some flaws, sure, but sometimes we get real gems outta it. Take Ryan, for example – he’s going to be leader after George, and I couldn’t think of a better person to do the job.”
 
“Ryan?”
 
“Yeah, George is his dad,” Butcher answers, then spits onto the ground next to him. “Now, I may accept him as flockleader, but I have no qualms about saying that he’s a damn shitty dad. I really feel for Ry sometimes, I know he hates coming back here for winter, and he always wants to leave as soon as the first icicle drips. His momma died when he was little...” Butcher lowers his voice. “George says she was killed by an Eagle in the last skirmish we had between you guys and us. That’s why he hates ‘em so much.” Glancing around, he gets up. “Got stuff to do, and not too much time to do it in. Good talk, Spence, I’ll catch you later.”
 
And with that, really, Spencer is left completely alone, for the first time in days. He hates the echoing silence after Butcher’s footsteps have faded away. It reminds him too much of the isolation he felt when he was in N–13. Dragging the sack with him, he climbs into a nest-shaped bed in the farthest corner of the room and curls up with it, pretending that it’s Jon.
 
For the next few days, his life seems to stretch out agonisingly. He’s lonely, on edge, and increasingly frustrated. When Sisky finally comes back with some more food, he sends him scuttling right back out after unleashing his pent up rage upon him. As a result, Spencer’s next visitor is Ryan, and about fucking time, too<\/i>; the man hasn’t even bothered to come and talk to him since they arrived<\/i>. But by this time, though, he’s managed to calm himself down. To an extent.
 
“Ry...” Spencer sighs. “Ryan, this is getting way too deep.”
 
“I know,” Ryan says expressionlessly, gazing blankly into the youngling bathing pool in the middle of the room. His face is covered with little painted pictures. Ryan had explained to Spencer, once, that all he knows about colours are from his visions. That the visions aren’t a product of the eye; so the images he sees are some kind of induced visualisation from the brain rather than the optical nerve. Therefore, everything he draws is something that he has Seen at one stage or another. Birds, stars, moons... Spencer would write it off as just a Ryan-quirk, but he feels like Ryan’s hiding something from him.
 
Still, he senses now is not really the time to press. “I’m not welcome here,” Spencer continues. He slips off the bed and goes to join Ryan, who barely acknowledges him.
 
“Not really.”
 
“So... I shouldn’t be here.”
 
“Now, how did you reach that conclusion?” Ryan asks, turning to him at last with a frown. “Just because George wants you dead doesn’t mean you should leave.” His mouth twists in an ironic grin. “You have to stay. I need you to stay. You need to hel–”
 
“Yeah, yeah, I have to save you guys by convincing you all to follow me on a suicide mission through the mountains,” Spencer snaps. “Have you ever considered, Ryan, that maybe I’m the wrong guy, like I’ve been telling you the whole time? That maybe you mistook me for someone else? That your vision was wrong?”
 
Ryan looks shocked, and bit upset. It’s a strange change from his usual emotionless veneer, and Spencer regrets his outburst. A little.
 
“Every one of my visions has come true, Spence,” he mumbles, shuffling his feet. “All of them... except for one. That’s why I sent William, to see if he could stop this one from happening. This mess, this–” His hand ghosts over his temple and he flicks it back down. “So, you could be right. I could have the wrong guy. But you could be wrong, and that is what I’m counting on.”
 
“What was the one that got away?” Spencer asks after a while. “The one that never came true.”
 
Ryan hesitates. “The first time I saw you, Spence. Flying through the desert and suddenly feeling freezing, seeing the darkness behind my eyelids turning to snow... and you, atop it, pinned down by wolves, trying to fight them off...”
 
“But, that happened,” Spencer replies slowly. “You were there... fuck, I<\/i> was there, and I even have the scars to prove it!”
 
“I wasn’t finished,” Ryan says reluctantly. “In my vision, Spence... in my vision, the wolves tore you apart. They killed you. No one was there to save you – not me, nor the flock, and not your Eagles. Live together, die alone.”
 
A little part of Spencer goes quiet. His mind, always buzzing, seems to shut down. “I... died?” he hears himself ask, detached.
 
“No, you didn’t,” Ryan says, and he purses his lips in a thin smile. “I knew I had to save you – I didn’t even know <\/i>you but I knew, even then, that you were important; worth saving. So we flew hard and fast for days until we reached the northern ranges. And when we got there... Butcher tore them off you, and Maja and Ashlee threw them off the mountain, while Sisky, William and I fought with you on the ground to keep the others away until you could safely get into the air, and peppered the rest with arrows. And that, that’s the beauty of it,” he says, his smile widening, nearly resembling a genuine grin. “After you shivered next to me, scratched up and scared out of your mind, I realised that I had cheated fate. I had duelled with destiny, and won<\/i>. I’ve had this curse, this nightmare, since I was born, and at that moment... I realised that maybe, maybe, it could be a blessing. That I could change<\/i> things. That I could...”
 
Comprehension hits Spencer like a slap to the face, and leaves him reeling. It can’t be true. It can’t...<\/i>“You never had a vision that I would save your people,” he says in a small voice. “Did you?”
 
“What? I–...” Ryan splutters.
 
“You just told me that to make me feel like I had <\/i>to go with you,” Spencer spits, and he’s never felt so... so used.<\/i> “So that you could have your lucky charm. Your little anomaly, your beacon of change<\/i>.”
 
“No,” Ryan pleads. “Spence, it’s not like that. Spencer, you’ve got to understand!”
 
“Well, you’ve got me. Congratu–fucking–lations. Just let me know when I can be of use to you, because I can’t leave without being killed by that psychopath you accept as your leader, so I’m all set to be at the beck and call of the future. Thanks to you, I’ll never see J–... I...” He can’t look at Ryan anymore. He can’t stand to be in the same room with him. The betrayal hangs heavy around him, suffocating. “Get out,” he snarls at Ryan, and presses his head against the cool stone walls to stop the tears that prick painfully at the corners of his eyes from flowing as he sees Ryan slowly walk out of the room.

Part Six<\/a><\/a>
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The days slip by in cycles.
 
William wakes up. He sleeps. He sleeps for a long time. He tries to forget, but everything is a reminder – the cloth of the sheets like Ryan’s blindfold, the patch of roof above his head nearly the same brown as a cave he’s slept in once. His wings are shredded. His legs are numb. His heart is crushed into a pit into his chest. He is a fetid pool of pain.
 
“Stop moping,” Gabe says. Gabe is the one difference in the room that doesn’t remind him of anything, because he’s never seen someone like Gabe before. Gabe smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkling. “Come on, talk to me.”
 
William shrugs. He hasn’t spoken since that night. It doesn’t seem right. His gaze drifts back to the wall. Brown. Like Ryan’s eyes. Brown, unfocussed, yet somehow accusing because William failed. William failed<\/i>.
                                                            
“Hey. Hey,” Gabe says, sitting down on the side of the bed and blocking William’s view of the wall. His shirt is purple. Purple doesn’t remind him of anything. “I know you’re in there. Even if I don’t know who’s <\/i>in there.”
 
I just want you to go away.<\/i>
 
“...and the others get it. I mean, they do. When Vicky-T’s last boyfriend broke up with her, shit, she locked herself up and refused to talk to anyone for a week.”
 
This is different. You’re different. Everything is... different.<\/i>
 
“But, yeah. This is different. As far as you’ve told me. Definitely worse. I think. Um.”
 
I should be dead.<\/i>
 
Gabe pauses for a second, and William hears a voice from outside. “Gabanti! Where the fuck did you put the EMP strobe?” It’s probably Ryland. William knows all the names of Gabe’s ‘crew’ now, after days of nothing else to do but listen. Their voices are more pleasant than the ones in his head.
 
“Oh, shit, whoops,” Gabe mutters. Raising his voice, he crooks his neck around and yells back, “Under Angel’s bed. Be right there!”
 
Angel?<\/i>
 
“Hey, so, look out the window if you want to see something cool,” Gabe says in a rush, and dips under William’s bed to fish out a metallic thing shaped like a glittery bowl, with graceful antennae drooping out. “Angel, um. It’s a name we call you,” he says awkwardly in response to William’s silent question. “Since, we don’t know your real name.” Then, in a quick brush of air, he’s gone.
 
William gazes at the wall. Then, something makes him want to turn. His arms tremble with the effort, but he levers himself up and squints at the harsh light streaming through the window. The scenery is alien – trees too big, not stunted by high alpine winds; the rich brown of thick soil not the same as the thinner variety clinging to crags; the ground<\/i>. William quickly shuts down the paranoid response his body automatically starts up, and then sees something that scares him in an entirely different way.
 
Gabe walks into his vision, holding the strange device, and then there’s fog, there’s fog streaming out of the trees and towards the house and Gabe <\/i>is right there, Gabe is not moving why isn’t he moving he needs to
 
“Run!” William yells frantically, banging on the glass. “Run, Gabe, run!<\/i>”
 
Gabe does something, and the device hums, the noise resonating through William’s body. The fog... ripples, and collapses to the ground in a layer of grey powder. Gabe scuffs his foot and then Nate and Alex run over with large canisters, spraying something thick and white over the dusky powder that used to be fog. Gabe looks over his shoulder and meets William’s gaze with a cocky smile. How did William’s face get pressed to the glass, his fingers clenched across the smooth surface, his breath making quick blooms of condensation in front of him? He falls back onto his pillow, swiping an errant feather away from his face, as Gabe’s purple shirt appears again.
 
“I heard you shouting from outside,” he says. “I’m touched that you care.”
 
William huffs indignantly, and Gabe smiles wider. “Really, though, you didn’t have to worry. I said it was cool, didn’t I?” He chucks the fog-killer under the bed again. “The fog’s something from Before. It’s some kind of old technology gone haywire. Like a lot of things around here. That thing shorts out its little circuits, and then the neutralising foam–”
 
William places a finger across Gabe’s lips. “I’m William,” he says quietly, and smiles.
 
And maybe he can live like this. For another minute, another hour.
For a day.
A week.
A month...
 
...It’s a warm night, considering the last vestiges of autumn are quickly trickling away. After a scrutinising examination by Gabe, Alex and, surprisingly, Victoria – “Bodies are like machines, Beckett. I know how they work and how they can be fixed”<\/i> – William has finally been allowed to leave the restless confines of the little cabin.
 
“Stop squirming,” Ryland laughs, hoisting him in his arms. “Really. Or you’ll tear your stitches, and I’ll have to take you back inside.”
 
“But they itch,” William complains, shifting again to try and ease the ache of his wings being haphazardly wedged between his back and Ryland’s arms. “And I itch to be<\/i> out of here. I’ve been cooped up longer than a hatchling in a nursery nest.” Realising belatedly that Ryland won’t understand the saying, he reiterates, “...a relatively long period of time.”
 
Ryland manoeuvres him carefully through the lounge area and faces the front door. “Open,” he states. It swings forward, and the orange light of afternoon slants in.
 
“You’ve got a door that understands commands<\/i>?” William says incredulously, mouth dropping open. “How did you–?”
 
Nate pops up from behind the door, bursting with laughter. “Just to see your face, man. Just to see your face<\/i>!”
 
Ryland’s laugh vibrates through his chest and William sighs, rolling his eyes. “Should’ve known, I guess.”
 
“Yo, but we actually had a door that did that, back in the grasslands,” Gabe says, sticking his head out from behind Nate’s. He grins at William, eyes sparkling, and William feels itchy.
 
“Move, move,” Ryland says through his last few chuckles. “This is Bill’s big day of freedom. Delaying it is simply cruel on your part.” Ignoring protests of innocence from the two, he shoves them out of the way and stoops to make sure the frame clears his head. “Honestly, you never make this thing high enough. Every time<\/i>. I would think that– woops, sorry William.”
 
“It’s cool,” William replies, watching his left leg swing gently from being knocked against the doorframe. “I can’t even feel it, so.”
 
“Maybe that means I can wax them, later,” Victoria drawls, winking at William as she comes out of the house behind them, picnic basket dangling from one arm, and Alex from the other. “You’ve got the best legs here, apart from me, and really, if you’ve got it–”
 
“–Flaunt it,” the rest of the guys chant in unison, and Victoria smiles. “Glad you boys are learning, finally.”
 
William twists in Ryland’s arms, barely following the banter. The huge vaulted sky, rich and blue and tinted at the edges, the desert shimmering around it and the snow-brushed peaks curving towards it take his breath away. It feels like coming out of the roost after winter – like springtime, where everything seems bright and new under opened eyes. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, tasting the salt from the ocean, the loamy aroma of dirt and pine forest, the musty tang of autumn, and a faint strange, acrid scent he can’t quite identify. He grins, his happiness rushing to the surface in little bubbles.
 
“This should do,” Gabe says, indicating a spot not too far from the cabin. William whips his head around and frowns at the sparsely-wooded area with patches of gaunt, leafless trees interspersed with evergreens circling a hardpacked, rocky dirt clearing.
 
“But, the sun’s going to set behind the mountains, soon,” William implores him, putting on the most endearing expression he knows. “I don’t want to spend my first day out in the world in the cold shade. Plus, I can totally see this place from my room.” He extends his lower lip ever so slightly outwards, widening his eyes. “Can’t we go... further afield?”
 
Gabe blinks, and moves his mouth a few times without saying anything. Victoria and Alex share a look, and smile. Nate, for some reason, starts to laugh again.
 
“Dude, that is one of the best puppydog faces I have seen, ever<\/i>,” he says. William flicks his gaze to him, wondering what a puppydog<\/i> is. “And that sexual innuendo at the end? Inspired. Poor Gabe,” he sniggers, nudging the taller man. “You shouldn’t do things like that to the guy, especially when –”
 
“Fuck you, Novarro, shut up<\/i>,” Gabe growls.
 
“He’s right, though,” Victoria says, leaning against a tree trunk. “Let’s take the ‘car out, let her stretch her gears.”
 
“Thirded,” Alex declares, and shares a fist bump with Nate.
 
“Sorry, Gabe, I’m with them,” Ryland says apologetically. “Bill’s just heavy; his feathers tickle and my arms are tired.”
 
“Fine,” Gabe acquiesces, long and drawn out. “But not too far. Just – you know what, give him to me; I should’ve known your fucking scrawny arms couldn’t handle even a sack of bones like Bilvy here.”
 
“‘Bilvy’?” William asks, amused, as Ryland makes the uncomfortable transferral. Gabe doesn’t answer, but wraps his arms around William and moves them until they’re in a comfortable position. William’s surprised how... nice it feels. Gabe’s hands are warmer, not as bony, and fit in all the right places– William blushes, and shakes off the thought. No, not like <\/i>that.
 
“I’ll go bring her out,” Nate calls over to them, already sprinting off towards the shack. Ryland stretches, exaggerated, and shakes out his hands.
 
“You’re such a drama queen, Blackinton,” Gabe says, his voice fluttering across William’s ribcage. “William’s light as a feather... no pun intended.”
 
“Bird jokes are going to get old pretty quickly,” William reminds them.
 
“Shut up, you love it,” Gabe retorts. “Oh, hey, here’s our ride.”
 
William cranes his neck around at the grumbled buzzing and gasps. It’s like nothing he’s seen before. Square, faded blue metal dappled with rust bent into a boxlike shape, with a curved glass screen at the front end. In the middle, it’s been hollowed out to accommodate seats, and to the sides, what William can only think of as ‘wings’ – flat and deep black; dark, glittering mirrors. It’s hovering above the ground without even flapping, and certainly not enough air support to keep it afloat. Nate leans over a curious array of circular knobs and levers and grins toothily at William. “Yo, Cobras, hop in! We’re wasting daylight!”
 
“This,” Ryland says grandly, “is our hovercar. We call her the Starship.” He runs a loving hand along the sleek (yet slightly mottled) metal. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
 
“Wow,” William says simply. “Just... wow.” And then, something hits him, and he starts to giggle.
 
“What?” Nate asks, holding out a hand for Victoria to climb gracefully in.
 
“Nothing, nothing,” William says. But... “Okay, the Cobra Starship? Seriously<\/i>?”
 
“Hey, come on,” Gabe says with an injured tone. “The world needs creativity. Look.” He takes William around the back of the machine. It’s covered in little doodles – flying domes with lightning bolts flying out, blocks surrounded by flames, moons, stars, giant snakes.
 
“You guys drew all of this?” William asks, impressed.
 
“Actually, they were here when we found it,” Alex says, reclining in the back seat. Ryland flips his legs over the edge and plunks down next to him. “That big snake’s the cobra.”
 
“Whoever the previous owner was, they sure had style,” Gabe says appreciatively. He sets William onto Ryland’s lap, and then walks around to the other side to take the remaining place. “A true artist.” Turning to Nate, he adds, “Right, fire up the engines, Nasty. Let’s show this bird how we really fly.”
 
“Hold on tight, spidermonkey,” Ryland whispers into his ear, and all of a sudden they’re racing down the hill, swerving around trees and rocks and oh my god this feels so damn good<\/i>. William takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets out a wild yell, flinging his hands up into the air.
 
