Chapter Text
There was a strange man in the tower.
There was a strange man in Grian’s tower.
There was a strange man in Grian’s tower and Grian had just whacked said man unconscious with a frying pan and put him in his closet.
Grian paced backwards and forwards, heart beating fast, remembering all the things his Uncle told him about the outside world. His wings fluttered anxiously, as if desperate to fly him away from the danger.
His power was special, and his wings were special. His Uncle said that people from the outside world would be jealous, and try to steal his wings. That was why Grian had been confined to the tower - but if these people could get inside anyways, what was the point of staying?
Pascal settled on his shoulder with a worried chirp.
“He could be dangerous.” Grian told the bird. The parakeet looked back at him with beady black eyes.
Grian sighed. “But, he could also be the exact thing I’m looking for.”
Frustration welled up within him. Everything his Uncle had ever told him- warned him about was curdling in his gut, refraining him from doing anything stupid, but his instinct told him the opposite.
“Urgh!” Grian cried. “Why is making choices so difficult?!” His wings puffed up, and he scuffed a foot against the floor in frustration. It hit the man’s satchel, which had dropped to the floor along with him, and the bag spilled its contents - a singular shiny object that went skittering across the wooden floor.
Grian cocked his head, and carefully tiptoed over to investigate.
The object was shiny in a way that wrangled Grian’s avian instincts, his pupils blowing wide as he picked it up. It seemed to be a tiara of some sort, like the ones in the storybooks he’d read as a child, but this one outshone those plain geometric circles of gold. It was colourful and radiant in the light from the high windows of the tower, and strangely familiar.
Grian looked at Pascal nervously. “Do you think this guy is a prince?”
Pascal chirped at him once. Grian didn’t speak bird (at least, not Pascal’s language of bird), but he could tell it was imbued with sarcasm.
“Yeah, you’re right.” Grian muttered. “Doesn’t seem the princely type.”
His gaze lingered on the door of the closet, as if the man would wake and barge out any moment. The tower stayed silent.
“He might have other uses, though.” Painted on the doors of the closet was one of Grian’s favourite murals - the floating stars, rising up into an inky purple night.
His brows drew together. Eventually, he sighed. “Pascal, I have a terrible idea. I’m going to need a chair, and some rope.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For a moment, when Scar awoke, he thought he’d dreamed the whole thing. Perhaps he’d hit his head harder than he thought, and the cave, the hidden valley, and the tower were all an illusion conjured by his concussion-addled mind. Perhaps he’d open his eyes and be met with an unconscious horse and an afternoon sky.
He opened his eyes.
The room around him was dark and shadowy. One window was open but the rest were tightly shut, leaving a small spotlight of bright sun that filtered downwards and landed directly on where he was sitting. Dust motes floated in the bright shaft of light, winking in and out of his eyesight like creatures from another realm.
The chair he was in looked hand made and painted, and he was tied to it with knots that made even him jealous. Whoever lived here was clearly experienced - someone not to be trifled with.
He craned his neck at the ceiling, which deepened into shadow until he could not see the top. There were plenty of wooden beams holding the rickety roof up, which someone seemed to have climbed - there were blankets on some, books on others, and plants hanging off of more. Perhaps a hybrid with flight?
“Ouch!” Scar yelped frantically. Something had bitten his ear!
He looked to his left, expecting a snake, or a rat, or something with at least evil vibes.
Instead he was met with a very, very cute little bird. It was small and bright red, with almost iridescent green-blue wings and an orange beak that had clearly just chomped on his ear. Scar couldn’t even bring himself to mind. He was too busy trying to escape his restraints to pet the sweet little parakeet.
“Struggling…” A voice began from high in the rafters. There was a sound of air whooshing rapidly through something, possibly fabric, and a soft thud that was nearly imperceptible, even to Scar’s pointed ears. Then the voice began again, “Struggling is futile.”
It was not the type of voice that Scar had expected at all. An elderly wizard, perhaps, with a wizened, droning voice, or a gargling demon looking to skin him alive. His overactive imagination had not planned for a relatively normal - if slightly nervous sounding - man of around his age.
The shadows shifted. Scar peered at them, but nothing revealed itself.
“What do you want from me?” He asked to the darkness.
