Chapter Text
Contrary to the resolute doctrines human mothers howled at their rowdy tykes during the deepest hours of the night, not all species were in need of sleep. Feeble human vessels did in fact need impractically long breaks from consciousness to function properly -if their default performance could be compared to a proper function- the same way fleshy pigs and hairy rats did.
Of course, all creatures -both advanced and less bright- had a way of replenishing lost energy, it’s just that the fae way didn’t require spending a third of their lives knocked out to do so.
Honestly, Lilia found the notion of mortal circadian rhythms positively ridiculous, but he supposed that it came with its perks. Back when he commanded the greatest force in all of Twisted Wonderland, surprise attacks had been his specialty. And there was nothing more surprising than catching someone in their sleep. Synchronization was a key factor, but if the raids were indeed carried as flawlessly as planned, his cleaver’s telltale green would be painted in flushed shades of red, before his drowsy victim even got the chance to blink.
Before the weariness of the war had begun to weight on his shoulders, Lilia remembered the rush of excitement upon witnessing what he liked to call the final glance. No matter how hard he tried to conceal it, the fae was a true romantic at heart. But such poetic feelings had waned with time along with his youth and his prized collection of final glances that was once put on display for all fae of Blackscale castle to marvel.
The fact that his troops consisted mostly of nocturnal fae, that reached their peak when the enemy’s vigour was at its lowest, really came in handy. Affinity for a certain half of the day was the closest parallel one could draw to a human’s internal clock, even if in the case of nocturnal beings, said clock was turned upside down. That didn’t mean that Lilia was incapacitated for the earlier half of the day, only that he preferred to lay low and avoid exertion. Which was exactly the opposite from what he was doing right now.
“Get the fuck off me!”
The wind hissed as he cut through the horizon, black wings slick with sweat. He hadn’t intended to stay out this late. Regardless of the innate fatigue that came after dawn, frolicking in his bat-form well into the day was bound to raise suspicions. He’d never willingly give the Silver Owls credit for anything other than mind-blowing levels of unadulterated stupidity, but even the dimmest of their ranks could deduce that there was something off about a bat soaring across the morning sky.
He’d meant to have returned at the cover of the woods hours ago, but he’d been too wrapped up in his search for a soft spot across the treasury’s defences that he didn’t realize how the time had passed. Thank the Queen that a pack of recently roused maids had popped on his way, kind enough to remind him of it.
Lilia had spent the entirety of his childhood summers in Wildrose castle. The stony corridors of the fortress were a familiar terrain, easy to navigate even when chased by a flock of vicious dusters. But as soon as he’d barrelled straight out of one of the castle’s telltale arched windows, he’d found himself thrown in a deadlier hunt.
“Stupid grackles! I told you I am not your fucking breakfast!”
His vision had yet to adjust under the scathing glare of the sun, but even through his disoriented state it was impossible to miss the charging meteors of darkness that descended upon him. They hadn’t wasted a moment before cornering him against the castle’s walls, as if they were expecting him to pop out of that exact window. Lilia had counted two pairs of eyes that burned like pale suns peeking through feathery darkness, but his focus had quickly shifted to their beaks.
The way they shimmered, like black trembling lakes, shying under the moon’s reflection.
The way they cut across the wind, like obsidian blades, lunged in the face of the enemy.
The way they clenched shut, missing his foot by less than an inch.
Transforming was out of the question when he was this close to human grounds with no backup on his trail, lest he’d rather trade the pair of grackles with an entire flock of Silver Owls.
If only he could reach the forest, he’d be able to use the dense foliage to his advantage. But the vultures were aware of that, judging by the way they circled him, pushing him three steps back for every one he made. His prolonged stay in the heat was making his head feel like a simmering potion about to bubble over the cauldron and explode, and all the flying he’d recklessly indulged in throughout the night was beginning to catch up with him. His manoeuvres were growing duller, each of them sending his twitching muscles into a deeper state of exhaustion. He was running on pure adrenaline and if he didn’t come up with something, things may very well go sideways.
And wasn’t that a ridiculous thought after everything that’s happened.