“Not too shabby, huh?” Gabe shouts. “She can do up to two hundred miles an hour on flat terrain.”
 
The hovercar skids through the air down valleys and riverbeds, sending up sprays of water and dust in its wake. Nate looks euphoric, as he seems to be steering the thing with reckless abandon. The ground levels out and the flora cover becomes patchier as they descend the foothills, and Nate makes a spinning turn north, keeping the mountain range on their left until they hit a gap where the sun shines radiantly out over the deciduous woodlands. They slide westwards again and come to a rough stop in a highland meadow.
 
William can’t stop grinning. He laughs breathlessly, flushed, and runs a hand through his windswept hair. Ryland brings his head forwards and makes a spitting sound.
 
“Cut your hair<\/i>, Bill,” he says ruefully. “Not my favourite in-flight meal, if I’m being perfectly candid.” He passes William over Alex, who laughs as his feathers tickle his face, and so along to Gabe, then hops out of the ‘car.
 
“Don’t listen to Ryland,” Gabe says softly, settling William in his arms. “It’s nice.” William chews on a strand, suddenly shy.
 
“You really know how to pick ‘em, Nate,” Victoria says appreciatively, staring around at the meadow. Alex pulls a large blanket out of the car and sets it down a short way away, and Nate blushes at Victoria’s praise, overburdened with baskets. Gabe sets William down next to him at its edge. William leans back onto him, and spots something out of the corner of his eye.
 
“Hey,” he says, smiling. “A flutterby flower.” He plucks the slender stem out of the ground and gazes at the quivering mass of feathery petals on top.
 
“We call those dandelions,” Gabe says, peering down at him.
 
“They’re my favourite flower,” William confesses. “I don’t find them too often though. They don’t like to grow in high places, usually.” With a start, he realises how acclimatised he’s become to living on the ground. The debilitating fear all of his kin share for the poisoned earth seems distant, now. It’s a strange feeling.
 
“Why?” Gabe asks curiously.
 
William holds the flower closer to his lips and exhales gently, watching the floating seeds spiral endlessly into the sunset sky, and says nothing.
 
“So what was it like living in the grasslands?” William murmurs a few hours later, slotting his head under Gabe’s collarbone and listening to the muted tap of his heartbeat. The fire pops and crackles, and Ryland tosses another log onto it casually, throwing up a brilliant shower of sparks.
 
“Not as exciting as living in the sky, I’ll bet,” Gabe replies from above him.
 
“Mm, clouds make great beds,” William says wryly. “But I must say rainbows are the most comfortable, by far.”
 
There’s a pause, and then Gabe chuckles. “Sarcastic little thing, are you? Sometimes, I don’t think you’re a bird at all. You remind me more of a cat.”
 
William frowns. “A cat?”
 
“Yeah... feisty and playful when you want to be, but you’re shy, too, sometimes, and you’ve got a great deal of pride.” Gabe shifts. “You’re kind of like Alex’s cat, when he and Lauren lived together back at Base – just, the way you talk, and the way he talked... I miss our conversations. I don’t know where he is now, we lost him after...” His voice fades off as he slips into deeper thought.
 
William doesn’t really know what a cat is, and it irritates him that there are so many things he doesn’t know <\/i>that seem to be ordinary matters around here. He pokes Gabe in the stomach. “Base?”
 
“Oof,” Gabe says. “It’s the place we lived in until not so long ago. Actually, I personally have lived in two Bases, but the one we belonged to; closest to my heart, was Seventh Base. I lived in Second Base, way down south, until I was maybe six?” William hears Ryland giggle, distantly, and Gabe says, “Seriously, Ry, I’d tell you to grow up, but you’re already half-giant. Anyway<\/i>, there’s no real point in naming them, since they’re nothing special, and most of them don’t last anyway. Seventh was no different, as much as we’d like to have believed the contrary.
 
“The grasslands are beautiful... and savage,” Gabe muses contemplatively. “We hunted, fished and gathered food by day in stealth suits, and lived underground at night, because of the all the dangers that come packaged with living down here. You may have seen them, safe up there in the sky, but I bet you’d never have spotted any sign that we existed, huh?”
 
“Flying isn’t safe<\/i>,” William replies indignantly. He knows that it probably wasn’t what Gabe meant, but somehow, it irks him. “Storms and skirmishes aren’t things to be taken lightly.”
 
“So birds tell me,” Gabe responds impassively. “I’m sure the monsters in the fog can’t compare with a bit of wind.”
 
“Stop bickering,” Victoria says from across the fire. “Ryland and I are sharing ghost stories, and it’s kind of hard to feel spooky with you two nattering away in the background.”
 
“Is it the one with the boy and the giant spider in the desert?” Gabe asks languidly. “Ryland always tells that one. The spider bites him and the boy becomes a zombie and kills his family then eats them, the end.”
 
“Fuck you, Gabe,” Victoria snaps, and stalks out of the circle of light. Ryland sighs and mutters something like guess I need some more stories<\/i> before following reluctantly after her.
 
“If flying was safe, I wouldn’t be stuck down here with busted wings and legs that are about as useful as winter moulting,” William hisses.
 
“If living without wings was safe, I <\/i>wouldn’t be stuck out here with a bundle of feathered attitude after everything I loved burned to the fucking ground!” Gabe snarls, shoving William off him and striding stiffly away. William spits out dirt and levers himself up, growling under his breath about fucking Gabe Saporta and his fucking jerk ass–<\/i>
 
“He’s been through a lot,” Alex says quietly. William props himself up and catches his gaze; his eyes, soft and full, flicker in the fire. Nate’s asleep, sprawled messily across his lap, Alex idly twisting strands of his dark hair through his fingers. “Don’t make it harder for him.”
 
“But he doesn’t understand,” William argues, thinking of all the times in his life when his flock had been in danger and only escaping by their wingtips, and not often unscathed. “He doesn’t know what it’s like–”
 
“And neither do you,” Alex counters. “Look, I don’t know what your life has been like, but up until two months ago, ours was perfect. Then... I don’t know how it happened, but all I know is that in an instant, we were caught in a firestorm. My girlfriend–” he takes a sharp breath, and William sees his hand momentarily clench in Nate’s hair. “She died, trying to save our damn cat<\/i>. Nate lived in Gabe’s basement, and Gabe’s got a shitload of burn scars from when he forced his way down there to get him out. Victoria, Ryland... we all lost family and friends in the blaze. We’re just trying to rebuild our lives as best as we can.”
 
“I’m so sorry,” William breathes, biting his lip. “Oh, fuck, Alex, I can’t even imagine what that could’ve been like for you, for all of you, I– fuck, <\/i>I’m such an idiot...”
 
“Gabe has a saying,” Alex says, with a small smile. “‘In order to grow, you’ve gotta leave behind the past.’ And that’s what we’re doing. Moving forward, not letting our hearts lie twisted in the ashes. Shit, we may never get over the pain, but it’s making us stronger, you know?”
 
William’s quiet for a while. He turns his head up to the stars swaying in the heat of the fire, and tries to imagine losing his family, losing his flock, in one terrible instant. But then, he realises – that’s what’s happening to them, right now. Unless Ryan has a vision about me, they’ll think I’m dead – and Ryan never usually has visions about members of the flock. They’ll mourn me, and move along. I’ll never see them again. In a way... in a way, they’re dead for me. I’ve lost them, I’ve lost everything. And now, all I can do is leave the past behind me, where it belongs. <\/i>He feels an unbearable sense of loss and loneliness, but somehow he’s got a purpose. A new mission.
 
Nate snuggles closer to Alex, and William’s lips curve upwards as a thought occurs to him. “Are you...?”
 
“Honestly?” Alex replies with a soft laugh, looking down at Nate. “I have no idea, and it terrifies me.”
 
William’s about to reply when an icy breeze cuts through the ambience of the fire, and the harsh unknown scent he smelt earlier suddenly intensifies. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “What–”
 
“We’ve got to move,” Gabe says, coming into the firelight again. Ryland and Victoria follow, faces grim. “Now.<\/i>”
 
William flinches at the stony stare projected his way, and tries subtly to sink into the dirt. In the background, he can hear Alex’s voice gently urging Nate to wake up. “Is it morning already?” he asks groggily.
 
“Demons?” Alex inquires in a low voice.
 
“Three, and big motherfuckers too,” Gabe replies tersely, pacing to the hovercar and pulling out several large, menacing-looking metal apparatuses and tossing one to Alex. He catches it with one hand and deftly examines it before nodding and getting up to stand by Gabe. “I didn’t think it was possible for them to follow us through the desert, but I guess I was wrong.”
 
“Hey,” Victoria objects. “What about us? Don’t we get guns?”
 
“I’m leaving yours in the car,” Gabe replies, slinging his two over his shoulders. “You, Ryland and Nate are escorting William back. All they can talk about is how long it’s been since they’ve sampled angel-flesh... fuck, I mean Falcon or Eagle or whatever the hell they are. Don’t argue,” he says when Victoria opens her mouth angrily, “Suarez and I can hold them off. William’s the priority right now, and I want you to fucking protect his feathered ass. Got it?”
 
“Gabe,” William says in a trembling voice, “I’m so fucking sorry, I–”
 
“Save it,” Gabe cuts in brusquely. “Ryland, get him into the car. If Nate can’t drive, Victoria, you do it. Get him back and form a perimeter around the house. If we’re not back by daylight, get the fuck out of there and don’t come looking for us. Go, now!”
 
Ryland’s spindly arms hurriedly scoop William off the ground and into the backseat of the hovercar. Nate, after assuring an agitated Victoria that he’s capable to drive, scrambles into the car and powers it up. William’s heart is hammering as he stares back at Gabe, until Gabe kicks dirt over the fire and the world is plunged into darkness.
 
“This is all my fault,” he says desolately to Ryland as they speed back the way they came. William can’t even enjoy it, now; all the jolting motion is doing is accentuating his queasy guilt. “If I hadn’t wanted to go out into the open... Gabe knew this could happen, but I just tried to ply my way out here.” He feels dirty, and cheap, like he’s been trying to take advantage of Gabe’s leniency and consideration towards him. Fucking typical, selfish William Beckett. “What you call demons, we call the Lost Ones... if a roost isn’t high enough or remote enough, they can climb up and kill a Falcon easily. I don’t know about Eagles, because I’m pretty sure they live their entire lives in one place, but the fog and the Lost Ones are always a danger to our kind as we move through different areas. I don’t know whether your ‘guns’ work against them, but I can tell you straight up that when we shoot arrows at them, it just pisses them off.”
 
Ryland says nothing, and William realises his words must be lost in the slipstream. He grabs his legs, forcing them to bend up to his chest, and curls up into them, trying to crush the growing certainty that he has failed, once again.
 
It seems like only a moment later that the car stops with a shuddering jerk. William topples off of the seat with a surprised yelp, and suppresses a strangled grunt at the fresh wave of pain that assaults him.
 
“Fuck, Ry, you didn’t tell him to put on his seatbelt,” Victoria snaps. “He could’ve been tossed out of the car and what Gabe and Alex are doing right now could be worth shit.”
 
“So sorry,” Ryland spits sardonically, “I don’t have the powers of observation that ten layers of caked on make-up obviously bring out.” William, stuck at the bottom between two seats with his half-healed injuries screaming in discomfort, decides that this isn’t the best time to ask for assistance.
 
“You fucking vindictive–”
 
“Shut up!” Nate yells. “Stop it, right the fuck NOW!” Ryland and Victoria cease their backbiting immediately, surprised – well, William assumes <\/i>that Victoria’s surprised, since he can’t actually see her in the front seat – because this is Nate; he shies away<\/i> from conflict. “We’re all worried but fighting is not <\/i>the way to solve this. We’ve got to do what Gabe told us to do, okay? Keep Bill safe until he gets back. And right now, we’re doing a pretty shitty job of it, because he’s wedged under the back seat.”
 
“Umm... kind of crushing my wings, a little,” William says timidly. Victoria’s disgruntled expression appears over the top of the seat, and Ryland meets his eyes and bursts into embarrassed laughter.
 
“Oh, shit, my bad,” he says, extracting William carefully from his uncomfortable position. “Sorry, Bill, I just got a little... distracted.” He helps him out of the car and into the dark house while Victoria cocks her gun and leans against the rough wooden wall, shivering slightly – but whether in coldness or anticipation, William can’t tell.
 
“Just set me down here, you don’t need to take me all the way in,” William says to him once they’re halfway through the door. Ryland shrugs gratefully and lowers him gently onto the floor by the entrance, and then strides out to join Victoria. William hears him uttering a quiet apology to her – no, really, your eyeliner is beautifully done <\/i>– before Nate comes in, shutting the door behind him.
 
“I want to wait here,” William says to Nate. The dark-haired man simply nods, and sits down beside him, his gun held in hands that only betray the lightest tremble. Nate’s a year younger than him, but somehow, now, he seems years older. William leans on him and tentatively stretches out a wing to wrap around his shoulders. “They’ll be okay,” he says, mostly to convince himself of the fact.
 
“I know,” Nate replies.
 
William’s mostly asleep, sprawled over Nate, when the door creaks open again. He feels Nate get up, disentangle himself and go to greet whoever’s there. There’s a lot of talk in low voices, and William wonders distantly whether he’s still dreaming. Then he’s moving – lifted into the air, and he smiles; it’s been ages since he’s flown like this. He nuzzles into someone’s chest, drifting in clouds and thermals. A stinging, pungent scent wafts around him, and he buries his face deeper until he can smell a familiar, comforting spicy odour. The warmth is gone, replaced with cold fabric, and he arches his back, protesting.
 
A soft sigh, and a voice murmurs... what am I getting myself into?<\/i>
 
“Gabe?” William yawns, rubbing his face against a pillow. “’M so s’rry... w’rried, missyou.”
 
“Forgive you, Bilvy,” Gabe’s voice says near his ear. William turns his face towards it and finds the ghost of a breath. Fainter, now, and William almost supposes he’s imagining it. “Always.”
 
 

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
“There. That’s the last one off,” Gabe says, carefully unwinding the long strip of fabric from William’s leg. The murky morning sky that’s visible through the dirty frost on the QuikGlass window casts dull shadows over William’s figure, causing Gabe to squint as he works. William himself watches with interest, absently tucking a strand of hair behind his ears.
 
William fascinates him. He’s amazed by the oddest things – giant flitting insects to the dull mundane sheen of a laser woodcutter; the way Gabe’s Cobras talk and dress, the lack of wingbones in Gabe’s back. From what he can surmise, William’s lived a rustic life, without the bare necessities Gabe needs to function, existing in such a crude environment that if he told Gabe all he drank was starlight, and ate clouds, Gabe would believe him. His clothes, before they were forced to burn them, were of an odd, coarse yet strangely beautiful cut, adorned with feathers and beads, and his bow and quiver full of arrows (also burned) fletched assumingly from his own wings, were deadly but pitiful in comparison to the most pathetic laser gun Gabe has in their arsenal. Still, he can imagine William’s delicate fingers pulled taut along the shaft of an arrow, sleek wings extended in graceful flight, face furrowed in thoughtful concentration with a bit of hair caught in his lip... and then, another man flies up next to him. William smiles, extending an arm, cupping his cheek...
 
It’s for the best, <\/i>Gabe thinks, banishing the thought from his mind and the sick feeling it instigates in his stomach. Ryan, whoever he is, is probably twice the man I am. Not that I could compete with a dude with wings, anyway. <\/i>
 
“Pale,” William comments, picking at the fading scars, circling around Gabe’s hand without getting in his way. Gabe adjusts the medscan to monitor their progress, and then flashes a quick grin up at him.
 
“Not that much different to the rest of you, white boy,” he teases. William arches an eyebrow and smirks suggestively. Gabe slaps his leg. “Stop it, you’re terrible.”
 
“Ow! I could say the same–...” William frowns, and then breaks into a grin. “Hey. That hurt.”
 
“And you’re happy about that? I wouldn’t have called you to be a masochist.”
 
“No, Saporta, this means I can feel <\/i>it,” he explains with exaggerated patience, then his facade breaks down and he yanks Gabe into a spontaneous hug.
 
“Oof.”
 
 “I’m going to be able move again,” he whispers, his voice edged with joy; his breath hot against Gabe’s ear and this is making it very hard to think. He’s breathing in William’s honey and pine scent, head pressed against his chest, hearing the excited stammer of his heart and hoping William can’t hear his. “Maybe, possibly... and then, someday, I could fly again. Well, not that I’m getting my hopes up.” He laughs softly as if to shrug the fact away, but Gabe can hear the little catch in his voice that betrays him; that he yearns to fly again with such passion that it hurts Gabe’s heart that he is denied.
 
And then, angel, you’ll fly back to heaven, <\/i>he thinks with a twist of sadness, locking his muscles tight.
 