The shadows made an odd questioning, trilling noise, like a curious bird; most definitely some sort of hybrid. “ You were the one who broke into my tower. Are you here to take my wings? To use my magic for nefarious purposes?”
“Take your wings?!” Scar gasped. “I didn’t even know you had wings until just now.” He pouted.
The shadow shifted awkwardly, along with the same sound of something large rustling - feathers, Scar now realised.
“You’re not very good at this interrogating thing. I’ve learnt more about you than you have of me.” He pointed out.
“Well, you’re not very good at breaking and entering, either.” The shadow replied grumpily. “I still have you exactly where I want you.”
Scar gaped, scandalised. “I’ll have you know I’m an honourable man, with no intentions of breaking or entering! I conducted all my thievery before coming here.”
The shadows, to his delight, stifled a laugh. “Then why did you come to my tower, oh honourable man ?”
“I was hiding from the Steward’s guard.” Scar stuck his nose up. “You’d best define which side you’re on - if you’re a friend of the Steward, then you’re no friend of mine. If you’re not, then I assure you I will cause you no harm.”
There was silence for a long time. Just as Scar was fearing that he’d scared off his captor with his dashing wit, they spoke again, in a much more subdued voice.
“I know nothing of the Steward. I have never been outside this tower.”
Then they stepped into the light.
For a moment, the world was watercolour. The golden shaft of light shining down on the illuminated man before him liquified his image, like a page from a storybook. Then, the figure solidified, but he stayed, in Scar's eyes, a character drawn in flowing colours. Like staring at the long-awaited sequel to his favourite novel, he could smell the parchment in the air, feel the coarse texture of paper and hear the shuffle of pages.
The man was short but willowy, with a fluffy mess of sandy brown hair and a shy but determined smile on his face. He wore a large red jumper that complemented the red of the wings that grew from his back. Wings of such distinctive colours, the reason that Scar felt he had been transported into a storybook - red, then yellow, then blue. A banded macaw.
Avian hybrids were rare. Before the King and Queen had died, they were heralded by some extreme royalists as the only correct bloodline for the throne, because theirs was the only known family to possess such bright, distinctive plumage. When the prince had disappeared, and his mother had died of grief, shortly followed by her husband, it was thought that no avian would ever again have such vibrancy in their wings. Corona had lost some of its colour forever.
Scar sucked in a shaky breath. Either some stray royal blood had found its way into the depths of the Southlands, or he was looking at the lost Prince of Corona.
“Is something wrong?” The Prince asked. Scar realised that his armour, his signature cocky Hotguy smirk, had fallen off of his face in shock. With some struggle, he regained his casual demeanor.
“I was just momentarily surprised by your beauty, of course.” He grinned, flashing a wink for extra measure. The avian scowled, but his wings opened and closed subtly in amusement. They caught the light, flashing orange where red feathers met yellow, and green where the yellow met blue. Scar followed the blue down to the feather tips and his stomach shot downwards in horror.
Where long, graceful flight feathers should have been, there were frayed, sliced ends.
Carefully, Scar swallowed a dry lump down his throat, and asked, “Who are you?”
The Macaw hybrid eyed him cautiously, and then shrugged. “My name is Grian.”
Scar’s eyebrows drew close together. “It is customary to introduce a title along with your name.”
“I have no title to give.”
Like a seabird plunging into cold water, Scar’s stomach swooped ever further down. The name, Grian, had confirmed his suspicions. This was the lost prince.
Why, then, did he have no idea who he was?
“I haven’t had much experience with strangers, but I believe it is customary to give your name in return.” Grian snarked back.
“Scar Goodtimes.” Scar replied on autopilot, still slightly dazed.
“And a title?” Grian teased. Scar regained some of his composure, smirking wryly.
“None other than Hotguy, sharp-eyed sniper, thief, and eternal annoyance of Steward Ren of Corona. Seeking only to restore the rightful heir to the throne, and protect the common peoples of this country.”
Again, no recognition in the eyes of the Prince. There was only an honest curiosity, as if every word from Scar’s mouth - available knowledge to even the lowliest of peasants - was valuable information.