All this blood spilled just so he could meet his end between the talons of a bird.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
What a shameful way to go. What an easy way out. What a suitable last note to this pointless concerto.
The woods were moving further away, as he soared higher, every swing of his wings bringing him closer to the sun and its scalding heat. His wings might as well be made out of wax, a swaying Icarus that flew too close to the light. The birds were closing in on him, flying in tighter circles that barely gave Lilia enough space to stay afloat.
If there was one thing that the all-knowing and all-seeing fates could agree upon, from their comfortable divine weaving spot, was crushing his naivety to hope. He was losing height. His lungs were burning and no matter how many labored breaths he greedily gulped, the dry air that enveloped him refused to grace his body with its precious oxygen. Supporting himself was becoming unbearable when his arms were dragging him instead of propelling. All his flapping wings seemed capable of was shaking off the excess sweat that trickled down his back. They’d almost reached the indigo tiles of the castle’s highest tower, the symbol of Wildrose fort, visible from miles away. An arrow made of pure nightsky darkness, piercing through the morning horizon. The air was thinner this far up.
The bat knew that he had reached a dead end.
But as far as dead end went, there were worse places to be. At least from here, he could still see the familiar stretch of greenery that encompassed the valley, the sharp peaking fangs dusted in snow even through the summer, the slender twin snakes of blue that slithered towards the sea and the farm lands that blossomed in their paths. Everything he had failed to protect spread in front of him. He remembered of a time that this view brought nothing but goosebumps riding up his arms. Perhaps a tinge of protectiveness as well, but now the feeling was lost on him. All that survived was the memory of her gloveless scaly arm pointing at something Lilia failed to prioritize over that blazing emerald stare. Because if the beauty of the valley sent a shiver down his spine, then her own came with tremors worthy of an earthquake’s rage.
Even if heaven itself was laid down on his feet, Lilia didn’t think he’d ever manage to steer from those bottomless slits of green. There were no eyes quite like hers and there would never be, no matter how many sockets he emptied, no matter how many eyeballs he ripped.
His eyes widened, as the rattling of his brains’ gears came to a stop.
He didn’t have to reach the forest. He didn’t need to shoot for the ground. Not when the perfect hiding spot was up. Not when their hiding spot was up.
Translucent bloodshot red eyes darted towards the tower, searching for an opening. But with his attention diverted and his stance unguarded, there was no way for him to spot the claws of the predator until they had latched onto his waist.
Lilia shrieked a horrible sound, as stabs of excruciating pain shot through his nerves. As soon as the first shock subsided, he tried to lodge his sharp thumbs straight into that glorified chicken’s eyeballs, but his bony arms failed to find their target, his attempts quickly turning into a hectic flurry of uncoordinated movements. His flailing, that failed to shake those damned talons off him, certainly didn’t help with his aim. All it managed was to derail the diptych of prey and predator from the fae’s original destination. In fact, Lilia was falling headfirst towards the ground and if they kept at that speed, meeting the soft grass of the palace garden would do him no favors.
The absent smell of blood, his bat form was so attuned to recognize, wafted across the air and the fae felt his insides being crushed.
He needed to put an end to this. And he needed to do it now!
His thumb at last found its target and now it was the bird’s turn to scream. The grip on him loosened but remained and Lilia propelled himself using his last energy reserves to defy the pull of gravity and push his arm deeper. The grackle cried once more, his nails finally retracting, but before the bat had been allowed an oxygen-filled breath through his currently non-crushed lungs, the universe came to bite him in the ass.
Or more accurately, the second bird came to bite his wing off.
Lilia writhed in pain, as the needle-pointed beak cut through the membrane of his wings, before it proceeded to repeatedly clamp down his forearm. The first taste had his thin strip of muscle tissue spasming. The second gnaw had his vision blackening. The third crunch and his bone was snapping in half.