William misinterprets the movement. “Sorry, I must be crushing you,” he says sheepishly, and lets Gabe go, and in that moment Gabe feels the moment snap and drift away.
 
“Are you kidding? I’m not the one with fucking hollow <\/i>bones,” Gabe replies, injecting a lightness into his tone that he hasn’t quite surfaced into. “Seriously, dude, those things are weird.<\/i>”
 
William flips him the bird – ha, <\/i>Gabe thinks – and fumbles at the crumpled fabric of the stealth suit he’s wearing, trying to pull it back down over his now unbandaged legs. For what must be the fourth time today, he asks, “Is it really necessary to wear this?”
 
“You can never be too careful, after what happened,” Gabe says, fingering the sleeve of his own suit. William’s face fades like it has been doing whenever the subject of that night <\/i>is brought up. Ryland had told him privately that William blames himself entirely for the incident, which Gabe knows is hardly fair, but after a brief discussion Gabe promised not to play the ‘whose fault’ game. William will eventually realise that the whole thing wasn’t a big deal, really. More like a little exercise to keep them on their toes. But for now... he thinks for a moment, and the outfit morphs into a garish purple. “Plus,” he continues belatedly, breaking the awkward silence, “even if they’re uncomfortable, you can have a lot of fun in these things.”
 
William peers up at him, his unhappy expression twitching helplessly into a grin. “You look ridiculous,” he splutters. Gabe shrugs and flips the shade to rainbow-checked plaid. William bursts into laughter, rolling on the bed in childlike glee.
 
“Hey, that took a lot of concentration,” Gabe says, faking an injured look. “It’s easier to become invisible than to do patterns.” William just smirks, and suddenly he’s a mass of neon swirls. His wings, spread and angled to help him retain his balance in the absence of his paralysed legs, remain the same wash of dappled brown hues, however. It’s a little worrying for Gabe, but as long as he keeps them sheathed and facing away from a threat when the suit’s in chameleon mode, he’ll be safe.
 
“Touché,” Gabe says, settling himself down beside William, who immediately wraps a wing around him companionably. Of course, it could be to help keep his stability, except... his closeness, his infectious joy, his warm laughter trickling across Gabe’s chest; it’s doing nothing to help the turmoil he’s feeling right now, but hey. When it counts, Gabriel Eduardo Saporta can keep his shit together<\/i>.
 
He clears his throat and bumps their shoulders together. “Hey, you want to tell the others the news?”
 
William grins and his suit flickers back to its normal dark grey colouring. “Lead the way.”
 
“C’mere, babygirl,” Gabe chuckles, sweeping William up into his arms bridal-style.
 
“I resent that.”
 
“I can drop you at any time. Just say the word...” Gabe singsongs.
 
“You wouldn’t.”
 
“Wouldn’t I?”
 
William’s only answer is a good-natured grumble and a skinny arm wrapping around Gabe’s neck.
 
“Gabriel!” Ryland calls out jovially, “bring your blushing bride across the threshold, I have need of his services.”
 
“Are you okay with this, sweetie?” Gabe asks a beet-red William. “I mean, we may not have time to consummate our marriage before the honeymmmmph–” William’s hand clamps across his mouth. His pulse is racing over Gabe’s lips.
 
“I – Well, I was going to... but it can wait.” Ryland smirks, and William’s stutter worsens. “B-but not like that! I– fuck you all. No, no! I don’t want to... Ryland, what do you want.”
 
Ryland shifts himself along the kitchen bench and pats a spare space for Gabe to set William down. Spread across his lap are large sheets of paper; maps sketched in careful lines and annotated in Ryland’s elegant script. He brushes several aside and selects one with a flourish. “These are all in aerial view, and would probably benefit from someone who’s actually seen <\/i>these places in aerial view. Like the flaming oil fields – how far do they span?”
 
William leans over the map, a smile stretching slowly across his face. “If you’re referring to the Burning Lakes, they’re roughly three hundred kilometres in diameter, with the smaller groups approximately fifty. I once flew through the fume cloud – sickest I’ve ever been. Well. Since... you know.” He frowns, and extends a wing, absently yanking out a tattered feather and scratching a little red line across the paper, ignorant to Gabe and Ryland’s shocked stares. “This is wrong. This valley extends further to the west.”  
 
“You just corrected my mistake in blood,” Ryland says slowly, blinking in disbelief. “Gabe, would you mind getting another pen from Victoria’s workbelt? She’s out with the ‘car.”  
 
“Will do,” Gabe replies, frowning at the bright mark on the map before leaving the cosy room and squinting into the dull, frigid light outside. Victoria, Alex and Nate all glance up momentarily, acknowledging his presence, before turning back to their pet project; the infra-red laser cannon they’re trying to fix onto the back of the car.
 
“No, no,” Victoria murmurs, “the weight is all wrong. You’ll mess up the hydraulics that way. You need to bring it forward more.”
 
“Bringing it forward obscures my back vision,” Nate argues. Alex sighs, turning to Gabe with a shrug.
 
“They’ve been back and forth like this for an hour,” he says. “Got any ideas?”
 
“Attach it there,” Gabe says vaguely, “and affix it to a lever mechanism. Got a pen?”
 
“Not bad,” Victoria says, tossing him a dark blue biro. “But the circuitry in that area–”
 
“I completely trust your judgement as a mechanatrix to the extent that I don’t need to know about the hovercar electronics,” Gabe replies solemnly with a little mock-bow. “Thank you. When you guys are done, come on in. William has news.”
 
“Speaking of which, I need to take his temperature,” Alex muses as Gabe walks away. “Can’t have the laser zapping his hot little body.”
 
Gabe would have to agree. With the zapping, of course.
 
There isn’t too much for him to do while he waits. They’ve stored up enough food to last them for a bit, and if worst comes to worst, they can always survive on the nutrient soup that the emergency supply food machine spits out if they shove leaves and dirt and whatever they can find into it. Gabe cleans up a bit, sweeps some dust under rugs... and he’s not staying in the living room just so he can feel the warmth of William’s gaze on the back of his neck as he sprawls across the counter, a dark strand of hair curling onto his lips, flushed against the paleness of his skin. Nope. It’s just that... well, it’s pretty cold outside.
 
“News better be good,” Alex says, pushing the door open and bringing in a swirling gust of wind. Gabe notices with surprise that it’s been snowing, and the frames of Alex’s glasses are frosted in white. “Cause if it’s bad, this blizzard will make it difficult to avoid each other.”
 
“This one might last a while,” Nate agrees, pushing past Alex and Victoria to shiver by the fireplace. “The first snow’s always the harshest.”
 
Victoria strides into the kitchen, shaking slush off of her coat. A piece lands on William’s foot, and he cringes. “Eugh, c-cold!”
 
“Oh! Sorry, Bill,” she laughs. “I didn’t mean–”
 
“Wait,” Alex interrupts. “You felt that?”
 
William grins shyly. “I have sensation in my legs again,” he says. At this, there is an outcry of congratulations! <\/i>and fucking awesome, dude! <\/i>and about time you became useful around here, you sexy lump<\/i>.
 
“Celebration! Break out the drinks,” Ryland declares.
 
“Easy now, Ry, you know Mr. Wings is a lightweight.”
 
“Hey, now–”
 
“Don’t even deny it. Last time, you were slammed by your third shot.”
 
“You spiked my shit; it was extra strength or something, fuck<\/i>.”
 
In any event, they’re drinking by the time twilight softens the sharp edges around their makeshift home, and after his second shot of home-brewed tequila – the one good thing to come out of that fucking desert<\/i>, Gabe thinks – William is pliable enough to tell stories.
 
“Tell the one about the First Ones,” Victoria cajoles.
 
“No, no, that time when you guys fought those wolves and you saved that other dude–”
 
“How you found your brother or whatever you call him, that Sisky guy...”
 
“Victoria asked first,” William slurs gently, and, pulling himself up with a drunken expression of importance, begins to tell the story.
 
“Back when the world was filled with chaos and war, the Silver Ones wished to spare us. There was poison on the ground that grew day by day, and so they made a wish and used their magic to give wings to the First One in their image; a man with white wings, pure as... well, there was some kind of bird back then that was white and represented peace.” He twitches a wing unconsciously. “It was He who convinced the Silver Ones to breathe the sky into more of their kind so we could be free of the mayhem below, and try to reunite the world in peace. But dark forces strove to prevent this, saying the Silver Ones were evil and deserved to die. So the Silver Ones, with heavy hearts, retreated into the White Mountain and rose into the sky.
 
“The First Ones were frightened that their gods had abandoned them, and fled, hiding from those who wished to destroy them. The Silver Ones had wanted to stop the war, so before they left they created the Cold Time, where clouds blocked the sun for years and years and below there was constant snow and wind. The First Ones learned to live up on the highest peaks, above the clouds, where things still grew, waiting for the Silver Ones to return...” and with that, William promptly tumbles sideways onto Ryland’s lap and begins to snore.
 
Victoria smiles and stretches. “It’s romantic, even if it is only a legend.”
 
“Probably got some truth in it, though,” Alex says, clearing up cups and bottles. “Although, if I had to guess, I’d say their DNA was affected by radiation and they just evolved... though more rapidly than is normal in nature.”
 
“You’re too smart to hang with us,” Gabe says amiably, and yawns. “Fuck, the sun’s hardly set. I’m losing my edge.”
 
“Want me to tuck you in?” Ryland asks.
 
“I wouldn’t want you to take advantage of me, dude, I know you want this,” Gabe smirks, putting his hand up his shirt, and yeah, maybe he’s a little<\/i> tipsy.
 
“So. much. Gabriel,” Ryland growls seductively, and then breaks into a loud laugh, startling William awake.
 
“Whuh? Huh?” he mumbles.
 
“One thing’s for sure, you ain’t a night owl,” Gabe drawls, swinging William into his arms. “C’mon, let’s bring you to bed.”
 
William swipes a bottle of tequila on the way past and takes a swig. “Bad boy. No more of that,” Gabe scolds, taking the bottle out of his hands and giving it to Ryland, who immediately does the same. “That goes for you too, Ry. Your lanky ass is keeping first watch tonight.”
 
The room is dark and Gabe waits for his eyes to adjust before placing William carefully in the center of the bed. William giggles, his hand still tangled in Gabe’s shirt, and Gabe sits down beside him and tries to disentangle it when William pulls him into a sloppy kiss.
 
Gabe’s veins burn and his fingers shake in his restraint not to kiss William back, not to grab his shirt and pull him into his arms and– He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He–fuck, what if he does? What if he wants it? I shouldn’t be the man to stop him...<\/i>
 
Fuck. <\/i>“You should stop doing that,” Gabe sighs, pushing William away and backing to the wall with a funny sense of déjà vu.
 
“What?” William asks innocently, spoiling it by giggling again.
 
“Stop making out with me when you don’t mean it.”
 
“You liked it. I fould ceel it... I mean, I could feel it, you know<\/i>.” He hiccups, and makes grabby hands at Gabe, pouting.
 
“You’re drunk,” he replies bluntly, and strides out of the room.
 
“You’ve got it so easy,” he says to a bat, later, as he sits on a rock overlooking the small house. The air is cold, but it helps, as does the soothing silence of the night. “You have no idea what kind of shit us humans have to put up with.”
 
Catching moths isn’t a walk in the park<\/i>, the bat chitters indignantly. I’d like to see you try<\/i>.
 
“Yeah, well,” Gabe says. “Catching things that fly is pretty hard for a gravity-bound thing like me.” His gaze drifts back to the house. “Even if they’re taken out of the sky.”

Part Five<\/a><\/a>
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The sun’s still below the horizon when William launches himself into the air, shivering in the autumnal morning. The sky is clear from horizon to horizon, a deep violet fading to a pale blue at the edges, and some stars still sparkle faintly at the top of the dark dome. The land is outlined sharply against the dawn, crisp cut and frozen. Three points are almost visible to the northwest, and that is where William is heading. Hopefully, it’ll take him two days tops, maybe even one day; because that is why Ryan chose him. He is the fastest flier he knows.
 
He checks again that the message he’s been entrusted to carry is safe in his pocket, and hovers motionlessly in the air for a moment, head tilted back and eyes closed, his breath a misty halo around his face. Glancing back at the cave, he sees Spencer leaning against the entrance, watching. William waves in a slow, easy motion, then, bunching his muscles, he lifts his wings and blurs<\/i>.
 
This is what he is made for. He is a creature of speed and agility; stick thin and hollow-boned, light enough to be supported by his scythe-like wings that cut through the air like a knife through warm butter – smooth and sure. His hair whips around his face and he closes his eyes to stop the sheer pressure of the air making them water, and guides his wings using instinct.
 
He flies most of the day, alone with his thoughts. And they’re not particularly pleasant thoughts.
 
He thinks of his conversation he had with Ryan last night, playing it over in his head. His vision, and what it had meant for them – though they could escape attack easily, the Eagles had more than twenty times their number and superior weapons, and motivation<\/i>: if William falsely believed that they had stolen Ryan, or Sisky, he knows he’d feel the same way. If William failed in preventing this unnecessary warfare, the flock’s only shot would be to get to the winter roost as quickly as possible, so that they’re under the protection of the main contingent of their kind. But, Ryan can never tell when his visions are set – they could eventuate that same day, or weeks, even months later. He’s the Seer who can’t see, in more ways than one. All William can do is hope that this one is the latter kind, because no matter his intentions, running into over a hundred furious Eagles midway through his journey would ultimately end in him getting shot on sight.
 
But then Ryan asked about how he had found the spring at the rear of the cavern in a casual manner, a strange matter to drop into the anxious conversation they were having.
 
“I don’t know,” <\/i>he had replied. “I feel like I’ve been here before. I just knew there was a clean water source at the back.”<\/i>
 
Ryan had murmured something under his breath that William couldn’t decipher and asked if he had seen anything else back there. He had shrugged and said it was dark. Now that he thinks about it, he found his way down there without a torch, and never tripped up once. Maybe my navigational skills are improving, <\/i>he thinks brightly.
 
He’s pondering how to make his entrance at the Eagle roost diplomatically when his sensitive wingtips pick up a change in the wind. He opens his eyes a slit and his stomach plunges uncomfortably.
 
Shit.<\/i>
 
There’s a storm coming in from the northwest, a huge towering beast of a storm that had obviously been brewing out at sea for a few days before heading towards the mainland. As he watches, lightning lights up the inside of the cloud mass and distant thunder rumbles through his bones.
 
He tries to calculate the speed at which the storm is moving while calling himself seven kinds of idiot. Fuck, Beckett, could you be any more careless? Of course you only get pleasant weather before a storm. Now was not the time to get fucking complacent!<\/i>
 
Casting around in his memory for suitable places to wait out the storm, he realises there are none. The closest shelter is the mountain home of the Eagles. He thinks about turning back, but then remembers the urgency and hidden fear on Ryan’s face, the consequences of the vision, and knows he has to fucking do this<\/i>.
 
He takes a deep breath and beats his wings as fast as he can, knowing it is the only thing he can <\/i>do. The race is on, both teams tearing towards the same point from opposite directions, and William considers the irony that he could get killed in the storm, or he could win the race and get killed by the Eagles instead.
 
The wind is beginning to rock him as it builds in intensity, but the mountains are getting closer. William bares his teeth in a feral grin. I’m going to make it!<\/i>
 
Then something smacks into his shoulder with stinging force, leaving a cold, wet mark, and William thinks, oh. Hail.<\/i>
 
And then the storm is on top of him.
 
The hail slams into him, and at the speed he’s going it’s strong enough to fracture his hollow bones, and he screams in agony as his feathers are torn off by the sharp-edged ice but he can’t stop. He snaps into a corkscrew spin, trying to dodge the danger all around him with desperate flight acrobatics. And all of the sudden the wind is behind him and he’s going faster and faster and he isn’t even flying anymore, he’s being hurled through the air on a wave of pain, rain, ice and electricity forking the air around him.
 
He’s only semi-conscious by the time the storm spits him out and he tumbles helplessly down, down, down...
 
 

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
Victoria cranks the engine of the old hovercar patiently, her arms coated in glistening oil, some smeared across her cheeks where she has absently wiped her dark sweaty hair off her forehead. It’s mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and they’re stuck in the damn epicentre <\/i>of nowhere because fucking Nate <\/i>hit the one rock on the entire fucking plain<\/i>. Gabe shoots a glare at Nate, who’s playing despondently with his shoelaces and doesn’t meet his gaze, though he trembles a little under it. Alex, instead, throws him a look that says you would’ve done the same thing, don’t deny it<\/i> and goes back to rubbing Nate’s shoulders and murmuring to him comfortingly.
 
“This blows,” he grumbles to Ryland. The man next to him shrugs, and shades his eyes thoughtfully, squinting at the mountain range they’ve been getting steadily closer to day by day, and Gabe knows he’s running over supplies versus distance and topography and environmental suitability in his head again. With an aggravated sigh, he stomps over to Victoria, annoyed that no one wants to hear him vent his rage.
 
