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He couldn’t breathe.
His hands were stretched above his head, wings spread out all the way with clamps on the edges to hold them out. They weren’t—he’d be shocked if they worked now. He hadn’t seen the sun in so long, his feathers were sure to be messed up. Stress barred, destroyed, feathers ripped out in full chunks when it came to his captors taking what they wanted from him.
Head dropped forwards, chin resting against his chest, he sucked in a slow breath. His ribs creaked and grated against one another. Pain shot out across his chest, his sternum, sending more strikes down his spine to his hips and up his shoulders to his wrists where they were pinned. Not chained. Pinned.
He’d screamed when they hammered him to the wall, driving nails into the hook of the bones in his forearm. If he moved even an inch, then the pain wound start up again.
The door was thrown open.
Cracking his eyes open, he tried to raise his head. “See? You have a friend. Hope you learn to enjoy what freedom you have, before you end up like him.” The captor ordered, throwing someone else into the room. His vision was bleary. All he could make out was one taller figure and one shorter, less bulky one. The shorter one was thrown into the cell, something added in after them. There was a flash of pale blue hair. Shining, icy-blue eyes shone—not in the dark, but of their own light. They were glowing. Not very strongly, not too brightly, but they were.
Something else was chucked in as well, a bright red box. “What is this?” They demanded, holding it in their hands for a moment.
Their captor scoffed. “It’s a medical kit. I’d advise you to nurse those wounds of his. As long as he’s alive, we have a reason to keep you.”
The new prisoner glanced his way and then raised their eyebrows. “Does he have a name?”
With a sharp laugh, the captor slammed the door closed.
There was a sigh, and he dropped his chin back against his chin. Swallowing, he closed his eyes. The person who had just been thrown into the cell pushed themself up with a groan. I’m sorry, he thought, already apologizing to them. He didn’t even know their name.
To be fair, he didn’t know his own name, either.
He had, once upon a time. He had had a sister, a brother. Winged folk, like him. When he could see the sun and fly under the stars, catching the wind with his now-ruined primaries. What color were they before this? Did he even remember the color? Did he remember anything other than shadows, the gray walls of his own cell? Did he even remember their faces, the feel of the sun on his skin or the wind in his feathers? Or the stars? Were they still there?
“Well, I think we should introduce ourselves to one another.” They began. Walking over to him, they reached out and touched his ribs. Flinching, he leaned away. Their hands jerked back. “Sorry. I’m Scott. He/him. Can you speak? Do you have a name?”
He wished he could answer.
Opening his mouth, he tried to reply. He tried to say something. All that came was a hoarse noise. The eyes in front of him winced visibly. “Don’t. Don’t talk, it’s okay. I can do plenty of the talking for us. I—oh gosh. I wish there was a light for you, but I can see in the dark just fine? There’s just enough here, I don’t know if you can see anything.”
He stared at Scott, who just gently trailed his fingers over the wounds crossing his chest. There was a sharp hiss of sympathy, and he tilted his head to the side and looked down at Scott. Fingers found the brand on his chest—
He remembered, dimly, being forced down on the ground. A foot slammed down on his spine, his wings were twisted back and out of the way. Somewhere off to his side, the metal rod hissed as it was dunked into the water. Steam rose into the air. Eyes wide, he stared at the flickering flames, the other brand that was set in the embers to coax heat along the metal. It was already glowing orange.
His captor laughed. Bindings lashed his arms to the floor, spreading them out even as his wings were trapped upwards. The flight feathers scattered on the floor, having been ripped out already. He barely remembered that, barely could even lift his head from the pain rattling his bones and the white spots dancing in his vision. Panting, he stared ahead. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop this.
“Hot enough now. Come on.” The man stirring the coals took a thick, heavy glove and removed the brand from the firepit. Panting, he squirmed against the ground. The man who had been pinning his wings ripped them forwards, stepped around and smashed his head into the ground with a hand in his hair.
“Maybe this’ll make you think twice about trying to escape.” The whisper was harsh, blue eyes sparking with something like glee. Heart thundering in his throat, he simply stared at the man. Harsh, brutal fingers tightened their grip in his hair, yanking his head back against the stones and rough floor. Blood welled up in the scrapes left behind. The man with the branding iron stepped closer.
Everything went white.
“—ey, it’s okay, I’m sorry.” That wasn’t a voice he recognized as one of the Captors’. This was someone else. This was—right, Scott.