Operating on pure instincts, with nothing but sheer white pain acting as his compass, Lilia pushed back, before the winged sadist had the chance to chomp down on him for the fourth time. He could already feel the wound trying to stitch itself, the barest hint of his telltale pink magic setting the bone back to its place. It hurt so much, it was a wonder he had yet to vomit. But no matter how fast his healing powers worked, it wasn’t fast enough. His energy reserves were entirely empty and he could feel his magic barrel across him in search of an alternative source it could feed on. Lilia took the hesitant nudge at his life force as a polite request for permission and his magical core took the spiritual walls that rose protectively across the fae’s soul as its answer.
That silent exchange did nothing to alleviate the pain -which was all that Lilia could focus on-, much less fix his wing problem that was currently bending in all the wrong angles and the bat was falling again.
An unexpected wave of consciousness washed over him, the desperate screech of a muffled voice that fought tooth and nail to hang into the thread of reality. It begged the general to open his eyes, to prepare for an attack, to conjure a masterplan, to at least try. And try he did, but no matter how hard he blinked, the black spots that soared across his vision seemed uneager to cease their airy little waltz. So, instead, Lilia resorted to clenching those useless eyes shut and folding his tattered mess of wings around his torso, waiting for the impact.
His spine whined in protest as his back met stone and the black spots were traded for twinkling stars.
It took an alarmingly long moment, before Lilia remembered how to breathe, the simple action of sucking in cool wisps of air, causing his torso to tremor. There was no way he hadn’t broken a couple of ribs. He didn’t recall breathing being such a strenuous activity. Although for a while he didn’t recall anything. No haunting thoughts of past, no dreadful bustle of present. Nothing. Just a tired bat melting against the frigidness of the floor. Until something begun prodding at his foot. Something too soft to be a beak and too solid to be a feather.
“Are you okay?”
His eyes widened.
No no no no no!
He couldn’t be caught by the enemy. He’d rather fling himself straight into the bird’s stomach than be found out like this.
Perhaps one day he would have spat at his fate and faced his executioner with nothing but a scornful smile. He’d spill out a promise of coming back to haunt the scum that dared lift their blade against him and watch the cowards roll the dice among them.
But now, when he tried to conjure an image of his demise, there was no grin etching across his face, no fearless banter, no final joke. There was only the body of Briarland’s Right General stripped off his medals and his pride, paraded across the land for everyone to crack a smile. A head on a spike put on display, a hail of tomatoes thrown to his face, his hair chipped away and sold as a charm. A corpse hanged from the same battlements he once grew up. Oh, how revolting was the concept of nailing him on the walls of the castle where she died, where her son still lied. A guarding ghost not leaving his post, the cries of a fae haunting the night.
His mind was set. Better the grackles than this gruesome end. So, he bit into the softness that had moved to nudge his head and ran for his life. There was a feeble yelp ringing somewhere from above, but it barely registered over the visceral chanting to get out. The window towered in front of him, a little too high for his taste, but still a manageable jump with a little winged aid. He’d only wished his wings would cooperate this time.
Wing.
Singular.
A muttered prayer and he leaped. And now it was the world’s turn to hold its breath, as time slowed, static whirring across the air. In the midst of all the buzzing his body moved, his little feet suspended over the ground, his wing lifting him high enough to catch sight of the sky. A liberating moment of relief that was gone as soon as it came, same as his balance. He wasn’t sure whether the crash against the wall had hurt more than the following landing on the floor, only that in between the cruel strikes of fate Lilia had deemed himself worthy of a break. On command, a veil of numbness enveloped him whole and the fae welcomed it like an old friend made at war.
_
Conscience came to him in ripples and along with it came pain, the thready shroud of calmness made of spider web and dewdrops dissolving in the shower of reality. But, unlike before, the ache that spiked across his limbs didn’t drown the rest of his senses. The fae could vaguely make out a shift of some sort and something cool but firm pressing against his fur. The sensation wasn’t bothersome per se, nor was it unfamiliar, but Lilia couldn’t put a finger on it, until his eyes fluttered open freed from the stubborn clouds of darkness that tugged the edges of his sight. And came face to face with the human that was currently tossing his battered body between their hands.
“I'm almost done.”, the human muttered, their tongue sticking out their upper lip in surgical concentration. Lilia decided that he didn’t want to know what they were almost done with. All that seemed important right now was getting out of that grip, before ‘almost’ became past, along with Lilia.