“Whatever it is, Gabe, I don’t care,” she says as his shadow falls across her tinkering with the hydraulics of the anti-grav generator. “Let me get on with this so we can get back on track.”
 
“But he broke <\/i>the fucking–”
 
“And if he hadn’t crashed, we wouldn’t have noticed the fire damage to the wiring,” Victoria interjects sensibly, pushing a screw into place with a click. There’s a faint grumbling noise, and she tsks <\/i>in irritation. “At least make yourself useful and unload some of our crap from the trunk so it’s easier for her to get off the ground.”
 
Gabe admits she has a point.
 
“Getting kind of low on food,” he comments, dumping various bags, canisters and laser capsules into the dust.
 
“Go charm a roach into our campfire tonight,” she murmurs flippantly.
 
“Fuck no<\/i>! Roaches are awesome. They’re really intelligent, which no one seems to care about because they have all these misconceptions about them because they’re three feet long and look ‘creepy’, but they’re actually shy and wouldn’t hurt anyone. They’ve got all these incredible survival skills and are some of the most social creatures apart from humans – would you kill a child, Victoria? Would you? Because roaches are like children, they interact and play and snuggle up together at night and their–”
 
“Vegetarians,” he hears her sigh, hidden under a clank and a rattle and another rumbling groan from the hovercar.
 
“And... well, it doesn’t work like that,” he finishes, a little deflated at her bored tone.
 
The vehicle shakes, growls and rises slowly off the ground, hovering at Gabe’s waist like a faithful old dog. She nods to herself, satisfied, and stretches out the kinks in her back. “Right. Go keep watch or something, I need to concentrate on this bit and you aren’t helping.”
 
“Hey, hey! I’m helping. I took some weight off of the car,” he complains, easing himself onto the hot ground as she lies on her back underneath the hovercar, pulling wires seemingly at random and appraising them with keen scrutiny. “I think that entitles me to talk with you. Besides, it’s daylight, <\/i>and we could see anything coming like an hour before it would reach us. Anyway, we–”
 
“Gabe,” Victoria says slowly, “Thank you for your help. Now, go. away.”
 
Biting back his irritation, he gets up and strides out into the semi-arid desert, kicking pebbles moodily across the dusty terrain. A gust of wind causes the hot air rising off the ground to swirl around him, and he suddenly hears the roar of the flames, the fierce artificial wind fuelling them and the snapping of tree limbs as the sap expands rapidly in the heat, and above all that the deathly silence – no screams, no frantic cries for help or sounds of escape...
 
Grabbing his water canister with a shaking hand, he takes a gulp while swiping his other hand quickly across his face. His anger drains out of him and he slumps wearily, staring at the varicoloured sand grains beneath his feet. “Fuck,” he sighs, kicking up sand to break the illusion and turning his gaze back to the intense blue sky.
 
He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, watching the sun drift down against the background of increasing clouds before Ryland claps a hand to his back and he registers Nate’s whoop of joy. “She’s done it, our lovely mechanic,” Ryland says cheerfully, guiding Gabe back to the hovercar which Victoria is leaning against with a triumphant smile. “With a bit of luck, we’ll reach the end of this disgusting place by nightfall.”
 
“Doubt it,” Gabe replies vaguely. “There’s something brewing over there.”
 
“Hey,” Nate says to him hesitantly as Gabe hops into his usual spot in the back between Alex and Ryland. “Umm... if you want to take the wheel, you know, after I–umm... I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t think I could–”
 
“Novarro, I trust you with my life,” Gabe says simply, putting on a smile to show his friend that he’s forgiven. “Lead the way.”
 
Nate breaks into a relieved smile and cranks the engine, the solar panels vibrating as they gather up energy from the fierce sunlight to fuel the hovercar. “Next stop, End Of The Desert – population, Cobras!” he yells in a burst of excitement as the car jerks forward, the mechanics whirring into life and sending it skimming at top speed across the desert, creating a plumed wave of sand in their wake.
 
Through the tears brought to his eyes by the screaming slipstream that bends around the car, Gabe notices something. Nudging Ryland, he points it out. “Looks like we’re not the only kids heading into town,” he shouts into his ear.
 
Ryland purses his lips and says nothing as they watch the black dot high up in the sky speed towards the sun setting amongst roiling clouds with a strange sense of foreboding.
 
 

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
...It’s the tingling that finally manages to rouse him. It’s like ants are crawling all over his body, digging sharp prickly legs into his skin. There’s still rain hitting his face in torrents, and wind ripping at his clothes, but he’s just numb. He tries to roll over, but finds his body doesn’t want to cooperate. He’s irritated in a detached way, but he isn’t concerned enough to press himself. All in good time. But that itching sensation is really starting to bug him.
 
Annoyed, William lifts a hand half-heartedly to scratch his skin. And then he sees the blood.
 
Oh.<\/i>
 
The pain explodes inside him and he’s too shocked to even scream, to even breathe, just stare open-mouthed at the furious mass of clouds above him. He’s–he’s on the ground<\/i>. And suddenly he’s taking quick, shuddering breaths, little whimpering sounds slipping from his lips, because he’s on the ground <\/i>and he can’t move <\/i>and he can’t feel his legs, why can’t he feel his legs? <\/i>
 
Snap out of it<\/i>, a voice in the back of his mind begs. Please, just do something. Get the fuck out of here before it’s too late!<\/i>
 
William concentrates until there are tears mingling with the icy rain dripping down his face, and by sheer force of will he manages to twitch his body enough to land him on his stomach. Gasping, he gives up trying to move his legs. They’re a lost cause. He flings an arm forward and digs his fingers into the mud, painstakingly pulling himself forward, inch by inch, towards the mountains that are visible in the distance, only twenty minutes by air; a cruel reminder of his wings dragging limply across the ground. If he looks at them, he knows he’ll lose it, so he clenches his teeth together and tries as hard as he can to ignore his agony.
 
The wind is howling at him, but something doesn’t feel right in his mind. Through the pain and the terror he feels like it should be buffeting him, pummelling him against the ground. Twisting his head and spitting out mud, it clicks – the ground rises on either side of him towards foothills at the base of the mountains, protecting him from the brunt of the wind. He’s in a... he’s in a valley<\/i>.
 
“Help! Please!” he shouts in desperation to someone, anyone<\/i>, as he increases his efforts in a frenzy. Is his skin burning more than it was before? Is it his imagination? Oh, god, a valley, a fucking valley, I’m going to die, I’m going to <\/i>die, I’m...<\/i>
 
At first it seems as though his vision is going – the ground in front of him seem to simmer dully and fade, and the mountains are just black shadows now. He’s exhausted, at breaking point, and he’s moved all of six feet from the crater his body made on impact. He coughs, and coughs again, huge wracking coughs that send searing trembles rippling down his frame. He can’t comprehend the soft, murky tendrils of fog snaking around him. Now that he thinks about it, he can’t really feel much – his arms don’t seem to be working anymore. Oh, well. I guess I’ll just lie here for a little while. <\/i>His breaths seem to burn, now, which is odd, and he’s coughing more and more, until he can taste something hot and metallic in his throat, dribbling out of his mouth, which elicits a sleepy smile at the warm feeling on his lips. It feels nice to be kissed after such a long time...<\/i>
 
Christine used to kiss him like that. She’d press her lips to his chastely, never lingering too long, because they were private people and were never over-affectionate in the public eye, which William was very much in at that time. But he remembers holding her close as shudders ran through the bomb shelter, and her reaching up to kiss him passionately, not caring that half the neighbourhood was crammed inside because they didn’t know if they were going to live to see the morning.<\/i>
 
He remembers the despair in her eyes as they watched Chicago burn, the leaping flames devouring the silvery buildings spun in fantastic shapes that stretched ever higher into the clouds at the pinnacle of human innovation, now rendered to nothing more than twisted rubble. All his achievements, his glorious experiments in ashes or gone without ever coming back. Taking their beat-up hovercar westwards, leaving their riches and luxuries that didn’t mean anything anymore behind, holding each other as though they were holding themselves together, as though if they let go they’d fall apart like the world around them.<\/i>
 
He recalls her strange, trembling smile when she told him she was pregnant, and his hope and fear mingled together watching as the first nuclear cloud appeared in a malignant mushroom on the horizon, slipping his hand into hers and telling her it would all be okay.<\/i>
 
He thinks of the other survivors facing them, pale and too thin from the sunless winter, forcing them to choose. She leaves with them, taking their child with her. He’s heartbroken, but he understands that any chance their daughter could grow up and live in this barren world should be taken, no matter how slim. He was thin to begin with, and there is no way now that he is strong enough to undertake the journey, even if he had wanted to go with them (and only for Christine’s sake) so he is left behind with his thoughts and his regrets swirling under the oppressive cloud cover like wisps of ash, waiting for the sun.<\/i>
 
He remembers dying...<\/i>
 
“...has no pulse, fuck<\/i>, turn him over! Hit his...”
 
... and then in another place, another time, the pounding reverberates through his body and he gives a coy smile to the crowd, stamping his foot to the beat and sliding his hips across the stage in the way that makes all the girls scream. They own this tour; no matter how Cobra Starship bust out their club-pumping tunes, The Academy Is... get off on pure riffs and adrenaline. Michael’s fingers roll across chords effortlessly, and Mike laughs and shakes his sweaty hair at Sisky, whose throbbing bass licks never falter. <\/i>
 
Moving to centre stage, he gives Jack a nod for his camera and he opens his mouth to sing, but nothing comes out. Confused, he stops, staring at the mic in his hand. There’s a note taped to it. <\/i>
  

\"\"<\/center>
 
“...he’s breathing! Get the mask on, we’ll take him...”
 
And suddenly the music hits him in a glorious collision and he’s singing. Everything seems to fade around him as his voice soars above the crowd, flying higher and higher on the pulsating harmonies intermingled with reckless joy...<\/i>
 
 

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
There’s a storm coming.
 
Brendon watches it bloat and darken out at sea. It’s fascinating – like watching a wave in slow motion. The wind teases his hair back from his face in a sudden gust, and he grimaces. Extreme weather is commonplace, but he’s never gotten used to it.
 
He jumps off his rock and meanders down the path, figuring nothing out of the ordinary is set to occur. He doesn’t feel guilty abandoning his post; he’s usually a very steadfast lookout, and he figures that he should get a break once in a while because damn he is bored.<\/i>
 
Jon has been back for a week now and he hasn’t wanted to go flying with him once. <\/i>He’s been kind of subdued ever since he came back, and spends most of his time playing with Dylan in his house, which Brendon has done very well to keep his existence secret, thank you very much. It hurts Brendon, a little, because he can’t help but think that it’s because Jon probably hates flying at Brendon’s pace; hates having to rest when Brendon gets tired, hates having to wait for Brendon to catch up... even if Jon denies it every time he asks. He feels little sparks of jealousy and bitterness whenever he thinks about it, but he casts the thoughts away; he knows <\/i>he can do better. It’s just about practice, right? He’s been badgering Pete more than usual to let him go on a mission, just a short <\/i>one, just to the cap of the peninsula or maybe mapping the rocky islands that are currently being lashed by a dark band of rain (except he’d do it when the weather was fine, he’s not reckless<\/i>) or just... something<\/i>. He thinks Pete is starting to avoid him.
 
“There’s a storm coming,” he says grumpily to Joe, who quickly hides a small pipe when Brendon comes around the corner. He has to report to Joe whenever anything mildly interesting happens, which could be anything from ‘there’s a double-helix twister system heading our way’ to ‘a seagull just hit the cliff below me, if I didn’t know that seagulls couldn’t drink I’d say it was totally wasted’. Joe’s meant to report back anything that is important to the flock’s survival to Pete, but since the flock is rarely in any unobvious danger – they can all see the storms that form out to sea as easily as Brendon – Joe mainly stands at his post and smokes something he grows in a private garden that, when Brendon asked about it once, Greta looked scandalised and told him never to accept anything Joe offers him. And yet, Joe’s still gotten to go and scout out S–4. It’s just not fair.<\/i>
 
“Yeah,” Joe says uncomfortably, scratching the back of his unruly mass of brown hair. “Uhh... I’ll go tell Pete about it as soon as I can. You... didn’t happen to see...?”
 
“No, Joseph, I did not happen to glance upon a pipe held in your pure and untainted hand,” Brendon says with sarcastic patience because he’s just not in the mood for this<\/i>. “And you will not see me walk off in the opposite direction of my post, yes?”
 
“Gotcha,” Joe replies with a happy grin. “No one saw anything.”
 
Brendon rolls his eyes inwardly and continues walking. He’s almost at the take-off-and-landing point when he hears lowered voices.
 
“It was two nights ago,” the first voice says, and Brendon recognises it as Andy. The metalworker isn’t meant to return from his search for ores for another few days, and this fact plus the hushed tone in which they are speaking tells Brendon he shouldn’t be listening to this, that this is serious business, but he presses closer to the cliff wall, scarcely breathing, and tries his hardest to hear what they say next.
 
“You’re sure?” Pete’s voice says in a strangled hiss. “You’re positive it was Spencer?”
 
Spencer? He found Spencer?<\/i>
 
“One hundred percent, sir,” Andy replies. “Brown hair, large grey-black wings, black pants, pink shirt – it’s definitely Smith. They were dragging him through the air, heading south at a furious pace. I came back here as fast as I could...”
 
Brendon’s breath hitches and he hangs on to every word.
 
“Falcons<\/i>,” Pete growls. “We’ve treated them with respect and stayed out of their territories, and this is how those fuckers repay us? Andy – have Conrad, Chislett or Carden left yet? Call them back. We need their strength to make up our numbers, to force them to relinquish our flockmate. This–this means war.<\/i>”
 
Brendon’s heard enough. He tiptoes away until he knows he is out of earshot, and then he runs and jumps off the cliff, swooping low so as to not be seen by Joe, trying to beat his wings as little as possible. He then lands out of sight and walks casually into the village, manoeuvring through the little groups of people doing their late afternoon chores and acknowledging greetings distantly. He almost stops in front of Jon’s place but then he remembers how there’s no way Jon fucking Walker would want to go flying<\/i> with Brendon, let alone go on a mission with him. If Jon heard about Spencer’s predicament, Jon would go solo and make Brendon stay with the flock as he always did, because, Spencer.<\/i> Swallowing his resentment, he opens the door to his house to find Greta chopping carrots in the kitchen.
 
“Heya, Bren,” she says warmly, straightening her apron and pursing her lips into a small smile. “There’s a little while until dinner, but I made some...”
 
“I’m not hungry,” Brendon replies quickly, and plasters what he hopes to be a reassuring grin on his face. “I’m not really feeling well either, I think I might skip dinner altogether, I’ll just go to bed early.”
 
Greta frowns a little. “Are you okay? You look a little...”
 
“I’m fine,” Brendon lies. “There’s a big storm coming, better lock up everything...” and he walks into his room before she can say anything else. He feels bad lying to Greta, but he’s so full of rage that they abducted <\/i>Spencer; they just took<\/i> him without any... He takes a quick breath and concentrates on stuffing anything he deems essential into his pack. Once he’s done, he shoulders it and shifts so it isn’t hindering his wings, then opens his window and jumps out, closing it carefully behind him. He heads up to the vegetable garden, noting how the sky has darkened and the wind is stronger. The storm’s moving faster than I thought. I better be quick.<\/i>
 
He grabs anything he can find, yanking carrots, onions and potatoes alike out of the ground unceremoniously and dumping them in his bag without bothering to shake the dirt off them first. He takes one last look at his home and his stomach lurches when he sees someone come up the path.
 
“Brendon, hey!” Alex says, running towards him, his brown hair tumbling around his face in the wind. “Mom sent me up here to get some pumpkin for dinner, she’s so<\/i>–... why do you have your pack on?”
 
“Alex, I can’t, there’s no time...” Brendon says, trying to hide his panic.
 
Comprehension dawns sickeningly on his face. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he accuses. “You’re leaving and you weren’t going to tell me!” And it seems almost like Alex is saying you’re leaving me<\/u><\/i>.
 
Brendon grabs Alex’s hands and bends down on one knee, looking at him desperately. “Please, I have to go now, <\/i>don’t tell anyone I’m going, I’ll–I’ll explain later, I just need–”
 
“I won’t tell anyone,” Alex says in a small voice, and it hurts Brendon even more than if Alex had yelled or hit him. “I just... I thought we were friends.”
 
Brendon feels the shrieking wind go up a pitch and wrenches his gaze away from the boy, running and jumping into flight without looking back at the forlorn figure standing in the middle of the garden. Once he clears the natural shelf of rock protecting the garden from the elements, the wind hurls him savagely southwards, and for a terrifying moment he thinks he sees another pair of wings in the storm but they are gone an instant later, so he grits his teeth and tries his hardest to outfly the gale.
 
He has to do this. He, Brendon Boyd Urie, is going to be fucking useful <\/i>for once, and prove them all wrong. He doesn’t need any help from Jon or Pete or anyone. He’s going to rescue Spencer, all by himself.
 