Panting, he looked in Scott’s direction and swallowed. Gentle hands cupped his face. Somehow, it felt—familiar. His hands were cool, a vast difference from the heat flooding through him at every second. Those glowing eyes held his. Hoarsely, he tried to reply, tried to say he was okay.
He couldn’t say anything.
His wings fluttered weakly against the clamps holding them to the wall. Letting out a deep breath, he glanced at his left wrist. Scott followed his gaze.
“Oh, honey,” Scott whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
+++
Scott sat by Wings’ side the entire night.
Wings was the best name that he could give him. Even though he could see in the dark, he couldn’t see colors. He didn’t even know what hair or eye color Wings had, just that he wasn’t dark-haired or light-eyed. His skin was lighter, though. Scott could tell that much from shades of gray.
It had been three days since he had been thrown into the cell, three days since he had been captured, and three days since he had last seen the others. They were coming any moment, he was sure. In the meantime, though, he was treating Wings’ injuries.
He…wasn’t doing well.
There weren’t any painkillers. No antibiotics, no fever pills. Things that Wings could greatly benefit from but had no access to. Even from what little Scott knew of Pearl and Grian, his avian friends (a brother-sister pair), he knew that they needed a lot of light. They had more feathers than what Wings had, with feathers torn out of the flight sections and clamps on the arms to keep him to the wall. Worse, Scott couldn’t even take the clamps off, or else all of Wings’ weight would be on the nails in his wrists.
He had to hand it to their captors, they were smart. Giving Scott a reason not to leave, because he knew Pearl and Grian would never forgive him if he had abandoned another avian to die. Giving him a reason to treat Wings and not stand by, or else he himself would perish. They had put the nails in the crook between Wings’ radius and ulna, using the natural hook formed there instead of pinning him through the hands so they wouldn’t tear off.
Wings needed a doctor, and a doctor Scott was not.
Panting, Wings sucked in a hoarse breath. His breathing had gotten steadily worse since Scott had gotten there. From what he could put together, Wings’ state had been the result of a failed escape attempt. And there was—a lot. Mottled bruises, blood, broken bones. The nails in his hands and his decimated wings. The brand markings were something of an ownership, a dominance play by his captors. Enough potion work could heal that down from raised scars to something paler. They would never go away—he’d need a tattoo for that—but it could remove the painful stretching of the skin and some of the damage to the subcutaneous tissue, or whatever Pixl and Sausage called it.
Tilting his head back, Scott turned and looked up at him. Wings was hanging above him, still secured by his wrists and wings. His eyes were closed. By Scott’s guess, he was getting some rest. Good. He needs it.
Turning back to the door, Scott settled his arms across his middle, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. The rough stone bricks pressed against the crown of his skull, and he settled down to wait.
He wasn’t sure how much longer Wings had. Not much, he feared. Not with the wheeze to his breath, not with the injuries he had, not with the bruising that had steadily begun to grow in size and paint more and more of his stomach and ribs. Scott didn’t need to be a doctor, not like Pix or Fwhip, to know that that was a sign of internal bleeding and it was a major danger. Especially since it wasn’t being treated. Wings was in major danger, and there wasn’t anything Scott could do with the limited medical supplies that he had.
Closing his eyes a little tighter, he started praying that Wings would make it through to when they were rescued.
+++
When Scott woke, it was to the door being thrown open.
There was shouting in the hallway, but it was the light that made him stir. Flinching, he raised his arms to block his face. “Oh my gosh, Scott!” Lizzie cried, running to his side. Lowering his arm, Scott looked at his friend. Turning her head, Lizzie yelled over her shoulder, “Joel, Fwhip, Pix, we found him! Let the others fight, we need some help here!”
She stepped inside. Beside Scott, Wings groaned. Jerking upright, Scott glanced his way and then stumbled to his feet, staggered forwards. Lizzie caught him. Her eyes went over his shoulder, one hand slapped over his mouth. “He needs help. I don’t think he’ll make it if we don’t.”
Nodding, Lizzie turned when Joel arrived at the doorway. Pix and Fwhip had poked their own heads around the doorframe. “Joel. Get Grian, Pearl. Someone with wings.”
Wings mumbled something weakly, lifting his head. Turning to look at him, Scott spotted Wings raising his head. In the light coming into the room from the open door, he looked haggard. His cheeks were hollowed out, dark circles under his eyes and skin pale like he hadn’t seen the sun in forever. When he had lifted his head, he was very visibly shaking. His lips were pale and bloodless, bitten raw. His hair was dirty, blood-streaked, and probably some shade of blond normally but streaked brown instead. Dirt, old blood, bruises all coated his face.