The both of them recoiled simultaneously, although the fae presumed each had their own reasons. Lilia had never been a fan of the way human blood lumped against his throat.
“No no no.”, the human protested, watching the thrashing bat make a merciless land on the floor and scramble below the closest furniture. A table. “Please don't do that. You're going to hurt yourself. Your bandages are going to come undone.”
He'd immediately thought that the reason his left wing was standing upright, instead of dragging behind him like some rodent bride’s gown with a penchant for the macabre, was due to his magical prowess. Healing was the one component of magic that worked better when asleep, so he had naturally assumed that the little break from consciousness had been enough to stitch him up until he was as good as new. What he hadn’t assumed was that this wretched being would ravage his senseless body with its disgusting paws. Whether the human aimed to trick Lilia into a false sense of security, or kill the general with poison doused gauze, he wasn’t having it.
Lilia bit the bandages and when the human reached to stop him, he bit him as well.
“I know you're afraid, but I'm only trying to help.”, they mumbled, sucking on their blood-oozing thumb, the perfect picture of a helpless child.
Pathetic.
Lilia counted the enemy’s retreat of three whole steps a win. “Look I'm going to stay over here. Just please stop moving.”
The fae had wanted to laugh. Was that human truly so daft that he seriously believed a flimsy peace offering enough to deceive a general of his status? He wouldn’t go quietly and if his foe wanted him to sit submissively while reinforcements arrived, or the following phase of some wicked scheme was set in motion, then the fae would love to disappoint them.
The mortal moved as soon as Lilia had begun unravelling the gauze over his wing. Sharp stings of pain shot through his limb in an instant, as it landed on the ground with a cracking sound, along the toothpick-looking stick that’s been presumably set to support it.The pathetic whine that fell from his lips caused his inner general to wince.
The fae wasn’t given a single moment to adjust, before those stinking fingers were prodding at him again, pulling at his wing in a way that had him gagging. It appeared that biting wasn’t getting through. He would have to resort to other methods if he wanted those fingers removed permanently. There wasn’t much to do from his position, but there was one clear path laying in front of him. It had worked fine the first time.
It wouldn’t be the largest amount of eyes he’d gouged within a day -far from it-, though it was more than what he was expecting of tοday.
His feet braced against the ground, readying his thumb’s claw before he lunged. The human’s eyes widened, his startled expression -though not quite as scared as Lilia would have hoped- fuelling his drive. He’d been a breath away from stabbing that stupefied zero-thought gaze out of his face, before he was assaulted by the colours of the rainbow.
He’d counted four different colours of feathers escaping his mouth and he was willing to bet that if the sputtering resumed for a little while longer, he was going to cough the remaining three. Where had these meddling songbirds even come from? And why the hell where they pinning him on the ground?!
“Guys you're crushing him.”
The chicken armada snapped their heads at the towering human in terrifying synchronization and Lilia begged for some freedom of movement just so he could salvage his ears from the chirping assault.
“No, I know you're just trying to help.”
“No, I know I should have asked for help.”
“No, I know it almost hit my eyes.”
Lilia’s eyes darted back and forth, an equal blend of irritation and confusion flashing across his garnet orbs, as he struggled to follow. The shrill overlap of tweeting noises was making his head hurt worse that his wing, currently crushed under the weight of a blue songbird, that was a lot heavier than it looked. With a headache of this magnitude the fae was barely able to recognize humanoid speech patterns, let alone decipher the havoc of animal screeches, but the chastising tone dripping from those flapping beaks was hard to miss.
“Yes, I know. I like them to.”, the human hummed, a faint shade of pink dusting his cheeks. Of the few indulgences his trapped position permitted, an eye roll was long overdue. The mortal’s voice was beginning to grate his nerves.
It appeared as though they were to stand in silence until the duck court announced its verdict.
“Thank you.”, the human exhaled as the birds begun to retreat, with more pushing and prodding than Lilia thought necessary, especially on that blue chicken’s account that all but stomped its way over his wing.
