Chapter Text
__________________________________
Quaritch pov
__________________________________
The fall did not feel like falling.
It felt like being pulled apart.
Heat roared past him; fire, metal, screaming air.
And then there was ground, or something pretending to be it. His body struck hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Pain flared white-hot along his spine, down his limbs, sharp enough to blot out sound.
Then came the other pain.
It pulsed beneath everything else, deep and familiar, blooming along the scar that no longer belonged to this body. A phantom ache, buried in a human skull that was long gone. It made him gasp, made his vision smear and fracture.
For a brief moment, he had seen his son - the look in his eyes on that goddamned cliff. The son who had just shot him in the arm to protect the very man who had started it all.
The world tilted.
He was in a yurt. Fuck knows why and for how long.
Something wasn’t right. Shapes swam in and out of focus, bending at the edges like reflections in disturbed water. He longed for some kind of explanation. He couldn't move.
Varang stood in front of him.
She was too close. Her eyes held him in place, unblinking, searching. For a moment he had the disorienting certainty that she was not looking at him at all, but through him - as if what she saw reflected back was something else entirely. Jesus Christ, how much drugs did she pump into him?
Her expression changed. Shock. Grief. Moisture gathered at the edges of her eyes.
“No,” he tried to say. The word scraped uselessly in his throat.
She turned away.
Panic cut through the haze, sudden and sharp. The certainty settled in his chest like lead: this was the last time he would see her.
The memory of the battlefield surged. Fire collapsing inward, bodies falling, the moment her hand slipped from his grasp.
Pain spiked again, vicious and total.
The world folded in on itself.
And then there was nothing.
__________________________________
Varang pov
__________________________________
Two days later, he was still alive.
Cold light pressed down on him even in his sleep - sterile, white, unforgiving. It was nothing like fire or ash or the red glow of burning metal. This light had no warmth in it. It exposed rather than illuminated.
Varang sat beside him.
The Sky People’s room was too small, the air sharp with chemicals that stung the back of her throat. Machines hummed and clicked in steady, mechanical rhythms, indifferent to pain, to loss, to rank. They spoke a language she did not know, aside from a few words, and no one had bothered to translate it for her.
She was not wearing her feathers.
Her crown.
Here, it would not have mattered. Neither would her paint, her scars, or the weight of her title. To the humans moving around the bed, she was something in the way. Tolerated only because removing her would have taken effort. And heads.
She felt it in their eyes.
Not fear. Not respect. Assessment. Disdain.
One of the doctors spoke to her without looking at her, his voice clipped, impatient. She understood only fragments, but the tone was familiar. It was the same one she had heard once before, in the presence of General Ardmore, when she had stood victorious and still been seen as lesser.
Her fingers curled slowly at her sides.
If Quaritch had been conscious, they would not look at her like this.
If he were awake, they would remember how to speak carefully.
The thought burned hotter than shame.
She stayed anyway.
Waiting for her Quaritch to wake up from the coma.
Waiting in the post-operative ward was better anyway.
She shuddered at the thought of the operation.
Watching the Sky People put their hands and machines all over him from behind reinforced glass during the procedure, that was agonizing. The memory alone made her hiss.
The window dulled the sound but sharpened everything else. The cold glare of the lights. The precise choreography of bodies moving around the table. Human hands opening him, lifting him, touching him as if he were no more than a problem to be solved.
Varang stood motionless.
She could not hear the words, but she recognized the rhythm of command. Short exchanges. Brief pauses. A sudden tension when something did not go as planned. No hesitation. No reverence. Just procedure.
Their machines clung to him.
Wires, clamps, metal arms hovering too close to his skin. The sight made something coil tight in her chest.
This was not healing.
This was control.
She hated that.
One of the doctors glanced toward the glass. For a moment, his gaze met hers. It slid past her almost immediately.
She caught a flash of derision in his expression. Not fear. Not caution.
Varang had seen that look before. From human leaders who measured worth in usefulness, not presence. From mouths that spoke victory while their eyes said lesser.
Her fingers curled slowly at her sides.
If Quaritch were awake, they would not ignore her like this.
If he could speak, they would not pretend she was invisible.
The thought tasted bitter.
She remained where she was, watching until the lights dimmed and the bodies inside the room finally stepped away from the table.
Only then did she realize how tightly she had been holding herself together.
She did not allow herself to show relief. Not to them.