 

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
The storm is at its height when Jon hears someone pounding on his door. Quickly, he picks up Dylan and hides him in the cupboard under the sink. Dylan, who is used to this by now, doesn’t complain, just stares at Jon with his large, innocent eyes as if to say why can’t you just let them see me? I won’t bite<\/i>.
 
“Yeah, but they might bite you,” Jon replies sensibly, and shuts the cupboard, hurrying over to the door to heave it open and letting in a veritable blast of frigid air.
 
“–the fuck, Walker?” Pete snaps, shaking rain out of his hair and shouldering his way past Jon. “What took you so–...? Never mind. Get your coat, we’re going out.”
 
“What...?” Jon begins, and then sees Greta close the door behind Pete, and fuck, that isn’t rain streaking down her cheeks<\/i>. “What’s going on?”
 
“Brendon fucking Urie is missing,” Pete snarls. Jon’s heart drops painfully. “Come on<\/i>, Walker, move your ass.”
 
“Where should I...?”
 
“I want you to go check the route from the commute point to his lookout, and look around the pavilion while you’re at it. Greta and I are going to ask around in the village. Rack your brains, Jon, you and him are friends – where could he be right now?”
 
Jon picks up his thick jacket off a hook on the wall and throws it on before following the two out into a howling gale. He leans into the wind and trudges slowly away from the weak lights of the drenched community, rain and sleet lashing his exposed skin.
 
Stupid, stupid, stupid!<\/i> Jon curses mentally. He kept asking to go flying and all you could think about was your fucking wings! He’s probably gotten bored and decided to go out himself, you know how he gets; he’s cooped up so much he’d probably get a fucking kick out of riding a storm...<\/i>
 
He walks slowly, careful to place each step warily so the wind won’t pick him up and smash him against the cliff as he’s navigating the most exposed part of the trail. The world is a blur of grey and icy spray; sometimes he can’t tell whether it is the rain or the whiplash plumes of huge storm-driven waves hitting him. He can barely stand, and the worry in the pit of his stomach is a tempest in its own right because Brendon could never survive this<\/i>.
 
The pavilion, naturally, is deserted. Of course, Jon never expected Brendon to be there anyway, but Pete can’t afford to send out a search party in this weather until he’s sure that Brendon is not holed up anywhere on the mountain. Slowly trudging towards the lookout point, Jon briefly considers the forests on the eastern slope, but dismisses the idea – the last trees lost their leaves about a week ago and Brendon hates the skeletal look of winter. The only other things growing down there at the moment are the mushrooms Joe likes to gather that he thinks no one knows about, but really<\/i>.
 
Which leaves two real options. Either Brendon has been hurt and is hiding out in some crag, waiting out the storm, or... Jon doesn’t really want to think about the second option, because there is already too much salt in the air.
 
He doesn’t realise that he’s been standing on the lookout, leaning into the full blast of nature’s fury, until he feels a strong hand yank him back and a voice scream in his ear.
 
“What the hell, Jon! We can’t rescue you too.”
 
“Have you found anything?” Jon asks immediately as Pete drags him back down the path to a more sheltered area. “Any leads?”
 
“Fuck all,” Pete growls, running a hand through his salt-slicked hair in frustration. “And there is fuck all we can do about it. Everyone’s in agreement; a search party would just risk more people’s lives right now...”
 
“But it’s Brendon! <\/i>Fuck, Pete, he’s not like the rest of us, he’s–”
 
“Shut your mouth, Walker,” Pete yells, pushing him up against the rock wall. “Don’t you for a fucking second start on this bullshit – I care about Brendon just as much as you do. I promised his parents that I would take care of him, don’t think that I don’t want to fly out there right now and look for him myself!”
 
Jon shakes Pete off, and a wild gleam comes into his eye. “You’re the leader of the flock and you have responsibilities for their safety, I understand that.” Pete backs off slowly, taking a deep breath and nodding, fisting his forehead. “But I am beholden to no one,” Jon continues, and feels a sharp jab for Spencer but Spencer is not in trouble. Spencer is far north and none of this will affect him. Spencer is strong.<\/i> “So, I’m going to go look for Brendon right now, and you better not try to stop me.”
 
“No!” Pete grabs onto his arm as he backs away, his grip desperate. “Jon, don’t–this is insane, don’t do this, fuck, <\/i>Jon...!”
 
“Get off me! I’ve made my decision! I owe it to Brendon to–”
 
Something hits Jon across the face and his head jerks back to Pete – did that fucker just <\/i>slap me? <\/i>– when it brushes his hand and he snatches at it, feeling a familiar silky sensation. It’s a feather. A giant<\/i> feather.
 
Their argument forgotten for the moment, Jon and Pete exchange bemused glances. Then Jon sees a shadow loom out of the murk a split second before Pete’s hand is wrenched off of his arm and Pete is slammed bodily into the wall in a turmoil of limbs and wings.
 
 

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
“I don’t even know how to begin to ask what happened here.”
 
Patrick, bright red, scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably, because this is all his fault. <\/i>Seriously. And he’s knocked out this poor guy and it’s lucky he didn’t kill <\/i>him, so he blurts out, “I’mreallysorryit’scompletelymyfaultIdon’tknowifyoucouldeverforgiveme–”
 
“Hey. Hey. Don’t worry about it,” the taller, brown-haired one says. Patrick thinks he said his name was Josh or Jake or something beginning with J. “You couldn’t have steered out of this storm, even with those things...” Patrick sees him eyeing his wings with less awe than he had when he first saw them, but still a considerable amount. “And besides, he’s fine<\/i>. That man has a thick skull – he can survive more than a little accidental collision.”
 
“But... I was sleeping<\/i>,” Patrick replies miserably, collapsing onto a chair and burying his head in his hands. His wings, which he can’t fold up completely, drape over the edges and slump to the floor. He peeks through his fingers at the one with the dripping black hair and grey-speckled black wings, lying still on a bed in the corner of the room, flickering in and out of his vision the firelight, and his guilt makes him feel almost queasy.
 
“You... were sleeping,” someone repeats in a voice saturated with disbelief. Patrick looks up – it’s the heavily tattooed guy whose house they’re sitting in right now, hung with wicked assortments of weaponry which is enough to make Patrick blanch.
 
“Yes, umm,” Patrick stammers, “I’ve been flying over the sea for a few weeks and there wasn’t really anywhere to land, you know, I just kind of soar and snore...” He laughs, nervously, shifting his sodden woollen hat on his head.
 
“Holy shit,” Josh breathes.
 
“I know! I wasn’t thinking, I just didn’t feel the storm brewing up, I feel awful about–”
 
“No, no,” he laughs. “I’m just amazed, I–we’ve never seen someth–someone<\/i> like you before. Your wings are incredible – your span must be twice ours. No wonder you don’t have to land, they must be enough to just hold you in the air without beating for hours<\/i>. And, no offence, but you’re kind of short...” Patrick shrugs and smiles. “...I honestly don’t know how you hold them up.”
 
“They’re really heavy,” Patrick admits. “But that doesn’t change what I’ve done. I just feel so–so stupid<\/i>. Just, this whole thing. I shouldn’t even be here in the first place!”
 
“Well, how did you end up here?” the smaller guy asks, though not unkindly, carding his fingers through his wavy brown hair.
 
Patrick considers the question, and decides that really, he should tell the truth. “Well, I was catching fish one day, and I saw this rainbow, right? And I wondered what rainbows point to. So, I kind of just, well, followed it, but by the time I got there, it was gone. And I was already out, so I thought I’d just keep going, you know? Just until I found another rainbow.”
 
“You... you spent two weeks of constant flying looking for a rainbow<\/i>?”
 
Patrick blushes deeper than he had before. “When you put it that way, it does sound a little silly,” he mumbles sheepishly. “But, I just–I can’t bear the thought of not accepting the consequences of my actions. I have to redeem myself.”
 
“There’s no need to–” Jake argues, but the tattooed man cuts him off.
 
“We’ll discuss this later.”
 
Patrick nods, relieved he’ll be able to settle his gross misdemeanour, and winces when the movement sends a thin spark of pain through his shoulder muscles.
 
“Let me,” the lady in the corner says. Patrick twitches; he hasn’t noticed her up until now in their urgency to check the black-haired man’s condition – he clamps down his guilt at the thought – and she’s been silent throughout the entire proceedings. She walks over to him, her blond hair shining in the glow of the fire. “You’re in pain, and you’re hiding it out of courtesy, but let me help you.” Settling down behind him, she begins to massage his shoulders, and he sighs, relaxing under her deft touch.
 
“We have bigger matters to consider, in any event,” the weapon-clad man is saying, fingering a knife pensively. “I trust Pete’s told you the news?”
 
Pete. The man I hurt must be Pete. And he sounds important to these people.<\/i>
 
“Relax<\/i>,” the lady urges gently in his ear. “Stop tensing.”
 
“News?” Josh, Jake–no, Jon<\/i>, that was what his name was – enquires.
 
“You know – the Falcons kidnapping Spencer and taking him south. He’s going to announce war plans once the storm passes.”
 
Something changes in Jon’s face. A flicker of emotions and then vivid comprehension, and Patrick thinks he hears him whisper the third option<\/i>.
 
“What was that you said?”
 
“Oh... yeah, that’s what we were talking about,” Jon replies slowly. “In fact... Pete wants me to scout out the area first, you know, for umm... strategic reasons. So, Andy, any chance you can give me all the information you know?”
 
“In this weather?” Andy says sceptically.
 
“He stressed that it must be as soon as possible,” Jon says, fidgeting a little. “I’m a very strong flier, sir, and though it might take me a bit longer to circumvent the storm, I assure you it will be worth it.”
 
“I guess, if Pete ordered it...” Andy drags out, glancing over to the bedridden man with a shrug. They discuss coordinates and wind patterns and landing sites, and Patrick is all a bit confused by this so he finds himself admiring the pretty golden-brown wings of the blonde lady in his peripheral vision.
 
“When will you leave?”
 
“As soon as possible,” Jon says, glancing at Pete, who is beginning to stir. “I can’t wait for the storm to abate – you’ll want to leave as quickly as you can to catch up with the Falcon clans, and you’ll have to search for Brendon too.”
 
“Good point. Well, good luck to you then, Walker,” Andy says, standing up to shake Jon’s hand. “‘May the wind guide your wings and the skies keep you safe,’” he quotes.
 
Jon nods, and looks over at Patrick – no, over his head, at the blond lady – and stares hard, as though trying to convey something to her, before opening the door to let in a quick screech of wind and leaving. The lady shivers and her hands pause on his back.
 
“Are you okay?” Patrick asks.
 
“Yes. Yes, I am okay,” she says, and she seems... happy. “It’s just, the wind. It’s cold.”
 
“Mm,” Patrick replies, feeling a little cold himself. “Where I come from, it’s a lot warmer than this.”
 
“It sounds like a nice place,” she murmurs politely, but Patrick knows her mind is on other matters. “I’d like to visit, and meet your people. They must be glorious, in flight.”
 
“Actually...” Andy says slowly, “that could be...” But he is interrupted by a rasping voice.
 
“Where is he?” Pete growls, struggling to get up. “Where’s Jon?”
 
“Pete, no, lie down,” the lady argues, hurrying over to his side, and Patrick misses her tender hands, her soothing presence. “You could be concussed. You have to take it easy.”
 
“Get off me, Greta. Where is that fucker Walker?” Pete catches Patrick’s eye and looks confused. “And who is that?”
 
“You... ordered him to scout out Falcon territory to plan for our attack...” Andy falters, unsure. “He set off as soon as we had discussed technicalities, maybe five minutes ago...”
 
“I’m, umm, Patrick–Patrick Stump, for the record,” Patrick begins, timidly. “I flew into you on the cliff, I want to apologise profusely for–”
 
“Later, later.” Pete cuts him off with an impatient wave of his hand, turning to Andy. “He what<\/i>? I said no such–” Pete’s eyes widen, and he groans, long and drawn out. “Fuck. It makes sense. He must have been on duty that day, and then... fucking Spencer<\/i>.”
 
“What are you saying?”
 
“Stop him, Hurley, he can’t have left already,” Pete says sharply, yet Patrick can recognise the futility present in his voice, even if he has no idea what is happening. “He’s... he’s gone after Brendon. Brendon, and Spencer.”
 
Greta smiles.
 
Part Three<\/a><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/4369.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/4284.html","pubDate":"Tue, 08 Jun 2010 05:39:49 GMT","title":"1\/6","author":"oxyidiot","link":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/4284.html","description":"
Someone is coming.
 
Brendon squints out at the vista spread before him. The sky, the sea, and there – a black dot growing steadily larger. The others will spot him soon, but Brendon is the main lookout, so he sees what happens before anyone else. He grins as he recognises the figure, and hurls himself off the cliff.
 
His wings snap open as he hits the warm air coming off the rock face and he is buffeted upwards, taking quick, whirring strokes, feeling the air scream across his skin. For a moment he swoops up towards the sun, just to feel the joy of flying, just being<\/i>... he quickly descends, reprimanding himself lightly for getting distracted, and circles back around to hover above the stranger, who has been coasting, waiting for him.
 
“Jonnnn!” he squeals, tackling him in the air and causing them to drop and roll in a flurry of feathers and limbs. Jon seems to stiffen for a moment, his arms folding around his pack. Shaking him off, Jon banks and pulls upward sharply, a few hundred feet shy of the sea below.
 
“Almost got me that time,” he says amiably, ascending to where Brendon is dipping and whooping with glee. Brendon has a sneaking suspicion Jon is letting him win their little game, but he refuses to believe it. Anyway, there are more important things at hand.
 
“Found anything?” Brendon asks as they soar closer to the steep stone precipice. Well, Jon <\/i>soars. Brendon... buzzes<\/i>. “I’ve always had a good feeling about the East. It’s my favourite direction.”
 
Jon shifts his pack across his chest and motions vaguely with the other hand. “Nothing high enough. Fog was pretty thick in some places. I had to look hard for food.”
 
A stab of worry jolts Brendon’s chest, and his wings miss a beat. “Y–you didn’t go down there, right?” He tugs the rough fabric of Jon’s shirt urgently as the mountain looms large in their vision. “Tell me you stayed away from it.”
 
He doesn’t get a reply because Jon flares his wings out, catching the air enough to give the illusion of floating, before he lands, one foot touching gently before the other joins it, barely making an impression in the dirt. Brendon flaps and bounces onto the rock, sending scree clattering down the mountainside and raising a small cloud of dust around his feet that is quickly dispersed by the salty wind off the sea.
 
“Graceful as ever, Urie,” Jon remarks with an amused smile, folding his wings tight to his body. “Good to know nothing has changed since I’ve been gone.”
 
Brendon punches Jon’s shoulder playfully and links their arms, sheathing his wings. “Shut up, featherbrain. Everyone will be waiting for you, c’mon.” They make their way down the well-ground pathway from the exposed outcrop, and Brendon forgets that Jon never gave him an answer.
 
Everyone does seem to be waiting for Jon’s arrival. The meeting pavilion is packed tight with feathered bodies, murmuring amongst each other. Pete spots Jon and the tension seems to go out of his stance, breaking into a wide grin and beckoning him over. Jon looks uncomfortable at all the attention that is turned to him, and nudges Brendon.
 
“Take care of my stuff, okay? Pete probably wants a concise report or something, it will take a while.”
 
Brendon can tell he’s being told to go away, but in a nicer way, so he isn’t hurt but nods in understanding, giving Jon a small smile as he walks over to greet their leader. After all, Brendon is <\/i>the lowest ranked working member of the flock, and even though Jon is his friend, the flock comes first. Jon is important. <\/i>Jon had a mission that took him weeks away from home. Brendon is just a lookout, a messenger boy. A nobody.
 
He weaves his way back through the mesh of people, muttering apologies when he bumps them until he reaches fresh air. The mountain path is narrow, but Brendon has walked this way millions of times before and really, why worry about a drop when you have wings? <\/i>The track hugs the cliff as it winds around, eventually turning into a large, flat stone area with stone dwellings arranged in a rough semicircle; the roost of Sky Peaks. The flock’s few younglings are playing wingball in the centre, batting the ball through the air with quick flicks of their wings. They  stop when they see Brendon approach, and the two girls giggle and cover their faces with their wings, but the boy rolls his eyes at them and runs up to Brendon.
 
“Is it true?” he asks, looking up at Brendon with wide eyes. “Is Jon back?”
 
“Yeah, Alex,” Brendon replies, ruffling his hair good-naturedly. “I flew out to him myself. He’s with Pete and the rest of the flock at the pavilion now.”
 
“We weren’t allowed to come,” Alex says darkly, giving the ball a sharp kick. (It rolls over the cliff and Alex glares after it. The girls peer over the edge, annoyed, and say it’s gone into the sea and that was their favourite ball<\/i>, and that boys are stupid, <\/i>and that they’re going to try and find a new one and play without him, thank you very much.<\/i>) “Is Spencer back too?”
 