Grian smiled, no longer wary. “An honourable introduction. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Scar smiled back charmingly, though his Adam's apple bobbed as he choked on the weight of his situation. This was who he had been looking for all of his life. The only one who could feasibly, in the eyes of Corona’s legal system, take hold of the throne and remove the corrupt, elitist bureaucracy that had forced Scar into the persona of Hotguy in the first place. The reason he had met Lizzie and Joel and all the thieves he now called family, when they had been only orphans betrayed by those who were meant to protect them, back when they had no power to fight back. The reason he, Lizzie, and Joel had stolen Corona’s crown jewels - a last desperate attempt to stay the Steward from permanent rule.
Scar blinked. He had nearly forgotten.
The crown.
Scar’s eyes darted around the room desperately, but it was hidden in shadows. The murals on the walls now seemed to be taunting him. He saw hints of royalty everywhere, in childlike drawings of figures with red, yellow and blue wings, to a navy sky filled with lanterns, yet there was no hint of satchel or crown.
“S-say,” Scar stammered, “You wouldn’t by any chance have seen a satchel around here, would you?”
Grian crossed his arms. “You mean the satchel containing valuable goods, stolen by a supposedly honourable man? I’ve hidden it where you’ll never find it.” He raised an eyebrow. “Not so bad as a captor now, am I?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Grian smirked as his captive - Scar Goodtimes, if he were to be believed - spluttered, shocked. Clearly Grian was getting the hang of the whole negotiating business. The knots he’d learnt on one of the many boring, arduous days in his tower were holding well, despite Scar’s wriggling and squirming. And now, he’d found himself a bargaining chip.
The man in front of him was his age, but his knowledge of the outside world was a treasure trove Grian had only caught glimpses of. With his charming smile and silver tongue, he spoke of thievery and an evil steward and a rightful heir to the throne of Corona. He seemed like something straight out of a storybook, as if a watercolour portrait had become too vivid and spilled off of a page and into the real world. He had a strong, lightly stubbled jaw, sun-kissed skin criss-crossed with silver scars that validated his tales of adventure, and pointed ears. Despite his unwaveringly friendly attitude, the sharp sword that Grian had confiscated, as well as the knife in his boot and the sheath of arrows on his back, spoke of someone who was not to be trifled with.
Grian wanted to know more .
“I don’t suppose I could get that back?” Scar tried weakly.
Grian hummed. “You could,” He tapped his chin, “For a price.”
Scar raised an eyebrow.
Grian fluttered over to the closet that displayed his favourite mural - the bright orange floating lights in a sea of blue and purple. “Do you know what these are?” He asked, keeping a careful eye on his captive.
“You mean the floating lanterns they let off for the Prince?” Asked Scar. His charm suddenly seemed more forced than before. His eyes flashed with something sharp.
“ Lanterns .” Grian breathed, taking no note of the other man’s wariness or words. “I knew that they weren’t stars.”
He spun around, and as he did so his wings opened out into their full glory, stretching the length of the tower in a dazzling display of red, yellow and blue. “Scar Goodtimes.” Grian said, pouring every ounce of confidence and commanding attitude that he possessed into his voice. “This is your deal: In two days’ time, these lanterns will light up the night sky. If you take me to see these lanterns and deliver me back home safely, then and only then will you get your precious satchel back.”
As soon as he’d uttered the words, his skin prickled with primal fear. His feathers fluffed up defensively, as if his Uncle would return and shut him away from this world he’d just uncovered, from this magic.
But nothing came.
Open-mouthed like a fish, Scar was quiet for a moment. Then, with one word that filled Grian with an emotion he’d never once felt in his life, something dangerous and threatening and joyful, something with a name like Hope, he breathed, “ Deal .”
The fear running like fire along his skin turned into electric zaps of excitement. Grian wanted to leave immediately, to finally feel the wind unheeded on his skin.
“Maybe let’s wait until tomorrow, though.” Scar added. The electricity of the moment shut off, and Grian felt human again. Scar was looking up to the only open window, which was no longer letting in a shaft of sunlight, only cool, dark nighttime air.
Grian took a deep breath and gazed up at the stars twinkling in the sky. For so long, he had mistaken lanterns for stars. Now he knew the difference, and he would not turn back.
He smiled.
“Tomorrow.”