Not when the doors finally opened. Not when the lights dimmed behind the glass and the pink-skins stepped away from the table. Not even when a nurse - short, thick-fingered, smelling faintly of antiseptic - pointed at her with a small, blunt hand.
“There,” the woman said, gesturing down the corridor.
Varang inclined her head once and followed, her steps measured, her posture rigid. The release inside her chest came sharp and sudden, like a breath she had been holding for far too long. And she crushed it down before it could reach her face.
They had finished with him.
They were giving him back.
The post-operative ward was quiet in a way that felt unnatural. Too clean. Too still.
Quaritch lay where the nurse had indicated, unconscious beneath thin sheets, wires trailing from his body like restraints rather than supports.
Varang stopped at the foot of the bed.
For a moment, she only watched him breathe.
Then she turned away. Down the corridor. To the nearest empty room.
She locked the door behind her and faced the mirror, startled. The reflection that stared back was wrong, paint smeared and cracked, streaked with sweat and blood. Four dark, drying marks cut across her cheek, fingers pressed there too hard, too urgently.
His fingers, his hand.
The memory surged without warning - the heat, the fire below, the moment she had caught him as he fell. Her breath hitched, sharp and unguarded.
She reached up and touched the marks.
Something in her broke.
The sound tore out of her before she could stop it — a raw, animal cry that echoed briefly off metal and tile. Her shoulders shook as she folded inward, nails digging into her own skin as if to anchor herself.
She forced herself upright again and struck some metal thing with her fist.
Silence.
Then water spilled from there, cold and relentless.
She leaned into it, scrubbing the war paint from her face until it peeled away in uneven flakes, until her eyes burned and her throat ached from holding back more.
When she looked up again, the woman in the mirror wore no crown, no colors of her people. Only Varang remained.
And she hated how fragile and weak that looked.
She straightened, wiped the water from her face, and stepped back into the corridor as if nothing had happened.
She had taken only a few steps when she noticed him. Lyle stood near the far wall, half-turned as if he had been about to leave and thought better of it. His eyes flicked to her face, lingered a fraction too long, and something like surprise crossed his expression before discipline pulled it back into place.
“How is the Colonel?” he asked.
The question was careful. Almost respectful. Varang did not slow down her steps.
A low sound escaped her throat, sharp and warning. She did not dignify him with an answer as she passed, her shoulder brushing close enough to make the message unmistakable.
Lyle did not ask again.
She reached Quaritch’s bed without interference. The nurse nearby hesitated, then retreated a step, eyes averted. Varang didn’t know what to make of that nor did she care right now.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, she only watched him breathe. The steady rise and fall beneath thin sheets, the quiet proof that he was still here. Then she reached for his uninjured hand and took it gently, threading her four fingers through his five.
The difference fit.
She leaned closer, her forehead hovering just above his knuckles. They would not take him from her again.
__________________________________
Quaritch pov
__________________________________
Consciousness returned in fragments.
Light came first - harsh, artificial, drilling straight through his skull. Quaritch grimaced and forced his eyes open, then shut them again just as quickly.
“Easy,” a voice said. “Don’t fight it.”
He blinked, slower this time. The room swam, white walls blurring into one another before settling. Something tugged at his arm — pain, distant but sharp enough to register.
“Fuck” he muttered. Pain was a bitch.
All he cared about right now was to make some sense out of all of this.
“That bad, huh?” Lyle’s face drifted into view, grinning down at him.
“I was starting to think you were trying to sleep through the whole thing, Colonel.”
Quaritch stared at him.
Lyle cleared his throat, the smile faltering just a touch. “I mean- good to see you back, sir. You look… well. All things considered.”
Silence.
Quaritch shifted, discomfort pulling a low breath from his chest. His gaze swept the room in jerky motions, unfocused and searching. “Where the hell am I?”
“Bridgehead City” Lyle said quickly. “Medical wing. You-” He hesitated. “You scared us there for a bit.”
Quaritch ignored him.
“You’ve gotten uglier,” added nervously Lyle. “I didn’t think that was possible.” Again, no response.
His eyes found her.
Varang sat slumped against the side of the bed, head bowed, still holding his hand between both of hers. Asleep. Exhausted.
Something in his chest loosened.
Lyle noticed the change and stepped back, awkward suddenly. “I’ll, uh— I’ll get the doc. Let him know you’re awake.”
Quaritch didn’t answer.
He shifted his thumb and brushed it lightly against her fingers.
She stirred.
“Hey.” The voice that left his mouth didn’t sound like it belonged to him.