“No...” Brendon says slowly, frowning. “But it can take months sometimes to conduct a proper scouting trip, so he’s not exactly overdue...”
 
“When are you going on a trip?” Alex says suddenly after a small silence, and Brendon notices he is chewing the side of his lip ever so slightly. “I mean, all the other men have, so it must be you next...”
 
“Oh.” Brendon says, trying to think of a good reason why he hasn’t been sent out. Anything but the truth, really. “Um. I’m...” He remembers Pete’s words and suppresses a sigh. “I’m more useful back here.”
 
“Cool,” Alex replies, his face breaking into an unrestrained grin. “I don’t want you to leave. Everyone else is boring<\/i>.”
 
He knows that if he says I don’t want to leave either <\/i>that it would be a lie. “Hey now, what about the twins?” Brendon says instead, resuming his walk into the little stone village, Alex tagging along at his side. “You guys were having fun back there.”
 
“But they’re girls<\/i>,” Alex states simply, and Brendon admits he probably has a point there.
 
“Go bother your mother,” Brendon chuckles, nudging him gently as he reaches Jon’s little cottage that he shares with Spencer. (It’s been lonely since both Jon and Spencer have been gone, and Brendon has visited it every so often to spruce it up so it feels more like a home than a cold box of rocks.) “She’s a girl<\/i>.”
 
“No, she’s a mom<\/i>,” Alex replies, dragging out his words as though trying to get the point through to Brendon, but complies and leaves him alone with the house.
 
He pushes open the door, wincing at how cold it is inside. Dumping Jon’s pack on their old wooden table, he picks up some logs from the stack in the corner and tosses them in the fireplace, scattering dried grass across the top, then takes flint and Jon’s old carving knife and strikes sparks onto the pile. He feels a little zing of satisfaction as the fire takes hold and he’s happy that he’s making this place habitable for Jon, because it means he’s useful<\/i>.
 
The fire starts to warm the room and the draught coming from the bathroom is suddenly noticeable and he knew <\/i>he had left that window open last time he came here. He gets up, but stops in his tracks, because Jon’s pack is moving. <\/i>
 
 

*<\/p> 


<\/b>“It’s cool, man,” Pete says finally, clapping a friendly hand to Jon’s shoulder. “At least we know now to steer clear of that quadrant.”<\/p> 
Jon nods, scuffing one foot against the ground. He thought maybe, maybe, <\/i>he could’ve been the one to find the new roost. Maybe he could’ve been the one to stop the endless searching that saps their resources and puts the safety of the flock at risk by sending out their fittest fliers to scour the land in this futile endeavour.
 
Pete seems to pick up on his vibe because he tightens his grip and says, “Hey. Hey. Joe’s got a new batch of liquor brewed since you’ve been gone. Let’s celebrate your safe return, or something.”
 
“I think I’ll pass,” Jon says with a laugh, because Pete is just so wonderfully Pete<\/i>. “I’ve been flying hard for days; I want to wake up more rested than when I go to sleep.”
 
“I got first taste, it’s great stuff,” Pete wheedles. Jon shakes his head and Pete shrugs. “Suit yourself. More for me.”
 
“Hey, so, have you heard from Spence?” Jon asks, trying to keep his tone casual.
 
“Nothing yet,” Pete says, his smile fading slightly, and Jon hates the sympathetic look that flashes briefly across his face. “It’s still early days. He’ll be fine.”
 
“Yeah, yeah,” Jon mumbles. He scratches his unshaven chin. “I should get home and shave. This thing is itchy<\/i>.”
 
“Great to have you back, Walker,” Pete replies, his grin back in full force, giving him a mock salute before turning towards the raised platform in the centre of the pavilion. Jon brushes past people who welcome him back, acknowledging them with a nod and a smile, and retires to the edge of the crowd to watch Pete take his place as leader and command the attention of the flock.
 
“As you all know Jon has returned and reports that there is no habitable place in quadrant E–15. He spent three weeks mapping that quadrant and did a fucking excellent job considering the weather we’ve been having lately. Kudos to him!
 
“We’ve lived on this mountain for three generations and food is getting scarce. The weather is getting worse – I think the climate may be shifting again. Even though I know some of you believe that we can stick it out here, it’s not an option. We’ve got to move, which is why we need more volunteers to search the south – quadrants S–7, S–9 and S–14 are up for grabs. I know most of you have only just returned from scouting, but... does anyone want to step up at this stage?”
 
There’s movement in the crowd and then Jon sees three figures step towards the podium. His heart sinks a little – he always has a little hope that Pete won’t call for volunteers, even though it is silly because Pete has no choice <\/i>but he hates seeing friends flying off on that long, lonely journey into harsh, unknown lands. Jon is grateful Brendon has never been asked to go. It changes <\/i>people. Images flash through his mind – driving rain, barren highlands, and the fog, always the fog, roiling around the ground malevolently –<\/i>
 
“Conrad, Chislett, Carden, you guys are awesome,” Pete enthuses, wrapping his arms around Tom and Mike and grinning at Chizz and Jon has to smile because Pete looks so damn short<\/i> next to the C–trio. “Okay, the boys and I are going to discuss co-ordinates. There’s about an hour until sunset, go be productive.”
 
Jon gets back to his house to find the fire blazing merrily, the room clean and Brendon on the floor with his pack open, and...
 
Well. He supposes his secret isn’t safe anymore.
 
“Jon!” Brendon exclaims, tearing his gaze away from his rapt appraisal of the small creature limping around the main room, sniffing furniture curiously. “What is<\/i> it? Where did you get it? How–?”
 
“I don’t know what it is,” Jon admits, sitting cross-legged opposite Brendon and offering his hand to the animal, which sniffs it and butts its head against it. “I found it–” He trails off.
 
Sunset. A stiff wind rising up from the north, varying wildly at times as the storm he’s been watching all afternoon passes a few miles to the south. Jon angles his wings to catch the gusts better and is unexpectedly blown off course. The angle is askew enough that Jon catches a glimpse of a red glow not too far below at the tip of his right wing.<\/i>
 
Fire.<\/i>
 
He’s surprised he hasn’t noticed it before, because suddenly he can see how far the blaze has spread, uncontrolled, streaking from trees to shrubs and the long, arid grasslands that have quickly turned to standing hay after the hot summer. That said, though, he’s been passing in and out of clouds for the last few hours, so it’s probably–... there’s a lull in the erratic wind and he feels the heat of it strongly against the underside of his body. But these are no thermals pushing him higher – in fact, the air is making a strange hollow howling and Jon realises too late that it’s being sucked in to fuel the fire. There’s no warning – he is suddenly being yanked violently downwards, no control, the heat getting close enough to singe his feathers and the roaring is so loud, so close, and...<\/i>
 
And, somehow, he’s pulled a twisting manoeuvre that lessens the grip of the fire, and he is instead hurled to the side to land, hard, on the warm earth. The warm... earth. He’s been grounded.<\/i>
 
Immediately he wants to get away, jump up and fly as high as he can. The low land is dangerous, the low land is poisonous, the Lost Ones and the fog and all the things he’s ever been taught hammer repeatedly in his mind, a panicked mantra. But some part of him, the logical, practical part, notices he is still too close to the blaze, and taking to the air now would just get him sucked back into the inferno. So, he turns his back on the dark trees twisted in grotesque shapes being consumed by the hungry flames and he runs.<\/i>
 
And he’s never been this scared in his life. The glare of the fire has temporarily blinded him, and he stumbles across the rough terrain, unconsciously muttering under his breath in fear-induced panic. He aches all over with the severity of his landing, and is his skin burning or is he just imagining things? His shoe catches on a rock, and he’s flying, only in the way that ends with his face buried in stinging dirt and his heart nearly exploding with terror. For a moment, he’s paralysed.<\/i>
 
Then he sees it. It’s cowering next to a rock, its eyes glowing with the distant flames, wide and fearful. It makes a low sound as he gets up and meets its gaze, then limps over towards him. Jon reacts immediately, scrabbling backwards, because this is a ground creature. But Jon can’t help noticing how small it is, and how helpless with its leg mangled, and when it looks up at him and he sees the fire reflected in its eyes, he knows it will never be able to escape it. It takes all of his courage to reach out a trembling hand and scoop up the creature, marvelling distantly at how light it is. Holding it tight to his chest, he unfurls his wings and shoots upwards into the night.<\/i>
 
“D’you reckon it’s like a really big rat?” Brendon is saying, and Jon shakes off the memory, glad that Brendon’s attention span is about as big as the ball of fur rubbing against him. “It has whiskers and a tail and fur but its face is kind of flatter.”
 
“Not unless they’re cannibals,” Jon replies, smiling as the animal arches its back under Brendon’s hand. “I fed it rats I caught on this outcrop.”
 
“Eugh, rats.” Brendon makes a face. “Get me a tasty seagull any day. You’ve got bad taste, little lady... is <\/i>it a girl? Or do these things even have a gender?”
 
“Good point, Bren, I never thought to check that,” Jon muses, and reaches out for the animal. Lifting it up, he checks its underbelly, and smiles. “I think it–... I think he <\/i>is a boy.”
 
“You should name him,” Brendon decides, tickling the little boy under his chin.
 
“You can,” Jon says, staring idly into the fire and shivering a little in remembrance. “I know you want to.”
 
Brendon mulls over this. “Dylan,” he says, and smiles. “Dylan, the thing-that-is-not-a-rat.”
 
Dylan saunters over to Jon, tail held high in the air, and climbs onto his lap, making a rumbling, contented noise and curling up into a little furry coil. Brendon stands up, brushing a few strands of hair off his pants and stretches. “Hey, so, do you want to have dinner with us tonight? I know Greta’s got some stuff she’s been saving for a time like–”
 
“It’s okay, Bren,” Jon interrupts, stroking Dylan’s head lightly. “I have some food left from my trip that I need to finish off. I kind of want a quiet night tonight.”
 
“Oh.”
 
“Hey, hey,” Jon says, catching Brendon’s subdued tone. “It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you. I just–...” I don’t know if I can handle people yet. I don’t know what’s going on in my head. I need time to figure all this out. <\/i>
 
“Yeah, it’s cool,” Brendon mutters. “Sleep well. Bye, Dylan.”
 
Jon closes his eyes and lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding in as he hears his door click shut. Slowly, he flexes his back, drawing his wings out to their full span, the tips brushing against the walls on both sides. The firelight casts golden shadows over them, coating the glossy flight feathers in scintillating light and giving his down a soft glow. But, looking beyond their first impressions, Jon can see they’re different – the chestnut-brown colour is not as rich, and there are patches where feathers should have been. Running a hand over the ragged edges, a few more feathers fall out in his hand.
 
He’s not due to moult for another six months, and there are no tell-tale stubs to indicate any new feathers that are pushing the old ones out. This is something different.
 
He stares at the feathers in his hands, considering.
 
 

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
Greta is in the garden, still, even as the sun dips into the sea, dying it a brilliant red as though it is awash with blood. Brendon’s not really surprised. He bets Greta didn’t even go to the pavilion to greet Jon, instead choosing to pull another weed or sprinkle some more water on a seedling.
 
“Hey,” Brendon says, negotiating his way amongst the rows of vegetables, shrubs and vines that are one of the flock’s main sources of food. “Jon’s back, you know.”
 
“Mm,” Greta says absently, brushing a strand of golden hair out of her face with a soil-encrusted hand. Yep, she was here the whole time. <\/i>“So I heard. No luck?” She meets Brendon’s gaze long enough to see his head shaking in the negative. The sun caresses her face and she looks as serene as ever, but her eyes seem sad, their dark brown deep and soulful.
 
Greta isn’t Brendon’s mother. Brendon’s parents were swept away in the bitter winter of his fourth year in a sudden storm while on a retreat to the mountain peaks of the north, but he doesn’t really remember too much about them. When Zack took him under his wing, Greta became like the older, prettier sibling that he never had, helping Zack take care of him, even while their own parents became increasingly estranged from them. Greta’s–well, Greta’s kind of wise, and smart, and practical, and wonderful, and... she and Zack are all the family he has, and he couldn’t ask for anything else.
 
“He didn’t find anything at all,” Brendon lies, a little guiltily, but thinks that bringing up Dylan would be a delicate subject. “The eastern desert is literally deserted.”
 
“I figured,” Greta says, smiling, and tenderly places some vegetables into a small woven basket by her feet. “I’m actually surprised he went the whole way without running into any significant obstacles, though. Falcons are feisty at the moment.”
 
The sharp-boned, sharp-winged clans puzzle Brendon, but he’s never met any so he guesses he can’t judge them. At the same time, though, with a little irrational twinge, he hopes that Zack hasn’t run into any of them in N–4. “Winter is coming. I suppose they’re heading south.”
 
“Perhaps,” Greta replies, dusting off her hands and sliding her small shovel into her belt. “You know it’s your turn to get dinner tonight, right?”
 
Oh<\/i>. “Shit,” Brendan says. “I totally forgot. I’ve been so busy today off my watch – Justin and Mindy’s kids needed babysitting, Andrew needed supplies ferried back and Joe asked me to tend his garden while he was on watch, and when Jon–”
 
Greta laughs. “Bren, seriously, just go and get a fish from the crater lake.”
 
“But it’s freezing in there!” Brendon exclaims, mortified. “I’ll become a living ice sculpture!”
 
“You’re already half-way there,” Greta teases, standing up and reaching over to flick the edge of his wing. “You’re the man of the house now, so get your butt moving or a Falcon will snatch your catch. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta eat.”
 
“No Falcon’ll get my fishie,” Brendon vows. He skips a little back down the path before grumbling under his breath, “Bet they don’t even eat fish.”
 
 

*<\/p> 
 
 “Where are we going?”
 
Ryan can barely hear the question over the wind. They’re flying fast, air pummelling at his exposed skin and damn <\/i>it is getting colder. Sighing inwardly, he breaks formation and slides back to where Spencer is, panting with exertion, riding the slipstream of the other flock members simply to keep up.
 
Again, Ryan hears his inner self speaking. He’s not built for this. He’s an Eagle. He may be stronger than us but he can’t maintain our speed, and sooner or later he is going to get left behind.<\/i>
 
“South, Spence,” he yells. “There’s a place we roost in mostly for winter. We’ll be there in another day or so if we make a night flight.”
 
“Fucking–<\/i>” Spencer growls, and Ryan can hear the fatigue strain his voice. He’s not going to make it.<\/i>
 
Ryan drifts towards the front again, listening to the pattern of the wind. By now, the sun should be halfway to complete sunset, and the slight eddies of turbulence on his left wing indicate some weather brewing to the east. Perhaps a dust storm? He shifts his hearing to the breathing rhythms of his flock, at Spencer pushing along at the back, and makes a decision.
 
Holding his hand up, he makes a sharp downward motion and then rotates his arm three times. The three fliers on his flank peel off and scatter in a whir of disturbed air, all heading generally south.
 
“We’re heading in for the night,” he explains to Spencer, who doesn’t understand the flock signals. “Some of the fliers are out searching for appropriate resting places. They’ll circle back and find us as soon as they can.”
 
William is on his right flank. Ryan edges forward, scoping out the way the air flows around his body to avoid getting in the way of his wings before tapping an arm. The tendons underneath his fingertips twitch in response and Ryan jerks a finger back in Spencer’s direction. He can feel the short sigh of resignation William breathes against his cheek, but he falls back with him so they’re on either side of the struggling Eagle.
 
“Hold out your hands,” he shouts, and when Spencer complies with a short, fumbling motion betraying his puzzlement, they each wrap their arms around one. “Hold on tight!”
 
Ryan and William then begin to put on speed, their sharp wings beating in a blur, and Spencer is pulled along at what is probably a terrifying pace for him. Ryan can feel his pulse racing under his tight grip, the tense shuddering and the little squeaks he lets out every so often, and squeezes a hand gently in reassurance.
 
Night has truly set in once the fliers return in quick succession. The air temperature has definitely dropped, and Ryan can’t feel the sun’s infinitesimal warmth on the tip of his right wing anymore. Sisky’s the one who found the roost, and he takes his place at the front of the flock to lead them there, little flicks of air slipping back across Ryan’s slipstream indicating his excitement. He has no reservations about laughing at Spencer being pulled along, and the way Spencer’s hand twists upon Ryan’s arm alludes to an expression that must be able to melt iron.
 
The cave they settle in for the night is apparently gouged out from a jagged peak rising from the desolate wastelands below, according to Sisky as they fly towards it. Ryan takes a few seconds to get his bearings as the rest of the flock fly in, analysing the way the sharp beats of their wings echo off the walls before peeling off his blindfold, tying it around his neck, and unpacking fire-making materials from his pack.
 