Fwhip, halfway to him, froze where he was standing.
Grian and Pearl reached the door, “What’s going—” Suddenly, Fwhip lunged and slammed the door in front of them. They were all plunged into darkness.
“What the heck, Fwhip?” Scott demanded. By his side, Lizzie and Joel slung his arms over their shoulders, helped him up. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
“You staggered around and I know you were hurt beforehand. Have they fed you anything?” Lizzie asked, free hand catching him by the chest as he stumbled again. Swallowing, Scott glanced back at Wings. Then, he turned to Fwhip. Murmuring something to Pix, Fwhip let him out, but no one else.
“We can’t let Pearl and Grian see him.” Fwhip said. Turning, he looked at Wings. “Everyone, meet Jimmy. Grian and Pearl’s brother, and the person they’ve been looking for since he got kidnapped three years ago.”
Trapped against the wall, Wings—Jimmy—let out a weak noise, head falling down and chin hitting his chest.
+++
He woke to someone cradling him in their arms, wrapped in blankets.
The world had changed, suddenly going from vertical to horizontal. Someone was carrying him, someone he didn’t recognize. Blinking bleary eyes open, he winced at the brightness. A whimper must have left him, because a gentle hand cupped his cheek for a moment. “Hey, Jimmy, it’s okay.”
Jimmy? Who was Jimmy?
His eyes shuttered closed, and then he was somewhere else. A straight, flat bed settled under his back, and his wings were gently spread out. Hands wandered up and down his chest, his stomach. Someone pressed on his stomach for a moment, then yanked back and started to feel over his body. Whimpering, he tried to kick away. Something was fixed to his face, and he turned his head to the side.
A familiar heat rushed into his lungs, and he gasped. Fumbling for the thing, he tried to grab onto it. Someone settled his hand against it. He slowly felt over it, the hard plastic—an oxygen mask. Heated, too, blessedly. Or, humidified, at least.
Sucking in air, he opened his eyes. The man who was holding him was tall, broad-shouldered, with a green stripe in his dark hair and soft eyes that held his own. Strong arms held him, and he turned. His eyes searched blurrily for Scott, who was limping along at their side with two people holding him up. One was a woman with long, pale pink hair and blue eyes, scales in similar colors drawn across her cheeks, down her neck, over her arms. The other was a tall, thin man with reddish hair, blue eyes, and red and gray goggles strapped to his head. There was a red scarf around Scott’s arm, binding it to his chest that hadn’t been there before. If he had to make a guess, that was Goggles’ scarf.
Green Stripe glanced over at Scott, Goggles, and Pink Hair. “He’s up. I don’t know what to do.”
“Just keep him close and keep that oxygen mask on him. If he stops breathing, then he should be okay. From those feather colors, and from what we know of Grian and Pearl, he’s a Phoenix. He should be okay.” Pink Hair said.
Pearl?
Grian?
Kicking, he turned his head and struggled in Green Stripe’s arms. “Whoa, whoa, buddy. Buddy, it’s okay, you’re okay.”
Rasping, he shook his head. “Gri—an—”
“Grian? You know Grian?” Green Stripe asked. Staring up at him, wheezing in breaths, he nodded frantically. “Okay, okay. Is—is he your brother? Is Pearl your sister?”
Swallowing, he nodded again. “Where—”
“Okay, okay. Do you recognize the name Jimmy?” Green Stripe asked. Frowning, he stared up at him, tracing the green in his hair. “Okay, that’s fine. They said it’s been a while since you saw them, it’s probably just not in your head anymore. If Grian and Pearl are your siblings, then you’re Jimmy. We’ll take them right to you, okay?”
“Don’t stress him out too much, Joel. He’s gone through a lot.” Goggles warned.
“I just want to give him his name back. Nothing else, it’ll be okay.” Green Stripe—Joel—reassured. Shaking, he—Jimmy, his name was Jimmy, Pearl and Grian were his siblings and they were somewhere, they were okay—gripped onto Green Stripe. Onto Joel.
“Where—”
“We sent them on ahead to warn the healers to prep the medical bay so we can get you help. They’re safe.” Joel adjusted his grip on him, then winced. “Man, buddy, we need to get some food into you. You need to eat.”
