Chapter Text
It happened in broad daylight.
That was what made him feel so stupid about the whole scenario.
It was the middle of the day, when there were hardly any shadows to hide in. When he was just a bit too warm to fully fall asleep, lying there in a drowsy, half torpor. His wings fanned out from his back, his arms tucked around the little duck plush papa Phil had given him, his tail lightly swishing under the woven blanket as the sounds of the farm lulled him into that false sense of security.
He’d not worn his armour to bed, he had no need to. He’d thought he had no need to.
He’d let his guard down. He’d thought he was safe.
Granted, he’d never known what a lack of safety was like, even in the orphanage he was kept safe. The caregivers may not have been emotionally available all the time, he may not have been comforted when scraping a knee, he may have been scolded for not articulating his thoughts “correctly”. But he never felt as if his caregivers would turn on him, strike him, raise their voice. He never thought they would allow him to get injured on purpose, or worse, attacked.
And with papa Phil and papa Missa, he’d always felt safe.
They’d gifted him with weapons, with armour, with books on strategy. They’d sparred with him, gently at first before he’d shown them he could handle the harder hits, and taught him how to wield any weapon. How to care for his armour and sword, how to tend to any scrapes and cuts.
And they’d laughed with him over dinner, carried him on their shoulders about the farm, taught him about the quieter things. The gentle side of life that he fought at first, sticking out his tongue at the idea of hugs and bedtime stories and the quiet humming of his parents as they did their daily chores. Until Phil had given him the little duck, a lopsided yellow thing with wings he could wrap around himself like a hug. And, the gentle side of life no longer seemed so “cringe”.
The gentle side of life had left him vulnerable, he’d realised too late.
He’d not questioned the way the door swung open to the house, the way the footsteps seemed rushed.
It was just Missa picking up something from the workbench. He’d thought, burrowing his face into the duck plush at the intrusion, giving his wings a small stretch as he did.
But then the pain hit.
There was a sharp crack along his head, chipping a horn and sending his world into a shade of crimson.
He barely had a chance to react, to try and block the next attack, to even see who the attacker was, before something pierced his shoulder from behind.
The air was knocked from his lungs at the impact, his wings flapped once in surprise, smacking into whoever had stabbed him and shoving himself off his own bed in the same motion.
Panic took over at that moment, and without thinking, Chayenne dove under the bed. Fully awake now, his vision blurred, one eye stinging from the blood that dripped down his forehead, he only just noticed the boots of his attacker as they bolted out of the house.
He didn’t have time to wonder why they left before the pain fully registered.
His head throbbed where it had been hit, a bruise forming where the skin had split. The back of his shoulder was stiff and burning, sending white flashes across his vision when he tried to reach back and claw at whatever had lodged itself into the joint between arm and scapula. His right wing, closest to the wound, was twitching uncontrollably, from some nerve having been damaged from the wound.
Gods it hurt!
It hurt it hurt it hurt!
Why did it hurt?!
Why was he attacked?!
Who attacked him?!
Oh gods were they going to come back?!
Where did they go?!
Was there more than one?!
Chayenne’s mind began to swim with panic as the thoughts burst one by one through his head, like a swarm of buzzing fear that threatened to engulf him. It took all his strength to clap a hand over his mouth, biting his finger as tears flowed down his face, desperate to keep quiet.
If his attacker hadn’t actually left, if they were coming back, oh gods…
Stay quiet!
Stay quiet!
Stay quiet!
The door slammed open once more.
Chayenne barely had time to suck in a breath before holding it, watching the shadow of someone cross the threshold.
A part of him was relieved to see the familiar, clawed, crow feet of Phil clack across the floor.
The rest of him was terrified.
What if it was Phil who hurt him? And now came back to finish the job?
What if it was Missa and Phil was checking to make sure he was dead?
Did his papas want him dead?!
Was this their doing?!
It couldn’t be, he knew logically it made no sense for them to attack their own child.
But the ‘what ifs’ were still there, still boiling in his mind.
What if they knew?
What if they knew about the attack and had done nothing?
What if they never wanted him as their child?
Philza had Caera already, why would he want another son?
What if Caera was angry he was being replaced?
What if it was Caera who had attacked him?
“...Chayenne…?”
Philza’s voice, quiet and confused and…horrified…broke him from his thoughts.
He saw the dark talons stop beside the edge of the bed, heard the tentative shuffle of the blanket as Philza pulled it aside. That soft noise suddenly grew frantic as he began to dig through the bed, throwing pillows and blankets about, his voice breaking.
“Chayenne!”
The talons staggered back.
A yellow plush duck was dropped to the floor, stained red with blood.
Chayenne’s blood, he recognised.
Phil had seen his blood splattered across the sheets, he guessed. And from the horrible trilling sound of distress his papa made, he knew now his previous worry about being betrayed by him was horribly wrong.
“What the fuck- what the fuck did you do to my son?!”
Chayenne flinched, he’d never heard that sort of tone from papa before.
That dark laced snarl of rage, bordering on animalistic. Surely it hadn’t come from his own father?
He felt himself curl up tighter beneath the bed, why hadn’t papa seen him by now? Why hadn’t he seen the blood stains leading to him? Why was papa leaving?! Why was he screaming outside? Demanding to know where Chayenne had gone? Demanding who ever had hurt him to bring him back? To face him? To fight him? To die like the fucking coward they were for attacking a child?
Why did his own voice have to fail him now?!
I’m here! He wanted to scream. Papa! Please! Look under the bed! I’m here! It hurts! I’m scared! It hurts!
He tried to open his mouth, tried to scream, tried to make any sound at this point.
Nothing.
His mind had locked his voice away again.
Why now? Of all times, why couldn’t he speak now?!
He heard the now distant sound of flapping wings, the shrieks of rage from Philza, as he left the farm.
Left Chayenne.
He sobbed.