“Standard dirt-packed cave,” William relays to him. “Entrance medium-sized at say five by seven and slope increasing until an apex of ten. Roughly ovular in shape, I’d say the perimeter would be at least twenty by thirty. Watch grid eighteen-thirty, there’s a low roof and slight stalagmite formation. Oh, and at twelve-thirty there’s a small opening, possibly to another cave. I’ll go check it out now.”
 
Ryan thanks him and listens to the crunch of his footsteps as he walks towards the back of the cave, idly comparing William’s estimations to how long it takes him to reach the little arch and with how large he knows his stride is. But his thought process is interrupted by another set of footsteps. Hesitant.
 
Spencer. He can feel him hovering, wondering if Ryan needs help, even though he’s taking harsh, ragged breaths of exhaustion. It’s been like this every night since they found him, starving and fighting off wolves in the icy north, and Ryan can’t help but feel a little resentful, even if he can hardly blame Spencer for his reaction. He knows the flock won’t have said anything, so he’s going to have to set things straight. Ashlee’s light footfall treads towards Spencer and she dumps something heavy into his arms (slight burst of old resin, cycling through the overbearing dull scent of old musty sawdust – firewood) and tells him to make himself useful.
 
Spencer piles the wood awkwardly, branches slipping and sliding out of his arms to clunk onto the ground. Ryan listens for the way he places the wood, then crouches down, feeling for a piece he knows is in the wrong place and carefully rearranges it before spreading tinder and firemoss. “Keep the larger ones on the bottom,” he explains. “You have to make a semi-pyramid, so that the medium pieces stack around each other to an apex. The fire can draw from the air pocket inside so that it’s burning strong when the medium pieces are burnt out and the pyramid collapses, and begin eating into the larger pieces at the bottom so that it’ll last the night.” Spencer huffs a little – disbelief, maybe, or annoyance – but Ryan ignores him, striking his flint and listening for the whisper of the spark as it angles to land.
 
“You’re blind,” Spencer blurts out finally. Ryan gently blows on the spark, feeling the spreading heat on his face as it ignites the moss and tinder, before angling his face up to Spencer’s.
 
“An accurate observation,” he replies. “Go on.”
 
Spencer blusters a little. “Well. It’s just that. Um. You can’t... see.”
 
“Tends to happen when you lose your sight,” Ryan continues, nonchalant. He waits for a reply, but it seems Spencer is at a loss for words. He shrugs and stands up, stretching out his legs. “By the way, watch your feet. You’re standing a bit too close.” He delves into his pack, feeling around for the pots and pans as Spencer yelps a little (gradual gradient of smouldering smell – not the feet, then, but the trousers).
 
Spencer tries a new tack. “Why are you keeping me with you?” he asks bluntly. “I can’t keep up. No matter how hard I push myself, I’m of different blood, and I’m going to fall behind or simply drop out of the sky from exhaustion. And you guys aren’t strong enough to pull me all the way either. I’m a burden to your flock.”
 
Ryan pauses, his fingers hooked around the pocked metal of a pot. He doesn’t tell Spencer that he’s right; they’ve slowed the pace considerably to accommodate him and the rest of the members are chafing at it. He traces the scars on the pot while he picks the best words to answer him. “We need you, Spence. We’ve done something for you, now you need to do something for us.”
 
“You seem capable of doing most things better than I can,” Spencer replies, and there’s a barely discernable edge to his voice.
 
“This isn’t something I can do,” Ryan replies. “I’d need a working pair of eyes for this.” He smiles, ruefully. “Ever since the dark times when our ancestors first grew wings and took to the skies to escape the anarchy and destruction below, our people have been nomads. We never settle in one place for longer than a season. We never stop moving, and we are made to fly at speeds your people could only dream of.” Ryan stirs the fire with a twig pensively. “But the world is changing. We can’t keep up our lifestyle for much longer. Storms are coming up too fast, and there is not enough places to sit them out without risking being too close to the ground, but nor can we fly through them and expect all of us to come out the other end uninjured, or... alive.”
 
“What does this have to do with me?” Spencer interrupts. “We live in one place for our whole lives, we build homes and grow food and there is no way you could live like that because you’re Falcons <\/i>and it’s like teaching a rat to be a gull, y’know?”
 
“No, it’s not like that,” Ryan argues softly. “We need to leave this land, and you need to guide us. Guide me.”
 
“Wait... what?” Spencer chuckles, the low sound slowly building up to a strangled laugh. “Me? <\/i>Are you pulling my feathers? This is ridiculous. If you want an Eagle guide, I am probably the last guy you should ask.”
 
“No, no,” Ryan replies, annoyed that Spencer isn’t getting it<\/i>. “We’ve been watching what your clan has been doing the last few years. Sending solo flyers out to certain areas... you’re scouting, aren’t you? And you’re not finding anything, because you’re obviously still looking. We’ve been the length and breadth of our territory in accordance to the treaty, and there’s nothing left here. But the north... the north is the place we need to go. So that we can get to–”
 
“Hold up, whoa,” Spencer cuts in. “No way am I going back to that place, after what happened. You already violated the treaty once to rescue me, which I am very thankful for, but there’s no way in hell that I can guide thousands of your kind through Eagle territory without war!”
 
“Look,” Ryan says, frustrated, “you owe us a favour for helping you out. Just, come with us back to our winter roost. We can sort...”
 
At this point Maja swoops into the cave, her buffeting wingbeats sending a flurry of images to Ryan – Sisky and Ashlee conversing by the fire, Spencer sitting across from him. Rustling. “Found some skymoss on the south side,” she says through her thick accent. “There’s enough for everyone, and it’ll last a few more days once I dry it all.”
 
“Moss?” Spencer asks incredulously.
 
“It’s good for you,” Ryan states with a blank face, but secretly glad of the distraction. He’ll come around. It’s just a matter of time<\/i>. “Vitamins, fibre, iron...” Maja’s stride resonates across the floor towards him – yes, heavier than Ashlee’s, more decisive – and she places a cool wad of moss in his outstretched hand.
 
“Eugh. Thish ish dishcushting,” Spencer mumbles. Sisky is in fits of semi-silent laugher behind him, and Ashlee gives him a quick slap and tells him to stop being disrespectful to our guest, he isn’t used to this.<\/i>
 
“This is a delicacy,” William drawls dryly. Ryan tilts his head, visualising the stamp of his feet and the brush of stale air ahead of him as he emerges from the tunnel. Ryan figures he’s found a spring or a rivulet back there, judging from the heavy sloshing sound the canisters he must have hanging around his neck are making. “Mother used to give me skymoss cake on my birthday. We’re spoiling you, darling. This isn’t even a special occasion.”
 
Sisky’s actually choking.<\/i>
 
“You’re all terrible teases,” Ashlee reprimands. “Spencer’s people grow their own food, so he’s used to better fare.”
 
Spencer mumbles something darkly under his breath and Ryan cracks a thin smile, having to hide it by eating the rest of his moss, which is actually a quite tasty variety. He bookmarks this spot in his mind for later reference for the spring migration north, and then checks himself. If <\/i>there is a spring migration north. Nothing is set anymore, and the future is becoming quickly fluid...
 
“Heyyy!” Butcher says cheerfully, stumbling in on a gust of wind. “Uncle Butcher’s got the real <\/i>grub. Step aside, step aside...” He tiptoes around where Maja is crouching in front of the fire (drying out the excess moss most likely. Sweet smell on the edge of being singed...) and dumps his bag next to Spencer. “I bagged a giant cliffrat and some bats!” he proclaims proudly. The flock give exaggerated oohs <\/i>and ahhs.<\/i>
 
“You eat... rats?<\/i>” Spencer says in a strangled voice.
 
“Don’t you?” Ryan inquires blandly. “Lots of protein, abundant, and not too much effort to skin.”
 
“Not just common<\/i> rats,” Butcher corrects with an injured tone. “Only the giant ones.”
 
“Rat roast is our traditional Christmas feast,” William adds slyly. Spencer makes a small noise in his throat.
 
“I think I’ll have the bats,” he says faintly.
 
“Suit yourself,” replies Butcher. Sisky starts to wheeze a little in the background.
 
“Okay, name your parts!” Butcher says. “I call hindquarters.”
 
The rest of the flock call out which pieces they want, except for Sisky, who sounds like he is trying in vain to suck in enough air to make an intelligible statement. “Looks like you get one of the bats, Sisk,” Butcher says apologetically.
 
“Not...” Sisky pants, “...fair!”
 
“You know the rules, sunshine,” William says. “First in, first served. Spencer is perfectly happy with his bat, and so you should be too.”
 
“You guys are insane,” Spencer mutters in disbelief, roasting his bat carefully on the fire (tips of flame on fur and shift of airflow, deeper permeation to richer cooking meat). He can’t seem to find any more words, so he settles for repeating “insane” under his breath.
 
The cheerful banter seems to feel distant to Ryan. Slowly, it begins to fade, and he can feel a headache blooming in the recesses of his mind. The ambient environment slowly begins to magnify – the deep smell of the meat, the snarl of heated air upon his cheek, the furtive scrapes and crackles of the fire... Ryan sighs. Standing up, he walks around the fire, using his memory of William’s steps to find his way to the tunnel.
 
The relative stillness and the soft dripping of water somewhere in the distance should be soothing to him, but his headache gradually increases to a resonant pounding in his skull, which means it isn’t a headache at all, just as Ryan suspects. It’s one of those <\/i>things. Ryan can only hope it is over soon.
 
He reaches the source of the water William must have found earlier. Crouching down near the gentle dripping sound, he hums low and listens to the way it resonates across the cave floor. His head throbs and he quickly leans down to splash the chilly liquid on his face (smooth echo indicates spring-fed pool, shallow due to weak flow of spring). He takes a few steps back, breathing slowly, until his foot hits something unexpected and he trips, nearly falling backwards. Fuck <\/i>dryscrapingclattersilence.
 
Ryan sinks to the ground again, digging his fingers into his arms and biting his lip. His heart sounds deafening in his ears. Missing things is not something he can take lightly. It could have been a rock scorpion, and he would be finished. Dark and silent, forever. He’s only one step from being the walking dead; he can’t lose his ears, he just can’t<\/i>...
 
He lets out a shuddery breath and hears a faint rebound of sound. Frowning, he uncurls a hesitant hand and brushes against something dry, brittle... (ancient, familiar smell, with a ghost of something metallic). “Skeleton,” Ryan murmurs aloud. Bones old and crumbling, curled up by the wall. Something itches at his consciousness as he traces the outline of the person – a man<\/i>, he thinks – and his hands pause over the thoracic vertebrae. The skeleton has no wingbones.<\/i>
 
His headache twists sharply and he stumbles forward, leaning against the wall for support. But there’s little indents under his sensitive palms. He draws a finger downwards... writing?<\/i>
 
Ap...l 16th<\/sup> 23...6
It’s too late for us. This war has spiralled... ... ...nyone left is in hiding,, praying to whatever god they believe in for survival. Even our god of science has averted his gaze... ... ...Doves I sent never returned. My cr... ... ...my dear friends, cast asunder... ... ...is in flames, but then again so is the rest of the world... ... ...many more will die for this worthless cause? How can you reign over a world if it is destroyed? <\/font>
 
The whole wall is covered in it,<\/i> Ryan realises with shock, running his hands in a wide sweeping motion across it, eyes shut tight to concentrate on how the small, scrawling letters that have been nearly smoothed out by years of neglect feel under his fingertips. He wonders if William noticed this when he came down here before.
 
...89
...winter has lasted two years now... ... ...riots among the survivors. I want no... ... ...elieve that the nuclear debris cloud is any thinner nearer... ... ...but there is no one else here to back... ... ...squalid camp, even the most intelligent have no more say than the lowliest sanitary technician, in a ‘society’ based upon brute force... ... ...and so Darwinism again rears its head. ... ... ...refuse to go along on this useless crusade, and thus I am left behind to...<\/font>
 
The words swim around in his mind, and he reads rapidly, skipping across the letters scratched into the stone. He races through faded years and dates that are meaningless to him...
 
23...1
...The radiation seems to settle in the lowlands. Genetic degeneration must be ... ... What I would give to study it... ... ...people emerge from the swirling fog that seems to have been concentrated in the valleys in... ... ...disfigured and emaciated, they seem to drift from place to place like leaves,... ... ...concerned, however, with the ones that do not move in confusion, but with purpose, and I don’t know if...
 
Jan... 2392
...tide is turning, I fear... ... ...echoes of the Callendar effect from our wanton brothers of eras past has kept things growing out of light and kept us fed enough to survive... ... ...artificial ice age begins to tighten its grip. The human race is doomed to suffer as the dinosaurs did; a slow starvation until even the fittest perish. ... ... ...istine used to laugh and say she could play the xylophone on my ribs, but if she did now I fear I would shatter. ... ... ...long gone, and... ... ...the fate of our child, if whether the last remnants of the serum I possessed gave her a chance to rise above this.... ... ...suppose I will spend the time I have left waiting for the...<\/font>
 
Ryan’s headache explodes and he drops to his knees, hard. Grabbing his temples, he bites down on his lip to stop himself screaming as the dark, blank screens that are his eyes suddenly erupt into agonising colour.
 
A small mountain range, far to the northwest. A chamber of sorts, filled with people. Anger, fear... revenge. The short one orders them to fly out, to seek out the kidnappers and destroy them. Wings beating the air in frenzy, seeking vengeance, seeking <\/i>him...<\/i>
 
Ryan sprints back along the passageway, leaving the dead man from a forgotten time neglected on the ground. 
  

Part Two<\/a><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/4284.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/3964.html","pubDate":"Tue, 08 Jun 2010 05:04:39 GMT","title":"Prologue","author":"oxyidiot","link":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/3964.html","description":"
Brendon Boyd Urie is four years, eleven days, and twelve hours old and today is his first flying lesson.
 
Spencer pulls him along the icy path with a pudgy hand, impatient. Spencer’s already been flying for half a year, now, even though Brendon’s nearly five months older than him. Brendon watches Spencer’s little grey-black wings twitch with excitement from under his thick bangs, and feels nerves settling in his stomach like a thousand tiny butterflies. He wonders how the butterflies could’ve gotten in there without being eaten, and walks slower so he won’t hurt them. 

“Brennnn,” Spencer moans petulantly, his breath making irritated little puffs of white in the air, “Come onnn! I’ve been waiting forever<\/i> for this. Jon’s six and he’s too old to hang out with kids like us anymore. I want you to fly with me.”
 
“But, Spence...” Brendon mumbles, “What if I can’t? People say I’m different. That I’m de–deform–” He struggles over the unfamiliar word, then settles for an alternate phrasing. “That my wings are wrong.” He clenches his wings tighter to his back.
 
“Anyone who says that is stupid,” Spencer declares, and then quickly glances around to see if anyone had heard the bad word that he had said. They’re climbing the track now to the lookout, where two people are waiting, and Spencer gives Brendon a gentle push forward before plumping himself down on a rock near the edge and playing with flecked pebbles in the dirty compacted snow.
 
Instead of Brendon’s parents, who have not yet returned from their northern vacation, Zack will be the one to teach him in place of his father, and Pete, a surly twelve-year-old who kind of scares Brendon a little, is his second in place of his mother, who’ll make sure Brendon doesn’t fall if Zack gets distracted. Generally, other grownups should be teaching him, but everybody seems to have something better to do. Seeing Pete staring at him with bored indifference from under hooded eyes doesn’t exactly fill Brendon with confidence, but seeing Zack cheers him up a little. Zack is big and strong and old – he’s turning fifteen soon – and makes Brendon feel safe. He loosens his shoulder muscles a little and takes a deep, calming breath. All the other kids could do it. So, so can I<\/i>.
 
“Heya, kid,” Zack says, patting him on the shoulder. “Nervous?”
 
“Nope,” Brendon lies, sticking out his chest to make himself look fearless.
 
Zack laughs, a big, booming laugh. Like thunder, but nicer. “’Atta boy, Bren. Now, c’mere, and spread your wings for me so I can see if you’re ready.” Brendon steps up obediently, opening his wings to their full length. Zack runs a hand over the soft curvature of the tips, counting feathers.
 
“Your flappers sure are one of a kind,” Zack muses while he works. In the background, Pete yawns.
 
“They’re shaped all wrong,” Brendon says sadly. He casts his eyes up to the sky, and sees a funny cloud in the north, shaped like a dark fish with one fin trailing in the water. Except, if it really is a fish, its fin would be trailing in the sand at the bottom of the sea, like in their pond where they grow fish back in the village. A sudden gust of wind hits him and he shivers in the harsh air of a winter reluctant to give way to spring.
 
“That’s not true, Bren,” Zack says, turning to the other wing. “They certainly look more like Falcon wings than Eagle wings, but they’ve got a softer contour. And look – all your primaries... well, your flying feathers, that is, have grown in perfectly. You ain’t broken, kid, you’re unique.
 
“Now, I want you to step up to that rock and practise beating your wings up and down until you can lift yourself into the air,” he instructs, unfurling his own black-banded brown wings to demonstrate. Brendon runs his eyes over them enviously. They’re huge and powerful and darkly shaded, everything an Eagle’s wings should be. Even Zack’s younger sister Greta’s dark honey coloured wings are unusually light for their kind, but at least they’re not white<\/i>.
 