Feathers were quickly traded for flesh and before the fae knew what was happening, he was thrown into a cage.
“I'm really sorry for that, but you're going to hurt yourself if you keep moving.”
Lilia felt it before he saw it.
The invasive pressure of phantom fingers gripping his head, tightening, squeezing, crushing him.
Nails digging against his sculp until his eyes felt like popping out, until his brains felt like leaking out, until his life source was running out.
His magic reacted instantly. Barrelling across his veins, piling on numb fingertips, pooling over prickling skin, charging across the standing tips of his fur. He felt his transformation warp around the edges, a claw leaking into the floor, an ear smoking into the air. Lilia couldn’t fault his magic core for looking to abandon him, however fruitless its desperation might be. The clanking sound of the latch dropping down the lock was as final as the shrill howl of a guillotine falling. The fae struggled to swallow past the lump of uneasiness blocking his throat. Staying calm was an unreasonable request, but he needed to remain logical. The bars were close enough to affect him, but not close enough to harm him, he was okay, he was okay, he was okay.
He would access his surroundings, search for a weak spot, formulate a plan. He was capable of that. The general in him was capable of that. He needed a course of action, before his mind begun conjuring uncomely images out of his memory vault.
He didn’t need ghosts when he already had scars. What he needed was to snap his attention away from those revolting silver bars, cease his disgraceful wallowing, and face the one that put him there with the best snarl he could muster.
So, with a schooled expression of poised aggression, he could barely sustain over his drumming heart, he turned to his captor.
Only for his heart to stop.
Despite the infamous prowess of Briarland’s right general in the field of battle, praised even among the most constipated noble fae of the court, albeit with a hint of bitterness, his recognition skills were lacking at best. An insignificant drawback in the grand scheme of things, because he didn’t need to tell one ant from the other if the goal was to squash them all. It wasn’t his fault all ants looked alike anyway, even if the soldiers under his command had barely stifled their giggles when he had once said so.
There was no one laughing now.
Because Lilia recognized the man standing in front of him. They’d only met once but were he to take out his scabbard he could trace every crease of the man’s face, every bump and wrinkle, blindfolded. But even with all the colours of the world, all the bled flowers and the crushed snails, all the shattered stones and the smashed bones, he’d never manage to capture those eyes.
Those orbs of trapped dawn staring down on him.
His hands twitched over his sides, reaching for the once occupied emptiness, stretching to wrap around the one thing he was tasked to protect with his life, the one thing that was ripped from his grip.
His heart was working again, pumping blood at full capacity as Lilia spiraled.
That man was supposed to be dead. Information about his death at the hands of his own kin had been relayed years ago. The general himself had made sure there had been no mistakes, no human trickery in play.
Yet there was nothing dead about those cursed eyes.
The halo of soft dancing sunlight illuminating those locks of pure gold, disappeared and all that was left was the blinding flash of lightning, tearing the boiling sky. He could still hear the roars of thunder as the earth collapsed under his feet and he could still see the Knight of Dawn’s towering form, shining from above like a star, before he pushed him to his doom.
The cage toppled, as Lilia crashed against its bars. There was a distant awareness of the small clouds of smoke forming over his sizzling skin and the weak stir of his magic fighting to pull him away, but his rage had taken the reins. He was burning with it. Because the only thing that remained when love grew cold and promises turned hollow, the only thing in store for an undeserving servant was anger.
Gravity eventually gave in, but the fall was broken prematurely by that damned human. Fingers once wrapped around the silver hilt of a sword pointed at him, were now clutching the silver bars of his cage. Lilia didn’t waste a moment before he was charging again. Fangs sinking into the human’s flesh, until he was gulping down his putrid blood as if it were nectar.
The man pulled away with a flinch, but the fae’s talons had dug deeper, trapping the hand of the executioner into a prison of his own making.
Tearing flesh.
Tearing muscle.
Seeking bone.
The smell of charred flesh flooded his nostrils, the taste of iron burned him from within and for a hot moment he was back at war.
Until his claws gave out and he was getting flung across the room. The distinctive crunching sound of bones breaking barely registered as his vision swam in black.