Curling his arms to his chest, Jimmy slumped into Joel’s arms and closed his eyes. Joel shifted the mask on Jimmy’s face again.
When Jimmy woke, he was curled on his side with someone’s hand running through his hair.
Flinching, he opened his eyes. His vision stayed blurry for a few seconds, gradually focusing. He couldn’t even lift his head from the pillow. The mask was still pressed to his face, still pushing humid air into his lungs. Swallowing, he blinked a few times.
Sitting right by him was Grian, eyes tired and mouth drawn into a thin, worried smile. “Hey, Jim.” He whispered, voice soft.
Kicking and flailing, Jimmy tried to shove himself upright.
Two sets of hands—Grian’s and Pearl’s—gently pushed him back down to the bed. Glancing around, he gasped for air. “Scott.” His voice worked? His throat didn’t hurt like someone had scrubbed it with a bottlebrush made of barbed wire. Had someone given him water? “Where’s Scott?”
“He’s okay, he’s fine. You’re just in the hospital, and he’s reporting what he knew about everything.” Jimmy stared at Grian, nodded. Then, there was a long pause.
Reaching out, he touched Grian’s face, cupping his cheek. He felt over his brother’s skin, rubbing his thumb under his eye. If he could have, he would have rolled over and done the same to Pearl. For now, he’d settle for Grian, for making sure that he was real.
Their magic couldn’t fake the warmth of skin.
He and his siblings ran harder. Under the pads of his fingers, Grian was warm. Jimmy’s vision blurred again, not because of waking after so long being asleep but for another reason. “Grian.” He choked out, eyes watering. Reaching out, he grabbed for his brother. Grian leaned in and hugged Jimmy first. Burying his face in Grian’s shoulder, Jimmy started gasping before he started crying too much.
Pearl’s hand rubbed between his wings, soothing some of the pain in his lungs, his ribs.
He fell asleep crying in Grian’s arms.
+++
When Scott entered Jimmy’s hospital room, he found Jimmy sitting up and eating and looking much better than the last time he had seen him.
To be fair, Jimmy had been wrecked. He had also been in a medically induced coma for several weeks following his and Scott’s rescue, then in the closest thing that the Hermits had to an intensive care unit for the week following that. It’d been…a month, about? Since the rescue?
Even still, he didn’t look great. He was thin, looked even thinner in full lighting than he had in the cell. Patches of his hair had been shaved off to allow for stitches on one side of his head, other sections had been so tangled and matted with blood that they hadn’t been able to do much. Of course, Scott couldn’t see any of that right now—Pearl had taken one of her star-patterned black beanies and shoved it on Jimmy’s head, Grian had wrapped him in a dark red cardigan, he had some of Joel’s sweatpants on him because the man would not leave Jimmy alone and was insistent on guarding the medical wing day and night. The territory had never had less free-roaming mobs in years.
Leaning against the doorframe, content to watch, Scott studied Jimmy for a moment. The guy was tearing through a bowl of chicken and gnocchi like a starved man (don’t think about what it was like before he was rescued. That won’t do either of you any good).
Scott had been lucky enough to escape with a broken arm and a little bit of dehydration and hunger. He’d only been there three days.
Jimmy didn’t even remember how long he had been there, but the branding scars that had been treated, which he had gotten in the first couple of days of being there, meant he had been there for at least a year. Two months after he was separated from Pearl and Grian. The potions he was on were high-level, painkillers mixed with nutrient and saline solutions.
Doe-brown eyes flicked up and met Scott’s.
Beaming, looking just a bit horrifying thanks to the enormous red splotch in his left eye, Jimmy said, “Scott! How are you doing? Come in, come sit.”
Grian and Pearl both smiled at Scott as well, but it was a different sort of thing. Returning it, giving a quick nod of thanks to Grian as he scooted over so Scott could sit, he turned to Jimmy in the bed. “Hey, Jimmy. I’m good, was just out for a walk. I see you like chicken and gnocchi.”
“Oh my gosh, yes.” Waving a hand, Jimmy added, “Maybe it’s just me, but man I feel like this is the best meal I’ve ever had.” He scarfed down more soup, and Scott glanced over at Grian and Pearl. Grian was busy watching his brother, making sure he was still eating. As for Pearl, she was perfectly willing to glance over at Scott.
Reaching out, she touched Scott’s hand. “Thank you,” she mouthed, and Scott dipped his head and smiled at her.
Turning back to Jimmy, Scott listened to him chattering away like a little songbird, smiling.