“Come on, Bren!” Spencer yells, leaping off the outcrop and into the air. “It’s easy! You just gotta flap ‘em up ‘n down.”
 
“Shush, Spencer, stop showing off or I’ll tell your parents,” Zack growls. Spencer immediately swoops in for a clumsy landing, looking contrite. He presses his cheek up against Brendon’s and whispers encouragingly to him, before stepping aside.
 
Zack beats his wings, sending up flurries of loose snow crystals spinning into the air. Brendon is buffeted backwards as with a single stroke, Zack’s feet are lifted above the ground. He folds his wings and drops back down. “See? Simple as pie. Now, you try.”
 
Brendon grits his teeth in determination and slowly begins to beat his wings, faster and faster, until they’re a pale blur at his side. For a second, he feels his heels rise off the ground, and he ceases his fluttering, a huge grin spreading across his face.
 
“I did it, Spence!” he shouts exuberantly. “I can fly!”
 
Zack gives him an odd look, and turns to Pete, who’s eyeing Brendon’s wings with signs of interest. “That’s... enough for today, Bren. You should’ve told me you were feeling tired. We’ll try again tomorrow, when your wings are stronger.”
 
Brendon doesn’t hear the doubt in their voices, or see their concerned looks. All he can think about is the sensation of being airborne, of being... free. He imagines himself soaring through the sky, the flock following behind him, feeling the wind in his hair and leading them to new lands and treasure beyond their wildest dreams. And it’s like something has changed in him... he’s always been the youngest, always gone along with what his elders have told him, but now – now he thinks that he could maybe tell them<\/i>. The dream rises in his chest like a bright bubble. Didn’t Zack say his wings are special?
 
Brendon Boyd Urie is four years old, and today, for the first time, he realises his one true desire – he wants to be the best flier... ever.

<\/i> Part One<\/a><\/a>\ufeff
","comments":"https:\/\/oxyidiot.livejournal.com\/3964.html?view=comments#comments"}]}}

*<\/p> 
 <\/b>
He’s sitting at the foot of the bed when the angel opens his eyes for the first time. Victoria and Ryland have gone out hunting, and Nate and Alex are inspecting their weaponry in the kitchen. He really should be doing something, well, productive<\/i>, but every time he thinks of leaving the angel groans or twitches or lets out an unintelligible murmur, and he has<\/i> to watch over him. Gabe’s, well, talents<\/i> aren’t much use right now, and he’s just trying to prevent the angel moving too much, because really<\/i>, his wounds are terrible, and it kind of hurts Gabe just to look at him.
 
But now, now his eyes are open, and Gabe shifts uncertainly on the bed, not knowing whether to go to him or give him space or...
 
“Ryan?” he asks in a small, hoarse voice.
 
“No, no, I’m Gabe,” he replies, injecting reassurance into his voice. “My crew and I found you–...”
 
 “Ryan,” the angel continues absently. “Can we rest for a day? I don’t feel so good...”
 
Gabe’s only warning is a quick jerk before the angel leans over the side of the bed and vomits up anything left in his bony body. Gabe’s decision is made for him and in an instant he’s next to him, holding back his long hair and talking to him softly. After he retches for a while, he flops back onto the pillow loosely, Gabe’s hand still cradled underneath his head. His eyes wander the ceiling, large and unfocussed, as though he’s somewhere else, and Gabe knows he didn’t register a word he said.
 
“Thanks, Ry. You’re a great fr–frie–fr–...” He starts coughing again, wild and shuddering, each breath seeming to pain him by the grimace on his face, and Gabe’s stomach twists when he sees the familiar smattering of blood on his parted lips. “Ryan,” he sobs, “it... hurts!”
 
“Yo, Nate!” Gabe calls out, twisting his head to project his voice into the kitchen. “Get the mask; he’s not out of the woods yet.”
 
There’s a clattering in the other room and then Nate rushes in with a soot smudge on his cheek, carrying the heavy, bug-eyed apparatus. Alex pokes his head around the doorframe, similarly soot-stained.
 
“Need any help?”
 
“Nah, he’s just–...” Gabe begins, as Nate tries to place the mask over the angel, and trails off as he starts convulsing, crying out for people Gabe doesn’t know.
 
“Alex, Nate, hold him down!” he orders, and grabs the mask from Nate’s outstretched hand. Alex and Nate struggle to secure the thrashing angel and Gabe climbs over the mess of limbs and grips his head as gently as he can, strapping the mask to it.
 
“Breathe,” he whispers, still holding the angel’s face, and for a moment his eyes meet Gabe’s and it’s almost like the man recognises him. Then his body relaxes and goes limp in his arms as he sinks into a troubled half-sleep, Alex pulling a syringe out of his arm.
 
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he replies to Gabe’s unspoken gratitude. “‘Always be prepared for anything’ was papa’s old saying.”
 
Gabe turns to his two friends, and then back to the comatose angel on the bed, his face unrecognisable underneath the hideous mask, allowing his heart rate to slow as the adrenaline dissolves. But at Nate’s raised eyebrow and Alex’s little smirk, he realises that he is still straddling the bedridden man’s lap and quickly gets off the bed, stumbling on the rocky floor of their rough-hewn home.  
 
“Don’t,” he warns. There’s a long silence filled with looks, and then– “Just... fuck it, what are we going to do about him?”
 
“This is the first improvement he’s shown since we found him,” Nate answers, ever the optimist.
 
“He’s not meant to be down here like this,” Alex muses, examining a delicate hand in his own rough one.
 
What Alex said strikes a chord in Gabe, and he frowns at him. “What makes you say that?”
 
“How many angels have you seen out of the air?”
 
“Well...” Gabe begins, and then realises that, though he has seen dozens of angels in his lifetime, he has never seen one walking in the desert, nor found an angelic community of sorts. “Are you saying they live in the sky?”
 
“I don’t know,” Alex admits, “but I do know that any one of us who has ever been caught in the fog without masks has never had as bad a reaction as this. His injuries are healing flawlessly, but there are still strong residual effects from his temporary inhalation, which shouldn’t be possible seeing as we rescued him over a week ago...”
 
“True...” Gabe draws out, mulling this over in his head. “But it looked like he fell from a great height; surely he’s probably got a small lung puncture from a broken rib or something, and the fog’s agitated it.”
 
“You know as well as I do that the medscan would’ve picked that up if it was there,” Nate says.
 
Gabe remembers how the portable diagnostic machine had revealed the horrifying state of the angel’s injuries in a bored monotone, but ‘punctured lung’ was surprisingly not one of them. The machine did, however, rebuke them for bringing in “...a subject of whose biological makeup could react in unknown ways to the examinations of this unit. The subject contains unstable genetic data of which ninety-four-point-three percent is human and five-point-seven percent is avian. However, if this unit has made an analysis error, please press...”<\/i>
 
“It’s not just the coughing, though,” Alex continues, running his hand over the angel’s elegantly shaped brown-banded wings. “Look here – his feathers are falling out. They haven’t been ripped on impact or anything, they’re just... dying.”
 
“Maybe he’s moulting,” Nate adds in, twirling a feather along his knuckles. “Birds do that, right? I guess it could be the same principle for angels.”
 
“Too much of a coincidence,” Alex says hastily, before Gabe can chime in with the impossibilities of anything<\/i> with feathers moulting at this time of year. “But honestly, there’s nothing we can do but wait for him to become conscious enough to talk to us himself.” Satisfied that the angel isn’t going to have another attack for the moment, he gestures at Nate. “C’mon, Novarro, those lasers aren’t going to fix themselves.”
 
“Guess I’ll clean up this, then,” Gabe says, resigned, to no one in particular, eyeing the vomit on the floor.
 
After a few days, the attacks decrease in severity, and Gabe no longer needs<\/i> to keep a vigil by his bedside, but he still feels responsible, so he spends his nights curled up at the foot of the bed, hugging a gasmask. It also relegates him to some of the more menial tasks that the others have no time for – spoon-feeding the angel protein mush, changing his dressings, taking out his waste, but Gabe doesn’t mind.  The angel’s speaking more and more in his sleep, and when he is awake, too, but not to Gabe – he mumbles fragments of conversations with people called Sisky <\/i>and Butcher <\/i>and above all...
 
“Ryan,” the angel whispers through the darkness. Gabe is at his side immediately – he knows now that when the angel speaks of Ryan that he needs someone, and Gabe has taken it upon himself to be that someone until his angel – no, <\/i>he corrects, the<\/u> angel<\/i> – has surfaced from the strange delirium that has consumed him.
 
“The other day, when I was on the ground,” he says haltingly, his eyes wide and as dreamy as ever in the hazy moonlight, “that was... nice.”
 
Gabe’s curiosity is piqued. This is the most coherent sentence the angel has said yet.
 
“I kind of thought you liked Spencer,” he muses. “But you’re so beautiful, Ryan. I liked it when you kissed me.”
 
Something in Gabe twitches, and he frowns, trying to analyse the feeling. Then he feels cool fingers curl around the back of his neck and suddenly they’re kissing, and the angel tastes sweet and uncomplicated and Gabe is too shocked to resist. He traces Gabe’s jaw, fluttering across his cheekbones to clench in his hair and Gabe knows he has to break free because this is wrong, so right, so wrong, so...<\/i>
 
But it’s the angel who breaks the kiss first, slowly untangling his fingers from Gabe’s hair, and Gabe knows something is different. Hardly daring to breathe, he backs away uncertainly, because the angel is staring straight at him.
 
“You’re–... you’re not Ryan,” he says shakily, shrinking away from him with something akin to fear playing across his eyes. “Who are you? Are... are you an Eagle? Pl–please don’t hurt me, I’m sorry, I came as quick as I could, Spencer’s with–”
 
“My name is Gabe,” he replies, trying to keep his voice smooth and not startle him, but fuck <\/i>this is a big development and why did he have to surface now? <\/i>No – maybe Gabe’s freaking out a little but when it counts he prides himself on keeping his shit together. “Umm, pretty sure I’m not a bird? I won’t hurt you; I’ve–well, we’ve been taking care of you for a little while–”
 
“Holy shit, you don’t–your wings!” the angel says in a strangled voice, his hand flying to his mouth, and he looks almost ill. “What happened to them?”
 
“I’ve never had wings, neither have my family or my friends or anyone I know,” Gabe says, trying not to lick his lips that still tingle with that kiss, because fuck <\/i>the angel looks beautiful with the moonlight striking the planes of his cheeks.
 
“But it’s not poss–no. Irrelevant. B–but if you’re not–” he swallows, “Then... where am I?”
 
“We found you in a valley pretty banged up about two weeks ago, there was a shit-ton of fog and nasty stuff so we brought you up here so you could–”
 
“Two weeks?<\/i> Oh no, oh no this is bad, bad<\/i>...”
 
“Hey, hey, calm down,” Gabe urges, casting around quickly for the gasmask, because the angel is breathing short, sharp breaths and looks like he’s on the verge of hyperventilation, or maybe hysterics.
 
“No, I have to go!” The angel sits up and screws up his face in pain. “I have to–Ry–...someone gave me this–it’s urgent, if I don’t there’ll be d–death and war and I can’t, I–...” he moves his bandaged arm stiffly to pat down the pockets of his pants and his gaze jerks back to meet Gabe’s. “These aren’t my clothes. Where are my clothes?”
 
“We had to burn them. The contamination was having an extreme effect on you, look, just, sit still, I’ll explain...”  
 
“Fuck! <\/i>It’s gone. It’s gone, it–... it doesn’t matter, it can be a voice message. Can you help me, I just need to get to–a window or–or something,” he stutters, looking as though he’s trying desperately to keep his anxiety under control. “That one should be fine, it’s just, my legs, my legs, fuck<\/i>... it–no, if we’re high up I can glide, I can–”
 
Gabe slides over to him quickly and places a gentle hand on his chest before he tries to wriggle out of bed through sheer panic, and he can feel the frantic tapping of his heartbeat through the thin fabric. “I... I don’t think you can fly,” he mumbles hesitantly. “I’m so fucking sorry, we tried all we–”
 
“Oh,” he says simply, and the look on his face when he sees his wings, limp and patched with dull remnants of feathers, wrenches Gabe’s heart. It’s the look that he saw on the faces of his friends when they returned and found only ashes where their homes, families and loves used to be. The look of hope dying.
 
But they got through it. And he will too, if it’s the last thing I do<\/i>, Gabe thinks fiercely.
 
“I’ve failed,” the angel sobs, collapsing into Gabe’s arms. “Because of my p–pride, I’ve condemned them all.”
 
Gabe just holds him.
 
Part Four<\/a><\/a>
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Spencer has finished his bat by the time Ryan bursts out of the depths of the cave, cobwebbed and shaky, and yanks William aside who protests that he hasn’t finished his section of rat yet. He shudders. Rats<\/i>. No wonder all Falcons are so skinny.
 
He watches Ryan and William talk with an idle fascination. Ryan is still an enigma to him. Spencer knows it is no coincidence that the dark-eyed leader of this Falcon clan arrived to drive off the vicious animals that had surprised him while he was sleeping – he knows as well as any that no Falcon would even be close to N–13 at this time of year, let alone a completely blind nineteen year old flockmaster.
 
Absently, he stretches out a wing and flips it around to check how the scratches are faring. There’s a twisted feather caught in one of them, and Spencer grits his teeth before yanking it out with a stifled yelp of pain. He casts it aside and frowns at the small trickle of blood that follows it. No matter. Whatever Maja gave me should keep infection away.<\/i>
 
Sisky sidles over to him and offers him something. It’s the last bat Butcher caught.
 
“I know you’re hungry, man,” he says quietly. “You guys eat more than us and you didn’t want a piece of the main meal, so...” Spencer is about to snap at him to fuck off, because you’re a fucking jerk <\/i>when Sisky’s sincere tone registers in his head, and he turns to meet his contrite gaze. Over his shoulder he can see Ashlee staring at the back of his head intently through her soft auburn curls, and Spencer is <\/i>hungry.
 
“Thank you, Sisky,” he replies, and gives him a tiny smile. Sisky looks surprised, as though he was expecting Spencer to rip his head off (and Spencer was expecting he’d want to rip Sisky’s head off too), but then he returns a small, shy smile of his own, and picks up the bones of the first bat and takes them out of the cave to throw away. Spencer’s mood improves a little and he finds he can hold his smile without strain. He’s still pissed at Sisky, but he figures that the kid isn’t all bad.
 
He calls him over once he comes back in the cave, his frizzy hair mussed from the wind that has gradually been increasing in strength as the night wears on. Sisky sits down beside Spencer, his familiar smile back in full force now he knows he’s been partially forgiven.
 
“What’s the deal with Ryan?” Spencer murmurs.
 
Sisky’s eyes dart involuntarily to Ryan and William huddled together in the corner of the room and then back to Spencer. “Wh–what do you mean?”
 
“You know what I mean,” Spencer presses, leaning closer to Sisky. “I want answers. What were you guys doing so far north at this time of year? How did you know exactly where I was, and how to save me?”
 
“Umm... I... I...” Sisky stutters nervously. “I need to go... umm...” He jumps up and rushes over to where Butcher is cleaning the remains of the giant rat, grabbing some bones and offering to throw them away loudly, much to Butcher’s surprise and amusement.
 
“Don’t terrorise the poor boy,” Maja says, flipping her blonde hair out of her eyes and looking up from where she is tending the drying moss. “He’s a terrible liar. And no, I won’t tell you either,” she adds when Spencer opens his mouth. “It is not my place. You can ask Ryan yourself if it bothers you so much.”
 
Ryan doesn’t return until the fire has died down and the rest of the flock is sleeping. William is sorting through his pack, muttering to himself, but Ryan simply lies down beside Spencer, close enough that he can feel his breath tickling the hairs on the nape of his neck. Spencer rolls over to stare into Ryan’s eyes, which are dark, unfocussed; unreadable. He wonders what life is like for Ryan – he closes his eyes and tries to imagine waking up every day to that suffocating blackness. Sleep you can’t shake off, like your lashes are glued closed. It’s an awful speculation, and Spencer snaps his eyes open and absorbs the warm clarity of the scene around him like a drowned man coming up for air; the golden-amber flicker of fire on the cave walls, the rough stitched pattern of the course blanket clutched in his fingers, the little ruby spots dug into Ryan’s lip. How his hair gets caught in his eyelashes because they’re both so damn long<\/i>. How the firelight plays over his cheekbones, and suddenly he feels a guilty burn in his chest, because, Jon. <\/i>And maybe he’s just a little lovesick for home – or homesick for love. He’s not entirely sure.
 
They don’t speak for a long time, and it is Ryan who speaks first, so softly that Spencer can barely hear him.
 
“I can see the future,” he whispers. “That’s how I saved you. That’s how I know that... somehow... you will do the same for my people.”